#this is so stupid but I’m autistic and it’s a square guys it’s a square

[heir-of-the-chair]

Guys. Guys it's a square.

It's a square guys look it's a square.

[donnerpartyofone]

i woke up this morning thinking, god, i wish i didn’t have this extreme anxiety response to every single activity that i have to do, even when i know it’s going to be a net positive. today it’s:

got a letter from a friend! have to write back (ANXIETY) got a refill on my meds that were randomly cancelled, so i get to go pick them up today before i run out! (ANXIETY) got a lead on a new job! just have to send my inside guy my resume and cover letter, which will take about 15 seconds of editing (ANXIETY) got a new assignment for the amazing screenwriting project i lucked into! (ANXIETY)

i imagine some people get a little drip of dopamine or something at the prospect of having something cool and/or productive to do, but literally every time i know of any kind of event coming up in my life, i have this stomach-churning sensation of intense dread--not just “nervousness”, but the feeling that something really dark just happened and i’m going to have to spend a long time wrestling with the consequences. i’m just plagued by the constant feeling that i shouldn’t try to do ANYTHING on my to-do list, because if i so much as breathe on something, it *feels* as if it ALWAYS metastasizes into a huge complicated problem, and i’m actually much better off just feeling constantly embarrassed and overwhelmed by the chores hanging over my head, than when i’m plunged into the hell of trying to figure out how anybody ever fucking DOES anything.

this morning i stupidly decided that i’d feel a lot better as soon as i figured out how to send money from my savings account, to the external account i pay bills with. this is probably like, the second or third most normal thing a private citizen does with a bank. it seems like it shouldn’t be complicated. i had already emailed the bank for the savings account, because i had trouble with this before: when i first tried to set up this very simple and essential service for myself years ago, the system wouldn’t let me add my external account, and i couldn’t get it done over the phone for some reason, so i had to physically go into a bank and have an employee do for me, in front of me, exactly what i had tried to do by myself on their very basic website. then later i was told that in order to move money between these accounts, i had to use this random third party service, and not the normal bank service i had driven myself nuts fixing up. so i set that up, and after months and months of sending money for rent and bills this way, i *very randomly* found out *while fixing something else* that what i’m doing is actually like...illegal or something. for some reason you’re ONLY allowed to use the third party system to pay OTHER people, you’re not allowed to use it to send money to any account you personally own. i have no fucking idea what the fucking difference is, but...whatever. so suddenly i’m back at square one, like it’s the first day of having the savings account all over again. i’m trying to re-add my external account on the bank website, and i cannot. so just like i did then, i call them on the phone, and i can’t fucking understand anything the guy is saying to me. he’s speaking perfect american english, but he’s so fucking inarticulate that i couldn’t figure out that he was asking me for my name--after making him repeat himself a couple of times, i just took a shot in the dark and said my own name, in case that was the answer to whatever question he was asking, which it turned out to be. so then even though i already fed my entire life story to the automated system i had to navigate to get to this guy, now he has to ask me verification questions, and...i don’t have any answers for him. he won’t ask me anything personal, or any of the security questions i know i set up with them. i have to tell him the date of the last time i was physically in a bank location and the type and amount of the transaction. i’m like...dude, we’re in a lockdown situation, i probably haven’t been to a bank since i-don’t-know-when last year. he’s like no problem, here’s another question: when is the last time you used your card, and where, and for how much? under normal circumstances i might have been able to search my brain for some of that information, but i just had no idea that i was going to have to have my whole fucking financial history open in front of me when i made this phone call, and my autistic brain couldn’t handle the prospect of making this guy wait while i got out my computer and logged on to their website and looked this stuff up--i actually HAD been logged in to try to add the external account, but while my back was turned i got logged out, meaning all the account numbers i wanted to read to this guy were now hidden away inside the other bank app on the phone i was using to make this phone call, and i just...could not...deal with it. so i told him i was going to have to “call him back”, which is like something that’s going to give me a panic attack for the rest of my life if i do it, meaning that what is actually going to happen is i am going to have to physically travel to a bank and have them add my other account in person, just like i did several years ago when i first got this savings account. my extremely supportive husband is just like, “your bank sucks,” which unfortunately just makes me feel like a stupid piece of shit for choosing it. everything always boils down to my own stupidity. it’s like that old adage about how if you meet one asshole a day, that’s normal, but if you’re constantly running into assholes all day long, it means that YOU’RE the asshole; i mean my life is a rolling train wreck, and the only consistent factor linking all these mini disasters is ME, so it has to be that I’M THE PROBLEM. no other answer is rational. the only alternative explanations are that i’m cursed or god hates me or something, and i’m just not capable of that much self-pity or that much superstition. maybe when i get to the bank i can additionally request that they punch me right in my fat fucking face. maybe that will straighten me out.

[callsign-bunnie]

Just throwing this out there and I know I’m bout to piss a lot of NTs off.

Maybe. Just maybe. It’s not that I don’t “get” neurotypicals.

Maybe it’s not that I don’t get things that make sense

Maybe it’s not that I struggle to understand certain things.

Maybe it’s not that I don’t understand you.

Maybe it’s that neurotypicals don’t “get” autistics.

Maybe it’s that things that make sense to me just don’t make sense to you. Like 8+9 being really (9+1)+(8-1)=17.

Maybe you struggle to understand certain things that make perfect sense to the whole of the autistic community. Like why the fuck do you say “be there or be square.” That’s dumb. Just say “hey, be there.” Or “don’t forget to come.” Like why you gotta say some dumb shit every time? I’m not a square, I’m a person.

Maybe you don’t understand me.

Like, I’m so sick and tired of NTs talking like “oh, autism is when you don’t get how ‘normal’ society is.” First off, no. Second off, dude fuck you. Things can make sense to me if you fucking explain it to me.

Be there or “be square” made sense when someone explained it as “because you’re not Around.” Like, that made sense. But to a neurotypical, they just accept that shit. Why?

Why do you guys just blindly accept stupid stuff like that?

Man, maybe I’m just a little too drunk and hyper right now but this shit has always pissed me off. Also, I got laughed at for not understanding a “simple phrase” so I’m a little irritated from that too.

[disabled-queen-hc-blog]

Autistic John who isn't very verbal? He speaks with very few words. People think he is speaking like a baby but it's just how he talks. He can communicate ideas perfectly but people make fun of him still ...

Freddie sighed, finger running over the stanza he was struggling with. “This won’t do. It’ll be too cluttered, don’t you think? But I like this bass line,” he said with a frown, scanning the sheet music for an idea of how to fix the song that was becoming more messier and headache inducing by the minute. 

John stooped behind Freddie to take a look at what he was struggling with. The answer seemed to come easy to him since he smiled, pointing as he talked. “Is okay, Freddie. Guitar and bass too much here. Move bass line here,” he pointed further down the sheet, “And it maybe sound better.” he finished with a firm nod. 

Freddie’s eyebrows furrowed trying to imagine in his head what it’d sound like. He tapped his chin, mumbling, “That could work...”

Roger, who sat opposite to Freddie shook his head. “Wait, if your bass line gets simpler there, I’ll have to change my drumline too or I’ll sound insane,” he said, pointing vaguely to the area in question. 

“Roger change his eighths to fourths and he not sound crazy then,” John said, once again all too easily. 

The three of them stared at the papers, constructing the sounds in their heads before they all gave the affirmative. It’d work. They could tweak it in the recording booth if needed. 

“Sounds alright to me! Now where’s Brian? He needs to look this over,” Roger said, spinning in his chair to find the guitarist. 

