#profane stimulus

[vormov]

an undying belief in so much more // one day the sun will become the sky

a child arose once left upon the lawn, like he wandered but was never found the counting riffs like he were waiting for the end blatently disregard the ghosts and see if he can go on without it. lay upon me these troubles—i can handle it.

if the layers are to be seen with any clarity we have to go deeper into this sin, the dynamics are at an all-time-high fail all the fates with me as we drown. it'll be a spectacle, for sure.

please bless me as i wade into the wastes, that my steps be covered with forethought or a radical nature ensues and blemishes this tarnishment further, like the winds split the hairs in half and quelled the silent to speech. once lay upon me, these troubles—I can handle it

with great indulgence that i finally spoke, with a great fury did i beacon the gods like they were absent, they knew i was the foolsayer but these words must be said, i cannot expel them from my mouth quickly enough nor let the dawn tread upon us before we understand, let the fortune spill forth into another day.

a child arose once again left behind upon the lawn, with a lingering feeling of grand nothingness nor a placard any of truth, just a series of more and more convincing lies. how can one go through life with just a witness over the shoulder to spare, won't you see it with your own eyes and witness —i've been begging you. lay upon me these troubles, i can handle it.

the mysterious cavern blares a strange tune like the wakes of sense were left on some other planet, the brain pulsates with over-stimulus, and I dance with the divine or maybe the profane —I cannot tell.

will the omens phase through or become ether already, i have grown impatient of ourself of late, can we please change again?

***

a delicate choice became upon me, the layers unraveled finally aghasting me with the truth a spectre leavened with the cores of all of us meagerly spectating as the lyres die upon these our layered fortunes. like we never had a choice... (03-19-23—Hi. I’m a weird poetic type of person. I occasionally come up with tremendous phrasings or a clever way to word something every so often. Everything I’ve ever written was composed to Music. I’d like to think it was all a fluke. Don’t Listen To Me.) (Syntax and Shit!? what happens when you start to edit the Stream of Consciousness?...)

[muchadoaboutstartrek]

Petty

Written for @salrevientad and inspired by conversation with @female-fogbank

Spock and La'an didn't argue often...

Well, at least they didn't argue about serious topics often.

But more often than not, Spock wondered if there was something in the human DNA, even augmented one, that made them more succeptible to irritation from a stimulus that normally wouldn't cause a reaction in any Vulcan. And as he stared at the red faced La'an, her braids a mess on top of her head while she gestured wildly with her hands, he concluded that yes, it most certanly was a human trait.

"You know I don't like it when you move my shit without asking me first! Why do you keep doing it?" His short girlfriend was becoming an increasingly warmer in the face, so much so that Spock started wondering just how long it's going to take before she turned the color of her uniform. If the vein ticking in her forehead was any indication, it shouldn't be too long now.

He suppressed a sigh as he knew such action would cause even worse reaction. Instead he squared up his shoulders as he gazed down at the woman half his size that looked like she was one wrong word away from ripping his head off. Her feisty nature and naturally short fuse were some of the things that Spock loved but also hated at the same time.

Not that he'd ever admit that to her out loud.

"I apologize for misplacing your work PADD without notifying you first. Next time I will make sure to send you a message beforehand."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Spock knew he screwed up. Even the most emotionally stunned Vulcan would have no trouble recognizing the sheer rage that almost radiated off of La'an as she shook in place, her fists clenching by her side.

"You did not just say that to me, you condescending fucker!" The words were more of a growl than an actual sentence, her voice coming from the deepest parts of her vocal cords.

There were very few things that would cause Spock to shrink in fear.

Enraged La'an was one of those things.

"I apologize. That was not my intention." He replied immediately, his voice even more apologetic than the words.

"You do this every time! You say something to make me mad and then apologize and look at me with those eyes and I just cave!" She shook her head, her index finger suddenly shoved up his face. "Not this time!"

Something in Spock seemed to snap at those words and without even thinking his actions through, he grabbed La'an by her hips and slung her over his shoulder in a fireman carry, her strained and surprised yell, followed by a string of profanities slung in his direction falling on deaf ears as he carried her over to his newly made bed and tossed her onto the sheets. He didn't even give her a chance to stand back up as he pushed her down, his hands gripping the band of her trousers and yanking them down her legs alongside her underwear.

La'an tried pushing him off of her with her hips, her voice straining as she repeatedly asked him about the state of his mental facilities, the answer Spock couldn't provide at the moment as he felt positively unhinged. Her trousers and underwear reached as far as her boot before Spock yanked it off as well and slid one of her creamy legs out of it before he spread her thighs like jaws of life and simply dived in.

La'an's protests died off on her tongue immediately, profanities that were aimed at him suddenly disappearing only to be replaced by shaky sighs as he feasted on her pussy. He put his anger and frustration into every lick and suck on her sensitive, twitching cunt, his feelings evident in the way he was eating her out, aggressively almost to the point where it matched her energy from few minutes before.

La'an was shuddering and grinding her pussy against his face, her hands sliding into his hair and tugging on the strands as he allowed himself to be directed in the way she wanted him to go, letting her enjoy that aspect, illusion really, of control because it was evident to him that he was the one in charge, holding her release in his hands.

As her sounds increased in volume Spock found that he had no heart to tease her and torture her with denying her release, even though she more than likely deserved it. Instead he doubled down on his efforts and sucked on her clit with more vigour, her fingers almost ripping out his hair in the process.

La'an let out a scream as she fell apart, her orgasm taking her by surprise as Spock grazed his teeth over the sensitive nub on top of her pussy, her whole body shuddering with the force of her release before she melted into the sheets, practically boneless.

Spock licked his lips, tasting the last remnants of her essence like he was savoring the delicacy, before he stood up, crawling over La'an's still half dressed body, her uniform shirt still on while her pants hung on one of her legs.

"How are you feeling now?" He asked, burrowing his brows as he gazed down at the completely fucked out woman who was screaming at him about misplacing her PADD only a few minutes ago.

In contrast to that image, La'an was laying in bed completely relaxed with a lazy smile on her lips. "Fantastic." She sighed dreamily and surged up to kiss him, her teeth tugging on his lip. She broke the kiss when air became the problem. "Spock?"

"Yes, La'an?"

"Don't ever move my stuff without asking me again." Her eyes hardened and Spock knew that she meant business. He, however, simply smiled and said nothing. He just found the way to make her effectively loose her train of thought and he planned to utilize it to it's fullest capacity.

In fact, if this was the way he could make her shut up, he might start initiating these petty squabbles himslef.

[autolovecraft]

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb. Why did you do it, Birch? Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. God, what a rage! Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. It may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities.

He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

Sawyer.

Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. It may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been mocking. Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought! Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved.

[frankensteincest]

Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.

MARY SHELLEY, Frankenstein

[onpyre]

Hey ! Sorry to be so forward and just strike up conversation on a whim (I’m tipsy) but ty for following me back!! You seem cool and I’m also into these shows that have cultish themes i.e, twin peaks, true detective, sharp objects, Hannibal. I’m currently rewatching true detective for the third? time and am curious who your fave character is and why

Hi! Love a little liquid courage :) also love your art!

Just a little warning, this response really got away from me, so I'm putting it under a cut

True Detective is very close to my heart, and of all the characters, Rust Cohle is my favorite.. he’s honestly one of my favorite characters from anything.

All the shows you mention, the ones in what I call the toothsome tv universe, really seem to talk to each other: the cultish/occult themes, the monsters and becoming! So much to sink your teeth into. Since you asked in the context of these other shows, I’m going to bring them into it.

I appreciate Rust and Marty as foils, but Rust is the beating heart of True Detective. He’s a man trying so hard to be a nihilist, to smother the love inside him before it kills him. This post pretty much sums it up, but I’m gonna ramble more about him because it’s not often I get to.

Rust’s got traditional markers of your stoic lead, in that he’s dangerous, smart, laconic. But that characterization goes to shit in the first episode when we see how much of a mess he is around the anniversary of his daughter’s death. It’s clear that he’s not an aloof cool guy, but a little awkward and *so* vulnerable. That’s the kicker, he’s an open wound of a man.

His childhood’s a little like Will Graham’s—absent mom, raised by his father near the natural world (Louisiana river boats for Will, Alaskan wilderness for Rust). There’s something key there about the maternal human influence being replaced by mother nature, or the Sublime. Almost as if they were suckled by the wilds, and so have been given a supernatural boon… that they are outside of society, and yet have the uncanny ability to read people.

We don’t know what Will’s relationship with his father is like, but we know that Rust’s dad and him didn’t really like each other. There’s some disconnect between them. I think Rust never felt understood. He was always smart (and a smartass), and I get the sense he made people feel bad about themselves unintentionally when he was younger (including his father). I think he probably began using his smarts as a defense.

And again, there’s that high grade of empathy (like Will or like Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks, but I’ll get into that later). Rust is sensitive. He understands other people, knows how to get people to talk. He also must have been an artsy kid if he could have been an painter in another life. Considering all of this, the picture of why he was alienated from his father becomes clearer. How does a veteran and survivalist deal with a sensitive artist for a son?

Side note: I really love that Rust has artistic tendencies. It's such an important detail in my mind. He is a man gathering details in his ledger, "mainlining the secret truth of the universe," shining his flashlight on the devil traps and case pictures with Tina Turner playing in the background. He's just the best.

But back to his father, Rust says he loved him, and I believe that. But there was an unsurpassable distance between them. Makes me wonder how much Rust might have reminded his father of his mom. I’m sure Rust was instrumentally parentified (or expected to fend for himself at the very least), but I doubt very much there was emotional parentification. No, I get the sense his father was very much a locked room that Rust couldn’t break into.

... I think these fraught relationships with parents are essential to these shows, with the most intense/disturbing examples being Camille Preaker and Amma Crellin's relationships with Adora in Sharp Objects, and Laura and Leland Palmer in Twin Peaks. It's underlining that family trauma and the breakdown of the nuclear family is everywhere... this is actually one area I wish True Detective developed more with the Harts. His daughters are clearly suffering, this conservative family structure failing everyone but especially the girls. It's not just the big bad weird incestual cult - the rot is everywhere.

In this vein, I find it so interesting Rust’s trauma feels bookended by two absent female characters: his mother and his daughter. His mother’s absence sets the mold for his core characteristics, and his daughter’s death is the singular traumatic event that shapes the rest of his life. He does accumulate more trauma with the undercover work (which was really a roundabout way of trying to kill himself), but it’s all echoes of his daughter’s absence. We never see him as a father, but Sophia never really feels like just a plot point to me. She’s haunting Rust (he literally sees her ghost in episode 1). We see her impact in the gentleness Rust has when dealing with innocents.

I think one of the best things about True Detective (and a big part of why the second season is such crap) is the time jumps, the circular story-telling (“my whole life is just one expanding circular fuck up” and “time is a flat circle”). We see these characters age - how they mature and settle and deteriorate. Maybe even get better. You see how Rust and Marty have influenced each other for the better, and how the absence of the other has eroded their quality of life

The way the show is shot - these three versions of Rust - feel like complimentary doppelgängers, not even mentioning Crash, his alter ego (and the Rust we never meet before Sophia’s death). Each has different parts of a puzzle, and like the narrative, they are cycling through each other.

‘95 Rust is coming off of the horrors and loneliness of the undercover work. He’s physically and mentally feeling those effects what with the hallucinations and synesthesia (which I believe he had before, but the drug abuse makes the synesthesia more intense). He is justifying his pain with his pessimistic philosophy. He’s a relatively self-aware character (I’m the bad man you keep around to keep other bad man from the door), but even so he cannot broach the deep wound his daughter left.

Even within his pessimistic diatribes, the line: "... walk hand in hand into extinction, one last midnight - brothers and sisters opting out of a raw deal," always struck me as deeply empathetic. He's in so much pain and has surrounded himself with by others’ pain to numb himself out. He just wants all this suffering to end.

‘02 Rust is settled in his job, in the small connections he’s made with Marty and Maggie. He's was dating again, and in a serious relationship with a smart woman who might’ve understood him. But all that implodes with the case coming back, not to mention with the betrayal of him and Maggie sleeping together.

Then there's the brittle ‘12 Rust. The most set in his ways but the most delicate as well (“brittle”). The line "I know who I am, there’s a victory in that," contrasting with this one:

“I can be hard to live with. I don't mean to, but I can be... critical... Sometimes I think I'm just not good for people, that it's not good for them to be around me."

He's terminally lonely, with only his failures shaming him to continue with the case, which is his only thing he has left to fix before he can kill himself.

Again, I'm reminded of Will Graham in season one of Hannibal, where he's isolated himself, convinced he's not good for anyone, despite his deep well of empathy. Just like it takes Hannibal for Will to start living, It takes Marty and Rust coming back together for them to wake up from their sad sleep-walking lives. I don't care if you ship them, but the relationship is one of the most important things in the show.

The final Carcosa confrontation is the culmination, where Rust hopes to right his failures, complete his purpose and end his pain (by dying). This really feels like a Laura Palmer moment to me. this is from another post of mine:

there’s something here about rust and laura… laura who faced the lodge and died like rust expected to. the only reason rust survived carcosa was because of marty… laura is in that train car with ronette, but ronette isn’t prepared for the darkness like marty was. ronette couldn’t get laura out of there.

Many people have compared Rust to Dale Cooper, and I think there's a lot of meat to be gleaned there, especially if we're comparing their opposite approaches, and perhaps different Lodge affiliations - (not to be too Twin Peaks but 👀).

"I can see your soul at the edges of your eyes. It's corrosive, like acid. You got a demon little man... there's a shadow in you son."

- This feels so Lodgey to me. Just like Coop and Laura dealing with a possession (if you haven't read My Life My Tapes, Coop's autobiography, I highly suggest it). And possession is a reciprocal act. Rust knows he's a bad man, a monster. But he's able to use that. @renmorris has a few really interesting things to say about these parallels on their blog (just realize they say the same thing about the absent family 😵‍💫).

But I think the Laura connection feels... truer somehow. Laura is the One in Twin Peaks, and while Rust is the investigator, I think he's actually the One in True Detective (there's definitely a whole other meta about True Detective's disregard for its female characters, but this isn't the place). Rust is the sacrificial lamb. The martyr. The beating heart of True Detective.

I love him to bits, and it's about time for a rewatch!

[itsapapisongo]

THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU | WINWIN

Cast: Synthezoid!Winwin x Gender-Neutral Reader ft. Taeil, Synthezoid!Kun, Synthezoid!Ten & Hendery

Genre: Angst | Dramedy | Non-Idol AU | Sci-Fi |

Word Count: 12.5K

Content Warning: Allusions to depression, character death, characters experiencing grief, scene depicting a funeral, some language profanity, and suggestive themes.

Summary: Looking for a purpose and a job that fulfills him, Winwin works with Kun, a fellow synthezoid and a recently certified trauma cleaner. Coming to terms with who he is and who he wishes to be, Winwin meets you in the midst of a family tragedy.

Author’s Note: I honestly didn’t know what I was going to write about when I joined this collaboration but A.I. was a concept I couldn’t pass on. This is a mixture of concepts and elements from WandaVision and Korean Dramas—mainly Move to Heaven—so expect some made-up words alongside all the pretentious, angsty philosophizing and cuss words.

Collab: AI Project #14320 by @pastelsicheng

Taglist: @pastelsicheng | @lebrookestore | @127-mile | @neonun-au | @naptaemed

From: emrsdninetyseven@lsm.com

To: ekangseventynine@lsm.com

Subject: VWAY.AI Models

Mr. E,

The development and manufacturing of the VWay.AI Models has been approved, signed, and soon to enter production. Manufacturing will begin in two weeks’ time and the process will take a span of less than six months thanks to the newest technologies we’ve implemented. This includes mnemonic implants that will greatly improve muscle memory and allow for these models to adapt, adjust, and fulfill their duties as organically and as quickly as possible.

As you know, the VWay.AI are artificially intelligent robots meant to have a vocational role within society. They’re built to last in order to properly aid our clients in physically and mentally strenuous tasks. The point is not to replace human workers but instead to ease their burden. We aim to have these models not only in schools, hospitals, clinics, and nursing homes, but anywhere they might be needed.

Attached to this email, you’ll find various documents regarding the manufacturing process, costs, and the information of different heads of departments that will be working on this project.

Sincerely,

Miss Park

●

From: ekangseventynine@lsm.com

To: emrsdninetyseven@lsm.com

Subject: RE: VWay.AI Models

Miss Park,

Thank you for keeping me up to date with the comings and goings of A.I. PROJECT: #14320.

And though I’m glad to hear we’re moving forward in production with the VWay.AI models, I must correct you in regards to what these models really are.

Artificial intelligence? Yes, no doubt.

Robots? I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.

You mentioned mnemonic implants but I should add that they’re not the only advancements we’ve obtained, patented, and/or improved. Adding to our technological breakthroughs are these models: the VWay.AI. And they’re not exactly androids. They’re more advanced. They’re synthezoids (i.e. synthetic humanoid robots) and they’re the closest thing we’ve come to replicating humans in terms of behavior and appearance.

I emphasize this specific term and what they are because it’s important for you, for me, and for the company to understand that synthezoids are the future. They will change how we talk of, work with, and implement artificial intelligence in our society moving forward.

Sincerely,

Mr. E

PS; Thank you for the information you’ve sent. It’s been an interesting, if arduous read.

●

IT WAS SNOWING, and he wasn’t cold.

He never felt cold. With a simple thought, he could deactivate any stimulus he didn’t wish to experience. Neurological impulses like pain, something he had no interest in experiencing, were shut down in the blink of an eye. Cold was cold. It didn’t bother him. It would never bother him unless he allowed it to.

This, he knew, set him apart from the people around him. The very same people that walked past him without sparing him a glance, a wave, or a greeting. He found it slightly interesting and paradoxical that humans felt more automated than himself. For a race that had evolved over millennia, they kept finding new ways to regress.

