#vitalphenomena. 005

[mimicic]

@vitalphenomena for cate.

"Yoo-boo."

[eyeshone]

Its jaw dislocates, the abyss-black hole of its mouth is so deep his snarl echoes within it. Jagged, crooked teeth wobble as its mouth widens like gravestones on old, sunken soil. At the lowest joint, its index finger twitches back and forth; there is a soft grinding noise. "Aæh, æh, æh. This is a rüde soëund yoü have mæde at me."

OPEN.

HE SNARLS.

[mctcrcity]

she flinches, but doesn’t cower! then: “i am not married! that would be really critical information that i wouldn’t forget, dmitri!”

SOME OF US DO NOT HAVE SWISS CHEESE FOR—fallon cannot say this to him. she will write it, much too hard, in the little brown journal she’s sure will be EVIDENCE ARTICLE #005 someday later. but, for now she thinks it and fumes.

“if you must know everything i do, i was walking and he—!”

she’s very suddenly aware to herself again, to the fact there is a person who is not her or dmitri witnessing her and dmitri’s working relationship for the first time. concerning to most with a pulse.

her attention goes back to joey, who has nearly folded himself and is peering at the now-flashing (bad! shit! more people!) remote that’s fallen to the floor.

fast, in her best normal, customer service tone, just as a friendly nurse is starting a ‘hello?’ through the intercom: “sorry! accidental, we’ve got a nurse in here already!”, and waits for the light to click off.

then, half of her attention returns to whisper-yelling at dmitri, the rest on figuring out which combo of buttons will unpretzel joey.

“whatever you want, i can be there later, in a couple hours, but just please—go away!”

@vitalphenomena

WHAT WAS THAT.

And why did it...stop? How did it stop?

Dmitri had kind of stormed in expecting Fallon to be in the hospital bed, so his focus—bewildered and outraged—is on Joey from the get-go. (Sorry, Joey.) Dmitri doesn't have spidey senses, AS SPIDER-MAN IS THE WORST, but something isn't right, here—

shhhhHHHH!

His head SNAPS in Fallon's direction. Bewildered and outraged focus becomes purely outraged. He takes a lurching step towards her uncomfortable chair, arm raised to...

...point an accusatory finger at her! And that's it. That's all he does. Dmitri jabs the air between him and Fallon, and he snarls.

"I am fine. You are in the hospital. Are you being stupid? Are you being reckless? Are you trying to get away with a personal day because I told you it would be alright to stay in? Are you married, and you didn't think to indicate that on all those stupid fucking forms that you made me make you fill out?"

@eyeshone

[mimicic]

Pressure adds in Mim's mind. Like a weighted blanket. Almost calming. Grounding. Stabilizing. Smoothed. Flattened. Like curled, drying paper under a heavy book. Deep Pressure Therapy of the mind. The push is just as stuck and flat. Cate's eyes watercolor red. Mim's hand pulls away, its fingers an effortless, fluid curl into a fist while the skirting hand contact remains. Once gone: back to rigid and clunky. Delayed enough it's clear it's choosing to answer, not being compelled to: "My brain has normal abs." Its hands make see-through circles around its eyes. This takes a moment to render. "You have red eyes."

CATE IS ALREADY PUTTING FORTH MORE ENERGY THAN SHE SHOULD. The command is simple. Moreover, Mim's mind—its organic desires and inclinations—do not particularly resist.

And yet.

Cate does not hear the clatter of the phone because blood vessels are popping in her eyes and Mim's own thoughts, or what its thoughts are capable of being perceived as and present as to ward off abilities such as Cate's, have begun to consume her stream of consciousness, her sensory perception.

Straining, strained: "Tell me—how—you're doing that."

[mimicic]

Bad word! Frown. Their fingers zipper together. Minds, too. Mim feels Cate's tug. The Push. Caught in its brain folds like a zipper on fabric only baby inches into fastening a coat. Her influence, her in its head, feels like a pinchy compression. Mim hears the command. Feels it in its brain. Something to react to, but is not fully beholden to. The push frays at its neurons into: Mim grabs the phone through its shirt. Mim drops it.

Overbite grin. A pinch is not so bad! Cate is not so bad! Mim pinches Cate's hand with its free hand to demonstrate. Inside its head and out: "Hillo." The company is nice. It is nice not being alone.

CATE SHUDDERS; ITS ABSURD, UNINHIBITED GESTURES NEVER DON'T UNNERVE HER.

Also—part of her is worried. What if this doesn't work? What if she has a weak spot? If she can't push an entity so simpleminded (sorry—it's how she feels), what if she will fail in other scenarios, too?