Brian was by the door, putting on his coat and scarf. “I’m going out to get some coffee that doesn’t taste like shit. You all want anything?” he asked, glancing at that infernal coffee maker. If they wanted to bang this song out at once, they’d need some proper caffienation that didn’t taste like liquid tar. 

“Oh, yes. Get me a dark roast, please!” Roger called out.

“I’m good, love,” Freddie said, distracted with rewrites.

“John can have espresso instead?” John asked, his eye bags a testament to how much caffeine he needed to get through this session.

Brian shot them all finger guns before escaping outside into the bitter cold. John plopped himself down next to Freddie, yawning loudly. 

As Freddie scribbled, he mumbled, “This is actually quite brilliant, Deacy.”

John gave him a sleepy smile, mumbling back, “I am smart.”

♚

“Looks like someone had a fun time at the discotheque last night,” Roger said in a sing song voice poking the exhausted bassist’s side. John squeaked but continued to fiddle with his bass on the floor.

“I did. Dance til ‘4,” John said, his lips forming a small smile. He liked to dance, what could he say? Maybe he wasn’t the best around, but it was fun and no one bothered him. Very few things could beat that.

Roger smirked as he tightened some screws on his drum kit. “Mhm. Danced. Alright. I know you were chatting up some birds. Getting a little too knackered, huh? I know you, Deacy. Not so innocent!” Roger said, pointing a playful finger at him.

John blushed, nearly popping on of his strings, having forgot he was even tuning it. “Did not! Not go to disco to talk. Go for dance only.” he said, his face serious. It softened, going coy when he added, “Go for drink too...”

Not last night though. He had to choose between being tired or tired and hungover. He had one beer before cutting himself off. With how Roger was tuning his drums, he thanked god he did. 

Roger winked and snorted, saying in a clearly sarcastic voice, “Sure thing, John.”

John threw his pick square into Roger’s forehead, earning himself a feigned look of shock from the blond. “John not go to disco to flirt!” he yelled, knowing Roger was kidding but refusing to miss an opportunity to pelt him with things.

Roger hid behind his bass drum, peeking his head out to say, “Sure,” before hiding behind it again. John threw his string pack at him, missing.

“Am not cheeky like Roger!”

“Mhm...”

“Am not!”

“Uh-huh.”

John was about to take off his shoe when Freddie caught the both of them not warming up. 

♚

John clung to Freddie’s side, looking down at his lap. 

If I don’t look at them, they won’t ask me any questions. If I don’t look, they’ll leave me alone.

“So what are the plans for this upcoming album?” the interviewer asked, leaning the microphone towards Freddie.

Freddie shook some hair out of his face, smiling as he spoke, “Well, we don’t want to spoil anything but we are going big. It’ll be like nothing we’ve done before and certainly nothing you’ve ever heard,”

The man nodded, shooting out another question. “And the creative process? How’s it been like?”

John’s stomach dropped when the mic landed right in front of his mouth. His eyes went wide, immediately looking to the older besides him in a panic.

Brian laughed, trying to diffuse the awkwardness that was rising and tried to answer the question in place of John. The interviewer interrupted him though, saying, “Why don’t we let John speak. He hasn’t said a peep!”

John’s brain went blank, his heart thundering in his chest.

This was always the worst part.

John had no issues speaking around the boys. They understood. They never made fun of him. 

The rest of the world never gave him that dignity. 

People said he was talking like a baby on purpose. That he knew better.

And to be fair, he did know better. John could form sentences that many would deem “normal” enough but it hurt. It was mentally and physically taxing having to formulate the right syntax and words. Even then, he wasn’t very good at it. He never was.

Which is why he chose to stay quiet during interviews. He didn’t want to embarrass himself and more importantly, the band. Up until, perhaps, just now, he was seen as just the quiet and shy one. Not the stupid one. 

When he opened his mouth though, he wasn’t sure if he’d stay the cute quiet one for much longer.

“C- Uh, T-The process..have..been..has been um..very-” John went ghostly pale as he stammered, his color only coming back when Roger let out a gigantic guffaw.

“John, how hung over are you?” he asked, his teeth showing in a big grin. While his lips said teasing, his eyes said something different. Something along the lines of, “I’ve got you.”

John let out a sigh of relief, murmuring back to Roger, “Very.”

The interviewer chuckled, patting John’s shoulder. “To be young again!” he said, swiftly moving on to another question and another member. 

Once it wrapped up, John nearly flopped onto the floor. He never wanted that to happen again. He knew it would though. Interviewers wanted to be polite and include him. It was understandable but terrifying. But at least he survived this round relatively unscathed. That was all he could ask for.

As everyone dispersed, decompressing from all that talking, John walked up to Brian, who was guzzling down water because he was actually hungover and said, “Thank you Bri for try and help.” Brian gave him a side hug and a wave off. It’s no big deal, he mouthed as he rubbed his temple.

John went up to Roger next, giving him a bear hug, something a little out of character for him. “Thank you Roger for help me. I maybe pass out if you don’t,” he said, a shake in his voice as he remembered the gripping fear he felt some minutes ago. 

Roger hugged back gently at first, perhaps shaken up himself by the situation but he quickly returned to his usual self, giving John a squeeze and pulling away. “The nerve of that guy, huh? A man can’t have the wine flu in peace these days?” Roger laughed as he spoke. It got a giggle out of John, saying, “John guess not,”

The two snickered amongst themselves until Freddie rounded them up to get back in the van.

“I say this is grounds for some pizza, darlings!” Freddie said with a flamboyant clap, turning around to march out the door of the building.

“Pizza not in budget,” John said meekly.

Freddie turned back to face them, winking. “It’s on me,” he said as he held up a wallet.

Roger squinted before screaming, “That’s my wallet, you bugger!”

“John wants the works pizza then.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Vegetarian pizza sounds nice right about now.”

“I buy Bri veggie pizza.”

“Not with my money, you gits!”

“Two veggie pizza.”

“Aw, that’s so considerate of you, Deacy.”

“Is no one listening to me?”

“John is not.”

[phcking-detective]

1. Caught Dead with a Beretta

Fic Title: First Blood

Rating: E

Length: 1/33 chapters, ~128k

Tags: Slow Burn, Idiots to Lovers, Trans Character (gavin), Autistic / Asexual / Non-binary Character (nines), BDSM, learning to use good etiquette and safe words, Dom Nines / Sub Gavin, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Tags: suicide, death / murder, verbal hazing

Link on AO3

***

Gavin's sick of working suicides—they're depressing as hell and aren't going to do anything for his promotion. He's just got to the crime scene already wants to go home. It's fucking ass'o'clock in the morning, and he hasn't slept worth shit, so of course Nines texted to let him know about the scene the second he'd finally dozed off. 

The elevator ride up to the two thousand square foot loft gives him enough time to get hit with shit, did I take my meds before I left home? Fuck. Maybe? 

Goddammit. Maybe he should switch to those patches and gels instead of a weekly injection. Taking his T is the one thing he never, ever forgets, so if he switched to something he could do daily and took his meds for the BPD and ADHD at the same time … 

The elevator doors ding open, ruining his train of thought. Nines is here already because he doesn't fucking sleep, apparently. That hot fuckboy he sucked off once—and the beat cop for this side of town—Brayden, is in there too, but Gavin's most recent bout of soul-crippling insomnia has actually worn him down too much to be horny. 

Well, too much to put forth the effort for flirting, at least. 

"—huh, Nine Thousand?" Brayden says as Gavin walks up. 

Nines doesn't respond. 