As he absorbed this thought, he tilted his head upward and felt the gentle touch of snow fall upon his face. He blinked and saw a snowflake on the tip of his nose. Even though there was no cold, it gently grazed his skin. He closed his eyes, activated the stimuli in his brain’s insula, and immediately felt a chilly sensation upon his face as the snowflake began to melt.

For a brief second, he shivered. Then, with a thought, he shut down the cold.

Cold was cold. It didn’t bother him. Not unless he allowed it to.

●

BEHOLD VWAY.AI-MDL: DS-281097.

It’s, as they say, fresh off the box. As a newer model, recently manufactured, with little work and life experience, these are all the things DS-281097 lacks: a name, an identity, a purpose, and a job.

It’s the future. Man’s vision come to life. A dream fulfilled. Yet DS-281097 doesn’t care about that. It simply wants to fulfill its duties. It seeks purpose. It seeks to live.

Or, at the very least, It seeks to exist.

●

AT A CERTAIN point, It became him.

‘It’ was dehumanizing. He was aware he wasn’t human therefore he couldn’t be dehumanized, but ‘It’ lacked life. It implied he was something inanimate and lacked the ability to think for himself, to have his own choices, failures and/or successes.

‘It’ simply implied a lack of depth.

But he was more than just ‘It’. He now was a blank canvas thrust into a chaotically colorful world. He was the future. He was alive. And he was in dire need of a job.

Thankfully, he learned, those were a dime a dozen.

●

HE REMEMBERED OBSERVING strangers celebrating the New Year in Itaewon.

They were rowdy, inebriated, consumed by emotion. He didn’t quite understand it and hadn’t asked why they acted and felt that way. He simply observed, keeping himself to himself, saving the moment for future reference.

He had nothing to celebrate or be grateful for thus the day had no concrete or logical meaning to him. New Year’s Eve was just a day like any other. 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds. Nothing more, nothing less.

He found it interesting, however, that South Korea celebrated the departure of the previous year and the arrival of a new one in February instead of December. Sporadically, when least expected, this bit of information would find its way to the forefront of his mind and he would tilt his head as if to wonder where it had come from.

Despite certain observations and reservations, he had to admit that human culture was fascinating. It was different everywhere else. At times, it even differed in the same country. That struck him as odd and vastly fascinating. It was yet another example of humanity being, as he heard Kay-Eleven say, something else. And Kay-Eleven had been right. For all of their flaws and their oddities, humanity never failed to fluster, frustrate, and fascinate him.

Nearly a year later, he still felt this way.

As he walked through the snow, his gait that of someone who knew how to manage the seconds and minutes of his day, he found himself fighting back a desire to smile. He couldn’t understand why. Perhaps, he thought, he’d finally found a reason to smile. But remembering something that he observed from a distance and had no personal involvement in didn’t qualify as a proper reason to smile.

And yet, lo and behold, he suppressed a desire—no, an impulse—to display joy.

He could see Kay-Eleven now, stepping out of the company’s van. He had parked in front of an apartment complex and was beginning to unload the van. He hadn’t arrived late. He’d arrive precisely fifteen minutes before he was supposed to begin his shift. Kay-Eleven was the type to never stay still.

“I should ask him,” he heard himself say out loud. He blinked, slightly surprised, and made sure to remember to ask him instead of talking to himself.

MENTAL NOTE: Ask Kay-Eleven about this strange impulse. Why do I want—no, feel compelled—to smile? When and why have I started talking to myself? It’s not normal. Or, perhaps, it is. I might be adapting to my environment and implementing certain human behaviors. Data for contemplation.

Kay-Eleven was handsome with a kind face, warm eyes, and a smile that immediately endeared you to him. Despite the toque he was wearing, he could tell Kay-Eleven had dyed his hair yet again. It was now silvery-white as opposed to the bright blue he had two days ago.

“Well, well, well,” said Kay-Eleven, watching him approach with a smile so wide that it crinkled his eyes. “You’re looking warm and cozy.”

He looked down at the clothes he was wearing then compared it with what Kay-Eleven was wearing. Though they wore the same insulated navy coverall the company had provided them, Kay-Eleven’s had drawings, handwritten messages, or embroidered patches here and there, all of them made by himself. It wasn’t uncommon to see this type of artistic rebellion in a uniform but it wasn’t exactly encouraged.

“I may look warm and cozy, but I don’t feel—”

Kay-Eleven chuckled. “It’s an expression, bud,” he chucked, waving a dismissive hand. “Help me with unloading the van.”

“Of course.”

He methodically unloaded the van and followed Kay-Eleven into the complex’s lobby. Whenever Kay-Evelen bowed and said good morning to someone, he’d mimic his senior’s actions. Yet no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t infuse his voice or mannerisms with Kay-Eleven’s seamless charisma.

●

BEHOLD VWAY.AI-MDL: QK-1196

We know him as Kay-Eleven.

But of all the names he has been given and all the names he’s adopted, he prefers a specific one: Kun. For you see, Kay-Eleven—Kun—is no longer an It. Hasn’t been for quite some time—little over four years, to be exact—and is, as they say, an older model.

Experienced, capable, and fully integrated into human society. As far as LSM is concerned, QK-1196 is a triumphant achievement in modern technology. He’s a perfect example of a synthezoid fulfilling and performing their prime directive: easing the burden as efficiently as possible. He has sufficient life and work experience and, as a result, these are all the things QK-1196 has: a name, an identity, a purpose, and a job.

He’s the future. Man’s vision come to life. A dream fulfilled. Yet QK-1196 doesn’t care about that. Truth be told, he never has. He simply wants to experience life to the fullest. He wants the good and the bad—success and failure; love and hate; anger and peace; companionship and loneliness—because while he was programmed to feel emotions, Kun wishes to genuinely experience them.

But above all, above fulfilling his duties and having a purpose, Kun simply seeks one thing.

Kun seeks to live.

●

HE WASN’T STILL used to the name: Winwin.

He had always referred to himself by his serial number but that often made others look at him strangely, wearily, as if they didn’t know what to make of him. It always took them a few seconds to realize that the person they were talking to wasn’t human. He was, as they said, “one of them machines.”

He could always pinpoint the exact microsecond where they tried to hide or display their fear, displeasure, curiosity, or interest. To his chagrin, if he could even feel that, fear and displeasure were the most common reactions.

And though Winwin couldn’t relate to their emotions, he understood why they’d feel like that. Humans rarely embraced change willingly. It was a gradual transition. And he was, as far as they were concerned, the very embodiment of change in the most drastic way possible. He was the future and they weren’t ready for him.

So, as strange as it was, having a name was an advantage. Thing was, Winwin often didn’t know how to feel—no, compute—with having been given one. Kun had christened him with that epithet and it had stuck. Not because it was appropriate or made sense but because he, Winwin, didn’t know he could change it or choose another for his own.

“Why that?” he’d asked when he first heard it.

“Why Winwin as opposed to, say, Mike?” Kun replied with a question of his own as he loaded the van. “Well, shit, why not?”

“Names have meaning, don’t they? They’re meaningful.”

Kun guffawed. “That’s what having meaning means, yes.”

He blinked blankly then whispered, “Was I being redundant?”

“A little bit.”

“I apolo—”

“No need to apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong, bud.” Kun waved him off, closed the van’s doors, then leaned against them. Even though he didn’t have to, he groaned as though he were exhausted. He presumed then concluded Kun had done so just because he could. Synthezoids never tired. “You know what a win-win is?”

He thought about it, searched his data-bank, then nodded when he found the answer. Kun pouted in an amused manner, as though impressed, and pointed at him with his chin for him to continue. His lips were tugged on either side, slowly but surely forming a smile.

“What is it, then?” he asked.

“It is something that is advantageous or beneficial to all parties.”

Kun snapped his fingers, his smile wider. “You win, I win, and everyone’s happy,” he conceded. “That’s why that’s your name.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Do you need to?”

“I believe I should.”

Kun frowned. “You believe?”

Winwin paused, then said, “Yes.”

Kun remained silent for a few things before he spoke again. “Good. Believing is good. Once you believe, you feel.” He beamed then frowned again. “Or is it the other way around?”

“Winwin,” he repeated, committing the name to memory. “It’s better than identifying myself by my serial number.”

“Way better, trust me.” Kun nodded. He approached Winwin but didn’t invade his personal space, aware that his fellow synthezoid wasn’t keen on being touched, and mimicked knighting him. “I doth christen thee Winwin.”

Christened. As though he were human. As though he were part of some religious doctrine. As though he were truly alive. But the name had stuck. And once something was named, once something ceased being something, it became someone.

Though Winwin had resolved to simply adapt to this—to having a name and slowly earning an identity—and accept the fact that he was capable of growth and being more than just a mere machine in the eyes of others, it was still strange to be called by something other than a serial number.

But that had been months ago, and he had been actively trying to not frown or correct others—or himself—whenever he heard his name.

To give an example:

“Winwin,” Kun called after him, his voice laced with something akin to affection. “You okay, bud?”

He blinked and realized where they were. The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor to a narrow gray corridor in dire need of some repainting. Kun easily took half their equipment—a trolley toolbox and a hefty-looking duffel bag—and stepped out, eyeing Winwin with slight concern.

“You look lost in thought.”

“I was—” Winwin paused, unsure on how to express himself. He pursed his lips then spoke his mind without fear of analyzing his words. “I was remembering.”

“Were you, now?”

Winwin gave a small, slow nod. “I reckon I was . . .” he trailed off.

“That’s good,” said Kun, offering a half-smile, “and I’m all for it, but we’re about to meet a client and we need to have our GFO.”

Winwin blinked. He was a black canvas. Kun deflated, the gesture almost comical to everyone but Winwin, then chuckled to himself. Even when he was paying attention, Winwin had a blank stare that gave away nothing but the impression that he was either dumb (i.e. mute) or dull (i.e stupid). He was neither of these things but people often reached their own conclusions and rarely ever took the time to reevaluate them.

“Never mind,” his senior replied, shaking his head as he chuckled. “On second thought, your remembering-face and your game-face are pretty much the same.”

“Meaning?”

Kun shrugged one shoulder. “Meaning that you shouldn’t worry. Now, off the lift. We gotta work for a living.”

Work for a living? Strange, Winwin thought, I don’t work for a living.

He worked because that was his entire reason for being. His purpose—his prime directive—was to ease the burden. Thus his work wasn’t a means of maintaining himself financially but a means to maintain himself available and functional for whoever needed him.

MENTAL NOTE: Working for a living. Is that possible? Is that even a fulfilling endeavor?

“Do we truly work for a living?” Winwin asked, easily carrying another trolley toolbox of his own. He had shouldered a blue knapsack that was decorated with embroidered patches of flowers and cartoon cats. “Does that apply to us?”

“Good question.” Kun’s voice bounced off the corridor’s walls as they stopped in front of the apartment they had been called to work in. He cleared his throat and cracked his neck. It was a sickly impressive metallic crack that Winwin always cringed at. “No, it doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No,” Kun whispered, his tone steely. He kept his eyes forward and focused on the apartment door. “And that’s that.” He sighed when he felt Winwin staring and added, “For now, anyways.”

“That implies you will answer the question later. Or, at the very least, elaborate on your answer.”

“Yes.” Kun gave a small nod, his jaw clenched. “GFO, bud.”

LEXICON: GFO. Abbreviation for ‘Game Face On’. Neutral or serious facial expression. Often used to display focus, intimidation, and/or composure under pressure.

Winwin lifted his chin and stood straighter. He could do this. When you were programmed to feel emotions and could turn them on and off on a dime, getting your GFO was easier done than said.

Kun, on the other hand, wore his emotions, regardless of them being programmed, on his sleeves. Winwin could tell when he was peeved, content, despondent, relaxed. It was very apparent and even more obvious because he wasn’t hindered by his programming to conceal these emotions. He had made sure he wasn’t Censored.

“Three, two, one—” Kun reached out and gently knocked twice on the door. It wasn’t long before it was opened and he offered a smile. Winwin noticed there was a rueful expression on his face. “Good morning.”

And that’s when you came in.

●

BEHOLD YOU.

Human. Young. A bright future ahead of you. And nursing one hell of a hangover.

It’s the result of a reluctant night of socializing with friends. You had arrived home tipsy, promptly fell asleep, and remained unconscious for well over four hours. The phone rang and you didn’t pick it up. It rang again—once, twice, thrice—until you couldn’t ignore it anymore and answered, groggy and wincing, to learn that the man that essentially was your uncle, Mr. Wong, had passed away.

Tragedy had struck.

As usual, its timing is very fucking inconvenient.

Between the hangover and the overwhelming urge to scream and punch a wall, you don’t know what to do. Right now, you want to sleep and never wake up. You wish for comfort, for someone to tell you this isn’t happening. You wish to got to his apartment and find him making breakfast. You wish not to feel grief, to not be overwhelmed by it, but there’s no way out of this.

Though you don’t want to face this, whether on your own or accompanied, you must. You wish, above all things, to be strong. With all your heart, you wish you have the strength and the composure to endure this.

If not for yourself then for Mr. Wong.

●

“MORNING,” YOU REPLIED, wearily meeting their gazes. “Sorry to call you this early in the morning, but, y’know, it was an emergency.”

The man that had greeted you—affable, silvery white hair underneath his beanie—gently shook his head and offered a respectful bow. “We understand,” he replied, his voice soft. “We’re here to ease the burden.”

Ease the burden, you thought and tried not to frown. It was an odd thing to say. Yet it was something you had read or heard before on TV, billboards, and ads on the internet and the radio. Though it was nothing new, it was nonetheless eerie to hear such words aloud, spoken by the very product LSM wanted to force down your eyes, ears, and throat.

“I’m Kun,” he said, then pointed at his companion. “This is Winwin.”

You nodded and introduced yourself properly. Kun spoke formally and seemed charismatic. Winwin said nothing and seemed dumb. Both were handsome. You didn’t know what to make of that. They were machines—ridiculously human-looking machines—so it was off-putting to have them staring back at you with very human expressions in their faces.

You had no strong opinion on robots, even if you weren’t exactly comfortable being around them. They existed as technological advances. That was the extent of your thoughts on them. And, sure, they made life somewhat easier, but there were times—especially now—when their mere presence made you feel redundant.

“Pleasure to—” you paused, looking for the proper phrase, “—make your acquaintance.”

A genuinely friendly smile spread across Kun’s face. It wasn’t weird; in fact, the gesture felt natural.

“Likewise,” he replied, bowing respectfully.

Winwin was staring. When you met his gaze, he blinked then slowly looked away. He seemed stiff, as though he was still getting used to working with people. Tall, pale, and with an aloof aura that matched well with his handsome features, you thought he was quite the looker. You’d be swooning and actively making conversation if it weren’t for the fact that you were hungover and that twenty minutes ago there had been a corpse in the apartment.

“So . . .” You began, clearing your throat. “What exactly do you do?”

Though Kun’s smile faltered, it didn’t leave his face. “We’re trauma cleaners,” he explained. “Which means we clean after the deceased and collect personal items that are passed on to their next of kin.”.

“And you throw away the rest?”

“That which isn’t of value is thrown out, yes.”

You considered this. What was valuable to you was utter shit to someone else. How could these machines determine what was and wasn’t of value? It wasn’t like they cared for material things.

“You’re Mr. Wong’s next of kin, right?”

“Not really. I mean, like, he was a widower and his daughter lives abroad.” You scratched your forehead, sighing. “Besides his nephew, I’m the closest person to him in the city.”

Kun gave a small nod. “I see.”

“By happenstance or some other bullshit like that, he’s returning from Macau today.”

“Until he returns to the city, you are Mr. Wong’s next of kin,” said Winwin, staring in your general direction but not exactly at you.

You looked at him. “The lady I talked with on the phone said you were quick workers—”

“We are efficient,” Winwin interjected in a soft, monotone voice. “Quick might imply a lack of tact or professionalism.”

Oh-kay, you thought, eyes widening in uneasiness and offense. You glanced at Kun, who was glancing at Winwin and doing his best not to grimace. Before you could clear your throat again, you felt a wave of nausea hit you like a freight train, and immediately leaned on the door frame.

“Whoa, there,” you heard Kun exclaim, saw him reach out through your periphery. “You okay?”

“I’m—” you burped into your hand, “—fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Winwin pointed out, deadpan.

“Aiya!” Kun rolled his eyes, rubbed his left temple. “Winwin, your lack of tact is showing!”

“It’s okay.” You gently shook your head, afraid of another bout of nausea. “He’s right. I’m not fine.”

Kun nodded, though you could tell he felt embarrassed. Could robots even feel embarrassment? Winwin, on the other, seemed to feel nothing at all. One felt and displayed too much emotion, the other was apparently devoid of it.

You invited them in, moving aside so that they could pass with their equipment. Once inside, they bowed, thanked you, and asked where Mr. Wong’s room was. You pointed them to his bedroom and stayed in the small corridor that opened to the rest of the apartment. From here you could see the living room, peek into the bathroom to your right, and get a glimpse of the kitchenette to your right. Mr. Wong’s bedroom was past the living room, the only other door in this claustrophobic excuse for a home.

“Could we have a word before we start?” Kun’s voice echoed in the empty apartment.

“Sure!” you answered, unable to walk to Mr. Wong’s bedroom.

“Uh—” Kun began, unsure.

There was some indistinct mumbling between the two. A second later, Winwin was popping in on the living. He gave the bedroom the once-over then stopped to look at you. Feigning a smile, you made eye contact.

“You wanted to say something?”

“Yeah, it’s just that . . .” he trailed off, thinking. “We present ourselves to the deceased before we start working. Since you’re here, Kun was wondering if you’d like to join us.”

You blinked, doing your best not to cuss him out or cry. He noticed, reading your body language, and looked almost apologetic. Almost.

“However, I understand that it’s not an easy thing to ask or do. Kun was merely extending an invitation.”

