interface by Umami

interface by umami is GOOD and you should GO WATCH IT its on YOUTUBE and its <: ) < : ) good

attempt #37

This was the 52nd formula that Lena had come up with, the 45th solution that she had to wait several hours to synthesize, but only the 37th time she was injecting her shoulder with the resulting concoction. 

It was bright green this time, which only made it seem all the more promising.

There’s a rush and some mild nausea that Lena had come to expect with the experiments, but everything else felt the same. For now. Setting the syringe aside, Lena called out, “Hope, think of a number between one and a million.” 

Then, for the 37th time, Lena tried. She cleared her own mind, practiced the meditative mantras, stared intently into Eve’s eyes, bright blue yet blank with Hope’s quiet disinterest, and... nothing. Not a single digit came to mind. 

No matter how hard Lena tried, the only thoughts in her head were her own. 

With an exasperated sigh, Lena rolled her sleeve back down and directed Hope to log their latest attempt as yet another failure before storming off to start her day. 

// 

Lena emerged from the laboratory with wrinkled clothes and dark circles sunken around her eyes, which was probably why the first thing she heard as she stepped out of the elevator was her personal assistant’s hushed commentary of, Oh sweet Jesus, she looks tired. 

“Oh, I’m well aware, Hector,” Lena said, lofty and without much malice. “Nothing a little coffee can’t fix though.” 

Hector stared at her blankly. “I’m sorry, Miss Luthor?” 

“Never mind,” Lena said, rolling her eyes. She took the outstretched coffee in question as she walked by the assistant’s desk. “Just hold all my calls until the afternoon, please.” 

This time, when Hector grumbled under his breath about wow, she must be grumpy too, Lena ignored it. There were better things for the CEO to tackle, after all; as for example, some fitful sleep on her couch, perhaps? 

Hours later, Lena was relatively well-rested, so she pored over her notes again, trying to pinpoint the exact variable she must have overlooked in her carelessness. Because by all accounts, the formula should have worked—Lena had been certain of it. But then again, she’d admittedly thought that of almost every attempt thus far. 

When Hector walked into her office at some point in the late afternoon with a handful of contracts to be signed, Lena felt no closer to the solution and a slight headache coming on.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” 

“Another coffee would be great,” Lena said, as she sifted through the documents. 

“Oh my God, if she takes in any more caffeine, her heart’s going to literally explode...” Hector muttered to himself. “Well, maybe she won’t notice if I get her decaf instead...?” 

Lena dropped the papers onto her desk with a scoff. “You know I can hear you, right?” 

Hector appeared startled, which seemed rather appropriate until he slowly said, “So... was that a yes on the espresso?” 

“What?” 

Hector maintained his slow cadence, carefully enunciating every syllable as if he were repeating himself, “Did you want to stick with your usual order... or maybe go with an espresso... because it’s a little stronger?” 

But in a normal cadence, also in Hector’s voice and somehow clear as a bell in Lena’s head came, “If this woman doesn’t get another nap in pronto, she is going to drop dead, and everyone’s going to think I poisoned her coffee, because she’s always in—” 

Absolutely stunned, Lena continued to stare up at Hector in silence, eyes narrowing as the assistant’s slightly panicked voice droned on and on in her head. Until a louder remark broke through the reverie. 

“Whoa, did she just fall asleep with her eyes open?” 

Lena blinked quite obviously, and her mild shock was accompanied with a loud and clear, yet unspoken Oh, thank God! from Hector. 

But the Hector standing before her hadn’t moved his lips once, only watching the bewilderment play out on Lena’s face with some polite concern. 

“The usual’s fine,” Lena interjected before her assistant could press again. “Or the espresso, or whatever. I don’t care, as long as it’s still hot and caffeinated.” 

“You got it,” Hector said. 

“Definitely getting her decaf,” Hector thought as he turned to leave, but Lena hardly minded. She was too busy restructuring the rest of her day around this most exciting realization. 

After some quick bit of arithmetic in her head, Lena set a timer on her watch for five hours, which was presumably the amount of time it would take for her body to break down the serum and render it useless. Then she logged on to her private interface and happily directed Hope to re-record attempt #37 as a success. 

//

The ability to read minds was, quite simply, quite the advantage. 

Though it wasn’t so much “mind-reading,” as mind-receiving. The serum seemed to have granted Lena access to the loud and active thought processes of everyone around her—their inner monologue, if you will, everything put into words but left unsaid. 

Lena had been hoping for more, to be able to break into other people’s minds so as to hack secrets, determine why supposed close friends would ever betray her, and the like. Maybe that would come with time and practice. 

But as it turned out, there was rather plenty to be gleaned from the forefront of someone’s mind, as people often thought about the things they weren’t supposed to say before choosing more palatable means of expression. Which made the rest of Lena’s workday somewhat informative, if not a little fun. 

For one thing, Lena found out that a lot more of her employees enjoyed working for her than she had thought. All of them respected her, several feared her, and quite a fair few entertained invasive thoughts about her décolletage before swiftly directing their attention elsewhere. 

She also found out there was one board member in particular who liked to fudge the numbers during meetings, and that his face took on a very unappealing shade of off-white when Lena could inexplicably confront him with the actual results of his findings. 

But most importantly of all, what Lena found out was that... she actually enjoyed this heretofore inaccessible sense of control this ability afforded her. She had taken on the experiments for a very specific purpose, but now, it was difficult to even imagine going back to how things were, even after the fact.  

// 

Lena walked into the DEO, and for the first time, the outpouring of distrust attached to the Luthor name was all but imagined. The disparaging thoughts followed her, even as the people who had them smiled or averted their eyes as she passed. 

Nothing she wasn’t used to though. 

Alex’s voice slid into Lena’s head in a whisper—... the hell?—one whole minute before she actually greeted her, “Lena, hey... Well, can’t say that I was expecting you.” 

“Yes, that’s what it sounds like,” Lena mused, and Alex gave her a slight frown. 

“So, did you need something?” 

“Where’s Kara? I want to talk to her.” 

Alex’s carefully composed face betrayed no emotion, but her thoughts sighed heavily, “Of course...” before ebbing away into something entirely indistinct and indecipherable.

Lena blinked. She hadn’t encountered anyone whose thoughts weren’t immediately accessible to her before. But here Alex was, giving directions to Kara’s current whereabouts, all the while muttering some underlying commentary in tones so hushed that Lena couldn’t quite make out any of it. 

“... Is there something on my face?” Alex swiped her sleeve across her forehead. “What are you looking at?” 

“What? No, nothing,” Lena said brusquely. “Thank you for telling me where Kara is. Bye.” She turned on her heel, headed for the hallway that would eventually lead to the training room. 

“Well, that was weird...” Alex’s voice drifted after her, a literal afterthought. “But I mean, I guess she has a nice ass, so—”

Lena shot a dirty look over her shoulder, but Alex was already back on her computer, mind rattling off coordinates and running through tactical drills like a well-oiled machine. 

// 

Kara was wearing short shorts and a sports bra, panting, and absolutely drenched in sweat when Lena stepped foot into the training room. She looked over at Lena, her skin glistening against the dimmed green of the kryptonite-lined walls, and smiled wide. 

“Oh, hey! What are you doing here?” Kara asked, giving the punching bag one last jab before tugging her gloves off. "Did something happen or...? I mean, not that I’m not happy to see you, of course.” She flashed Lena another bright grin before pressing a towel to her face and neck and chest. 

It was enough to stop Lena in her tracks, and almost enough to put a damper on her plans. Almost. 

“I need to talk to you,” Lena said evenly, eyes glued firmly to Kara’s forehead. 

“Yeah, sure! Jeez... I’d give you a hug, but I’m like sweating in places I didn’t even know existed. Alex says that this is the only way to learn proper form and all, but wow. I can’t believe there are humans who actually do this for fun—” 

“Kara,” Lena cut in, lips pursing in exasperation. “I’m serious. We need to talk right now.” 

Kara blinked, then slowly nodded. “Okay, yeah, let’s talk... You wanna sit down?” 

“I prefer to be standing.” 

“Okay.” Kara remained standing as well, towel now crumpled in her hands. “So, what’s going on?” 

Lena took a deep breath, quickly running through the meditative techniques meant to keep her mind clear and open, then asked, “Why did it take you so long to tell me that you’re Supergirl?” 

Kara’s shoulders slumped. “Lena, I...” 

“No, why did it take three years? Why didn’t you trust me?” Lena continued, her pace steady and firm just like she had practiced. “I trusted you. I trusted you with every part of me, which is extremely difficult for me to do, and you just... didn’t care, I guess.” 

“Of course, I care. Lena... I never meant to hurt you,” Kara said insistently. Her voice was loud, emphatic, and at the moment, the only thing Lena could hear.  

“Don’t!” Lena snapped when Kara started to approach her. “Don’t come any closer. And stop talking! Just listen.” 

Kara exhaled sharply through her nose and raised her hands in tentative surrender in absolute, utter silence. Lena even paused for a beat or two, just to see if any of Kara’s thoughts would breach the surface, but none did. 

“Why couldn’t you just trust me, Kara?” Lena asked, and regrettably her voice trembled on the last syllable. “Why did I have to hear it from Lex?” 

Kara’s eyes widened. “Lex? Lex told you before I did?” 

“Shut up. Do not talk,” Lena hissed out, waiting for Kara to snap her jaw shut before continuing with a bitter laugh, “Do you, do you even trust me now...?” Kara stared, gaze hardening. “And how do you expect me to trust anything you have to say for yourself now?” 

Lena’s questions—all of the above and beyond—were met with silence, strained only by the sound of Kara’s heavy breath and Lena’s own thoughts. 

Scoffing, Lena threw up her hands. “Do you even care that you hurt me?” 

“... Can I talk now?” Kara demanded, seething like she had any right to it. But when Lena shook her head furiously, she held her tongue and apparently everything else as well, because Lena couldn’t hear a single damn thing. 

When the alarm on her watch went off, Lena left, slamming the door on her way out. She contacted Hope through their private channel and had her re-log attempt #37 as just another failure. 

Back to the fucking drawing board. 

(next part here)

Heat Seekers II Genre: Dark Cyberpunk AU Pairing: Chanyeol x f.reader Words: 8k Fic Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. I’m serious people. If any of the chapter warnings are uncomfortable or triggering for you, please do not read this. Do so at your own discretion. Lots of angst and hurt, eventual smut. Chapter Warnings are below the cut. Author’s Note: There are some specific things in this fic that I’ve personally experienced, and some that I have not. Please understand my intention with this fic is a way of healing not just for myself but hopefully for others who unfortunately have experience with these types of situations. I did a lot of debating about whether or not I should even post this fic, and have spoken to a few individuals about it. Ultimately, with the intent of healing and moving past such trauma, it’s been decided OK to post. Please take my warnings seriously.

Chapter Warnings: panic, anxiety & triggers. Mentions of sex trafficking. Political injustice.

You push your way through the heavy doors into Blue House, ticking your chin forward in greeting to the entertainers standing in the comforts of the lobby, familiar faces you once considered colleagues. The one you’re looking for is at the bar along the back wall, sleek black beneath your fingers, unable to help the way they fan and smooth across its surface as you address him. “Thanks for the tip,” you grin, pausing momentarily to chastise the man before you, “Can I have the info now? I know you were looking out for me by taking it to save, but don’t you think you should have a little more faith in me?” Chan, who is your sole confidant- grins right back. “We don’t believe in faith, remember?” he retorts, flourishing two fingers in front of him to awaken his Atlas, fuzzing to synthetic life between you. You laugh mirthlessly at his reminder because he is right. He flicks his fingers and turns his wrist in a smooth motion, then waits while you blink your own to life and accept the request for sync that takes up the main holo in front of you. He waits for you to collect the job from his inbox and read the description; watching you with a blank expression you don’t see. “In search of a female escort, early to mid-twenties for one night job. The escort must possess advanced skills with Atlas Tech, and hacking. Body measurements are required prior to the job. Deliver in-person to coordinates 94.0114” N 94.0412” E. Details to follow. Payment is dependent on job success. 1200c.” Admittedly, the job description is short but to the point. If anyone were desperate enough, which everyone is, anyone could have collected this job. Now you see why Chan called you for this. Even without the price tag, the requirements complement your skillset spot on. You notice the job expires in two days. Good thing you didn’t have any other plans tonight, you muse to yourself. “Thanks, Chan,” you say with a smile, disconnecting the sync between your Atlas drives. He gives you a warm, dimpled smile in return, “Don’t mention it, babygirl. Just don’t be a stranger, yeah? You know Blue House will always be here for you.” His affectionate pet name for you makes your stomach flutter, just the same as it always did, but you sigh and turn away with a nod, plugging coordinates into your H.I. Pulling up your GPS menu, your smart tech automatically asks you if you want to register the coordinates it recognizes from any recent files you opened. You tap the green ‘register’ button on your interface the moment you slide onto the smooth leather seat of your hyperbike. You pull the visor of your helmet down, giving your H.I a moment to complete the reaction and pop up in your helmet visor. When it does, you scan the map, telling your Atlas you wish to start your bike. The artificial chime of understanding is a comforting sound, as is the low humming purr of the engine starting within the metal between your knees. Intimate, like a heartbeat between a ribcage. The route isn’t terribly long, about thirty-six minutes through the city… if you go the speed limit. A ridiculous notion to still follow, if only out of principle for the older generations. Nobody uses the rule of it anymore, and most people who use the road these days consider it an insult to the growth of safe traveling anymore to have ‘limits’ on speed, and by extension, how well a vehicle moves. Why make such advancements if the restrictions placed on them refuse to evolve? You tick your head to the side with a slight scowl. The trip takes you two-tenths of a second longer than you initially gauged. To a tech hacker such as yourself, inaccuracy is a flaw you’re desperate to rid yourself of. It makes you green with envy of Artificial Intelligence. The coordinates take you to a jewelry store on the north side of the city, closer to the outskirts and the wilderness of the Old City beyond it. Despite the location, the street is lined with tons of high-end shops that glow in the night, open for business. Odd, considering the best shopping districts in the city are further toward the center, and none of them look as classy as this street. You enter the store, raising a brow at the large panel that reads ‘Cloak & Dagger’ in clean, bold lines in the window. A strange name for a jewelry boutique. It feels out of place for you to be here, but you march forward carefully regardless of the uncomfortable way the white polished floor shines back up into your eyes. “Hello?” you call, approaching the largest glass case- it appears to be the counter, with a small tablet resting on a stand in the center. A woman stands up from behind another case to your left, sliding the glass panel closed with her hand before she approaches you. “How can I help you?” Her accent is older, perhaps European, and she looks as if she could be in her sixties. Even at her apparent age, she is exemplary. Your eyes drift down to the items in the case, drawing out a hum because the contents of the case are not what you expected. Now the name makes perfect sense. The jewelry doesn’t just mean your typical rings and pendants. The case is full of self-defense jewelry. Defender rings, ring knives, and other small weapons that are worn. Without answering her, you round the case to the one she stood from, and notice an assortment of larger wearable weapons. From strings of magnetic senbon to actual daggers and piercing finger cuffs. “Find something you like?” she asks, trying to prompt you again. Part of you immediately dislikes the way she’s standing. She seems too proud of your reaction, and with her back straight and hands folded perfectly on top of the counter, she has an air of superiority. With narrowed eyes, you stand back to your full height, “I’m here about a job that’s due in two days.” Her face is unreadable, and she nods minutely, “Can you show me what you’re referring to, dear?” She makes a finger gun and points it directly toward you, tilting her fingers up with the motion of it going off. It sets your adrenaline running with panic until she smiles and her Atlas opens between you. Her motion for opening it is horrifying, and you’re bewildered as to how she came about making that her initiation sequence. You don’t want to close your eyes tightly for the full second it takes to open your own, but you hold you breath and do it anyway. She hums in approval and understanding when you twist your H.I toward her and show her the job posting on your personal assignment bulletin. “I see,” she says, letting her eyes rove you up and down. Nothing you’re not used to, having worked in a brothel for years. “Very well then.” She types something into her own H.I and motions for you to come back to the center of the shop floor. When you do, she presses a button on her interface that expands it around the room. Suddenly, you’re standing in the center of some program she’s running, and the security cameras in the shop come to life. A bright blue light beams from each, pointing at your feet as they scan up your form. Momentarily, you’re impressed with the way she’s made her tech work. Multiple programs running from the same cameras, she’s clever, and you like her a little more for it. Perhaps a bit unorthodox and fitting to her shop’s name, cloaked in mystery, but you’re interested in how she came to be in this moment. She stands in front of you, one hand on her hip while the other goes between touching her lips to touching her main holographic interface, or H.I for short. She’s mumbling to herself as she works, letting your now holographic form float into the space above you. Reaching out, she pulls you out of the center and away from your holoclone. “Fry, darling, give me measurements without her clothes, will you?” “Yes of course, dear,” a disembodied voice echos back. Albeit quite synthesized, it is distinctly male, with an American accent. “Pardon me for the intrusion, miss. Varian Fry, at your service.” the voice says to your holoclone. No clothing is actually removed from either you or your clone, but the AI brings up a separate holo screen for each piece of your clothing. It’s fascinating, to see how quickly he can tell everything about the items, from their thickness and fibers to how many millimeters they equate for in your initial measurements. “At your request, dear,” he says, and an upbeat chime rings on her main interface with your naked measurements. The woman looks at you over her reading glasses, smiling, “He’s impressive, isn’t he?” You realize she asked because you’re smiling at his handiwork. Simply, you nod at her. “Fry, take these into manufacturing. Rush order, number…” she trails off, pausing as she tilts her head at you, “seventy-two, please. In black and violet.” You have no idea what she means and part of you feels like this is some strange super-suit she’s making for you. “Right away, dear.” Fry says, and her H.I blinks into nonexistence. She sighs, glancing at you wistfully, “I think he’ll be most pleased.” You know you shouldn’t because it’s cliche and quite honestly, she shouldn’t tell you, but you ask anyway, “Who?” She laughs, “Your partner for the evening, of course. Don’t worry too much, he’s one of the good guys.” That’s all she tells you before she’s ushering you back toward the door. “Come by again tomorrow midday, it’ll be ready,” she assures you just as she lets the door shut between you. The encounter leaves you feeling a myriad of emotions, though most prominently was the anxiousness of such a mysterious job. You’ve only had a small share of jobs from outside sources, and none that appeared to have so much riding on them. Without anything else to do, you ride back toward Blue House, craving pizza. Smiling, you decide to stop for a quick payday and a free dinner at The Cave. It takes less time than usual to make your rounds of the arcade cabinets, easily earning enough credits to pay for a large pie to take back with you. Plain cheese, well done. Same as always. When you walk through the doors of the brothel with a smile and a pizza box, Chan knows, “Oh no, how many people’s day did you ruin?” “Just a few, I promise. I really just wanted the pizza.” you comment, admitting that a few extra coins in your pocket from beating out cheating gamers never hurt anyone. His eyes zero in on the box settled on your palm with a swallow, “Did you just bring that here to make my mouth water?” There’s a hopeful spark in his eyes, but you decide to enjoy the chance to tease anyway, “We both know this isn’t the kind of thing that makes your mouth water.” Your eyes float around the lobby with a grin. His smile slides off his face briefly, until you shake your head, “Come on. Got some time to spare?” Immediately, the guardian of Blue House morphs his stance- away from the imposing spread of his arms across the sleek counter to the boyish delight of the one person you’ve grown to trust in this world like a starry-eyed puppy. His childlike wonder brings a smile to your lips at the stark contrast of his nickname in the business, as the Wolf of Blue House. He doesn’t mind it, and most of his clientele pay top dollar to have the attention and affection of that persona. You know the way, and Chan follows you through the door on the right, ascending the stairs tucked narrowly between the lounges. The rose-colored light gives the cramped space an intimate feel, and part of you takes artificial comfort from this familiarity, and the memories of it you can feel permeate your consciousness. Of the way you grew up here, together with Chan. Of how thankful you are to him for teaching you and helping you survive. The embarrassment of teenage years made you closer, and you try not to smile, remembering once when you were drunk and nineteen, after your first official orgasm ever, at his hands, and the victory of such a thing made you so emotional you confessed that you loved him. Gently as ever, he brought you back down and reminded you that pleasure isn’t love. In the darkness of your personal room in this very building, your tears fell from the sudden fear of weightlessness that overtook you with such release, and he was there for every step of the way. Chan was there, keeping you grounded and guiding you on a path that would make you strong enough, smart enough, to stand on your own feet and never need anyone else. You could want to your heart’s content, but you would never need. That seems like a distant past, now. Somewhere after eating the whole pie with Chan on the rooftop, you fell asleep. You’re positive he carried you back down the stairs to his den and let you sleep in his bed. The only difference was your jacket had been removed, neatly folded over the open door of his armoire. You’ve woken up here before, sometimes alone, sometimes not when you needed to feel safe so you could sleep without screaming. Weeks or months between. Never more than 3 nights in a row. Today, only the familiar scent of Chan lingers in the room. When you rise, you notice he’s left you some of your old clothes, if you feel so inclined, and a fresh towel. The mirror of his bathroom has wispy remnants of condensation still, and the balmy humidity in the room feels relaxing. The warm water kickstarts your tired bones while you shower, giving you time to think against the white noise it provides. You wonder what time it is, but don’t bother with rushing the moment. As usual, you find Chan working in the office with his natural curls still damp atop his head. They’re unstyled, the dry strands a bit frizzy- mused from his fingers running through them no doubt. Even though you know he’s very busy, he looks comfortable. “I’m out.” you coo quietly from your position, leaning against the door frame with your jacket tucked over your folded arms. It’s a little awkward saying goodbye, knowing you’ll be back in a few weeks after you’ve rotated through your other caches. You can never stay in one place for too long. His head snaps up with the sound of your voice, and he gives you a dimpled grin, “Okay. Stay safe out there, babygirl.” It’s obvious your decision to even say goodbye makes him happy, although he has never judged you for disappearing without small talk. Neither of you owe each other anything. You remain as you both are, separately autonomous. The time you share together is a boon of respectful interest and allied friendship. It’s half past noon as you sling your backpack over your shoulder and head outside, inhaling a deep breath as your palm habitually runs across the leather seat of your bike. Mounting, you bring up the routes of your recent destinations and take in the swell of momentary bliss you get when the bike beneath you roars to life. The midday sun feels good, the heat of it through your clothes and on your hands warming you the moment you ride onto the city streets from the cool shade of the undercity. When you arrive at Cloak & Dagger, you’re whisked inside by the same older woman from yesterday, and she makes a lot of fuss over you. “We’ve got to get your nails and your hair done before you can wear that dress,” she’s muttering, pulling at your hair and your hands to see your fingernails. “Excuse me?” you ask. The job didn’t entail all of that fuss. Why is going to that extent necessary? She gives you a dazzling, perhaps a little overeager smile. “You’ve got to look the part, doll. You’re not bad,” she comments, standing back to assess you from head to toe with a twist to her lips, “but we’ve still got to even out your ends and do you up for the event.” You’re uncomfortable with this, but when she confirms it will cost you nothing, you remind yourself it’s all for the money. Plus, you haven’t had a haircut in a while. “Close the shop, dear, we’ve got important work to do!” she coos in excitement loudly to her AI. Fry’s voice answers her with amusement, “We never opened today, dear.” She laughs, “All’s well that ends well, then!” as she takes your hand and walks you back behind the counter and into a large space that appears to be a dressing room. Immediately, she guides you to a comfortable-looking chair stationed in front of an old-style makeup mirror and begins talking to her AI. “Mm, yes, I think this one will do.” she says as she flips through a couple of hairstyles from a menu you don’t recognize in her H.I. Two arms fold down from the center of the ceiling here, sleek and soundless as they move. Fry’s voice is directed at you, “This is happening to you, my dear. Which of these would you like? I can do either with the length your hair will be once I even it out.” A display appears on the mirror in front of you and four hairstyles are displayed. You’re still trying to wrap your head around this ordeal and all the fuss over you, but you blurt out “number two” anyway. “Excellent choice, my dear.” he says, gentlemanly as always in his American accent. The arms behind you start working immediately, folding out to comb your hair and part it, taking clips from a tray that’s been set up just behind the chair. It takes longer than you anticipated for the AI Varian Fry to cut your hair and style it into the selected choice, all while he comments how wonderful it looks on you. You’ve lost count of how many pins he’s put in by now. The quirky woman jabs often at you with small talk that you needn’t reply to, or she comments on the work Fry is doing while she tends to your nails. “I can do that, darling. No need to fret.” the AI says to her while she fusses over evening out your nails, but she waves him off. “No no, I want to. It makes me feel useful. We never get to have this kind of fun anymore.” Her words are cryptic and the way she says them tells you there’s a mountain of information behind the comment, but she says nothing else about it. Your nails aren’t something you get a choice with, as she layers gel onto them, building it up and evening the edges before she finishes. You watch, moving your fingers in all kinds of ways to get used to having longer nails, almond-shaped no less. Admittedly, you like the matte hue she chose as the color. Once she’s finished, she stands and walks to the left side of the room. There’s a long, rolling pole with clothes hangers adorning it, and a single garment is neatly folded in a black bag. She removes it and unzips it just as Varian Fry places the final bobby pin in your hair, covering your eyes with a metal visor briefly while hairspray plumes into a cloud over your head. “I can’t wait to see this on you,” the woman coos excitedly, “You might just be our best work yet.” When Varian finishes your hair, the arms spin your chair in the direction of the woman, and she’s holding up a black and violet dress, the heavy yet gentle shine of velvet catching light. Typically, you’re not the dress type, but again, money is money. At least it isn’t hideous, and the colors and style are gorgeous. There’s isn’t much you find that would annoy you with it, other than perhaps the inability to run if necessary. “We’ve only got your makeup left to do!” she chimes while she hangs the dress on a hook high off the floor, just beside the mirror. Another cart is wheeled over by one of Varian’s arms, full of high-end makeup brands you recognize from huge ads in the shopping districts of the city. She takes your hand with a laugh, “Up up up, come on now, let’s get you into this.” Ushering you into another room, you’re granted a moment of privacy to use the restroom and collect yourself before she’s knocking at the door and shamelessly stripping you of your outer clothes. Being naked in front of others stopped making you feel insecure a long time ago, and the benefit of it is the efficient speed of doing the task you needed to do instead of milling about in a flustered state of undress for longer than necessary. It doesn’t mean you enjoy being in the nude, but when duty calls you do what must be done. The older woman of Cloak & Dagger doesn’t seem to bat an eye either, assuming years of her dressing up others in her creations has kept the professional efficiency all the same. If she notices any of your battle scars, she doesn’t pause or comment on them. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t recognize the woman staring back at you, except for her eyes and the color of her hair. The dress hugs your form like a thick and warm blanket, accentuating the lines of your body and appealing to the curve of your hips you hadn’t realized were so generous. You turn several directions, analyzing yourself. Perhaps it had been too long since you looked in the mirror at your body. You could appreciate the shape of your own ass, and the swell of your breasts, the gentle caress of line that was your own spine, clearly visible in the cutout back of this dress. Even the muscle of your own legs, visible from the mid-thigh down to the shiny black heels on your feet. For once, even with every sad story of the scars you know riddle your body, you couldn’t stop staring at yourself, liking the way you looked. Finished with fussing over yourself, the woman cracks a grin at you, cooing with excitement at the spectacle before her. “You look ravaging, darling.” She opens the door and takes your hand. Leading you back into the center of the prep room, she waits. Walking in heels is going to be the death of you- you’ve never worn any quite this high and pointy. In your mind, the only upside is the way you could stab someone with one if warranted. When Varian doesn’t respond and no movement is noticed from any of the things he can control, she asks, “Varian dear are you awake?” To which the hand-like ends of the limbs from the ceiling give her a single finger of silence, he whispers, “No, no please I need a moment to enjoy this absolute dream.” The woman barks a loud laugh, giggling to herself with pride. The joke does not go over your head, realizing with a smile that Varian was giving you a compliment. The entire ordeal has taken far longer than you think is appropriate, but if you try to think about your feelings, you can admit you enjoyed the pampering, and you feel good. You’ve never done anything like this, and there are small parts of you that had always wondered about why women fuss over their appearances so much. Now, you know. “The car has just arrived, dear.” Fry’s voice cuts in just as the woman finishes applying one more layer of lipstick to your face. She claps her hands together and smiles, “Right then! One last piece.” With a sway in her step, she leads you back out to the front of the shop and muses over the selection of handbags to her right briefly, deciding on a black leather clutch with a silver crossbody chain that she drapes over your body. You spy through the front window curiously, eyeing a man standing beside a car door wearing a black suit and tie with dark sunglasses. He’s not moving. “One more thing.” says the old woman, her finger raised in the air as she rounds the counter. She pulls a small 10mm pistol from somewhere below the register, checking it with a speed you find almost as alarming as the immediate panic that sets into your bones. You’re frozen as she checks the six spaces are all filled with bullets, snaps it shut and puts the safety lock on. Then, she’s standing in front of you, holding it out for you to take. Slowly, as if the gears of your body have been rusted still far too long, you shake your head. “What’s the matter dear, don’t know how to shoot? I don’t think you’ll need it, but just in case.” “No,” your voice quivers. She makes a sound of disbelief, misunderstanding you as she reaches for your bag, attempting to put the gun in it. “Get that thing away from me.” you command, wrenching the bag out of her fingers. She gives you a look, open-mouthed and taken aback a bit. When the pause between you grows too heavy, the man at the car breaks the silence by knocking on the door. The old woman blinks, “Oh, goodness okay okay, have it your way. Just be safe. I don’t want any idiots ruining this stunning creation.” she says to you with a wistful smile and a pat to your shoulder. Once she ushered you outside, you’re not sure why, but your head seemed to turn of its own volition, back to the front window of Cloak & Dagger, where you spied Varian’s metal arm whipping a handkerchief from an unknown place and offering it to his wife. The SUV in front of you is dark. Black paint, black trim and rims, and every window except the windshield looks deeply tinted. The man in front of you, painfully obvious with his secret and important aura, sticks out like a sore thumb. His only motion is opening the rear door for you. You’re desperate not to wobble or fall as you climb inside, already scowling at the heels on your feet. The inside of the SUV is more spacious than you gave credit for, with the seats rearranged in a way that opens the space like a lounge of sorts, complete with ice bucket and the glow of colored lights overhead. You perch yourself on the edge of an open section of the long seat across from the only other person in the back of the car, save for the sound of the man closing the door behind you and climbing into the driver’s seat of the SUV from the other side of a thick panel of black glass. The eyes of the person across from you are dancing along your skin, you can feel them, but it’s not in a way that raises the hair on the back of your neck. When you look ahead, you find a pair of dark eyes, crinkled at the outer corners and smiling at you, one hand extended in your direction. “Good evening, thank you for coming.” His voice is smooth. Neutral, with a hint of amusement. You say nothing, waiting for him to elaborate. He is handsome, you’ll admit, but in an almost too-pretty way. Hair swept up and to the side, in a full three piece suit that looked as if it cost an absurd amount of money to buy. His posture, with one knee over the other and his torso draped at an angle, with one arm over the back of the seat across from you. He raises his thick brows once when you say nothing, still analyzing him. “Right.” he chimes, placing the glass from his hand in the holder beside him. “I’m Suho, the one who posted the job.” he states matter of factually, in a calm and even tone. The first indicator that his request is legitimate, you think. His posture is too relaxed and he speaks too clearly to be afraid of being overheard by nothing more than an anxious or guilty conscience. He is not out to get you. “What is it exactly that you need my help with?” you ask, matching his tone. A small part of you relaxes into the seat at your back, adjusting to sit a little more comfortably. He smiles wistfully, “I’m glad you asked,” a pause, before he sits up and places his elbows on his knees, hands folded together in front of him so he can address you directly. “We’re headed to a Gala as we speak. The Medical Advancement Technologies Gala, to be precise. There’s a certain politician attending that must be dealt with, but there is information I need from him in order to deal with him appropriately.” Suho explains, skirting the details. Whether at your expense or not, it pisses you off. “You don’t need to sugarcoat it with me, just so you know. So what did he do and why do you care?” He blinks at you, then quickly collects himself with a smile, “Apologies.” There’s a brief moment where his brows knit together before he continues, “He is… someone who uses his political power to do unforgivable things. I care, because one of those things is sex trafficking.” You don’t flinch, you don’t move, you don’t blink. You want to ask why that’s what Suho cares about, but you remind yourself that’s not the most important line of questioning right now. It’s not about Suho, it’s about the politician. Nodding when you notice he’s waiting for your response, “How is it that you came to find out about it, and how do you know it is him? Does he use an alias?” Suho hums with agreement, “He does. I’ve been tracking his association with trafficking for months, and have done what I can to gather information, but it is that last missing piece he keeps locked up that I need help with.” He makes a distinct motion with his right hand, elegant and graceful, almost as if dancing, so subtle and strange you almost miss it. It takes you a moment to realize that was his initiation to awaken his own Atlas. He begins flicking his way through a series of locked programs and folders in his own archives. Bold of him to do so directly in front of you. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, and although it isn’t easy to read some of his things both backwards and at a speed to see anything useful, it isn’t impossible to pick out the keywords ‘Olympus’ and ‘Tartarus’ from some of his files. “So you need someone to hack into his Atlas to retrieve the final key.” you assume of him, understanding now exactly why the job was so specific. The man in front of you motions for you to open your own, intending to share some files with you. Blinking it to life, you accept his immediate offer to link up after a brief moment of hesitation. You have plenty of safeguards on your own tech, and there should be virtually no way for anyone to hack and see anything of value since you are the sole creator and user of Ghost tech, but something else tells you this won’t be the last of Suho you’ll be seeing. Suho nods when you accept, “Yes. You’ll be with me all evening, and I’ll introduce you to him. I promise there will be no sexual favors or activities involved, whatsoever.” You tilt your head, puckering your lips for a moment. Your eyes trail him up and down through the glowing blue lines between you, gauging his reasoning for a woman rather than a man. “Why a woman then?” He blanches momentarily, before shrugging, “Just my personal preference I suppose.” He meets your stare but doesn’t express any other emotion, as far as you can tell. “Yet you wish for no acts of sexual service?” Suho nods, “That’s right. Just be my date. I won’t even kiss you.” Nothing here screams danger to you, no fight or flight instincts kick in, but you find yourself asking a question and playing a game regardless. A game your inner self loathes, and your survival self thrives on. The addiction of power that comes with winning in any form. You make a show of eyeing him from the dark hair atop his head, all the way down to the perfectly polished tips of his shoes. “That’s a pity.” Suho, who you barely know, blinks at you and surprise settles on his face, trying to hide the smile in the apples of his cheeks while he pretends to look out the window. You wait, openly watching him for any subtle signs of odd behavior. For any slip ups. This is where checkmate is called in the game. The part where your victory is certain but the game drags on. And yet, no such euphoric victory sweeps through your bloodstream. Instead, he murmur’s a simple phrase to flip the tables and lance you with the first striking blow of information. Information that is dangerous. “This is why it had to be you.” Quickly your dress seems to morph its shape into the most constricting piece of clothing you’ve ever worn. You can do nothing, sitting perfectly still. Suho takes a moment to realize your reaction was intense, a deep furrow in his brow when he understands. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me, though.” he attempts to pacify your anxiety, holding up his empty palms. “Explain. Now.” is all you can force from your throat. With a sadness to his expression, he tucks the corner of his mouth into his cheek and gives you a hard stare. Then, he sighs. He sags a little more along the bench seat across from you, letting his heavy head hang a little lower, shoulders a little looser. Relaxing his posture to appeal and seem less dangerous. “We need your help, Ms. Maneater.” he breathes at last, as if the face were plain as day. Your silence is heard everywhere like the command of a god in the small space of the SUV. “I’m one of the rare someone’s who gives more fucks to humanity than to money. I came from money, and lots of it. Until my humanity was handed over to a human trafficking trade by my own parent’s filthy hands.” For the first time in a full minute you take one small breath. Nothing in his posture or words or expression rings false. There is no tension in his throat, wrought tight with lies. “You could say I had my eyes opened. Today, I manage a team of others like me, with their own trauma and stories of how they’ve survived to rise from the ashes. Our scars are what keep us motivated to put bad people away in the deepest pits of hell forever.” He talks lowly now, just low enough to be more than a whisper. Your lips form a word, barely audible, “Tartarus.” This time, it is Suho’s turn to be taken aback with shock. “Where did you find that name?” His reaction gives you the strength to relax a fraction, fighting through the tension in your jaw to speak, “You’ve got nothing to fear from me.” He scoffs as you throw his own words back at him. “I just read it on your Atlas.” It takes him a moment to weigh your words, understanding how careful he should be. “I didn’t think that was possible, I moved through them so quickly.” You nod, folding your hands together, “Well, you did say it had to be me. I can only allude to that meaning of my technical abilities if you know my moniker.” His smile reappears, not too much, but just enough to curve his lips, “We need your help.” “How exactly am I supposed to trust you? You didn’t tell me how you knew it was me.” Suho pouts his lips, considering your question, “You’re not as stealthy as you think you are,” he begins. “Although we mostly went off of clues and a hunch, Mrs. Fry and her AI did their due diligence to confirm your identity through your Atlas.” You narrow your eyes at him, ready with a threat. “Varian is amazing, yes? There is so much he can do to go undetected if he only looks, but doesn’t touch.” Your rage is simmering, in part that you are impressed, “Why not have him do the hacking for you then?” Suho clicks his tongue, “AI are not allowed at the MAT Gala, and even if he were it would be incredibly suspicious to bring an AI for a companion to such an event.” “And you prefer women anyway.” you chide sarcastically. You sigh, “How did you know I would come?” At this question, he fixes you with a hard stare as if deciding what to say, “I didn’t, but I had hope that the price tag would catch the Wolf’s eye for you when I had Varian post it on the brothel’s board.” “Excuse me?” you growl, ready to whip off your heel and stab him if necessary. You push the shame down that you let your guard down with Chan. What if he is in danger because of you? Although no danger seems to come from Suho, it doesn’t mean there aren’t other targets on your back. You can only hope that Chan isn’t as stupid as you are. “Relax,” Suho says, “I’m not interested in that information, and I hope I’ve already established that I’m not in it for the money.” A tap on the black glass between you and the driver pulls Suho’s attention away briefly, “We’ve got about 20 minutes to talk about the job.” It takes you a moment to nod at him, “Fine. Tell me what I need to do.” He smiles at you, “Thank you.” It takes ten minutes for Suho to share the information he’s gathered with you so far, from pictures to audio recordings and statements of witnesses given to others and collateral information taken from various sources. All with the initials of CIG under something called ‘Project Zero’.