"He's RK nine hundred," Gavin says. "Not like the meme. Super disappointing." 

Brayden grins. "Yeah, but I mean like, the movie." 

"Nine thousand?" 

Gavin frowns, trying to force his stupid idiot brain to think. All he can come up with is 300. Maybe it's a movie based off of that one book? The like, underwater … and submarines. Something-number thousand leagues under the sea? No fuck, that's not nine thousand. 

"Two thousand," Brayden says. "And one." 

Shit, is that the number of leagues or the title of the movie? 

"Man, I am way too fucking tired." Gavin waves him off. "I'm not even into that film shit. I just like action movies." 

Brayden heaves a deep sigh. "I've seen your file, Gavin. You're too smart to willingly lump yourself in with the uneducated masses." 

"May we proceed with the crime scene, detective?" Nines asks before Gavin can reply. 

Brayden flinches a little. The only reason Gavin doesn't get scared himself is because he's gotten used to Nines not breathing or moving—until he suddenly does. Makes people jumpy as shit to realize they forgot about the giant fucking android just standing there.  

Not blinking. Or breathing. 

"Go ahead," Brayden says with a sweep of his hand, like he didn't just jump half a foot. 

"May we proceed with the crime scene, detective?" Nines asks instead of complying. 

"Yeah, sure," Gavin grants permission. 

Nines proceeds. Gavin tries to hold back a smirk. Brayden's the pretentious kind of asshole who loves explaining shit no one cares about, but he's pretty hot too, and Gavin's not quite ready to burn that bridge to Terra-dick-bia by pissing him off. No, that sounds terrible. The bridge to … mm, dick. 

Damn, he's tired. 

He follows after Nines, a little worried he might wander off in his sleep-deprived state and get lost in all this square footage of prime fucking real estate. Even saints would have to work to feel sorry for dead people as rich as this. 

Finally, he stumbles into a section of the open floor plan that seems to function as the living room. There's a flat screen tv nearly as big as the wall it's mounted on, a coffee table made from a whole chunk of mahogany with a half-full tumbler, and a dead guy sitting in a chair with a gun in his hand and a hole in his head. 

The TV still blares out the news, and the vic's own face flashes out at them. 

"This the Ponzi scheme guy?" Gavin asks. 

"Maverick Russell, age forty-seven." Nines shoves a finger inside the vic's mouth with no shame or preamble. "Blood alcohol level point-oh-nine-seven. The entry wound in his head appears to be consistent with a nine millimeter Beretta." 

He takes a small packet out of his Cyberlife jacket pocket and somehow has the coordination to open it one-handed. Gavin wrinkles his nose at the antiseptic smell as Nines sanitizes both hands with the wipe, even though he only touched the vic with one finger. Then he lifts that same finger to the victim's head. 

"Hey!" Gavin barks. "What have I told you about that shit?" 

Nines stares back at him with that unblinking, lizard-eye look. He touches his finger to the entry wound but doesn't push it in. Just brushes it back and forth, which is somehow way freakier. 

"The entry wound in his head is consistent with a nine millimeter Beretta," Nines says. 

"Great." 

Gavin walks a perimeter around the designated living room space. At first it's just to keep himself awake, but by the second circle, he's got one of those gut feelings. Something about this scene is off. Fuck if he can tell what though, 'cause the victim was drunk, watching his own demise on the news, and has a bullet in his head from the gun in his hand. 

"You feel that?" He asks. 

Nines cocks his head to the side. "The circulating air temperature is seventy--" 

"No." Gavin huffs and starts on another circle. "Do you like … you feel what I’m feeling?" 

"Your question is incomprehensible." 

Gavin sighs and grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes. He bites back a comment about this being why androids can't make good cops. Fuck knows why he's bothering to be nice now. He just wants to get this shit done and go home. 

When he opens his eyes, everything swirls with black spots in front of him. What's bugging him about this? The guy is dead, the gun is in his hand, the news says—

Gavin blinks the spots away and stands in front of the vic. Fake tan, but high enough quality that it'd look real if he didn't live in fucking Detroit. Decently fit, and the open kitchen on the other side of the room has one of those blenders that cost more than his car. The loft's decorated in masculine colors, all brown and navy and black leather. 

"Go check out the kitchen," Gavin tells Nines. "Tell me what's in the fridge." 

Nines does as he's told, but only after considering it. Gavin takes back the lizard comparisons. He's like a cat. One of those big jungle cats that's smart enough to eat the humans hunting them. 

"Dannon Oikos triple blended greek nonfat yogurt, coffee, four pack, five-point-three ounce cups," Nines says. "Dannon Oikos trippled blended greek nonfat yogurt, peanut butter banana, four—" 

Gavin rolls his eyes. "Just say yogurt. What else does he got?" 

"Yogurt. Eggs. Milk. Sparkling water. Chicken breast. Mayonnaise. Sliced ham. Apples. Protein shakes." Nines opens the freezer. "Chicken breast. Chicken breast. Chicken breast. Chi—" 

Gavin starts giggling. He can't help it. Nines turns around and glares at him, deliberately flashing his LED red for a second. 

"OK, fuck off, it's late," he says. "I'm like, super tired. Just analyze that shit or whatever and tell me if his food matches any of the latest high protein fad diets." 

"Yes," Nines replies so instantly Gavin wonders if he actually even looked it up at all. "The victim's food intake matches the Eight Step Enligh—" 

Gavin waves him off. "Yeah, yeah. Cool. Does the bar have gin, vodka, and vermouth?" 

Maverick Russell, definitely confirmed for one of those ultra-rich masculine gym types. Not like, an actual gym rat, just that generic rich person level of fitness achieved through liposuction, personal fitness trainers, and the latest fad diet. 

"Yes, along with seven other distinct liqueurs." Nines finishes checking the bar and returns to the living room. "How is this information relevant, detective?" 

"This drink and that gun don't match," Gavin says when Nines returns. 

Nines cocks his head again. "Match." 

"Yeah. I don't see any Bond memorabilia in here." Gavin takes another quick glance around, but the entertainment center doesn't display any vintage DVDs, and rich film buffs are not subtle about displaying their collections. "He ever purchased anything like that?" 

Nines's LED spins yellow for about half a second this time before he replies. "No. There are no significant purchases of memorabilia relating to the James Bond books or movies present in Maverick Russell's finances." 

"OK, then why the fuck does he have a Beretta?" Gavin asks. 

Nines looks at the victim, and then back at him. "That is what he shot himself with." 

"Yeah, but why," he stresses. "Would this guy—this self-obsessed, rich guy masc, desperate-to-be-cool motherfucker—have a Beretta?" 

"It is the tool he used to complete suicide." Nines frowns. "Is there a reason he would not have a Beretta?" 

"Because it's a ladies' handgun," Gavin says. "This guy's got three different TV remotes, a flat screen covering an entire wall, jesus, how old is that scotch?" 

Nines sticks his finger in it, because of course he does. "One hundred and twenty-three years old, consistent with—" 

"Shit, I would've thought this guy was trying too hard when I was twenty and desperate to be cis," Gavin mutters. "Look, I fucking promise you, this particular man literally wouldn't be caught dead with a Beretta—unless he's a James Bond fan. Even then … hey, Brayden!" 

"His input is unnecessary, detective." Nines cleans his hands with another sanitary wipe. "If you would be more clear—" 

His jaw shuts with a click as Brayden jogs over. 

"Hey, you like the Bond movies?" Gavin asks. 