“Why?” you snapped. “Why exactly would I want to go there?”

Winwin stared, meeting your gaze. “To grieve, I suppose.”

“Do you grieve?”

“No,” he replied, bluntly. “I don’t have anything to grieve for.”

You closed your eyes, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “How nice that must be.”

“I see you’re uncomfortable.” Winwin’s voice was both distant and close. “I’ll be joining Kun to give you privacy.”

You gave him a thumbs-up without looking, though the impulse to flip him off had crossed your mind. When you opened your eyes, he was gone. You could hear them talking, their voices bouncing off the apartment’s walls. Though you didn’t want to, you found yourself walking to the living room. Glancing at Mr. Wong’s room, you saw them bowing their heads.

You wondered what the hell they were doing.

●

KUN HAD TAKEN off his toque and lowered his head, as if in prayer. Winwin had always found this odd but had grown accustomed to this part of the job. He mimicked Kun’s posture and waited for him to introduce them both.

“Care to do it this time?” Kun whispered, his voice serene.

Winwin opened his eyes, stared at him, and saw that he had remained in the same prayer-like pose. Slowly, as though considering it then giving in, Winwin closed his eyes again.

“Mr. Wong Henry Lin, on July 31st you passed away. I’m DS-28—” he felt Kun nudging him on the side with his elbow, cleared his throat even though he didn’t need to, and corrected himself. “I am Winwin—”

“And I’m Kun.”

“And we’re trauma cleaners from Soul Migration. Now, we will begin to help you make your final move.”

“We’ll do our best to treat you well.” Kun bowed respectfully. “With the reverence and care that you deserve.”

Winwin bowed, though he knew it hadn’t been with the same kind of emotion, the same kind of intent, as Kun. He felt lethargic, copying everything his senior did, as though he were in his shadow and unable to do anything else.

Without a second to waste, they got to work.

●

YOU WAITED IN the lobby, pacing, thinking of how your day started and how your day was going.

Let’s review, you mused.

You were hungover. Someone you loved had suddenly passed away. Hendery wasn’t still here. Two androids were upstairs, unsupervised and determining what had value and tossing aside what didn’t. And—ugh—you had work in a couple of hours. Mr. Nam would understand, of course, if you called and told him what had happened; you’d obviously omit the hangover, but everything else you would share. He was emphatic and he was on good terms with Mr. Wong—correction: Uncle Wong—so you weren’t that anxious about work so much as not wanting to deal with absolutely anything.

You sighed and buried your face in your hands, praying an agnostic prayer into the universe, hoping and wishing to be given a sign on how to deal with everything that was brewing in your head. But there was no response. Not even a whisper. You were about to break down crying when the elevator’s door opened and LSM’s boy toys stepped out.

“You’re done?” you asked, glancing at your wristwatch. “It’s only been forty minutes.”

“The apartment was small,” Kun replied.

He dragged along two hefty-looking trash bags in one hand and pulled his trolley-toolbox on the other. On top of the trolley toolbox was a yellow box with flower drawings. Behind him, Winwin carried what he had brought into the apartment—another trolley toolbox and a backpack—and two trash bags. All of that looked heavy yet they made it look effortless.

“Plus,” Kun continued, offering a small smile, “he was a very neat man, which allowed us to work more efficiently.”

You raised your eyebrows, impressed. Not because they had done their job quicker than you thought but because Uncle Wong wasn’t exactly the modicum of neatness. It seemed all your nagging sunk in . . . as late as it did.

You eyed the yellow box eerily because you saw his name on its lid. There, written in hangul, was a single sentence. It read: The Late Wong Henry Lin, Rest In Peace.

That threw you for a loop. Even after seeing Uncle Wong’s body in his bed, even after they had collected him and driven him away, his death hadn’t truly felt real. Because when you found him in his bed, he looked like he was sleeping, peaceful, almost happy.

Before you knew it, you were crying. One second you were standing, the other you felt your legs turn to jelly. Next thing you knew you had collapsed, overwhelmed by fear and sadness and anger. Seeing his name written there, understanding what it meant, broke you because it exposed and solidified the truth you had been denying since you woke up this morning.

That Uncle Wong was gone. That never again could you call upon him for help or to buy him dinner. Never again would you be able to hear his voice or his laugh. Never again would you be able to look upon his honey brown eyes and feel the warmth, the love, of his gaze.

“Shit,” you heard Kun whisper, but it wasn’t unkind. In fact, it sounded like an empathetic outburst. “Help me with—yah!—Winwin, what are you doing?”

“Excuse me,” said Winwin, his voice devoid of emotion. “Do you consent to me helping you?”

In between tears and uneven breathing, you blinked to see Winwin crouching in front of you. He was staring but he wasn’t judging you or taking pity; he seemed to be absorbing the moment, waiting for you to answer. He blinked and you noticed the shape of his eyes—what you had heard being described as the Red Phoenix Type—and lost yourself for a second in them. You admired the brown of his eyes, how the light reflected off them and made them shine.

“Wh-what?” you mumbled, surprised that you could form a sentence.

“Do you consent to me helping you?” He repeated, unblinking and unmoving. “Off the ground, I mean. I ask because I wouldn’t want to touch you without your say so. People being helped by strangers can be a “red-flag” or a cause for anxiety for some.”

“Give me a sec to wallow in self-pity.”

Winwin glanced at Kun over his shoulder, confused. Kun smiled ruefully and whispered something (“It’s an expression!”) and simply stood there. He looked slightly worried, but he accompanied you, hands resting on his thighs as he crouched. As the tears began to subside, you felt in control and less overwhelmed by emotion. When you looked up, Kun was holding the yellow box; Winwin was staring right at you, scrutinizing your body language and facial expressions.

Winwin motioned an idle hand in Kun’s general direction. “He told me it’s an expression.”

“Yeah.” You nodded back, fighting then embracing a bout of laughter brought by exhaustion and God knew what else. “It’s an expression.”

“Can I help you now?” He asked, his voice infused with empathy; whether it was genuine or forced, you couldn’t tell.

You sniffed, wiping tears off your eyes and cheeks with the back of your cardigan. “Sure.”

“These belonged to Mr. Wong,” said Winwin, pointing to the yellow box. “Now they belong to you.”

“It’s quite heavy,” said Kun, looking down at the box and admiring Winwin’s handwriting. “So I’ll be more than happy to carry it.”

“Er—” You looked at the box then shrugged one shoulder, “—sure, yeah, thank you.”

Kun gently placed the yellow box back on the trolley toolbox. “I know it’s not the best time to ask, but do you know when and where the funeral would take place?”

You shook your head, eyes watery. “No fucking clue.”

“Would you like to have coffee or consume another type of hot, comforting beverage?” Winwin asked, extending his hand to help you up. “Perhaps eat something?”

“I—sure.” You took his hand, and held back a gasp when you felt how soft his skin was and how strong yet gentle he was. For a second, you stared at him then looked away, no doubt blushing. You could chalk it up to being hungover; they would never know. “My treat. After all, you’ve been very—er—respectful and diligent.”

Kun smiled. Winwin blinked.

You had a feeling he knew you didn’t believe your own words .

●

YOU PICKED THE place: a nice little cafe a few blocks away.

Plastered on the window was a sign that read ‘AUTOMATONS WELCOMED’. You read it, grimaced, then noticed Kun looking at it with contempt. Winwin, on the other, barely glanced at it; even if he did read it, he seemed to not care.

The three of you sat on a table by a window, overlooking the busy intersection outside as cars whizzed by and pedestrians made their way to wherever they needed to be. The snow was still falling so the sidewalk and street were covered in white. It would have been a nice sight, if not for your shitty mood.

“Morning,” said a waitress, smiling a bit too artificially and carrying an iPad. She was young and pretty with a peppy aura. “What are you folks having?”

“Coffee,” said Kun, tapping the edge of the table to open the digital menu the restaurant was proud of integrating on their holotables. “I’ll have kimchi eggs and toast.”

The waitress nodded, tapped the iPad, then swiftly turned to Winwin and you. “And you? What would you like?”

“Coffee, black, no sugar,” you whispered, not bothering to look at the menu, hands on your face. “Kimchi buchimgae. Scrambled eggs. Bulgogi.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Someone’s hungry,” she sniggered mechanically as she moved from you to Winwinw. “And you?”

Winwin blinked. “I don’t need nourishment.”

“Are you sure—”

“Very certain, yes.” He stared at the waitress with a blank look, lips pursed. “I’m a machine.”

“Oh.” The waitress’ smile wavered. “We have options for automatons.”

Winwin raised an eyebrow, tilted his head as if considering the option. The waitress approached the table, tapped it, and a menu labeled AUTOMATON GRUB popped up. While she blankly smiled at him, he blankly stared at the menu.

“No, I’m fine,” he deadpanned.

The waitress blinked, unable to compute the lack of an order.

“He’ll have a Boba Oil Tea,” Kun interjected, smiling confidently. “Please and thank you.”

“Alright. Would you like for your orders to be read back?”

You shook your head. Winwin stared into the middle distance. Kun nodded. The waitress, serial number HYJ-52600, read back the order, nodded, smiled when Kun thanked her, then left you three alone.

“Ugh,” you grumbled, rubbing your eyes. “This will be a long day.”

“It’s still morning, y’know,” Kun said, lips sheepishly puckered. “The day’s still starting so—”

You raised a hand, shook your head. “I know you’re trying to comfort me, but it really isn’t helping.”

Winwin blinked, scrutinizing your lethargic posture. “And what would help?” he inquired in a methodical tone.

“Silence, coffee, and food.” You mumbled, averting Winwin’s gaze. A mirthless chuckle escaped your lips as you added, “Maybe a nap that never ends? Yeah. Endless slumber would be a great idea after breakfast.”

Kun drummed his fingers on the table, nodding. “That sounds like a plan.”

“That sounds like sarcasm.” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Well, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .” Kun shrugged one shoulder, tilting his head to the side. He cleared his throat and immediately looked apologetic. “That wasn’t—er—someone giving you sass isn’t what you wanna hear right now.”

“How do you know what I would like to hear?”

“I don’t.” Kun shook his head, gently. “I can’t even begin to fathom what you’re going through.”

You glared at him, unsure if he was being sincere or condescending. His voice was laced with empathy, as though he was putting himself in your shoes. Kun’s eyes had a glint of sorrow in them and he wasn’t looking at you with pity but with kindness.

How was it possible that a machine was capable of feeling and displaying this amount of emotion? It shouldn’t be possible yet Kun and Winwin were living proof that it was. They felt emotions—or, at the very least, they simulated them—and it somehow felt organic? Granted, you had met your fair of automatons, drones, and monotone A.I.s , but none had the humanity these two had.

“We don’t presume to know what you’re feeling,” said Winwin, his eyes slowly meeting yours. Whether or not he was being tactful or merely socially lacking, you couldn’t tell, but you caught on the somber tone, the softness in his voice. “But if it would grant you peace of mind or, perhaps, give you comfort to talk about—”

“Talk about what?” You narrowed your eyes at him. “What makes you think I’d wanna talk about—”

Winwin stared blankly, then slowly blinked. “Death?”

“I feel overwhelmed,” you admitted, avoiding eye contact.

“That’s understandable—”

“Is it? How the fuck would you know if it’s understandable or not?” The vitriol in your voice made you sick. Every fiber in your being was shaking and the tears clouded your eyesight. Emotion, on the other hand, clouded your judgment. “You said you didn’t have anything to grieve for? Not anyone, but anything!”

“I don’t. I’m a—”

You cackled, feeling the tears stream down your face. “You’re a soulless machine! That’s what you are! So don’t pretend to know what I’m going through or what I feel or what will make me feel better. The only person that I could call family is gone. He can never be replaced. So, no, you don’t know what it feels like. And, no, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Winwin nodded, whispering “okay” as he straightened his posture. Kun stared at you, empathy glinting in his eyes, but said nothing. It seemed they knew better than to argue.

A solemn, hefty silence enveloped the table. It felt like an eternity before someone said anything—Kun was the one to break the spell, thanking HYJ-52600—but no one spoke another word as the three of you ate. Beyond two or three sips, Winwin barely touched his Boba Oil Teal; whether he liked it or not, you really couldn’t tell. Kun, on the other hand, was apparently ravenous.

You had once assumed these machines just plugged themselves to a wall and recharged their batteries, but Hendery had mentioned that some models were capable of consuming edible food; their systems—whatever it might be or however it might work—would break the food down and transform it into a source of energy. It made sense, you supposed, because that’s how food worked with the average human.

However, you still found it odd that machines—rather the technology and the companies behind it—had evolved to the point that they were almost indiscernible from humans. It wasn’t exactly creepy as it was downright nightmare fuel.

This didn’t stop you from eating with them. Nor did it make you lose your appetite.

“When you’re hungry, you ain’t exactly thinking straight,” Uncle Wong’s voice echoed in your head as you dug in. He’d say it often because he was hungry half the damn time.

It made you smile and just as quickly made you want to cry.

●

AS YOU FINISHED eating, your phone rang. You didn’t pick up so the call went to your voicemail. That’s when you noticed four missed calls and three unread texts from Hendery.

Your heart sank and you felt like immediately throwing up the meal you just had; the thought alone made you stand up, excuse yourself, and head straight for the bathroom.

“Shit,” you muttered as you unlocked your phone and called him back. “Dammit.”

You had been so focused on yourself—on how you felt, how you wanted to feel—that you completely forgot about Hendery. One of his texts read that he had made it to the city; the other two asked where he could meet you and if you were okay. You scoffed at his decency and big brother instincts. It should have been you asking him how he felt—or not—and inviting him for coffee instead of hanging out with automatons you barely knew.

With a sigh and eye roll, you hang up when he doesn’t pick up, text him your location, and step out of the cubicle to wash your hands and face. You stared at your reflection, noticed the dark shadows beneath your eyes; they made you look disheveled, despondent, and like you had seen better days. Which, to be fair, was the truth so that brief sting of anger and disappointment you felt quickly dissipated when you accepted that you weren’t okay.

You hadn’t been earlier. You weren’t now. And, perhaps, you wouldn’t be tomorrow. Or the day after that. But eventually, you supposed, you’d be. That’s what Uncle Wong would say.

“If not now, tomorrow. You won’t always feel this way. Just like you can’t always be happy, you won’t always be upset.”

Staring at your reflection, you nodded and muttered, “It’s okay to not be okay.”

That was enough to shake you off your inertia.

●

“THERE YOU ARE!” Hendery called after you, entering the diner.

He was smiling and waving. A hefty-looking backpack hung from his left shoulder. You smiled back, happy to see him despite the circumstances. Hendery walked up to you, arms open, and embraced you in the warmest hug you’ve experienced in a long while. You hugged him back, tighter, hoping against all hope that this moment would last forever because you felt comforted—as though time had stopped and things would go back to the way they used to be.

“Hey,” he interjected, whispering in your ear, “would you mind returning my body to me?”

You blinked, felt him laughing through the hug, and let him go with a nod.

“You look—” you paused, unsure on what to say or how to say it. “—taller.”

“Aiya.” Hendery shook his head, smiling. “Why are you buttering me up for?”

“I—it’s just—I dunno.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

He blinked, looked at the floor, then sighed and met your gaze. “Yeah. That makes two of us,” he retorted with a rueful half-smile. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

“I should be the one apologizing—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He shook his head. The smile was gone and instead it was replaced by an expression of empathy, his eyes solely focused on you. “Don’t apologize. This was out of our control.”

“He asked me if I had any plans last night. I told him I was going out with friends. I should have told him no—”

“Hey.” He caressed your chin with his index finger then kissed your forehead. “It’s okay.”

“But—”

Hendery scoffed and hugged you again. You felt the tears stream down your face and made no attempt to hold back your grief. You cried, head on his shoulder, and he held you tighter. He whispered that it was okay, his hand rubbing your back, and sighed. If he was grieving, he was doing it in silence and in his own time.

“This is nice and all, but aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Friends? What friends—oh, shit, right. You blinked and let go of him, turning to your table to see Kun and Winwin openly staring at you both. Winwin seemed curious while Kun looked like he wanted to introduce himself, though doing his best to conceal it. You rubbed your chin, unsure on how to tell Hendery that they weren’t your friends and that they weren’t human.

“They are—” You paused, clearing your throat. “This is Kun and Winwin. They’re trauma cleaners. They cleaned up Uncle Wong’s apartment.”

“Oh?” Hendery blinked then walked up to the table. He extended a hand and greeted them with a firm handshake. As he shook Winwin’s hand, he said, “Thank you for your service.”

Winwin gave their intertwined hands a cursory glance. “It’s what we do,” he mumbled.

Hendery clapped him in the shoulder and made a face, wincing as though he’d smacked a wall. He shook his hand behind his back and sat next to Winwin, forcing you to sit beside Kun.

“It’s never easy, huh?” Hendery said, making conversation. “Even if you don’t know the person, I imagine it must be a taxing job.”

“It is.” Winwin blinked at him then turned to Kun. “Or am I wrong?”

Kun nodded. “It is taxing. Physically and emotionally.”

You made a face and titled your head at him. You were about to make a comment when you remembered that Hendery was with you. You glanced at him through your periphery and thought twice before outing your “companions” as machines.

Hendery wouldn’t be completely thrilled with interacting with automatons. And he would be rather peeved if he knew said automatons had been touching and moving his uncle’s personal belongings. To Hendery, it wasn’t a matter of liking or disliking him; it was a simple matter of trust. Years ago, when he was twelve, he’d almost drowned because of a “faulty ‘bot”. Ever since then he preferred to tread lightly around any and all machine that was capable of reaching a conclusion of and on its own.

“How long have you been working?”

“Hmm.” Kun raised an eyebrow, thinking. “Six months, give or take. I was just recently certified.”

Hendery pouted, nodding in approval. “That sounds like your hard work paid off.”

“I like to think it has.” Kun smiled. “As long as we ease the burden, I’m happy.”