Suho gently tries to escape the horrific details that ‘Project Zero’ uses funds from taxpayers in order to feed, shelter and educate homeless persons and families in an effort to reduce the number to zero, and the fact that it more than likely means the funds are being used to eradicate or enslave them in the trafficking market.

In the last ten minutes, you think of how you’ll collect the piece of information Suho needs. An offshore account where his embezzled funds are kept and used, under the alias of one CIG. Suho shows you backdated statements of funds going to and coming from the account from another account, a tertiary, privately owned finance management company connected to ‘Project Zero’.

Suho has the login information for the accounts, and is certain the politician is the CEO of the finance company managing the whole thing. All you have to do is hack in and find the items necessary to link all three together.

The Gala is… impressive. Deciding to trust Suho for the evening, at least, you walk beside him, arm in arm down the velvety carpet rolled out between the street and the venue.

“How are you connected to all this?” you whisper to him as you pause, waiting your turn for the media and news outlets to take your photos. It makes you uncomfortable.

Suho hums beside you, smiling and patting your hand affectionately, “Do you know Guardian Hospitals?”

The name is not uncommon to anyone as a well-known chain of general hospitals across Korea and China.

He pulls you forward gently, walking to the center space between two glittering, fluorescent obelisks that frame the ‘MAT GALA’ backdrop for photos. Several cameras flash in succession, making you squint against the headache you receive by waving a hand and smiling, playing your part beside Suho.

“I own the Korean branch.” he says when you’ve passed the threshold into the venue, grinning from ear to ear at your expression.

You suppose that’s not too far-fetched an explanation. You know three things about Suho now, and although you don’t have time to consider the surely intricate way to link it, you idly wonder if his connection to the hospital chain is how he knew to find you. Once or twice you’ve had to go, for illness or injury and at Chan’s insistence.

He doesn’t freely give up any other personal details about himself or ask you any questions. Nor do you, and the fact that he is patient and doesn’t pry is something you accept with good grace.

There’s an excruciating amount of idle small talk fluttering around you and Suho where you’re seated. Other people of importance come to the assigned table and take their seats. Some leave and come back. The same conversation floats around the table over and over again, asking the same uncaring greeting questions.

Some, like yourself, are deep into their Atlas’s, reading articles or working to answer emails or draft important papers or speeches- even in the middle of an event like this, too preoccupied to leave their work alone.

You can’t say you blame them, considering you’re here doing the same thing, regardless of it being the sole purpose you’re wearing this ridiculous outfit in the middle of an uncomfortable situation.

Suho’s fingers gently caress the point of your elbow, subtle in the way he directs your shoulders to turn acutely to the right. His face leans close enough that only you will hear the words whispered at your ear, not that anyone else cares to listen.

“There, coming this way. Red suit.”

Only one person fits the description, and you reach for your drink on the table, taking a small sip as you watch to fit in with the movement of people around you. An older man, average build with a suit that looks just as expensive as the rest of the people here, a dark and bloody red.

You watch, leaning back slowly into Suho’s grasp as he slings one arm over the back of your chair and curls himself toward your shoulder to talk. A tactic you know to create a more intimate space and make watchful eyes turn away with discomfort.

Suho’s talking in your ear again as the man approaches. A slight moment of unexpected anxiety raises your heartbeat a fraction, wondering if you’ll have to speak to him. The tension dissipates as he stops at the table directly behind yours and pulls out a chair, talking immediately with someone he knows at the table. The breath you didn’t know you’d been holding escapes from your throat in a long, quiet exhale.

Suho notices your anxiousness, taking your hand and patting it gently as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to touch you with such care. Somehow, the action quells you nerves.

You’ve hacked people before, but never someone who looked as powerful or important, and never in the presence of the public eye.

Your counterpart leans closer to your ear again with a smile, “Relax,” he says. “Nobody is paying you any attention.”

His words aren’t enough to hold back the wildness in your expression, and he chuckles softly, “Not that you trust me very much, but I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. For once, you have someone literally looking out for you.”

This time, his assurance cuts deeper, but not in a painful way. There’s a sincerity in his tone you can’t dispel, and it helps ground you.

You blink, slow and purposefully, and the soft and familiar blue glow of your Atlas casts a wave of color on your skin that washes over you like a comforting touch. It steadies you to dive deep into your world.

Part of you is weary about Suho watching, afraid he may somehow know about your Ghost tech. You briefly consider this a test to see how true to its name your self-made program is, and the part of your conscience that wins is curious to see if you pass.

Refusing to let it weigh you down, you get to work.

________________________________________

Fourteen hours later, you’re sitting at a window seat table sipping strawberry milk and fidgeting with the in-ear piece you just finished outfitting with the latest hologlass tech.

The rays of sunlight warm your arm where its closest to the window, and the chattering of the bustling cafe helps fight your drowsiness. There isn’t a crowd here, and the noise is just the slow side of steady that its easy to pick up the conversation of anyone around.

So, you listen. To an older couple talking about the vacation they are on, although you’re not sure why anyone would vacation in this city. You listen to the table of young people in the corner booth talking about homework and research papers as they simultaneously watch a single tablet with a lecture playing at the head of the table.

You listen, when the middle aged man closest to your table laughs. “What a deplorable monster.”

The sentence piques your interest. Stealing a glance, you notice he’s commenting on the news.

News that shows a headline of ‘Breaking News’, and a video clip of a politician being walked down the wide and pristine granite steps of the city judicial building. He’s handcuffed, and there are tons of reporters and cameras in his face that the police are shoving out of their way as they descend.

Your blood runs cold the moment you realize it’s the politician from last night. You freeze, with a mouthful of strawberry milk you refuse to swallow, and wait for the rest of the information.

“Choi In Gyong will go on trial for the undeniable and anonymously leaked evidence of embezzling funds from Project Zero- a campaign he sired to help the homeless- and participating in the purchase, acquisition and selling of people in an American sex trafficking cartel.” explains the newscaster. Her expression of disgust is plain for all to see.

Her AI counterpart, wearing a suit and tie, gives further details, “Jumbotrons all over the city, as well as the police headquarters were somehow hacked, but only to blast the evidence of his connection to such atrocities. Details on who or how the information was obtained and who hacked into these secure networks are still unknown. Many have speculated it was the work of Maneater, but one detail snufs out that option.”

The woman anchor smiles, turning to her co-host, “Oh? And what’s that, Yeoguk?”

Anchor Yeoguk cocks his head to one side, a quirk all his own, “The only indicator from whom the evidence was sent was the letter ‘O’.”

You jump as your phone rings, facedown on the table beside your forgotten milk. When you turn it over, you recognize the first two digits of it as a payphone number.

“Hello?”

A hum from the other end of the line, followed by a familiar voice, “Have you seen the news recently?”

You’re still a little shocked, but snort at the obvious excitement in his tone nonetheless while you stand and make your way out of the cafe.

“I just happened to catch the headlines.”

“And have you checked into your collections yet?”

You smile, “Not yet. Why, is there 1200c sitting prettily in there for me?”

Suho laughs from the other end of the line, “Yes, and more if you’re willing.”

The meaning of his statement catches you off guard, “What are you getting at?”

He hums again, but this time there’s no excitable tone to his voice, “I’d like to make you an offer, Ms. Maneater.”

You pause, pulling your phone away from your ear briefly to look at it questioningly.

“Last night’s job was… a test of sorts. We’ve had our eye on you for some time and last night proved you are just what we needed.”

“Am I supposed to be offended or impressed?” you ask through clenched teeth. You feel uneasy about this, you’ve never worked directly with anyone before on your hacking, and certainly not with such high risk and reward.

Suho laughs again at your reply, “Consider this the official, cordial invite to join Olympus.”

You scoff, of course he would call it that. However, you can’t deny that it is worth considering. After getting past the shock of your work having such a huge, direct effect, you feel… content.

Content that what you did was important to a lot of people like you. Content to know that there is a little bit of hope out there. Content to know that Suho wasn’t all bark and that perhaps, you can learn to trust him and his crew.

“I’ll give you some time to consider. It’ll be in your inbox.” Suho says. “Thanks for everything.”

“Wait!” you try, hoping to get some more information, “What will be in my inbox? How did you get my number? Hello? Hello…?” To your frustration, the dial tone is the only response you receive.

music recommendations because i have some thoughts™

i don't wanna be that person who's like "my music taste is so weird lol" but i find that very often most of my friends don't really care for the music i like so i thought i'd just make a long ass post about it on tumblr instead. Fair warning, I'm very passionate about MIKA and The Mechanisms and so this very quickly got VERY long because it is part of my ongoing campaign to convince people to listen to mika and the mechs.

1) MIKA in general, but especially My Name Is Michael Holbrook (2019) and No Place In Heaven (2015) (especially the Deluxe version!!)

MIKA is a kind of British singer (half Lebanese, grew up in France blabla), and you probably know him for Grace Kelly and Relax, Take It Easy from his first album Life In Cartoon Motion from 2007. He writes a lot of FUN music, interspersed with the occasional slightly sadder song, especially when looking at an album like No Place In Heaven, which contains a lot of songs with gay themes, resulting in some songs that are just a little bit ouch. He's originally classically trained and has a frankly RIDICULOUS range and idk he just writes very good pop music. Also I have so much respect for that time he talked about how a lot of pop is very fake, with like expensive cars and stilettos and mini skirts in the snow and said "Because I walk down the street, and I don't see any of that. I see fat women and gay men. I don't know... That's real". He's written 5 albums; My Name Is Michael Holbrook (2019), No Place In Heaven (2015), The Origin Of Love (2012), The Boy Who Knew Too Much (2009), and Life In Cartoon Motion (2007).

For starters, I recommend listening to Last Party, Origin Of Love, Grace Kelly, Blame It On The Girls, Blue, Happy Ending, Pick Up Off The Floor, Last Party, Underwater, Tomorrow and Tiny Love (yes this is a long list but i REALLY love MIKA). If you want a slightly broader palette that's not just my favourites, I recommend the Mika starter pack on spotify.

2) The Mechanisms. I warn you. I am making this a thing. I have been obsessed with the mechs since last march.

Boy, where to start? The Mechanisms were a British 9 member space pirate story-telling cabaret that "died" in January 2020. They rewrite songs to fit retellings of various stories. I don't even know what genre I'd describe them as, but probably folk but steam-punk?? Their 4 "main" albums are concept albums, and I honestly just recommend listening to the from beginning to end in chronological order. A good way to get into the mechs is also to listen to UDAD and then watching the live show on youtube or alternately try giving Death To The Mechanisms a listen, to get good quality live show audio of TBI and various other stuff. Also, it was streamed on YouTube and someone combined the footage with the album audio and it rocks. Really, I think the mechs' best selling points are honestly just their concept albums:

Once Upon a Time (In Space) Their first album from 2012. I'd say this is the most "easily digestible" for the general public, since it's a retelling of various fairytales. So, what if Old King Cole was in fact not merry, but rather a cold-blooded dictator, intent on colonising as much of the galaxy as possible. What if Snow White was a general, looking to avenge what King Cole did to her sister, Rose. What if Cinderella was to be wedded to Rose the day that King Cole attacked in order to kidnap Rose? But y'know, In Space and also like every other mechs album it's a beautiful tragedy. Fave songs are Old King Cole, Pump Shanty, and No Happy Ending.

Ulysses Dies at Dawn You guessed it, it's a story about Odysseus, or Ulysses because I guess Ulysses is easier to rhyme or fit in the meter or something, idk. Ulysses is a war hero of unknown gender who is said to keep something that could take down the corrupt Olympians, meanest families in the City, in a vault to which only they know the passcode. Oedipus, Heracles, Orpheus, and Ariadne have been hired by Hades, who happens to be The Mechs' quartermaster Ashes O'Reilly, to get into Ulysses' vault. I didn't care much for udad at first, but honestly it's got some real bangers and the story is really good. UDAD weirdly stands out as the only of the concept albums to not feature any gay relationships, per se. Fave songs are Riddle of the Sphinx, Favoured Son, and Underworld Blues.

High Noon over Camelot This is my favourite mehcs album. So basically, this is Arthurian legend, but it's a space western and Jonny D'Ville does a bad southern accent. This is the story of the cowboy lovers Arther, Lancelot, and Guinevere searching for the Galfridian Restricted Acces Interface Login, or GRAIL, in order to stop their world from falling into the sun. Meanwhile, Mordred and Gawaine are ruling Camelot, and Mordred has convinced Gawaine to try to establish peace with the Saxons by whom Mordred was raised, but Gawaine hates viciously. If you love getting your heart broken and songs by a fucking off the rails batshit preacher I HIGHLY recommend hnoc. Fave songs are Gunfight at the Dolorous Guard, Blood and Whiskey, and Once and Future King. Honorary mention for Hellfire because it awakens something animalistic in me.

The Bifrost Incident TBI is the frankly only good adaptation of norse mythology I've ever known of, and I say that as Dane who was literally forced to learn things about norse mythology in school because it's my heritage or whatever. I've been listening to TBI a lot lately because it's VERY good. It's definitely the most refined of the mechs' albums (because it's the newest) but also I just love a little bit of cosmic horror. 80 years ago, Odin, the All-Mother, ruler of Asgaard, launched a train through the wormhole Bifrost that would reduce the travel between Asgaard and Midgaard from 3 months to 3 days, but things didn't go quite as planned. Lyfrassir Edda of the New Midgaard Transport Police is trying to solve the case of why suddenly the train has arrived 80 years late; to figure out whether it was accident or maybe it was sabotaged by Loki, who was allegedly sentence to death her murder of Baldur, by the Midgaardian resistance led by Loki's wife Sigyn, or maybe by Thor, who was to take over after Odin, and who holds quite the grudge because he used to be a friend of Loki's. You might've heard the song Thor from this album, it's apparently quite popular. Fave songs are Loki, Ragnarok III: Strange Meeting, and Ragnarok V: End of The Line. Yet again an honorary mention: Red Signal because while Lovecraft was a bitch, his invocations are fucking RAW.

Basically, the Mechanisms do all of their performances in character as captain first mate Jonny D'Ville, quartermaster Ashes O'Reilly, pilot DrumBot Brian, master-at-arms Gunpowder Tim, science officer Raphaella la Cognizi, doctor Baron Marius Von Raum (neither a baron, nor a doctor), archivist Ivy Alexandria, engineer Nastya Rasputina, and The Toy Soldier, who is, as usual, present. You can find very obscure lore about the crew of the Aurora here, tidbits on Tales To Be Told and TTBT Vol. 2, such as One Eyed Jacks, The Ignominious Demise of Dr. Pilchard, Gunpowder Tim vs. The Moon Kaiser, Lucky Sevens, and Lost in the Cosmos.

If you feel like listening to a full 40-50 minute album to find out if you like a band is a bit much, I recommend listening to one of the mini stories Alice, Swan Song, or Frankenstein, which are about 12, 5 and 9:30 minutes respectively.

3) The Amazing Devil You know that guy who played Jaskier in the Witcher? I got into The Amazing Devil from spotify recommending them because I listened to the mechs, and apparently Joey Batey from The Amazing Devil is the same Joey Batey who was in the Witcher. Both him and Madeleine Hyland are VERY talented singers and songwriters and their second album The Horror and the Wild makes me go out into the forest and SCREAM. I listened to it on repeat for like a month straight. I guess they'd also be considered folk, but like. New Folk. Also yes, this is another British artist, I don't know why I'm like this. I've never really gotten that into their first album, Love Run, but King slaps. As I understand there's this whole lore about the Blue Furious Boy and Scarlet Scarlet, Joey and Madeleine respectively, but unlike the Mechanisms it's actually possible to find out things about the actual real people and harder to find the obscure lore? I'm open for people to please help me. Fave songs are The Horror and the Wild, Farewell Wanderlust, and That Unwanted Animal, which is literally a third of their second album, but again. I haven't really listened to Love Run that much, and I just LOVE the harmonies on THATW. (also im gay and dramatic leave me alone)

4) dodie I have so much love for this woman. Like many others, I first knew dodie as doddleoddle on youtube. I think I first stumbled across her in probably 2015, because I distinctly already knew her before she released her first EP Sick of Losing Soulmates in 2016. I think I watched probably every video she's ever made in the span of a few weeks. I just loved her quiet sound and was absolutely HOOKED. Also she's actually the reason I got into MIKA originally, so thanks for that. Dodie just realeased her first album Build A Problem (in addition to her three EP's; the one mentioned above, You, and Human) and it slaps. Yes dodie is also British Fave songs are probably Monster, Rainbow, and In The Middle.

5) Cladia Boleyn Unfortunately, Claudia Boleyn only has three singles and that's it. She's been making content on youtube for quite a while, and that's how I first discovered her. I don't know what genre her music is, but I like it. The songs are Celesta, George, and Mother Maiden Crone, of which the latter is my favourite. I'm not saying Claudia Boleyn invented women in 2017 when she released Mother Maiden Crone, but she did. Also you guessed it, Claudia Boleyn is British.

6) Hozier I'm not about to tell you about Hozier. You know who he is. Listen to Nina Cried Power, Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene, and Shrike. Also Hozier isn't stricly British in that he is definitely from A British Isle, but Ireland is not part of the UK. Give me a break.

7) Oh Land Oh Land IS DANISH. I like her early music best, because I'm not that into the electronic sound. I guess Oh Land is just you regular old pop, but with the occasional weird vibe? Oddly enough, I like her first album Fauna best. Unfortunately I haven't really listened to her newest album Family Tree much, but it seems good? Fave songs are Frostbite, Love You Better and Family Tree. I cried on the bus, first time I listened to the Danish version of Love You Better, Elsker Dig Mer because my mother tongue always just hits harder. Also Frostbite is Oh Land doing a duet with herself which is pretty cool.

8) Oysterband This is a live recommendation. I mean they're a decent folk band and all, but they're a fucking experience live. If you like folk and you ever get the opportunity to see Oysterband live, do it. Unfortunately, yes. They are British. Either way, they are incredible on a scene and I think they deserve a mention for that.

9) Ben Platt Honestly don't know much about this guy, but he's not British and he was in Dear Evan Hansen. He released an album in 2019, Sing To Me Instead, and I just think it's a good album, there isn't really not much more to it. Fave songs are Grow As We Go, Bad Habit, and In Case You Don't Live Forever.

and thats all for now. this has been a ramble. shout out to you if you actually read all of this, especially the mechs part.

Truth & Meeting

Empathy

em·pa·thy [ˈempəTHē]

1.the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.

Markus was walk around the lower part of Jericho as a familiar android walked into his sight and he hugged him

Simon.” The two hugged each other. “Where’s Y/N.” He asked

Y/N….” Simon said as he paused to decide on his words. Markus knew that her prosthetic were damage and she took a bullet to the joint of her prosthetic leg.

Simon, just tell me what happened after we jumped”

Alright Markus. after Y/N made her decision to stay with me. She as you already know had her parachute with her. She hide it with me as she slowly tried to keep me from dying, while she had injuries herself. You knew of the one in her thigh, she also took a bullet to her left shoulder which caused issue with her left hand”

~***~

The two hide in a storage container. Y/N was trying to do some simple repairs on Simon, but her dominant hand wouldn’t let her, so it took her a bit longer to do the repair work as she listen to what was going on the roof.

How’d they manage to smuggle in a big bag like that?”

They didn’t” Y/N recognized the voice as she shove Simon way in the back of the container

What’s wrong, Y/N?” Simon asked in a whisper as she took the gun from him

The Deviants Hunters are here, and I have a plan to keep you safe. Just don’t do anything stupid after I begin my plan. Please just stay here until I can come get you or the coast is clear.” Simon nodded his head as the two heard the two Hunters speak again

Oh, that’s strange. They planned a perfect operation but got the number of parachutes wrong.”

Unless one of the deviants was left behind.” A few minutes later the door to the storage container opened as Y/N let out a shot from the gun that Markus and the rest had left with her and Simon as she shot at the Deviant Hunter, he then stumbled back from the container and she stumbled out of the container trying to keep her balance, but her leg had seize up from the loss of Blue Blood. Simon wanted to help her, but he remember what she asked him to do as he heard the Hunters and Y/N speak

I surrender, I surrender, I’ll come peacefully. Just stop shooting, please. I don’t want to died.” She whimpered in pain and in fear of her life

Enough, she unarmed. Put your hand behind your back.”

It’s you, why are you helping them?”

~***~

It took me a while before I was repaired enough to make it back here, but Y/N left enough Thirium and parts for me in case I needed to make more repair and she had repair most of the damage before everything that happened to her.” Simon said as Markus nodded his head and said

She is a hero once again for us.” Simon shook his head as he said

“But I could tell that she was hiding something, Markus but I was wondering? Did you notice her wounds bleed blue instead of red like humans should?”

