I was interested in a girl, but guess what she decided to go with my friend instead lmfao. I do not have an incel mindset, so I am not going to blame her for choosing an objectively better person than me.
But, is it my fault that I was born with bad skin, bad face and a bad set of social skills? I tried to improve my skin, but only made it worse. My face is fucked up with Acne. I tried talking with people but my attitude towards life pushes away everyone.
And what is worse is how people fucking pity at me at every chance that they get. I had 3 different interactions where people asked me why I am even bothering to go to the prom, fuck you all for encouraging me hahaha.
If you are not going to offer help, why do you even fucking take pity on someone? To make yourself be better by looking at the person and saying “Oh, I’m glad that I am not him!” ?
Fuck this shit, life fucks up with me at every chance it gets. My parents divorced&had a new set of child that they give more care to. My grandparents’ house was destroyed after an earthquake and my dad did not even fucking bother with inviting me to his house. I had to relocate to an another city and work as a receptionist, lmfao.
Fuck this shit.

I had originally planned on reviewing the video Dhar Mann Actor Quits on Set this week, but I decided to skip that one for now as it is just another ego stroke and I've already ranted about Dhar's astronomically big ego enough on here. So I've decided to review the video BOY REJECTED In FRONT OF SCHOOL. Weird title as all but one letter is capitalized, but this was a Valentine's day special from 2023. On with the review.
The video begins with our main protagonist Eric(Tanner Zahn Hagen) doodling in his dad's car. Dad asks him what he is doing, and Eric tells him he has a crush on a girl at school and he is writing a song and drawing a portrait of her in hopes of getting her to be her valentine. Dad tells Eric that when he was in school, he bought a girl a Valentine's gram, and Eric tells dad they sell them for $5. So dad gives him the 5 dollars and wishes him good luck. I'm going to call Eric Incel for the remainder of this review as it becomes clear he doesn't know how to talk to a girl.
We then go to the cafeteria, where Incel is writing his song, then sees his crush(Shannon Mano) in the distance and is blinded by her. Another student offers him a Valentine's gram for $5, Incel rejects the offer at first, but then goes ahead and buys the gram anyway. We are then introduced to our main bully(Alex Long) who goes over to Incel and asks him who the flowers are for. Incel tells him who the flowers are for, and that he is writing a song for Crush. Bully then decides to help him out, and after making an Ariana Grande and Ed Sheeran joke, he tells Incel the song is trash and he needs to change it completely. Incel just agrees to let Bully help him with the song without second thought, kind of stupid if you ask me but trust me, it gets worse. Bully then talks to his friends and it turns out, surprise surprise, he is purposely giving Incel bad advice so he can get with Crush.
We then cut to class, where Bully and Incel are next to each other for some reason, and Bully nearly rats him out after catching him drawing a picture of Crush. Bully harshly criticizes the picture Incel is drawing saying it looks nothing like her, mind you, they are talking out loud with Crush sitting right in front of them and she hears nothing. The teacher keeps yelling at them for talking, which is honestly pretty accurate, some teachers are real Karens about talking in class. Incel lets Bully fix the drawing as well as the song and is genuinely excited in hopes Crush will be his Valentine. Incel's been acting naive up to this point, but it's somewhat understandable even though I feel like he should know Bully's reputation, but the next scene is where this video turns from a mundane Dhar Mann video into a "so bad it's good"-esque video.
Incel is ready to ask Crush to be his Valentine waiting for his new song and drawing. Red flag #1, Bully and his friends tell Incel he has to ask her out in front of everyone if he wants her to know how he feels. All it took to convince Incel to do it was "some other guy will ask her out". Red flag #2, Bully gives Incel the song and all the lyrics are mocking her. Bully then says girls love when guys are mean to them. This kind of reminds me of the Family Guy episode where Chris is dating the receptionist at the Vet and Peter tells him to be a dick to her, except there we know Chris is an idiot. After some hesitiation, Bully announces that Incel has a special message for Crush and Eric starts singing the song insulting her. I don't know why exactly, but I can't help but find this scene hilarious. I almost feel secondhand embarrassment for this kid, but he was being such a fucking idiot for thinking insulting a girl will get her to like him that I honestly can't help but laugh at him. Crush starts crying and Incel shows her the drawing without even fucking looking at it first. Turns out, the drawing of her was Incel's drawing, but with Devil horns, a long pointy nose, and ugly teeth. Incel sees the drawing and frantically says he didn't draw it before Crush rejects him harshly. Again, I don't feel bad because he was acting so insanely naive. Bully then tells Incel he's going to have a hard time showing his face in school again, and asks Crush to be his Valentine instead, before Incel storms off realizing Bully was just using him to get with Crush.
We then cut to Incel getting picked up from school by his dad all upset. He tells dad everything that happened and how Bully pretended to be his friend but was just using him, and now Crush hates him(Incel). Crush is then knocking on the car door for some fucking reason. Incel is terrified of her, but dad convinces him to talk to her and explain himself. Crush is curious why Incel would insult her in front of the whole school, and Incel tells her that wasn't his plan and shows her the song he wrote and that Bully changed all the lyrics on him. He then shows her the drawing and says he should've just given her a Valentine's gram, but Crush didn't want a gram since they're unoriginal. Crush then says she rejected Bully's gram because of its unoriginality and the fact that Bully makes her cringe. Incel then plays her the real song. Surprise, she loves it and agrees to be his Valentine. They agree to a date Friday and Incel mentions he has to be home by 8pm, which is his curfew. Okay, these kids are probably Juniors or Seniors in high school, who the fuck has an 8pm curfew on Friday nights at that age? Seems like we have another overly strict Dhar Mann parent even though he isn't portrayed as such. Bully and friends go outside and his friends make fun of him after they see Incel talking to his girl. Bully is pissed off and kicks a random kickball that is out in the open for some reason. The ball his the school principal(Sean Harris) and the principal yells at him while him and his friends run away, then the video ends.
Conclusion
This one's honestly kind of a guilty pleasure of mine. Incel is so fucking stupid for thinking insulting his crush in front of everyone is going to make her like him, and I thought him singing the song was kind of funny, but not in the way Dhar intended. Objectively though, it's not outright awful, but pretty cliche and predictable like a lot of other Dhar Mann videos. 5/10
Tropes found: Exaggerated bullies, typecasting, parking lot confrontation(kind of), 30 year old teenager, just be yourself moral(VERY common in Dhar Mann), overly strict parent(8pm curfew on Friday night).

hi i'm in my mid 20s, psychology fresh grad, no professional irl work experience. i have an accumulated 3 yrs gap during college due to personal and mental health reasons, that's why i just graduated. all i have is my ojt experience and volunteer work at a hospital. i also had an online shop that i solely managed for over 2 yrs, selling kpop merch and providing services like pasabuy, purchasing assistance, pahanap merch, consolidating other people's items..
i'm leaning more into healthcare jobs since med school talaga original plan ko, di lang natuloy. as much as possible i don't want to do HR work. feel ko nasa med talaga passion ko (and kpop haha naenjoy ko rin talaga mag benta ng kpop merch)
i've done some research, but i still want to read some advice and first hand experiences.
here are my questions:

1. what should i include in my resume (besides education, experience, skills)? should i include an objective? i read that the harvard resume is the best template. is that ok?
   
2. how do i include my online selling experience in the resume? what's a more professional term for it? ecommerce? dropshipping? online sales/retail? should i say i was self-employed or freelance?
   
3. is there a career growth in healthcare if you're not a doctonurse/or other licensed professional? the common job positions i see that match my course are medical assistant, clinic receptionist, healthcare csr
   
4. what is a good initial salary range i should aim for?
   
5. what are common job interview questions? lalo na sa healthcare industry please give tips to pass 🙏🏻
   

feel free to give additional info, words of encouragement, wisdom, etc. please no harsh words 🥺
thank you so much 🫶🏻

Hey, first time posting here, looking for advice or experiences. I’ve had BDD pretty mildly for many years, but in the last couple of months it has spiralled madly into near constant intrusive thoughts about my appearance. My weight (but I do also have an ED), my face, my forehead, my hair, my mouth, my shoulders and neck; I can’t stand any aspect of my appearance and even my Big Black Hoodie (tm) isn’t really helping anymore. It’s not like I’m factually conventionally attractive either. I’m pretty objectively ugly. My positive affirmations really just consist of “I look like a person” lmao.
But it’s started to have a pretty significant impact on my school life. Being in the library/study area makes me so anxious and worked up, feeling like everybody’s looking at me all the time even if it’s basically empty. I struggle in class too but there’s not much to do about that. I struggle to focus on schoolwork (meant to be working right now lol) and it’s not impacted my recorded grades yet, but I have mock exams really soon and I’m scared as hell. Attending is getting more anxiety-causing by the day and I have to hype myself up just to walk down corridors in case anyone sees me. I want to ask the receptionists if I can be excused to a separate room during study periods (usually in the library) by default rather than going in, trying, and having to leave. Maybe getting permission to skip assemblies too (too many people) and extra freedom to step out of lessons if it gets too much.
I don’t want in-school counselling. Been there, done that, I don’t think it would benefit me. And I don’t want my parents to be contacted about it (for context I’m in year 12 in the UK). If any of you have any similar experiences, other accommodations, or know if they’ll need to contact my parents please let me know. Thanks for reading :)