Brayden heaves a tortured sigh. "I really prefer foreign movies, but for an American—" 

"All right, sure. Would you ever kick it with a Beretta?" 

Brayden bites the inside of his cheek, opens his mouth, then closes it with a frown as he thinks about it. 

"What if you were like, a super fan?" 

"Why?" Brayden glances around the loft with an interested look. "This guy have some collector's memorabilia?" 

Gavin shakes his head. "Nah. But why else he's got a fucking Beretta?" 

"Well that's not the drink for it," Brayden says immediately, then scoffs. "A scotch?" 

"Yeah, and he had the shit to make a martini too." 

"Weird. You thinking …" Brayden trails off, then winces. "Ah, shit. We uh, we got a guy a floor down. Said he heard the shot that, you know. But he said it was two bangs. And you know how shit witnesses are about getting anything right, and the TV was on and—" 

"That's shit I need to know," Gavin snaps. "Doesn't matter how stupid you think it is, you're the first officer on the scene, you report every-fucking-thing to the responding detective." 

"Yeah." Brayden clears his throat. "My bad." 

Gavin lets it slide only because now he has something to go on. "Whatever. Check me on the precon for this, RK." 

"Preconstruction running, detective." 

"So we got two shots." Gavin backs up so he's approaching the living room from twenty feet away. "So we should have two guns. The perp, coming in here, gets shot 'cause the vic's only got the one entry wound, but—" 

Nines touches the victim's hand, and then his cellphone buzzes. 

The distribution of gunshot residue on Maverick Russell's right hand is not consistent with a Beretta. The gun he fired has a longer muzzle and larger caliber. My preliminary preconstruction matches it to a .500 S&W Magnum. The victim has four registered in his name.

Gavin closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. Would it fucking kill him to send that in five separate texts like a normal person? Now he's going to look dumb as fuck staring at the screen for five minutes trying to read one paragraph. 

OK, he’s got the fifty caliber Magnum, that's easy to read. Longer muzzle, larger caliber, right. 

"So the vic has a fifty caliber Magnum instead of a dinky Beretta, makes a lot more sense." 

Nines doesn't correct him, so that must have been the gist of the message. 

"The perp gets shot—" 

"Where's the blood though?" Brayden asks. 

Gavin glares at him. "Can you let me fucking work?" 

Shit, he's doing it again and this is why no one wants to work with him because they fuck up--everyone fucks up, he knows this, he fucking knows this--and then he just can't let it go but why the hell does Brayden think he's allowed to speak right now when—

He's not in trouble. He's not in trouble, it's just the loft, being in another rich empty room again. None of them are children and he's not in trouble. 

His cellphone buzzes. 

The floor has been scrubbed clean throughout the loft. I did not realize that was relevant information. I will give you full reports of my analysis moving forward.

That's not too bad to read, and concentrating on making the letters stay still actually helps him cool off a bit for once. Gives him something to look at other than Brayden's pretty, hurt face or the perfect fucking interior design that still feels like when he was thirteen and— 

Gavin shoves those memories aside and starts typing out a reply. 

just text me that shit

I'll prolly yell if u try telling me about the floors at every crime scene

"Am I dismissed then?" Brayden asks. 

Gavin looks up from his phone and can't force out any sort of apology. He never can. And anyway, fuck him. If Brayden wants to get pissy about getting snapped at twice after a legitimate fuck up and interrupting a senior detective mid-sentence, then sure. He can fuck right off. 

"Go get the maid," Gavin tells him. 

"The … android?" Brayden asks. 

"No, the roomba. Yes, the fucking android maid. Someone scrubbed the floors clean." 

And the side table.

Gavin doesn't bother with texting back this time. "That where the blood splatter would have hit?" 

"Yes, detective," Nines answers out loud. 

Gavin turns back to Brayden. "So there's your answer. Get the maid, 'cause I doubt the perp stuck around himself to clean the entire two-thousand square foot floor." 

Brayden hesitates. 

"She's still here," Gavin asks. "Right, Officer Burton?" 

Brayden gives a curt nod, but he breaks into a run as he leaves. 

AP700 #480 913 876 is located in the foyer of the building, along with Officers Miller and Abrahamson. I have sent alerts to their cellphones that the AP model is needed for questioning.

Gavin starts to ask how Nines knows that but … isn't this what he was literally designed to do? 

"She's not a suspect yet," he says instead. "So cool it, Terminator. And don't hack peoples' phones. That's what the officers have walkie talkies for." 

Nines makes a face like Gavin just suggested they all start using smoke signals. He's not exactly the type to go all buddy-buddy on witnesses himself, but they're definitely not going to get anywhere with Nines scaring the thirium out of their one lead. 

Gavin takes a moment to wallow in how much he hates this before he calls Hank. At least if he has to be up before dawn, so will that motherfucker. 

"We do not need assistance from Lieutenant Anderson," Nines says, his expression souring even further. "Or my predecessor. I recognize that I did not meet the necessary level of efficiency when I neglected to—" 

"Hey, this isn't a punishment," Gavin says, tilting the phone down away from his mouth. "I fucking hate Connor too, and when we have an android suspect, I get that's your thing. But right now we have an android witness, and that's his." 

"Ahh, fuck," Hank's voice comes out of the phone. "Sun's not even fucking—goddammit, Reed." 

"We will be at your location in twenty minutes, Detective Reed," Connor's voice says next. 

Gavin stares out into space as what's left of his soul collapses in on itself at the confirmation that those two really are fucking. Not even just fucking, they're sleeping together. In bed, for literal sleep. 

"Nines, tell them they're disgusting," Gavin orders. "You can put way more hate into it than me." 

 "Disgusting," Nines says with a sneer that would put Gavin's mother to shame. 

Gavin hangs up before Hank can reply. "I know you lack the capacity and all that shit, but if it makes you not-feel any better, I bet you five bucks the perp's android." 

"Based off of what evidence?" Nines asks. 

"Took a bullet and kept going." Gavin steps back into place where the perp probably walked in. "He's got the Beretta, but it's just a gun to him. He grabs the vic's gun, maybe disarms him, maybe doesn't even have to after the first shot." 

"The blood vessels on the victim's wrist have not been damaged." Nines starts cleaning his hands again even though he hasn't even touched anything this time. "Why would the human stop shooting?" 

"TV's on, he's drinking, has a gun out already." Gavin shrugs. "Might have been a suicide interrupted by a murder. Might've fired the first shot just being scared, y'know, gut instinct." 

Nines just looks at him. 

"Or you don't know, whatever." Gavin rolls his eyes. "But once he realizes what's happening—maybe he couldn't pull the trigger himself, but now here's someone gonna do it for him. Maybe he just sits back down. That still work with your preconstruction?" 

"Yes," Nines says. "Along with two thousand, one hundred and fifty-eight other scenarios." 

"Whatever. And just like, for the record, don't ask Hank about how this suicidal shit works," Gavin tells him. "Hank might not care, but those are fighting words with Connor." 

Nines doesn't move a single centimeter as he stares silently at him. 

"And don't fucking fight with Connor, we don't have time for it. Anyway, if anyone gets to pick a fight at a murder scene, it's me. So." Gavin walks up to the chair with his hand pointed like a gun. "The perp gets him back down, shoots him in the side of the head, then switches the guns so the ballistics will match." 

"He could have taken the victim's gun." Nines's LED spins a few yellow cycles. "It is registered in his name. The suicide would have looked more authentic." 

"And that's why I'm thinking our guy's an android," Gavin replies. "Someone who hasn't ever seen a movie before in his whole life. Thinks a gun is a gun is a gun. I mean, you didn't know why the Beretta was weird, and if you made A Plan to kill a guy with this gun, would you switch it up in the middle?" 