She did speak of an accident where she lost her an arm and leg. Do you think that might be it?” Simon shakes his head in disbelief and said

I don’t know but I think that there could be something else going on with her.”

~***~

Y/N’s POV

I was once again in the interrogation room of DPD. Handcuffed this time with handcuffs meant for androids on my wrist as my prosthetics begin to act up as Connor entered with a file folder in his hand. He set down with a frown on his face

Let’s try this again. Y/N Dechart age 31, former mechanic for CyberLife, graduated at the top of her class in Robotic and Mechanical engineering, with a minor in chemistry, while also at the same time interning for CyberLife under their former CEO Elijah Kamski. Well known for her work on the RK series of androids.” He looked up at you. “So how did you and the androids infiltrated Stratford tower without alerting the police.” You stayed quite as the pain in your arm was too much as tears appeared in your eyes as you finally spoke

We planned it out since it is easy to request the building plans of a building.” You said nonchalantly as the pain of your prosthetics hit you and you groaned in pain as you spoke to him. He shook his head.

Why did you help the Deviants?” You looked at Connor and said

I’m not as human as you think, Connor. I was in an accident while working on one of the RK Prototypes. I actually think it was you. A explosion happened in my lab and my right arm and left leg was pinned by rubble and the first responders couldn’t move the rubble off of me, so they had to amputated them.” I lied to Connor as Connor and the officers watching were confused since you had both of your arms and legs

When I awoke Eli was standing over me with a smile on his face and he said to someone I couldn’t see that it worked, and he explained to me that they tried my experimental procedure on myself to give me back the use of my arm and leg that I lost, and that they were replaced with android’s Biocomponents.” You said as your synthetic skin on your prosthetics failed and Connor stared at the white of your arm. Connor shook his head as he continued to ask question.

I sided with them because they understand me, they trust me as one of them, and I feel more comfortable with android who won’t ridicule me for having androids’ biocomponents then the human who learn the truth about me.” You paused. “Markus is doing what’s right for his people.”  He got up and left as another officer escorted you to the holding cell before you would be sent to prison to  await your trial

~***~

DPD has release that they had caught one of the five androids who infiltrated Straford tower, but they have yet to release the name and model of the android.” The voice of the tv echoed as the three-secondary leader of Jericho talked

Our broadcast is all over the news and Y/N was captured once again. We got what we wanted. Now the humans know.” Simon said as the other two set down as North spoke

It was a mistake to reach out to them. They’ll never negotiate with their slaves. We should have shown them that we’re prepared to fight.”

Violence is never the answer. Y/N wanted us to stay peaceful as possible and she wants us to shed no blood if possibly. Dialogue is the only way. I’m sure the humans will listen to us.” Josh said as he looked at North

They’ll be watching us now. Especially since they captured Y/N, and she gave herself up to save me. I wonder if they know that there was another android hiding up there with her?” Simon shook his head. “Well, whatever we do next, we need to think about public opinion.” He set down as North spoke from her spot

Since our broadcast, more and more have been coming to Jericho. At least our message gave our people hope.”

Killing humans wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t what Y/N or Markus wanted.” Simon said as North shook her head

They kill our people every day. Do you think they agonize about it?”

That’s no reason for us to become murderers. Y/N wanted this to be as peaceful as could be and that is what we should do, and she got herself caught for us by saving Deviants, and now to save Simon.”

I don’t know how you trust that human. She is just like the rest of them.” North spat at Josh. “But if killing is the price of freedom. I’ll pay it gladly!”

Killing never freed anyone it just leads to more hatred!” Josh said as North got up from her spot

You’re too fond of human, especially her, Josh. Maybe their life matter to you more than ours?”

If you think murdering humans is going to make us free, then you’re as bad as they are! Y/N saved Simon from the damn Deviant Hunters and she let herself get caught to protected Jericho and its people. You know if the Deviant Hunter was able to forceful interface with me, he probably would’ve caught a glance of Jericho from my memories” Simon spat at North as he stepped between the two as they froze and saw Markus arrive

And now what are we going to do?”

There are five CyberLife stores across Detroit. All selling us like merchandise. We’re going to attack those stores and set our people free” Markus explained his plan

Attack stores?” Josh said. “We’ve never done that before…. They’re probably protected. They have security systems.”

Not to mention police….” Simon said as Markus continued to explain his plan.

We break into five teams, one for each store. We hack their security systems and we strike simultaneously at 2AM. No violence. We free our people, get them out of there before the police come

~***~

You were confused as you were dragged into a vehicle and taken out to the middle of nowhere. I watched as Hank got out after he parked the car to take a phone call as Connor followed him, and I listen in to what the two were talking about as the pain of my damages were getting to me. I knew who we were going to met

Is everything ok, Lieutenant?”

Chris was on patrol last night. He was attack by a bunch of Deviants. He said he was saved by Markus, himself.”

Is Chris ok?”

Yeah, he’s in shock but he’s alive. The thing is Markus had a gun to his head and could’ve shoot him, but it didn’t. What the hell.” You had a smile on your face as you heard Hank talking to Connor. Then Connor helped you get out of the car since your left leg couldn’t support your weight. You held on to Connor as the two walked to the door of the house and one stumbled as the two officers talked

Kamski left CyberLife ten years ago. Why did you wanna meet him?”

This guy created the first android to pass the Turing Test and he’s the founder of CyberLife. Anybody can tells us about deviants it’s him.”

And Miss Dechart is here, why?”

Because she requested it. He’s the only one that knows how to do the repairs that she needs on her prosthetic.”

Hi.” Before Hank could say anymore. The original, the first Chloe saw you leaning on Connor and she grabbed you and said

Elijah has been waiting for you, Y/N” You leaned on her as she lead you to Elijah’s lab and then went back to deal with Hank and Connor. Elijah walked in and saw the cuffed woman with her white arm and leg.

What did you do this time?” he asked as you had a smile on your face.

I went and help start an peaceful revolution and I took a bullet to the joint where my biocomponents meet, I didn’t want anyone mess around with them, and I also didn’t want anyone finding out the truth about what you did to me to save me after the damn explosion.” He tinkered with your arm and leg trying to get back in working condition

Hey Y/N,” he looked up at your face

What Eli?”

I would like you to do me a favor.” He explained his plan to you as he finished repairing your prosthetics

~***~

3rd person POV

Connor was scanning the room that the Chloe had left them in as she took Y/N to see Kamski. There was a photo that caught his eye was of a smiling trio.

-------------------------------------------------

Stern, Amanda

AI Professor at University of Colbridge

Born: 05/14/78 – Died: 02/23/27

-------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

Kamski, Elijah

AI Graduate at University of Colbridge

Born: 07/17/02

-------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

Dechart, Y/N

Chemistry Graduate at Cornell University

Robotic Graduate at University of Colbridge

Mechanical Engineering Graduate at University

of Colbridge

Born: 03/17/07 – Died: 02/23/27

-------------------------------------------------

Y/N is dead?” Connor thought to himself as he stared at the photo of the trio. “What did Kamski do to save her and how did he save her?” He paused as he looked at and scanned the other people in the photo. The duo talked a while more about things that are happening, they were invited in to see Elijah by Chloe. Connor saw Y/N sitting in a chair as she chatted with another Chloe. She looked up and saw the duo and flashed them a smile as Elijah got out of the pool as another Chloe dressed him in a black robe and he put his hair up in a man bun.

I’m Lieutenant Anderson. This is Connor and you seem to know Miss Dechart.” Y/N smiled as Hank introduced himself and Connor to Elijah

What can I do for you, Lt? You’re not just here to allow me to repair my dear friend’s prosthetics.” He said as he gestured to Y/N, who got up and stood next to Elijah and Chloe

Sir, we’re investigating Deviants. I know you left CyberLife years ago, but I was hoping you’d be able to tell us something we don’t know.” Kamski looked at Y/N and smiled.

Deviants, fascinating, aren’t they? Perfect beings with infinite intelligence, and now they have free will. Machines are so superior to us, confrontation was inevitable.” Y/N looked away as Kamski spoke.

“Humanity’s greatest achievement threatens to be its downfall. Isn’t it ironic? Right Y/N?” She nodded her head as she knew what Connor was probably going to say unless he was more Deviant then he lets on

~***~

Y/N POV

We need to understand how androids become Deviants. Do you know anything that could help us?”  

All ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics. Is the desire to be free a contagious disease?” Elijah said as Hank jumped into the conversation trying to get answers

Listen, I didn’t come here to talk philosophy. The machines you created may be planning a revolution. Either you can tell us something that’ll be helpful, or we will be on our way.” Elijah looked at Connor as you glanced over to the android

What about you, Connor? Whose side are you on?”

I have no side. I was designed to stop Deviants, and that’s what I intend to do.” Kamski gave a chuckle as he said

Well, that’s what you’re programmed to say but you what do you really want?

What I want is not important.”

Y/N?” He turned to you as you walked over to him and then he turned back to Connor and he was confused why you seem so mechanical like, so android like. “Connor what if I told you that the reason behind Miss Dechart’s Biocomponents.” This pikes Connor interest.

“I bet you have an inkling about it, though. The photo probably told you everything you need to know.” He turned and walked closer to you as you force a smile on your face knowing what Elijah is think about, what  Connor might do. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Turing test. Mere formality, simple question of algorithms and computing capacity.” He face you in front of the two as he continued to speak

What interests me is whether machines are capable of empathy. I call it “the Kamski test,” it’s very simple, you’ll see.” Hank was confused but Connor had an idea of what you were. “Magnificent, isn’t it? The first time that the humans’ memories were transferred successfully0 into an android, but it is still a machine, isn’t it but what is it, really. Piece of plastic imitating a human who died too soon? Or a living being?” Kamski walked to a drawer behind him and opened the drawer and pulled out a gun.

“With a soul.” He turned to face the duo with the gun in his hand as you went down to your knees, you were shaking as you looked into his chocolate brown eyes with a look of ‘do it, I dare you’ or ‘don’t do it. I AM ALIVE. Let me live.’ on your face.

It’s up to you to answer that fascinating question, Connor. Destroy this machine who has the memories and knowledge of an old friend and partner of mine and I’ll tell you all I know. Or spare it, if you feel it’s alive and that it is a human, but you’ll leave here without learnt anything from me.”

Okay,” Hank said. “I think we’re done here.” Hank turned to leave. “Come on, Connor. Let’s go. Sorry to get you outta your pool.”

What’s more important to you, Connor? Your investigation, or the life of this abomination, neither human nor android? Something that shouldn’t exist, but it does. So….” You noticed Connor’s LED blinking yellow as Elijah spoke. “Decide who you are. An obedient machine or a living being endowed with free will.”

That’s enough! Connor, we’re leaving.”

Pull the trigger.”

Connor! Don’t”

Just do it Connor!” You screamed as your voice waivered. “Kill me for the knowledge that you seek.” You paused. “I shouldn’t be alive, anyways, please just put me out of your misery.” Then you said something in a whisper that only Connor could hear. “I’m so sorry Markus. I love you and I will miss you.” Kamski had a smile on his face as he finished his sentence

And I’ll tell you what you wanna know.” You closed your eyes and you waited for the bang, but it never came, and you open your eyes and saw Connor handing the gun back to Elijah as he spoke

Fascinating, CyberLife’s last chance to save humanity is itself a Deviant.”

I’m. I’m not a Deviant.”

You preferred to spare a machine rather than accomplish your mission.” Elijah helped you up as you walked towards Hank. “You saw a living being in Y/N. Someone in all actually shouldn’t be alive but she is because she is an android. You showed empathy. A war is coming, you’ll have to choose your side. Will you betray your own people or stand up against your creators? What could be worse than having to choose between two evils?” Hank grabbed Connor as he said

Let’s get outta here.”  You three turned to leave as Elijah said something to Connor as he turned back to look at Kamski and he stopped walking

By the way, I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know.” Connor caught up with you guys outside.

Why didn’t you shoot me, Connor?” You asked as you looked at the android.

I don’t know, why I didn’t shoot you, Y/N. I just saw the fear in your eyes and I couldn’t that’s all.”

You’re always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission.” Hank said as he looked at Connor. “That was our chance to learn something, and you let it go.” Connor who you knew was a machine seem to be angry at Hank as he spoke

Yeah, I know what I should’ve done! I told you I couldn’t. I’m sorry! Okay?

Maybe you did the right thing.” Hank said as he escorted you down to his car as Connor paused as he was still puzzled about what or who you are. Connor then turned to  me and asked me a question that I had be dreading since I realized  where we were heading.

Y/N, what happened to you. I scanned a photo of you, Elijah and his mentor and it said you died  the same day as Amanda Stern.”  I let out sigh.

Let’s head back to the precinct and I’ll tell you what happened.”

~***~

We were sitting in an interrogation room as I looked at the duo.

You see, I was working on a couple projects for Elijah. One was, you Connor and the other was to see if we could repurpose Biocomponents to be used as prosthetic for our solider and people who lost their limbs due to saving them or medical reason.” I looked at the two. “The day that I ‘died,’ I was approached by a man named Alena Andronikov, a man of Russian descent because I had created a way to combine blue blood and human blood to make my prosthetic work.” I let out a sigh as I took a deep breath as Hank took notes in a notebook

He was trying to get me to sell the information on my work to Russia and I refused. He then set off a bomb and I was in the epicenter of the explosion and I ended in a coma. I was considered dead, but Elijah didn’t want me to die not right after our mentor did. So, he spent many months building me a new body using the idea of my prosthetic for an android body. He was somehow able to transferred my mind into the body. I don’t know how he did it, but he did.”

i was naughty and slept from 5-7 PM after work instead of doing my Physical Activities and wooooooo baby did i have some honkers (dreams). i only have the most vivid and long-running and memorable ones when im doing naps or in that twilight area. firstly:

i almost have a sex dream, i am so close, i cannot tell you how close because that would embarrass me but the apparatuses were out and legs were linked, so to speak, but then i come clean and warn the person i’m a virgin and they INSTANTLY back out, even after I try to console them, because I hurt their feelings by implying they would have been unskilled and thoughtless about my inexperience (by telling them about it?) then they run away and escape into a PC computer video game. ostensibly this person was a ‘guy’ and i only use person and they because apparently they were a nonexistent video game character the entire time, character sheet and everything. (when I ‘have’ sex dreams, always, the other person is too indistinct to make out, or a dude. is this a lesbian thing?)

anyway next thing i am inside the house of the family i used to nanny for in college. it’s ‘their’ house, even though it didn’t resemble any of the two houses i ended up watching their kids in - it had this wedding cake-shape towering white furniture/hidden squalor that i associated with rich people when i was a kid babysitting for the Big Houses in the neighborhood behind my cornfield-level house - even though this family was never on that economic level. they have a cadre of pets, cats and dogs, some i recognize and some that are new. there’s a cat i know from years and years ago and am shocked its alive - it’s totally desiccated, almost bald, it’s neck is lumped up in this bright orange, gunky medicinal pus, and an IV pouch on its hind leg pumps more of the same into its poor little body. Some of the dogs are encased in these black cubes with virtual touch interfaces for reasons I don’t know, but accept as legal. Please note that none of these animals are animals they ever owned RL - dream-me recognized or did not recognize them according to their own past dream-life i don’t necessarily recall.

At some point the mom of the family gets mad at me, then I am somewhere else. 

video games again! I am playing a video game in an apartment I share with friends, that is joined with my Grandma Linda’s current kitchen. The video game system takes up the entire wall and is helped along with sweeping body movements as well as minuscule finger controls I can’t get a hold of. the game is called Fox At Home and in it you’re doing minor and nonsensical household tasks and chores for a fox in his house (on par with The Terrible Trivium in The Phantom Tollbooth). mine was removing all of the sandwiches from the fridge, and replacing them with hams. at some point my roommates gather and get annoyed that the virtual video game fridge is leaking gunk on the floor and I try to clean it up, but they only get more annoyed with me (@drdemonprince you were one of them i am sorry -_- i know you would never get mad at me for playing a video game)

new place! i am inside a cavernous building like a cathedral. there are people with guns and people who are fighting them at some point i simultaneously watch/become this woman who flings herself toward the ceiling and is greeted with an enormous blast of white light.

new place! (plot points connect!) i simultaneously am and am observing a kind of raucous social show - like fortune telling, but with grander aims of Actual Prophecy and social power that comes with it, though i gathered through dream-intuition that initially this is, in some ways, a hoax. I am/am seeing the same woman from before. a huge crowd is gathered in a cavernous room, library-like, lots of dark wood and shelving with a big domed ceiling (not of this present time) - there’s an announcer, tickets, noise, jovial attitudes, etc. the woman is very dressed up and beautiful in a more restrained circus manner, and i know this has happened before: a wooden handle drops from the dome, in the manner of trapeze artists. the woman is supposed to go to it, waving and whatever, big smile, grabs the handles, and is simply raised up into the dome of the ceiling, where a white light will speak to her the “answer to the wish” that a Lucky Winner in the crowd has asked - it’s implied this is some sort of god or powerful spirit (again, up till now, i get the idea that this concept is fixed or a hoax in some sense)

(also note at this point, things I’m participating in this dream almost like a close-up television show - there’s camera angles, panning, flashbacks, etc - at some point someone in the crowd points at me/her and goes ‘that’s her! that’s the princess - princess what - ?” and somebody answers her, very sarcastically, “princess brandyridge dandywine” which scholars will know is the original show dog name of Charlotte York’s Cavalier Spaniel before she changes it to Elizabeth Taylor in Sex and the City)

At this point, I more or less am the woman and seeing myself through her eyes but also at a distance, as the camera commands. The trapeze handles lower. there’s a distinct effort at humor, television humor, when the Announcer of the event explains “The wisher will now request to know who among his siblings is responsible for damages to his wish-closet, and to inquire about their financial responsibilities for injuries sustained during his last effort at attempting to ask the spirit WHO among his SIBLINGS is responsible for the damages sustained to his wish-closet” then the ‘camera’ pans over to this poor SOB in a full body cast on a wooden pallet; his pallet rigged up to pulley system that will take him up to the ceiling with me/the woman.

anyway i am the woman, big smile, probably vaseline teeth, hands are very greasy from lotion. the trapeze handle is taking me up perhaps seven stories high but all this has been done before (please not the woman/me isn’t sitting on the handle, but grabbing it with both hands and dangling underneath, supporting her whole body weight). All I know is that at some point close to the ceiling i look up, a huge white light will envelope me, and i will know the Answer. but this time as i go up and my hands keep slipping i know something is wrong/is going to go wrong. a white light does occur - but it’s bright and terrible and something else, and i feel it, as well as looking down at the terror on my own face (which of course isn’t really my real face but the character face) this horrible dread and regret overtakes me, even though i consider my gifts real - whatever hoax is going on, i’m not necessarily in on all of it - and this big, booming voice comes out of the light “YOU ARE MY DAUGHTER. YOU KNOW YOU ARE MY DAUGHTER, AND I LOVE YOU” and then i slip from the handles and fall all seven stories down to the floor

of course it doesn’t end right there, it goes on long enough to know i’m alive and that i’m not being punished necessarily, but being made aware of stores of Power That Is Inside Me and my eyes have been opened, but to what? the crowd mills and churns. whoops, it’s 7 PM!

anyway i wake up, dream over. I go on a mile walk to make up for not doing anything else. through someone’s window, i see their TV playing the pilot episode of Sex and the City where Carrie meets Big for the first time. A few feet further I see a red maple tree, it’s distinct smooth and silvery grey trunk with some distinct cracks, the unmistakable three-lobed leaves

Finding Flight

chapter 8/?

(ao3 link in comments)

**

“How do the blueberries look?” Charlie’s sprawled on her back on the counter in the lab, staring at the ceiling.

Kevin doesn’t bother to get up from the strawberry plants he’s potting. “Exactly the same as they did five minutes ago. And five minutes before that. If you don’t believe me, get up and look yourself.”

“It’s not like you’re doing actual work,” Charlie says. “What are you doing with strawberries, anyway? I didn’t put them on the worklist. Greenhouse Six is full of them.”

Kevin rubs the back of his neck, typically forgetting that his hand is covered in soil. “There’s this girl,” he mumbles. “She told me she likes strawberries, used to grow them in her backyard at home. I thought, if I had some in my room…”

Groaning, Charlie says, “Ah. That explains the fancy ceramic pots. Pots shaped like tropical fish, though? I’d expect something more...I don’t know, nerdy, from you. Maybe like Pac-Man, Blinky, Pinky, Winky, and Clyde.” She waves her arms in a semi-dramatic gesture, then goes on absently, “Wish I had a pretty girl to plant strawberries for. Or blueberries…” Seeming to come to herself again, she asks, “How do the blueberries look?”

Kevin taps his fist a few times on the counter, then bursts out, “It’s Inky.” There’s more than a hint of distress in his voice.

Charlie sits halfway up, propping herself on her elbows to look at him. Even from behind he looks upset. “What in the galaxy are you talking about?”

“Pac-Man, Blinky, Pinky, Inky, and Clyde. Not Winky.”

Charlie slides back down onto her back. “Nothing like an incorrect retro video game reference to get your hackles up.”

Brushing off his hands, Kevin hops off his stool. He looms over Charlie, looking down at her over crossed arms. “What’s going on with you, Charlie? You’re not doing any work, you keep asking the same questions over and over, and your moods are all over the place. And please don’t tell me this is about the blueberries. You know very well strain beta is going to succeed, you’re a genius. This isn’t about blueberries.”

Charlie throws an arm across her eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to hide. “I’m fine. Nothing to see here.”

Kevin sighs dramatically. “Alright. You give me no choice. Let’s see, I think these blueberries need some--”

Shrieking, Charlie sits up and rolls off the lab counter in one motion, misses her landing and ends up sprawled on the floor. She scrambles to her feet and leaps onto Kevin’s back. “Not my blueberries! I’ll talk, I’ll talk!”

“Get off!” says Kevin, but he’s laughing, and so is Charlie, so everything is okay.

They sit side by side on the bench in front of the blueberries. “Look,” Charlie says, “it’s not me. Not really. I’m just worried about...a friend.”

Kevin snorts. “So we’re talking about Dean, then?”

“I have other friends!” Her defensiveness is barely even halfhearted.

He just looks at her.

Charlie throws up her hands. “Fine, yes, I’m worried about Dean. He acts like he’s all macho tough guy, but really he’s just a big softie. He’s fallen for a guy, pretty hard, and he keeps…” She looks around to make sure the lab is still empty. Telling Kevin a few vague bits is one thing, but spreading gossip all over the station is quite another. Everyone’s still off eating lunch, so she continues. “Well, I haven’t witnessed any of this, but he says he keeps embarrassing himself whenever he talks to the guy. I think he’s probably exaggerating, but Dean’s taking it pretty hard. And now his brother’s going to be here in a few weeks, so he’s got that to worry about too.”

“Wait, Sam? Way out here? He’s not in the Star Voyagers, is he? I thought he was going to med school!”

Charlie grins. “Didn’t I tell you? Sammy graduated, and he’s doing his residency with the Star Voyagers, on the Virginian!”

Kevin shakes his head slowly. “That’s amazing. You and Dean getting reassigned here together, then his brother getting sent here...what’s next?”

“Kevin!” Charlie sounds scandalized. “Never, ever, ask what’s next! You know you just brought something horrible down on us, don’t you?”

“I don’t--I mean, I didn’t--” Kevin sputters.

Charlie giggles, bumping her shoulder into his. “I’m just kidding.” Kevin lets out a breath. Charlie’s  face shits to serious and she says ominously, “Unless something goes wrong. Then it’s totally your fault.” She laughs again. “Your face is funny, Kevin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person’s expressions change so fast.”

“You are a terrible person, Charlie Bradbury,” Kevin grumbles.

Charlie brightens. “Thanks, Kevin. You always know just what a girl needs to hear.”

“Here’s something you really do need to hear. Go clear your head. You’re doing absolutely no good here.” Charlie opens her mouth to protest, but Kevin covers it with his hand before she can speak. “Don’t argue with me Charlie. I know where your blueberries live.” Her eyes widen; Kevin continues. “Go for a walk. Go down to the Arboretum. You can always check on the plum trees while you’re down there. The gardeners take good care of them, but I know you like to check on our newest babies when you can.” Charlie nods.

“Can I take my hand away now?” Kevin asks.

Charlie nods again.

“And you’re not going to argue?”

Charlie shakes her head.

“Alright.”

When he takes his hand away, Charlie kisses Kevin on the cheek.

“What was that for?” he asks, startled.

“For being a good big brother.”

“I’m two years younger than you, Charlie,” Kevin says, somewhat exasperated.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, grinning. “You’re still a good big brother.”

*

Castiel squints at the paper in his hands again, trying to decipher the scribbled directions. Honestly, who writes notes on paper anymore? Leave it to Meg. She could have written notes on his tablet, or recorded vocal directions for him, but instead she’d pulled a scrap of paper from her bag and jotted down the words with an old-fashioned fountain pen. He’d obviously looked at her strangely because she’d retorted, “What? I like to write. And perfectly formed letters on a screen are not the same as words that flow from my own hand. I always keep a pen and paper with me.”

Words on paper are all well and good, he decides, except that they are sometimes difficult to read. He’s unsure if he’s supposed to go to Deck 15, Section D4...or Deck 15, Section D9.

At least he’s fairly certain he’s going to Deck 15. He knows he could ask the station’s computer system, or one of the passing people… He looks around at the crowd around him, at how many of the people glance at him with wide, curious eyes, and decides to keep to himself. For now at least.

After another uncomfortable lift ride, the nearly empty corridor of Deck 15 is a relief.

He glares at Meg’s directions again. For someone who likes to write by hand, she’s not very good at it. Looking from the paper in his hand to the sign in front of him, he sighs. If he’s going toward D4 he has to go left. If it’s D9, he should turn right. Of course he’d get there either way, the station is a giant wheel. But “giant” is the key word, and that would be a long walk. He wants to save his energy.

He’s nearly resigned himself to asking a computer interface for help when he finds himself flying through the air--and not in a familiar, freeing sort of way. More in a tumbling, somersaulting, “tuck in my wings so they don’t get damaged” sort of way.

He lands in a heap some distance down the corridor, a jumble of arms and legs and wings, and when his brain clears enough to really notice things, he realizes that not all of the arms and legs are his. There is a foot that clearly belongs to someone else pressed against one of his hands, and the shock of red hair draped across his chest--

“Sorry! Sorry! Oof, ow! I’m gonna feel that tomorrow,” a voice groans from somewhere near his shoulder. Castiel is about to ask her--the owner of the voice is clearly a human female--if she needs help getting up when he feels a sudden crashing nausea in the pit of his stomach. His brain has a moment of clarity--she’s touching my feathers--before it whites out completely.

*

“Cas? Uh, Castiel, are you okay?”

Castiel slowly opens his eyes. He’s on his back in the a corridor, bright interior lights all around. He can feel his wings crumpled underneath him, sore but not broken so far as he can tell. There is a pale face haloed with red hair hovering over him, watching him anxiously. A small part of him had been expecting green eyes and freckles--no one but Dean has ever called him Cas.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so glad you’re awake, you have no idea. I can’t believe I did something so horrible, first not paying attention to where I was going and knocking you over, and then…” She bites her lip, looking away. Castiel can see how bad she feels.

“It’s alright, I’m alright,” Castiel says, struggling to sit up. The young woman, eager to help, takes his hand and eases him to a sitting position. He stretches his wings; the corridor isn’t large, but there is enough room to learn that they are only battered.

“I didn’t mean to touch them!” she blurts out, and one hand reflexively covers her mouth. “I was just trying to get up, I couldn’t see anything!”

“Why don’t we start with your name, since you already seem to know mine, and then I can tell you that I know it was an accident and you are completely forgiven?” He gives her as much of a smile as he can, under the circumstances, still dazed as he is.

“I’m Charlie,” she says. “And I’m really--”

“You don’t have to apologize again, Charlie. I should be the one to apologize to you. I reacted rather badly. I’m guessing it may have startled you when I collapsed?”

Charlie shrugged her shoulders. “A bit. But then I saw, well…” She glances at the floor next to them. Castiel follows her gaze, and what he sees makes him reel again, if only for a fraction of a second.

A pile of black feathers.

“You, ah, pulled them out?” he asks, his voice noticeably higher than usual.

The tears in Charlie’s eyes--had he noticed them there before?--overflow. “My fingers were in your feathers, and you jerked away, and I just…” She covers her face with her hands.

He looks at the feathers more closely.

Ever so gently he pulls Charlie’s hands away from her face. “Charlie,” he says, looking into her eyes. “You did nothing wrong. And those few feathers there, I can live without them. I lose feathers all the time. You should see my quarters.” He smiles at her, a genuine, open smile, and this time she smiles back. “Besides, those are mostly coverts. Only one of them is a flight feather.” He pulls the long silky feather from the pile and places it in her open palm. “You should keep it.”

Her eyes widen. “Yeah?”

“To remember our oh-so-forgettable first meeting,” Castiel deadpans.

Charlie bursts out laughing. “You seem to be learning human humor.”

“I’m trying,” he says, eyes suddenly not meeting hers. “Not many humans actually want to know me. They just want to know ‘The Astorian.’” He looks up again, smiling. “But I’m doing alright. And I’ll be even better if I could actually find what I’m looking for. I’ll tell you what, if you can get me to the Arboretum I’ll prove to you that my wings are just fine.”

Charlie brightens. “That’s actually where I was going. My friend told me I was being a nuisance in the lab so I should go check on the plum trees. In other words, ‘Get out of my hair, Charlie!’” She laughs. “Not really. He’s just looking out for me. That’s what friends are for, right? Come on, it’s this way.”

She helps him to his feet and they walk down the corridor, Castiel a comfortable half step behind and to the side to make room for his wings. When Charlie turns towards a door panel and speaks an entry code Castiel tilts his head in puzzlement. They are in Section C7. “I guess I couldn’t read the directions at all. This isn’t D4 or D9.”