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This chapter took a long time to get out. Life has me super busy. Two jobs, married, two kids, still sober. I like how this turned out, however, someone new stole the show this time. As always, leave feedback, I appreciate it so very much.
[FIRST] [DELETED SCENES] [PREVIOUS]
~ ~ ~
As I reentered my true body without recieving a mending, the vicious wounds I endured manifested into being as I reactualized into my true Self. Through the pain, I couldn't help but think on Raver's words to me.
"The doors have to be closed."
~ ~ ~
Without recieving a mending in Raver's Dreamtime bubble, reactualization was a fucking bitch. I Perceived my Self as having quite the damaged form, my Soul was fucked over by bombardment from dreadlight and my physical body simply disagreed with it all, stating that I was mostly whole and intact, only being damaged by wounds I had already endured. The three parts had an argument of a sort amongst themselves and with the power of the Dreamtime, reached a tortuous compromise.
I'm certain I seizured and blacked out through the process.
I awoke with my body shaking and covered in a cold sweat, Tsula and Luna above me, chanting in the secret language of their esoteric Traditions. The two of them each held diffetent tools required for their cultural and subtle manipulation of reality. Soft hands, awash with mana and glowing tattoos, were placed on my chest, right where my heart was. Cold, icy fingers cradled my soul protectively, keeping it connected to my body in the here and now as harsh, physical laws rent my form.
I was paying the price for Raver's hubris, and I had almost overdrafted. Thoughts of mortal over reach faded from my mind as I slipped into cool and soothing darkness.
Cold and bloodied fingers were pressed against my chest and did little to assuage the burning ache that was my soul. I couldn't focus on anything else as I gazed at the hollowed out body of my beloved. She had been beautiful, gorgeous even, and due to give birth to our daughter in two weeks. Now, the... dead thing in front of me could barely be defined as a corpse. Her skin had been peeled away like a banana and her insides removed, leaving a bloodied, hollow space. The flesh and bones had been scooped away like ice cream, leaving little in the way of remains. Our unborn child had been pulled out and repurposed with the stolen parts of her mother by dreadlight and a mage's fell Will to form the body of a Thing.
With silent tears streaming down my face, I placed the ring I had proposed to her with and put it onto my finger, next to my plain tungsten one. The simple act of removing it almost caused what remained of her hand to simply fall apart in my fingers. I'm not sure how long I stayed like that. I couldn't even hold her body against mine for fear of it crumbling away into a vile mess. I ignored what was going on around me as I kneeled in the spent summoning circle.
The world around me split and rent itself into distorted imagery, as though I were looking at everything from under a pool with gentle waves. Some parts were compressed together and others were stretched out, not quite like a mirror maze as the world was still simply one cohesive image. Additionally, things seemed closer or further in ways that defied conventional Euclidean geometries. The only area not affected by this blatant disregard of spatial dimensions, had been myself and a scant few feet around me.
What...?
A heavy thud broke me out of my thoughts and I saw my Father landing next to me. Since both of us had been prepared, he was wearing, much like myself, full motorcycle safety gear. It had been enchanted and bolstered by hidden runes and severed Will, turning everything into protective objects that even defended against potent and offensive mysticism. The equipment in question had been chosen for its sheer mundanity and ease of access, letting the powerful enchancements skirt around the Lie and Consensus leaving the magic fully intact and potent.
"Alistair," I heard my Father say to me with grim calm as he twisted the space in front of us into a right angle, redirecting rapid gunfire, "I can't do this alone."
I remained silent.
"Damnit, Son," he growled out then literally kicked my ass with his heavy boot, almost knocking me over onto my side, "get a hold of yourself, Its here now. You handle the mages."
That got me going. I finally got up, my grief was as a lead weight and prevented me from doing what was needed. With a last look at C'Leena's hollowed out corpse, I grit my teeth, steeled my nerves and called forth my magic from the Aether.
Was I dreaming? No, worse, I was in a memory...
"Stay out of my way and watch yourself," Father said to me, "I can't pull my punches against that."
"Gotcha," I replied almost absently and turned to face the assembled shadow mages. They had inexplicably stopped theit gunfire to admire the Thing they brought into existence from Somewhere.
I couldn't help but stare, either.
Standing on top of the northernmost anchor stone, an ugly, multi-faceted block of copper with glyphs and sigils harshly hewn into it, was a naked woman. The glyphs themselves were hard to look at, as though their mere presence were an affront to reality itself, which they were. The woman's skin was a darkened olive tone and she was tall as well as athletic, lithe and fit. Her shoulder length black hair was bushy and curly, flowing about her head almost like an afro. As she ran her hands down her body, I could not help but notice that everything was oddly symmetrical and too perfect. It was unnerving me greatly and triggered an uncanny valley response that tore at my heart.
The body this Thing was wearing had belonged to my fiancée.
Father didn't let It have time to get acclimated. Sidestepping forwards, he drew upon the full capabilities of his Path, eyes backlit by stars, an impossible physical sword of abstract spatial geometries held in his left hand, and a reality defying, super-dense distortion held in his right.
The world contorted and screamed under his might.
I awoke with a start and a low groan, glad to be awake and free of that horrid nightmare again. Not for the first time, I wished I had that motorcycle gear still. I had been far too reckless then and immediately thereafter, and everything had been damaged beyond repair. I could never find anyone I trusted enough to make those enchantments anyways. Farnsworth could only enhance the mundane qualities as he didn't know enough about mana warding to permanently imbue the protections I wanted nor needed for my line of active field work.
Looking around, I saw Rue asleep on the other side of the bed and Spades was nestled between us, his massive form making a visible dip in the mattress. The big monster dog was on his back, legs splayed open and snoring loudly with his tongue hanging out of his muzzle. I was reminded a lot of my Lola when she had still been around in the flesh, making me smile with old and pleasant memories. I must have been out for some time for Spades to be here.
A quick, almost reflexive, mental orison told me everything I already suspected. My mana reserves were shot, my body had been through the ringer and my soul was frayed and burnt. While I knew I owed my continued existence to Raver and her godsend, I also knew it had taken a great and terrible toll on my Self. Miracles like that usually held some kind of hidden cost, even if they weren't readily apparent.
Getting off the bed slowly, I began to look for my pack. It took far longer than than usual as I had to steady myself quite a bit from the spinning room. I managed to be quiet, however, and didn't wake up Rue nor Spades. Finally in the shower, after some time and using the wall to support myself, I let the almost scalding water roll over my aching body. The pendant on my neck protecting me from recieving any burns or aggravating the injuries I had, both old and new.
With the hot water soothing aching muscles, I began to think and take stock of my situation. I had never been on the back foot like this, low on any kind of resource, having few allies, and being pressed for time. It was like something out of a bad novel or shitty indie Steam(R) game. Though, real life was often stranger than fiction and had no real need for a logical cause and effect dynamic. If this was going to become the norm, then I had to find another method of approaching my wendigo problem.
I was simply running out of time.
After some long moments of thinking, I began to wash my hair, using the guest products on the corner caddy. They were so much nicer than anything I would have willingly bought and made me seriously consider changing up my usual shampoo. The only idea I could come up with regarding those wendigos, besides an overwhelming frontal assault, was to appeal to their bottomless gluttony and barter for passage.
I resigned myself to actually try to negotiate with their clan leader, leveraging their horrid taboos against them to get what I needed.
Wendigos, unlike most strange cryptids, vampires and were-folk aside, had a lot of things known about them, especially how they powered their supernatural capabilities. It was a simple and rather straightforward process, the more heinous the act, the more mana they drew from it. Cannibalism, sacrilege, incest, murder, torture, hedonistic gluttony, or any number of other terrible and minor sins. As well as general lawbreaking and felonies, oftentimes combined to have as many as possible occur in the same sitting.
I audibly gasped with a sudden epiphany.
My fate had already been decided, by myself no less. In a bar I couldn't remember the name of, when I had been gazing into my bronze coin, I saw what I needed to do. I had to gift what measly scrap of knowledge I understood from Beyond the Infinite to those creatures. To let those wendigos defile and mutilate such sacred and pure knowledge to whatever whims their baleful minds could come up with.
"Fuck," was the only thing I could whisper at the thought of it all as I turned off the water, getting out of the shower. I cooled the bathroom down with but a thought and wiped away the condensation on the mirror with a towel that wasn't my own, finally getting a good look at myself without vertigo, as that had finally passed.
I looked like shit, and that was a compliment. Huge, fist shaped bruises of black, green and yellow littered my torso, though most were located on my left side and blurred together into an ugly shapeless mass. The ones on my right, however, were well defined and I could easily count the number of strikes. My face held a swollen black eye, I never noticed my diminished field of vision as I had gotten used to having them over the years. Turning gingerly and opening the mirror a bit so I could see my back, I grimaced. It was another spiderweb of a bruise, earned from when I had been smashed against the edge of Raver's Dreamtime bubble.
At least none of my fingers were broken, only very stiff and swollen, just like the rest of me. I probably couldn't drive for another day or so, either, not with my hands the way they were. As I looked, surprised I hadn't noticed earlier, the inside of my right hand was, branded. The skin, while fully healed, held the symbolic glyph that heralded the Path of Stars. A circle with nine curved lines inside it. Each line only intersected two others, but with the irregular placement of them, I could trace an intersection to any other one. In each of the open spaces, slightly off center, as a simple dot.
"Miracles leave their marks," I muttered to myself, almost disbelieving the literalness of the phrase.
I didn't bother drying off and struggled a bit getting into the clothes I brought with me, maroon athletic shorts and a black tank top. Exiting the guest bathroom, I thought about where I wanted to go. Settling on a destination, I went into the backyard, found a patch of grass in the shaded, morning sunlight and lay down. The grass was thick and rather soft, and the smell of the lemon tree and the garden was more pleasant and fragrant than they should have been.
Warding myself against dreaming, I pulled on the principles of the Aether, specifically, those of sun and storms. Since the Aether was a realm of energy and mana in all of its varying forms, I employed an advanced technique, a mysterion. It was something only able to be done by those that actually hailed from the Aether rather than having mastery over it. Pulling some of the sunlight and ambient warmth into my form, I converted measly scraps of energy directly into mana. The process was slow, and almost hardly worth the effort. It was like filling a bathtub with water, a single milliliter at a time.
Mana was now such a rare commodity, every miniscule drop of it mattered.
I settled in and entered a trance-like state, most of my attention devoted to my mysterion, though some of it was allowed to drift off elsewhere. While not exactly a dream, and while maintaining my mana draw, my mind conjured up nonsensical imagery and conversations between myself and others. I didn't pay them any attention as my thoughts wandered and drifted idly.
"I thought I'd find you out here," Rue said as I heard her sit down next to me. I didn't hear her walking, however, she continued to speak, "you've been asleep for a few days. What happened?"
"Got fucked," I replied easily, a little sarcastically as well. "Truthfully," I amended, "I got summoned by Raver. She pulled a shenanigan with Fate to let her have a waking dream."
"So she was hallucinating?" Rue stated, though it was more of a question.
"Damned straight," I confirmed, "she had Sasquatch and Farnsworth make something for her. It had to have been lethal, something like that. Anyways, we were talking and then one of Them showed up. Inside the Dreamtime bubble of hers. Found Raver's luminescence despite Mirzam hiding it."
"Shit. So It was physically there? That means It had a stolen body..." Rue said, trailing off.
"Yeah, it had a body alright," I almost growled out, "broke Raver's ritual with little effort. I spent everything I had to make a patch job just to keep it active, burned through all my mana, too. I did not want to be dispersed."
"I see," Rue said to me with understanding, "I wouldn't want to have to find my physical body without a tether either." There was a small pause before she spoke again, "So what happened next?"
"I made it mad with insults to buy time for the repaired shenanigan to stabilize Raver."
"What do you mean?" Rue asked as I heard her stretch out a bit, my eyes still closed.
"Her shenanigan was woven in such a way that whatever drug Sasquatch and Farnsworth made for her didn't just kill her," I answered with a pause then continued, "it let her do things beyond normality, anyways, my fucked up patch job let me tell Sasquatch that Raver had to stay dreaming."
"So he wouldn't just purge the elixir out of her," Rue stated, then added perhaps a tad bit defensively, "I know some things from other paths, not much, but some."
"That's good," I answered back, "knowledge is power."
"With us, it's quite literal."
I murmured in assent.
"So why did you make It mad?" Rue asked, "wouldn't It just draw strength from human emotions, especially in the Dreamtime?"
"It did," I answered back, "but It couldn't act properly on them, like human emotions were new and novel. The whole encounter was sloppy after a certain point, but I did almost die. Raver saved me, gave me a miracle."
"I saw," Rue said simply, "the mark on your hand was a giveaway."
I could only murmur in agreement again then asked, "Did you find a card in my hands, too?"
"I did," Rue replied after a few moments of silence, "it was debit card, with a note attached to it."
"From Procyon, right?"
It took a few moments for her to answer. "Yes, it was from Procyon," she took a breath and continued with wavering effort, "that damned bastard had it all planned out. Wrote a fucked up letter to me on a Google(TM) doc telling me not to worry and that this had always been his exit plan."
"Sounds like he knew what was going to happen," was all I could say.
"Yes, but, I miss him!" Rue all but snarled at me, then, in a small and quiet voice, whispered, "He was my best friend, and maybe we could've been more, y'know? Now... there's... There's just nothing, only memories of him left to mourn."
"I didn't know," I answered simply.
Rue spoke with a wavering breath before continuing, her thoughts more than a little disjointed, "a lot of what he wrote was personal, so I won't get into that, but he was certain that something catastrophic was going to happen to him and myself. So he made sure that I was at my secondary home, recovering from a job. I had just completed a mission from Raver and Mirzam, and was going to perform a ritual to patch up Spades after I got some sleep. Procyon also stated that someone has been altering things for a very long time."
"So that's why you were caught with yout pants down," I said, "you didn't even have time to recover." I paused, adjusting my mysterion as I had to refocus due to our conversation, "what did they have you do?"
"Some hedge wizards actually got a hold of an actual necromancy grimoire and charged mana tools in a graveyard," Rue said with a bit of a tired sigh, "they knew exactly what they were doing, and would have been rather powerful shadow mages if they had been capable of using starlight."
"Fuck," was all I could say, then formed an actual response after a few moments, "that shouldn't have been an issue for you. Hedges don't have our capability, though numbers may have evened out their odds."
"You're right, but they brought a spirit back before I could stop them," Rue answered with more than a little spite, "a real nasty piece of shit, too. Turned on the hedges, absorbed them, and put up a real mean fight against Spades and I. It was touch and go for a long time and I was actually fearful for my life, too."
"You won, though."
"Yeah, managed to send it kicking and screaming back to the Pit, exhausted most of my mana to do so. Fucking bastard."
There was a small silence between us as Rue became lost in her own thoughts. It was a while before I asked her, "Can you elaborate on what Procyon said about Fate being altered?"
"I can, actually, though it's a bit difficult since I'm not even a novice with the Path of Stars," Rue answered as I heard her shift a bit on the grass next to me. She paused as she seemingly collected her thoughts, "it's just that certain events were made to happen sooner or later. The big one, for our Node at least, was that you were always supposed to make your ancestral home translocate. It happened sooner than it should have."
"Fuck," I said, "So I wasn't supposed to send it away a few days ago?"
"No, that was supposed to happen after our wendigo thing, if the letter is to be believed."
"Fuck," was all I could say, "I do suppose that was a snap decision, I really didn't want Them to get a hold of anything inside. If I had been able to wait, or even had help, I'm sure I wouldn't have lost it to time and space."
"Exactly," Rue said with bitter excitement, "and we'd have access to everything in it. Losing your home was a big blow to our Node."
"Yeah, but at least They don't have it," I answered more spitefully than intended.
"Silver linings and all that, right?"
"Yeah, gotta look at the bright side, no matter how bleak," I answered back with a bit of sarcastic mirth, then said as I stretched a bit, readjusting my focus on my mysterion as well, "speaking of wendigos, I know what we need to do to solve that."
"Oh? Do tell, I couldn't come up with anything myself, kept running into dead ends," she said, then added, "lack of resources and help."
"Well, I don't think you're going to like it, I'm not sure I like it either."
"Don't keep me waiting," Rue said to me with a bit of sarcastic exasperation. I could sense her looking at me even though my eyes were still closed.
"I'm going to leverage their taboos against them, appeal to their insatiable greed and offer them what little I can understand of That Which Lies Beyond the Infinite." I sighed and added, "after all, how could they resist the allure of new magic?"
"You're right," she answered, "I definitely don't like it. I'm pretty sure it's not even wise to do so."
"Wise or not, it's the only way forward, I even saw it in a vision when I was manipulating fate magic."
"Have you talked to Mirzam or Raver about this vision of yours?"
"No, not yet, and I'm pretty sure I don't need to."
There was a bit of silence between us as she digested my words. I felt compelled to elaborate as I adjusted my mysterion again, losing a bit of my focus due to the depth of the conversation we were having.
"Acrux," I said, getting her attention fully by using the name of her star, "there's something you need to understand." I sat up, abandoning my mysterion in favor of giving her my full attention. Blinking a bit at the rise of light and warmth, I continued my thought process, "in the Dreamtime, the Thing I was fighting against, It was surprised and enraged that I was able to call upon knowledge that Lay Beyond the Infinite. Whatever those glyphs and powers are, They never wanted humans to know of them, let alone have them."
"Yet you want to give such power to wendigos of all things."
"At least the knowledge, corrupted or not, will still be on Earth," I said then added, "I'm not sure what you remember, but I know you've seen something from Beyond the Infinite. Your self revival and Spade's new form are proof of that. I was there, guided by Oracle. I Perceived something unknowable, something terrible, something no mortal has any right to gaze upon. Something I can hardly even begin to try to put into words. Raver Perceived it, too. It's how she managed to give me a godsend. So, what did you Perceive, really?"
Rue brought her knees up to her chest, thinking deeply. I could tell she was using her Perception to look inwards upon her Self. I waited patiently while she struggled to look at her soul's reflection against her mind and struggled even more to put the image there into words.
At long last, she spoke, her eyes still closed as she did so, "I'm not sure what I saw, there was too much, and I felt so small. Insignificant. Less than even a dismissed, intrusive thought. There is one thing I do remember. A doorway made of the might from two universes worth of truths and laws. A Thing was trying ro break through, but couldn't, not fully, yet the doors were opened, letting smaller ones through."
"The Doors have to be closed," I said, quoting Raver, before continuing, "that's what Raver said to me, before she sent me back to my body."
"Why didn't they mend you then?"
"They were being attacked in the waking world, too. It was a good plan on Their part, They just didn't expect us to put up so much of a fight."
"They never do, though I think that's changing."
"So that's our endgame, not sure how we're going to do it," I said, bringing the conversation back to topic, "at the moment, however, I'm going to eat a few of those mana-stuffed protein bars and fix your leg. I can't keep spending mana to be able to drive your truck. You'll have to use your own mysterion to get mana, too."
"I hate my Path's mysterions," the venom in her voice was palpable.
Before I could say anything, the backdoor opened, revealing Luna. She was wearing a bird-patterned sundress and her hair had been tied back into a loose ponytail. She put her hand over her eyes to shade them from the sun as she squinted against the brightness relative to that from inside.
"Hey, you two," she called out, "Grandmother says she needs to talk yo you."
"Alright," I called out, shakily getting up to my feet with a bit of a grunt. Everything still hurt. Rue had a bit of trouble as well, her leg was not recieving the rest and healing it deserved and needed.
"We're a mess, aren't we?" Rue asked aloud as we began to walk towards the bak door.
"Yeah, but you should see the other guys," I replied with a light chuckle, only to wince and hold my sides, "I forgot how much laughing hurts with fractured ribs."
"I really don't envy you right now," Rue said with a bit of a smirk as we entered Tsula's home, Rue entering first. "I wonder what Tsula wants to talk to us about?" Rue asked aloud, not really talking to anyone in particular.
I could only wonder as we followed Luna to the living room, the house pleasantly cool due to central air conditioning.
~ ~ ~
The moon was not in the sky, and I greatly enjoyed not having to endure the accursed, purifying light of day reflected by its surface, even if greatly diminished. The loathsome wound in my side had been a mortal blow, burning through my toughened flesh and form with unnerving ease and stunning, blinding pain. Once more, I looked at the oily, thin, and black ichor that dripped from my fingers, more human-like than I was comfortable with.
The mote of dreadlight I had recieved for my services had been the only thing that had kept me from vanishing entirely. Mortal alchemy -- science -- had advanced to such a degree so as to emulate the harsh light of day far too remarkably well. That hadn't been the worst part, that damned thaumaturgist had ensorcelled a curse upon the weapon as well. With effort, as the bulk of my power was directed at repairing the oozing wound, I altered my form and shape, struggling to maintain the illusion as I walked out onto the sidewalk from a side alley.
My contract was not yet completed.
The first two nights I had hidden myself away in the dark depths, raging against the oblivion that threatened to overtake me and ending my existence. The preparedness of the thaumaturgist had been unexpected, as well as the skill and the knowledge he had wielded so effortlessly. Without my guidance, nor presence, to instill fear into the gifted abetters, the wraiths I had gathered with me fell and fled into the night, abandoning their duties and contracts.
I would have never made this mistake against the herald of the bear.
Had I known the name of the mortal's star I had been tasked against, I would have demanded more than a simple mote of dreadlight and a paltry handful of coerced allies. Realistically, I should be grateful that I still had a kind of semi-existence. Quelling my anger and hatred, and swallowing my utter revulsion, my form rippled and took the guise of a tall, middle-aged human male in a common and unremarkable suit carrying an old and worn briefcase.
The artificial illumination around me flickered, emitting a grating hum in my presence and the thin television flickered oddly as it tried to display my image, failing to accurately do so. While tracking Arcturus's quintessence had been a bit of a task, as far too much time had passed, my familiarity with it granted me an advantage that overcame that difficulty. Traveling in my wounded state, however, had been much more arduous. Looking the woman at the reception desk over, I took on my role with hiden revulsion, aided by the illusion I was conjuring and the mimicry of my physical form.
"I'm detective Aiden Roth, and I'm looking for someone. I believe that he was here a few nights ago, definitely this past week," I said. My false, human voice had been made to sound smooth, suave and strong, interlaced with a suggestion, using what little forte I could spare. I put the worn and well-used briefcase I had conjured with me onto the counter with a heavy thud, using more of my forte to emulate such a simple thing. Opening it up, I fished out an image and showed the slightly grainy, black and white picture to the receptionist.
As the woman perused the conjured image, I could not help but hiss, my hand going to my side as I expended more of my forte than I had anticipated. The cursed wound fighting back fiercely against the dreadlight tethering my existence and life. I held my disguise with willpower of monumental proportions. A strength of will I rarely had been pressed to draw from.
Seeing the concerned look the woman gave me, I simply stated, shrugging off the pain with yet more expenditure of will, "An old injury, it flares up from time to time. No matter, have you seen this individual?"
"I'm going to need to see some kind of badge or warrant," the woman said with a genuine smile, "sorry."
The fear of losing her menial job overpowered my subtle suggestion. Unfortunate.
"Sure," I replied with a fake and well ptacticed, fetching smile, adjusting my forte to include another suggestion. I showed an actual badge with my assumed name and likeness. The mortal I was impersonating had been slain many years ago by my own hands, and the subtle illusion taking hardly any of my forte adjusted the dates and design of the badge to whatever was current.
Only a thaumaturgist, or a very particularly skilled sorcerer, could pierce the illusion. Against this mortal, there was no chance of resistance and she accepted the stolen badge without question.
She looked it over, as if trying to divine the legitimacy of it. "Okay," she finally admitted, "he was here a while ago, maybe a four or five days? I remember, 'cause I tried to flirt with him..."
I ignored her prattling and asked when she finished speaking, "Can you show me the room he used?"
"Sure, but it's been cleaned a few times since then."
With a nod, I let her lead the way to the room in question, staying silent. The lights around me flickered and hummed loudly in my presence. Had the woman been more observant, she could have seen my true shadow as I had not the forte to expend to hide it entirely from the ever changing lights. She opened the room in question, using what I could only assume was a master key card.
I immediately recognized the faded auras of quintessence.
"This will do," I stated, closing the door behind me and dropping my revolting disguise, using my forte to lock it.
I revealed my true form. My legs and arms lengthened and thinned, the black suit and red tie I was wearing became my skin, armor and form. My face and eyes became blank, gaunt and sunken, skin stretching out over it. The wound in my side made itself visible, it was an ugly red, peeling and oozing burn from my shoulder to my waist and took up most of my torso. The dreadlight I was using to prevent my oblivion illuminated the wound with a kind of sickly, crimson colored backlight. Black ichor oozed out from it and dripped onto the floor as I used the bulk of my forte to ablate the caustic, foreign quintessence from my form.
The woman looked at me as even her pitifully dull, mundane human senses told her that there was incredible danger in the room with her. She screeched and irrationally ran towards the bathroom as my presence became impossibly tall in the very finite space in the motel room. Using the smallest iota of my forte, I remotely smashed her fleeing form against a wall, pinning her there with unseen force as she begged, and sobbed for her pitiful life.
I ignored her for the moment.
Drawing upon more of my forte, freed up as I no longer needed a disguise, I sensed out where quintessence had been used, discovering two places, the bed and a wall. Imbuing the wall with my own forte, I witnessed a spectral, moving image of Arcturus throwing five darts at a map placed on the wall, one at a time, then draw intersecting lines to a single point on the map.
"Wendigos..." I hissed out in loathing, the skin on my face stretching and contorting with the movement as i spoke aloud with a nonexistent mouth. Even I knew their territory.
Turning to the second source of quintessence, I did the same thing. I saw Arcturus ward himself against dreaming and then hold a brilliant shield in the air, as well as a ball of fire. My knowledge of actual thaumaturgy told me that I would have great difficulties against those Knowings. I put the mystery of his Dreamtime excursion out of my mind for now, there was nothing I could do regarding that.
My expenditure of forte caused my horrid wound to pulse against my form painfully. With a hiss, I turned to the woman meekly begging me to spare her life as she was still pinned against the wall. I could use a thrall, especially as I could no longer gain allies, not without offering something in return to my current contract holders.
That was not a barter I wanted to engage in.
"Please... don't kill me... please... I'll do anything... please..."
The absolute terror in her eyes was delectable. Her fear invigorated me with energy and reminded me I needed to feed. However, the morsels offered by her would be more than sufficient for my needs. I dragged my left hand across my oozing wound, covering it in my own essence then flexed my forte. The clothes she was wearing split in half down the middle, revealing her naked form, making her shriek. I could see the ideas her panicked mind vomited forth as she renewed her struggles with vigor.
What I had in mind was so much worse than the mundane taking of her physical body she expected.
Using the full might of my forte, I lengthened and sharpened my index finger, the tip dripping with the gathered ichor of my essence. In an instant, less than the blink of an eye, I appeared in front of her from where I had been by the bed and plunged the very tip of my sharpened, needle-like nail into the center of her heart, cutting through the most sensitive parts of her breast to do so due to the angle I had chosen for just this purpose. As I let my ichor suffuse her body with each beat of her racing heart, her vascular system visibly turning black under her skin as she screamed and writhed in agony, an odd thing happened.
What could only be considered my blood had been tainted by thaumaturgy qnr bolstered by dreadlight as well as my own forte. As it mixed with the blank canvas of the mortal in front of me, I could sense the candle of her soul. Reaching out with dreadlight, letting the wound burn my side with a hiss of inhaled breath, I ignited it with three kinds of mysticism.
A horrified realization overcame her as she knew I had fundamentally altered her to suit my whims. Having a thaumaturgist thrall would be a great boon.
"You'll do quite nicely," I said with an actual grin, the skin stretched over my mouth revealing impossibly large, gleaming flat teeth, as I watched the physical and mystical changes taking place.
My new thrall would never be human again.
I feasted on her terror, anguish and torment.
It was delicious.
~ ~ ~
Arcturus and Acrux will be back. C'Leena Thomas, Prosthetist is going to be my next update.
[[NEXT]]