Nines's LED immediately hits blue, but it's that fake-blue that means he's really covering up a red. Gavin almost kind of … has a feeling about it? 

But then the elevator doors open with Brayden and the android maid inside. Gavin's got a burned bridge, a possible eye witness, and an a murder to deal with. Worrying about his partner's not-feelings will have to wait. 

***

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1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33

This fic is also available on my Patreon! $1 tier gets you each chapter a week early, so you could be reading chapter two right now~

$2 tier gets you deleted scenes and bonus content--this week, it’s extra scenes about how Nines was found at Cyberlife and how he gets his first apartment

$3 tier gets you access to the first chapters of two new AUs I’m currently writing--an A/B/O universe in which Gavin is a bitter omega and Nines is his android partner determined to help him during his heat; and a Reverse AU where GV200 “Gavin” is assigned as Detective Richard Stern’s sobriety companion

[nightcoremoon]

some guy asked me for a hug. I turned and looked at him. he was a big black guy with a lazy eye and three huge duffel bags and a rainbow painted on his cheek and a light and gentle voice that sounded affected by some developmental disability related to mine. i figured hey why not and said sure, but he kissed my cheek; I was like ok whatever he's probably just affectionate. at least he didn't kiss my lips or grope me or any of that weird shit. just a harmless little cheek kiss.

me and two of my people had just gotten up to go get food, and I told him that. he asked me if he could walk with us because he just needed a friend. my little heart broke because I had felt the same way when I went to another pride alone a few years ago. I said sure he could walk with us but we were gonna get food.

he asked me if I could carry one of his bags for him. he was drenched in sweat and he had like 4 bags that were the size of me so I figured why not, I'll carry something for him. it was really heavy though, for someone like me with muscular dystrophy. still, I should be nice because being nice is good to do.

we got there and we walked past some girls (and guys) in a twerk-off or something, idk maybe they were just dancing to what the dj was playing (stuff from wiz khalifa to kid cudi to flo rida, a good selection). he said something like "yeah, get it girl!" I assumed that was an big city black culture type of deal and figured, okay that's probably a normal thing because it happened and nobody really seemed to vocally have a problem with it, so I shouldered on.

he asked if I could buy him something to eat. I said yes thinking sure I'll pay $5 for a corn dog or nachos or something. dude straight up asks for a $10 philly cheesesteak AND a drink, which costs $5. it's okay, that's fine, I have extra cash, and I'd feel better if he ate something in case he didn't get to eat very often. so I did it. I got him the cheesesteak and a drink. when I came back he was flirting with some other girls. I'd thought nothing of it, he's probably bi and just super friendly. I gave him the food and so he could eat I carried another bag. which weighed way more than my shoulders could handle but it wasn't too long of a walk.

I collapsed and he sat down and was like. hey y'all I need a place to stay tonight. I was like. okay. this random stranger I just met doesn't immediately seem threatening, BUT if I were to offer him an accommodation I would still put all of our valuables into the room he wouldn't be in and have all the guys be in the room he was in purely for safety in the worst case scenario. I would be safe and methodical and rational about it. I told him I would put it to a vote with my group. it was a UNIVERSAL FUCKING NO. obviously.

now, I was gonna tell him that the people who were in our group and not immediately present had all said no anyway just to gauge what his reaction was gonna be. now uh. he didn't react too well. he started throwing out a bunch of possibilities. I'll sleep on the floor, ask them again, convince them, tell them I'm homeless and the cops are after me, I was like. I'm not gonna lie to them but I will talk to them. and in the chat I was literally in the middle of typing "okay guys I told him that y'all said no and he didn't react well so nvm it's fine" when he said:

and I quote:

"if you don't let me stay with you I'll kill myself."

...

Fuck.

That.

so I delete what I was gonna say and I tell everyone he just threatened suicide so hell fuckin no, this situation is dangerous so I'm gonna tell him that the majority said no anyway and if he doesn't back the fuck off i'm gonna tell him that it's because they're racist. which would probably work, right? he wouldn't wanna stay with a bunch of racist white people even if some of them weren't racist. probably.

that was the plan. I tell him okay look I asked everyone again and they still said no. the 3 of us who are here at this table have no problem but the 4 of us who aren't said they're not ok with that and majority rules so sorry man I can't help you but there's plenty of people around here who might be able to help. but he asks again, why can't I lie to them? he'll just sleep on the floor, he just needs a place to stay for the night.

so one of the people at the table with us who saw the group chat and heard me say the spiel about how the THREE OF US WHO ARE HERE would be fine with him but the FOUR OF US WHO ARE NOT HERE would not be, straight up says "look, I'm not comfortable with sharing a hotel room with a random stranger."

I'm like WHY THE FUCK DID YOU SAY THAT NOW HES JUST GONNA GET DEFENSIVE AND LASH OUT ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? but well she's been to chicago a lot and knows the urban culture. even though I fucking lived in indianapolis on weekends for a decade and know the culture more than she does. anyway this fucks up the plan majorly. she then tries to kindergarten teach her way through empathy 101 and tell him suicide isn't the answer and it's not a tool to use to guilt trip people. I'm like. WELL HOW THE FUCK DO I SALVAGE THIS GARBAGE FIRE NOW WITH ALL THIS JET FUEL YOU JUST BLASTED ONTO IT???

but it's fine, he's probably smart enough to figure that we're all smart enough not to let a stranger stay with us. the other girl with us who doesn't have a smartphone who I was texting to keep her in the loop then says she's uncomfy and leaves even though earlier she had just gotten upset about our party splitting up and not being able to find each other. so I'm like. alright time to disengage.

the girls leave so I go in front of him and I'm like. look man, I wanna help but my people wouldn't be okay with it. I reach out my hand to shake it and I say I wish him the best and I hope that someone here lets him stay with them, but at the very least he won't be hungry. he just glares at me, rolls his eyes, and looks away.

the fucking bitch.

you disrespect my charity, my grace, my fucking charade to not just blow you off, and this is the thanks I get? I spend $15 so you get a free meal, and you're pissed at me because I won't cram you and your four bags into my cramped car to go to my cramped hotel rooms when I don't even know you? ASSHOLE.

so we leave. a few hours pass and my chicago friend (who I bear no ill will towards because she's only 19 and I value her as a friend) and I are sitting and waiting for our friends to watch Lizzo perform. some other guy sits by us. I introduce myself, his name's jake, he's a cool guy. he plays league, I play dota, we talk about video games and the topic migrates.

eventually mr manipulative asshole saunters over and sits next to him, trying to get in on the conversation. my chicago friend moves away prompting jake to ask me what happened so I write on my phone what the other guy did. jake then proceeds to turn his chair and turn out square into a triangle that's leaving out the dickweed. we talk for another while. the dickweed eventually sees two girls kidding and is like "ayy little mamma bring them tight asses over here". so my friend is like. that's not cool bro, that's sexual harassment. we're gearing up to leave and he tells her to shut the fuck up.

jesus was with me in that moment because I about beat the absolute dog shit out of him. instead, I just give him a disappointed look and say "don't cuss at my friends."