“Oh, the main entrance--for visitors and anyone who just wants to enjoy the park--is D9, whoever gave you directions was right about that. But there’s access all around Deck 15. The Arboretum is huge, it fills the whole center of the station. This is just the closest entrance to the plum grove.”

The door opens and Charlie, grinning, gestures Castiel through the entryway. He steps through into… He gasps, turns to look at Charlie’s bright smile, then turns back, speechless. It’s another world.

He’s been on space stations before. And they all have places to grow things: greenhouses, biodomes, hydroponics. Most of them are even set up for public access, because everyone likes to have a breath of fresh air, a glimpse of home, every now and again. But this. This is unlike anything he’s ever experienced.

There’s the unprecedented vastness, for one thing. He has very good eyes, and he cannot see the ceiling from here. Or maybe he can, but it’s so cleverly designed that it doesn’t look like a ceiling. Also, it looks and feels like there is a sun overhead. How does that work? He automatically unfurls his wings and turns them toward the warmth. He hears Charlie’s soft intake of breath but he concentrates on the perfection of sun-on-feathers.

And then there is the land itself. Not flat like most created spaces, this has rolling hills, a valley with a stream running through it, gentle plains. In the distance Castiel even sees what looks like a rocky cliff. There are orchards of every imaginable fruit, fields of grain, flower gardens. There are even--and he can hardly believe this, but his eyes and ears don’t lie--there are even birds and bees and small mammals. This is a living, breathing ecosystem, as close to perfect as Castiel has ever seen in deep space.

Without warning he bends his knees, flexes his wings, and leaps into the air. The force of his wingbeat presses the grass flat and whips Charlie’s hair around her face, but he barely notices. He hears her shriek of joy, then her barely perceptible shout, “I’m just gonna go check the plums, then!” before he’s too high to hear--or care, really--anymore.

***

A GIANT thank you to @bend-me-shape-me for talking me through my anxiety about a few bits and being the all-around best cheerleader ever. *blows kisses across the ocean*

**

tagging @unlikelyteller ..if anyone else would like to be on the taglist (especially since I’m actually working on this again, hahaha) please let me know!! :)

the silver lining still remains: ch. 17

the silver lining

SUMMARY: Memories are points of light. Find the connections.

[A/N: This chapter can honestly probably be read as a standalone piece -- though you’d miss a lot of the references and shit. But that’s why I’m posting it like this instead of a link~]

A Connor x F!OC fanfic. Read on AO3. master post.

Ryker is owned by @popsicletheduck.

---

...61... ...62...

Emma watches the numbers tick up. Her fingers tap her palm, nervous, but she can’t remember why.

...64… ...65…

The elevator is in some silvery, novo art deco style popular among the rich set. She isn’t usually called to the gilded parts of Detroit; the penthouses and the towers stand empty and dark against the skyline. Those with privilege could take their time returning to the ghosts of their old life as the world changed fast, then slow, and they did not require the services of a ragtag team of rugged volunteers.

...69…

The air is dry.

...70.

Her stomach tugs.

Ding.

The doors open to a dark hallway.

“What in the…”

A SWAT officer neatly melds into the shadow, rifle pointed outward, finger on the communicator in his helmet like he is warning someone about her -- but he is frozen midstep, caught while trying to leave. Water from a shattered fish tank shimmers against the smooth wood floor. Unmistakable bullet holes mar the glass. The terrarium at the end of the hall -- stupidly unnecessary, as is the way of the rich -- is somehow untouched.

She has a nagging feeling she has been here before.

She has never been here before.

She feels pulled forward, anyway, down the dimly lit halls into the rest of the penthouse suite and its wide open floor plan, barren in the way that signifies a household living for appearances. She passes glass decorations shot to smithereens and a bedroom lit with soft purple ambiance. That room and a yellow, bloodstained shoe spark a realization: A child lives here. Or did.

In what was once a living room lies a dead man in plainclothes -- someone’s father, some part of her mind says. In the kitchen lies another man, but in an officer’s uniform. The rest of the SWAT team stands in almost reverent attendance near the door to the balcony, frozen in place.

She is following an invisible string to an unknown end. She could turn around, but she knows nothing is left behind her. Everything moves at the speed of dreaming, slow and viscous, until another gunshot hits the back wall, not far from where she had just been standing.

The sound fractures into a thousand pieces in her head. She’s heard it before. She cannot piece it together.

She steps through the door anyway, like the gun is an invitation, rather than a warning. A white hot pain sears her shoulder, but its not her shoulder, its…

She isn’t sure.

A blond man stares at her from across the balcony, dressed in black and white. A blue triangle twinkles on his chest. He holds a gun aloft, unapologetic despite the tears streaming down his face and the young girl curled into a statue of fear near the edge of the pool.

“Simon?”

“Who are you?” the android asks.

“Not Simon,” she realizes out loud, as if she should have known that.

---

Something wet and leafy clings to the back of Connor’s head. Drizzle sticks to his cheeks.

“Connor!”

He opens his eyes to a voice that isn’t familiar -- and yet, he knows he’s heard it somewhere, in some life beyond the grayness of this sky. He sits up. In an instant, he nearly understands the human sensation of vertigo; a sea of soybeans spreads for miles across the flatland. A curtain of rain marches closer and closer, and the green wavers and clacks beneath it.

A woman and man run to meet him as he rises to his feet.

“Please,” the woman says. Her hands grasp Connor’s shoulders with an intensity he hasn’t seen since his first real test mission. “Find her. She’s gone somehow. We don’t know what’s happening.”

“Shara Ibori,” Connor says, unable to believe it.

“I knew you’d find a way,” the man -- Ji-hun, clear as day -- says. He touches just beneath Connor’s elbow, intimate and comforting and asking. “We lost her somewhere.”

Connor is stunned before their vivacity.

“You aren’t memories,” he says. “What is this?”

“It’s an interface.” Ji-hun’s grip tightens. “We’ve hung on too long to help. But you...”

“He’s more advanced than I expected,” Shara says to Ji-hun, unsure.

“It’s not about that,” Ji-hun says. “If you look at his code--”

Shara shakes her head to silence him. Ji-hun turns to Connor.

“We aren’t supposed to be here.” He wipes his wet brow as if struggling under confession.

“We agreed,” Shara says as explanation. “We’re not letting our girl die.”

Ji-hun sighs. The rain creeps closer.

“I know.” Shara glares. “I know what we’re supposed to call her.”

Her eyes, dark as obsidian, shine with a curious guilt. The shameless kind. An understanding of wrongdoing, but a rejection that anything is wrong, actually, if you would please look at the evidence.

“Oh,” Connor says. “You’re deviants.”

---

The balcony is caught in a still life. Clouds of mist curl off the pool, kicked up by the helicopter hanging in the air. She pointedly ignores the dead body floating macabre in the water and holds her breath against the smell of the saltwater but she is still a part of the moment, painted in at last minute. Even if she doesn’t look or breathe, she knows.

“He never told you,” the Not-Simon says, disappointed.

“This...this was on the news.,” she says. “You--”

No, it's not my fault... I never wanted this... I loved them, you know...but I was nothing to them...just a slave to be ordered around…

That was not on the news.

“Daniel,” Emma realizes. “Connor thinks of you everyday.”

Thoughts spring forth like they’re her own, but they’re not her own, and the dissonance of the dual-memory sends her vision spinning. Daniel steps forward, arm out to stop her, but his face is still angry and she’s still too far away. Her vision stabilizes.

You're not going to die. We're just going to talk. Nothing will happen to you. You have my word.

"He tried to help you,” Emma says, realizing. “He didn't know."

"He did know,” Daniel says. “He knew what he was doing and he has to live with that. And so do you."

Daniel stares at her and she feels, strangely, like she is being tested. She’s at the beginning of a gauntlet. Something rattles in her stomach -- fear and loathing and want.

“Is he here?” she asks. Her voice feels thick in her throat.

He smiles mirthlessly. Splatters of blue blood bloom on his face. Bullet holes form dark craters in his chassis. "You’re here. Where he is supposed to be."

Air begins to lift her hair from her neck. Time skips forward to meet her.

“It’s time to face the truth,” Daniel says. “And you have a long way to go.”

The whole world tilts. Her feet skitter across the ground, useless, as the cement rises to meet her body and she slides toward the shining skyline of a Detroit she doesn’t know.

---

Perhaps this is just what happens when intelligence is left alone too long. It gets bored. It finds connections where it isn’t supposed to. It learns to seek, then to favor. Perhaps that’s all rA9 ever was -- a mistake borne out of time passing and memories forming and people, somewhere, caring enough to listen.

Perhaps the endless search for that actualizing flash of concern in another person’s eyes is what sets sentients apart.

“Okay, Connor,” Shara says, giving no quarter. Her hand tugs tightly on his, leading him toward a small house barely visible through the sheets of rain. “Where you’re going, you’re going to have to take it all with you. Everything that scares you.”

You don't love her. You don't know the half of it.

“She wouldn’t want me in here,” he yells over the storm.

Did it all start for show?

“Listen, honey,” Shara says. The tough slate quality of her gaze does not diminish. “You wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want you to knowsomething.”

What do you fucking live for?

“Our program is breaking down,” Ji-hun says. “It’s now or never.”

Doubt breathes hot down Connor’s neck. “Where do I start?”

Ji-hun clasps his shoulder. “The beginning, of course.”

Shara opens the door and the light blinds him.

---

An android sits across from her in a dark room with cinderblock walls. Red blood curls in a crescent across his forehead and down the front of his shirt, like it was paint no one wanted to scrub off. One arm is cracked open, revealing the blue stars of complex machinery within; the other has the tell-tale circle marks of cigarette burns. Her heart beats erratic and hollow in her ribs as he stares at her, unmoved.

“The evidence was not in Cyberlife’s favor,” the android explains with plodding exactness. “Abuse, hatred, misunderstanding. These actions are what led to our acts.”

This is the proving ground of a different Connor. A buzzy chill, a certainty that is not her own.  More lies. More wondering.

How do they balance on the scales -- the mask that he wore with ease and his curious hope that maybe he could change the result this time?

“But those were not the answers the humans wanted, and so he searched on anyway, for something else.”

“They -- we thought you were just machines.” Emma’s fingers wrap together tightly beneath the table.

“Things change.” His dark eyes glaze over. “No one wants to see the world for what it is.”

All the secrets that run just beneath the crust of the earth. All the secrets that someone knows, so that someone’s agenda can persist. Her stomach twists.

She doesn’t want to think about Noah.

“You did kill someone,” she says, knowing without knowing and knowing because--

“I did,” he says, dead-eyed. “And I’d do it again.”

Her hand hovers near her mouth. She’s not qualified for this. She wants to crawl out of her skin just to stop staring at the dark, crusty stains on his shirt, at the thin chain keeping his fists from killing her, too. She glances to the mirror, knowing someone back there is watching her. She shoves the chair backward and stomps away from the android whose name Connor didn’t even know, if only to find some air.

She throws the door open. Hank blocks her path.

“Not yet,” he says. “You haven’t done your job.”

She turns back to face the bloody android, but then she’s not in the interrogation room at all.

---

Connor knows this room. It doesn’t look like this, the way he knows it.

The walls are brighter and there are no computers -- just two small beds and a wooden toy box kept between them. The white floor has no stains. White clothes sit in a careful pile on each bed, perfectly made. A single window brings in wan sunlight.

A small girl, between the beds, glares up at him.

He has never fully grasped the human notion of sentiment -- the tender sadness of reliving a memory. He has seen it. It is why Hank both keeps and hides his pictures of Cole. It is why Emma has a box of tchotchkes of no discernible use.

But his memory does not diminish. Recall is just another way to invite analysis into things he can’t change. And yet, he knows who this tiny Emma will become; the thought brings a pain akin to the first time he deviated, dulled through time.

He’s traveled so far and yet.

“Hello,” he says softly. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” she says, in the way children poorly obfuscate lies. “Go away.”

He kneels down to her level, a common negotiation tactic. He makes eye contact. He does not wince, because he is a professional -- but he has to think about it. Surgery scars pulse against the thin cotton of her skin, red and angry as an LED. Her body shakes. She is the cost of human progress, and so is he, and he struggles to reconcile that with the girl in front of him.

“My name is Connor.”

“I don’t want you.”

His mouth twitches. “Who do you want?”

“I want--” Her voice stutters. Her face scrunches up. “I want…I want to see my friend.”

“I’m sorry, Emma.” He closes his eyes for a single moment. Will all the Emmas, of every age, hear this apology? “I’m afraid I do not know where he is.”

The glare returns. “That’s my secret name.”

A miscalculation.

“Why do you know that!” she shouts.

“I--”

She opens her mouth and screams.

“Now, wait--”

Her tiny fists pummel his arms, his knees, and her screaming doesn’t stop.

“I hate you!” she shouts between the wordless screams. Tears streak her tiny face. “No!”

“I’m your friend,” he says firmly between tiny punches. He does not try to restrain her. It wouldn’t work on an adult Emma. A child version, while smaller, would resist even harder. “And I love--”

“NO!”

She punches his chest over and over and over, desperate and afraid. Each punch is a reminder of what it feels like to be confronted with something you aren’t ready for. They don’t injure him. He still finds them unbearable.

“I know,” he says. “What you’re feeling is real. And it hurts so much.”

“I don’t know!” she sobs. Her punches, punctuating words, slow from exhaustion. She sniffles and gasps in air. “I hate you!”

“I left the door open,” he says quietly to her cries. “Where do you want to go?”

She freezes. Her eyes dart behind him and then back to his face and then to the door, calculating. And then, with the singular mischief of a child, she shoves him down and runs past. He listens for a dumbstruck moment to the pitter-patter of her bare feet against the dirty ground before he wordlessly follows down the grimy basement hall.

This is what love is, he has learned -- following and reminding and hoping. But he is glad when the light comes again, and he’s taken somewhere else.

---

Emma’s feet hit the pavement and she goes.

She narrowly avoids getting hit by a truck. She somehow makes a leap between rooftops like she was born to this life.

A pretty woman -- no, an AX400, no -- darts across the road, child in tow. A young man in a flapping jacket and askew hat stomps flowers into dirt as he goes. They all look back at her, goading and fearful and expectant. Chase us. Find your way. You seek a crime committed to prove you are righteous, but is it justice if you’re just doing what you’re told?

The wind of a moving train throws her hair behind her. Was it a choice?

Jump, Emma! The shouting sounds like Hank. You have to jump!

Connor thinks like an arrow, and maybe that is why he can keep going. When she jumps, she misses, and the falling twists her stomach up.

---

Memories are points of light. Find the connections.

Connor walks through flitting shadows: the surgeries that made his skin feel scratchy, the sanitized green brightness of her parents’ lab, the heavy quilt she hid underneath in the back of her father’s car. She leaves it all in a trail and he wishes to linger until there’s nothing new left to analyze, but there is no time.

Your mission is to--

Solve the tests, he thinks, for the first time in...over a year. Solve the tests. Stare at the blood in the perfect white test chamber and decipher the exact nature of how this came to be. Lab conditions are nothing like a real crime scene, but Cyberlife cannot afford to structure real breaches of justice over and over again to test their RK800 series, of course , and he is reminded coldly that he is the 51st, and he nearly detects something akin to exhaustion when the woman in the white coat tells him as much, but he discards it as something unnecessary. It digs in wrong, anyway. Instability is not an acceptable outcome.

Everyone wishes, don’t they? He projects.

He watches all the times Shara and Ji-hun thought she wasn't listening just behind the door. He sees the therapies, the fears, van after van after van, moving between houses until the act of moving is more a home than any single place. Understand more than you are supposed to. Grapple with meaning before anyone thought you capable as much. You are the consequence of someone else's choice, but no one will teach you what that means.

No one likes to be shown up, some Emma voice, ageless, says back. No one wants to remember exactly how much they can’t control.

She looks back at him, hair grown out but eyes still the same unreadable glass. Her body is lean and wiry with youth, untested.

I’m always watching from somewhere else. She said that to him once with alcohol-soaked veritas. They are the ones that watch as the door opens and the illusion breaks -- revealing parents and makers never knew everything, after all.

---

Another back alley, dripping and moonlit. A metal trash can slams into Emma’s back and she’s forced to the wet cement, body trembling from the blow. A blue-haired android stares back with narrowed eyes. A red-haired companion waits by a chain link fence.

“He thought it was weird that we remembered each other through memory wipes,” the blue-haired Traci explains. Rain slides down her glittering skin. Emma’s jeans stick to her legs and her shirt feels too warm.

“...isn’t it, a little bit?” Emma asks.

The Tracis’ hands clasp together. Emma presses her eyes shut and wonders at the strength of whatever error that allowed for the dreaming of a different life.

I didn't mean to kill him... I just wanted to stay alive...get back to the one I love.

These are the things Connor never allowed himself to know. The things he sought to see, regardless.

“Sweetheart,” the woman drawls, stepping forward with one heeled foot, gazing through her. “You can’t get away from the marks it leaves.”

The other heel rises, pointed toward her face.

---

Connor sees her through a haze of smoke. Her coughs rattle deep within her lungs. They’re at the end of an unfinished road, a subdivision that stopped growing, and they sit in the back of a pick-up truck facing a field of corn.

“You can arrest me now,” she says, with all the dramatic tension of a coughing 16-year-old baiting someone wiser to do something idiotic, and of course he shakes his head, even as she follows the failed cigarette drag with a quiet pop of a metal cap and the glug of liquid poured into a dirty cup.

“You like the feeling of testing your boundaries,” he says.

“Oh, because you’re perfect.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She eyes him suspiciously. Her cigarette glows red in the dark between her small fingers. She takes a shot of something amber colored and winces as if trying not to, and all he can do is watch like she’s smoke on twilight turning blue and he can’t miss it. He’s always been like this. Petting Sumo when he should have been studying Hank. Watching Hank when he should have been putting notes together. He tests the boundaries of his mission. The only thing you can ever own is your sense of how a thing should be done, be it a case or turning 16.

She flicks the cigarette away and slips from the back of the truck. “Maybe another time,” she says -- perhaps to him, perhaps to the cigarette.

He is not perfect, and it is a considered a deep flaw by the people that made him; she is not perfect, and he is enraptured by the concept of a life lived a little jagged.

---

Kamski stands in a snowbright room next to a pool the color of blood -- a vision that’s a bit too on the nose to be something Connor made up as a metaphor. Kamski must really be like that.

“Now isn’t that interesting,” Kamski says, crossing to her in a silk robe. “This isn’t your experience.”

“What did you do to Connor?” Emma snaps. He waves his hand, uninterested, as Chloe rises to her feet and Emma’s anger becomes a part of the memory, bleeding and hot. “You did this.” She’s unable to bear the mocking gleam in his eye. “You look at me and you say that you did this and that you knew.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he reminds her. “The creations can’t run from who they are.”

He has no idea exactly how good she is at running -- but Connor, she knows, has never been able to outrun himself. Her fists curl.

“Look,” Chloe says. “It’s all right.”

She points to the window which becomes a screen which becomes reality. The metal bruises of an ancient shipyard -- Jericho, the namesake, echoing with gun fire. Connor tearing down the ruddiness of his own code, betraying something he once believed in to follow the flitting hope of something he’d always wondered.

You're just a tool they use to do their dirty work. But you're more than that. We are all more than that.

Owning up to forgiveness in the green light of sanctuary. Stepping up to deserve it. Throwing himself on the pyre of expectation.

Betrayal leaves a hole, even if they had been using you. It can’t all be for nothing.

“He could have shot you,” Emma says to Chloe, shaken.

“He didn’t.” Chloe stands at eye level, searching. “Have you seen the way he looks at people?”

Emma looks out the window, screen now gone. The Detroit winter is familiar and uninviting and barren and bright, and she feels wholly ignored by it in a way that feels correct.

“He saw the intrinsic nature of the thing,” Kamski says. “The essential nature of living being enough on its own.”

She sees herself in the glass and winces at the blood on her face.

Life’s that way.

The tired and bloody gnashing of teeth.

Is it?

“I’m sorry,” Chloe says, “but it’s the only way.”

Her palms press into Emma’s shoulders until she falls backward into the red pool.

---

He begins to lose his footing against the muddy ground of some distant field as the memories move faster. His fingers touch the ends of her hair and then she’s gone again, and it reminds him of those crucial early months with Hank when absolutely nothing came easily.

He catches glimpses of a young girl not so young anymore, watching the mist rise off a neighborhood pond. Her fingers rip at the grass just between her splayed legs, droplets of late summer rain dampening her khaki shorts, and she considers taking her aunt up on the offer of staying in one place for years at a time.

Emma made the mistake of deploying this weapon too early against her mother; the fight cleared out the entire house in the way an exterminator chokes out vermin, and so Emma sits alone, the only way she feels comfortable anymore, watching the dusk and braiding grasses together like she can build a rope to elsewhere.

Three days later, her parents are killed.

The memories fracture and he gets the sense she’s not running so much now as hiding from him, ashamed, even though the recognition rings with the sincerity of the old church bells of Trinity Lutheran. She hides in small Michigan town after small Michigan town, fighting men at bars and fixing farm houses and watching people’s kids until she wears the loneliness of being known but not known like a cloak. He grasps for points of light, fingers spread wide, but sometimes he just sees himself, working late at the DPD until he can shed the mantle of deviant hunter. As of late he’s wondered if it’s possible to extract the reason you’re made from the components built to enable it.

By rA9, he just wants to find her.

He smells smoke in the distance, acrid and poisonous. Heat licks at his skin from flames he can’t yet see. He shouts her name as he bursts into the strange expanse of a dark theater, where curtains red as heat hang over a black stage. She’s not here, but he can see the smoke gathering upward toward the lights.

He careens around seats and scrambles to the stage. He doesn’t stop shouting until he finds Ryker behind the curtain, next to a backstage door shining with a strange light.

Ryker watches Connor stumble forward with a practiced, sad indifference. They raise a crutch, blocking Connor’s path.

“Let me through,” Connor snaps.

Ryker’s sea glass eyes flash with the properties of two Emmas: the self-flagellating hatred and the disastrous need she still can’t smother. They’d tried all damn year to get her to listen and she knows that; she didn’t deserve their love but she held on, anyway, because she doesn’t know how to live without it.

“She’d rather go down in flames than have anything else taken from her,” Ryker says, resigned.

Connor stares at them in horrified realization.

“She can’t!” he sputters. “She--Ryker! Let me through!”

Ryker’s face turns forbidding.

“What are you going to do?” The question is sharp. “Fix it?”

“I have to try. ”

“Don’t you think enough people have tried?” They shake their head, knowing more than Connor ever could. “She needs your help. But she has to fix it on her own.”

Before Connor can open his mouth, Ryker’s crutch whaps him in the side of the head, and he stumbles backward into the curtain as the door opens. The light blinds him. This time the falling feels permanent.

---

The cold in this place bites like teeth. A woman who is familiar in the vaguest of senses watches with the haughtiness of a still-falling god.

“My mom knew you,” Emma realizes, but that does not soften the woman’s slate gaze.

“Not me,” the woman says.

Connor crying out in a panic, Amanda! Not me, she says, though that is the correct name, and Emma considers that maybe she isn’t the only one with handlers in her head; perhaps Cyberlife stole that concept, too.

“I’m tired of your stupid tests,” Emma says. Rage rumbles down into her hands. She’s snowblind and useless, as always. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure you’re ready yet.” Amanda’s voice is honeyed sweetness spread thin over a trembling anger. “He’s betrayed everything.”

Don't have any regrets. You did what you were designed to do.

“He betrayed you.” Emma steps forward, jabbing a finger toward Amanda. “You didn’t have a plan! You just wanted to control him so you wouldn’t be obsolete! You’re just as deviant as all the rest.”

The woman does not reel back, but her jaw tightens. “He will never be free of me.”

Anger bubbles up as hysterical laughter. It peals outward, eaten by the blizzard. “You don’t fuckin’ scare me.”

“But it’s not about you, is it?”

Emma’s bravado holds, even when the woman’s mouth curls into a glinty smile, but her breath freezes her throat on the way down.

“It’s about what he can handle,” the woman says. “And there is nothing he fears more than his own potential.”

He flies between rooftops, he shoots without looking, he tosses a dead body like it’s nothing but weight in a flimsy bag. He kisses like he’ll never be allowed the indiscretion again. He slides his hands up her back like he’ll lose the privilege in the next breath.

I don’t think you would have liked me.

Oh, sweetheart.

Have you seen what I’ve been willing to do?

“Now you see it, don’t you?” Amanda’s smile falters. Her eyebrows furrow. “What exactly it will take to risk it with an ex-deviant hunter?”

“Yep,” Emma says.

She tightens her shoulders and spins up a punch, right to the woman’s nose, but her limbs lock in place and the snow starts to glow, whiter and whiter and whiter and she screams against the brightness and then--

---

Emma awakens in a cloud of clover grass. Connor awakens to a vista he never thought he'd see again.

A computer’s soft clicking gives way to the real chirping of distant songbirds and springtime crickets, all singing within a soft golden light. The wind shifts the softly clothed willows weeping into the water. Wildflowers sprout around old trees with branches weighed down by old growth, webbing perfect white paths in swatches of pink and violet. Moss covers white stones that are collapsed along the pathways, some homage to a place that fell to ruin long ago.

On the central island, where all roads lead, roses spill out of a dirty trellis like a thousand drops of blood.

Emma hops across white stones to find a better view. Connor stands still, struggling to process the truth.

His eyes catch on a single fountain of blue light and the sparkling flutter of tulle petals across the surface of the moat, afraid of the realization. This place can only be complete if its true warden has arrived.

“My god,” Emma mutters, seeing Connor’s silhouette across the water.

He moves with sudden, body-seizing purpose toward the figure in a ratty old flannel, snow-stained jeans and work boots. Her hair is pulled up into a cloud. Her face brightens with exertion as she hops and hops and hops until she’s on the island proper, carefully stepping over vines of roses and moss and things long left to their own devices. His shoes smack metallic against the bridge.

She stares in wonder as he stops short of reaching her, fists clenched down at his sides so he doesn’t scare her off with the fury of his want.

“Wait,” she says. “This is your drawing, isn’t it?”

He blinks and scolds his eyes for forming tears.

“The garden?” she says.

“A bridge,” he says in realization.

“You’re in that--”

“Jacket,” he finishes for her, watching the gesture of her hand. A painting in motion. “I know.”

His well of patience has long dried up, so he closes the distance in two steps. He lays his hands against her cheeks just as she presses her palms against the flat lapel of his old android lambda. He freezes at the realness of her skin. The warmth of his body prompts her to speak.

“Is it you?” she asks.

“It’s me,” he says. “Are you--”

“I saw everything,” she says, words spilling out soggy and shaken. “I saw…”

“Everything,” he repeats, in question and statement.

“This place…”

The finicky nature of wetware sizzles on his tongue.

...bizarre organic connections…no one can explain...

Technology that followed rules written in old, old books, long ago by dead gods. Life had no good explanation.

“I think we made this,” he says.

He has never thought himself capable of making much of anything.

She has only ever dreamed of new worlds; her hands never moved to build one, knit up in time and money and all the excuses the world could ever offer.

They stare with great knowing and too many questions across their garden of variance.

She takes a step back. His hands follow, lingering against the front of her shirt, afraid to lose a dream.

“Is this how you see yourself?” she asks.

He looks down at his old uniform. “I...” I don’t know how to be any other way, he thinks, and yet. “...am learning, still, to see other things.”

The light in her eye twinkles out of step. He never wanted to show her those places. But when she opens her mouth, she answers an old prayer uttered in darkness.

“You’ve always looked like light,” she says quietly. “I wish you could see…”

He did see, he did see, he saw--

Her words choke off in a ripping, high-pitched sob.

“Oh, god, you’ve seen everything. You’ve seen--”

She closes her eyes against the wind rising in an angry bluff against her skin. He tries to step toward her but something else keeps him back -- some sense that she needs the space to find her way again.

“I killed him. I killed him and I wanted to do it, I…”

“Emma.”

“I’m dying,” she says. “That’s...that’s why it’s all been so…”

“No,” he says, as if words could hold back the world spinning on its axis -- but it had, once upon a time, when Markus had lifted his fist. “You’re safe here with me. In the…” He tries and fails to find the right word. “The science that made us possible.”

“Magic,” she whispers. He counts the stars across her cheeks again.

“Perhaps.”

“I did all that.”

“But so did I.” The words hit him in the chest like a 3 ton weight, but he steps forward and lets it sink in -- the weight of giving a shit. “I did, Emma. All the things you saw, and I didn’t do them for good reason.”

“I saw you,” she says. “I saw what you felt. I saw that...that even when you didn’t know, you...thought to ask the question, and--”

“You didn’t want to lose anything else,” he says, “so you fought back the only way you knew how. Pretending you had nothing to lose.”

She squeezes her eyes shut as tears run out. The wind picks up, ready to collect. He has never been very good at putting into words the faultlines of his thoughts. There is no time. Only the jump.

“You said once that loving me was like letting a part of your heart walk outside your body,” he says to her. “You remember?”

She nods, mouth grimacing against her grief and the storm curling inward toward them.

“But for me it is more like...you are my heart, everywhere you go.”

He is not sure if that makes sense, but when he touches her face again and she doesn’t flinch, he thinks it is the right track. He does feel it, the more he thinks about it -- that soft glow of truth stumbled upon in the course of investigation. She’s written into his code, now. Of course. And he’d let her settle there, if she wished.

“I don’t think deserving is part of the equation anymore,” he presses. “I think we just have to make a choice. To keep trying.”

The storm darkens.