This chapter took a long time to get out. Life has me super busy. Two jobs, married, two kids, still sober. I like how this turned out, however, someone new stole the show this time. As always, leave feedback, I appreciate it so very much.
[FIRST] [DELETED SCENES] [PREVIOUS]
My bare-bones-ish Discord.
~ ~ ~
As I reentered my true body without recieving a mending, the vicious wounds I endured manifested into being as I reactualized into my true Self. Through the pain, I couldn't help but think on Raver's words to me.
"The doors have to be closed."
~ ~ ~
Without recieving a mending in Raver's Dreamtime bubble, reactualization was a fucking bitch. I Perceived my Self as having quite the damaged form, my Soul was fucked over by bombardment from dreadlight and my physical body simply disagreed with it all, stating that I was mostly whole and intact, only being damaged by wounds I had already endured. The three parts had an argument of a sort amongst themselves and with the power of the Dreamtime, reached a tortuous compromise.
I'm certain I seizured and blacked out through the process.
I awoke with my body shaking and covered in a cold sweat, Tsula and Luna above me, chanting in the secret language of their esoteric Traditions. The two of them each held diffetent tools required for their cultural and subtle manipulation of reality. Soft hands, awash with mana and glowing tattoos, were placed on my chest, right where my heart was. Cold, icy fingers cradled my soul protectively, keeping it connected to my body in the here and now as harsh, physical laws rent my form.
I was paying the price for Raver's hubris, and I had almost overdrafted. Thoughts of mortal over reach faded from my mind as I slipped into cool and soothing darkness.
Cold and bloodied fingers were pressed against my chest and did little to assuage the burning ache that was my soul. I couldn't focus on anything else as I gazed at the hollowed out body of my beloved. She had been beautiful, gorgeous even, and due to give birth to our daughter in two weeks. Now, the... dead thing in front of me could barely be defined as a corpse. Her skin had been peeled away like a banana and her insides removed, leaving a bloodied, hollow space. The flesh and bones had been scooped away like ice cream, leaving little in the way of remains. Our unborn child had been pulled out and repurposed with the stolen parts of her mother by dreadlight and a mage's fell Will to form the body of a Thing.
With silent tears streaming down my face, I placed the ring I had proposed to her with and put it onto my finger, next to my plain tungsten one. The simple act of removing it almost caused what remained of her hand to simply fall apart in my fingers. I'm not sure how long I stayed like that. I couldn't even hold her body against mine for fear of it crumbling away into a vile mess. I ignored what was going on around me as I kneeled in the spent summoning circle.
The world around me split and rent itself into distorted imagery, as though I were looking at everything from under a pool with gentle waves. Some parts were compressed together and others were stretched out, not quite like a mirror maze as the world was still simply one cohesive image. Additionally, things seemed closer or further in ways that defied conventional Euclidean geometries. The only area not affected by this blatant disregard of spatial dimensions, had been myself and a scant few feet around me.
What...?
A heavy thud broke me out of my thoughts and I saw my Father landing next to me. Since both of us had been prepared, he was wearing, much like myself, full motorcycle safety gear. It had been enchanted and bolstered by hidden runes and severed Will, turning everything into protective objects that even defended against potent and offensive mysticism. The equipment in question had been chosen for its sheer mundanity and ease of access, letting the powerful enchancements skirt around the Lie and Consensus leaving the magic fully intact and potent.
"Alistair," I heard my Father say to me with grim calm as he twisted the space in front of us into a right angle, redirecting rapid gunfire, "I can't do this alone."
I remained silent.
"Damnit, Son," he growled out then literally kicked my ass with his heavy boot, almost knocking me over onto my side, "get a hold of yourself, Its here now. You handle the mages."
That got me going. I finally got up, my grief was as a lead weight and prevented me from doing what was needed. With a last look at C'Leena's hollowed out corpse, I grit my teeth, steeled my nerves and called forth my magic from the Aether.
Was I dreaming? No, worse, I was in a memory...
"Stay out of my way and watch yourself," Father said to me, "I can't pull my punches against that."
"Gotcha," I replied almost absently and turned to face the assembled shadow mages. They had inexplicably stopped theit gunfire to admire the Thing they brought into existence from Somewhere.
I couldn't help but stare, either.
Standing on top of the northernmost anchor stone, an ugly, multi-faceted block of copper with glyphs and sigils harshly hewn into it, was a naked woman. The glyphs themselves were hard to look at, as though their mere presence were an affront to reality itself, which they were. The woman's skin was a darkened olive tone and she was tall as well as athletic, lithe and fit. Her shoulder length black hair was bushy and curly, flowing about her head almost like an afro. As she ran her hands down her body, I could not help but notice that everything was oddly symmetrical and too perfect. It was unnerving me greatly and triggered an uncanny valley response that tore at my heart.
The body this Thing was wearing had belonged to my fiancée.
Father didn't let It have time to get acclimated. Sidestepping forwards, he drew upon the full capabilities of his Path, eyes backlit by stars, an impossible physical sword of abstract spatial geometries held in his left hand, and a reality defying, super-dense distortion held in his right.
The world contorted and screamed under his might.
I awoke with a start and a low groan, glad to be awake and free of that horrid nightmare again. Not for the first time, I wished I had that motorcycle gear still. I had been far too reckless then and immediately thereafter, and everything had been damaged beyond repair. I could never find anyone I trusted enough to make those enchantments anyways. Farnsworth could only enhance the mundane qualities as he didn't know enough about mana warding to permanently imbue the protections I wanted nor needed for my line of active field work.
Looking around, I saw Rue asleep on the other side of the bed and Spades was nestled between us, his massive form making a visible dip in the mattress. The big monster dog was on his back, legs splayed open and snoring loudly with his tongue hanging out of his muzzle. I was reminded a lot of my Lola when she had still been around in the flesh, making me smile with old and pleasant memories. I must have been out for some time for Spades to be here.
A quick, almost reflexive, mental orison told me everything I already suspected. My mana reserves were shot, my body had been through the ringer and my soul was frayed and burnt. While I knew I owed my continued existence to Raver and her godsend, I also knew it had taken a great and terrible toll on my Self. Miracles like that usually held some kind of hidden cost, even if they weren't readily apparent.
Getting off the bed slowly, I began to look for my pack. It took far longer than than usual as I had to steady myself quite a bit from the spinning room. I managed to be quiet, however, and didn't wake up Rue nor Spades. Finally in the shower, after some time and using the wall to support myself, I let the almost scalding water roll over my aching body. The pendant on my neck protecting me from recieving any burns or aggravating the injuries I had, both old and new.
With the hot water soothing aching muscles, I began to think and take stock of my situation. I had never been on the back foot like this, low on any kind of resource, having few allies, and being pressed for time. It was like something out of a bad novel or shitty indie Steam(R) game. Though, real life was often stranger than fiction and had no real need for a logical cause and effect dynamic. If this was going to become the norm, then I had to find another method of approaching my wendigo problem.
I was simply running out of time.
After some long moments of thinking, I began to wash my hair, using the guest products on the corner caddy. They were so much nicer than anything I would have willingly bought and made me seriously consider changing up my usual shampoo. The only idea I could come up with regarding those wendigos, besides an overwhelming frontal assault, was to appeal to their bottomless gluttony and barter for passage.
I resigned myself to actually try to negotiate with their clan leader, leveraging their horrid taboos against them to get what I needed.
Wendigos, unlike most strange cryptids, vampires and were-folk aside, had a lot of things known about them, especially how they powered their supernatural capabilities. It was a simple and rather straightforward process, the more heinous the act, the more mana they drew from it. Cannibalism, sacrilege, incest, murder, torture, hedonistic gluttony, or any number of other terrible and minor sins. As well as general lawbreaking and felonies, oftentimes combined to have as many as possible occur in the same sitting.
I audibly gasped with a sudden epiphany.
My fate had already been decided, by myself no less. In a bar I couldn't remember the name of, when I had been gazing into my bronze coin, I saw what I needed to do. I had to gift what measly scrap of knowledge I understood from Beyond the Infinite to those creatures. To let those wendigos defile and mutilate such sacred and pure knowledge to whatever whims their baleful minds could come up with.
"Fuck," was the only thing I could whisper at the thought of it all as I turned off the water, getting out of the shower. I cooled the bathroom down with but a thought and wiped away the condensation on the mirror with a towel that wasn't my own, finally getting a good look at myself without vertigo, as that had finally passed.
I looked like shit, and that was a compliment. Huge, fist shaped bruises of black, green and yellow littered my torso, though most were located on my left side and blurred together into an ugly shapeless mass. The ones on my right, however, were well defined and I could easily count the number of strikes. My face held a swollen black eye, I never noticed my diminished field of vision as I had gotten used to having them over the years. Turning gingerly and opening the mirror a bit so I could see my back, I grimaced. It was another spiderweb of a bruise, earned from when I had been smashed against the edge of Raver's Dreamtime bubble.
At least none of my fingers were broken, only very stiff and swollen, just like the rest of me. I probably couldn't drive for another day or so, either, not with my hands the way they were. As I looked, surprised I hadn't noticed earlier, the inside of my right hand was, branded. The skin, while fully healed, held the symbolic glyph that heralded the Path of Stars. A circle with nine curved lines inside it. Each line only intersected two others, but with the irregular placement of them, I could trace an intersection to any other one. In each of the open spaces, slightly off center, as a simple dot.
"Miracles leave their marks," I muttered to myself, almost disbelieving the literalness of the phrase.
I didn't bother drying off and struggled a bit getting into the clothes I brought with me, maroon athletic shorts and a black tank top. Exiting the guest bathroom, I thought about where I wanted to go. Settling on a destination, I went into the backyard, found a patch of grass in the shaded, morning sunlight and lay down. The grass was thick and rather soft, and the smell of the lemon tree and the garden was more pleasant and fragrant than they should have been.
Warding myself against dreaming, I pulled on the principles of the Aether, specifically, those of sun and storms. Since the Aether was a realm of energy and mana in all of its varying forms, I employed an advanced technique, a mysterion. It was something only able to be done by those that actually hailed from the Aether rather than having mastery over it. Pulling some of the sunlight and ambient warmth into my form, I converted measly scraps of energy directly into mana. The process was slow, and almost hardly worth the effort. It was like filling a bathtub with water, a single milliliter at a time.
Mana was now such a rare commodity, every miniscule drop of it mattered.
I settled in and entered a trance-like state, most of my attention devoted to my mysterion, though some of it was allowed to drift off elsewhere. While not exactly a dream, and while maintaining my mana draw, my mind conjured up nonsensical imagery and conversations between myself and others. I didn't pay them any attention as my thoughts wandered and drifted idly.
"I thought I'd find you out here," Rue said as I heard her sit down next to me. I didn't hear her walking, however, she continued to speak, "you've been asleep for a few days. What happened?"
"Got fucked," I replied easily, a little sarcastically as well. "Truthfully," I amended, "I got summoned by Raver. She pulled a shenanigan with Fate to let her have a waking dream."
"So she was hallucinating?" Rue stated, though it was more of a question.
"Damned straight," I confirmed, "she had Sasquatch and Farnsworth make something for her. It had to have been lethal, something like that. Anyways, we were talking and then one of Them showed up. Inside the Dreamtime bubble of hers. Found Raver's luminescence despite Mirzam hiding it."
"Shit. So It was physically there? That means It had a stolen body..." Rue said, trailing off.
"Yeah, it had a body alright," I almost growled out, "broke Raver's ritual with little effort. I spent everything I had to make a patch job just to keep it active, burned through all my mana, too. I did not want to be dispersed."
"I see," Rue said to me with understanding, "I wouldn't want to have to find my physical body without a tether either." There was a small pause before she spoke again, "So what happened next?"
"I made it mad with insults to buy time for the repaired shenanigan to stabilize Raver."
"What do you mean?" Rue asked as I heard her stretch out a bit, my eyes still closed.
"Her shenanigan was woven in such a way that whatever drug Sasquatch and Farnsworth made for her didn't just kill her," I answered with a pause then continued, "it let her do things beyond normality, anyways, my fucked up patch job let me tell Sasquatch that Raver had to stay dreaming."
"So he wouldn't just purge the elixir out of her," Rue stated, then added perhaps a tad bit defensively, "I know some things from other paths, not much, but some."
"That's good," I answered back, "knowledge is power."
"With us, it's quite literal."
I murmured in assent.
"So why did you make It mad?" Rue asked, "wouldn't It just draw strength from human emotions, especially in the Dreamtime?"
"It did," I answered back, "but It couldn't act properly on them, like human emotions were new and novel. The whole encounter was sloppy after a certain point, but I did almost die. Raver saved me, gave me a miracle."
"I saw," Rue said simply, "the mark on your hand was a giveaway."
I could only murmur in agreement again then asked, "Did you find a card in my hands, too?"
"I did," Rue replied after a few moments of silence, "it was debit card, with a note attached to it."
"From Procyon, right?"
It took a few moments for her to answer. "Yes, it was from Procyon," she took a breath and continued with wavering effort, "that damned bastard had it all planned out. Wrote a fucked up letter to me on a Google(TM) doc telling me not to worry and that this had always been his exit plan."
"Sounds like he knew what was going to happen," was all I could say.
"Yes, but, I miss him!" Rue all but snarled at me, then, in a small and quiet voice, whispered, "He was my best friend, and maybe we could've been more, y'know? Now... there's... There's just nothing, only memories of him left to mourn."
"I didn't know," I answered simply.
Rue spoke with a wavering breath before continuing, her thoughts more than a little disjointed, "a lot of what he wrote was personal, so I won't get into that, but he was certain that something catastrophic was going to happen to him and myself. So he made sure that I was at my secondary home, recovering from a job. I had just completed a mission from Raver and Mirzam, and was going to perform a ritual to patch up Spades after I got some sleep. Procyon also stated that someone has been altering things for a very long time."
"So that's why you were caught with yout pants down," I said, "you didn't even have time to recover." I paused, adjusting my mysterion as I had to refocus due to our conversation, "what did they have you do?"
"Some hedge wizards actually got a hold of an actual necromancy grimoire and charged mana tools in a graveyard," Rue said with a bit of a tired sigh, "they knew exactly what they were doing, and would have been rather powerful shadow mages if they had been capable of using starlight."
"Fuck," was all I could say, then formed an actual response after a few moments, "that shouldn't have been an issue for you. Hedges don't have our capability, though numbers may have evened out their odds."
"You're right, but they brought a spirit back before I could stop them," Rue answered with more than a little spite, "a real nasty piece of shit, too. Turned on the hedges, absorbed them, and put up a real mean fight against Spades and I. It was touch and go for a long time and I was actually fearful for my life, too."
"You won, though."
"Yeah, managed to send it kicking and screaming back to the Pit, exhausted most of my mana to do so. Fucking bastard."
There was a small silence between us as Rue became lost in her own thoughts. It was a while before I asked her, "Can you elaborate on what Procyon said about Fate being altered?"
"I can, actually, though it's a bit difficult since I'm not even a novice with the Path of Stars," Rue answered as I heard her shift a bit on the grass next to me. She paused as she seemingly collected her thoughts, "it's just that certain events were made to happen sooner or later. The big one, for our Node at least, was that you were always supposed to make your ancestral home translocate. It happened sooner than it should have."
"Fuck," I said, "So I wasn't supposed to send it away a few days ago?"
"No, that was supposed to happen after our wendigo thing, if the letter is to be believed."
"Fuck," was all I could say, "I do suppose that was a snap decision, I really didn't want Them to get a hold of anything inside. If I had been able to wait, or even had help, I'm sure I wouldn't have lost it to time and space."
"Exactly," Rue said with bitter excitement, "and we'd have access to everything in it. Losing your home was a big blow to our Node."
"Yeah, but at least They don't have it," I answered more spitefully than intended.
"Silver linings and all that, right?"
"Yeah, gotta look at the bright side, no matter how bleak," I answered back with a bit of sarcastic mirth, then said as I stretched a bit, readjusting my focus on my mysterion as well, "speaking of wendigos, I know what we need to do to solve that."
"Oh? Do tell, I couldn't come up with anything myself, kept running into dead ends," she said, then added, "lack of resources and help."
"Well, I don't think you're going to like it, I'm not sure I like it either."
"Don't keep me waiting," Rue said to me with a bit of sarcastic exasperation. I could sense her looking at me even though my eyes were still closed.
"I'm going to leverage their taboos against them, appeal to their insatiable greed and offer them what little I can understand of That Which Lies Beyond the Infinite." I sighed and added, "after all, how could they resist the allure of new magic?"
"You're right," she answered, "I definitely don't like it. I'm pretty sure it's not even wise to do so."
"Wise or not, it's the only way forward, I even saw it in a vision when I was manipulating fate magic."
"Have you talked to Mirzam or Raver about this vision of yours?"
"No, not yet, and I'm pretty sure I don't need to."
There was a bit of silence between us as she digested my words. I felt compelled to elaborate as I adjusted my mysterion again, losing a bit of my focus due to the depth of the conversation we were having.
"Acrux," I said, getting her attention fully by using the name of her star, "there's something you need to understand." I sat up, abandoning my mysterion in favor of giving her my full attention. Blinking a bit at the rise of light and warmth, I continued my thought process, "in the Dreamtime, the Thing I was fighting against, It was surprised and enraged that I was able to call upon knowledge that Lay Beyond the Infinite. Whatever those glyphs and powers are, They never wanted humans to know of them, let alone have them."
"Yet you want to give such power to wendigos of all things."
"At least the knowledge, corrupted or not, will still be on Earth," I said then added, "I'm not sure what you remember, but I know you've seen something from Beyond the Infinite. Your self revival and Spade's new form are proof of that. I was there, guided by Oracle. I Perceived something unknowable, something terrible, something no mortal has any right to gaze upon. Something I can hardly even begin to try to put into words. Raver Perceived it, too. It's how she managed to give me a godsend. So, what did you Perceive, really?"
Rue brought her knees up to her chest, thinking deeply. I could tell she was using her Perception to look inwards upon her Self. I waited patiently while she struggled to look at her soul's reflection against her mind and struggled even more to put the image there into words.
At long last, she spoke, her eyes still closed as she did so, "I'm not sure what I saw, there was too much, and I felt so small. Insignificant. Less than even a dismissed, intrusive thought. There is one thing I do remember. A doorway made of the might from two universes worth of truths and laws. A Thing was trying ro break through, but couldn't, not fully, yet the doors were opened, letting smaller ones through."
"The Doors have to be closed," I said, quoting Raver, before continuing, "that's what Raver said to me, before she sent me back to my body."
"Why didn't they mend you then?"
"They were being attacked in the waking world, too. It was a good plan on Their part, They just didn't expect us to put up so much of a fight."
"They never do, though I think that's changing."
"So that's our endgame, not sure how we're going to do it," I said, bringing the conversation back to topic, "at the moment, however, I'm going to eat a few of those mana-stuffed protein bars and fix your leg. I can't keep spending mana to be able to drive your truck. You'll have to use your own mysterion to get mana, too."
"I hate my Path's mysterions," the venom in her voice was palpable.
Before I could say anything, the backdoor opened, revealing Luna. She was wearing a bird-patterned sundress and her hair had been tied back into a loose ponytail. She put her hand over her eyes to shade them from the sun as she squinted against the brightness relative to that from inside.
"Hey, you two," she called out, "Grandmother says she needs to talk yo you."
"Alright," I called out, shakily getting up to my feet with a bit of a grunt. Everything still hurt. Rue had a bit of trouble as well, her leg was not recieving the rest and healing it deserved and needed.
"We're a mess, aren't we?" Rue asked aloud as we began to walk towards the bak door.
"Yeah, but you should see the other guys," I replied with a light chuckle, only to wince and hold my sides, "I forgot how much laughing hurts with fractured ribs."
"I really don't envy you right now," Rue said with a bit of a smirk as we entered Tsula's home, Rue entering first. "I wonder what Tsula wants to talk to us about?" Rue asked aloud, not really talking to anyone in particular.
I could only wonder as we followed Luna to the living room, the house pleasantly cool due to central air conditioning.
~ ~ ~
The moon was not in the sky, and I greatly enjoyed not having to endure the accursed, purifying light of day reflected by its surface, even if greatly diminished. The loathsome wound in my side had been a mortal blow, burning through my toughened flesh and form with unnerving ease and stunning, blinding pain. Once more, I looked at the oily, thin, and black ichor that dripped from my fingers, more human-like than I was comfortable with.
The mote of dreadlight I had recieved for my services had been the only thing that had kept me from vanishing entirely. Mortal alchemy -- science -- had advanced to such a degree so as to emulate the harsh light of day far too remarkably well. That hadn't been the worst part, that damned thaumaturgist had ensorcelled a curse upon the weapon as well. With effort, as the bulk of my power was directed at repairing the oozing wound, I altered my form and shape, struggling to maintain the illusion as I walked out onto the sidewalk from a side alley.
My contract was not yet completed.
The first two nights I had hidden myself away in the dark depths, raging against the oblivion that threatened to overtake me and ending my existence. The preparedness of the thaumaturgist had been unexpected, as well as the skill and the knowledge he had wielded so effortlessly. Without my guidance, nor presence, to instill fear into the gifted abetters, the wraiths I had gathered with me fell and fled into the night, abandoning their duties and contracts.
I would have never made this mistake against the herald of the bear.
Had I known the name of the mortal's star I had been tasked against, I would have demanded more than a simple mote of dreadlight and a paltry handful of coerced allies. Realistically, I should be grateful that I still had a kind of semi-existence. Quelling my anger and hatred, and swallowing my utter revulsion, my form rippled and took the guise of a tall, middle-aged human male in a common and unremarkable suit carrying an old and worn briefcase.
The artificial illumination around me flickered, emitting a grating hum in my presence and the thin television flickered oddly as it tried to display my image, failing to accurately do so. While tracking Arcturus's quintessence had been a bit of a task, as far too much time had passed, my familiarity with it granted me an advantage that overcame that difficulty. Traveling in my wounded state, however, had been much more arduous. Looking the woman at the reception desk over, I took on my role with hiden revulsion, aided by the illusion I was conjuring and the mimicry of my physical form.
"I'm detective Aiden Roth, and I'm looking for someone. I believe that he was here a few nights ago, definitely this past week," I said. My false, human voice had been made to sound smooth, suave and strong, interlaced with a suggestion, using what little forte I could spare. I put the worn and well-used briefcase I had conjured with me onto the counter with a heavy thud, using more of my forte to emulate such a simple thing. Opening it up, I fished out an image and showed the slightly grainy, black and white picture to the receptionist.
As the woman perused the conjured image, I could not help but hiss, my hand going to my side as I expended more of my forte than I had anticipated. The cursed wound fighting back fiercely against the dreadlight tethering my existence and life. I held my disguise with willpower of monumental proportions. A strength of will I rarely had been pressed to draw from.
Seeing the concerned look the woman gave me, I simply stated, shrugging off the pain with yet more expenditure of will, "An old injury, it flares up from time to time. No matter, have you seen this individual?"
"I'm going to need to see some kind of badge or warrant," the woman said with a genuine smile, "sorry."
The fear of losing her menial job overpowered my subtle suggestion. Unfortunate.
"Sure," I replied with a fake and well ptacticed, fetching smile, adjusting my forte to include another suggestion. I showed an actual badge with my assumed name and likeness. The mortal I was impersonating had been slain many years ago by my own hands, and the subtle illusion taking hardly any of my forte adjusted the dates and design of the badge to whatever was current.
Only a thaumaturgist, or a very particularly skilled sorcerer, could pierce the illusion. Against this mortal, there was no chance of resistance and she accepted the stolen badge without question.
She looked it over, as if trying to divine the legitimacy of it. "Okay," she finally admitted, "he was here a while ago, maybe a four or five days? I remember, 'cause I tried to flirt with him..."
I ignored her prattling and asked when she finished speaking, "Can you show me the room he used?"
"Sure, but it's been cleaned a few times since then."
With a nod, I let her lead the way to the room in question, staying silent. The lights around me flickered and hummed loudly in my presence. Had the woman been more observant, she could have seen my true shadow as I had not the forte to expend to hide it entirely from the ever changing lights. She opened the room in question, using what I could only assume was a master key card.
I immediately recognized the faded auras of quintessence.
"This will do," I stated, closing the door behind me and dropping my revolting disguise, using my forte to lock it.
I revealed my true form. My legs and arms lengthened and thinned, the black suit and red tie I was wearing became my skin, armor and form. My face and eyes became blank, gaunt and sunken, skin stretching out over it. The wound in my side made itself visible, it was an ugly red, peeling and oozing burn from my shoulder to my waist and took up most of my torso. The dreadlight I was using to prevent my oblivion illuminated the wound with a kind of sickly, crimson colored backlight. Black ichor oozed out from it and dripped onto the floor as I used the bulk of my forte to ablate the caustic, foreign quintessence from my form.
The woman looked at me as even her pitifully dull, mundane human senses told her that there was incredible danger in the room with her. She screeched and irrationally ran towards the bathroom as my presence became impossibly tall in the very finite space in the motel room. Using the smallest iota of my forte, I remotely smashed her fleeing form against a wall, pinning her there with unseen force as she begged, and sobbed for her pitiful life.
I ignored her for the moment.
Drawing upon more of my forte, freed up as I no longer needed a disguise, I sensed out where quintessence had been used, discovering two places, the bed and a wall. Imbuing the wall with my own forte, I witnessed a spectral, moving image of Arcturus throwing five darts at a map placed on the wall, one at a time, then draw intersecting lines to a single point on the map.
"Wendigos..." I hissed out in loathing, the skin on my face stretching and contorting with the movement as i spoke aloud with a nonexistent mouth. Even I knew their territory.
Turning to the second source of quintessence, I did the same thing. I saw Arcturus ward himself against dreaming and then hold a brilliant shield in the air, as well as a ball of fire. My knowledge of actual thaumaturgy told me that I would have great difficulties against those Knowings. I put the mystery of his Dreamtime excursion out of my mind for now, there was nothing I could do regarding that.
My expenditure of forte caused my horrid wound to pulse against my form painfully. With a hiss, I turned to the woman meekly begging me to spare her life as she was still pinned against the wall. I could use a thrall, especially as I could no longer gain allies, not without offering something in return to my current contract holders.
That was not a barter I wanted to engage in.
"Please... don't kill me... please... I'll do anything... please..."
The absolute terror in her eyes was delectable. Her fear invigorated me with energy and reminded me I needed to feed. However, the morsels offered by her would be more than sufficient for my needs. I dragged my left hand across my oozing wound, covering it in my own essence then flexed my forte. The clothes she was wearing split in half down the middle, revealing her naked form, making her shriek. I could see the ideas her panicked mind vomited forth as she renewed her struggles with vigor.
What I had in mind was so much worse than the mundane taking of her physical body she expected.
Using the full might of my forte, I lengthened and sharpened my index finger, the tip dripping with the gathered ichor of my essence. In an instant, less than the blink of an eye, I appeared in front of her from where I had been by the bed and plunged the very tip of my sharpened, needle-like nail into the center of her heart, cutting through the most sensitive parts of her breast to do so due to the angle I had chosen for just this purpose. As I let my ichor suffuse her body with each beat of her racing heart, her vascular system visibly turning black under her skin as she screamed and writhed in agony, an odd thing happened.
What could only be considered my blood had been tainted by thaumaturgy qnr bolstered by dreadlight as well as my own forte. As it mixed with the blank canvas of the mortal in front of me, I could sense the candle of her soul. Reaching out with dreadlight, letting the wound burn my side with a hiss of inhaled breath, I ignited it with three kinds of mysticism.
A horrified realization overcame her as she knew I had fundamentally altered her to suit my whims. Having a thaumaturgist thrall would be a great boon.
"You'll do quite nicely," I said with an actual grin, the skin stretched over my mouth revealing impossibly large, gleaming flat teeth, as I watched the physical and mystical changes taking place.
My new thrall would never be human again.
I feasted on her terror, anguish and torment.
It was delicious.
~ ~ ~
Arcturus and Acrux will be back. C'Leena Thomas, Prosthetist is going to be my next update.
[[NEXT]]