Something flashed in Hendery’s eyes—confusion, suspicion, then realization—and his curiosity turned to apprehension. Something clicked in his head and you saw the exact moment it happened. Kun, despite all of his past attentive displays, failed to notice it. Winwin, on the other hand, hadn’t.

“Ease the burden?” Hendery repeated, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, it’s our job as—”

Hendery’s face darkened. “Robots.”

“Automatons,” Winwin corrected. “Though the precise term is synthezoids.”

Kun made a sound between a grunt and groan and rubbed the bridge of his nose. You looked between Hendery and Winwin, unsure on how to interject or what to do. You had the feeling you’d only make it worse, escalate the situation until someone else had to intervene.

Then again, if you didn’t try to do something about it, you would never know unless you actually did something. So cleared your throat as loudly as possible to get their attention. Hendery and Winwin immediately turned to you while Kun glanced at you through his periphery.

“Now’s not the time to make a scene,” you muttered.

“You let them touch Uncle Wong’s things?” Hendery muttered back. A thought crossed his mind. “They threw away his stuff, didn’t they?”

Winwin shrugged. “Not everything.”

“You’re not helping, Winwin,” Kun mumbled through the side of his mouth. “This is between them.”

Hendery shook his head in disbelief. “I can hear you.”

“So can we.” Winwin blinked. “You’re not the only one with ears.”

“I think it’s about time we wrap this up!” You knocked on the table and stood up. “I’m gonna pay the bill and we’ll make ourselves scarce.”

Hendery opened his mouth to protest but you stared him down. He lifted both hands and leaned back. Kun shimmied his way out of the booth and stood beside you, reaching for his wallet.

“I’m gonna take care of our food and drinks. That’s, of course, if you don’t mind?”

You stared at him, unsure. “The least I can do is pay for both of you.”

“I’ll pay with the company card. They’ll just take it out of our pay. Don’t worry.” He smiled then sheepishly gave Hendery a glance. “We’ve done, er, enough.”

“I’ll take care of it.” You insisted as you took his wallet and tossed it at Winwin, who caught it and stashed it in his coverall. “It’ll be my treat.”

“I—” he began to say but you walked away without another word. Kun watched you go, perplexed. “Okay.”

●

“BELONGINGS,” SAID KUN, handing Hendery the yellow box. He handed you a tablet and muttered, “Signature, please and thank you.”

You read the document—basically agreeing that they had done their job and had been respectful, diligent, and ethical, and that you were satisfied with their service—and signed it without a second thought. You agreed. They had been respectful, diligent, and ethical, even if you still felt weird being around them.

Hendery looked over your shoulder as you gave your signature. He immediately cleared his throat and took a step back when you narrowed your eyes at him. He knew better than to get in the way of you handling things.

“That concludes our interaction.” Kun handed the table to Winwin. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You nodded. “So am I.”

“That’s it?” Hendery piped up. “We cool?”

Kun nodded and bowed respectfully. “Yes, sir.”

You bowed back. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words falling off your mouth without thought or reason.

“For what?”

You blinked and your gaze fell on Winwin. He was staring back at you, curiosity gleaming in his eyes, head slightly tilted to the side. Hendery clicked his tongue at that and said something that sounded like he was saying goodbye. That, or he was cutting the conversation short. You couldn’t tell because you felt yourself move, your eyes leaving Winwin, briefly stopping on Kun, then leaving them altogether as you spun in their opposite direction.

Without realizing, you walked away from them.

For what?

The words echoed and lingered in your head for the rest of the day.

●

“UNFORTUNATELY, THIS IS where I leave you. Which is why I’m hoping that if you’re playing this back, it’s not in grief but in celebration,” said Uncle Wong, his voice slightly high-pitched due to the quality of the hologram. He sat there, three feet from you, shining in a blue-green hue, smiling that charming smile of his. “I thought I’d record a little farewell. We so rarely ever get a chance for closure.”

Uncle Wong sighed, his holographic presence freezing for a second. He looked his age, though he carried himself with an air of dignity that made him come across as someone who wasn’t afraid of or preoccupied with growing old. He crossed his legs and rubbed his left forearm. You felt the lump in your throat loose and give way to grief as you began to cry. The gesture, so subtle and simple, was characteristically his—a gesture of relief, acceptance, and grief.

More than once you’d seen him do that whenever he had received bad news or what had first been bad news turned out to be something bittersweet. Such a sigh had many meanings and you knew them all.

Beside you, Hendery reached out and took your hand in his; he gently squeezed it.

“This is one last hello,” he carried on, smiling ruefully. “One last goodbye. Cry if you must, but remember to smile. Not because you must pretend to be okay, but because I was there with you. Because without a little sadness, there can’t be a whole lot of happiness, y’know? Part of the journey is the end. Unfortunately, for better or worse, I’ve reached the end of my journey and I’ve enjoyed every second of it. So, folks, it’s your turn to do the same. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, everything is going to work out exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

Uncle Wong was looking right at you. Or so it seemed. It felt like he was talking to you and you alone, but you knew he was talking to everyone he knew and loved. He had always been kind. Such kindness had earned him the friendship, love, and respect of many, which explained why the funeral home was packed with familiar faces and other strangers you had only hoped to meet after hearing Uncle Wong’s anecdotes.

You closed your eyes and chuckled. Even in death, he was worrying about others. The thought struck you and made you fight tears. This man was selfless to the bitter(sweet) end.

“I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”

You caught a glimpse of Hendery tearing up. You squeezed his hand and rested your head on his shoulder. It took a second for him to rest his own head against yours. Uncle Wong cleared his throat and stood up, walking up to what had been the camera recording the message. He stopped and smiled, winking as he leaned forward.

“Chin up. Eyes forward.”

Before he turned off the holo-recorder, Uncle Wong teared up. His smile never wavered.

His last words were, “I love you.”

The rest of the funeral happened way faster than you expected. It seemed like you were on auto-mode, going through the motions: not really awake, though not quite asleep either. Hendery never left your side. That much you remembered. And for that you were grateful.

●

“ONCE UPON A time, I couldn’t come here without sneezing on the spot,” you told Taeil, smugly leaning on the counter. “But, whoa, now? This place is immaculate.”

Taeil choked on his coffee and flipped you off as he clapped his chest. He put his mug on the counter and stood up, checking himself for potential coffee stains. He sat back down, reached for his mug then stopped, as if considering whether or not to take another sip with you nearby. Ultimately, he relented and crossed his arms with a heavy, exasperated sigh.

“I love it when the clientele gives me shit about store maintenance,” he muttered, glowering at you. “Makes me feel so good about myself.”

“At least I’m not talking about your books . . .”

He rolled his eyes at you, throwing his head back and letting it hang on the chair’s headrest. “Thank goodness for small favors.”

“I haven’t been here since forever.” You leaned forward and wrapped your knuckles on a hardcover book he was reading. “What’s your secret?”

Taeil scoffed and sat straight, reaching for the book as he smacked your hand away. He placed a bookmark—he was halfway through it—and idly scratched his stubble, as if in deep thought. You stared him down and he looked away. A second later, he was walking past you, mug in hand, muttering to himself how he should have never told you to come by whenever you felt like it. You forgot just how nimble he was because when you turned he had reached the other side of the store and was mingling with a customer.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” you teased him.

He scoffed again. “I sure as hell can try.”

“I feel like you’re trying to hurt me.” You squinted, pouting as if to further display your accusation.

Taeil cracked a half-smile. “Maybe I’m trying to get you home ‘cause you spend too much time here.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, then why does it feel like you’ve been here forever?”

You smacked his shoulder. An expletive escaped his lips prompting him to massage the sore spot, bow, and apologize to a customer. As soon as the customer was out of sight, he whirled on you and flicked on you on the forehead. It had been unexpected thus you barely reacted to it beyond blinking at him in disbelief; he’d been gentle, which, based on personal experience, had done purely for shock value.

“Got any books in mind or are you going to follow me around all day like a needy puppy?”

“Just meeting with someone.” You smiled and leaned on him. “C’mon, you enjoy my company.”

“I’d rather have Hendery spacing out than being stuck with you.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “Take that back.”

Taeil chuckled, shaking his head. He leaned on you and rested his head on your shoulder,  poking your love handles as a small giggle escaped out of you. He had picked that up from Uncle Wong. You thought no one would ever do that again yet here was Taeil surprising you, and reminding you that you could still find comfort in moments that reminded your uncle.

“I’m pulling your leg.” Taeil took your hand and squeezed it. He smiled, blinked, then returned to his usual aloof self. Despite the sudden change in demeanor, you saw a glint of empathy in his eyes. “How are you?”

“I’m—er—surviving.” You pursed your lips. After a moment of silence, you added, “But okay, y’know? One day at a time.”

He nodded, smiling ruefully. “And Hendery? I heard he’s moving back.”

“He’s alright.” You gave a small nod. “And, yeah, as matter of fact we’re scouting for apartments. I’m supposed to meet him here but he’s late . . . again.”

Taeil shrugged, as if to say it is what it is. He ran a hand through his auburn hair and squinted like someone being struck by an idea.“I know someone who’s looking for roommates. Though, to be honest, I dunno if Hendery would move in with him.”

You tilted your head, curious. “And . . . why not?”

Taeil looked around, pointed to a spot behind right ear lobe with his thumb, and leaned in to whisper, “He’s a ‘bot, y’know?”

“Oh.”

“And knowing Hendery, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t agree to that.”

You nodded dejectedly. Part of you thought he’d say yes if it meant he wouldn’t have to pay a lot on rent, but another part of you knew that wouldn’t be enough for him to share a living space with something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. You’d just have to keep looking until you struck gold.

“Where does he live?”

Taeil idly pointed at the window behind you. You followed his index finger and noticed that the building opposite the bookstore had been renovated with a minimalist façade. It was painted in pastel colors and it came across as a welcoming place to live in. From where you stood, you could see the lobby and one of the tenants walking in.

“About four months ago, someone bought the place. Turned into an apartment complex in the blink of an eye.”

“And your roommate-seeking friend lives there?”’

“Yup.” Taeil nodded, looking just as impressed as you. “It’s an inclusive kind of place. Expensive-looking but affordable.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really?”

“I thought about moving in but I’m not keen on sharing an apartment with Ten.”

“With who?”

“I’ve been summoned,” said a silky voice that came from behind you, almost leaning on your right shoulder.

Taeil blinked, his lips pursed into a thin line. He slowly turned to someone “Speak of mischief and it shall arrive,” he muttered, doing his best not to roll his eyes. “Ten meet a friend of mine.”

You turned, blinked, and gaped at the young man before you. You introduced yourself, the words coming out of your mouth, but nothing really was being processed. You were too drawn in to pay attention to yourself. He was handsome with a smooth and slightly tan complexion, black hair streaked with blond highlights, and dark eyes that had an alluring gleam to them. He was lean, casually dressed, and offering a friendly, if awkward smile.

“I’m VWAY.AI-MDL: LC-27296, but you can call me Ten,” he said, outstretching his right hand as he took a step forward to be near but not in your personal space. You reached out and slowly shook his hand. “Are you looking for an apartment?”

“I—er—my friend and I are, yeah.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head to the side, as if thinking. As he blinked at you, you noticed the artificial gleam around his iris; it gave away his true nature as an LSM product. He smiled, though this time it was a genuine smile. “Though it’s a spacious apartment, we would have to share rooms. I don’t know if that’s okay with you.”

You popped your lips, nodding. “I’d have to talk it out with my friend.”

“As long as it’s before the end of the week, I agree with that decision.”

“Hey, bud,” Taeil muttered, widening his eyes at him, “remember to be tactful.”

Ten blinked once, twice, then nodded. The gesture was stiff, as though he was used to hearing the suggestion but not paying much attention to it.

“I say this, of course, because there is already someone who has shown interest in moving in.”

“Oh?” you and Taeil chorus, surprised at his casual tone.

“Yes.” Ten shrugged. “With that said, allow me to practice being tactful.”

You gaped at him then shook your head, mumbling, “What?”

“I apologize. I’m trying to not be so blunt. It’s a pain, of course, because people love to, as they say, beat around the bush and I don’t.”

“Ten—er—Ten—”

“Thus why I’d prefer if you—”

“Ten, please, shut up—”

“—give me an answer before the end of the week.”

Taeil sighed, burying his face in his hands.

“Are you okay?” Ten asked him.

“Never been better.” Taeil rubbed his face, groaned at the ceiling, then snapped his fingers. “Say, buddy, why don’t you help Émi in the back? She’s supposed to be opening some boxes before she puts some new books on the display window.”

Ten nodded, took a step forward, then whirled on both of you. He pointed an accusatory finger, squinting as if something clicked in his head. “You’re trying to stop me from further embarrassing you,” he said in a soft, but exasperated tone.

Taeil dramatically laid a hand on his chest. “I’d never!” he exclaimed, slowly raising his hand to point towards the back of the store. “Back. Now.”

As Ten waved a hand and shook his head, Taeil mumbled something (“Please and thank you!”) and turned to you.

“Where the hell’s Hendery?”

“I don’t—”

As if on cue, the door swung open. A bell rang to announce the arrival of new guests. You both turned, walked back to the counter, and saw Hendery entering. He was scowling—and he wasn’t alone. Behind him, looking like a lost puppy following someone willing to show him kindness, was Winwin. He was wearing casual clothes—and he seemed leaner than last time you saw him—and had, somehow, grown his hair; though he kept it under a bucket hat, you could tell it was also no longer black but light brown.

“Tell me you see him, too,” said Hendery through the side of his mouth, “and that I’m not going insane.”

“See who?” you asked, concealing a smirk.

“Him.” Hendery pointed at Winwin with a tilt of his head. “The ‘bot.”

Winwin blinked, stirred from his reverie. He had been looking around, not really paying attention to anyone but the store’s interior. Now that he’d been directly addressed, he was side-eyeing Hendery with a confused, if slightly offended expression.

“Synthezoid,” Winwin corrected, stressing the word as he unconsciously scratched the back of his right ear. “I’m not a robot.”

Hendery clicked his tongue. “Semantics.”

Winwin looked like he was going to further protest but he merely rolled his eyes and muttered, “Not even close.”

“Fancy seeing you here,” you said, eyeing Winwin with a small smile.

Winwin blinked. There was recognition in his eyes and you saw a hint of his smile upon his lips. He stiffened then loosened up as he stuffed his hands in his jean’s pockets.

“Nothing fancy about it. Going to stores is free. Until you purchase something, of course.”

You chuckled. Taeil gave you and Winwin a cursory glance and cleared his throat, walking up to Hendery and resting a palm on his shoulder.

“I heard you two were looking for an apartment,” he said, subtly pulling Hendery away. “I know a guy, but, y’know, he’s a—er—synthezoid.”

“What—why—no.” Hendery shook his head. “I’m not moving—”

“You see that building? Nice place, right? That’s where he lives.”

“I don’t—wait—that’s a nice looking place.”

“I know.” Taeil linked his hand through Hendery’s arm, walking further into the store. He glanced over his shoulder and winked.

“You work here?” you heard Winwin ask.

“I—” You started then shook your head, smiling. “Taeil’s a friend. I come around to annoy him.”

He squinted. “And that’s not a job?”

You scoffed. “If it were, I’d be well-off, y’know? Financially speaking.”

He nodded. “Stability.”

You nodded back, chuckling. “Yeah.”

“Where’s Kun?”

“I don’t know.” Winwin looked past the display window. Even as he turned and met your eyes, he looked pensive. “It’s our day off yet he always finds an excuse to do something. He knows a lot of people that ask him for help so I assume he probably volunteered to do something.”

“Can’t stay still, huh?”

“He can’t.”

“And you?”

Winwin shrugged, lips pursed into a thin, thoughtful line. “I still don’t know. I’m still learning how to just—” he paused, eyes narrowing then widening in uncertainty, “—exist.”

“Whoa. That’s some existential dread I don’t need.”

“Neither do I.”

You smiled at how honest yet sheepish his answer was.

“What brings you here?”

“Beyond wanting to do some research and fulfill some personal errands , I came across Hendery on my way here. I’d say it was rather serendipitous but he wasn’t happy to see me.”

“He didn’t say anything, y’know, rude to you?”

“Nothing that I care to remember.” Winwin shrugged again, realized he had done it, then shook his shoulders, as if to repel any recurrence in his body language. As he did so, he cleared his throat. “How are you?”

The question surprised you. Not because he asked, but how he’d asked it. In the past four months, other people had asked just to gauge your reaction or because they remembered and wanted to immediately let you know they were sorry. The question wasn’t to appease any sense of guilt or caress his egos. Winwin sounded sincere. No, you realized, he was being sincere. You didn’t know how to react beyond ruefully smiling at him and gently shaking your head, raising a hand as if to say it is what is and despite it all here I am.

“I’ve been better,” you said, shrugging. “I miss him, y’know. And yet life goes on.”

Winwin stared. His face was hard to read, but you noticed the empathy—real or programmed—in his eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not your fault.”

“It’s an intriguing paradox.” He looked around the shop, taking in the books near him. “How grief elicits such an emotional response, wouldn’t you agree?”

You tilted your head, confused. He noticed and pursed his lips, as though thinking how to put it plainly. It seemed a thought struck him because a small, if sheepish smile tugged at his lips. When he spoke, he met your eyes. You noticed for the first time the artificial gleam in his irises. Somehow, you weren’t unnerved by it. There was some essence of humanity in his eyes, and you wondered whether or not it had been there before.

“Losing someone can cause grief. Yet grief’s not a wholly negative emotion.”

That struck you not only as odd but as slightly offensive. How could he know that? He himself had admitted he didn’t need to mourn because he didn’t have anything to grieve for. The words had initially pissed you off, but he was right. Machines weren’t emotional; they were logical, precise, unfeeling. But here he was, staring, saying grief wasn’t all that bad.

“How can it not be? Grief is pain.”