Cate reaches out to—gingerly, uncomfortably—wrap her fingers around its. As she does, she does something she had, until now, had absolutely zero interest in doing.

She seeks out its mind and—

"Give me the fucking phone."

—reaches inside.

[mimicic]

Mim's arms—no elbow bends—extend from the trunk of its body: knockoff shrug. Cheap reproduction. Unrecognizable. The gesture looks like a bated hug offer. It blehs at the thought of touchy-feely body bumping: tongue spill-spitting out. Sounding and looking like the world's lamest dracula. Its arms thud limply to its sides.

"You are wanting one time more." Hand out. Other hand telling that one what to do: flattening its palm, its fingers, one by one, poling its thumb up. Like they are going to play a simple game of thumb war. "Ready steady getty."

MIM IS RIGHT IN THE SENSE THAT HOMELANDER IS RIGHT. However:

"You may have gotten injected with the V, too, but there is no we. I've never met someone, Supe or ordinary, that I couldn't push. There is something wrong with you."

[mimicic]

So innately believed it is said casually, factually, non-persuasively: "No things. We are perfect." This is what Homelander says.

CATE DUNLAP DOES NOT HAVE TO ASK NICELY FOR MUCH, IN THIS LIFE. It is unnerving to be asked to do so now.

"Okay. Please. Please tell me what the fuck is wrong with you."

[mimicic]

The cat is out of bags. OK!

Mim grins.

"Ask nice-ily. Maybably I will."

THERE SHOULD BE A PHONE IN CATE'S STILL-GLOVED, PROSTHETIC PALM BY NOW. Cate is so certain of this that she had let go of its hand as soon as she finished her push. She had done so as quickly as possible, as if repelled.

Did she pull away too soon? Was the sweater sleeve concealing more than Cate first perceived? (She does not want to dwell on what its skin felt like, should feel like.) Here's the fucking thing, though: none of that should matter.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She falters. "They're both—I can—"

Cate Dunlap, Guardian of Godolkin, fought valiantly against Marie Moreau and her flock of deranged Supes. She was not weak. She did not let Marie make her flinch, or scream—

"What are you talking about? Fucking psycho."

[mimicic]

Her sudden movement causes Mim to flinch, but it doesn't pull its hands from hers: it likes the touch. Not many people hold its hand. But. A trick! Whoops-oops! It should have moved its hand. It is not supposed to let Cate know this: Mim does not—cannot—do as she says. Crossed signals in its brain scramble the command into a tangle of neural knots that peter-putter out into nowhere. What her command amounts to: Mim pats the phone through its shirt. Unsure, playfully curious: "Is that the magic hand." Or. Is the magic in the fake one?

AS HER ARMS COME UNCROSSED, THE GLOVE OF HER GOOD HAND GETS PEELED OFF.

She lurches forward and grabs its hand—a bit of exposed skin where the turtleneck sleeves don't cover.

"Give me the phone."

[mimicic]

Mim yanks its turtleneck collar out and drops the phone inside its shirt. "Never ever."

CATE HAS THE IMPULSE TO SMILE AND POSE. Instead, confusion takes over; she crosses her arms defensively, feeling over-exposed. Plenty of people have access to her Godolkin headshot. Red carpet photoshoots. This is different. It's—Mim's—just so fucking creepy.

"Um, no? Delete that."

Before she pushes it.

[mimicic]

Tongue poke when Cate repels away: that flat pink making them two spitty inches closer.

"Yes."

Mim uses its whole palm to tap the camera button. It takes a picture of her. As if to prove the phone is real. Or as if it just wanted to! Chicken or the egg debacle.

"Give me your schedule."

CATE, OF COURSE, LEANS BACK. It is as if they are connected by a taught string.

"Well, I don't see you on my schedule." Her mean girl, drawn out bit that relies on some sort of hypothetical or figure of speech isn't going to translate. Just as Mim does not translate for Cate.

"—they gave you a phone?"

[mimicic]

Eye squint. Mim leans toward her. Trying to find the answer hidden on Cate's face like a colorful stereogram. It sees nothing. "...Yes."

CATE WATCHES LIKE THEY SAY YOU CAN'T HELP BUT WATCH A CAR CRASH. She's not expecting a phone's bright screen in her face; she jerks her head back. Her feet follow.

Like she's the receptionist of herself, her own precious time: "Do you have an appointment?"

[mimicic]

Mim's hand strangles its Vought provided work iphone. To wake up the screen. A finger happens to overlay the side button (its entire hand like a shotgun spray: its precision isn't good enough to specify the task to one little finger). "Two cat nine. Pee Em." Mim holds its phone up to Cate's face.

"I don't have the time."