I am not the OOP. The OOP is u/Beneficial_Hall_5320 posting in relationships
Concluded as per OOP
1 update -Medium
Thanks to u/Separate_Kick3186 for suggesting this BORU
Original - 3rd May 2024
Update - 5th May 2024
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My (26F) friend's (26F) boyfriend (28M) gave me an inappropriately expensive gift for my birthday. How do I react?
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Hey everyone,
Last week, I celebrated my birthday with my friend group. We're all fairly close, and whilst we've never discussed presents/gifts explicitly, we all kind of naturally fell into an unspoken pattern around what kind of birthday gifts we give to each other: we do gifts, but they're usually in the 10-40 Euro range. Think things like a book, a voucher for theater tickets, maybe a nice bottle of wine. That kind of stuff. We're all young professionals or grad students, and that just fits our general income level.
A good friend of mine brought her boyfriend to the party, and he gave me a gift of his own, separate from my friend's. Without going into too much detail, it was a small object that had a very thoughtful connection to a trip I took in winter. I was genuinely very thankful for the gift and thought it was lovely.
However, when I unpacked the item at home, something about it just caught my eye. Certain parts of the item that I would have expected to be made of glass didn't....look like glass. I ended up googling the maker's mark on the bottom and found the exact same item online, for the price of....750 Euros!
Now. It'd be one thing if this guy was a trust fund kid for whom that kind of money was just peanuts. I'd still feel uncomfortable, but at least there'd be some logic to this then. But my friend's relationship with this guy already has massive problems, largely centred around him being underemployed and making her pick up the tab for their shared lifestyle to an undue degree. We honestly all expect the relationship to fizzle out soon, because they obviously aren't compatible in some key aspects. So now I've got this 750-Euro-item on my shelf, and I've no clue how to handle this. It feels extremely inappropriate to have this thing. I'd feel uncomfortable accepting this sort of gift from almost anyone I know, but the fact that it's a) a friend's romantic partner (I'm gay and her boyfriend knows, but still) and b) said friend has issues with her partner's handling of his finances just makes it even worse. It's also a highly specific item that I don't think he'd be likely to just have, so I'm pretty certain he must have bought this for the occasion and must be aware of its value.
What do I do? My friend seems to be totally unaware of the value of the item. Do I tell her? Do I contact the boyfriend and ask him what the fuck he was thinking? How would you handle this?
TL;DR: Friend's boyfriend gave me 750-Euro birthday gift. Friend seems to be unaware of true value of the item and already has issues with boyfriend's handling of money. How do I handle this?
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Comments
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RantyMcThrowaway
I'd bring it up with your friend. There is a CHANCE that he got a really, really good deal, or even a decent knock off at a lower price. But honestly, if he's bad with money, even something half that price would be pretty inappropriate. Talk to your friend and offer to return the gift if it turns out to have cost as much as you suspect it did. Let them know you are incredibly grateful for his thoughtfulness, but it wouldn't feel right accepting such a lavish gift and that their company and friendship is all that you ask for. Just be honest about how you feel and let your friend decide how she wants to proceed.
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girlyfoodadventures
My thought was that it's possible he got it at a second hand/thrift shop. In my experience, thrift shop pricers are not thinking at all about how much something cost initially- there will be plastic cups and plates ikea sells for 25-50¢ labeled as a dollar, and something obviously nice might get flagged, but is more likely to just be labled 10$.