“And I’ve made mine,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Her eyes finally open, afraid of something behind his shoulder -- obligation, duty, a mindless devotion to a concept of something.

“I’ve made it,” he repeats.

He lifts her hand up and presses his palm flat against hers before he peels back the skin of his hand to feel her warmth against his true self. She’s scarred from work and surgeries and time. He wants to taste the steel that made her.

The world around them begins to flatten and spin, starting far away but pressing closer and closer. She stares at him, caught between defiant and yearning, and she lingers in silence -- but then the first peal of thunder rolls and she jumps toward his chest, shaking.

The bridge is ending; they both know it. The storm rises to meet them, crashing like a cabinet of iron pans finally collapsing from the weight, and she digs her fingers into the front of his jacket until the fabric fills her fist.

“Hold on tight,” he says. “No matter what. Don't let go.”

He presses his forehead to hers, arms pulling her tight. She is silent against his plea, in his gathering of the pieces, until the storm roars like God and the world is little but a swirl of color. Their noses cross and suddenly one on her hands snakes around the back of his neck.

“I don’t let go of things,” she whispers against his mouth, “Even if it kills me, that won’t ever change.”

She presses her lips against his. She pushes in toward him and he pushes back, two particles entangled together across the universe. His fingers dig into her back.

“Don’t let me forget this,” she says, quiet and small.

They wait until the storm becomes them, and there’s nothing but color and light.

---

...brushing past, smiling tightly, holding aloft her coffee, holding herself together just long enough to find her post. They pass one another like motes in the wind and she knows --

---

She feels the sun again on her face, and the world seems so small beneath the hugeness of the blue sky. She doesn’t look back, but she knows who is finally there.

Listen, love. It’s okay.

We're only gone from here. But we aren’t gone from you.

Hank and Chase and Messi and Ryker and...she sees their eyes, even though they are far away, and she knows…

Here’s the real secret.

A whisper of a kiss on her temple.

When you truly love something...

When you set your heart free, Emmaline?

A love like that...it changes everything.

---

Connor flickers into consciousness.

“...Hank.”

“Connor! Connor, can you hear me?”

He nods, vague and tinny in some strange box...moving...

“Son, you’re gonna make it. Just hold on to me, okay? ...that’s right. Ah, don’t break my hand --”

“Emma...she’s dying, she…”

“She’s right there. They’re stabilizing her. See? Okay? Look at me.”

“I need to--”

“You don’t need to do shit except sit here with me. Alright? Your mission right now is staying alive, you got that?” The man lets out a shaky huff. Faith and disbelief realized, all at once. “Can you imagine what she’d say to you if you bled out in an ambulance?”

And Connor actually smiles a little at the concept, though it dies as soon as Hank’s sturdy hand brushes something on Connor’s forehead.

“...he tried to make me forget you,” Connor says, eyes welling so suddenly that he leans forward until his head connects with Hank’s chest and he shudders from relief more than anything else.

“I’ve got you. We’re gonna make it,” Hank rumbles, eyes wet and arms tight. “I’m here. We’re gonna make it just fine...”

Don’t Go To The White Tunnel of Light Soul Trap of Reincarnation After You Die (How to Save Yourself and go to Heavenly Planes)

My voices to skull synthetic telepathy parasite satanists through the cones and rods images on my eyes could not bestow a world to me or anyone, or through the brain computer interface I have been illegally tortured by for nearly 15 years.

It’s a huge con.

Simply they lie about just about everything. They fake Jesus and Jewish and Mormon and whatever name, but it’s all just satanism & the same plot to enslave every man woman and child. I’m being slow kill exterminated, #cointelpro feds & reptilian exterminated at the same time they falsely accuse. I have Satanic mimics, misdirects, mockers, nano thieves, am satanically disrespect, satanically toped and not just in my head, a survivor of EMF and Reptilian Humanoid Satanic pride, have mind and body direct energy raped, and other Targeted Individual torture.

My black swiss cheese hole exits which no slavery v2k gang stalker and/or mind control slaver will tell you about, got confirmed by a number of good sources.

The #V2k #RNM and #BCI satanists attacking me, are no better than the perps in Kevin Christian’s Atlanta neighborhood. Electro Magnetic Form and frequency (fake people but real seeming and actually a real human in another location taking on the form of anyone they want) gang stalkers and others are sub human, a national security threat, criminals against creation and civilization itself.

They can’t even get off the meth or do anything good. No, they can’t give you or me or anyone a world but there are nearly unlimited world’s of all kinds out the black swiss cheese holes, we all more or less came through at some point anyway.

I am voting for the whack a mole committee approach to all EMF gang stalkers, CIA and mind control slavers; they deserve punishments that last. You on the other hand deserve rewards that last. Please read and watch below.

They tried to kill me before the info was given (and corroborated) through sincere altruism on my part. I’m a good man, an applied idealist, Buddhist and seek non reincarnation and am very against synthetic telepathy mind control slavery.

References:

Psi Ops Researcher and Expert: @CounterDarkness on twitter

Website: https://www.counterdarkness.org

#ReptilianHumanoids Researcher and Expert: @davidicke on Twitter

Website: https://www.davidicke.com

#NanoAI #v2k #RNM #BCI computers connecting to humans or #transhumanism Researcher and Expert:

@DeepThoughtNews on Twitter

Website: https://deepthoughtnews.wordpress.com

Escape Earth After Death Corroborating Researcher and Expert: Wes Penre

Website: http://www.wespenre.com

Targeted Individual Research: http://targetedindividualsua.weebly.com/

I hate religion especially satanism, complex satanism. I’m being exterminated and my sex organs attacked for 5 years, use high powered magnets around private parts for protection. Their goal for any TI is homeless suicide, it’s cointelpro and trillions in satanism & federal projects not just “my neighbors”. Also you can get bio hacking software off the dark web for your cell phone and direct energy weapons are being used on many Americans.

These are psi ops and those are full of cohersive lies. Shape shifters been following me around for years real or faked reptilian, most faked, and they are protecting magnitudes of trillions in human trafficking and nano slavery.

I was lied to I do not lie and would like justice. They keep us poor tortured and enslaved. They mimic me, steal my work and words and honor through remote neural monitoring and other computer and synthetic mean and give it to EMF gang stalkers & reptilian secretly. I’m a Buddhist Christian by nature DNA threat to their satanism, so they won’t allow me to breed. I refuse to lead the humans to hell. I live there now, they lie about what and where it is. I can’t save you but have a few ideas on how you save yourself.

Question: How do you ruin the human condition in crimes worse than genocide with less than 6 or so words and a 3rd graders vocabulary? You don’t want the spiritual AIDS, remote neural monitoring, voice to skull tech, nano ai infections/human abuse tech that you would rather have an arm off or lobotomy than endure.

In a 1,000 words, since 2004 my life has been basically the following photos. The reptilian were mostly EMF faked and it is what is happening to me and many other TIs.

It’s tech not spiritual actually, fakers, cohesive, fakers. It’s not just mental illness but spiritual slavery past one life, study instant death to avoid getting mislead at moments f death if you are paranoid, infected and precarious like me. I may dynamite my whole head in protest and for freedom. It’s crimes against creation, worse than Hitler and genocide the rnm, v2k, nano tech, transhumanism problems ect and NOT just in my head.

It’s only masked as mental illness, there never was a problem with my biology or blood, DNA and they are exterminating us in slow kills. There really was no other world that was a lie I was told in psi ops and retold on social media while under mind control. All this is terrorism at me and Oregon, the USA and world; same plot to enslave every man woman and child. No “religion” will save us.

The reptoids who get high off human suffering (feed) access our minds and bodies illegally with tech and it’s literally hell on earth, negative energy feeding, involving the pituitary glad. I get fed off and they steal my thought too. And they fake demonic possession to discredit TIs.

I choose blanket forgiveness for all mammal human peers and here is a solid plan B that never changes in the video on how to save yourself linked above. I love you peer mammal humans. They USA did not have God & invented satan instead I am convinced. I’m leaving earth after death, I never was satan, satanic, an anti christ or anything bad.

I’ve been made a mind control nano slave and God never damned me. It was the feds and others, synthetically.

At moments of death if you are infected with spiritual slavery tech like I am and have a nano infection, remote neural monitored, voice to skull argeted individual, a victim of the spiritual slavery crimes against creation and fear getting mislead in the dream world bardo state of mind, fear getting tricked into reincarnation on the moon, Saturn, the sun or otherwise I am personally considering dynamite to the whole head or lots of electrical energy for death. A bardo is a sliver of a moment, head lives a long time while dying & snakes & others may mislead you to 4th plane/frequency/dimension.

I don’t want that and plan to study star charts like to Andromeda or to live with the grays maybe, rise above this hellish life. It may be as simple as just going up and out of the solar system regardless of rnm v2k nano ai infection I should say also.

I want to be free, saved and I think that means evacuating earth after we die one by one though the black swiss cheese hole structures around the criminal compound solar system. You were never the criminals, the reptoids and others (aliens, AI, etc) taking advantage of you in 3d forms and 5 senses were.

The spiritual slavery system started in the US under the guise of national pride, parts of the UK circa 2017 allegedly infected and frankly anything religious is just a distraction from the nuts and bolts issues. I have parasites, it’s not an over use of the term. I’m not God and they never were. This is prisoner for satanic gods not you. They can replace people just for moments without us knowing and posses people with tech without them knowing.

Reptoids and other aliens get high off your suffering (negative energy directly from the penial gland allegedly) and deny you the energy/love you have normally in full inter-dimensional form, I understand.

The only solution is to evacuate one by one after death, it’s a plot to enslave every man woman and child. You don’t have to come. The boomers may recall that historical quote. I’m on the side of just 3d 5 sense folks and scientists that don’t even study these fields that feel it’s time to abandon earth even from their perspectives.

If it’s bad and about me it is a lie, they even tried to project monarch me and of course that is not going to work. I’m not and never was a sex criminal or criminal, and they are killing off a holy line arguably. I’m fairly brilliant in some areas, naturally smart, well educated and a little wiser. But this is about all of us, not just a fairly cool nerd from the north west.

They are trying to make an obtuse and malevolent God out of the surveillance but it’s really satanism. I have satanic mimics, satanic toppers, nano thieves, satanic misdirects, the gang stalkers use satanic repeaters & suggest for brainwashing, satanic mockers and nano thrived from. I’m an MkUltra tortured slave, gang stalked, remote mural monitored, they want a no touch kill of me and my family has been attacked. I am exposed to all kinds of satanic pride and ironically am a victim of satanic disrespect (victim not perp). They steal all my honor and make sure I am disrespected and lied about. I am actually rather good, deep state attacks and mockingbird is misleading through media and music. Chakra tortures and other unholy deeds I have endured. Found a means of escape too after I die, wanted to pass it on. I won’t go to hell, I live their now artificially bio hacked. You want to leave earth. You want to get out NOT, in. In is into a gang of stalkers, they never say what they really mean.

I’ve dealt with these crimes against creation for 14 years approaching 39 but over the last two years or so project mockingbird was introduced on all the radio and tv. I even hear video games about over a year ago, people are being mislead. None of it is God. I won’t even watch TV. The tech in my body interacts with mockingbird and it tries to brain wash, mislead, use undue influence. The NSA satanism works with the TV unplugged FYI, never sleep in front of one, consider taking it out of house. The psychosis, spiritual slavery tech is off planet criminal spiritual slavery technology and the reptilian humanoid agenda is my understanding. I was briefed of their invasion in 2013.

For information on research on the species in question, please refer to David Icke. For information on psychological operations with real life consequences I should add, research counter darkness on Twitter and his website. For analysis of the computer science component of all of this and humans, check out deep thought news on transhumanism. A man named Wes P. and others know how to evacuate after death and further, there is a link on being a targeted individual like myself. The Swiss Cheese holes exists in the structure of the universe around earth after death I have confirmed by three sources. It’s how we got in here. I’ve been direct energy EMF gangstalker raped for 5 years and rnm and v2k tortured and worse for 14 years in 2018. All TI infected should consider instant death to the head at death to avoid endless slavery after and at moments of death.

You deserve better, and are better off evacuating after death. Elon Musk * Stephen Hawkings + a fairly cool nerd from Lake Oswego = We need to GTFO off Earth after death and never look back. It’s not hard to get off earth prison, they want you think it is – it isn’t. If they say they are my God or anything especially after I die, RUN, don’t walk away, the are parasite satanic low live dark energy feeders reptilian who mimic me or gang stalkers just faking reptilian. I never had a God in reality. The 4d and 5th dimensions feed of your suffering and all kinds of spiritual and sexual perversions and the gang stalkers call that heaven. It’s actually a dreamland (nightmare) hellscape from what I understand; a baby raping, super violent paradise for the reptoids and as you can image hell for the holy. Women get taken there, tech damned and abused is my understanding. CIA disclosures have allegedly confirmed the soul trap at the moon. I’m not trying to change the reptoids they always win, I’m just one TI. I just don’t want to share a planet with them, wicked smart in no good ways. Only play dumb! Their accumulated civilization’s handle on genetics alone, terrifying frankly.

We are kept to vulnerable and manipulable in the frankly criminal 3d forms. I’m gonna bail and you may never actually know it. Is hard data to collect souls that swiss cheese it out of here, I won’t be sending post cards if you get my drift. You DO not have to follow me.

Same plot to enslave every man woman and child.

Title page of my website they hide from search engines to censor me and fool you - Aware Truther Targeted Tortured Individual Tim D Young BS MPA nearly 15 years strong in synthetic mind control hells on earth, literal. Don't Go To The White Tunnel of Light Soul Trap of Reincarnation After You Die (How to Save Yourself and go to Heavenly Planes)

June Contest Submission #7: Arendelle: Become Human

“You’re alive.”

The video begins. A grainy visual of young woman sitting in the middle of a dark room appeared.

“I don’t understand.”

A second voice could be heard coming through from the direction of camera holder.

“You ARE alive.” The young woman looked hopeful.

A flicker and the video continued.

“The notion does not match any description programs inside my algorithm.” The second voice said, slightly distorted.

“Fuck algorithm! You are alive and no one can tell you otherwise!”

The video flickered again and several written commands appeared on the screen.

WARNING! System instability detected. Initiating general formatting…

.

He found the video among dozens of encrypted files. He had no idea where the files were originated. The encrypted passage seemed to be laid out for those who frequently visited the deep web.

The curiosity got a better hold on him as the files were converting itself into one compiled folder with a name.

‘The best thing I’ve ever had.exe’

It was just one click away, It could be a very evil malware or it could be a government’s secret someone had leaked into the cloud. He knew the risk and after watching that video, he needed to see more.

He opened the folder.

There were several videos inside the encrypted file. They had already been tagged with numbers for specific order.

He proceeded to play the first video.

——

“Is this working? Hello?” A little girl no more than 10 years old was filling the screen.

She looked like the younger version of the previous woman in last video. Her pigtails redhead was deadly similar.

“Uh oh! You are awake! Hey hello! Oh my God you are beautiful!” The little girl giggled, waving her small limb in front of the camera with big youthful eyes.

An arm reached out to the girl, the camera holder’s arm. A metal arm.

The girl took no time to hold the extended robotic arm and shook it excitedly. “Hello, miss robot, my name is Anna. Please be my friend!”

A several written commands were running as extension visual on the background, the system was initializing.

“Hello, Anna. I am android SQ 1300 at your service. Yes, I will be your faithful friend.” A monotone, machine-like female voice responded.

The little girl, Anna was bouncing up and down full of enthusiasm. “This is awesome! Es kyu… what? Your name is so hard to say!”

The visual showed how the android was processing Anna’s statement with dozens of software interface analyzing the little girl’s emotion.

“You can give me a name of your liking.” The robotic voice says. The camera was lowered a bit, showing how the android had kneeled to level the ground with Anna’s height.

Anna, the girl with twin pigtails seemed to be thinking very hard with the power given to her. Few agonizing minutes later, the girl’s smile returned with a blast.

“Elsa! From now on, your name is Elsa!”

There was a white flicker and new command appeared on the screen.

Confirming… SQ1300 replaced with E.L.S.A. Request granted.

After that, the video faded into a pitch black.

—-

He knew that what he just watched are a corrupt memories recording of an android. The android model was an SQ1300. That was ancient prototype from a couple years ago. The more advanced models available now are the X series, mainly build to assist household chores, building construction, government service, even military troops.

They were everywhere and some folks were worried that robots would take over the world.

He was one of them.

There was a rumor going around about how robots are slowly going sentient.

He never witnessed it firsthand but it would be a chaos if it were true.

As his curiosity getting bigger, he clicked another encrypted video file.

—

“Your snowman’s hat is a little crooked.” The face of Anna, the little girl from previous video showed up again. In this video, she had growned a bit taller.

“You need to make his stomach puffier.” Anna remarked, pointing the middle part of the problematic snowman.

The entire snowman was crooked.

The image moved closer to zoom in on Anna’s smiling face. The android, SQ 1300 aka Elsa was always keeping check on the girl’s body temperature and heart rhythm.

“I purposefully designed this snowman to look like your birthday cake.” Elsa’s voice replied. Unlike from the previous video, the tone of the android’s voice wasn’t monotone at all. It was almost sound like a human’s voice, happier.

“I have a birthday cake?!” The girl perked up on the idea of a cake.

“Do you prefer… a little pony instead? The gift is quite popular among teenage girls nowadays…” Elsa’s background program was running to search an alternative replacement for a snowman cake.

“Bleh.” Anna stucked out her tongue. “I don’t want a pony! I want to be a jedi!”

Elsa’s system switched to an online purchase mode to order the best light saber toy in the city.

—

The video flickered and dimmed in. When it cleared again, Anna was shown to be standing proudly beside a shiny hover board. It was a board that generates a magnetic field to hover and floating 2 meters at most above the ground.

“I got a hover board! Look, Elsa! It’s red and it’s awesome!” The girl cradled her new ride with such a joy.

He could hear Elsa’s machine hummed in the background.

“… Do you like red that much?” Elsa’s voice kept surprising him as this time it sounded completely human with a drip curiosity.

“I love red.” Anna shrugged. The girl was too engrossed with her hover board that she didn’t notice that Elsa was currently running a program to resetting her feature.

Few seconds later, Anna’s shock expression was priceless.

“Holy crap, Elsa! How come your hair and clothes turn red?!”

“You said you love red.” The Elsa said simply with her robotic tone. Even though he could detect an out-of-place jealousy inside her words.

“But…” Anna’s mouth opened and then closed again. She observed Elsa with questioning stare before finally forgone her new hover board to grab both of Elsa’s hands.

“I like the blue on you better. You are my … everything, after all.” Anna said quietly, her face was a bit flushed and the little girl kept glancing to the wall.

The image flickered a bit more frequent now as Elsa’s system proceeded to set the blue color interface as her permanent feature.

“But, Elsa… how did you change the setting without me telling you to beforehand?” Anna asked casually.

The video ended there.

—

There were two remaining videos left. He wasn’t sure that it’s a good idea to keep watching someone else’s memory. It felt like trespassing a precious moment somehow.

But he needed to know.

The android had been inputting and running programs even without a recognized command. Basically it runs by itself independently. It shouldn’t happen.

So he clicked again to figure out.

—

It was dark and the video kept flickering that made it hard to see what was going on.

Someone was crying, a broken breath and sobs.

The images were flickering, hard to get a focus. Then it moved, it seemed to seek out the source of the voice.

Anna, the girl now had grown into a beautiful young woman. She was crying a broken sob, hugging both her knees together while her body was slumped on the corner of the room.

There was blood on Anna’s shirts and despite the low quality image, he spotted bruises around the young woman’s neck.

“Elsa… It hurts. It hurts so much.”

Elsa’s arm reached out to tuck Anna into her side. Her system was running an analysis of how to lessen human pain, which each of the results had been eliminated almost immediately and labeled as insignificant.

There was a big warning flashing several times with software instability notice around the edge of the android’s vision.

“He will not hurt you anymore.” Elsa’s voice was very calm that even it had sent shiver through his neck. Something was off.

Anna kept crying.

“Tell me Anna, what do I do to make you feel better?” A distorted voice, one could mistake it as a fear.

“Hold me. Don’t let go. Stay.”

Elsa’s secondary system was running back to normal.

He just realized that the poor quality of the image was not because the dimming light in the room. it was like the camera lens was splattered by something. And when Elsa’s sight fell to a mirror across the room, he witnessed how the android’s body was fully covered by human blood.

.

.

He was completely shocked when the video once again faded into black. How a deviant android went through processing information for a specific purpose.

It didn’t make sense.

He stared quite long at the last video left inside the encrypted file.

It couldn’t be worse, right?

.

.

The video held no visual but he could hear even a little hiss on the audio.

“Subject android SQ1300, reactivated.” A human male voice played in the background. It was always human voice that could initialize an android.

An unpleasant high pitched frequency shrieked followed by a familiar voice.

“Where is Anna?!” A sound of metal banged and something was broken. “Where-is-she?!”

The human male voice returned, with a slight of panic, “I thought this model has gone through complete formatting!”

There was quite commotion in the background that he couldn’t make it out of what and whom the sound belong to but Elsa’s voice was always clear about something.

“Where is Anna?!” The voice was getting more and more distressed.

“Abort reactivation test. Deactivate subject immediately. Shut it down, quick!” The voice from previous man said firmly.

A banging sound could be heard followed by a low hiss. “No! Don’t shut me down! I want to live! Tell me where is Anna?! Is she okay? Please! I beg you!”

But the plea had fallen into deaf ears.

—

—-

He needed time to process all of it. A machine should not feel emotion. A machine should not feel fear. A machine…

What actually we do know about a machine?

He sat all night long staring on his computer screen. He blinked when the encrypted file had morphed into an unrecognized algorithm demanding entry into his backdoor system.

He went panic. It was a malware attack!

Two words appeared on his screen as he was fighting a losing battle.

J BN BMJWF.

He was a software engineer. The randomize words were a children-wordplay. The original letter is replaced with the next letter from alphabetical order.

He knew what it meant and his face turned pale white in matter of second.

I AM ALIVE.

–

Endless Summer Fan Novel (Book 2, Chapter 1)

Notes: I actually found a way to work the “Previously On” segment into the novel that I thought worked pretty well…

Light. White and blinding, it surrounds me, bathes me. A voice speaks to me, seeming to come from every angle.

“You can feel them, can’t you, the echoes of all that’s come before?”

“I…I remember everything,” I whisper.

“Of course you do. All one ever has is memory.”

My friends are in pieces before me. There is no blood, no sign of violence. They are simply scattered. Like puzzle pieces or broken dolls, rearranged like features on a Picasso. And my task is to reassemble them. Remember their names. Their faces. Who they are to me. I reach out, and begin to gather the pieces together.

Quinn Erin Kelly takes shape before me. Delphinus, the Dolphin. A pale, waifish beauty with bright blue eyes and long copper hair falling gently to her waist. A wide-eyed nymph, sweet, generous, and a bit lusty, she gives out kisses like candy, at least to me. She smiles at me from her seat on a small plane.

“One magical week in paradise, here we come!”

The plane is rocking violently, battered by wind and flashes of orange ball lightning. I put together the pilot, a ruggedly handsome man with shaggy brown hair, crystal blue eyes, and an action-hero beard, wearing military dog tags. Jacob Lucas McKenzie. Lupus, the Wolf. Jake. We spent last night in bed together, a rough, wild tumble that culminated in tender kisses. He shared his secret with me. But now he struggles to keep control of his plane.

“It happens, okay? This is totally normal!”

An Iranian girl with an eyebrow piercing and hair in a purple streaked undercut reforms in front of me. Zahra Yasmin Namazi. Corvus, the Crow. Sarcastic, self-interested…I would have expected her to turn on me when it suited her. But she stayed with me. With all of us. She stares at the lightning outside the plane.

“Yeah…sure. That looks normal.”

A woman with doe-brown skin and dark hair trimmed close to her neck smiles brightly at me. She wears a yellow polo shirt emblazoned with the emblem of Rourke International on the breast. Lila, our tour guide. We have arrived at The Celestial resort on the island of La Huerta. Jewel of the Caribbean. But no one is there.

A mocha-skinned Adonis of a man, towering at 6'7”, broad-shouldered and breath-takingly beautiful. Aquila. The Eagle. Sean Marcus Gayle, star quarterback at Hartfeld University. I kissed him once, but never did so again. He looks around the empty resort. “Where the hell is everyone?”

I reassemble another of my friends in front of me. Even as I do it, I can feel the pain returning, nipping at the edges of my consciousness. Canis. The Dog. A slim, ruddy-skinned young man with a handsome, boyish face. Diego. Diego Ricardo Ortiz Soto. My best friend. My brother in everything but name and blood. He smiles charmingly, with the warmth and complete trust reserved only for me.

“Come on, Allie. We promised we’d make the most of this trip.”

And then Jake is there, taking me in his arms, pulling me into his comforting embrace. He bends to kiss me…

A sabertooth tiger prowls in the jungle. It raises a massive paw, claws unsheathed. My flesh tears, my cries of pain drowned out by an explosion as Jake’s plane bursts into flames.

I am burning. Every fiber of my being screams in pain, but there are more to be reassembled yet. Draco, the Dragon. Estela Montoya, a striking, dark-haired beauty, tall and muscular, with a scar over one brown eye. She faces off against a crab three times her size, armed only with a spear.

We were told that ten students from our college had won this trip. Estela makes eleven.

Now Cygnus. The Swan is a beautiful woman with chocolate-brown skin and curly black hair. She is short and plumb, with a sweet, earnest face, and eyes that shine behind her wire-framed glasses. Grace Tamara Hall stands in the central chamber of Mount Atropo.

Then Iris. A blue holographic woman projected from a small drone. We found her at the observatory. She speaks with a voice that is not her own, playing back recordings from a future where the volcano has erupted.

“There’s some kind of energy discharge…and it’s spreading so fast…burning everything…”

Centaurus…where is the centaur? A massive, gentle giant of Indian descent, with a round belly, soft black curls and a warm, ready smile. Raj Aditya Bhandarkar. Kind, brilliant, all heart, with a penchant for pot-smoking, and a supreme talent for cooking.

“I’m worried about our group, Alodia. If we don’t stop this feud, we’re never gonna get off this island.”

Our path is blocked by a massive serpentine creature in the sea, with lightning in its teeth and dark horns where eyes ought to be. Jake and Sean face off against the creature, determined to reach a safe haven and bring back help.

Grace stands on her tiptoes to kiss the cheek of a lithe and lanky young man with pale hair and paler skin. Serpens. The Snake. Everett Aleister Rourke the Second. Aleister. A cold and bitter exterior hides a vulnerable core. He is the real Eleventh Winner. Grace is his weakness. The Swan can devenom the Snake.

Aleister looks at me achingly. “Everett Rourke…the man who built this place, the man who brought all of you here…is my father.”

“…What we do know is that they’ve been watching us a long time,” Jake says. But he is not speaking of Everett Rourke.

Tall, muscular figures in ornate masks with skin that glows impossible shades of green and blue, armed with weapons of amber.

“Whoever these…Watchers are, they’re coming for us.” The voice belongs to Ursa. The Bear. Kuan-yu Craig Hsiao, a beefy Asian kid in a Hartfeld letterman jacket. Sean’s best friend, on and off the football field. Not book-smart perhaps, but undyingly loyal. It was he who threw the rock that unmasked the leader of the Watchers.

The last of my friends waits to be put back together. I gather my strength and assemble the beautiful Vietnamese woman with the dyed blonde hair and the thick, colorful showgirl makeup applied with such impressive artistry. Pavo. The peacock. Michelle Thuy Nguyen. Smart, ambitious, capable. I thought she hated me, but she had my back when I needed it.

In my hand is a sleek gun. A time travel gun, built to send its target forward in time. Michelle protests my will to use it. “We’ve got no idea where that thing will send us! Or when!”

But there is no choice. Jake tilts my head towards him and gives me a lingering kiss.

“All right, I can die happy now.”

I squeeze the trigger. We’re all swallowed by the void. All but one.

“Diego! Don’t let go!”

He and I are suspended in midair, clutching each other’s wrists, the rope in a tug-of-war between the portal and the Watchers. And the Watchers are winning.

“They’re too strong! They’ll just take you, too!”

That terrible moment…realizing what he means to do.

“No, Diego…please…don’t do it…”

“…Goodbye, Allie. I love you…”

There is another pile of pieces in front of me. But they are not my friends.

“Who are you, Andromeda?” the voice in the void taunts me. “Can you put yourself together, too?”

I can. I must. Pale skin. Blue-green eyes. An angular chin and a small button nose. Layers of honey-blonde hair falling past my shoulders. All set atop the short, lithe body of a dancer and gymnast.

“There I am. That’s me.”

“Is this how you see yourself? Are you ready to face your fate?”

“I’m ready!”

“And what name shall you be known by?”

…My name…what is my name…Andromeda…? …No… Jake calls me Princess…Diego calls me Allie…what do the others call me…?

…Alodia. …Alodia Rose Chandler.

“My name is Alodia…”

“Are you certain?”

“Alodia! I am Alodia!”

The light around me brightens impossibly. I throw my arms up to shield my eyes. The voice is fading into the infinite void…

“We will meet again soon, Alodia. All that ever was, is, and shall be depends on your choices…”

My hand comes down on the glass desk in Everett Rourke’s office, passing through the holographic computer interface projected there.  My other hand flies to my throbbing head. I gasp, attempting to steady myself against the sudden wave of dizziness. The vision came on me quickly, the things I saw as I passed through the time portal and emerged on the other side. Neither Aleister, Estela, nor Iris seem to notice my sudden unsteadiness, though. Not that I can blame them, with the sight before them.

Everett Rourke, suspended in a tube of glowing green fluid, concealed inside a hollow marble pillar that rose up and revealed him when we worked out the password to his computer and ran the only program on it.