I so wanted to rip into him. "you ungrateful disrespectful asshole. i bought you dinner, I considered letting you stay with us until I realized you're just a disgusting freeloading pig, and emotionally manipulative to boot, and how dare you treat us like this when I fed you. and how dare you ask for the most expensive thing on the menu. and how dare you speak that way to my friends. I oughta beat you senseless and turn your other eye lazy. so I hope you do kill yourself tonight." that's what I wanted to say. the primal urge was there but I kept my cool. and we left. that was the end of that.

jake walked with all of us to our car. he is a cool guy. he added us on instagram. we're all safe.

so uh. yeah.

if I have one fault, just one, it would be that I'm kind to a fault. I will walk with you if you're lonely. I will feed you if you're hungry. I will house you if you're homeless. even if you're just a manipulative freeloader with no respect for women, because as an autistic person I've got a really bad ability to sense evil. I would have helped him. I would have let him stay with us. this dangerous asshole I would have let be in my hotel room. if I have one fault, just one. it's that I'm willing to put another person's potential comfort on a higher priority than my own financial well-being and personal security.

I may be stupid. but at least I care about others.

inb4 someone accuses me of making this up and I literally have to post screenshots of the group chat to prove that I'm not just making an imaginary strawman to further a white feminazi agenda or whatever. guys why would I make up a story that proved that I'm a big dumb moron?

[alightinthelantern]

Oh my god, I want to die. My mother was an abusive cunt to me for twenty years and she’ll never get any punishment, not so much as a slap on the wrist. She got away with it scot-free. All of my abusers got away scot-free, Delaina and Marcus and all of the cunts at Howard Center. I suffer flashbacks nearly every day and they all have positions of power over other children just as vulnerable as me. Delaina is principal of a special-needs school, my mother is on the board of directors at Howard.

They locked me in a basement at Howard Center for whole weekends at a time as a teen when I misbehaved, a dingy little apartment with an electronic keypad lock and a bedroom with a deep square window that glowed red with city lights at night. I had Chef Boyardee from a metal cabinet to eat every day, and I had to ask permission to use the bathroom, and I was locked into the bedroom at night. I wasn’t allowed to talk to whatever staff member was On Duty except to ask to use the bathroom or for food because the metal cabinet was kept locked and I wasn’t allowed to touch anything myself, and they just sat in their little staff room watching tv all day and night. The stays were so traumatizing that it was multiple years before I could look at Chef Boyardee without having flashbacks. And Delaina, the Case Manager who instituted the policy of locking me up and traumatizing me into behaving, runs a school full of vulnerable special-needs children like I was.

“YOU ARE SUCH A SPOILED, SELFISH CHILD, AND I PUT UP WITH SO MUCH FROM YOU!!” my mother and grandmother would scream at me once a week growing up. My mother once served tomatoes with dinner when I was nine and I hated the taste and texture of them so much I spit mine up while gagging. She ordered me to eat them but I refused, unable to bear it, so she put them on a plate in the fridge and punished me by taking away all my toys and other privileges. The next day she served them to me at lunch, and I refused to eat them. She punished me until dinner, when she served them again, and I refused. This went on for multiple days, she getting ever more violently angry at me all the time, and I finally caved after two or three days under fear of physical violence.

She forced me to grow up as a boy when I wanted to be a girl, but I’ve been abused by so many shitty (White) women, who’ve all treated me like a villain because I’m “a boy” and I’m Autistic, that I don’t want to lump myself in with them, and now I don’t know what I am. Once when I was nine I went up to my teacher in school, and said on the verge of tears, “I wish I were born a girl!” And the teacher, an adult woman in her forties, rounded on me, saying “You know, men rule the world, and women have it so hard! You are so lucky to be a boy, and you are so selfish if you don’t realize it!” Those were her exact words. And yes, she was a blonde White woman. Thus, gender is inextricable from trauma for me.

I tried to kill myself when I was 14, and I spent my entire teenage years borderline-suicidal. She spent her entire upbringing of me alternating between neglect and abuse, withholding her “love” any time I had misbehaved, punishing me whenever I tried to show independence, leaving me with no self-esteem and no ability to care for myself. She isolated me from the rest of the world, preventing me from having literally any social life outside of school my entire teenage years, and she always punished me with whatever hurt me the most for even the most minor infractions.

I’m 26 years old and I’m fucking broken, I moved out at 19 and I’ve spent the past 7 years trying to heal myself but I can’t do it, the abuse and trauma haunt me every day. I have Asperger’s, OCD, Bipolar, PTSD, and depression from all of these. I wish I had a gun, I can’t fucking take it. I have a major breakdown every year and a medium-sized one every couple months. And now, when it’s too late to make a difference, when I’m already broken for good and have given up completely on life, she thinks being nice to me will get me to forgive her, being nice by lending me money for a needed new desk, or some clothes, or whatever. This stupid Catholic cunt thinks she deserves forgiveness, when even now she’s so self-absorbed and fragile that the slightest perceived insinuation that she wasn’t a stellar parent makes her purse her lips and glare and shut down and start ignoring me altogether, even when I wasn’t saying or implying anything. Once, a few years ago, we were discussing the movie The King’s Speech, and she said that King George VI’s father was a jerk in the movie. I said “Oh yeah, he was abusive to his children!” which was true. The conversation wasn’t even about her but she made it about herself, and got angry and defensive and stopped talking to me for several minutes. I recently said that I thought I was suffering burnout in response to my childhood, and she just started sarcastically uh-huh-ing (like nasty women do), and took her smartphone out and started scrolling on it so she could ignore me to my face. Even now I’m forced to babysit my own selfish cunt of a mother.

And I love my dad, he’s the only person in my family who’s ever been good to me, but he is such a fucking moron, and he does not understand when I try to talk to him about it. He remembers how my mom treated him during their divorce, how he suffered a life-threatening brain hemorrhage that nearly killed him, how he was rushed to the hospital and when they cut his skull open blood shot out and splattered on the wall over ten feet away from the sheer pressure inside, and how she didn’t care enough to visit him once. But he thinks she’s just a normal person who was going through a rough time, he gives her the benefit of the doubt, he lived a state away and never saw the abuse my mother inflicted on their children behind closed doors, the constant screaming and shaming and pitting us against each other to maintain her obsessive control over us, and it’s exhausting trying to convince him of my childhood was not normal. That most of the problems he was told I had were made up.

I wasn’t an easy child to raise, but I was not the fucking monster I was treated like. I was the scapegoat for all my family’s troubles, and my sisters, angry and hurting at our mother’s abuse, were encouraged to take it out on me, because of course I was ugly and awkward and talked too much and didn’t know how to behave and embarrassed them in public, and for selfish, shallow people there really was nothing likeable about me. And my sisters bullied me and my mother never punished them for it and she always punished me when I fought back. And I tried to kill myself when I was 14, and my mother cared more about how her daughters were upset by my attempt than the fact that I was miserable with life enough to literally try to kill myself. How awful do you think my life was to have forced a naive little Autistic boy who sang along with the hymns in church to think death was the only way out? And still I am villainized! Still I am the bad guy, everyone in my family both immediate and extended view me as the devil incarnate, everyone has always and will always hate me!

And all these snotty young women on the street and in stores glare and snap at me for being Too Male, acting like I’m their oppressor, because I’m male-shaped and I don’t have Good Socialization Skills (when I was isolated growing up and never allowed to develop them), and I talk Wrongly (which is ableism), when I’m just an ugly, awkward, gangly person with such debilitating mysophobia and social anxiety I literally will not leave my apartment if I don’t have to. I can’t work, I live on disability benefits, and I only leave the house for laundry and groceries.

No one has ever taken me seriously, no one in law enforcement or any of the equally imbecilic, incompetent health organizations in this fucking backwater state have ever believed me. Fuck Vermont.