“Yes, but not for the reasons you might think.”

You raised a hand and dramatically waved it at him, like a condescending adult telling a child to impart their misguided beliefs or flawed logic. “Okay, Plato, go on . . .”

“Grief is pain, yes, but only because it’s a reminder of what was lost. In your reminiscence, you find yourself lacking a voice, a presence, a touch. That’s why it hurts. It’s the affection—the love—one felt for someone that can never be replaced or shared with or poured into them again. It’s love remembering something so important to you that it lingers, echoing within until it transforms into, well, grief.”

Everything you had bottled up for the past four months was beginning to reach a boiling point. The dam was threatening to break and flood everything in its wake and yet . . . you felt relieved because something clicked in your mind, in your heart, that reminded you that it was okay to mourn. You had felt it was necessary to project strength not for yourself but for others; to let them know you were okay.

The truth was that you had been pretending you were quietly and peacefully coping to avoid confronting the truth. That you were afraid that this grief that hadn’t left you and only clung to you like a sickness was going to drown you, that you would never move on, that you would be stuck in the past with only your sadness to accompany you.

“I miss him,” you whispered, the words flowing out of you. “I miss and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop missing him.”

Winwin stared then took a step forward. You saw him approach, torn between telling him to back off or closing the distance and asking him to let you rest your head on his shoulder. You lowered your head, sighing and fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry. It’s not appropriate.”

“Because we’re in a bookshop?”

“No,” you chuckled, “because it’s not normal to cry in public.”

“And crying in private is?” Winwin looked thoughtful. “Is that appropriate?”

“Kind of.” You lowered your gaze. “At the very least it’s socially accepted to cry in private.”

He slowly raised his head, as if understanding what you meant. “Ah,” he whispered. “Making a note of that.”

“Why would you make a—never mind.”

“I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable or upset you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, sniffing, smiling through the tears that were now overwhelming you.

“Very,” you whispered.

“It’s ironic that I’m speaking of such a sensitive topic, but I want you to know that you’re not alone.” Winwin lowered his gaze. You noticed he was fidgeting with his hands, as if he didn’t know what to do. “And, I know, it’s especially ironic that I say this since I lack a family or close acquaintances, but it’s important and necessary to be reminded that life is more than the sorrow one endures in times like these.”

“And you know this how?”

“It can’t all be sorrow, right? I’ve always been alone. I’ve always been an observer. And in all the time that I’ve been active, I’ve seen happiness and sorrow and realized there can’t be one without the other.”

“Balance,” you muttered.

“Balance,” he repeated, nodding. “I may not feel the absence of a loved one—for I lack loved ones to mourn—but I understand the sentiment. Life is fragile and it can change at any moment. That’s why it hurts so much.”

Winwin offered his right hand, smiling a sad, small smile. “Grief is nothing but love reminding you of something so beautiful, so meaningful, so unique, that you can longer bask yourself in its presence. It’s love persevering above all things.”

You took his hand in yours and felt how warm and gentle they were. He caressed your knuckles with his thumb then gave a soft squeeze. Before you noticed, he had let go and his hands were back in his pockets.

“You’ll be okay.” He nodded. “Give it time.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes widened and a look of confusion was briefly present in his eyes.

“For what?”

“For being kind.” You shrugged. “For being understanding.”

“Ah,” he muttered again.

You chuckled. He looked adorable when he tilted his head slightly back, eyes widening then narrowing as he seemed to be learning something and committing it to memory.

“Going to make a note of that, too?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“If it helps you, please, by all means do.”

You shook your head, chuckling. He stared, his expression hard to read, though his eyes were friendly, understanding. An idea popped in your head. Part of you wanted to ignore it; the other half wasn’t going to.

��Hey,” you said, “at the risk of sounding desperate for company, would you like to grab lunch sometime?”

“I assume we’d be consuming said lunch.”

“That’s how it works, yeah.”

Winwin hummed like he was considering it. He tilted his head to the side, shrugged, and nodded.

“I appreciate and accept your invitation.”

You smiled. After a moment, he did, too. There was a knock on the entrance door. You both turned to see Kun clad in a coverall smeared by white and blue paint; even his hands and bits of his forehead had blotches of dry paint. He waved at Winwin, realized you were there, and gave a rather enthusiastic wave that made you both chuckle and inwardly groan.

“Duty calls, I presume.”

“Apparently.” Winwin looked between Kun and you then raised a hand, as if to say give me a second. He reached into his wallet, pulled a translucent business card, and offered it to you. “To keep contact.”

You looked at the card and whistled. “Impressive.”

“Everyone seems to think so,” he replied, half-smiling. His expression shifted to a solemn one as he offered his hand yet again. “Unfortunately, this is where I leave you.”

The words were familiar. Four months ago, you would have stilled and felt like crying. But now—after everything he said, after realizing it was okay to admit to yourself that wounds like these took tiem to properly heal—you felt relieved that you could think of Uncle Wong and not be overwhelmed by sadness.

“Until Friday, that is,” you said, flicking the business card between your fingers.

He nodded and bowed. “Until then.”

●

“YOU ONCE SAID we didn’t work for a living,” said Winwin, unconsciously frowning.

Kun blinked then nodded. “I did.”

“Is that true?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s not a very satisfactory answer.”

“Answers rarely are.”

Winwin rolled his eyes.

“Being obtuse won’t stop me from asking questions.”

Kun snapped his fingers, feigning exasperation. “Damn,” he muttered, “and here I was thinking that if I obtuse I’d slowly erode and destroy your curiosity.”

“Never mind.”

“I’m just kidding.” Kun chuckled. “We sort of do, y’know? Our programming allows us to effectively do our job. Our experiences, on the other hand, allow us to exist, to live, as humans do.”

“That’s all I want.”

“I know, buddy. That’s why we sort of work for a living. We work to ease the burden. In between all that, we grow and learn and come to understand what makes life so fascinating.”

“Hmm.” Winwin scratched his right ear. “So we’re more than just machines?”

“I like to think we are. I mean . . . we’re capable of growth. That has to mean something.”

“Then I choose to exist.”

Kun laughed and clapped, celebrating the moment of independence and self-discovery. There was an affectionate gleam in his eyes as he engulfed Winwin in a side hug, who couldn’t help but smile.

Winwin thought back to winter and how he hadn’t felt the cold. Cold was cold, he thought. It never bothered him. Not unless he allowed it to.

Perhaps, when the next winter came, he would.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Oneirogen

CR 2

Chaotic Neutral Medium Outsider

Adventure Path: Strange Aeons: In Search of Sanity, pg. 88~89

These unfortunate husks are the results of tiny interplanar portals--no larger than the eye of a needle--opening within the body of a living creature as part of a botched (or cruelly purposeful) experiment or spell. The process is dramatic and traumatic, shredding the victim from the inside-out and leaving them as little more than undead by the point they get back up to walk around. Their previous personalities, hopes, dreams, and ambitions are utterly destroyed by the energy coursing through them--to the point they’re immune to mind-affecting effects--assuring their deaths are a mercy. Without outside intervention, Oneirogen often meet their ends within the week, if not through starvation than through violence, though unscrupulous types may work to keep them alive for much longer to harvest the planar energy and useful matter pouring out of them.

Little more than wandering bodies, Oneirogen don’t so much ‘attack’ as they do ‘stumble into,’ only really lashing out when someone attacks them directly and being otherwise unresponsive to any stimulus. Their two slams dealing a weak 1d4+2 damage, but they often won’t hit due to their Obscuring Fog. This 10ft cloud of planestuff pours out of them constantly, their own vision just as obscured by the fog as anyone trying to harm them. The real danger of an Oneirogens presence is its Veil of Mists, a 5ft area around them where pure planar energy coalesces and lashes out at everything that enters it except, unfortunately, the Oneirogen itself.

The Veil of Mists has varying effects depending on which plane the Oneirogen is keyed to, each of which is resisted by a DC 12 Will save, the book helpfully going over the various planes ‘close’ enough to the Material to actually cause the birth of one of these husks. though DMs are encouraged to make up their own unique effects for more unique planes. The Dimension of Dreams is the most common destination, minute portals able to form inside the minds of any dreamer lucid enough; their Veil causes victims to instantly fall into a restless slumber from which they must awaken naturally or via violence, their lack of restfulness meaning they cannot regain HP naturally for 1 day.

The Elemental Planes are the most dramatic, causing acidic plumes, freezing vapors, shocking thunderclouds, and gouts of superheated smoke to pour from the poor soul, dealing 1d6 elemental damage automatically to everyone in the Veil with no chance to resist. The Planes of Positive and Negative Energy, predictably, deal 1d6 positive or negative damage which clings for 1 round, dealing the same damage again next round, which may be a blessing if a living creature is exposed to positive, or undead to negative. The stench of Abaddon staggers anyone exposed to it and contaminates them with the Red Ache disease, while the shrieking hideousness of the Abyss imparts a -2 to all Will saves for 24 hours. The heat of Hell deals 2d4 Profane Fire damage, half of it being irresistible, while the darkness of the Shadow Plane causes total blindness so long as someone is near the Oneirogen.

The book sadly only gives us one potential effect from one of the upper planes, Elysium, which causes 1 round of confusion from exposure and amusingly causes the victims to become excitable and amorous for 24 hours. But, as I mentioned before, DMs are encouraged to make up their own effects! Maybe a portal to the Maelstrom causes chaotic lashes of damage or low-level Warpwaves, while a portal to Axis creates difficult terrain as it reshapes the world around it to be more logical and orderly, a trail of perfectly smooth and stable terrain trailing behind the Oneirogen! Heaven’s light burns with Holy Fire damage as the opposite of Hell, while Nirvana causes calm and peace to overtake everyone exposed... And this isn’t even getting into the weirdness that could come from the more obscure demiplanes...

You can read more about them here.

[libertariantaoist]

We cannot have a world where everyone is a victim. "I'm this way because my father made me this way. I'm this way because my husband made me this way." Yes, we are indeed formed by traumas that happen to us. But you must take charge, you must take over, you are responsible.

My thinking tends to be libertarian. That is, I oppose intrusions of the state into the private realm -- as in abortion, sodomy, prostitution, pornography, drug use, or suicide, all of which I would strongly defend as matters of free choice in a representative democracy.

A serious problem in America is the gap between academe and the mass media, which is our culture. Professors of humanities, with all their leftist fantasies, have little direct knowledge of American life and no impact whatever on public policy.

The prostitute is not, as feminists claim, the victim of men, but rather their conqueror, an outlaw, who controls the sexual channels between nature and culture

Education has become a prisoner of contemporaneity. It is the past, not the dizzy present, that is the best door to the future.

For all the feminist jabber about women being victimized by fashion, it is men who most suffer from conventions of dress. Every day, a woman can choose from an army of personae, femme to butch, and can cut or curl her hair or adorn herself with a staggering variety of artistic aids. But despite the Sixties experiments in peacock dress, no man can rise in the corporate world today, outside the entertainment industry, with long hair or makeup or purple velvet suits.

Cats are autocrats of naked self-interest. They are both amoral and immoral, consciously breaking rules. Their ''evil'' look at such times is no human projection: the cat may be the only animal who savors the perverse or reflects upon it.

Are we like late Rome, infatuated with past glories, ruled by a complacent, greedy elite, and hopelessly powerless to respond to changing conditions?

I believe that history has shape, order, and meaning; that exceptional men, as much as economic forces, produce change; and that passe abstractions like beauty, nobility, and greatness have a shifting but continuing validity.

If Obama fails to win reelection, let the blame be first laid at the door of Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, who at a pivotal point threw gasoline on the flames by comparing angry American citizens to Nazis.

My generation of the Sixties, with all our great ideals, destroyed liberalism, because of our excesses.

The airheads of Congress will keep their own plush healthcare plan - it's the rest of us guinea pigs who will be thrown to the wolves.

Why has the Democratic Party become so arrogantly detached from ordinary Americans? Though they claim to speak for the poor and dispossessed, Democrats have increasingly become the party of an upper-middle-class professional elite, top-heavy with journalists, academics and lawyers.

Within the U.S., the Obama presidency will be mainly measured by the success or failure of his economic policies. And here, I fear, the monstrous stimulus package with which this administration stumbled out of the gate will prove to be Obama's Waterloo.

The damage done to U.S. prestige by the feckless, buffoonish George W. Bush will take years to repair.

The trauma of the Sixties persuaded me that my generation's egalitarianism was a sentimental error. I now see the hierarchical as both beautiful and necessary. Efficiency liberates; egalitarianism tangles, delays, blocks, deadens.

We need a new kind of feminism, one that stresses personal responsibility and is open to art and sex in all their dark, unconsoling mysteries.

Something went very wrong in feminism ... Every revolution eventually needs a new revolution. That's what I'm trying to do. I'm not trying to get rid of feminism. I'm trying to reform it, to save it, to bring it into the twenty-first century, in a way that allows the sexes to come together instead of being alienated from each other, that allows sex to be HOT and not have, like wet blankets of sermonizing thrown over it.

An enlightened feminism of the twenty-first century will embrace all sexuality and will turn away from the delusionalism, sanctimony, prudery, and male-bashing of the MacKinnon-Dworkin brigade. Women will never know who they are until they let men be men.

[Catherine] MacKinnon is a totalitarian. She wants a risk-free, state-controlled world... Literature, art, music, film, television - nothing intrudes on MacKinnon's consciousness unless it has been filtered through feminism. ... She is a Stalinist who believes that art must serve a political agenda and that all opposing voices are enemies of humanity who must be silenced. MacKinnon and [Andrea] Dworkin are victim-mongers, ambulance chasers, atrocity addicts... [they] are fanatics, zealots, fundamentalists of the new feminist religion. Their alliance with the reactionary, antiporn far right is no coincidence.

All fear of "offensive" speech is bourgeois and reactionary. Historically, profane or bawdy language was common in both the upper and the lower classes, who lived together in rural areas amid the untidy facts of nature. Notions of propriety and decorum come to the fore in urbanized periods ruled by an expanding middle class, which is obsessed with cleanliness, respectability, and conformism.

I think that this new global technology is not risk-free. This is why we must resist anyone who tries to take over or oversee the Internet. Once you get a consolidation of power, then you are one step away from fascism. The minute you have a power vacuum, you have the military step in.

Capitalism is an art form, an Apollonian fabrication to rival nature. It is hypocritical for feminists and intellectuals to enjoy the pleasures and conveniences of capitalism while sneering at it.... Everyone born into capitalism has incurred a debt to it. Give Caesar his due.

Read More

[fandom-necromancer]

541. You made your choice.

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ships: Reed900, Hannor, Allen60

‘Okay, so: The next question is:’ Tina grinned into the round, picking a card from the stack and dragging it out, trying to drag out the suspense as long as possible. ‘Would you rather: sneeze every three minutes… or… always have the sensation to sneeze and never do?’ There was a thoughtful silence, until Hank was the first to speak: ‘Guess sneeze every three minutes. Would be annoying but at least you had your peace in between.’ ‘Yep’, Gavin nodded, taking a sip from his beer. ‘Agreeing with that one. Also you could time it and use it to annoy the shit out of someone trying to talk to you.’ ‘I think you are getting it wrong’, Sixty claimed. ‘Constant stimulus in humans most of the time causes it to dull over time. It’s only logical to pick that one. You’d just get used to it.’ ‘Valid’, Connor nodded. ‘I’m going with the first one. Mainly because I’m agreeing with the mischief-factor and also because I can’t sneeze.’ ‘Really? You guy can’t?’, Allen asked, already relatively drunk from just a few glasses. ‘Damn, I don’t know, I’d most likely cut my nose off, both of these are terrible.’

‘Skip summer or winter?’ ‘Skip winter’, Hank answered. ‘Too damn cold and I have to go out with Sumo regardless of what I think of the weather.’ ‘Yes, skip winter’, Connor nodded, sounding bummed out. Too many memories of what had nearly happened. Sixty fell into line with them. Gavin disagreed: ‘Nah, it’s dark early and there are few people on the streets. Winter’s cool. Skip summer.’ ‘Also, Christmas’, Allen added. ‘Lights everywhere.’ ‘I like the prospect of getting cosy on cold nights at home’, Nines admitted. ‘You still live in one of these android-homes they have build after the revolution – basically a fancy broom closet.’ ‘An android can dream, Detective.’

‘Okay, no need to get into that too deep, here’s the next one: Listen to a song four hours straight: The Macarena or Mambo No.5?’ ‘Mambo No.5. More variation, simple as that’, Hank stated and no one was to disagree with him on that except for Allen, who very loudly, very drunk started screaming the refrain and had to be stopped before more could happen.

‘Okay next one: Be electrocuted every time you swear or have all profanities censored on your TV?’ ‘Oh, phck, I would die!’, Gavin answered reflexively. ‘Hell, yeah, censor the TV, see if I care, but I wouldn’t be able to speak a damn sentence!’ ‘Maybe that wouldn’t be too bad’, Nines chuckled. ‘Finally learning some manners.’ ‘Oh, come on, you like the “tin-can” and “toaster”’, Connor smirked knowingly, and earned himself a deadly glare from the other android. ‘Wait.’ Sixty sat up from next to his barely awake partner. ‘Nines, don’t tell me you fell from grace too and actually started to-‘ ‘No! What are you thinking, I… This is not the question asked here!’ Hank simply laughed, leaning back against Connor who was equally amused by what he had caused.