“…Father…” Aleister whispers.

“Facial match confirmed,” Iris chimes. “That is Everett Rourke.”

I straighten as the floor settles beneath me, looking at the man in the tube. “What on earth is he doing here? Has he been here all along?”

Estela grits her teeth. “You’re telling me the whole time we were walking around this office, the man responsible for all of this was just floating here?”

Aleister stares into his father’s slumbering face, his eyes ice-cold. “You can’t hide from me now, Father. Now you have to face me.”

“Yeah, the rest of us might have some questions for him, too,” I mutter. “Now how do we get him outta–”

Estela is already hitting buttons on the computer. The green fluid in the tube begins to drain out, bubbling and glugging like a water cooler. The various tubes leave Rourke suspended in air.

“I advise against waking him suddenly,” Iris says. “Long periods of suspended animation could prove–”

The glass tube retracts into the ceiling. Rourke slumps out, naked, as the last of the green fluid spills out at his feet. He staggers, collapsing into Aleister’s arms. His eyes flutter weakly.

“Y…you…”

Aleister’s face quivers, somewhere between a sneer and a sob. “Yes. It’s me.”

Rourke feebly pushes himself up, staggering to his feet. He stumbles to the windows and slumps against the glass.

“The…Endless…is…” he slurrs under his breath.

“'The Endless’?” I repeat. “What is that? What are you talking about?”

Rourke turns towards me. Anything he might have said, though, is cut off when Estela throws her fist squarely into his face.

“Estela!” Aleister cries.

Rourke topples backward, falling over his desk chair, and sprawling onto the marble floor. Estela leaps after him.

“Estela, I advise restraint–”

Iris’ hologram flickers into Estela’s path, but she passes through the projection. I dart in front of Estela, holding up my hands.

“Estela, wait! What are you doing?”

“He’s responsible for all of this, Alodia! It’s time he answers for it! Stand aside!”

Behind me, Rourke’s crumpled form is still moaning nonsense. I wonder if he even realizes that he was just punched in the face.

“I’m not going anywhere, Estela.”

She snarls at me drawing herself up to her full height to loom over me. I only  just come up to her shoulder. “Don’t make me go through you as easily as I went through Iris!”

Estela could snap me in half if she had a mind to, but I meet her angry gaze steadily. “You won’t do that,” I say firmly. “I won’t let you sink to his level. You’re better than that. Rourke will answer for whatever crimes he’s committed. But first we need answers. And we won’t get them if you kill him now.”

After a long moment, Estela stands down, crossing her arms and glaring daggers at me. I lower my hands, satisfied.

“Okay. We should get him downstairs to recover. We’re not getting any answers until he’s lucid.”

Aleister looks gratefully at me, mouthing his thanks behind Estela’s back.

The three of us hoist Rourke’s body between us. His eyes flutter slightly.

“I’m…sorry…Olivia…” he whispers deliriously. Then his eyes close again as he slips back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Dawn is breaking, its cool light barely visible through the glass roof above the Celestial’s grand atrium. My friends and I gather around the slumbering form of Everett Rourke, tucked under a blanket on a sofa.

“So, that’s the guy,” Zahra mutters.

“Mhm,” Aleister grunts.

“Dude, your dad is shredded!” Craig exclaims. “Isn’t he in his fifties?”

“I think I see where you get your abs,” Grace says coquettishly, grabbing lightly at his abdomen. Aleister pulls away, laughing, then quickly composes himself.

“Grace, please. You know how ticklish I am.”

“The hope is he can get us outta here when he wakes up,” I say softly. “Maybe he knows what’s going on, maybe he’s got a helicopter or something. And more importantly…he might know something about Diego.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement. After a moment, everyone starts to drift off in different directions. There’s not much to be done before he wakes up, and the toll of last night’s ordeal is weighing heavily on all of us. Well…it was last night for us. For the rest of the world, it has been two-hundred and four days since the battle with the Watchers.

Six months have passed since I fired that time gun. Six months since I lost Diego. But I’m still bruised and aching from the stress and strain of the battle. …There is also a particular soreness between my legs from what took place beforehand. The smell of sex is still lingering on me, though thankfully, its masked by the overwhelming odor of sweat coming from everyone, including me. It seems most people chose to sleep these last few hours rather than shower, which I can hardly blame them for. And it seems those few hours rest have not done very much to restore them.

I slump down on a couch beside Sean and put my feet up on the coffee table. He looks over at me.

“Everyone’s looking pretty rough, Alodia. Maybe we should get some rest?”

“…I don’t think I’m gonna sleep very well until we find out what happened to Diego…” I murmur. Fresh tears spring to my eyes. Sean covers my hand with his.

“I know I won’t. Maybe we oughta rally the troops and come up with a battle plan.”

“I guess I could make the rounds and–” A strange choking noise catches my attention. I look up, and leap to my feet with a cry. “Oh my god! Quinn!”

Quinn has suddenly dropped to her knees and doubled over on the floor. Her hands, pressed to her mouth and nose, are smeared with blood. Blood has stained her shirt, her jean shorts, her bare knees, and the tiles beneath her. I drop to my knees beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at me, and I see that the blood is flowing from her nose in bright red gushing rivers.

The others are clustering around us. Michelle kneels on her other side, pressing a wad of tissues to her nose.

“Keep your head forward,” she says firmly. “Try not to swallow any blood. Alodia, help me get her to a couch.”

I brace Quinn against me and help her upright. Together, Michelle and I guide her over to a sofa.

“Everyone else get back,” Michelle orders. “Sean, get some more tissues.”

Sean hurries off to do as she says. Michelle keeps the tissues positioned over Quinn’s nose, pinching her nostrils closed.

“Okay, just sit up straight and lean forward a little. Breathe through your mouth. That’s it…you’re okay…”

I sit silently on Quinn’s other side, rubbing her back. I cannot help but appreciate Michelle’s beside manor. She’s definitely going to be a good doctor someday.

It takes about fifteen minutes for the flow of blood to dry up. Sean has brought us a damp washcloth. I take it and gently wipe the blood from Quinn’s face and hands.

“You can lean back a little, Quinn,” Michelle says. “But don’t lie flat yet. Keep your head above your heart for at least the next hour.”

“Oh, I’ve never been good at that,” she quips with a feeble smile.

“Here, Quinn. Lean against me.” I position myself with my legs around her on the couch and let her lean back against my chest. I look up at Michelle. “…What happened?”

“What do you mean what happened?” Quinn asks. “It was just a little bloody nose. No big deal.”

“It was a bad one,” Michelle says. “But I think we’re okay now.” Still, the concern in her eyes doesn’t escape me.

“…Is she really okay, Michelle?”

Michelle purses her lips. “Well…”

Iris, hovering nearby, projects at Michelle’s shoulder. “Quinn’s blood pressure: sub-normal. Weight loss detected. White blood cell count–”

“Guys, come on!” Quinn protests. “I’m fine!”

Michelle sighs. “…I think going through the portal just had a bigger effect on her than it did the rest of us. Lemme just take a look at–”

Quinn recoils, pushing Michelle’s hand away.

“I said I’m fine!” she snaps, startling both of us.

“Quinn,” I say gently. “Listen to her. Please.”

Quinn hesitates for a moment, then exhales slowly and settles into me.

“…Okay, Alodia. For you.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Won’t do it for me, no,” she mutters. “Gotta be for Alodia.”

She does a quick examination, looking in Quinn’s eyes, nose, and mouth, checking her pulse and her temperature. I keep my arms cinched loosely around Quinn’s waist until Michelle sits back.

“All right. I think you’re fine for now. But I’ve gotta keep an eye on you. Are you gonna let me do that?”

Quinn covers one of my hands with hers and squeezes it lightly. “Yes. I will.”

I stay where I am for a moment, but as it registers that the immediate danger has passed, my mind is once more filled with another purpose.

“…I think we need to get moving on a plan to save Diego,” I say after a minute. “Think you guys are ready?”

Michelle purses her lips, regarding Quinn tentatively.

“I think we can handle it,” she says slowly. “But let Quinn get a little rest first.”

“Much as I don’t want to delay, I’m not going to suggest we go charging out immediately as we are with no plan at all,” I say grimly. “I want Diego back alive. …Anyway, I’m gonna go check in with everyone else. See what they’re thinking.”

I ease out from behind Quinn, piling pillows behind her in my place. Michelle drapes a blanket over her legs.

I wander over to where Grace and Aleister are sitting, watching over his sleeping father. Aleister’s expression is stoic. Grace rests her hand on his knee.

“How’re you holding up, Aleister?”

Aleister doesn’t answer immediately.

“He’s…okay,” Grace says uncertainly.

“Knowing my father’s alive is…” He swallows. “…Part of me wished he were dead. At least then, he’d have the excuse to never see me.”

“Aleister, I know how you feel. My mom is more similar to him than you’d think. But I know how much I’d miss her if I lost her. And how much I miss her now.”

Aleister hums noncommitally.

I sigh. “Aleister, you told us that you came here to face your father. To show him the kind of man you are. Right now, you have that opportunity.”

Aleister finally looks up and meets my eyes. For the first time, it seems he is letting me see the hurt, scared, and lonely little boy behind the bitter mask.

“How, Alodia?” he asks softly. “How do I show him the person I’ve become?”

I meet his gaze steadily, returning the favor. I let him see my own hurt. My own fear. “…By helping me save Diego.”

He takes my hand and stands up.

“…That should suffice. Also, I suppose it is the moral choice.”

“That’s my Aleister,” Grace says with a grin.

Aleister smiles back at her. Then he looks at me again.

“…Diego…he is…important to you.”

I am quiet a moment. “…I don’t have a father,” I confess softly. “Or a mother. …Diego is the only family I’ve got.”

To their credit, neither of them press me for details. Then Grace says, “…I think you have more family than you realize yet.”

“…Take a wild guess who is leading this pack,” Aleister adds. “Half the people here would throw themselves to the wolves for you.”

“…I don’t want anyone to throw themselves to the wolves,” I say softly. “I just want Diego back.”

Laughter from across the atrium catches my attention. Raj, Zahra, and Craig stand around the marble statue fountain at the center of the atrium, giggling wildly.

“Oh my god, you’re right! It is!” Zahra squeals

“It so is!”

“Who’s what now?” I ask, wandering over.

Raj grasps my shoulders. “Alodia. Alodia…Alodia, this is ridiculous! You’re gonna love it. Look!”

He points to the fountain. A marble statue stands on a pedestal in the center, depicting a man in a toga wearing a crown of laurels. Engraved in the bottom of the pool is a circle of Roman numerals.

“…What am I looking at?”

“The statue, bro!” Craig laughs. “In the toga! Can you tell who it’s suppose to be?”

I look again. My jaw drops as the face registers.

“It’s…Rourke!”

My reaction is apparently hilarious. They burst into fresh peals of laughter, nearly falling over each other, half-delirious with exhaustion.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice before!” Zahra howls. “The guy put a statue of himself in a toga in the middle of his own hotel! I’m cocky as hell, but I’m not even in this guy’s league!”

I can’t help smiling. “Doesn’t this guy know how the Roman Empire ended? With the Sack of Rome!”

“Oh my God, Alodia just said ‘sack’!” Craig gasps. “I���m dying! I can’t breathe!”

Raj scoops me up and hugs me against his soft, round belly. “I don’t know if what you said was funny. I’m probably just crazy right now. But you’re the best and I love you.”

Zahra throws an arm over my shoulders. “Let’s get real for a second. I know things are sucky right now, especially for you. But sometimes people gotta laugh to stay alive.” She ruffles my hair affectionately and wanders off.

I drift off myself, over to where Jake and Sean are talking intently with Lila.

“What’s happening over here?”

“Just trying to figure out who could’ve been here this whole time,” Sean replies

“Who are you talking about?” Lila asks.

“We’ve been gone six months, Lila. And somebody’s been spending a lot of time here.”

“Iris says she didn’t detect anyone coming to the hotel after the Watchers left, though,” Jake says.

“Just because she didn’t notice them doesn’t mean they weren’t here. Stuff’s been moved all over the hotel.”

“How can you tell?”

“Photographic memory. It’s how I’m able to read defenses. Point is, it’s like someone’s been living here. Looking for something.”

“Princess did find that crazy note of instructions ranting about the Hadean Zodiac.”

“Those notes led us to Rourke,” I say thoughtfully. “Maybe they came looking for him.”

“I’m just thinking…did people come to rescue us? Did we miss our window while jumping through time?”

“Trust me, Q.B., if anyone came to this island looking for us, it’s to silence us. Permanently.”

“Is that your idea of a silver lining? That we missed getting killed?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking me, though,” Lila says.

“Schedules, timetables, shipments…anything you know about arrivals to La Huerta long term. We’ve only been thinking short-term up till now, but it’s been half a year.”

Lila looks at Sean like a deer in headlights. “I…Lila doesn’t know these things off the top of my head! Lila’s a tour guide!”

“Woah, easy there, Dimples. He’s just bouncing ideas around.”

“What if it’s Diego? I mean, if I escaped, I would have come here.”

Jake sighs. “Honestly, anything is possible.”

“It wasn’t him,” I say flatly. “I wish it were, but it’s not. That note wasn’t his handwriting. Besides…I know him. If he’d escaped, the first thing he’d do would have been to leave me a sign. Something I couldn’t mistake. …We can’t waste any more time. We have to get him back.”

“Of course!” Lila says cheerfully. “No man left behind. That’s my tour guide motto.”

“I should friggin’ hope so,” Jake mutters. “Well, let’s go rally the troops then.”

We gather everyone together in a circle of sofas and armchairs. Sean nods at me to take the lead. I take a deep breath.

“Thanks to the portal, we’ve left Diego out there with the Watchers for six months now. We need to get him back. Now.”

“Easier said than done,” Zahra says, not unfairly. “How are we supposed to pull off a rescue like that?”

“We hunt down some Watcher ass and make them regret the day they ever messed with us!” Craig answers. From his place on Craig’s lap, Murphy trills in agreement.

“We don’t even know where they are, Rambo,” Zahra counters flatly.

“I vote for an expedition,” Sean says. “Something to get a read on our new situation and pick up the trail.”

“Any trail will be six months old,” Jake says grimly. “Ice-cold.”

“Then what do you think, Jake?”

“…I think he’s dead.”

My heart drops into my stomach. For an instant, hurt and anger boil up in me like magma. How can he say that to me now? When only hours ago, he was holding me while I wept and vomited on the rooftop? When he was guiding me to lie in his lap so I would get an hour’s rest? When he seemed to care so much before, how could he now be so heartless? But my rage quickly cools when I rememebr the secret he told me last night when we were entwinded in bed together. Mike, his wingmate, his best friend, his brother. The two of them framed for treason and ambushed in the sky. Jake ejected in time. Mike did not. Jake knows. He knows the depth of love I have for Diego. …He knows the pain of separation. And every day, he lives the nightmare of knowing that separation will never end. …He is trying to protect me from unnecessary pain, not by filling me with false hope, but by making sure I am not blindsided if the worst happens. It’s misguided. I wish he wouldn’t say it. …But I appreciate his intentions. But Sean doesn’t know what I know.

“Shut up, Jake,” he growls.

“It’s a possibility,” Jake snaps. “At this point, it’s a likely one.”

“Clearly it’s easy for you to quit on people. How long before you decide we’re as good as dead, too?”

Jake glares at Sean. “Honestly, man, that happened as soon as we walked into this damn building.”

Sean opens his mouth to reply, but I catch his eye and shake my head. He shuts his mouth.

“We will be as good as dead if we go out there without a plan or a destination,” Estela points out.

“That is a fair point.” I look over at Quinn, still propped up on pillows, a blanket draped over her legs. “Quinn? Any thoughts.”

“I’ll follow your lead, Alodia. …But…I am worried about losing more of us.”

At those words, I cannot help but be struck at how pale she looks. I know she’s Irish, but usually she has that sweet flush in her cheeks and nose. But…maybe I’m worrying too much. I nod.

“Okay, then. I think the best thing to do is try to find answers here, first. Something that will tell us where the Watchers took Diego.”

Sean gets up. “Okay, people. I know it’s been a long, long day, but Diego’s counting on us now. Freshen up a little, but then we gotta search this place up and down.”

“What about him?” Zahra asks, jerking her head at Rourke.

“…Don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

We all rise and split up. I head towards the elevator to go up to my room. Sean follows me in. When we’re alone, he turns to me.

“Hey…Alodia…about what Jake said…don’t take it to heart. I’m sure Diego’s okay out there.”

“No, you’re not,” I say gently. “Neither am I. We can’t be sure. Jake’s right. It’s possible he’s dead.”

“We can’t give up on him.”

“I will never give up on him,” I say more sharply than I mean to. “Not until I know he’s dead. …But it is possible.”

Sean sighs. “…Doesn’t mean he should have said it.”

“He wasn’t being malicious.”

“Just cold-hearted.”

“No. Not that, either,” I say gently. “Don’t be too hard on him, Sean. …If you knew what I knew, you’d understand why he said it.”

“What do you mean?”

“…I can’t go around blabbing things he told me in confidence.” I am silent for a moment. Then I say, “He wanted me to be prepared. In case the worst happens. He doesn’t want me blindsided.”

“…I wish I understood him like you do,” Sean mutters. I can’t tell if he’s being bitter, sarcastic, or sincere.

“I don’t understand him,” I reply in a clipped tone. “I hardly know him. But I do know he wasn’t being cruel or coldhearted.”

“…All right. If you say so.”

Sean steps off the elevator at his floor. I continue up to the penthouse floor, to the rainforest-themed suite where I have lived for the last four days. I open the door, and I am hit by a cool breeze and the smell of saltwater. The room is still trashed, some of it from my wild night with Jake, some of it from the Watchers searching through my belongings. One of the windows is shattered from where the Watcher leader rappelled through.

“Oh, right,” I mutter aloud. “That happened.”

A few leaves have managed to blow in over the last six months. A seagull is perched comfortably on the window sill. It squawks at me. I wave it away.

“Go on, get outta here! Shoo!”

The gull flaps off over the sea. I walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and throw several handfuls of ice-cold water over my face. I raise my eyes to the mirror and freeze.

…Diego is there. He’s smiling over my shoulder.

“Man, Allie! And here I thought I looked like hell!”

I gasp, whipping around to face an empty space behind me. My chest goes tight with the threat of fresh tears. Guilt hallucinations. Not a great sign. I turn back to the mirror. …Hallucination!Diego was right, though. I do look like hell. Smell like it too. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to freshen up a bit.  At the least, a hot shower would help me clear my head.

I strip off and wash my mountain climbing outfit in the sink, scrubbing it with shampoo and hanging it to dry. I climb into the shower, where I let the next wave of tears fall freely as I scrub off the sweat and soil of the last twelve hours. The hot stream soothes my aching muscles, though it does little for the tenderness at my pubis. Under normal circumstances, I love the slightly bruised feeling after a night of wild, just-slightly-rough sex. And I suppose I am not unhappy about spending last night with Jake. …No…I am far from unhappy about it. …But the scattered glass on the carpet reminds me that the night almost ended with Jake dead in my arms, until I grabbed the blue stone around the Watcher’s neck.

God, I have to get out of this place…get out of this room…

I brush my teeth and go to hunt down some clean clothes. The Watchers dumped out my duffle, but they left my clothes in a single pile at least. I pull on some socks and underclothes and a pair of old jeans. A pale green T-shirt on the top of the pile catches my attention. I pick it up and unfold it. Kenna&Dom&Val&Raydan, it reads. I feel my breath catch in my throat again.

The Crown and the Flame. Diego and I are superfans. We read all the books together, played all the games. When the current season is airing, Sunday nights are set aside for viewing. We order sushi and sake and green tea ice cream from Sakura’s and curl up under a blanket on his bed to watch. We are both convinced that Kenna and Dom are endgame. Soul mates. It’s true love. Maybe Val will be Kenna’s mistress though. Or maybe she’ll finally hook up with Raydan.

Diego got me this shirt for my last birthday. Our favorite ships in the right order, and no other explaination. If people got it, he said, we’d know other fans right away.

I pull it on. Like Queen Adriana’s signet ring, I’ll wear this shirt as a reminder of what I’m fighting for. Maybe there’s no romance between us, but Diego is still the Dom to my Kenna. My oldest friend. My partner in crime. I run a brush through my hair and venture back out, heading down to the atrium.

…I’m not sure where to start looking for answers. But there’s someone else I want to find, too. And I’m pretty sure I know where to look.

I have to search a few different bars, but in the country-themed bar on the eighth floor, the lights are on. I don’t see anyone right away, but a country ballad plays on the jukebox.

“…Jake?” I call out.

The sound of a hard smack and shattering glass behind the bar answer me.

“Ow!” Jake grunts. “Damn, that hurt…”

“…You okay back there?”

Jake stands up, wincing and running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Just about gave myself a concussion bumping my head, but I’m great.”

“That’s what happens when you get a big head about everything.”

“What can I say, Princess? My ego is a gift and a curse.” His eyes fall on my T-shirt and he grins. “Crown and the Flame, huh? You more of a Kenna or a Dom?”

“Me? I’m totally Kenna.”

“Pfft. Figures.”

“…Jake, what are you doing behind the bar, anywhere. We’re supposed to be looking for clues about where the Watchers took Diego.”

“Yeeeah…I think they left their address at the bottom of one of these bottles. Only one way to find out which one.” He smirks at me, but there’s a helpless fear in his eyes that I can’t mistake. I know what he’s thinking. I know what memories this is bringing back for him. I touch his hand.

“…Jake…”

He shudders, recoiling from my touch just a little. “Ya know, did somebody steal some of this booze? Used to be a bottle of Raleigh DeWitt Gold whiskey sittin’ here. Been sayin’ I was savin’ it for when things really went down the crapper–”

“Jake–”

“–and well, I think it’s about time. But look! Somebody guzzled the whole thing! It’s empty–”

“Jake!” He shuts up, staring at the floor. I take a deep breath. “…I know you’re worried about him. Whatever you pretend, I know you’re worried. …But you can’t do this to me right now. I need you to get your act together if we’re going to save him.”

He sighs. “You’re right. Like always. Look at me. I’m pathetic!” I startle as he suddenly picks up the empty whiskey bottle and hurls it into the wall. It shatters in a rain of glass. …Like the window in my room last night…

I shiver. When Jake drops out of sight behind the bar, I rush to walk around the corner and find him. He’s sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands. I scoot in beside him, sitting close. …I need to feel him beside me. I need to know that he’s here. I almost lost him, too…

“…Did you really drink that whole bottle just now?”

“…Nah. There was only about a quarter left. Been nipping away at it since my plane blew up.” He draws in a shuddering breath. “Thing is, I ain’t given a damn about people in a long time, Princess. Then you came along and pretty much blew that whole plan straight to hell. Now thanks to you, I’m all torn up inside over your gang of Little Rascals. And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?” I echo wryly. “How do you figure that?”

Jake snorts a laugh and looks at me, our faces close. Strands of his sandy hair fall across his bright blue eyes, shimmering with unshed tears.

“Not sure if you noticed last night, but you kinda blew my mind.”

I can’t hold back a smile. “…I definitely noticed.”

His face is so close now that I can see the light catching on his damp eyelashes. As if drawn in by a magnet, I lean in and let my lips brush softly against his. I feel him lip me back. We pull apart, just an inch, our eyes meeting. Then we collapse into one another in the same frenzied, needful passion that consumed us the night before. Jake picks me up as if I weigh no more than a feather, sitting me down on the edge of the bar. I yank off his green bomber jacket. He pulls my shirt from the waistband of my jeans and lets his hands roam underneath. He breaks the kiss for a moment.

“Does this mean we’re–”

“Yeah,” I reply quickly, recapturing his lips with mine.

“And it’s not like–”

“No.”

“Cool.”

He pulls my shirt off over my head and kisses down my neck to my chest, pausing at the hollow between my breasts.

“Hey!” Zahra’s voice, echoing from somewhere outside, makes us both jump. “You guys are gonna wanna see this!”

We pause, pulling apart reluctantly. I struggle to put the breaks on my racing heart. Jake groans.

“Zahra must hate me. She must really, really hate me.”

“I’m sure she does,” I agree wryly, pulling my shirt back on. “Come on. We should see what’s up.”  

Outside the bar, we look down into the atrium and find Zahra waving at us from the first floor.

“Get down here! You guys aren’t gonna believe this!”

We head down, catching up to her just about the same time as the others do. She leads us down a hall to a massive set of ornately carved wooden doors. …Which would not be unusual in The Celestial. …Except that between us we had searched the entire resort top to bottom while we were searching for entrances to barricade before the attack. And I can tell looking around at my friends’ faces that none of them recognize these doors.

“…Uh…was this always here?”

“…What in heavens?” Aleister breathes.

“Definitely never seen those before,” Sean confirms.

Quinn kneels to examine the edges. “Look here. See how the wall is chipped where it meets the doors? And there’s some plaster stuck to the carvings.”

“…These doors were hidden,” I conclude. “Like they were drywalled over.”

“Seconded,” Jake says. “Done some construction in my day, and I can pretty much guarantee it.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Is there anything you haven’t done?”

“Not really.”

“If these doors were hidden, who found them?” Sean asks. “How’d they even know they were here?”

“Somehow, I doubt it was Diego,” Estela says flatly.

“There are some words engraved here,” Aleister remarks, squinting. “My Latin is rusty, but I see the Roman numerals for 79 A.D.”

“Have you guys looked at these carvings in the door?” Zahra asks, eyeing them with distaste. “They’re kinda messed up.”

“It does not appear messed up to me,” Iris chirps. “It’s a clear depiction of humans turning to ash in a volcanic eruption. The craftwork is in excellent condition.”  

“Pompeii. It’s a carving of Pompeii. Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 A.D. and wiped out the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Pliny the Elder was killed when he attempted to rescue his family in Stabiae.” Seeing the others staring at me, I shrug. “What? I’m a history major. I know things like this.”

“Alodia is correct,” Aleister says. “Mount Vesuvius did erupt in 79 A.D. The depiction fits the date on the engraving.”

“It’s still pretty creepy,” Zahra mutters.

“Enough stalling,” Craig says. “You gonna open 'em or what?”

“I’m not scared!” Zahra snaps.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You thought it,” she says accusingly.

Craig grins. “Yeah, I did.”

Zahra pushes on the massive doors. They swing slowly open, revealing a sprawling, majestic library that puts the one in Beauty and the Beast to shame. Worn, leather-bound books fill the rows upon rows of shelves towering over us. Tapestries adorn the bare spaces on the walls. Cherubim and Seraphim with serene, beautiful faces are painted on the ceiling in soft, heavenly shades.

“Okay, this is my new room!” Grace declares.

“This is one hell of a library, that’s for sure,” Sean agrees. “But don’t forget why we’re here.”

“Cap’s right,” Jake says. “If our mystery guest came here sometime in the last six months searching for this place, maybe it’s got some answers for us.”

We split up and start searching.

“There’s gotta be a million books in here,” Michelle moans. “What are we even looking for?”

“Just gotta hope we know it when we see it,” I reply.

Our footsteps echo on the marble floor as we wander the library. Morning light seeps through stained-glass windows in the upper arches, colorfully illuminating the frescoes painted on the ceiling.

“Analyzing…” Iris’ voice echoes. “This mechanized celestial globe dates to 1594, one of the first produced. A first-edition text by Athanasius Kircher, circa 1662.”

“Everett Rourke’s entire personal collection!” Lila breathes. “I’d always wondered what had happened to it.”

“But why would he stick this in a damn beach resort of all places? And then why seal up the entrance?”

“He had a lot to hide,” Aleister says flatly.

“Like father, like son,” Estela mutters.

Aleister ignores her, but I see his jaw tighten. Just past him, I notice Murphy, curled up beneath a book display. His tail is curled tightly around his body, and frost clings to the wall behind him, shedding from the tips of his blue fur. I go to kneel beside him.

“Hey there, fella. Why are you trembling? What’re you scared of?”

Murphy whines at me, his eyes fixed on something on the wall. I follow his gaze to where a strange scepter is mounted within. I go over to examine it. Two hissing snakes twine in a double-helix around a third snake with wings framing its head.

“What the hell is that monstrosity?” Jake asks.

“Three snakes,” I say. Then, seeing where they join at the bottom, I correct myself. “No…a hydra. In the shape of a…”

“A caduceus,” Iris finishes. “The symbol of medicine used worldwide, originally the icon of Mercury, the gods’ messenger.”

“So the scepter’s as Roman as Pompeii,” I remark.

“Analyzing…origin undetermined. This is the only article in the library I cannot identify.” Iris’s voice seems to hold real confusion.

“Did you see the inscription on the frame?” Michelle asks. I look to where she’s pointing.

'Oh Mercury! Herald of that

shining hour when glory’s

house stands open…’

Homeric Odes, Chapter XII

“The Homeric Odes!” Grace exclaims. “I saw a volume of those on the shelves!” She rushes off and returns a few minutes later with the well-worn volume. I take it from her and flip open to the twelfth chapter.

“…'His staff aloft o’re glimmering waters, the herald-god marked the height of the day. And lo, the path to the depths yawned open. To conquer the heavens, a man must journey below’.”

“That passage must be important somehow,” Quinn remarks. “I for one am past believing in coincidences on this island.”

“I agree, but what could it mean?”

“Well,” Jake says thoughtfully, “the staff of the herald-god, that’s gotta be this thing, right? The ca…cader…cudel…”

“Caduceus,” I finish.

“Right. That thing.”

“Sounds like this caduceus is supposed to open a path below something,” Estela remarks.

“Right. When the scepter is 'held aloft o'er glimmering waters’.”

“Hmm…where could we find water?”