Well fuck the Catholic God and fuck the devil too, and fuck any and every Higher Power that may or not exist. I am so fucking tired. Fuck my life. Just end me already.

[qceensofkings-a]

So got to play witness to a domestic dispute today.... This woman was leaving her drunk of a boyfriend because her baby daddy is out of prison or something. And I’m sure it also has something to do with the fact that this guy drinks all the time. So often, that not only was he drunk today when I saw him but he was drunk last night and one time he even walked into my dad’s apartment thinking it was his. 

Anyway, he was yelling at his girlfriend and calling her names, swearing at her, and telling her to hit him. As soon as I walked outside and heard this argument, the first thing I heard was “I’m not going to hit you!” My brother claims since he was first out the door, that the guy had told her to hit him.

Suddenly, this guy wanted a fucking audience for this fight he was having with his ex who just wanted to take her dog and go. For some odd reason, he thought my brother would agree that this woman was dumb and was being stupid for leaving him. He also wanted my brother to stand there to make sure that this lady wouldn’t actually hit him, despite him yelling at her repeatedly to do so. 

So I decided to stand about ten feet away from this, my brother had a very front row seat. This woman was smoking a cigarette and the guy suddenly went to grab it, “Oh you want this?” She asked before tossing it onto the ground, “Go fetch it if you want it so bad!” 

He stood there, clearly drunk off his ass because as soon as she even tried to guide him back to his apartment so he can go inside, he fell over dramatically, like he had just been thrown to the ground by some guy in a bar... She looked at my brother and asked if it looked like she pushed him to which my brother shook his head and responded no. 

Anyway, she grabbed her dog out of his apartment and started walking toward me, “Oh sure, push the autistic guy to the ground!” He called after her. All of a sudden this woman told me to take her dog and she whipped around to yell at him, walking toward him as he got up and started talking shit about her to my brother. Apparently, this woman’s child is autistic and she found his drunken comment very offensive.

So I was holding this small dog as this guy started getting in her face, squaring her up and tried to look intimidating. She was much shorter than him but that certainly didn’t stop her from saying, “I’ve hit bitches bigger than you in prison.” Meanwhile, my brother was off to the side, debating on tackling this guy to the ground any second should he attempt to hit this woman and I was about to run into my dad’s apartment, dog or no dog to tell him to call the cops.

So then this guy started insisting we video tape this shit and was looking for his phone, handing my brother his keys and lighter in the process. He went inside to look for it and left the door wide open. So what does his girlfriend that just dumped his ass do? She ran up to the door, locked it from the inside, and closed the door real quick. 

She apologized to us profusely for him stopping us and I gave her back her dog. I told her good luck and she walked off to what I assume to be her car. My brother left the guy’s keys and lighter by the grill on the dude’s back porch and we went to get food.

[aspergersissues]