OOP: Yeah, I think I'll have to have a discussion with my friend - I also considered that he might have got some kind of BIZARRELY amazing deal, and spent all of yesterday night googling around for auctioning sites and checking whether there might be a chance he bought this without knowing what it was and how much it was worth. I'm pretty sure, though, that unless something genuinely absurd happened, he must have paid at least 500 EUR for this, and even that's a VERY generously low estimate. There is, of course, a chance that he just had this item, but it's so specific and rare that I don't think some random pseudo-finance bro just has this in his house, sees it, and thinks, 'huh. it's my girlfriend's friends birthday, that might be a good chance to get rid of this'.
Totally bizarre behaviour. I don't know what this man was thinking, but I need this thing out of my house.

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Update - 2 days later
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To summarise the original post: My (26F) friend's (26F) perpetually broke boyfriend (28M) gave me a gift for my birthday. It initially looked like a thoughtfully chosen, normal gift with a lovely connection to a recent trip to my mother's homecountry I took in winter, but after growing suspicious of the quality of the materials, I realised that it was in fact an antique worth hundreds of Euros. Theories as to what happened included him not being aware of the item's value, possibly having bought it from someone who didn't know what they were selling, or him trying to somehow hurt his girlfriend/my friend and/or trying to hit on me in a bizarre, inappropriate way.
I ended up texting my friend and telling her that I had researched the gift and discovered it was worth a very inappropriate amount of money. She was VERY surprised by the entire situation, especially considering her boyfriend (now ex, but more on that later) is perpetually broke and makes her foot the bill for their shared lifestyle. She came over to my place and together, we called him on speakerphone, where she demanded some answers. Long story short: He STOLE it. From his OWN MOTHER.
He's still being a bit shady about some details, but we managed to piece together the sequence of events to a satisfactory degree:
My friend was supposed to be coming to my birthday party straight from work. When she left her office, she realised she had forgotten the gift she had planned for me (a book) at home. Since she was already running late and her place is pretty far from both her work and my flat, she chose to text her boyfriend, who was having dinner at his parent's home at the time. She knew he was there, and knew his parents live close to me, so she asked him to just buy a copy of the same book at a bookshop on his way to my place so they'd have a gift.
For reasons known only to him, he did not choose this simple, reasonable solution to the 'we forgot our gift' issue. Instead of leaving five minutes early to pick up another copy of the book, he instead chose to just GRAB A RANDOM ITEM OFF HIS MOTHER'S LIVING ROOM SHELF. WITHOUT ASKING HER. He had no idea what it was, just thought it looked pretty, took it, and stuffed it in a paper bag. He also did not text back my friend or react to her calls, so she (reasonably) assumed he hadn't read her message and ended up going BACK to get the book, which was why they arrived separately and with separate gifts.
Meanwhile, the boyfriend had unknowingly gifted me not just any antique, no! This item had been passed down to his mother from her THREE-TIMES-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER. It had been in his family's possession for literal centuries, and was the ONLY tangible connection she (his mother) still had to her homecountry, which, incidentally, is also my mother's homecountry - which he wasn't aware of, meaning that what I thought was a thoughtful connection to my trip there was a total coincidence! He had no idea of the item's cultural significance.
My friend immediately made him call his mum to fess up to the entire situation. His mother had been running herself ragged trying to figure out where this item disappeared to for DAYS. Obviously, she never suspected thievery, and was blaming herself terribly for having lost something this important. The boyfriend ACTUALLY HAD THE GALL to try to convince her not to make her call his mum! He wanted to sweep the entire thing under the rug! Of course, we didn't let that happen.
His mother came by my place this morning and I returned the item to her, along with some apologies for not starting investigations immediately and some nice chocolate. We had a lovely conversation about our shared cultural heritage, I assured her that the item had been treated with dignity for the entire time it was in my possession, and we parted ways with a hug. She also told me that my initial estimate of the item's value was incorrect- it's actually worth EVEN MORE money. It would probably sell for a four-figure sum at auction.
I don't know what she wants to do with her son, but I hope she whoops his ass. My friend, for obvious reasons, broke up with him.
Lessons learned: Google suspicious gifts, and lock away your sentimentals/valuables when people you're not entirely sure about come over. The GALL of this man.
Tl;dr: The suspiciously expensive gift was, in fact, stolen. The boyfriend swiped it off his mum's shelf, not knowing what it was or how much it was worth. I returned it to her and hope she whoops his ass.
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Comments
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crazykitty205
I remember reading your first post. WHAT WAS THE GIFT??? Why not put us out of our misery and say what it was?

OOP:
Alright, alright - it's super specific, but it's a special kind of religious devotional triptych made, in the case of 'my' particular one, of silver and real fucking rubies. They're called 'travel triptychs' and common in my family's home region, though, of course, they aren't usually made of silver and gemstones. I initially grew suspicious because of the maker's mark a) saying that it's silver and b) specifically saying that it's 800 silver, which is a kind of silver used only up to the 1800s (modern silverwork uses 925 silver, aka 'sterling silver'). The religious aspect wasn't very meaningful to me, but my family's home city is famous for its silversmithing, and my mother's family were silversmiths, and the item specifically is BEAUTIFUL. Of course it is, it's a thousand-dollar antique inlaid with fucking rubies.
Suuuuuper specific. This fucker basically accidentally gave me a gift that would have been, if it had come from someone else, pretty damn amazing.

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crazycatlorde
Firstly, good on you! Secondly, good on your friend for breaking up with this dope. Thirdly, I laugh at the implication that one should lock valuables away from people you’re not entirely sure about if that person is your own child

OOP: True! That poor woman obviously wouldn't have thought her own son would be running around grabbing random things off her shelves! I still ended up checking all of my stuff, considering he appears to have sticky fingers and spent hours in my flat basically unsupervised on my birthday. I'll grow much more cautious with my valuables when having groups over from now on, especially if the group includes friends' partners who I might not know that well!

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kittyroux
It’s so hard to know who you can‘t trust. One of my mom’s coworkers arrived at her wedding reception venue early, offered to help set up chairs, and stole one of the bridesmaids’ gifts and all four of the groomsmen’s gifts which had been set on their plates at the head table. What did Denise the Dental Receptionist need with four bottles of men’s fragrance? No idea, but the thief was discovered when she invited all her coworkers, including my mom, to her birthday party at her place. There was a basket containing four colognes—weirdly the same ones mom bought for her bridal party!—in the guest bathroom.

OOP: That is insane. It almost seems compulsive: there was literally NO need to do that. People are so, so weird, and this has really opened my eyes to how bizarre some people act!

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I am not the OOP. Please do not harass the OOP.
Please remember the No Brigading Rule and to be civil in the comments

EDIT: Link to an album of what I look like in the comments since everyone's asking
EDIT 2: I'd like to thank everyone for commenting! Thank you to the people that gave me insight into Chinese culture and language, and thank you to everyone telling me that I am good looking lmaooo. My question has been answered, I'm that much more knowledgeable about another culture, and I got a confidence boost all in one.
I work with many Chinese companies where nearly all the workers at every level are Chinese immigrants. For some reason, nearly every time I meet them in person, they'll say "you are very handsome" or "your face, very handsome" or "you have a very handsome face." Huge companies with hundreds, some even have thousands of employees, and dozens upon dozens from each of them tell me the same thing, worded very closely to one another. Doesn't matter if they're sales reps, assistants, receptionists, warehouse workers, installation crews, fabrication crews, delivery drivers, management, everyone says it. At first I was flattered but the more I hear it, the more I'm realizing that one of the following must be true:

1. I'd be considered very handsome in parts of China (probably definitely not this one).
2. This is a common, casual compliment in China that doesn't translate well in English.
3. When taking English lessons, this is a phrase that they're taught is a normal every day conversation piece.
4. It's a cultural thing/sign of respect(?)