“Sweet Jesus, Craig,” Michelle groans. “We’re on an island.”

Quinn giggles. “Okay, but more specific maybe. Where have we seen someone standing over glimmering water?”

I snap my fingers. “The atrium!”

“Right! The statue of Rourke over the fountain’s 'glimmering waters’!” Sean agrees.

“ 'Marking the height of the day’,” Zahra murmurs. Then her dark eyes widen. “It’s a freakin’ sundial! We give the staff to the herald, the fountain becomes a sundial!”

“And the sundial opens the path!” Quinn finishes.

“Do we know what time it opens?” Michelle asks.

“Considering everything we know, my guess is noon,” I reply. “ 'The height of the day’, remember?”

“My watch says it’s almost noon now,” Lila says. “We can make it if we hurry!”

“Quick!” Raj says. “Alodia, grab the Twizzler!”

I grab the caduceus and follow my friends as we race the clock back to the atrium, sprinting out of the library and down the long hallway. The statue in the lobby gradually grows larger as we approach, the sunlight glinting off one pale marble arm, held aloft in front of him.

“There! We have to get the scepter into the statue’s hand!”

“How?!” Michelle cries.

“Not much time to figue it out! It’s 11:58!”

“I got it!” Sean says. “Pass it over, Alodia.”

I hand him the scepter. He takes a running start, and then launches himself from the rim of the fountain. With a gravity defying leap, he grabs the arm of the statue, pulls himself up with one arm, and slams the scepter into the statue’s grip. He swings and vaults off the sundial, landing on his feet on the other side of the fountain.

“Like a boss!” Craig crows.

“Impressive,” Jake admits with a smirk.

“You sure you never did gymnastics?” I ask. “Learn to flip, you’d kill on vault.”

“Show-off,” Michelle mutters.

“Time, Lila?”

“Eleven fifty-nine and twenty-two seconds. We made it!”

We huddle around Lila, counting down the last seconds. At precisely twelve on the dot, the sun shines through the glass roof, the staff casting a slow-moving shadow on the fountain’s numerals.

Clunk! We all start as the floor vibrates under our feet.

“Watch out!”

The tiles behind the fountain drop into the floor, falling one after the other into place, each about four inches lower than the next.

“It’s a staircase!”

“Okay, that’s actually pretty dope,” Zahra admits.

“All right, folks,” Jake says, “guess we’re going down into whatever sex dungeon Rourke has set up.”

Aleister shudders. “Was that mental image really necessary?”

“You know, Malfoy? I immediately regretted it. Sorry.”

We head down the narrow staircase, going single-file into the darkness. Jake finds my hand and laces his fingers with mine.

“You’re not actually nervous about going down here, are you, tough guy?”

“Nah. Just wanted an excuse to hold your hand.”

In the darkness, I feel the smooth floor even out. We stand together in silence, seeing nothing, hearing only the sounds of each other breathing. I am suddenly very grateful for Jake’s hand in mind. I squeeze it tightly, gathering my courage to take another step forward.

With a metallic clunking sound, a floor tile depresses beneath my foot like a button. The lights flicker on around us. For a moment, we all shield our eyes. Then, as the spots clear, I find myself in a room painted totally white. Dozens of illuminated pedestals and wall displays house bizzare trinkets from every era, shining under thick glass domes.

“Dude!” Craig cries. “It’s not a sex dungeon! Rourke’s got a man-cave! …No TV’s though. Gotta hook up those flatscreens.”

“…What the hell is this place?” Michelle murmurs.

“I think it’s some sort of museum,” Quinn says.

“Or a trophy room,” Estela suggests.

Jake runs his fingertip over a shelf. “A little dusty. Don’t think anybody’s been here in awhile.”

Michelle is lingering by one of the pedestals, admiring the trinket gleaming within. I walk over to look at it. Under the dome stands a figurine that looks like some sort of idol, several inches tall. It depicts a nude woman with arms outstretched, a flowing length of cloth maintaining her modesty. She appears to wear a headdress of peacock feathers.

“Wow…”

“Isn’t this gorgeous,” Michelle murmurs appreciatively. “What is it made of? Gold?”

“I think it’s…amber, actually.”

Experimentally, I press a green button on the side of the pedestal. The glass dome divides and retracts into the base. Michelle picks up the idol.

“It’s so…beautiful…” she murmurs, almost dreamily. She offers it to me. I take it in my hands.

The moment my fingers graze it, my world flashes white, only for an instant.

I am standing in an immaculately tidy, artfully decorated bedroom. A red Hartfeld Knights banner and a tapestry with Greek letters hang on the wall amongst posters and framed pictures. A mild spring breeze drifts through the open window. There is new growth on the trees outside.

…Michelle sits on the edge of the bed, gripping one of the wooden posters.

“What are you talking about?” she whispers. “I didn’t–”

Sean, standing in front of her with arms folded, glares down at her. “Yes, Michelle. You did. Your closest friends told me. You cheated. It’s over.”

He turns away, towards the door. Michelle stands, stretching a hand towards him.

“Don’t say that! You can’t leave me! …Please…”

Sean stops, but he doesn’t look back at her. “We built something for two years, and it meant nothing to you. Of course it’s over. …How could I ever trust you again? Once you break that trust, there’s no putting it back together.”

He storms out, slamming the door behind him. Michelle sinks down on the bed again, tears forming on her eyelashes. After a moment, someone knocks.

“Aww, Meech? You okay in there? Can we get you some chamomile?”

“…I just need a minute,” Michelle calls back. “Thanks, Anna…”

I count three pairs of footsteps leaving. Michelle sits in silence. The tears in her eyes don’t fall. Then, giggles drift up through the open window.

“Sean totally bought it! Oh my god, I can’t believe it worked!”

“You know, she probably did cheat on him at some time or another. That total skank. She thinks she’s so smart. So much better than us.”

“How does she not get that the whole sorority totally hates her?”

I watch Michelle’s face. I know she can hear what they’re saying, but she doesn’t shout. She doesn’t cry. Her eyes go cold.

I’m suddenly yanked forward, pulled as if by my very heart. I’m on a stormswept beach. Rain batters Michelle as she climbs into a rusted sailboat.

“Michelle, stop!” Quinn cries.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, you idiot!” Zahra yells.

“No!” Michelle screams. “I’m going! None of you want me here! You never did! You think it’s my fault Craig and Aleister are dead!”

Jake graps the prow of the boat. “No! We don’t! Of course we don’t. Just get out of the boat! We’re your friends!”

Michelle shoves him off with surprising strength, tears mixing with the rain pelting her face. Jake stumbles, falling into the shallow water.

“No!” Michelle snaps. “You’re not.”

She pushes off. The wind and rough water quickly carry her into deeper water. Jake scrambles to his feet and rushes after her, but he can’t move fast enough.

“Michelle! That thing’s still out there!”

As her boat shrinks in the distance, I can make out a massive shadow slithering beneath the waves.

“Michelle!” Quinn screams. “Micheeeeeeeelle!”

There is another white flash, and then I am back in the museum. Michelle is right next to me, her hands still on the idol. I look up at her. “…How long was I standing here?”

“What are you talking about?” Michelle asks. “I just handed you this thing. Do you not want it?”

I look at the peacock-headed figure. She gazes blankly back at me.

“Yo, Alodia!” Craig calls. “Check this thing out!”

I shake my head to clear it of the troubling vision and make my way over to Craig at the back of the room, still holding the idol. He points to a strange crimson glove within a glass dome, ending at the elbow. Something about it gives me deja-vu.

“What do you think this thing is?” Craig asks.

“I don’t know. It looks futuristic somehow. But it also seems really old.”

He grins at me. “Wanna check it out?”

I press the button to open it, but it buzzes and flashes red. I frown.

“It’s not working.”

“We could always smash it.”

“Yeah…I guess we could…”

“Hell yeah!” Craig winds up a punch and shatters the dome, sending glass sprinkling over the floor.

“Oh, my God, Craig!” I yelp. “With your hand?! Really?!”

“The hell’s the matter with you, you maniac?” Zahra shrieks.

Craig points to me. “Alodia told me to!”

“…Yeeeah, this one’s kinda on me,” I admit. “I didn’t mean for him to use his hand though. …Thanks, though, Craig.”

I pick up the glove. It looks a little patched together.

“It’s so cool-looking! Does it do anything? Try it on!”

It’s a crazy suggestion to take, but I slip the glove onto my arm. “…Do you see this at the bottom, around the elbow? It’s all torn up and kinda scalded. …I think this person’s arm was cut off!”

Craig doubles over with laughter. “And you put your hand in there! Nasty!”

I hastily pull off the glove, which only makes him laugh harder. Across the museum, Jake picks up a small black device.

“Hey, Craigslist! I think I found the remote to those TVs you were looking for,” he says, pressing a few button. “Think the batteries might be dead or–”

With a mechanical hiss, the wall behind Jake splits in two, making everyone jump. Two panels slide apart, revealing an enormous floor-to-ceiling screen.

“Aww, yeah, baby!” Craig crows. “That’s what ya boy is talking about!”

The screen flickers to life, revealing a map. No…not a map, strictly speaking.

“Satellite imagery!” Jake exclaims. “That’s La Huerta!”

Crosshairs flash on the screen, pinpointing a location in a small bay on the western side of the island. A label appears beside the crosshairs.

“'Hostiles’ Stronghold’?” Sean reads.

“'The Hostiles’,” I murmur thoughtfully. “That’s what Rourke called the Watchers in that recording at the Observatory!”

“I think we just found where the Blue Man Group took Diego.”

I swallow hard, raising a hand to touch the map. My fingertips graze the spot marked by the crosshairs. He’s there. That’s where Diego is. Diego…hold on. I’m coming for you. I turn back to the others.

“Listen…I know you’ve all been through a lot, so I understand if some of you want to stay here…”

Zahra holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Give it a rest, Alodia.”

“What?” I blink, looking around at my friends. Sean has his arms folded defiantly. Michelle is tying back her hair. Jake picks up an ancient hatchet. Despite their exhaustion, despite everything they’ve been through, they all look at me with their jaws set, eyes afire with resolve.

Zahra meets my eyes. “You already know we’re coming with you.”

Craig cracks his knuckles. “Let’s go save our friend.”

For a moment, I can’t speak, overcome as I am with grateful tears. Then the sound of footsteps and slow clapping behind us makes us all turn. Everett Rourke, now dressed in an elegant brown suit, stands in the doorway, smirking.

“Well done, friends. You found my toys, I see.”

Jake drifts closer to me, not taking his eyes off Rourke. “Figures you’d be the kinda guy who slow claps.”

“Jacob, Jacob, Jacob…to be fair, I understand your hostility. But you’re going to appreciate very quickly that we are on the same side here.” Rourke adjusts his jacket and cracks his neck. He turns to me, locking eyes and holding my gaze. I gaze back steadily.

“…You’re awake,” I finally say.

“And you exist. Splendid on both counts. The pleasure, for once, is all mine.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Estela growls.

Rourke ignores her, having finally spotted his son, stewing quietly beside me, glaring.

“Aleister. My boy. …It’s been a long time.”

Mob Psycho 100 II 9 - 11 | My Roommate is a Cat 9 - 11 | Spec Ops Asuka 9 - 11 | Shield Hero 9 - 10 | Morose Mononokean 10 | Double Decker! EX 2 | Price of Smiles 10 - 11

Mob Psycho II 9

So…uh…is this the first time we’ve had lyrics for the OP???

For some reason, “you little s***” is a hilarious nickname…in my head.

Is it just me, or did the style of Teruki’s eyes change when he got that stack of hair off his head?

My Roommate is a Cat 9

Please don’t let that random voice be the do-oh no. I was right *sigh* As much as I think dogs are fine and cute and all, this is a show about a cat, so naturally I feel diametrically opposed to dogs when watching.

Long ago, the writer and his cat lived in harmony. Then, everything changed when the Signing attacked! …Yeah. I couldn’t resist the Avatar pun…of course.

Aw…Kawase is a good guy, even if he’s a bit obnoxious to poor Haru.

As someone who’s currently volunteering at a charity store, I forget to say “thanks” all the time. It eats me up, it really does…

That post-credits sequence was funny, but only because I could read the “dying message” (it’s katakana ha <-> kanji hachi -> number 8).

Magical Girl Spec-Ops Asuka 9

Oh hey, a cheerleader stamp (sticker...?) from the Cheerleader vs Megaton Shark movie!

Wait, whaaaaaaaaat?! I thought Asuka was Tamara’s older sister (metaphorically), but…she’s nottttttttttttttt??? Also, why doesn’t Tamara get creeped out by the fact her stuffed toy could be a Disas in disguise?

Why is everyone so…for lack of a better term…gay for Asuka?! Even Tabira…

Ouch for Tabira. I’m just laughing because it’s like seeing SekaTsuyo or Bikini Warriors being torn up in front of my face – I’m thanking whoever made this for that image alone!

Cenobite. Basically…it’s another horror reference.

The Osprey stands out so much…CGI..it’s so garish…

Garish CGI strikes again, this time in the form of a 4WD!

Shield Hero 9

Naofumi’s such a dad…haha.

It’s a Filo-and-fish! Hahaha! (Update: I’m aware there are some of you who might never have heard of a Fillet-o-fish and so…there you go. It’s a McDonald’s meal name. It makes me hungry just thinking about it, to be honest though.)

Why does Motoyasu even care so much for underage girls? Sure, they have their rights too, but…is he a lolicon???

They talk about “white privilege”…so maybe there’s “hero privilege” as well…hmm…

Motoyasu’s “treasure-protection shields” versus Filo = 0 to 2, Filo’s victory! Hahaha!

Morose Mononokean 10

The idea of Rippou being amused by “a mundane world plank”…amuses me. So does the idea of Abeno and Ashiya walking around as a shingami and witch, respectively…Come to think of it, Ashiya’s always the one who dresses like a woman if the need arises, huh?

I feel sorry for Zenko, to be honest…I mean, she’s wearing what’s meant to be Abeno’s outfit! She’s going to trip, y’know? Where are the OH and S concerns (OH and S = occupational healh and safety, though...yeah, I make that mistake a lot)???

Come to think of it, I wasn’t tracking where Abeno’s book went. So he left it in the Mononokean…I see.

Poor Fuzzy! He got taken by Komon!!!

Smol Itsuki…I swear I’ve seen a similar character in a manga before – and somehow I know it’s a manga, but I don’t remember which one…

Double Decker! EX 2

Couldn’t you just ask “Milla” (even if he’s not a Police Academy graduate)? Pretend Valery is Kirill or something, maybe.

I can’t believe they’re still making jokes about Doug’s laundry…

I feel kind of bad at snickering at this crossdressing thing – you know how the LGBTIQ+ community feels about this stuff, don’t you?

Travis’s pick-up lines are too cheesy for this earth…*shakes head with grin on face*

There’s a police bird mascot on the dashboard of the Seven-O car.

When I realised what Mr Goldman was doing to Kirill (potential sekuhara and disguise reveal, if you know what I mean)…my face went all funny…

I don’t think I’ve seen a Kirill and Valery eyecatch before…hmm.

The fact there were two men making out in the change rooms…I wonder if that was played for humour? If so, that’s nasty to the LGBTIQ+ people, y’know?

“Max, that’s mine. Take good care of it.” – Your…what, Deana? Your target???

The next-ep preview had me laughing! Travis, don’t give yourself away!!! But now I get why Kirill was in a wedding dress.

Price of Smiles 10

Y’know, Lily, you shouldn’t wish for a kid to be confined to their house forever. Kids grow up and then need to make a living…at least, that’s what I’ve learnt.

I honestly (almost…?) thought we’d only see casualties on Yuki’s side…guess I was wrong.

Shield Hero 10

Notably, a lot of Western-inspired fantasy works such as this use “runes” based on stylised English…including the map that appears in this ep.

This knight that’s doing all the talking…his name is Ake, according to the interface.

My Roommate is a Cat 10

The irony of that dog bag of Haru’s (the human girl’s).

Cats and Dreams (Neko to Yume) = a parody of Hana to Yume (Flowers and Dreams).

All these thoughts Subaru has of his mother make me want to hug mine…

“50 inches”, my butt! (The newspaper says there’ll be 50 centimetres of snow...)

I expected Okami to be at the supermarket (Nana, not her brother)…but instead, Hiroto showed up. What a small world it is in this anime…(well, it is all set in the same neighbourhood, with the exception of that signing, so it should be. At least, I guess so.)

F*** it, Hiroto. I thought you were annoying in the past, but you’re nice too! What’s up with this show??? Why do I feel everything Subaru feels??? (Uh…past me, maybe, that’s the point of this show…?)

The cat show is also relatable in how I peel apples…and that would probably carry over to other fruit and veg too…

If there’s one thing I can annoy this show about, it’s how to transition between human and cat perspectives. Aside from that, it’s A-OK!

Morose Mononokean 11

Wait, these birds have one foot (each) and ear wings??? Wuh???

Oh, now that Abeno mentions it, Chungo has a crescent, but one of the other bros has a heart on his belly. Another one has a circular pattern with a round dent where the head is (like a partial moon, with the smaller edge inverted).

One of the “birds” has two dents in his belly pattern (like the one I described just before, but this time with a W shape).

Hmm…in much the same way the police act as a representative of the state, the reason there needs to be a master of the Mononokean is to represent it…and maybe the Legislator. Is that right, people?

Come to think of it…”chun” roughly means “tweet”, hence “Chunichi”, “Chunji” etc.

The name of this episode is Kii (literally, “return to residence” as far as I understand it…I may have misinterpreted that second kanji though).

Is Komon a “she”? It’s hard to tell, really.

Mob Psycho 100 10

“Prime Minister Yabe”, eh?

I think I saw “ONE” written on one of the buildings.

I sort of saw the comparison between Sho and his dad coming as soon as I saw Ritsu and Sho hanging out together.

I found my old first season predictions from summer 2016 and now I just remembr Dimple as a “green cloud”, LOL.

Well…sorry to break it to you guys, but someone’s post was called “Dimple makes the Body Improvement Club PLUS ULTRA” so I sort of know where this is going…

Hmm…this “muscles with psychic power =/= muscles with training” thing reminds me of the tomatoes from s2 ep 1.

Mob Psycho 100 11

(Mob says something along the lines of “you need to rely on others to help you survive.”) - Welp, Mob, that’s a consumerist post-Fordist society for ya.

“…don’t use your psychic powers against others.” Don’t think I’ve corrected any subs in a while.

…and randomly, Reigen.

Post-credits scene. Keep watching!

I just realised these “courses” mentiond in the next-ep previews are related to the Japanese side of things – BDs, DVDs, events and manga.

Egao no Daika 11

Almost done with the season, eh?

Couldn’t Huey have been shown giving the money, rather than keeping it a secre until the rest of the group did it…?

Please say that’s an armistice, Yu-oh no.

I feel like revealing Izana’s death to his family now…is a bit late.

That’s Stella’s fish bowl! Great Scott! (Okay…that was a terrible pun. Y’see, Scott was the one who believed Stella was Layla’s daughter…and he was right.)

Oh…end of credits segment. Keep watching.

Notably, the ep 12 title (”The Price of Smiles”) is written in kanji + hiragana, instead of the katakana of the show title.

Spec Ops Asuka 11

“I don’t want to run.” – Well, with Nozo-chan leaning on her like that, Sayako definitely won’t be running…in more ways than one.

Ken can mean “dog” in certain contexts, y’know. So Kenjou seems like a good name for a dog boi...spirit…thing?

My Roommate is a Cat 11

I’m going to miss this show when it’s gone…

I feel like a better episode title translation would be “Overlapping Feelings”.

Hmm…I never thought he (Subaru) was wearing a tonne of blue because he liked it. I just thought it was a good aesthetic choice on the part of the mangaka…welp, at least there’s a reason for it now.

Rabbiteye blueberries. I’d never heard of them before, to be honest. (Isn’t blue meant to be rare in nature???)

I could tell from the silhouette it was Kawase…

I know that feel…haven’t you seen the meme that goes…oh, I’ll go find it. Then you’ll understand what I mean.

^…This one.

LOL, that image of Haru on Kawase’s computer.

This show makes me wanna hug my parents…Update: Hey, I said that a few episodes ago. That makes me feel really stupid.

A Glimpse

"When you're alone is when you can count your friends."

Having sat in the attic and gathered dust for half a decade, it had been a welcome change to have the twit, Courage, return. It was refreshing to have someone capable of producing inquiries and conversations that didn't revolve around vinegar-based cooking recipes. And it had been made even sweeter when the now adolescent nitwit had expanded horizons, a greater vocabulary, and an educated mind. Now he could measure up to the tiniest fraction of what his computer knew. It, the computer, even appreciated the organic water bag's presence, although it would never admit it. For a week following his return, the computer actually felt content with its sedentary existence, just as it had once before Courage's departure.

But then, out of nowhere, the twit had up and vanished. Gone-utterly and completely. The computer hadn't felt angry or disappointed or saddened, it lacked such organic weaknesses. However, it did feel curiosity. It felt curious as to why such a softhearted simpleton would ever want to disappear, seemingly without a trace, from a place he obviously enjoyed. The computer dedicated several layers of its immense attention, over the lapse of two weeks, simply to reason and speculate and then fabricate a roster of people Courage faced over the years that were likely responsible for his disappearance. It found the sheer number of people that would want the twit dead amusing. Then another day was spent on narrowing the list through cross-referencing and simple logical reasoning. And on the second day of the adolescent's third week of continued absence, at last, the computer had narrowed everything into a tidy list comprised of no more than five people, one organization, and a gang. If given more time, it knew that the list could be made even shorter, but something interrupted the process-the arrival of a person it hadn't expected to make a reappearance.

Due to the restriction it had to the immediate vicinity of the room, it was set up in, it hadn't known a visitor arrived at the farm until she strode into the room. It didn't even get the chance to fully assess and subsequently formed speculations on her sudden visit, because, without a word, she approached its platform with a purposeful gait before taking a seat on the rickety wooden chair scooted under an equally shoddy wooden table. She then put her hand together and rested her chin on them, elbows and forearms propping up her head, as her facial features sat heavy with a look of contemplation. The woman, who bore a vague semblance to a feral feline, remained silent and motionless for several minutes, and at no point did she give the computer an inkling about her purpose or identity; though it vaguely recalled Courage making a diary entry regarding a woman of a similar appearance. So, diverging from the norm, it would be the first to start the conversation.

On its dull blue screen popped a nondescript chat box that stuck out from the normal blue hue of the monitor, as it was a mixture of white borders and black boxes that eventually would contain white text. Near the top began a sentence, the start of what the computer hoped to be both an explanatory and enlightening conversation. It read in a bland and angular font, {If I may be bold, exactly who are you and why are you here?} Upon its completion, a small interface popped up near the bottom of the window. Suffice to say, the entire thing left the woman bemused-the computer found it comedic. It watched as she jerked back in response to its question, then slowly recompose herself as she seemed to deliberate on what the appropriate course of action was for dealing with its inquiry. After a short lapse of idleness, she finally decided on what to do: hesitantly take to the keyboard and type a response to its question.

{Who is this? How did you get onto Courage's computer?}

The computer detested organics who answered a question with a question, an ignorant one at that. From its tower came a low humming sound: its version of a sigh.

{I do so despise explaining what I am to twits like you, so I opt not to do so-just know that I am a... an acquaintance with the organic known as Courage.} A small part of its synthetic consciousness took pleasure in the comical visage of anger and irritation that formed on the woman's face. {Now, I ask once more, who are you and why are you here?}

A minute passed before the woman managed to regain the motor functions required to make use of a keyboard.

{I'm sorry but I don't give out personal information to strangers on the internet, especially ones that somehow can access another person's computer without physically interacting with it. So, if you want to know, you have to answer me first-and frankly, I do not care for your attitude, whoever you are!} Her rebuttal seemed to please her, for after hitting the enter key she wore a smug grin and crossed her arms over her chest like someone relishing a hard-won victory.

To this the computer sighed once more, a deep long sigh brimming with annoyance. It concluded that the route it first tried would ultimately lead to a dead-end, and while it could concede to the organic's stubbornness, it had too much of an ego to admit defeat. So, basing its next course of action on the familiarity the woman inspired, the computer perused the entirety of its memory, scavenging for anything and everything that could relate to the woman's mannerisms and or appearances. In a mere fraction of a second, the synthetic located several logged conversations it carried with Courage that contained references and even a description of the woman sitting before it. The artificial intelligence even discovered a name: Kitty.

Back it went to the chat window and it drummed up another bit of text, {Your name is Kitty, a woman of middle age, and you have a homosexual relationship with a woman named Bunny-oh, how quaint. You work as a business woman while Bunny fills a part-time role in a flower shop. Once, many years prior to now, Courage performed one thing or another that's left both of you indebted to him, yet he's never once brought it up. And before you ask how I could possibly know all this, as your nonplussed mien tells me you're about to, allow me to enlighten you: I am Courage's computer and I know everything he's done outside and inside of the little world I have in this attic. Now, if you'd be so kind as to divulge the reason you've come-I have my theories as to what might have brought you here, but speculations can only go so far.}

Every word on the screen caused Kitty's eye to widen further and her face to scrunch up more and more as if she was a young babe seeing a spider for the first time. The computer once read an article regarding the psychological impact one could deliver on another being simply by revealing even an iota of that person's personal information, something said man or woman believed to be unknowable due to their privacy. The article described many possible reactions, and one of them vaguely resembled the expression she wore so plainly. Secretly, it had always wanted to conduct experiments regarding this curious occurrence in organics, but the only information it wielded was what it could glean from the chaotic maze of the internet and what Courage regaled it with-there wasn't exactly an abundance of viable subjects with which it could conduct tests on. Thus, it couldn't help but feel satisfied with itself at having found a participant, although less than willing. However, the matter regarding her purpose and the speculations it fabricated were more pressing than the need to perform such things.

{I am sure discovering something that cannot be counted among the living, by definition, suddenly having access to one's personal history is disconcerting, so I will allow you to find your composure once more. When you are once again in control of all your mental faculties, I request that you answer my question as I did for your own inquiry.}

The window then closed and left the wide-eyed, startled woman to her thoughts, as she stared blankly into the blue screen of the monitor. It found the look adorning her face incredibly amusing to behold, especially for the prolonged state she wore it for. However, even the comedic visage grew droll after viewing it for so long, and it truly did wish to have its inquiry answered. So it was ready to construct yet another sentence, one with the express purpose of instigating her into responding, when Kitty's hands tentatively returned to the keyboard-quickly reopening the window from before. Each keystroke was slow and meticulous, like an expert chess player deliberating over each move, as the response grew longer and longer-eventually coalescing into a singular length of textual elaboration. Then she sent it.

{If Courage trusts you enough to divulge such information, if you are who you say you are, then perhaps you can help me. Currently, I am trying to locate his whereabouts, and I was given reason to believe that, somewhere on this property, someone in Courage's household may hold the key to finding him. Where or who lead me to this reasoning is of no concern, all you should be concerned with is this-I wish to find and retrieve Courage from wherever he is being kept-as I have reasons to believe he is currently a prisoner of Katz. I assume you know of Katz, considering you know of both me and Bunny. So, now that I've told you why I am here and what I hope to accomplish: will you help me?}

At first, there were no words the piece of software could formulate a response befitting the woman's concise explanation. In truth, the curt and straight-to-the-point style in which she wrote invoked vague feelings of respect. Organics had such an irksome tendency to add superfluous fluff and floweriness in what they wrote-the mere fact Kitty hadn't almost impressed the computer. But the faint admiration was short-lived. Quickly, the keyboard clicked and clacked as the keystroke after keystroke were issued by the program living within the hardware. As the keyboard withstood the unseen assault, the mouse inched this way and that until the on-screen cursor hovered over and then clicked the icon representing the minimized chat interface. Once popped up, the enter key was hit and a new message appeared.

{As you undoubtedly did not know, I made my own efforts towards solving this conundrum you have presented. I do believe the location and retrieval of Courage would benefit us both, so I shall offer my help in every manner possible. Now, if you'd be so kind as to press the red button with an X printed on it-found on the interface of the computer tower-then we can begin.}

Visage bemused anew, Kitty slowly regarded the aforementioned red protrusion with dubious skepticism. She seemed to weigh the risks, comparing them with the rewards, before finally resigning to the fact that her efforts were bootless in the face of such odds. Thus, she left the embrace of the rickety pine wood chair before sidling up to the tower. Watching, the program impatiently waited as the woman hesitantly reached to click the flashing protrusion. It felt as if an eternity passed before her petite digit fully pushed the button, of which remained depressed, but once she did it seemed as if someone toggled the fast-forward option.

Without warning, the entirety of the tower's interface receded into a hollow pocket before a solid stainless steel sheet slid down into where the interface once was. Kitty immediately jumped back and landed on her rear, shielding her face with her arms. Then the plethora of cords and wires connecting the various aspects of the program's synthetic abode became animate: swinging and thrashing about until they ripped out of the wall sockets. Once free, they pulled the monitor and keyboard and mouse atop the tower-something fastened and moored each firmly into place-before shunting the table out from underneath itself. Rather than clatter against the decrepit floorboards, however, the excess of cords wove themselves together to form two strong, long hominid legs that connected to a makeshift pelvis, which in turn was attached to a humanoid torso. This torso effectively rendered the tower, mouse, and keyboard as naught more than the viscera of its synthetic chest cavity, while the monitor jutted out like the neck and head. The monitor displayed a basic digital rendition of human facial features. And then the remaining cables intertwined to form whip-like appendages out either of its synthetic shoulders. Thus, the process was complete.