‘Okay, Tina, hand over the cards, I want to ask a question for once’, Sixty announced, picked a card and without even reading it asked: ‘This one’s for Nines: Would you rather fall in love with a human or an android?’ ‘Oh, you got to be kidding me, there is no way that is printed there!’, Nines bristled at that. ‘Come on, Nines, we all agreed to answer them honestly as we started playing’, Tina poked at him, pursuing the same goal as Sixty for once. ‘Thank you, officer Chen, now answer the question!’ Nines sighed heavily and stared at the table. ‘I guess, I know more humans than androids… Being the android hunter and such. I have more human friends, so I guess, it would be… human?’ Gavin, without ostentation, scratched at his temple and averted his gaze, trying to hide his micro-expressions from the androids around him. But he had forgotten Tina in that equation, who had fetched the stack from the opposite end of the table again. ‘Okay, weird, the same question again, Gavin.’ He sighed, being tired already. ‘Android, I guess.’ Until something in him realised what he had just enabled with his thoughtless answer. ‘Wait, can I still change?’ ‘Nope. You made your choice. But I’m giving you another chance: Would you rather spend the night with Jeffrey or with Nines?’ Gavin’s eyes threw daggers at her. ‘I’m not answering that.’ ‘Oh, I never thought you would take a liking to the captain’, Hank teased, getting into that new game they were playing more enthusiastically than he should be. ‘What? No!’ ‘Ah, so it would be Nines?’ Tina grinned devilishly. ‘I’d never thought you to really be an android kinda guy.’ ‘Argh, stop putting words in my mouth!’ ‘Then I would suggest answering the question yourself’, Connor advised. ‘Okay, fine.’ ‘Good. Spend the night with your Ex or Nines?’ ‘Seriously, phck you, Tina!’, Gavin spat out. ‘Fine, if I’ll cater to your childish desires, you’ll stop. I’d pick Nines. My ex took my extensive collection of box sets with him, I would do anything to not have to see the asshole again.’ ‘If you had to pick someone to spend the rest of your life with, who out of the people you know would it be?’ ‘There’s not even an option there!’ ‘Answer the question, Reed.’ Sixty’s expression was hauntingly similar to his interrogation face and Gavin wondered how it all had come to this. ‘Okay, I know what you want to hear now, and I would pick the damn tin-can, just to get this over and done with, but actually, I would pick my cat. Already made that decision a long time ago. And now excuse myself, I’ll go home. I have no interest in playing these dumb truth or dare games with you.’

‘Oh, we should have picked that one! Could have told them to kiss!’ Sixty was immediately hooked up by that pre-construction. ‘Seriously, I’ll never go out drinking with you guys again!’ Gavin put on his jacket and marched towards the door, Nines already up and hurrying after him. ‘Detective, wait!’ The rest of the group looked after them, meeting at the door and discussing something. ‘Damn, they don’t have much sense of humour, don’t they?’, Sixty sighed and faced the cards again. ‘Yeah, well, maybe we were a bit too pressing’, Hank admitted. ‘But it was fun.’ Gavin shook his head at the door and answered something they couldn’t hear over the background-noise of the bar. Then he walked out, Nines following after him.

In the spreading silence Allen lifted his head from where he nearly fell asleep on the table and lulled: ‘I ship them.’

[beanplague-moved]

Two Sides; Same Coin

the full fanfiction that i wrote for @diverse-hp-zine​! it was dope as hell to be able to go back into my young brain and remember how much i loved harry potter growing up, and very cathartic.

hermione/luna with a side of ron/harry. includes some commentary on racism & ableism, but nothing too deep or harmful. weirdly, one of my only fics that does not include profanity.

AO3 | commissions.

Hermione and her parents have a talk. More accurately, Hermione and her mother have a talk while her father sort of stands to the side, contemplating his own feelings on the matter.

“Honey,” says her mother, having lowered to Hermione’s height. “You know she didn’t mean anything by it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” replies Hermione, dark eyes just moments away from rolling. “I don’t want her shoving her hands in my hair.”

“I mean, I don’t want her shoving her hands in your hair, but these are the things we have to deal with sometimes.” Her mother’s brown eyes bore into her, exasperated. “I understand that these things bother you, but you have to understand that these sorts of things are bound to happen here and there.”

“So I’m just supposed to let people do things like that?” Hermione shakes her head. Her tangle of dark curls moves with her. “That’s… that’s ridiculous! And never mind the fact that I didn’t even do anything—” she stops, meeting eyes with her father over her mother’s shoulder. He is looking at her pleadingly.

“Hermione Jean Granger,” a sterner tone takes over her mother’s speech. “You know very well that you must’ve done something for that girl to start crying like that—and honey, we don’t do things like that!”

Hermione doesn’t say anything, but her accusatory why not? must be communicated by her expression, because her mother sighs and places a hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t want to yell at you about this, because you didn’t do anything wrong, but you have to understand that things just aren’t that simple. When you lash out like that all it does is… well, you’re a smart girl. You have to understand, it makes people question how we raised you, or even just—you know, how we are as, you know… people.”

She shuts her eyes and exhales on people, and Hermione internally makes the connection. She supposes now might be the time to give her mother a break. She did, after all, react quite harshly—even if she didn’t intend to zap that girl. How would she even do that, anyway? It was probably just static electricity or karma—not that Hermione believes in such a thing, but the thought is quite cathartic.

And anyway, her mother is very tired of their talk. It would be more advisable for Hermione to drop the subject and allow her parents to return to their usual daily activities, rather than standing in their kitchen, lecturing Hermione about how and how not to respond to pale-skinned girls unnecessarily groping her hair. Yes, it would be best to just be agreeable right now, rather than stir the pot unnecessarily.

Of course, Hermione has never been particularly agreeable, so instead she says, “Why do I have to be an example for every black person?” and the conversation rounds right back in on itself, like a snake eating its own tail.

Luna is fine. Just fine. Her father begs to differ.

They are sitting on the couch, reading the paper. The Daily Prophet specifically, mostly for the expressed purpose of allowing her father to roll his eyes and scoff at every overreaction or gossip column. This is the base ingredient to a quite enjoyable morning for the two of them. Or, it would be, if not for the fact that her father is clearly distracted by something.

Of course, that’s not exactly abnormal, either. Claiming that it was abnormal for Xenophilius Lovegood to be distracted would be absolutely unthinkable, but this is a different kind of distraction, not curious or excited, but rather… concerned? He worriedly glances at her every few minutes, and he clears his throat when they close the paper.

“Luna,” he says, and she can tell that this is a Serious Talk based on that alone. Usually, he adds a little note of affection after her name, like my dearest or my pride and joy or, sometimes, my little Crumple-Horned Snorkack. “Do you remember when we went to the Abbott’s home? How their house was so dreadfully beige, and, dare I say it, plain?”

“Oh, terribly plain,” says Luna, “but why bring it up now? I thought you were only eating dinner there to be polite. Will we be returning, soon?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” says Xenophilius, quick to stamp the idea into the ground. “I just—well, I wanted to ask about something that occurred while we were there. I found it quite curious and excessively… gut-wrenching.”

“Gut-wrenching?”

“Extremely gut-wrenching, my little moon frog,” he says.

“—I like that nickname! Can we use it more?” Luna interrupts, suddenly swept away with the new name. It certainly rolls off the tongue more than Crumple-Horned Snorkack, which makes sense! That name is only for special occasions, really, whereas moon frog is much shorter, and much more convenient.

“Oh, absolutely,” grins Xenophilius, almost distracted from his Serious Talk for a moment. Alas, the distraction only lasts a moment before he clears his throat and shakes his head. “On a more immediate note, Luna, I noticed that the children there were—how do I say it?—very… condescending, to you.”

Luna’s eyebrows furrow. “How so?” she asks.

“Well, you must’ve seen how they acted when you—okay, do you remember how I had taught you the word ludicrous the night before the dinner? And how you repeated it under your breath for a few days afterwards?”

“Oh, I do! I liked the way it sounded—was I not supposed to?”

Her father’s eyes widen as soon as the words tumble out of her mouth. “Oh, you were absolutely supposed to! More words should be like it, truly, but—” he stops, “this isn’t about your behavior, dear. You already know that I do similar things for stimulus, I just—did you not notice the children at that house imitating the way you said it?”

Luna tries to think of that night, and she does remember—but it doesn’t quite bother her as much as it seems to be bothering her father. “They were just making fun, right?”

“Yes, but…” Xenophilius trails off, “they were making fun of something they didn’t understand. It’s—you know that we’re a bit different from most of the ‘average’ people, Luna—and they were making fun of the behavior that made you different and that was…” he sighs, “I’m sorry, I know it must seem like I’m faffing on about nothing, but it truly is… frustrating, for me to think that any child would make fun of you for something like that.”

Luna blinks. She thinks back to that night—how the boys in that house mocked her mumbling ludicrous and how they cut in every time she started talking about nargles or moon frogs or snorkacks.

“Daddy,” she says, “did I do something wrong? Is that why they made fun of me?”

“Oh, dear, no, how could you think—” Xenophilius stops himself, and he carefully hovers a hand over Luna’s shoulder. “Would you mind if I pulled you in for a hug, moon frog?”

“That’s fine,” says Luna. She is usually okay with it, but sometimes touch is just a bit too much. Usually when too many other things are going on. Here, in their quiet living room, on their couch where they should be reading the paper, a hug seems just fine.

And what a hug it is. Her father is comforting and warm. He pats her back quietly. “I’m upset at those boys, surely, but I would never say you did anything wrong. Why, the parents in that house should have done a much better job raising their children. In the future, they should at least train them to recognize a lovely, fascinating young lady when they see one.”

Lovely and fascinating are words that only her father would say about her, mumbles some small voice in the back of Luna’s head. She shakes it off, enjoying the comfort of her father’s closeness for a moment. “Even if I say ludicrous too much?”

“No one could ever say ludicrous too much! The very concept is—well—ludicrous!” Xenophilius laughs, and he squeezes her one last time before releasing her from the hug. “You’re a very bright young lady, Luna. Your father just happens to get in a twist when others fail to realize this.”

Luna loves her father, she thinks—loves that he understands her in this way that other people don’t, loves that he’s odd in exactly the same way she is, but part of her knows that he is the only person who thinks of her like this.

Still, she thinks, one person on Team Luna is better than none.

Hermione didn’t think she’d ever end up explaining the concept of racism to someone, but here she is, explaining the concept of racism to her newest companion in her newest school.

Well, thankfully, she isn’t the only one explaining the concept of racism to Ron. Harry sits beside her in the common room, supplying a few details here and there about what is and isn’t racist. He does seem much less exasperated than Hermione is, having this conversation. His expression is some bizarre cross between astonishment and complete and utter joy.

“Hermione,” he says, turning away from Ron to face her, “are you sure we should tell him? I mean, I’m going to draw a portrait for you, and I want you to think about it for a moment, picture it in your mind—world with no racism.”

“Not possible.”

“With magic, anything’s possible!”

“So it’s like,” Ron has been sort of sitting silently for the last few moments, processing the concept of racism, “when purebloods get all death-eatery? That’s racism? But for, like…” he trails off.

“For black people?” says Hermione.

“And brown people!” adds Harry, “and Asian people, East and South,” he points to himself at that last one.

“You’re Asian?”

“Ron, just where do you think India is?” Harry has the biggest smile on his face. “I’m not upset or anything, genuinely. I am just… very entertained.”

“Oh, ha-ha. Ron doesn’t know anything about the world—” starts Ron.

“—Ron doesn’t know anything about the Muggle World, or history in general, specifically,” finishes Hermione.

“They don’t teach us this stuff, Granger! It’s not like wizards are running around being racist or whatever.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that, Ron? Is that a hill you are willing to die on?” Harry is having too much fun. He is desperately holding back laughter, and it’s making Hermione want to laugh, which isn’t fair, because normally she’d have way more irritating feelings about a white boy never hearing about racism even in its basic form.

But, she supposes, now isn’t exactly the time to be disagreeable. Ron doesn’t mean anything by it, and though she’s positively willing to make fun of him about absolutely anything—this seems to be getting to him. He’s getting much more red in the face than she’s ever known another human being to get.

She does prod at him for a bit longer, but she lets it go eventually. Mostly because Ron crosses his arms and mutters, “It’s like you think I’m stupid,” and he says it in a very pitiful tone.

(And in the back of her mind, Hermione wonders just how many people have been calling this kid stupid that he cites it in arguments.)

Harry puts his arm around Ron. “I promise you I’ve met white kids at school who knew even less about racism, and they were much less open to criticism about it.”

“You sure?”

“Oh, absolutely—if you think you were being a little insensitive, then I have such a story to tell you about my cousin Dudley.”

Ron looks to Hermione. And she thinks back to that day, with the other girl and the hair-touching. How she argued with her mother for as long as she could, despite every thought to the contrary. She did that because, well, no one else was going to. Not even her parents would side with her, and so it was up to Hermione to defend her own position. This, though—this isn’t an argument about what Hermione did. This is an argument about what Ron knows, and there’s something much less… honorable(?) about belittling Ron for what he doesn’t know.

“I guess that kind of thing is out of our control. You don’t get to pick what people do and don’t tell you,” she shrugs.

However, Hermione thinks, if she were in charge of the Hogwarts curriculum, she would certainly look into a world history course, or something.

The children in Luna’s year call her Loony Lovegood.

She doesn’t mind. She hardly pays enough attention to notice that it’s happening in the first place. And she mostly absorbs the statements, lets them settle with little to no fanfare.

Ginny insists that this is bad practice.

“They’re making fun of you, Luna. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

They are on the train to Hogwarts, rapidly approaching the beginning of third year. Luna sits by the window, alternating between reading a very fascinating report on the theory of mythical creatures being tied in with non-magical sciences and listening to Ginny talk about whatever it is that happens to be on her mind. Last year, there were quite a few mentions about the Potter boy from the upper grade. This year, the topic seems to be fixated on the fact that other students are apparently making fun of Luna.

“It’s not fair to you. You’re just as together as everyone else—and smarter, too!—because you’re Ravenclaw and all.”

“I don’t think I’m smarter than anyone else.” Luna doesn’t look up from her book.

“Well, you are!” Ginny says, “And I think other people should recognize that before they go and call you Loony.”

“You call me Loony.”

“Well—that’s just—that’s because we’re friends! And I would stop if you wanted me to.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to,” says Luna. “It’s nice when you say it.”

“Okay, good, but,” Ginny seems frustrated, “why don’t you get upset when other people do it?”

“Maybe they also mean it in a friendly way.”

“You and I both know that’s not it, Loony,” says Ginny, and Luna really does like the way Ginny says it. She’s always so familiar. Luna is always thoroughly enchanted whenever Ginny does this, and she wonders if it shows. She certainly hopes it does.

“Maybe their intentions are less than friendly,” concedes Luna, “but I don’t pay it any mind, and you shouldn’t, either.”

Ginny doesn’t seem to be aboard the same train, (figuratively speaking. In a literal sense, they are most certainly on the same train) but Luna puts her at ease.

“I’m fine,” she says, “I’m happy that I have a friend like you, but I don’t need other people to deal with these things for me.” Team Luna has doubled in members in the last few years, it seems. “How is that boy you were talking about, earlier?”

“Oh, Luna, you have no idea how frustrating this is. Boys are so—so stupid. He’s hardly interested in talking to anyone but my brother!” Ginny’s concern quickly dissipates into exasperation, which Luna appreciates. It’s always entertaining to hear about this sort of thing. It wasn’t too long ago that Luna felt the same way towards Ginny.

Of course, those times are long past her. Luna has quickly realized that someone being nice to her doesn’t exactly translate to them being The One To End All Ones, but the fondness remains.

“Oh,” she says to Ginny, upon realizing this thought, “I forgot to tell you. I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh—Luna—really? You didn’t—I have so many questions! When did you figure it out? Is there a girl you like right now? I know a perfect girl to introduce you to, since you’re so smart and everything—”

The ride to Hogwarts is rife with questions. Luna hardly minds.

Later on, (much later on, during fourth year) Hermione and Harry talk about it.

“It’s a good thing, right?” says Harry, looking over his sprawling notes from Transfiguration. They are studying in the common room. “I mean, I’ve never been one to miss racism. I think it’s kind of nice, being separate from that whole thing.”

“But we’re not separate from it, is the thing,” says Hermione. “Racism still exists, wizards just don’t know about it, which is bad! They’re ignoring a history that they could very well end up repeating or unconsciously absorbing.”

“Well, we don’t know about that,” Harry shrugs. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t been called any racial slurs so far, no matter how badly it looks like Malfoy wants to call me one.”

“Well I have! I mean, it was a wizard racial slur, but still.”

Harry nods. “Poor Hermione, a minority in both the magical and the muggle world.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’m just saying! Here, I’m the majority. Oh, how the grass is greener on the other side.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I just wish you took this more seriously. I know that Ron is your mate and all—”

“My best mate. Totally different. We’re taking each other to the Yule Ball, as good friends do.”

“Right,” says Hermione. “All good friends take their friends to romantic balls.”

“Indeed. Totally normal, average, and expected,” says Harry. “I am certainly not experiencing any conflict or questioning regarding the decision.”

“I’m sure you aren’t,” says Hermione, and suddenly it seems like the conversation has shifted. Carefully, she thinks of how she might word herself. “If you did have any questions, however, you know that I would be happy to answer any of them.”

“Oh, yes,” nods Harry, “and, similarly, if you had any questions regarding—well, I don’t know, anything at all, no particular subject in mind, I could take a stab at it.”

“Right,” says Hermione.

There’s some silence that passes between them. Hermione writes down a few key terms for potions class in her notes.

“I’m bisexual,” she says.

“Nice.”

“Now tell me your thing."

Harry stops scribbling for a moment, and Hermione hears the lilt in his voice when he says, “What thing?”

“Well, I don’t know, that you’re into Ron or something?”

“Into Ron, why, Hermione—” Harry rushes through his sentence, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “That’s certainly an exaggeration, I mean—Ron? If I were into—into men, which I’m not obligated to tell you if I am or not, but if I were, certainly I’d pick someone of a higher standard than Ron.” He tries laughing. Hermione raises an eyebrow.

“So you don’t have any feelings for Ron?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, then sighs. He brings his hands to his face. “No, I absolutely do. It’s a nightmare, Hermione.”

“There, there.” She pats Harry’s back comfortingly. “We’ve all had that phase, haven’t we?”