I cannot stress enough that this is not a troll post. I'm told I have a handsome face every few weeks and I genuinely don't know why. Not complaining, but it stops feeling special. Especially since I'm average looking at best. I'm very short, my hair is kind of thin, I can't grow a super thick beard, my jawline isn't great, I don't work out, I'm kind of skinny, etc. All around, I'm not a super desirable person, physically speaking. Not ugly, but objectively a 4 or 5/10.
Some more notes that might be insightful:

1. It's literally only people from China. Not people from other east Asian countries.
2. When I say FROM China, I mean FROM from China. Chinese Americans don't stop in their tracks to tell me I look like Handsome Squidward the way 1st generation Chinese immigrants do.
3. I hear it from men too, which further supports that this is a conversation piece that they learned in an English language class.
4. It's mostly younger people in their 20s, but sometimes older people in their 30s and 40s say it to me too.
5. The company I work for is very small. There's no company we have a relationship with where we're even giving them a percent of a percent of their total revenue. I'm not some fat-cat client with endlessly deep pockets where they need to rub up to me to keep my business.
6. Lastly, this hasn't been exclusive to work. Could be at a Chinese takeout place, a delivery driver, a cashier at the mall, heck, could just be some random stranger that has zero reason to interact with me.

Yes it's rather longer, but I think this community should hear about a potential success story every so often, so I figured I could share mine and share some things I’m still struggling with too:
This past Friday I called the vet that I took my late German Shepherd to. I asked the receptionist if she could write a note to the doctor who worked on her last and for him to call me because I wanted to talk about her. For reference: I saved her over two years ago from the humane society. She was my biological father’s, and she lived with him in an old, run-down RV that they were living in that was parked underneath a bridge in a really bad part of Chattanooga, TN. My relationship with him was estranged, I hadn’t talked to him in over 15 or so years but I always wanted some kind of relationship but I never knew how to address it. He was in his mid 70s and he contracted COVID, which he fought for several weeks before dying alone in the hospital after signing a DNR because “he didn’t want to fight anymore.”, which is what the hospital social worker told me.
Regardless of how shocked and utterly sad this news was to me, I knew that I was going to save her, and so I did. She was an older girl, who had a mammary tumor when I got her that my family had removed promptly. That tumor came back as cancer just a few months ago, and it seemingly grew to the size of a grapefruit overnight. In the end, her body failed before her spirit did, and god damn I miss her… so much.
To the positive part: The doctor called me later that day and we talked about this. Him and I share very similar and aligned personalities, so I asked him if he’d recommend me for a job if I applied, and he did! He said that men typically don’t apply to work here and I figured it’s probably like how male nurses are kind of uncommon too. It’s been only eight hours since I gave the receptionist my resume and I’m already stressed out about it. I’ve only worked one job in 28 years and that’s not to say I was instead some basement dwelling parasitic potato, but it came to a point to where I needed to nip this self-fulfilling prophecy of “I can’t get a job because I don’t have a lot of experience” in the bud.
When it comes to “marketing” myself, I’m terrible at it. I don’t have a social media profile that has personal pictures and I can’t listen to myself on recordings because I just don’t see what other people see in me. I might be fair, good, or even great in some subjective sense and I don’t have any clue because I always see myself in the most flawed or ugly or negative way possible, and I want to say this because I think some of you guys can relate to that. I’m the same exact way with women, even though I’ve been told by the few friends that I do have that I’m great or something. My brain automatically finds flaws in who I am and sees other people as objectively better, no matter how illogical it is, it is a problem that I think many of us share -- both men and women, and I think it’s a specifically modern problem that isn’t really talked about.
If any of you guys have the same problem then please do share. Otherwise, thank you a bunch for reading. Love you guys!