13 Reasons Why

This post will contain spoilers for the show and real references to suicide. Please don't read this unless you're okay with both. I talk to almost no one that knew me during my middle/high school years. Basically, only family members. Even then, my adoptive parents never took what I was going through serious and probably didn't talk about it much other than just mentioning general bullying. Because of that, I want to use the new Netflix series 13 Reasons Why to illustrate the severity of things. I just finished 13 Reasons Why, tonight. I heard about it on a podcast a few days ago– that people were saying it glorified suicide, followed by a brief description. I watch the first eight hours on Tuesday, then the remaining five hours today. I was glued to it. First, it does NOT glorify suicide. It shows how horrific a choice it is and how much it impacts everyone around the person. The fact they even showed the suicide itself and her parents finding her showed how awful and ugly it is. I don't understand how that's a controversy unless people just haven't watched it and are basing it on the synopsis. Now, with that out of the way. I am Hannah Baker. Well, I was. I was bullied as bad as she was and possibly worse. Everything she went through in the series is remarkably similar to experiences in my life (including the fact I almost committed suicide twice). It was eerie. I've been crying my eyes out frequently, the past few days, recalling things I'd buried way down and tried to forget about. I know this series is hard as hell to watch, but I want to ask something of my friends and family: If it won't be psychologically triggering for you, please watch the show for me. I want you to fully grasp what I've been through. It's hard to understand this through me giving short details. Seeing it acted out in front of you, as this show does, forces you to feel it. Once you have, or if you don't mind spoilers, read ahead. I wanted to take the 13 tapes in the show and look back at my life and similar incidents. The fact these are all so similar shakes me. No one should suffer through a life like this. No one. I speak out about this when I am able (which isn't as much as I would like) in some unlikely potential that just one kid can be spared from this. Just like Hannah, every time I tried to reach out for a social connection, it was ripped away harder. I am very bad with names (damned prosopagnosia), so bear with me if I have to use a description of a character over a name. Justin- I think this is Hanna's first tape. She went on one date with the guy and they kissed. He had a suggestive picture of her going down the slide and that turned into the rumor that she fucked on the first date and was a slut. I didn't get that rumor since I didn't date until I was 18, but rumors spread quickly as hell. I don't remember them all now, but I heard in 6th grade that people thought I regularly took LSD. Everyone knew I was gay (I am, but that's a complicated issue for other reasons). There were dozens of rumors floating around about me, each more crazy and horrible than the last. People assumed they were true and they followed me my entire time in public school, resurfacing at the worst times. Jess- Hannah is assigned a friend by the school, but it actually worked out. Then they quickly grow apart, but Hannah doesn't find a new friend. I was assigned a friend by the school. More than five times over the years, I don't remember the exact number. It never worked out. Never. They had other friends and no need for me. They quickly decided rumors about me were true because I was a little weird and started avoiding me or bullying me with the others. Alex- Another friend that grew apart quickly, but then made rumors about Hannah worse. I had a few people I'd latch onto for a few months here or there that would then turn on me to get a laugh from their friends at my expense. These were usually how rumors about me got so crazy. They would embellish older ones and make them more extreme and get believed because we'd hung out a few times. Off the top of my head, I remember six of these. These hurt BAD. Nothing like trusting someone only to have them turn on you. What was worse was the ones who used stuff I showed them to make up new rumors that had hints of truth to be more believable. Tyler- the stalker. Taking pictures of Hannah in her bedroom and other places. I've had three stalkers in my life. One in high school and two after. I've experienced the awfulness of not feeling safe anywhere and always thinking that someone could be looking at you. Thank god this was before people could easily share pictures on the internet. ((honor roll girl with the gay dads))- I'm impressed it took me this long before I forgot a name. This girl hangs out with Hannah and they attempt to catch the stalker together. They get a bit tipsy and honor roll girl starts to kiss Hannah and pressure her to make out, revealing she's a closet lesbian. Stalker gets a picture of them, they realize it's Tyler, honor roll girl panics and runs. Denies she even knows Hannah from here on out. This has happened to me three times. Three. The first was in middle school. Very casually dating a girl, said I love you, she denied knowing me anymore after that. We'd known each other since 4th grade. Second was in high school. We had a mild romantic fling (nothing serious) while on a trip to France with a class. Told someone that I wasn't sure, but she might be my girlfriend, after we returned to school. She told me off and said she would never even consider dating me in front of an entire class. The last was shortly after high school. Dated a girl in college. She went home for summer and I went up to visit for three weeks. While there, she fucked me stupid, proposed marriage to me, introduced me as a romantic partner to even her parents. When she came back down to Florida a couple weeks later, all my "friends" said she was telling them she was single and looking and I made everything up. Each of these fueled more rumors, as they did with Hannah who was now easy, a slut, and a lesbo. ((class president dude))- Agrees to date with Hannah, makes her wait an hour, sweet talks her into trying to date anyway, tries to get physical despite protests, then yells at her saying "I thought you were supposed to be easy!" At 17, I had a 45 year old gay man do the same to me, but I didn't know it was a date. Since I've never been attracted to guys, it never occurred to me that he was interested in me that way. We were meeting with the pretense of working on music together. So yeah, thought I was working with a musical colleague and making a friend in the process. Instead, almost get raped. ((cute quiet basketball guy))- Tries to pick up the last guy's rebound (no pun intended) and when he's turned down, starts doing cruel things to Hannah to get even (stealing anonymous compliment letters left for her in a class that are her last holdout of human contact- hard to explain without seeing it). I had someone who was supposed to be a friend of mine, according to the school and parents, despite them repeatedly hurting me. I'm just going to pick out one specific thing she did, here. I forget what grade, but I started getting extremely violent and specific death threats in my locker. I went to that friend, first, who told me to be careful; someone must really hate me. I'd been bullied for so long as this point, that it didn't seem unlikely at all. After a week of this, the date of warning was up. This was when I was going to be shot or stabbed, I forget which. I went to the principal and delivered the twenty or so notes. They figured out it was that friend who'd be leaving them. I was shaking from a massive panic attack before I found out (they sent me back to class a period before the time on the notes). There was no punishment for that friend. This is the earliest full panic attack I can remember. Clay- Hannah's clueless love interest. She wants him to make the move so bad, but he just doesn't know how. When he finally does, she freaks out from all the abuse she's taken and pushes him away. He doesn't fight her pushing back (I probably would have reacted the same way in that situation) and she decides that she's lost him and he hates her. This is the one and only tape I couldn't relate to. I never had anyone get that close to me until well after high school. Thankfully, I didn't push them away. That said, I can vividly remember many times with everyone I played Magic with in high school where something I would say or do would cause them to explode at me and tell me to get out and never talk to them again. I blame that squarely on me being autistic and not diagnosed back then. I'm sure I said several things I didn't know were a problem because I didn't know how to interact with others or that I had a problem. Couple that with social ignorance from not ever having friends and it's no shock. That's probably the closest I got to pushing anyone away. ((other cheerleader))- It's hard to work with this one, as it's so specific. She knocks down a stop sign and won't wait for Hannah to call the police and report it, leading to a fatal accident that gets blamed on someone else. I can find one way to relate to it. At least a dozen times, I've been abandoned by friends who've driven me somewhere and just didn't feel like telling me they're leaving. This was in the days before cell phones. There was a lot of walking home, or using a payphone to call around for a ride when it was far. I still have dreams about those long walks on busy roads in Florida. These really showed that no one gave a second thought towards my well-being. Bryce- the big one. He rapes Hannah. If you thought I wouldn't relate to this, I've got bad news for you. I have been. MANY times. I had a sociopath for a girlfriend just after high school. I don't just throw that word around as an insult or anything. Looking back with hindsight, she was legitimately a sociopath. I was naive and autistic, and she took advantage of that. She was also the first person I came out to as transgender and gay and she didn't hate me for it. In fact, she embraced it and helped me deal with it a bit. Because of that, I put up with a lot that I shouldn't have. I caught her cheating on me twice and let it go. Sadly, it was much worse than that. I later learned that she was sleeping with at least five other people who all thought I knew about it and got off on it. I only caught her because she got an STD from one of them and then gave it to me. I still deal with that reminder of her to this day. Why wasn't I careful to avoid the STD, you ask? She raped me. Frequently. Like, held me down and forced herself on me type of rape. She convinced me that men couldn't be raped (not that I was really a man, but that's moot). The day she was diagnosed with the STD and visible symptoms, I was with her in the doctor's room. I drove her home after and she talked me into coming inside. Despite all my protests, she once again held me down and raped me. That's how I contracted HPV. She broke up with me (yeah, you read that right) around a week later and told me that she'd only stayed with me so long so she could say she was in a relationship for three years (we broke up two days after our anniversary). She broke up with me with her new boyfriend there– the one she got HPV from. The relationship had tons of horrific stuff in it, but I'm narrowing it down to this, for now. ((guidance councilor))- Hannah comes out to the councilor about wanting to kill herself while he repeatedly answers the phone, blows her off, and tells her to "just move on" about the rape. She storms out of his office but waits outside the door to see if he'll chase after her. He doesn't. After this, she kills herself. I've already demonstrated that I had inept and uncaring school faculty above, but that rabbit hole goes much deeper than I can get into without writing an entire book. There is one guidance councilor that catches my attention, though, after flashbacks I got from this scene. In high school, I was assigned one of the four guidance councilors based on my last initial. Despite clearly being autistic, OCD, and having anxiety disorders, she never clued in to any of that. She blew me off when I dropped out of gifted in 9th grade because the teacher was even bullying me. She blew off all bullying, honestly, using the whole "are you doing anything to cause this?" bullshit we hear in the show at one point. Despite being incredibly intelligent in conversations, she looked at my falling grades– which were mostly Ds and Fs by 11th grade– and wrote me off as a junkie who would never amount to anything. I'm not guessing, she told me that to my face. It didn't matter that I'd never tried any drugs or alcohol, she knew it by my grades. Whenever I had to go to her for scheduling or even just counseling, she treated me horribly. I was obvious that I was just a burden to her and she wanted nothing to do with me. I even went so far as to petition the school for a new councilor, but was repeatedly denied. "She really does care about you! Look what she wrote in her report." She told me repeatedly that I was a waste of life and to just drop out of high school. The person with the job to be the last hope for someone like me just wasn't there in the least. Just like for Hannah. It's no wonder, looking back on this stuff that I came so close to suicide twice. Hell, I'm barely scratching the surface of what happened to me. We could throw in the physical stuff (eye gouging, hit with chairs, cleaning solvents sprayed in my mouth and eyes, etc), but that's nothing to the emotional abuse. No one was there for me, ever. Every time I'd try to reach out to another human being for some level of companionship, I'd be struck down harder than the last time. My parents never took any of this that seriously, either. I had no one until my 20's. Is it any wonder I was so depressed and turned so inward? I still credit body art (tattoos, piercings, and the like) for saving my life and giving me a reason to feel joy again. Without it, I know I wouldn't have made it to adulthood. I honestly don't know how I made it to 18 to get to those, though. I remember holding the knife once, being so close to cutting. The other time, I don't even remember how I was going to do it. I was beyond a mess that time. I've never had a good way to explain to people, to show them just how bad things really got. How many times I reached out to other people and found nothing or even more despair. 13 Reasons Why finally portraits it in its horrific reality. I've never seen such an analogue for my life that gets it so correct. They always gloss over things and try to paint a less gritty picture, thinking viewers/readers won't be able to cope with it. Netflix finally gave someone a chance to show the authentic version of high school that people like me experience. I will end with a comment about Tyler's character. Look at the way the group treats him throughout the series. This was also my life. Trying to be included in anything resulted in reactions like those. I was forced out of pretty much everything. If I was included, it was just to humiliate me. Seeing his guns at the end is deeply troubling to me. It's troubling not because of what he might do, it's that I feel sympathy, compassion, and understand his motives. I don't want to feel that way, but I totally get what he's been through. When you watch, pay attention to how he's treated, as well as Hannah. Combine them, and that's me– even the people cheering my name when I'd walk into parties (not that I went to many). Is it any wonder why I changed my name in my 20's? I want to be as separate from my past as I can be. I'm not that person anymore, thankfully. I survived it, but only barely. Others in my spot aren't as lucky.