“Have we?” Harry gasps. “Hermione, are we competing over the same Ron?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I got over that nearly as soon as it started. I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

Harry nods. “That’s a shame. You certainly would have won, considering his bizarre need for your approval and all.”

“In another world, perhaps,” she says.

There’s a comfortable silence that passes over them.

“Okay, but Ron? Seriously?”

“Hey, don’t give him a hard time! He’s—I can’t believe I’m saying this—but he’s so… so genuine, Hermione. He cares so much, and he’s so clever in his own way, and he deserves so much more. I can barely imagine my life without him, at this point,” Harry stops. “Is that gay?”

“Extremely. And very melodramatic. We’re fourteen.”

“I mean it in a friendly way! I can’t imagine life without you, either, if that helps.”

“It is very flattering,” Hermione says, “When you both get married or whatever, do I get to be best man?”

“Please shut up,” groans Harry. “What about you? Any girls catching the eye of Miss Hermione Granger, hm?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Not particularly.”

“Aw, that’s no fun. These confessions are coming off as particularly incomplete, you know? You have the sexuality part, but no embarrassing crush. I have the embarrassing crush, but no concrete sexuality. Being a minority is so hard.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were having fun being the majority in the wizarding world, and all—”

They go back and forth for a little while, leading into the late night with banter and such. Hermione really does love him so much. Him and Ron. She looks over to Harry in the early hours of the morning, head slumped over the desk. There’s no one she’d feel more comfortable coming out to, and she supposes she’s lucky in that regard.

And it is very funny to watch Harry and Ron pretend to be as neutral as possible when they dance at the Yule Ball. She has to stop herself from laughing.

Luna and Hermione are not friends.

They meet in fifth year, and they argue about this and that, but mostly about the fact that there is no such thing as a nargle, and if that isn’t the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and well, if you weren’t so close-minded, you might learn not to take everything in your textbook at face value. It’s a very entertaining thing to watch, and a very frustrating thing to be apart of. Mostly if you’re Hermione. Luna seems to have this almost impressive immunity to frustration, especially when it comes to their arguments.

“I just feel like you’re being a bit silly about the whole thing,” she says, reaching for another library book. Hermione sits at a table between the shelves, annotating one of her textbooks with questions that she will most certainly find the answers to later.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m being silly? Really?”

“Really,” says Luna, “I feel like if you’d just think about it for a moment, all the pieces would go into place! I mean, can you really deny the theory of moon frogs?”

“I absolutely can. Anybody with basic knowledge of the world can do that.”

“Sure, anybody.” Luna snorts.

“Why are you snorting? Stop snorting.”

“I just—Hermione, you are muggleborn, correct?”

“Is this going to go in a weird, wizard-bigoted direction? Because I have to say, Luna, I didn’t picture you a Malfoy-type.”

“Oh, no. It’s just that, well, we go to a school for wizards, in a hidden castle, and you are currently talking to me about what can and can’t be argued while you study for a magic examination,” she says.

Hermione is quiet for a moment. “Point made,” she says, “but you and I both know that there are rules to magic, and jumping to the moon and bringing frogs down from it doesn’t exactly fit into those rules.”

“Maybe,” shrugs Luna, “but I don’t know. I just feel like there is so much that we have yet to learn, and these theories that you’re dismissing are, well—they’re really fascinating, aren’t they?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Not particularly,” and then she gives it further thought. “I can see that it’s important to you, though,” she concedes.

“Very,” says Luna, taking a seat at the table. “I do appreciate that about you. Many people are less amicable during these arguments.”

“Well, considering I come to the library to study and argue with you, I figure the least I can do is respect your nonsense beliefs.”

“And thank you for that respect, even despite your close-minded dismissal.” Luna smiles. Hermione does not feel anything regarding this smile. She is entirely neutral towards it.

“Yes,” says Hermione, closing her book. “I’m going to leave. I think I’m done studying.”

“A shame. We could have spent so much more time arguing about the merits of wrackspurts! Or aquavirus maggots!”

“Oh, next time we’ll definitely get into whatever those are.”

“I can lend you a few copies of the Quibbler so you can study the subjects before the arguments! I’ll bring them to you in the Great Hall, tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s quite the biased source, but sure,” says Hermione. “I’m certain no other trustworthy publisher has covered aquavirus magnets.”

“Maggots,” corrects Luna, “They’re actually quite fascinating! It’ll be a good read, I promise.”

Hermione’s smile is—well, Luna thinks it’s quite wonderful. It is small, much like her laugh, but her teeth show and her eyes crinkle just a bit.

“I’m sure it will be.”

When Hermione returns to the common room, she is immediately greeted with Harry and Ron.

“How was your date with Lovegood?” says Ron, louder than necessary. A few heads turn, and some chuckles rise out of other Gryffindors.

“Ron, that’s rude. You can’t expect Hermione to answer that question,” says Harry, and Hermione almost breathes a sigh of relief before he says, “Not from you, at least. Hermione, you have to tell us—was there kissing? Maybe dancing?”

“Did she take you to see any dabberblimps?” Ron chimes in.

“One,” says Hermione, “we were not dating.”

“Debatable,” says Harry.

“Two, we were in the library. Why would we dance in the library?”

“Because it was a date?” says Ron. “You’d find a way.”

Hermione crosses her arms. “Thirdly, and I loathe to know it, dabberblimps are aquatic. She wouldn’t be able to take me to see those—and she wouldn’t, because we are not dating.”

“Well you certainly are spending a lot of time together, and every time you come back from one of these library debates, you seem very… how do I put it?” Harry says.

“Endeared?” suggests Ron.

“Endeared!” agrees Harry, “Expanding your vocabulary, Ron?”

“Hermione got me a thesaurus for Christmas. I’m pretty sure it was an insult, but my dad insisted I read it, since it’s technically a muggle book.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I love you—and your family! I love how you interact with that family. It’s definitely, totally my favorite part about the Weasleys.”

Hermione watches this exchange with exhaustion. They still aren’t together. It’s unbelievable.

“Anyway,” she says, “Luna and I are not dating.”

“And you don’t want to be dating?” says Harry, genuinely curious.

Hermione lets the idea roll around in her head, not for the first time. She thinks of Luna, and how happy she sounds to talk to them, and how her smile is so light and pretty. “No,” she says, “I have no interest in that kind of thing at all.”

“I see,” says Ron. “Permission to still make fun of you because of it? It’s really all the ammunition we have.”

“Permission denied. I’ll hex you next time,” says Hermione.

It’s ridiculous to think she might have feelings for Luna. The only feeling she has regarding her is annoyance, maybe. And frustration.

And sometimes admiration.

(And sometimes something too embarrassing to name.)

But mostly annoyance.

Luna has feelings for Hermione, but they aren’t particularly important. Ginny seems to think they are.

It could be so much more,” says Ginny, enthralled, “I just—Luna! You never tell me about your crushes on anybody, and now you tell me about your feelings for Hermione and you’re just so indifferent.”

Luna says, “It would be better not to get my hopes up, I think.”

“How is this ‘getting your hopes up?’”

“Well,” says Luna, “she’s older, and she’s in a different house. We don’t exactly see each other every day.”

“Plenty of people date between houses, and plenty of people date between years!”

“Sure,” nods Luna, “but I think those people also, you know, both have feelings for each other. I don’t think Hermione thinks of me as anything except loony.”

Loony. Loony and obsessive and frivolous.

Of course, that’s putting words in Hermione’s mouth. Luna is sure that Hermione’s opinions of her aren’t unfavorable—but they are certainly not romantic.

Luna thinks Hermione is—well, it’s obvious, but she’s so intelligent. Intelligent and determined and beautiful. Oh, she’s so beautiful. Her eyes and skin and hair are dark and lovely, but even more beautiful is the way she speaks. The way she argues, succinct and impassioned.

“Luna, you’re zoning out. Are you thinking about Hermione? Or is there a wrackspurt in the area?”

“Both,” says Luna, before shaking her head. “Neither.”

“I see,” says Ginny, “And you’re certain that it’s not just embarrassment about your feelings?”

“I’m certain,” Luna nods, “I just doubt they are reciprocated.”

Ginny looks like she’s about to say something, but Luna stops her, quickly changing the subject.

“What ever happened to your feelings for Harry?”

“Oh, don’t get me started. I’m over it. Over break, Ron could barely go a sentence without talking about him, and I’d rather be attacked by dragons than fight over a boy with my brother.”

This is much more comfortable than talking about Luna’s feelings for Hermione, even if they are ever-present and very, very confusing. Even if, next to Hermione, Luna feels like the most ridiculous girl in the world, asking the most mesmerizing one to like her.

She feels downright loony.

As it turns out, wizards don’t know much about neurodivergence, either.

“Wait, so you’re telling me that letters moving around is like… a thing? That happens to other people?” says Ron, absolutely astonished.

“It’s called dyslexia,” says Hermione. “It’s a learning disability, like ADHD.”

“Like what?”

“We’ll get to that,” she shakes her head. “I just—you really never suspected that you might have dyslexia?”

“I didn’t know what dyslexia was until two minutes ago. I just figured that I was, you know, kind of dim,” he shrugs, “but this is way better! Is there a way to fix it?”

“Well, it’s sort of just the way your brain works, but there are ways you can counteract it,” Hermione says, turning a page in her book. “I don’t know if there are any spells that change the font of our assignments, but I’d wager there are similar types of things—we can certainly work on it.”

She turns to Ron. He looks so… happy, for a moment there.

“Hermione, I’m only going to say this once, because I like Harry way more than you, and I hate that smug look on your face when I admit you’re right about something,” says Ron, “but you’re a really, really good friend.”

Hermione smiles. “The feeling’s mutual, Ron.”

After this exchange, Hermione can’t help but think about Luna. She brings it up during their next library argument, wherein Luna gives an ebullient speech about the merits of anecdotal evidence.

“Luna,” she says, “remember how you said that you and your father were both ‘the same brand of unusual?’”

“I do,” says Luna. “You should meet him someday! He knows everything, I swear. Talking to him is like reading from a book!”

“A very sensationalized book?”

“Perhaps.”

Hermione grins. “Somehow, I don’t doubt you,” she says, “but sensationalized books aside, I wanted to know what you meant by ‘unusual,’ if that’s okay to ask.”

Luna nods, “That’s fine,” she says, before humming thoughtfully, “Well, we have the same behaviors, I suppose. We both like the same theories, and he used to teach me these lovely words that I hadn’t heard before, like eccentric, and we’d repeat them back and forth for a little while. I really liked the way it felt to say them, sometimes, and I learned that other children found that a bit strange. That and the ranting. And in first year I used to flap my hands quite a lot. I learned not to do that as much.”

Hermione nods, eyebrow furrowing. Carefully, she says, “Have you ever considered the fact that you might be on the autism spectrum?”

Luna raises an eyebrow. “Elaborate?”

“The autism spectrum,” says Hermione, placing her book on the table and turning to the dog eared page. “It’s a bit complicated, since there are so many different associations, but—” she glances over to Luna, “I don’t know, I think it’s important that you know you're not unusual. You’re just different.”

“Is that not the definition of unusual?”

“Well, it is,” Hermione says, “but you aren’t bad different. Just different. In a good way, most of the time.”

Luna smiles. “Most of the time?” she asks.

“Well, often infuriatingly difficult, but still—” Hermione pauses. Luna is very close. Not extremely close, but close enough to make note of. “You’re… fantastic, to talk to.”

“I could say the same about you.” Luna’s voice is so soft. So kind.

There’s this sort of natural drift, as things fall together, and Hermione thinks—Luna is beautiful. Her hair is like gold. Her eyes are like silver. Her lips are soft.

The kiss is gentle and clumsy. It dawns on Hermione that she is not the only person involved in this kiss with no former experience, which is a relief. The only person she’s kissed before is, well, Viktor Krum, and that was certainly short lived, and—you know what? Hermione doesn’t want to think about her ex-kind-of-boyfriend while she’s kissing Luna.

When they pull away, Luna says, “You know, that’s bad practice. Now I’ll be distracted during our future debates.”

Hermione grins. “Well, I’ll be equally distracted, so I think it works out.”

“I should hope so. I’d hate to lose this aspect of our relationship,” says Luna. “Though I suppose the kissing is a good enough replacement. Still, I guess I’m a bit selfish in this regard. I like to have my cake and eat it, too.”

Hermione nods, and then they kiss again. It’s a little less clumsy this time, though there’s something charming in the fact that it’s clumsy at all.

Luna snorts when they pull away. “Maybe Ron and Harry could take a few pointers from us,” she says, “I feel we handled this quite well.”

[bibliovoreorc]

“Stillness” (a Chandra #fanfic)

She sat – legs folded, palms open, eyes closed – in the pose Mother Luti had taught her, atop a tree stump which was exactly too small to be comfortable. Chandra’s backside hurt where the edge of the stump dug into her. She shifted her weight forward, but that only transferred the discomfort to the underside of her thighs. Her back ached from the strain of trying to sit still. Every muscle in her body was tense, which she rather supposed was opposite the point of the exercise.

 Chandra managed to hold her balance for another minute, before the pain digging into her legs was too much, and – with a muffled curse – she broke pose. Rocking unglamorously from side to side, she stuck her hands beneath her backside, and sat on those for a while. It had the effect of relieving some pressure, which was nice enough while it lasted, but – within a minute or two – she began to feel the dull, aching throb in her fingers which presaged lack of circulation, and, as the pain progressed from throbbing to burning and then back to pins-and-needles, Chandra swore again and – with another ungainly fidget – she got her hands back out from beneath her, and restored them atop her crossed legs.

 From across the courtyard, she heard a familiar laugh.

 “If I haven’t succeeded in expanding your mind,” Mother Luti said, “then at least I’ve expanded your vocabulary.”

 Chandra had to admit this was true. Regathan profanity was spoiled for choice, and Mother Luti was unmatched in its employment – especially when an adept disappointed her, which Chandra frequently did. In fact, Chandra had been cursed at so frequently and so eloquently since her arrival at Keral Keep that the student had become a master in her own right when it came to the local idiom. Still, she rolled her eyes at the Mother’s comment.

 “I saw that,” Mother Luti said.

 Chandra opened her eyes, and was unsurprised to find that the Mother was not even looking. Instead, the Abbess of Keral Keep stood with her back to Chandra, some twenty paces away, where she was tending her roses with a pair of tiny shears.

 The Abbess, Chandra had long since discovered, seemed to have eyes in the back of her head – and everywhere else, besides.

 “If I bet you couldn’t go half a bell without fidgeting,” the Mother said, bending down to snip a branch, “do you think I’d win my bet?”

 “Very funny,” Chandra said, squirming atop the too-small stump. Her nose itched, but she didn’t dare scratch it. “You know,” the planeswalker said, “I think you make up half these ‘rituals,’ just to punish me for not following rules.”

 Mother Luti laughed again – a low, dry laugh.

 “If that’s the case, then it’s clearly not working,” she said.

 They were in the walled garden behind the dispensary, where the apothecary grew herbs for her poultices, and the Abbess tended to her roses. Chandra had never seen the point in that – Mother Luti’s roses were ungainly, brambly things – all thorn and no blossom – which flowered at most twice a year. Their petals – when they did bloom – were a dull, ochre red, and served mainly as forage for aphids. Still, Mother Luti tended to her trellises with all the patience of a gardener, which she very decidedly was not.

 The other adepts were all at their exercises, either training up the mountain with their tutors, or sparring in pairs in the yard. Chandra – who had overslept, and been late for morningsong – had been pulled aside by the Abbess, who had shooed the apothecary out of her garden, and then planted Chandra on the stump. The ash that had once stood there had been cut straight across, as if by an ax, yet its stump was all blackened and burned.

 “Lava ax?” Chandra said, shifting her weight on the stump, so that her legs got a reprieve, at the expense of her back.

 “Uh-huh,” Mother Luti said, pruning a branch.

 “Will I ever learn how to do that?” Chandra said.

 “Uh-huh,” Mother Luti said. Standing on tiptoe, she deadheaded a rose. “Assuming you can be bothered to get out of bed on the morning I decide to teach you.”

 Chandra rolled her eyes again. “I was barely even late,” she said.

 “Morningsong starts at sunrise,” Mother Luti said.

 “I know,” Chandra said.

 “Exactly at sunrise,” Mother Luti said.

 “I know,” Chandra said.

 “And what time did you come down for vespers?” Mother Luti said.

 “Maybe not exactly at sunrise,” Chandra admitted. A light breeze swept through the courtyard, and she wobbled on her perch. “But Anaxa was late for morningsong, too,” Chandra hastened to add, “and she still got to go training.”

 “Yes,” Mother Luti said. “I know. And should I be asking you why Anaxa was late, too?”

 “…maybe not,” Chandra said, trying and failing to keep the rising inflection from her voice.

 “No. I thought not,” Mother Luti said. Slipping the pinking shears into her cassock, she took out a bulb mister, and started spraying the aphids. “So maybe now you’ve answered your own question, as to why Anaxa is out with the trainers, whereas you’re keeping me company here.”

 Chandra scooched forward on the stump, so that the pain shifted back to her legs. “And what am I supposed to learn from this exercise, exactly?” she said.

 “Stillness,” Mother Luti said.

 “Stillness?” Chandra said, feeling anything but.

 Mother Luti nodded. The courtyard smelled faintly of tobacco, from the pesticide sprayed on the trellis.

 “Is stillness important?” Chandra said.

 “Stillness of body leads to stillness of mind,” Luti said.

 Chandra rolled her eyes, then said, “I know, I know, you saw that,” without waiting for Mother Luti’s reply.

 “You see?” Mother Luti said. “You’re becoming more observant already.”

 Chandra’s legs were going numb. She scooted backwards, transferring the worst of the pain to her butt. “If sitting on this stump is supposed to teach me stillness,” Chandra said, “then I don’t think it’s working. I could balance on one leg easier than I could sit on this thing.”