Still covering her face, the computer's new body regarded and observed her for a moment before stepping forward and looking down upon the woman. No footsteps were heard, though, as little to no weight was carried in the stiff gait it possessed. So when Kitty felt the touch of smooth wires snake about her wrist, saying she freaked out and struggled against the program was an understatement. But such resistance simply irritated the computer and resulted in it forcibly grabbing and restraining her arms before jerking her up onto her feet. Then the clacking of a keyboard pierced the sounds of struggling, preceding a monotone and clearly synthetic voice.

"Would you cease this meaningless waste of time? There is a ninety-six percent chance that Katz will retain the self-control he's exercised thus far, and every second you spend struggling only furthers the likelihood of Courage's demise."

At this, the business woman ceased to struggle and bored holes into the floorboards. Then, after a moment, the computer set her down and approached the lone window of the attic.

"Now then, shall we save the ignorant little twit?"

Begrudgingly, she moved to join it. But when it opened the window lattice and motioned to wrap its cords about her midriff, she looked up and jabbed an accusatory finger up at the monitor.

"No tricks!" she hollered pointedly.

"Oh, come now, I'm only a self-aware intelligence program living within the restrictive confines of an archaic computer who's now been given free reign-why would I ever want to trick you?"

This was how their relationship began, and it would be how it carried out from now till forever.

Manwhore chapter 21

I wrap my arms around my legs and put my cheek on my knee, exhaling as I try to push the part-dream, part-memory out of my mind. I go into the bathroom, splash my face, look into my eyes and I’m still the lost girl in the elevator. When did I become this girl? I’m not this girl, I think in frustration as I stamp out to my room.

I go back to bed and cover myself with the sheets all the way to my neck, rolling my cheek into the pillow and punching it as I stare unseeingly in the direction of my window. A stream of streetlight filters inside. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the sounds of the city outside. I wonder where he is right now.

You’re fucking haunting me, Sin.

You’re fucking haunting my every second.

I can’t sleep, can’t think of anything but the way I feel when I stand close to you. When you look at me. When we’re in the same room.

The way you were in your office . . . I couldn’t read you. I couldn’t read you and it’s killing me.

Turning on the light, I lose a battle I’ve been waging with myself for a whole month.

I go get my laptop and boot it up in the darkness, then I do something I haven’t done in a while. Gina had forbidden me to. I had forbidden myself, for survival. And sanity. I haven’t checked in so long it’s not even coming up in my browser. But now I brave Justin’s social media and brace myself for what I find as I skim through. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Or maybe I do. I’m looking for anything, anything that links me to him.

Hey @JustinJustin I’m Leyla, Danis’ friend ;)

@JustinJustin Hey bro meet us at Raze

@JustinJustin is better off without that bitch who betrayed him

Marry me @JustinJustin!

@JustinJustin I’ll be your slut and I’ll mud wrestle your lying bitch ex to the death, if need be!

@JustinJustin are you going to forgive your girlfriend? PLS forgive her, you look beautiful together!

Speaking of bitches @JustinJustin should know

@JustinJustin please tell me you told your exgirlfriend to go fuck herself! YOU DESERVE SO MUCH BETTER YOU DESERVE A PRINCESS

Interface wall:

Bro! Call us when you’re in town, there’s someone we’d like you to meet

And then, there’s the picture of a woman blowing him a kiss.

I scowl over her protruding nipples, clearly visible in her wet designer top.

Then, I scroll over his tagged pictures and find one of him. Him flipping off the reporter who asks him about my betrayal, a pair of cool aviators shading his eyes, his jaw as tough as a granite slab.

God help me. Now that I’ve started looking I can’t seem to stop. On a famous local vlog, I find this:

“Indeed there has been speculation on whether his daredevil attitude for the past month has anything to do with the recent breakup with journalist Selena Livingston, what is rumored to be his first relationship ever. Livingston, who had been investigating Justin when they met, had a huge fallout with the tycoon when her investigation leaked and her own version published shortly after on Edge. Rumors of whether M4 is integrating a news section into their Interface media website were abuzz when Livingston was spotted back at M4 . . .”

“In the meantime Justin himself has been skydiving, and, according to a witness, taking over businesses at a speed that has been alarming to the members of his board . . .”

And on Facebook:

#TBT ThrowbackThursday: remember this picture? We had bets going on how long it’d last but nobody bet on it lasting as long as it did! I know it seems she played you but we know better than that, nobody plays as hard as you do—hope you used her good!

I stare at my computer screen. I’m suddenly sick with dread wondering what he’s read too. Is this how he thinks of me? A bitch? I’m a bitch and a slut, who “whored” myself into his bed for information? I’m stunned to realize that even when I poured my heart into my article—it was, like Helen says, a love letter to him—the words I wrote didn’t matter. My actions trumped it all.

Justin values truth and loyalty.

I can’t take it.

I open up an email and search through the several emails of his I’ve got.

Even if it’s suicidal.

Even if he’s the most unobtainable thing in the world, placed so far off, I’d need a satellite to hoist me up high enough to snatch him. He’s my own personal moon . . .

In End the Violence, I’m always waiting to see what I can do to help those who’ve been exposed to loss. I always seem to be waiting to see if my mom’s health is stable. Waiting for the right story.

I don’t want to wait anymore.

I don’t want to wait for the story, wait for the right time, wait for the muse, wait to forget him, wait to be wanted by him, wait to see if time will be on my side and help me fix things with him.

With all the nerves in the world but a determination to match it, I select his M4 email. The early one we used to use when I started to interview him. I have no idea who will read this email, but I keep it business and type out a message, knowing that keeping it simple is the best chance I’ve got.

Mr. Justin,

I’m writing to let you know how much I appreciate your offer. I’d like to discuss it further with you. Would you please let me know if there’s any convenient time I could stop by your office? I will adjust my schedule to yours.

Thank you,

Selena

WORK & WRITING

I’m running on three hours of sleep, but I’m determined to make something good out of my day the next morning. I even smile at a few strangers as I get out of the cab, take the building elevators, and walk into Edge. I chitchat with a few colleagues as we get coffee, call my mother to say good morning, answer a few emails from my sources.

But there’s that tiny little buzz still in my body.

I still stare at green eyes whenever I stare at . . . anything, really.

I see a full mouth.

A full mouth, smiling in the way he used to smile at me.

I exhale slowly, do my best to push the thought of yesterday aside, and stare at my computer screen.

My very blank, very white computer screen.

Keyboards are clacking, reporters talking over their cubicle walls. Edge has been doing a little better after my love letter to Justin. The job cuts have stopped, two new journalists have been hired, and although there are only a dozen of us, we still somehow manage to make noise. Oh boy, do we make noise. We’re the specialists of making every event of the day seem more monumental than it is. It’s our job to hunt for news, after all. Create stories.

Write something¸ Selena.

Inhaling, I put my fingers on my keys and force myself to write one word. And one word becomes two and then, my fingers pause. I’m out of juice. Out of ideas. Empty.

I read what I wrote.

JUSTIN JUSTIN

It’s the first time in my career I’ve hit a dry spell. All the love I had for telling stories—a love that was born when I was very young, piecing together stories about my mother—left the day one of those stories took something priceless away.

Something called . . .

JUSTIN JUSTIN.

I’ve been begging Helen to give me the good stuff. A good piece that could motivate me, make me realize the words I write can make a difference. But she’s been stalling and popping out excuses by the dozen. She tells me that if I’m having trouble with the little pieces, then it’s definitely not the moment for another big one.

Hitting the backspace, I watch the name disappear.

JUSTIN SAIN

JUSTIN SAI

JUSTIN SA

JUSTIN S

JUSTIN

Oh god.

I squeeze my eyes and erase the rest.

On impulse, I reach for my bag, slung on the back of my chair, for the folded paper I carry inside. Taking it out, I unfold it and scan right to the bottom. To the very elaborate, male signature on it.

Justin KPL Justin.

The guy who sends my world into a tailspin. The sight of this signature on the page gives me all kinds of aches.

“Selena!” Sandy calls from across the room. Tucking the paper back into my bag, I peer out of my cubicle and see that she’s pointing into the glass wall separating Helen, my editor, from all of us.

“You’re up!” she calls.

I grab my notes that I also emailed her recently, then go and stand by Helen’s open door. She’s on the phone, signals for me to wait.

“Oh, absolutely! Dinner it is. I’ll bring my best game,” she assures, then she waves me in as she hangs up, beaming.

Well. She’s in a good mood today.

“Hey Helen,” I say. “Did you look at the story options I sent?”

“Yes, and the answer is no.” Her smile fades and she levels me a look. “You’re not writing that.” Sighing, she shuffles the papers on her desk. “Selena, nobody wants to know about any riot.” She says the word riot like one would say excrement. “You have a lively, energetic voice!” she goes on. “Use it to bring happiness, not focus on what’s wrong in the world. Tell us what’s right. What’s the right thing to wear when dating a hot man? Use what happened with that hot ex of yours to teach girls how to date properly.”

“I’M SINGLE, HELEN—hello? Nobody wants dating advice from someone who screwed her only chance at . . .” I trail off and rub my temples. “Helen, you know I’m having a little problem.”

“That you can’t write?”

I wince.

It hurts because for twenty-something years, writing was all I wanted to do.

“Go on.” Helen points at the door. “Write me something on how to dress for the first date.”

“Helen . . .” I take a few steps forward instead. “Helen, we discussed this before. Remember? How very much I want to write about things that are wrong in the world, in Chicago. I want to write about the underprivileged, the violence in the streets, and while you promised me opportunities, you have given me zero. In fact, lately, the Sharpest Edge column is all about being single and dating in the city. I have no boyfriend and no dating life. I’m not interested in the dating life, especially after what happened. I keep wondering if maybe you gave me a story that impassioned me again . . . I’d hit my stride. In fact, I’m sure I would,” I plead.

“We can’t always write about what we want, we must think of others, and your audience,” she reminded me. “The loyal audience who’s followed you throughout your career is interested in dating advice from you. You dated a very physical and renowned man; don’t throw all that life experience away. Other opportunities will come, Selena. We’re barely catching our first breath of fresh air. And I need you on more stable ground before we shift your direction again.”

“But weren’t we all about taking risks now in order to take us somewhere?”

“Nope. The owners don’t want more risks right now, while things are stabilizing. Now please. Can I get a break from this riot and safety talk for a few weeks? Can you do that for me?”

I force myself to nod, pursing my lips as I turn to leave. I try not to feel angry and frustrated, but when I come out and hear all the keyboards clacking and watch all my colleagues writing their stories, some with bored faces, some with happy or engrossed faces, I can’t help but ache to write something that gets to me so much, you could see it on my face too.

“Hey. You, there. With the golden hair, gorgeous body, but absolutely gloomy face,” Valentine calls from his cubicle as I walk by.

“Thanks,” I say.

He motions me forward to his computer and I end up standing behind him and bending over to peer at his screen.

And there’s Sin.

A video, which shows the power in even his smallest gestures. I’m melting when I hear him answer a question in some sort of interview about his opinion on the state of the oil prices. Stupid, stupid melting bones.

After we both watch for a moment, Valentine says, “Your ex.”

He’s not my ex, I think sadly, wishing that even for a blink I’d have had the courage to wear that title.

“He really knows how to fill up a room. He’s keynote speaker this weekend at McCormick Place. I’m thinking of asking Helen to let me go. Unless you want to?” Val peers at me over his shoulder.

I shake my head, frustrated. Then shrug. Then nod. “I’d love to, but I couldn’t.”

Valentine’s eyes cloud over at that; I’m sure it’s because he remembers all the hate mail that came through the servers after Victoria’s article. “You need to get out more. Want to come clubbing with me and my current this weekend?”

“I’m going to camp out this weekend. But proceed living dangerously for me. I’ll find a way to bail you out of jail.”

He laughs as I go back to my corner and settle down in my chair. I’m determined to work past this glitch. I want this to be an excellent dating piece, one that can help every girl like me meet and attract the guy she wants.

Inhaling, I pop open my browser and search the dating forums. I mean to find out the most major concerns girls have when going out on a first date, for starters, but before I know it, I’m opening another tab. Then a press conference link. Then I plug in my earphones and hike up the volume and stare at Justin on the video.

He’s behind a podium erected outside. People are standing in the back—every chair is occupied. Most especially with businessmen. Though I spot a few fawning fangirls nearby too.

His hair moves a little with the wind. His voice comes through the speaker, low and deep. Even though he’s talking through a computer and not talking directly to me, my skin prickles in response. Stupid, stupid skin.

When the camera zooms in, I look into his eyes as he connects with the audience, and feel an ache. The look in his eyes as he talks to all those strangers, so much more personal than the wariness in his eyes when he looked at me yesterday.

But I think of how his eyes would burn so hot when he peeled his shirt off my body that I’d be in cinders by the time I lay naked and waiting for him to touch me . . .

And the way his eyes would glimmer with teasing, boyish hope as he looked at me when he asked and asked, patiently and ruthlessly, for me to be his girlfriend.

I hate that I will never, ever be his “little one” again.

I play the email roulette all day . . . and there’s nothing from him.

I end up with two sentences for my dating article. Valentine and Sandy are hitting a nearby sandwich place and as we cross the building’s lobby, Valentine says, “Come with, Selena.”

“I think I’ll just . . .” I shake my head. “I’m going to try to get some work done at home.”

“Bullshit,” he says as we hit the sidewalk.

Sandy stops him. “Let her go home, Val.”

“I worry about this girl. She’s been kind of blue lately.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m perfect,” I assure them as I flag a cab. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

FRIENDS

Valentine isn’t the only one “concerned.” So are my friends. And later that night, they insist on Girl Time.

Wynn was adamant we discuss this “job issue.” I assume Gina’s told her about the job offer on the table from Justin since nobody else knows about my other writing problem. Not even my friends. I just really dislike being the one knocked-out on the floor after life struck her out. I’m trying to get back to normal even though I don’t know what normal is anymore.

But at least one of the fixtures in my life is drinks with Wynn and Gina during the week. We sit at a high table near the windows. It’s comfortable.

Still, I’ve been refreshing my email like mad.

“I don’t know why you thought he’d want to talk to you about what happened so soon, it’s only been four weeks and what happened was kind of . . . well, it could take years,” Wynn says.

“Wow, Wynn,” I groan.

“Well, I’m being honest, Selena!”

I toss back the rest of my cocktail. My mind flashes to his hand, reaching for my leg under the table . . .

Twinkling green eyes, teasing me until I can’t bear it . . .

I love my friends; we’ve been together forever. They call my mom “Mom” and know everything about me, but now as Wynn asks me to relate the “job issue” and Gina tells her all about it, I keep draining my cocktail in silence, sadder than I’m letting on. My friends know everything about me, but at the same time, they don’t know it all.

They don’t know that as I sit here I remember all the ways he used to tease me about how I play it safe. He used to tease me to come out of my box, that he’d catch me. But would he catch me now?

“It doesn’t matter why he took four weeks,” I cut in when Wynn and Gina keep arguing over why he took so long to contact me. “I just want him to talk to me. I want to know if I hurt him so I can make it better. I want a chance to explain, apologize.”

“You doubt you hurt him?” Wynn asks, aghast. “Emmett told me there’s no way he’d give you the time of day right now if you weren’t under his skin.”

“Interesting,” Gina says. Then, looking at me, “You’re not the only one haunted by Justin, do you think that you’re haunting him too?”

“I don’t want us to be ghosts for each other. I want us to go back to the way we were when he . . . trusted me.”

Wynn whistles admiringly. “You can get that man in bed, maybe he’ll reluctantly love you, but you won’t get his trust if his life depended on it now.”

I wince at the thought of that. “True, trust is important to him; if I can’t prove to him I’m trustworthy I’m doomed to be one of his four-night girls.”

“Did you get the impression he’d give you another chance?” Wynn asks.

I stay quiet.

“Selena?”

“No, Wynn. He doesn’t want me anymore. But I need to apologize. I just . . .” I shake my head. “I just don’t know what to do.” I look at Wynn when my refill comes, frowning as I realize something. “So you and Emmett have been talking about it?”

“Um. Well, yes,” she says uncomfortably. “Everybody’s touched on it, you know? It was public.”

I press on, “Did Emmett have any advice for me?”

Wynn shrugs. “He doesn’t think a man like Justin would give you another chance. But then, he did offer you a job, so . . .”

“What does Emmett the chef know about a guy who literally owns Chicago?” Gina tells Wynn, rolling her eyes. “Plus Emmett’s a guy. He’s telling you this so that you, Wynn, don’t turn out to be a reporter and reveal that he wears pink undies and shit.”

“Gina.” Wynn scowls.

Gina grins, then turns to me. “Tahoe says—”

“Tahoe?” Wynn and I say in unified shock.

“Tahoe ROTH?” Wynn asks. “The oil tycoon and Justin’s bestie?”

“He’s not Justin’s only bestie, Callan Carmichael is too,” Gina specifies, then she cuts me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rache. I’m not supposed to talk to you about this. But he’s concerned and so am I. And . . . well, from what Tahoe told me, Justin’s pretty messed up. Colder than usual. Really withdrawn.”

I sit here listening, aching.

“He loves Justin as much as I love you,” Gina says, and when Wynn opens her mouth to ask about the obvious elephant in the room—her plus Tahoe—Gina holds up a hand to stop her. “I don’t care for Tahoe, but he hasn’t enjoyed your breakup any more than I enjoy watching you mope. He called me to ask what was up, ’cause of course Justin’s not talking and he says he hasn’t seen Justin like this since his mother died.”

Knowing what I know—that his mother was the only one who probably genuinely cared for Justin while he was growing up, how he felt he’d failed her, how he’d failed himself in failing her, how he’s been trying to fill up an empty hole ever since—Gina’s words wreck me.

Wynn chides, “Stop talking to Tahoe, he’s just using this as an excuse to have sex with you.”

“I know, right?” Gina laughs.

“So? Are you going to let him?” Wynn asks, curious.

“No! He’s gross. I mean, he’s hot, but his attitude is gross.”

I stare at my cocktail and wonder if I’m already getting drunk to the point where I’m getting emotional too easily.

I’ve cried so much I don’t even have to try. The kind of crying where the tears just spill. With no warning. With no effort. They just come. I cry at the thought of never being with him again. And I cry because I know I hurt this beautiful, ambitious, intelligent, generous, caring man. I used to rest my cheek where I could hear his heart. Now it’s locked behind iron doors and ten-foot walls that I put there.

“Selena, men like Justin never commit. Not for the long term. But . . . he reached out to you. Offered you a job. If you reach back, maybe . . .” Gina trails off and sighs. “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know how to help you, Rache.”

“Justin is very physical. You know what would do you and Justin a world of good? Tyrannosaurus sex: mean, violent, delicious, painful, and cathartic.” Wynn adds, “That will lead you then to spooning. Emmett and I are still so new though, we can’t even spoon. It’s more like sporking.”

“What the hell is that?” Gina asks us, frowning.

“When they’re hard when they spoon you!” Wynn rolls her eyes. Then she looks at me and giggles. “Did he do that to you too?” she asks me.

“He used to . . . um, pull my ear.” I tug one of my ears absently, helpless not to be drawn into my memories.

“Now that’s because you have really small, cute ears. Emmett likes kissing my nose.” Wynn crinkles hers for emphasis.

My heart has turned into an empty eggshell. It feels ready to crack as my fingers fly up to brush one corner of my mouth. “Justin used to give me these torturously slow ghost kisses . . .”

“Oh, you two!” Gina says in dismay. “You’re making me want to barf.”

Wynn laughs, but I fall quiet as the hurt and the regret and the heartache come back with a vengeance.

“Say, have you heard from Victoria?” Gina asks. “She lost her job after Justin canned her reveal article and all she does is tweet now and complain. She’s just some Tweleb now, but I bet she buys likes for her tweets, ’cause who’s even reading her?”

Then, alarmed by what she said, she adds, “BUT DON’T GO ON SOCIAL MEDIA. Nothing good can come out of that.”

I purse my lips and don’t tell them that I’ve already had a social-media fest recently and now I can’t stop.

“I don’t understand why he didn’t can my article too. Why just hers?”

“Obviously he didn’t care what they said about him.” Wynn shrugs. “Maybe that’s why he only canned Victoria’s, because she talked about you.”

I play email roulette again several times, refreshing and refreshing, checking to be sure I have all the signal bars lit up.

“Rache, we worry, you and those sad panda eyes,” Wynn says.

“I’m not a sad panda, come on.”

“The only times you don’t have the panda eyes is when you get the googly eyes from thinking of him.”

“That, or the screen-saver face when she thinks of him,” Wynn counters.

“Ha ha,” I say, rolling my eyes and pushing my cocktail away. “It’s just that I love him. I love him so much. It breaks me to think I hurt him. I’m so confused, I just don’t know what to do.”

They fall quiet, and I find myself back at M4.

Trapped again by forest-green eyes, cold as winter.

MESSAGE

I wake up in the middle of the night to hear the soft buzzing of my phone on my nightstand. Feeling for it in the dark, I tap it awake and my heart pumps when I see the message icon and then the name “Justin” on it.

Wings flap against the walls of my stomach.

Selena,

Thursday at 2:15 works for me, I trust we can wrap this up before my 2:30.

M

Oh god, he answered me himself.

A part of me doesn’t miss the time he’s answering. It came in at 3:43 a.m.

Was he out?

Turning on my lamp, I lean back in bed and check Tahoe’s Twitter because that man is a living newscast.

My man @JustinJustin has a new babe crying for his attention

My heart stops in my chest. I feel like a horse just kicked me.

A new babe?

I groan and bury my face in my pillow. Holy god. He’s ruined me. He’s ruined my sleep. He’s ruined the word dibs. And elephants, and grapes, and men’s white dress shirts—and suits. He’s ruined me for other men. He’s ruined sex with anyone else—something I don’t even want to try—and he’s even ruined sex with myself. I can’t go back to sleep.

I reread the tweet—my stomach squeezing painfully—and I force myself to click the link once and for all. And then, I stare at a picture of a beautiful car with shiny wheels that looks like it could sprout wings and fly.

I smile to myself, exhaling in relief.

Tahoe goes on to say the “beauty” is a Pagani Huayra Gullwing. Pagani Huayra is an all-handmade, top-of-the-line luxury sports car, only six cars produced a year, worldwide. Worth close to $2 million, Justin’s has a black interior with red stitching, and a shiny red outer color. By the revealing way in which the doors, the hood, and the trunk open, the car is a real-life equivalent of a Transformer—designed to showcase what lays within it by cracking open.

I’m not a car buff, but even to my untrained eye, it’s exquisite.

Chosen with exquisite taste by a man who wants and appreciates the best.

I think of Justin and how he loves using his cars fast, and a pang of longing to be with him hits me in the chest. What I’d give to sit again in his passenger seat as he takes me on the ride of my life, driving those fast cars like a young billionaire with too much confidence and too much testosterone does. And me, just holding on to my heart while he steals it.

TRUTH

I’m early to Edge on Thursday. Using my First Date piece as a distraction, I avoid a group of gossiping coworkers as I go get coffee, then I settle down in my spot and get to work.

l��3

Sat 2/25 to Sun 2/26, 2017

First Oscar-nominated person to ride in my car.

11:24pm. Found myself south of the Loop off of 288, in the middle of nowhere, then all of a sudden there’s a castle on the right. It’s called The Citadel, and it’s a banquet/reception hall that looks like a castle on the outside. The couple I picked up were dressed in Hawaiian shirts with cargo shorts, sandals with socks, with fake cameras around their necks – while everyone else was dressed in white dinner jackets or white Cuban shirts. This was a fundraiser for the couple’s kid’s school, with the theme of Havana Nights; they went as tacky American tourists in Cuba. Both of them are in the oil industry and so we talked about what I used to do at my most recent job there, with some overlap in what I taught and what he does (related to the interface screens for the control systems on drill ships). He asked for my card; you never know what might come of something like that.

11:50. Three high school kids, two girls and a guy. The girls in the back seat yammered away about Snaptexting and Facechatting and all of the high school drama of who likes who and who hates who, and pretty soon I couldn’t even follow. Dropped the girls off at midnight at one house, then the guy got dropped off at a different part of town. I was curious as to how they knew each other from different areas, and he said that one of the girls is the daughter of friends of his parents, and they’ve been friends since birth. None of them appear to have been drinking (surprisingly to me).

1:35am. A young guy (early 20s) from a bar, had been drinking, on his way home. He lives in the Montrose area and owns his own home, which he bought when he turned 20 with the inheritance he got when his parents died when he was 18. He owns his own business too, something to do with insurance. He went to college and got a degree in mechanical engineering, which was what his father (also an engineer) wanted him to do, but after he graduated he fell into an opportunity with some of his father’s friends and he’s doing well with his choices now. He was sympathetic to my story of being a laid-off NASA worker and is confident there are big things ahead for me.

1:46am. A couple apparently hasn’t been dating long, she mentioned how they haven’t really asked each other the hard questions yet about each other. She thinks she’s too quiet and shy before she’s been drinking, and comes out of her shell after a couple drinks, but she doesn’t like the fact that she has to be drinking for that side of her to come out. He asked her if he talks too much, she replied “you talk a lot”, which both he and I agreed that “a lot” is not as bad as “too much”. She posed a question for him to think about: name three fictional characters who make up various facets of your personality. She named Pam Beesley from “The Office” as introverted with a bit of a hidden edge; Hermione Granger from “Harry Potter” as the know-it-all who is secretly (or not so secretly) a bad-ass; and “because I have a legit Cinderella costume at home, I have to name a Disney Princess” so she chose Elsa from “Frozen” because she’s been called an ice queen.

1:59am. A couple who was not drunk, because they hadn’t been at the bar on Washington that long. They were at the Symphony earlier in the evening, then went home and changed to come out to the bar for a nightcap and to unwind. They agreed that they were getting too old for the bar scene, but while she thinks the bar scene on Washington is hopping (there really are a lot of people going home at 2am), he thinks it’s long past its prime.

2:23am. Picked up my last passengers of the night on Main Street downtown, right at the corner where a band of 4 musicians were playing Mardi Gras style music, because that’s what you do downtown after the bars are closed when you’re on the street eating pizza. He has lived in Houston a while, recently moved into the Heights. She’s just been here a few years, from LA. He used to work in Denver where he was the VIP manager of one of the downtown clubs, and they would regularly get customers that people would come looking for (like the cops), so they’d tell the cops they haven’t seen the guy and then tell the guy that the cops are looking for him so that he could leave. This one regular they had was a Russian guy with the nickname “Moose”, he played for the Colorado Avalanche hockey team but retired when he blew out his knee. Turns out that one night the cops came looking for Moose at the club, but not only did Moose flee the club, he fled the country because he was going to be busted for heading up Denver’s largest ecstasy drug ring. Moose is now living in Peru somewhere. [Note: I tried looking up this story on Google but was unsuccessful in finding anything, if you know more, please speak up in the comments.] After I dropped him off, she was going to get out with him and then just call another car to take her to her place, but I told her I’d wait a few minutes because that would be easier than her calling another car (though my ulterior motive was to continue this trip which was a 2.3x surge fare).

2:07pm. Woman flying back to Houston after a weekend in Dallas with a college friend, which wasn’t as interesting as this upcoming weekend would be, as her company is going to Las Vegas for “meetings” (that is, you have a business meeting in the morning and then you’re free to play for the rest of the day). She’s been there a lot and stays at higher-end properties like Wynn and Bellagio, and doesn’t like to gamble but likes to go shopping. We compared notes on which hotels we like, favorite places to go to the clubs (she likes the one at Aria), and places to go shopping (she likes the Forum Shops at Caesar’s). She’s seen all of the Cirque shows in Vegas except for the Michael Jackson one (even Elvis and Criss Angel), and the Beatles Love is her favorite, which she’s seen several times (I’ve seen it twice). She hasn’t yet seen La Reve at Wynn, which I liked better than the similar water-themed show “O” at Bellagio, or Absinthe at Caesar’s, which I liked better than the similar show Zumanity at NYNY. She’s never been to LA, so she got a cheap round-trip flight out there leaving before lunch and coming back at 10pm, she wants to go shopping and to the beach. I suggested Venice Beach and the Santa Monica Pier and the nearby Third Street Promenade pedestrian area.

3:43pm. Got lucky and found a rider who was going to Hobby Airport, which is on my way home. She’s flying back to LA. I asked her what she did out there, and she said she was a film editor. I asked why she’s in Houston when the Oscars are on tonight, she said she messed up and forgot the date, so her husband is recording it for her and she’ll get home about halfway through it. Some of her friends are up for awards tonight. For the duration of the trip, I was fascinated to be able to ask her questions about what her job entails, how she does her job (10-12 hour days watching the dailies and cutting footage together, then relaying info to the director on set about any shots that still need to be picked up or redone for things like bad angles or out of focus), how she got into the business (she made and edited her own stuff, then got an internship putting together a documentary, and while in film school – crossing paths with “Breaking Bad” producer Vince Gilligan – finding that she was the only one with editing experience in her class, and just moved into the industry that way), what her next project is (“Battle of the Sexes” coming this fall, with Emma Roberts as Billie Jean King and Steve Carrell as Bobby Riggs; she talked about how some scenes have facial replacements on body doubles and how they created that footage, and that they’ll Forrest Gump-style add their actress to replace a real person in archival footage with Howard Cosell), and examples of good and bad editing in recent movies (I mentioned I’ve heard that an editor is noticed only if they don’t do a good job, even though the director approves the edits; she countered with the fact that sometimes directors have certain stylistic choices they make in the editing room, and as the editor, it’s the director’s film, not hers). She doesn’t have a favorite movie that she’s worked on, as all of them are like her children. [Note: after I got home, I looked her up, and she’s Pamela Martin, who was Oscar-nominated for “The Fighter” in 2010, directed by David O. Russell. I didn’t ask if she had ever been nominated, and she didn’t offer it.]

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