I was sitting in the Jet Set with a few of my bouncer clients, Sebastian, Earl and Sparky.
“Why do we gotta sit so far from the stage?” Sparky said. He was a bouncer at the Jet Set, and his friends had christened him ‘Sparky’ when he’d been hit with an arson charge. The arson charges were a thing of the past, thanks to me, but Sparky’s nickname had stuck.
“This is my favourite table,” I said. I hate loud noise, and for me the worst noise of all is loud music. We were sitting at a dark table in a distant corner with almost no view of the stage, a small acoustic oasis that didn’t have a speaker pointed at it. Sebastian, the Jet Set’s bouncer-in-chief, sat across from me, his face in shadow. His second in command, Earl, was there as well. They’d been present at court to watch the arson charges die, and they hadn’t stopped making jokes about it. The charges had fizzled out, Sebastian said. The prosecutor got burned, Earl replied.
“Got a light, Sparky?” Sebastian said, sticking out a cigarette, it being legal back then to smoke in public places. They yuck yucked together, and I laughed with them as they smoked, sitting in a dark corner of the Jet Set. This was before my wife banned me from the place, when I was still allowed to meet clients there. Sparky was buying me a round or two or three, as a way of saying thanks for a job well done.
“So why’d Sparky walk, when everyone else got convicted?” Sebastian was a frequent flier at the local provincial courthouse, and he needed to know how his buddy had managed to avoid conviction on what had looked like a solid crown case. It had been a rather clumsy arson, involving more people than were needed, and a lot more talk than was necessary, both before the fire and after. The home owner and his friends all went to jail. Sparky, the man who actually set the blaze, was the only one to walk free. “Sparky, tell him what you said when the cops arrested you,” I said, raising my Guinness for another sip.
“I said jack shit. Everytime they asked me a question, all I said was ‘lawyer’. Over and over again.” Earl and Sebastian nodded approvingly.
One of the things I liked about my bouncer clients is that they always listened to me, and did what I told them to do. It’s a lot easier to get good results when your clients take you seriously, and do what you recommend. It also helps when the prosecutor fucks up, and the prosecutor had fucked up really badly. But I wasn’t going let luck take away any of the credit, so I accepted the accolades from my bouncer clients, and enjoyed the Guinness that the waitress kept me supplied with.
Maybe I should have said no to Sparky when he invited me out to the Jet Set. Sparky wasn’t the kind of client that you hung around with, that you had a drink with. Neither was Sebastian, the most vicious man I ever met, nor Earl, a mountain of a man, and next to Sebastian, the most feared bouncer on the airport strip. But here I was, hanging around with them all. Sebastian was from West Bay, from the same place I came from. At work and in court I had to be on guard, and mind my linguistic Ps and Qs. But with Sebastian et al, my speech returned to its default setting, and I dropped the proper English that I’d learned after I started high school.
“Sparky said jack shit when the cops arrested him,” I said, “and so long as you say jack shit when the cops arrest you, you’re already on your way to a not guilty. Just keep your mouth shut, and remember this:--” I held up a finger, and my clients came in on cue.
“No one ever talks a cop out of laying a charge,” Sebastian, Sparky and Earl said in unison, repeating a phrase that I and pretty well every other lawyer in Canada learned in first year law school. We laughed together, and I had a beer, and then another, and then the topic of Sparky’s arson charge came up again, and we laughed some more.
The dark table was briefly bathed in light when someone opened a door, and before it closed I got a better look at the people I was sitting with. “How’d you get cut?” I asked Sebastian. It was a small cut above his eye, clumsily stitched.
“I had a fight last night at the Lounge,” he said. The Lounge was a club at the other end of the long strip that ran parallel to the airport. The staff at the two clubs had a bit of a rivalry, so I was surprised to learn that Sebastian was moonlighting there.
“I thought you only worked for the Jet Set,” I said, and everyone at the table laughed. “This fight was for money,” Sebastian said.
“You shoulda been there,” Earl said, and Sparky seconded him, adding, “You gotta come see the next one. He fights again in two weeks,” explaining that Sebastian was the star attraction at the local underground, unlicensed fights, where he’d take on anyone, in any weight class.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I said, but the fight was scheduled for when my wife and I would be out of town for a wedding. “Will there a video?” I added, “because I’d love to watch a video when I get back, if there is one.” I’d never seen Sebastian at work, doing the thing he did best, which was beating the shit out of people. I’d read more than a few witnesses' statements telling how Sebastian had assaulted them, and I’d seen some photos displaying his handiwork, but I’d never seen him in action. “Yeah, a video would be great,” I said, not wanting to miss out on the fun. Sebastian and Sparky exchanged glances. “I never thought of that,” said Sebastian. “That’s a great idea, Calledinthe90s.”
The next day Sebastian called me to say they’d found a video camera and that they were going to video his next fight. But by then I’d sobered up, and was having second thoughts. “You know,” I said, “maybe that’s not such a good idea.” It was a terrible idea, all things considered, to tell a client that you wanted them to make a video of an illegal prize fight. My brain likes to catastrophize, and it jumped fifteen steps ahead to the worst possible outcome, namely, a disciplinary hearing before the Law Society. Would drunkenness be a defence to a charge of professional misconduct? No, of course not; instead, it would be an aggravating factor, as would the fact I’d been hanging around in a strip club with disreputable clients.
“It’ll be ok,” Sebastian said, “you’ll see. We’re gonna give it a try out, just to make sure it works, then we’ll be all set for the fight.” He hung up.
I knew that I’d made a mistake, telling my client to get a video camera, and I mentally crossed my fingers that it wouldn’t come back to bite me on the ass. But of course it bit me on the ass. My mistakes always come back to bite me on the ass.
* * *
A week later I was at my office preparing for an impaired charge. My client had blown two thirty-seven, urinated himself in front of the cops, and in case that wasn't enough, he’d confessed as well. I was going through the disclosure, looking for dots to connect. I’d been at it all day, but the dots weren’t connecting, and it was driving me nuts, because I knew there were dots there, just waiting to be connected, and if I could connect them, my client would walk. But for now my brain wasn’t seeing a way to think outside the box, and I was stuck firmly inside. My phone rang. I picked up. It was Sebastian.
“I gotta come see ya right away,” he said.
“You got a court date coming up? Why didn't you tell me?”
“The cops ain't charged me-- yet.” I told him to come to my office immediately, and fifteen minutes later I heard the growl of an engine out front in the parking lot. I looked out the window, and saw Sebastian’s bright red Camaro. I met him out front and put him in our small boardroom, and closed the door on him. Then I went to see Aaron, the senior counsel that I rented space from.
“I’m using the boardroom,” I told Aaron.
“Your rent doesn’t include boardroom privileges,” he said. Aaron was always nickel and diming me. He was hungry for money; his divorce lawyer was eating him alive. He hated his own lawyer even more than he hated his ex.
“Nice try,” I said. I’d drafted the lease myself, and it gave me the run of the place. I headed back to the boardroom, and when I arrived, I could see Sebastian fiddling with the boardroom’s video tape machine. That’s why we were in the boardroom: he needed to show me a video tape.
I wondered what kind of trouble he was in. Sebastian’s next underground fight wasn’t for a week, so the video couldn’t be one of Sebastian fighting, and that allowed me to stop worrying about the idiotic advice I’d given him the week before back at the Jet Set, the advice about buying a video camera and filming himself committing a crime. I’d been stressed over the video thing for a week, but now I could relax.
“Should I get popcorn?” I said. “I usually have a snack when I’m watching a movie.”
“You can skip the popcorn,” Sebastian said, “the fight didn’t last long.” That got my attention. “But the fight’s not until next week,” I said, pressing play.
“We wanted to give the camera a try, plus I had to go to the Lounge, to straighten some guys out, settle a score, send a message. Kick ass. That sort of thing.” I hit pause.
“Hold it,” I said, “the cops are after you. Are they after you because of what you did on this video?”
He nodded.
“And you brought friends along to watch whatever you did at the Lounge, and they brought a video camera?” He nodded again, and my fear came roaring back, doubled and redoubled.
This was it. I was being bitten on the ass for my mistake, just like I’d feared. My client had videotaped himself committing a crime, and he had done it at my suggestion. My brain started catastrophizing again, going over the nightmare scenario of my pending public humiliation. Every now and again the Law Society magazine came out, everyone at the courthouse looked to see if anyone they knew got suspended or disbarred. I was going to be featured prominently in that magazine, I was sure.
“Hit play,” Sebastian said, “I watched this already a ton of times, but I can’t stop watching it. It’s the best.” I sat in a chair, and pressed play.
The camerawork was rough at the start, but the audio worked just fine. I heard shouts and swearing, and then the picture focused on the action just in time for me to see Sebastian’s fist connect with his victim's face. The man dropped like a stone, and lay framed in the middle of the image, in front of the main door of The Lounge, a seedy joint on the opposite end of the strip from the Jet Set. I hit pause.
“That’s not too bad,” I said, “from the sound of it, the fight started some time before you knocked the guy out.” A one-punch knockout is not exactly the toughest assault to defend, and because the video missed the start of the fight, that left a big blank that Sebastian could fill in with evidence of self-defence. “Wait,” Sebastian said, “there’s more.”
From the way the punch had landed and the man had dropped, I had thought the fight was over. I hit play, curious to see how someone could recover from a punch like that. The video started up again, and Sebastian’s victim remained motionless on the ground. Another man, a much larger man, burst out of a door, and rushed out. I watched as my client, Sebastian, swiveled, and almost without effort knocked out his opponent, his movements too quick for me to follow. I hit pause, and asked what happened.
“Spinning back fist,” Sebastian said.
“Not bad,” I said, “not bad at all.” This was clearly self-defence; the second ‘victim’ was a man almost as big as Earl, and if Sebastian had allowed him to get in the first punch, he would have gotten seriously hurt. “I think we can defend this. Let’s head over to the station, and turn you in.”
“There’s more,” he said.
“More? What did you do, kick the guy while he was down?”
“Of course not,” Sebastian said, scowling. He didn’t follow the Queensberry Rules, probably had never heard of them, but he had his own code, and kicking a man while he was down was not permitted, unless the guy was a total asshole and there were no witnesses. “So what did you do, then?” I asked. Sebastian took the remote from me, told me just to watch, and he hit play.
Three more men came out of The Lounge, all wearing the livery of their club: pale slacks, button up shirt, matching vest. They all looked very proper and professional, except they were enraged, and the one in the middle called out to Sebastian, challenged him to fight man-to-man.
“None of your flippy spinny karate shit, Sebastian,” the man said, squaring up, his fists raised, “let’s see if you can box.” Sebastian could box just fine; he whipped out a jab that snapped back the man’s head, and a straight right followed. The video paused.
“This is the best part of the video. Watch this,” Sebastian said. He rewound a few seconds, and I watched the two punch combination land for the second time. The man stared at Sebastian, stunned, his eyes open but his lights out. I could see Sebastian ready himself to lash out once more, but after a pause of a few seconds, the man collapsed into the arms of his fellow bouncers.
Sebastian hooted with laughter. And it had been amusing, in a cruel sort of way, watching a man’s brain run a little check on itself, before deciding it was maybe a good idea to shut operations down.
The last two guys met similar fates, Sebastian dispatching them each with a single punch. It really was no contest. It was like watching a grown man fight with school children.
“So much for self-defence,” I said, “at least for the last three guys.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was obviously a consent fight. Each of them challenged you, you accepted, and then you knocked them out.”
“But I thought consent fights were ok.” Of course he thought that. I’d beaten an assault charge against him the year before using the consent fight defence.
“The defence doesn’t work if you inflict bodily harm.” I would check my Martin’s, but I was pretty sure that a concussion counted as bodily harm.
The receptionist opened the boardroom door. “There’s cops in the waiting room,” she said. “They can wait,” I said, motioning her to close the door.
“We gotta hide the tape,” Sebastian said.
“No we don’t,” I said, “they won’t seize zilch from a law office, not without a warrant, and they don't have a warrant.” They had probably gotten lucky, and spotted Sebastian’s car in the lot. That’s the only reason they were at my office. I hit the eject, and put the tape behind some law books. “No one’s seeing this tape,” I said, “don’t worry about it.” I wasn’t sure about what to do with the tape, but the last thing I was going to do, was hand it over to the authorities. That would never happen. “So what are we gonna do?” Sebastian said. He wasn’t panicking, not yet, but he was close. He had beaten five men in front of a crowd of witnesses, every kick, every punch caught on video, and he looked trapped. Assault times five, for sure, but judging by the way a few of the victims had hit the pavement, there’d be some assault causing bodily harm tossed in, too.
The case looked hopeless, but then I had an idea. It bounced around in my head for a few seconds, that being my equivalent of quality control.
“I have a shot at getting you off,” I said. Sebastian’s panicked look changed to bafflement, almost to distrust. “How the fuck you gonna do that?”
“I’ll tell you later. I gotta work out some details first. But I’m gonna try to get you off. Just remember, when I hand you over to the cops--”
“I know I know I know. Keep my mouth shut.”
“Exactly. Don’t give them anything. Not even address or next of kin, nothing. Nothing at all. You’ll post bail tomorrow morning, and by then I’ll know what I’m going to do.” I led Sebastian out of the boardroom and handed him over to the cops in reception. There were six of them, all big men. They knew Sebastian’s reputation, and they weren’t taking any chances. I watched them cuff my client, and then they took him away.
With Sebastian gone, I was left all alone with the idea bouncing around in my head, the notion I had for how I was going to beat the charge. But this was going to be difficult. The path I could see to a win was complicated, almost baroque, and working out the details would be complicated, very complicated, if I was to keep my law license.
* * *
I had the feeling that I was in a little over my head, and when I was in over my head, there was only one thing to do. I stepped out of my office and walked down the hall, stopping when I reached a door whose small sign read, “Mark Cecil-Rowe, LL.D., Barrister.” I knocked. There was the sound of glass clinking.
“Enter,” a baritone voice said.
I opened the door, and entered the lair of Mark Cecil-Rowe, Barrister, Doctor of Laws, the man with the best speaking voice I ever heard. He may also have been an alcoholic. He always had some hard liquor at hand whenever I saw him, but on the other hand, I never saw him drunk.
“How’s it going, Mark?” I said cheerfully to a older man seated behind a massive desk
“You know that I prefer that you call me Mr. Cecil-Rowe.” The man rose, coming from behind his desk with a bottle of scotch and two glasses in his hand.
“Sorry, Mr. C.” I wanted his advice, but I still had to needle him, just a little bit. Cecil-Rowe had been the leading barrister in the county for several decades, starting with the West Bay Missing Limbs case back in the sixties. But he wasn’t up to big cases any more, he claimed, so he mostly stayed in his office. He was ‘of counsel’ to a couple of prominent firms, and he dispensed advice from the comfort of his chambers. Advice, as well as expensive scotch.
“Mr. C indeed,” he muttered. Then he smiled, and gestured to a leather couch. “Have a seat, Padawan,” he said. Cecil-Rowe was about sixty, maybe looking a bit older, with a neat white beard, and dressed impeccably.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Padawan,” I said.
“Then we are even,” he said.
Cecil-Rowe always won. That’s how it seemed, at least to me, that he always won. For Cecil-Rowe, words were weapons in the martial art of speaking, and against him most lawyers were almost unarmed. I sat on the couch, and accepted a glass, and held it while he poured me some scotch. He stopped after about a half shot.
“More than that,” I said, meaning this particular problem was bigger than usual. Cecil-Rowe poured some more, and then one more time at my bidding.
“A one-and-a-half shot problem. This ought to be good,” he said. He settled back into his armchair with a small smile on his face.
“Here’s the situation,” I began, but Cecil-Rowe stopped me before I could get rolling. “This sounds serious indeed,” he said.
“How can you know that already?”
“You started by saying, “here’s the situation”. For you, ‘here’s the situation’, means the same thing as ‘forgive me father, for I have sinned.’ When you say, ‘here’s the situation’, it heralds a tale to come, and the tale always starts the same way, with you making a big mistake. And as usual, I will help you fix your mistake, so long as I don’t have to leave my office.”
That was one of Cecil-Rowe’s rules, never to leave his office on a legal errand of any kind. He would give advice from the comfort of his chambers, but he would not go to court. Cecil-Rowe had taken a liking to me when I took space in the same building, and he never charged me for the consultations. I think he enjoyed listening to the tales from of the legal scrapes I got myself into, usually when I fucked up, and back in those days, I tended to fuck up a lot.
“You think I fucked up?” I said. “Nope. I didnt’ fuck up this time.” My West Bay manner of speaking was several socio-economic classes below Cecil-Rowe’s station. He wrinkled his nose, and replied, “I’m suggesting that you erred grievously, and came here for help.”
“Here’s the situation,” I repeated, repeating the words that for us by now were almost a ritual.
“Tell me about the situation,” Cecil-Rowe said. “Tell me about how you didn’t make a mistake. Tell me how you did not fuck up.”
I told him about Sebastian coming to my office with the tape, and what was on it, and what the client told me. I told him everything, start to finish, from the moment Sebastian arrived in my office until I’d knocked on his door. When I finished speaking I watched Cecil-Rowe’s face, and how it worked slightly before stopping, and then he pronounced his opinion.
“On that very limited information, the situation looks hopeless,” Cecil-Rowe said. Coming from him, the acknowledged master of courtroom rhetoric, that was saying a lot. The guys in the lawyer’s lounge said that in his prime, Cecil-Rowe could make a reasonable doubt out of thin air, just with his words alone. “But I suppose you have an idea of some kind, a plan that you want to run by me. You wouldn’t be coming to see me if you were going to run up a white flag.”
“Exactly,” I said, and then I laid out the elements of my plan, the persons involved, the possible outcomes, the dangers to my client and to me professionally, Cecil-Rowe taking detailed notes like he always did, in his own personal shorthand that he created. Cecil-Rowe listened, never interrupting other than to offer a scotch refill.
“I take it you were thinking outside the box again?” he said when I was done.
“Yup,” I said, “but this one is going to be tricky”. My best solutions were always very simple, and with hindsight, quite obvious. But this plan was different. This plan had some moving pieces, too many moving pieces for my liking, and when I explained it to Cecil-Rowe I felt the dangers keenly.
“Not exactly original, but not bad,” Cecil-Rowe said.
“What?” I’ve had people call my ideas crazy, or just plain stupid, but unoriginal?
“It’s called ‘testem perturbans’, he said, “the technique you're using.”
“Testy what?” I said. Cecil-Rowe spelled it out for me, and I asked him what it meant. “I’ll let you figure that out on your own at the library. It’s a rare coup, I’ll give you that much. But hardly original. The first recorded instance of its use is by Hypereides.”
“It has a name, what I’m doing?”
“Of course it has a name. You need to give things names if you want to talk about them. Just as judo throws and boxing strikes have their distinct names, so do legal maneuvers. The ancient Greeks originated these tactics, and the Romans wrote about them. But they don’t teach them nowadays, anymore than they teach rhetoric. It’s become a lost art.”
“So it must be ok, then,” I said, “I mean, the plan I told you about. It must be ok if it has a name.”
“Really? Murder has a name. Does that make murder ok?”
“Sorry. Just wishful thinking.”
“Before we talk about the ethics of it, let’s talk first about what you really came here to ask me about. You want help on getting away with it.”
“Exactly,” I said without thinking and then I almost coughed up my drink. When I could speak again, I repeated myself, and continued on. “I don’t know how to do this, without getting in trouble. I’m asking myself, what do I do if it doesn’t work out? If everything comes crashing down? How do I look out for myself?”
“How do you cover your ass?” Cecil-Rowe said, the use of the vernacular causing him almost physical pain.
“Yes. How do I cover my ass.”
“Take notes, young Padawan,” Cecil-Rowe said.
“Please don’t call me that,” I said, catching the pad of paper he tossed me, and the pen that came next. Cecil-Rowe began to talk, lecturing me on legal tactics in his fine voice as I wrote furiously to keep up with him. I kept those notes, and the notes of all the other discussions I had with him. I have them to this day. Cecil-Rowe spoke and I asked questions and he spoke some more, and all the while I took notes. After a long time he finished.
“Thanks,” I said, as I got up to leave. But he stopped me.
“You forgot to tell me the best part. The error you made, the mistake that’s causing you to panic.” There was no point denying it, so I told him, and he laughed uproariously.
* * *
The cops kept Sebastian in custody that night, and the next morning was his first appearance. I was sitting in the lawyer’s lounge drinking the shitty coffee that was always on tap, and chatting with the other lawyers. It was the usual mix of aged veterans and younger counsel, all of us waiting around for court to start, telling stories, shooting the shit. The usual stuff.
One of the guys was Benjamin, a ten-year call with a pretty good drug dealer practice. He was reading the newspaper, because back in the 90s, people actually read physical newspapers. Nowadays newspapers are mostly for old people, but back then, it was common to see people sitting around reading the newspaper. Benjamin was sitting in an old leather armchair that was more duct tape than leather, drinking coffee and checking out the news, and as he turned the page I saw a headline:
“Five Bouncers Beaten at the Lounge,” the headline said. I almost dropped my coffee when I saw the headline. “That’s my case,” I said, “my case is in the news.”
Getting mentioned in the newspaper was a big deal back then. Greenspan’s career was made by the newspaper coverage from the Demeter trial. It didn’t matter that he lost the trial; all that mattered is that people saw his name. My case was in the news, and that meant I was only one step away from getting my name out there. The lawyer’s lounge got quiet, and I told everyone the basic facts.
“Congrats, kid,” Benjamin said, handing me the paper. The article presented the case as something of a mystery, a highly unusual event, because usually when there was a fight involving bouncers, it was the customers that wound up in hospital, and the bouncers that got charged. But not this time. Sebastian’s name was not mentioned until the end, when it said he was charged with assault causing bodily harm times five. I passed the paper back to Benjamin.
“So you're going to plead the guy out, or what?” Benjamin said.
“Nope,” I said, “not a chance.” There were approving nods all around. None of the guys that frequented the lawyer’s lounge were known for quick guilty pleas. Lawyers who pleaded everyone guilty weren’t welcome in the lawyer’s lounge. Lawyers like that were known as ‘dump trucks’, and they were shunned by real lawyers, because dump trucks were bringers of bad luck, jinxes, harbingers of doom. Benjamin let me take his newspaper, and I headed out of the lounge for the cells. I needed to have a quick chat with my client.
“Can’t let you in,” said the cop whose job it was to let lawyers into the interview room at the cells.
“Why not? I gotta see my guy before we get started.” There’d been a change in plans that I needed to tell Sebastian about. I was going to do a bit of a one-eighty that morning, and I wanted him to have fair warning.
“Short staffed today,” the cop said, “come back in an hour.”
I didn’t have an hour, so I headed for the courtroom. They always brought the prisoners in a bit early, and I’d have the chance for a brief, whispered discussion with him before things got started.
“Why’s the place so packed?” I said to the court clerk. There were lots of empty seats for lawyers, but the public benches were almost full.
“We have a reporter here,” she said, “something interesting must be happening. A lot of victims, too, and their relatives.” I looked around the room for the first time, and in the front row of the gallery sat five men, each looking the worse for wear, their faces bruised and discolored. Among them were broken noses, split lips and fresh stitches. I was still staring at them when the Crown walked in, and not just any crown, but Polgar, a lawyer as junior as I was, but whose career was on the fast track because he was the son of Polgar Senior, the Crown Attorney for the County.
I drew Polgar more often than any other crown, partially because we were both junior and were learning our trade by exercising our skills on the petty offences that were the small change of any provincial courthouse. The talk in the lawyer’s lounge was that Polgar’s almighty daddy used to feed him the easy winners, files where his son couldn't go wrong, helping his son pad his record so that he could climb the ranks.
There were a few cops sitting at counsel table. The oldest spoke to Polgar, and pointed to a person in the gallery. “Reporter,” he said.
Polgar the Crown and part-time attention whore made a beeline for the reporter. “What case are you on?” he said. The reporter was young and pretty, and she told Polgar that she was here on the fight that had taken place at the club near the airport.
“The Five Bouncer Beatdown,” Polgar said. I rolled my eyes as I listened to him chat up the reporter, full of self-importance, trying to impress her. “The guy who did this won’t get away with it, I promise you,” he said, “he’s got a record as long as--”
“He doesn’t have a record of anything except wrongful arrests,” I said from the defence table. I would have added, ‘thanks to me,’ but Polgar did it for me.
“Thanks to you,” he said, “but he won’t get away with this one. We have too many witnesses.”
“He said she said or whatever,” I replied, “their word against my client’s.”
“We have independent witnesses,” Polgar said, “guys that your client didn’t knock out, plus the cops are still looking for evidence. You’ll see it all in the disclosure.”
It was too bad that they hadn’t brought the prisoners in yet. Sebastian would have enjoyed listening to this, plus I also needed to speak to him before court started, about the little change in plan that I had, an extra dot I would be connecting that morning once court started. But then Judge Hermann walked in, and the chit-chat came to an instantaneous end.
The Honourable Judge Hermann, aka the Hermannator, stood at his dais and bowed. All the lawyers bowed back and everyone took a seat. His Honour took in the empty prisoner’s dock. “How are we to conduct bail hearings without prisoners?” he said.
“Staffing issues today,” Polgar said. He told the cops to bring Sebastian in, and a few minutes later he was seated in the prisoner’s dock, while the terms of his bail were set on consent. As Polgar spoke, I tried to catch Sebastian’s eye, but he had eyes only for the young, pretty reporter. I wrote out a note, and headed over to the prisoner’s box to pass it to him.
“Sit down, counsel,” The Hermannator said, “you can consult with your client after court.”
I sat down, the note burning a hole in my hand. It contained a message, a really important message that I had wanted to give Sebastian before court started. But I couldn't give it to him. I could only sit, and listen as Polgar read out the usual terms of release. No contact with the victims, live with his surety, keep his bail papers with him at all times, sign in once a week, keep the peace and be of good behavior, the usual. Sebastian nodded as he heard the routine words that he’d heard many times before. The lawyers checked their calendars, and we set a date for a case conference. We were about to move on to the next case, when I stood. It was time for stage one of the plan, a little wrinkle devised by Mr. Mark Cecil-Rowe, Barrister, LL.D.
“There’s just one more thing, Your Honour,” I said, opening my briefcase.
“Yes?” Judge Hermann said.
“A video tape has come into my possession,” I said, pulling out a large manilla envelope. Polgar was immediately suspicious.
“Your Honour, I object. Whenever Calledinthe9os is involved, there’s always something, some nonsense that delays things.” But the judge made him sit down, and told me to continue.
“As I was saying, a tape came into my possession, a tape that may or may not have some bearing on the charges before the court. I'm not saying either way, but I’m handing the original over to the Crown.” I’d made copies the day before, just in case, but the copy that Sebastian put into my hands was the one I gave to Polgar. Polgar accepted the envelope hesitantly, as if fearing a trap. But the concern on his face disappeared when Sebastian saw what was up.
“What the fuck,” he said, “that tape was like confidential.”
“Be quiet,” I said to him. He was inches away from incriminating himself.
“You told me you wouldn’t show it to anyone,” he said. I wanted to ignore him, but I couldn’t, and my next words were addressed to the judge.
“My client misunderstood me, Your Honour. Yes, I agreed to keep it confidential, but not from the Crown, of course, because it might be evidence.”
“You might have fuckin’ told me, asshole,” Sebastian hissed from the prisoner’s box. The judge silenced him.
“From your reaction,” the judge told him, “it sounds like you know what’s on the tape, and you should keep quiet, like your lawyer told you. Calledinthe90s handed over the tape because he had to. He acted in the best traditions of the bar.” That’s what they call it, when you sell out your client: ‘acting in the best traditions of the bar.’
“Fuck your traditions,” Sebastian said, his voice a low murmur. His face was rage-filled as the cops took him back to the cells, and I wondered whether he’d keep the peace and be of good behaviour the next time he saw me.
“Not too popular with your client, it seems,” Polgar muttered to me.
“Your daddy think you can win this case? That why he gave it to you?” But the judge told Polgar to move things along, and I shuffled out of court, following a crowd made up of the five bouncers that Sebastian beat, along with their friends and supporters and the young reporter from the Tribune.
“What was on that tape?” the reporter asked me when we got outside.
This was my chance, I thought. A reporter, a real live reporter, was talking to me about a case. Sure, it wasn’t a murder case, nothing too serious, but the facts were interesting enough that for a day or two, it had the attention of the press. Here was my chance to get my name into the newspaper. To get myself noticed. To advance my career.
“What was on the tape? Can’t say. Privileged.” The words rolled off my tongue automatically. I gave the same answer I gave my wife when she asked a question about one of my cases. The answer was always ‘privileged’, unless we were talking about something that happened in open court, on the record. It always drove my wife nuts.
“That’s it,” the reporters said, “that’s all you can give me? You make this big show of handing over evidence, your client goes nuts in court and wants to kill you, and all you can say, is that it’s privileged?” The reporter sounded as annoyed as my wife did when I played the privilege card
“Sorry,” I said, “ but until the Crown’s had a chance to review what I gave them—“
“Never mind,” the reporter said, turning her heel on me and heading out.
“You really do have a way with people,” Kurt Mandrick said, observing the encounter from his seat on a bench outside the courtroom. Kurt the Dump Truck was at court that day to plead a few clients guilty, because that’s all that he did, plead people guilty. He’d been avoiding me since the notorious Autrefois Acquit case a few months before, but after seeing me get kicked around, he figured it was safe to speak to me
“I wasn’t trying to piss her off,” I said, but the next day when I picked up the Telegraph in the lawyer’s lounge, I saw that I had seriously pissed off the reporter. “Lawyer leaks tape to the cops,” the headline said, mentioning me by name as someone who had sold out their own client. That’s how I learned that lawyers who gave reporters nothing to write about got negative publicity. But I shrugged it off to experience, and then headed out to my car. I was going to the Jet Set for the next stage in my plan.