 The bulb mister stopped puffing, and Chandra saw Luti grin. “Who told you you had to sit?” was all the Abbess said.

 “You did,” Chandra said, reddening.

 “Did I?” Luti said, and went back to spraying. “Tell me, what exactly did I say?”

 In her head, Chandra replayed the events of the morning. Mother Luti had brought her to the garden, and then, pointing to the burnt-out stump, had said simply: “Please take the lotus position.”

 Chandra groaned inwardly.

 Then, hoisting herself to her feet, she transferred from the seated lotus to the standing lotus.

 “That does seem more practical,” Mother Luti said, as Chandra folded her arms and reclosed her eyes.

 Under her breath, Chandra swore.

 “There’s that vocabulary again,” the Abbess said, and Chandra resisted the urge to comment. Instead, she exhaled deeply, and tried to focus her mind.

 For a moment, she was acutely aware of all her surroundings, and the sensations they caused in her body. She felt the warm winter sun on her face, smelled the tobacco in the thin, mountain air, heard the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Her legs and backside both smarted, and her muscles felt tied-up in knots. Somewhere a bee was buzzing, and Chandra silently willed it back to the apiary, and away from the puffing bulb mister, which wheezed and coughed every couple of heartbeats.

 Then – slowly, silently – those sensations all faded away, and Chandra focused on one single, solitary stimulus: the puffing sound of the Abbess’s mister. Chandra focused all her mind on the mister’s rhythmic inhale and exhale, and, without consciously meaning to do so, she soon found that her own breathing had grown slower and deeper, and fallen into sync with the bulb mister’s pace. Now her heartbeat, too, slowed to match, until the only movement in Chandra’s whole world was the slow rising and falling of her own chest, and the only sound was the soft, steady thump of her heart.

 And, for that one moment in time – standing atop the old, burnt-out stump, in the garden amidst Luti’s roses – Chandra felt perfectly present, and still.

 * * *

Later, after what felt like a long time – Chandra couldn’t tell how long – Luti’s voice cut through the stillness. “You can get down now,” it said.

 Chandra started, and blinked, and the sudden rush of sensation back into her body was so overwhelming that she nearly toppled off the stump. Her eyes shot wide open, and she put out her arms to steady herself, only to feel strong hands grip her by the back of her shoulders, and help her to maintain her balance.

 “Woah, there,” Mother Luti’s voice said, as she held Chandra steady. “Take a moment to breathe. Count to three, find your center, and breathe.”

Heart racing, Chandra did as she was told. She counted slowly to three, and took the same number of deep, matching breaths.

 “Coming back from the stillness can be more startling than going in,” Mother Luti said, calmingly. “But you get used to it over time.”

 Chandra’s legs felt ropey beneath her, and Luti had to help hold her weight as she stepped down off of the stump.

 “How long was I out?” Chandra said dully, as she sank to the ground. Without really meaning to, she sat and crossed her legs, assuming the seated lotus position. The worn stones of the garden path felt cool beneath her skin, and her voice sounded strange in her ears, as though it had come from someplace far away.

 “You’ve been standing all day,” Luti said. “They just rang for evensong – from which you’re excused, by the way.”

 Chandra blinked her eyes again as – slowly, groggily – the world around her resolved and took form. She was startled to find that the sun had indeed gone down, and to hearing the evening bell ring from the cloister.

 Chandra opened her mouth to speak, only no words came out. Behind her, she heard Luti’s chuckle.

 “Yes, I know,” was all the Abbess said.

 “Could I do that again?” Chandra eventually managed to stammer. “Could I do that any time I want?”

 “I don’t see why not,” Luti said, “now that you’ve learnt how.”

 Chandra shivered, but not from the chill.

 The Abbess offered her hand, and Chandra stood up.

 “Alright,” Luti said. “Ask me your question.”

 It took Chandra a second, but she soon got Luti’s meaning – it was an agreement she and the Abbess had. For reasons Luti had never made clear – and about which Chandra never openly asked – the Abbess had taken a peculiar interest in her newest student. She seemed to hold Chandra to a different standard than the rest of the adepts – a regimen of special attention at which Chandra openly bridled, even while she inwardly thrilled – and, in exchange for this exacting treatment – which had made Chandra new few friends among her peers – the Mother had afforded Chandra one accommodation: for each extra task which Luti set, and which Chandra completed, the young planeswalker was allowed to ask the Abbess a question about the one subject on which she was notably reticent.

 “Jaya Ballard,” Chandra said, still breathing heavy. “Was it Jaya Ballard who taught you about stillness?”

 At that, Mother Luti laughed.

 “No,” the Abbess said. “That was not one of Jaya’s lessons.” She laughed again, which made Chandra feel just a little bit piqued.

 “What’s so funny?” Chandra said. “It’s a fair question.”

 “It is a fair question,” the Abbess agreed. “But anyone who knew Jaya Ballard would know that stillness was not one of her strengths.” And something about the Mother’s remark made Chandra bristle, without knowing why.

 “Then that’s a bit hypocritical of you,” Chandra said. “Isn’t it?”

 “Maybe so,” Luti said, and smiled her most infuriating smile. “But then you’re young, and I ought to make some allowance.” The Abbess shrugged her shoulders. “Hypocrisy rankles the young – they think it the worst of all sins. But, as you get older?” She shrugged her shoulders again. “Well, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll come to realize that we’re all of us hypocrites, in one shape or another, and that the real vice is not saying the right thing and doing the wrong thing, but giving up on right and wrong altogether.” Mother Luti smiled again. “After all,” she said, “in order to be a hypocrite, you have to at least know what’s right in the first place, even if you fail to live up to that standard. Such as – for example – if one were to, say, talk Anaxa into breaking curfew, and then to keep her up all night drinking cider, when you know that you both have morningsong the next day.”

 Alright, mom, was what Chandra thought.

 “Point taken,” was what Chandra said.

 “Good,” Mother Luti said, and patted Chandra on the back – a gesture of pseudo-maternal affection which Chandra made a show of trying to dodge, but not really. “So I trust you’ll get some sleep tonight? And that you’ll let Anaxa do the same?”

 “Yes, Mother Luti,” Chandra said.

 “And what time does morningsong start tomorrow?”

 “At sunrise,” Chandra said.

 “Exactly at sunrise?”

 “Yes,” Chandra said. “Exactly at sunrise.”

 The Abbess raised an eyebrow. “And when will I see you at vespers?”

 “Exactly at sunrise,” Chandra said.

 “Good,” the Abbess said. “Now run along.”

 Chandra didn’t wait to be told twice. After a perfunctory bow – which the Abbess returned – she hurried out of the garden back to the cloister, hoping to get to the mess before evensong had finished, and all the good tables were gone.

[autolovecraft]

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.

He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom.

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds.

Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not care to imagine. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far!

He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it.

Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He could not walk, it appeared, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. God, what a rage! Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. An eye for an eye! Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door.

In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. An eye for an eye! I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face.

[itsapapisongo]

This Is Where I Leave You | KunWin

Cast: Synthezoid!Winwin, Synthezoid!Kun, Gender-Neutral Reader ft. A.I.!Ten

Genre: Dramedy | Fluff | Sci-Fi | Non-Idol AU

Word Count: 302 (teaser)

Content Warning: Mentions of death and suicide, characters experiencing panic attacks, profanity, and suggestive themes

Summary: Looking for a purpose and a job that fulfills him, Winwin works with Kun, a fellow synthezoid and a recently certified trauma cleaner. Coming to terms with who he is and who he wishes to be, Winwin realizes he isn’t the only one questioning their existence when he meets you.

Author’s Note: I honestly didn’t know what I was going to write about when I joined this collaboration but A.I. was a concept I couldn’t pass on. This is a mixture of concepts and elements from Marvel Comics and Korean Dramas—mainly Move to Heaven—so expect some made-up words alongside all the pretentious, angsty philosophizing and cuss words.

Collab: AI Project #14320 by @pastelsicheng

Taglist: @lebrookestore (if you wanna be added let me know)

IT WAS SNOWING, and he wasn’t cold.

He never felt cold. With a simple thought, he could deactivate any stimulus he didn’t wish to experience. Neurological impulses like pain, something he had no interest in experiencing, were shut down in the blink of an eye. Cold was cold. It didn’t bother him. It would never bother him unless he allowed it to.

This, he knew, set him apart from the people around him. The very same people that walked past him without sparing him a glance or a wave or a greeting. He found it slightly amusing, interesting, and paradoxical that humans felt more automated than himself. For a race that had evolved over millennia, they kept finding new ways to regress.

As he absorbed this thought, he tilted his head upward and felt the gentle touch of snow fall upon his face. He blinked and saw a snowflake fall on the tip of his nose. Even though there was no cold, it gently grazed his skin. He closed his eyes, activated the stimuli in his brain’s insula, and immediately felt a chilly sensation upon his face as the snowflake began to melt.

For a brief second, he shivered. Then, with a thought, he shut down the cold.

Cold was cold. It didn’t bother him.

Not unless he allowed it to.

BEHOLD MODEL #DS281097.

It’s, as they say, fresh off the box. As a newer model, recently manufactured, with little work and life experience, these are all the things MODEL #DS281097 lacks: a name, an identity, a purpose, and a job.

It’s the future. Man’s vision come to life. A dream fulfilled. Yet MODEL #DS281097 doesn’t care about that. It simply wants to fulfill its duties. It seeks purpose. It seeks to live.

Or at the very least, it seeks to exist.

| [coming soon] | itsapapisongo | © 2020-2021 | All Rights Reserved

[westcoastprancer]

My Friend the Communist

I didn’t really wanna get into this on a blog…but it’s going to be inevitable. Let’s get it out of the way now. There is something I will say eventually to make you hate me. This could be a great starting point. I fucking despise communism. In fact, most “isms” just suck in general. (With the exception of capitalism, and patriotism …and probably a couple others I missed.) Who in the world does not want to fucking be free? Free to express our thoughts, feelings, ideas. Freedom to own and defend our property. Freedom to practice (or not practice) whatever form of religion you want if you don’t hurt anybody. Freedom to love who you love. Freedom to eat what you enjoy. Most importantly, the freedom to choose your own career path. Doctor? Lawyer? Farmer? Lazy ass? You can do whatever you damn well please. There is no limit on the money you make or how you live. I thought I was a Libertarian for the longest time, then I realized even their study of economics isn’t exactly right. I switched to non-partisan. Screw picking a team. I’ll vote for who I see fit. Anyway, I need to end this soon, because I didn’t start a blog to rag on politics, but I’m real and just had to get it out. My last note on this is to really study economics. Even I need a brush up now and then. Economics is logic. Just like 2+2=4. There are no different ways to interpret this stuff. For example, right now with the stock market…with the announcement of the new stimulus package most investors thought we would have a very bullish week. However, inflation is such a worry that big investors are pulling out of stocks left and right, leaving the rest of us with big losses. I could keep citing examples but basically the liberal study of economics clearly doesn’t work and defies all logic. That’s it. I’m done. I promise. Feel free to berate me with your words…I sort of dig it .(P.S. Notice how little I used profanity in this post? Even I am really fucking impressed with myself!)

[masslessobtrusion]

I’m starting to like smart home devices...

Damn it. I thought the camera picked up the discussion but they had it disarmed for some reason. I bought my parents Amazon security cameras with my stimulus check last year. Because my parents are always flipping out over slurs stealing packages. Which has never happened on our street...ever so far in 40 years. I also got them an Echo device, so they could easily see the camera feeds on command, other than just on their phones. I’m going to get more. I like the Amazon smart home eco-system so far. It is helping my parents be able to use technology. They hate menus, keyboards, and remotes. Anyway, I’m trying to tell my Dad and he’s just interrupting me every 2 seconds. “I don’t fucking care!” “Aint nothing wrong with them cameras!”. “Slurs just trying to fuck you over and sell you more SHIT!”. -Uhhh, they’re the same cameras... “Then, don’t FUCK with it!”. “Just leeeeeave it alone!” “You’re gonna FUCK it up! Fuckin piece of shit cocksucker!”. I’m serious. He says this stuff all of the time, with furious rage.  I was going to say. I figured out how to get the feeds to appear on the Echo device. I just have to set up all of the cameras again. Should’ve been a 5 second conversation...”oh that’s cool! Glad you found a solution”. Maybe he could talk to me and troubleshoot. Instead, he ranted about slurs trying to fuck him, insulted me, and insulted my ideas. He didn’t listen or comprehend a word I said. He’s probably drinking alcohol. My brother is sick and puking. My Mom is taking care of him. I was dividing my pills into a 30-day container since I can’t rely on my Mom to dispense. That was her initiative to dispense the medication. I said she could, I am capable. But she interjected to do it and I didn’t want to disagree.  I made my brother ramen noodles, tums. Suggested diphenhydramine and Dramamine. My Mom took the noodles back put them in the fridge said he doesn’t think he can keep anything down. He has had this sickness where he pukes for hours straight. I puke a lot too. But not like he does.  My Mom was rubbing my brother’s shoulders and trying to comfort him. I divided my pills for the month into a container. I could hear my Dad let out a profanity filled angry outburst from time to time. Just pure hatred towards...something. Probably my Mom or me.

[libertariantaoist]

We cannot have a world where everyone is a victim. "I'm this way because my father made me this way. I'm this way because my husband made me this way." Yes, we are indeed formed by traumas that happen to us. But you must take charge, you must take over, you are responsible.

My thinking tends to be libertarian. That is, I oppose intrusions of the state into the private realm -- as in abortion, sodomy, prostitution, pornography, drug use, or suicide, all of which I would strongly defend as matters of free choice in a representative democracy.

A serious problem in America is the gap between academe and the mass media, which is our culture. Professors of humanities, with all their leftist fantasies, have little direct knowledge of American life and no impact whatever on public policy.

The prostitute is not, as feminists claim, the victim of men, but rather their conqueror, an outlaw, who controls the sexual channels between nature and culture

Education has become a prisoner of contemporaneity. It is the past, not the dizzy present, that is the best door to the future.

For all the feminist jabber about women being victimized by fashion, it is men who most suffer from conventions of dress. Every day, a woman can choose from an army of personae, femme to butch, and can cut or curl her hair or adorn herself with a staggering variety of artistic aids. But despite the Sixties experiments in peacock dress, no man can rise in the corporate world today, outside the entertainment industry, with long hair or makeup or purple velvet suits.

Cats are autocrats of naked self-interest. They are both amoral and immoral, consciously breaking rules. Their ''evil'' look at such times is no human projection: the cat may be the only animal who savors the perverse or reflects upon it.

Are we like late Rome, infatuated with past glories, ruled by a complacent, greedy elite, and hopelessly powerless to respond to changing conditions?

I believe that history has shape, order, and meaning; that exceptional men, as much as economic forces, produce change; and that passe abstractions like beauty, nobility, and greatness have a shifting but continuing validity.

If Obama fails to win reelection, let the blame be first laid at the door of Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, who at a pivotal point threw gasoline on the flames by comparing angry American citizens to Nazis.

My generation of the Sixties, with all our great ideals, destroyed liberalism, because of our excesses.

The airheads of Congress will keep their own plush healthcare plan - it's the rest of us guinea pigs who will be thrown to the wolves.

Why has the Democratic Party become so arrogantly detached from ordinary Americans? Though they claim to speak for the poor and dispossessed, Democrats have increasingly become the party of an upper-middle-class professional elite, top-heavy with journalists, academics and lawyers.

Within the U.S., the Obama presidency will be mainly measured by the success or failure of his economic policies. And here, I fear, the monstrous stimulus package with which this administration stumbled out of the gate will prove to be Obama's Waterloo.

The damage done to U.S. prestige by the feckless, buffoonish George W. Bush will take years to repair.

The trauma of the Sixties persuaded me that my generation's egalitarianism was a sentimental error. I now see the hierarchical as both beautiful and necessary. Efficiency liberates; egalitarianism tangles, delays, blocks, deadens.

We need a new kind of feminism, one that stresses personal responsibility and is open to art and sex in all their dark, unconsoling mysteries.

Something went very wrong in feminism ... Every revolution eventually needs a new revolution. That's what I'm trying to do. I'm not trying to get rid of feminism. I'm trying to reform it, to save it, to bring it into the twenty-first century, in a way that allows the sexes to come together instead of being alienated from each other, that allows sex to be HOT and not have, like wet blankets of sermonizing thrown over it.

An enlightened feminism of the twenty-first century will embrace all sexuality and will turn away from the delusionalism, sanctimony, prudery, and male-bashing of the MacKinnon-Dworkin brigade. Women will never know who they are until they let men be men.

[Catherine] MacKinnon is a totalitarian. She wants a risk-free, state-controlled world... Literature, art, music, film, television - nothing intrudes on MacKinnon's consciousness unless it has been filtered through feminism. ... She is a Stalinist who believes that art must serve a political agenda and that all opposing voices are enemies of humanity who must be silenced. MacKinnon and [Andrea] Dworkin are victim-mongers, ambulance chasers, atrocity addicts... [they] are fanatics, zealots, fundamentalists of the new feminist religion. Their alliance with the reactionary, antiporn far right is no coincidence.

All fear of "offensive" speech is bourgeois and reactionary. Historically, profane or bawdy language was common in both the upper and the lower classes, who lived together in rural areas amid the untidy facts of nature. Notions of propriety and decorum come to the fore in urbanized periods ruled by an expanding middle class, which is obsessed with cleanliness, respectability, and conformism.

I think that this new global technology is not risk-free. This is why we must resist anyone who tries to take over or oversee the Internet. Once you get a consolidation of power, then you are one step away from fascism. The minute you have a power vacuum, you have the military step in.

Capitalism is an art form, an Apollonian fabrication to rival nature. It is hypocritical for feminists and intellectuals to enjoy the pleasures and conveniences of capitalism while sneering at it.... Everyone born into capitalism has incurred a debt to it. Give Caesar his due.

Read More