Milek carefully brushed her zephin strider’s long silky tail as she looked over the competition. Many species had come from all corners of the galaxy this year, each bringing along the finest examples that their home worlds had to offer. Of course, she thought her strider was the best of the bunch, though she had to admit she had some bias in the evaluation.

Her strider gently snorted in pleasure as the comb passed through its fine coat before nudging Milek for a treat. She handed over a bundle of green vegetables to the willing animal, which happily munched while enjoying the grooming session.

“That’s a fine zephin strider you have this year,” a voice said from the next stall over.

Looking over, Milek saw Fessin. He was a large Ominian that served as her foil most years at the Intragalactic Pet and Garden Show, or IPGS as regulars liked to call it. The two would routinely swap victories with one another.

Eyeing Fessin’s latest entry, a gunluk with an unusually long facial appendage and rich lavender skin, Milek smirked. “I see you went with size over substance this time, Fessin.”

“Only a Zilian would confuse size with substance, especially one bringing along a walking carpet,” Fessin replied, voice friendly despite the contents of the words.

Neither of the two had any animosity to one another. Milek greatly enjoyed her rival’s entries as he brought along unusual creatures from his world. No matter who won this day, and Milek was certain it would be one of the two again this year, they would go out and have a few drinks and catch each other up on their families.

Fessin was using two of his hands to massage oil into the gunluk’s skin while he held a tablet in his other two. “Did you see we have a new species entering this year?”

“No,” Milek replied, setting her comb down to the chagrin of the strider. She was jealous of Fessin’s extra pair of appendages. Four was better than two. “Let me take a look.”

Taking her own tablet, she scanned the entry list. There, near the end, was an unusual name.

Human.

It was a species that was discovered in an unusual sector of the galaxy. The Humans’ home star system was on the more intense side of habitable for intelligent species, pushing the boundaries of what scientists considered livable. Brighter than nearly 85% of all the stars in the galaxy, their home star, called Sol, was at the upper bound of effective heat before the system would become too hostile and too unstable.

As such, along with its active heliosphere, it had gone unnoticed until earlier in the year when a Human exploration craft found its way to a nearby star system and bumped into a long-haul freighter.

Because of how recent the species entered the galactic community, little was known about them. All they had was the species survey that was sent to the Galactic Council for any new species that discovers faster than light travel. It was a marvel one of their members even became aware of the IPGS.

Fessin belted out a long laugh. “You need to check out their survey. It’s a riot.”

Milek loaded the Council site and looked up the Human submission. The document read like a bad holofiction.

“Wow, and I thought we Zilian were insecure. We told the Council we secreted a venom that made us poisonous to eat,” Milek chuckled as she read the document.

Fessin also laughed uproariously. “And we Ominians claimed our exterior was a hard shell that shattered upon biting, leading to lacerations in the mouth. Little did we know that none of the species that develop intelligence are predatory.”

The pair shared in the mirth of their terror in meeting new species for the first time. Every species went through the same process. They’d all find out they weren’t alone in the galaxy, become afraid then lie on the survey to scare off potential threats. It was a time-honored tradition that every species went through, along with the friendly mockery that came with it after they discovered that nothing out in space was going to eat them.

These Humans though? They must be unusually weak and timid among the intelligent species. Instead of just one or maybe two faked defensive measures, the Humans created a litany of absurdities.

“Look at this,” Milek snorted. “The Humans listed their home gravity as triple the highest ever recorded. The figure is so high that the only way they could have passed the first space travel filter would be to load up an immense quantity of explosives into a pile and detonate it while sitting on it. No one is that insane.”

“This is another good one,” Fessin added. “They claim here to be able to run for such distances that they’d consider the longest recorded run at the Pan Galactic Games a gentle stroll.”

The list of inane claims went on and on. Ranging from claiming the ability to launch projectiles by hand at speeds capable of crushing the bones and organs of every intelligent species in the galaxy all the way to claiming they ate meat. Meat! Everyone knows predators never develop complex social structures. They’re just too violent.

“This is too much,” Milek guffawed. “They’re trying to scare us off saying they routinely fight each other with weapons so wild that it would make speculative fiction writers blush.”

“Right,” Fessin added. “The only things I can believe out of any of this is that they’re tiny. They average half my height. No one would lie about being that small. Yet they simultaneously claim that their young children can routinely lift masses greater than our most accomplished power lifters.”

“We’ll be lucky then,” Milek stated. “We get to see one in person here. Assuming its arrival isn’t also a fabrication.”

The pair quickly moved on from the poor storytelling that the Humans concocted and made small talk about other competitors. The two, while intrigued by the other entrants in their pens, knew they’d be the top pair this year.

“Oh, I think our Human has arrived,” Fessin commented, gesturing toward the registration desk visible beyond the doorway to the pens. Beyond it, a small, bipedal creature was standing before the table.

One thing the pair noted was the Humans didn’t fabricate their size. The Human, Milek noted was male based on the notes in the survey, was so small that the registration desk was level with his chin. The Human had to extend his ambulatory propulsion extremity to give him enough boost to reach the registry form.

“What is he wearing?” Fessin asked as he regarded the new species. Similar conversations were happening all over the room as every entrant present was enamored by the new arrival.

“I’ll check,” Milek said as she lifted her tablet and pointed it in the direction of the Human. The device captured his image and, after Milek mentally requested the information, began analyzing the garments.

Thankfully, the Humans had made enough cultural data available that the system was able to answer their questions. The Human was wearing layered garments on its upper body. The first layer against its skin, a white cloth, was called a button-down shirt. She couldn’t see the buttons since it was overlaid by a second layer, a covering designed in grey with rhombus shapes in the cloth, called a wool sweater vest.

The lower extremities were tan leggings referred to as khaki chinos held up by a darker brown belt around the central point of the Human’s body. The lower ambulatory extremities were concealed by a garment called Oxfords.

Everything about the outfit felt non-threatening and almost silly to Milek and Fessin. They knew from this initial glance that the Humans had wildly overexaggerated the threat they presented to the galaxy. There would be many fun times to be had with future Human friends over this.

Strangely, though, the receptionist, a male Ipinan, appeared frozen in fear. The pair wondered why this was. Then the Human rotated its head and peered through the door.

Milek and Fessin both gasped in tandem. The Human had front facing eyes. This was something that no other species in the galactic community possessed and was a common hallmark of predatory species around the galaxy.

Milek calmed when she looked closer and noticed a device perched on the Human’s nose. The device held a pair of vision correcting lenses that the Human peered through. Noticing the Human’s weakened eyesight, she realized that the eye placement must be some form of adaptive camouflage to dissuade predation.

“I don’t see why they needed to lie when all they had to do was post a visual of their faces,” Fessin commented.

Milek nodded in agreement. “That’s true. One look at those eyes and that would be enough to scare off most threats.”

Still, that didn’t explain the Ipinan’s abject terror, something the Human was oblivious to. Which was fair since the Humans were still new to the galactic community and couldn’t know the nuances of each of the member species.

The Human held in one of its five-digit hands a rope of some sort that loosely stretched out of view through the door. Anticipation rose in Milek and Fessin when they noticed the rope. This was going to be the Human’s entrant in the IPGS.

After completing the form, the Ipinan rigidly pointed into the pens area. The Human entered the room and what followed caused every species present, Milek and Fessin included, to freeze up in panic.

Attached to the other end of the rope was a vicious predatory creature. While smaller than the Human, the animal’s back reached the level of the Human’s knees, the quadrupedal animal oozed predatory vibes. Its fur coat was a mixture of whites and tans, colors that would have made it difficult to identify in arid environments.

Long ears hung down from the sides of its head, indicating it had a powerful sense of hearing. A long snout with a black nose showed off the terror of its scent senses. This creature could hear and smell its prey, making it difficult, if not impossible, to hide.

The worst was the muzzle. Hanging open, it displayed rows upon rows of sharp white teeth as it breathed heavily, tongue hanging to the side. It was mocking the room, showing off what it would use to rend their flesh and the organ it would use to taste their meat.

And the Human had it casually attached to a rope. He walked it into the room with little care and didn’t even seem concerned the dangerous animal was walking behind him.

“I think we can calm down,” Fessin said, suddenly finding his ability to move. “See that object on the animal’s neck?”

Milek forced her eyes to take in the predator. Around its neck was a red band that was clasped by a silver buckle. Her muscles loosened when she saw it. “Oh thank goodness! The Human isn’t insane. He has it contained by a control collar.”

The pair realized the rope must be the input device to keep the predator sedated. The Human was showing off how they managed to survive on their world and keep predators in-check. Other species would create complex mazes to protect their homes or create harmless trap and release systems to relocate dangerous predators. The Humans must have found a way to suppress the predator’s higher functions.

Of course, the Galactic Council would quickly squash this. Mental slavery, even of predator species, was highly frowned upon. The Human present would be given a grace pass since they are ignorant of the wider community’s laws and standards.

As the realization filtered through the room, everyone calmed and took this as an opportunity to get an up-close look at a predator outside of a game preserve.

The Human’s lips curled up, something the notes called a smile, and nodded to the other contestants. Milek noticed the small translation device affixed to his ear, something that he would need while the Humans learned Galactic Standard.

Quietly, the Human went and sat in his own waiting area. Milek noted his strange gait and the strange gait of his captured predator. It looked like they were carefully taking steps, like they didn’t want to hit the ground too hard. She wondered why they felt like they were moving in slow motion.

Milek also took note of the musculature of the Human. Visible under its thin skin, it flexed and moved smoothly. Something in her instincts screamed that maybe the strength claim was not a fabrication. Yet it was moving so slowly that it looked like it was struggling under the gravity on the planet.

After more small talk and murmuring around the room, the announcement came over the speakers to relocate to the main competition hall.

Everyone filed out in order of their entry numbers to parade their entrants before the crowd. A small warning was sent out that there would be one predatory animal entry and it was safely contained. This would be necessary for the Human’s animal when it entered the main hall to avoid a mass freeze.

Taking a deep breath, Milek led her strider out into the main hall at the head of the procession. The winner of the prior year’s competition always received the honor of leading the line.

Exiting a tunnel, Milek took in the massive arena. A long oval, the arena was ringed by display pens for each contestant and was so large it could hold a half a million spectators. Sure, compared to the trillions of residents of the galaxy, a half million wasn’t an impressive number. More popular events could attract billions of viewers on the holos.

Still, old instincts were present in every species. A half million spectators was logically a fringe event. Yet it still felt like a massive crowd to the instinctual mind.

Milek’s step increased as she and her well-trained strider gracefully pranced into the arena. First impressions were always important in these events. A failed entry could spell doom with the judges.

After reaching her station at the end, Milek secured her strider and turned and watched the other entrants as she caught her breath from the long run. Mainly, the Human. She observed him at the back of the procession as he followed the line.

The Human and his mind-controlled predator appeared to be struggling. They clumsily moved along the rear of the group like he was having a hard time matching the pace. More niggling instincts said the Human was used to moving at a pace far faster than the run the contestants entered at.

Yet the way his body moved made her think Humans were from a low gravity world. The steps were slow and methodical, making it a poor showing as he clumsily followed the back of the procession. The animal was trying to high step its legs in a prance, yet its rhythm was off. This must be because the Human was struggling with maintaining its own pace while sending signals to the predator at the same time.

Milek felt bad for the Human. It had traveled most of the way across the galaxy to show off his homeworld’s animals just to fight against the gravity and put on a weak showing in the initial phase. Maybe he could recover in the individual event.

Milek moved on to the individual phase. Once again, being the winner came with the advantage of going first. Many assumed going last was beneficial since it would be the most recent performance for the judges. Milek knew better. The crowd would tire as would the judges over the hours it took to go through all the entries.

Milek’s display went as well as she could hope. Her strider gracefully galloped around the arena, showing off its beautifully flowing hair. The silky coat streamed behind like flags and, when it ran, the animal’s coat sparkled in the arena lights.

The clapping was the best she had heard in many years. Confident, Milek watched her friend Fessin throw fruit at his gunluk, which snatched it out of the air and ate. It was an interesting display and, had Milek not brought a strider, would have been good for the win. She was already planning what she would say to her friend after the event when he held his second place ribbon.

The rest of the entrants went as expected. Various animals were displayed and walked across the yard. Few animals brought were ever sophisticated enough to perform basic tasks like Fessin’s gunluk or could equal the pure beauty of the strider.

Finally, it was the Human’s turn. Going last, much of the crowd had already filtered out of the arena and the judges appeared to be tiring. The poor guy would struggle to gain their attention.

Strangely, the Human left his controlled predator in the pen and began walking around the arena. He placed devices on the ground in various places and returned to his pen. Taking out a tablet of his own, he pressed the surface. Then the devices sprouted out various hard light constructs.

Tunnels, ramps, boards on pivot points and an array of rods closely placed in a line sprouted up all over the arena. Milek was intrigued by what the Human was intending to do.

The Human led the animal out of the pen and to one end of the arena. Then she froze in panic as did the judges and the remaining spectators. The Human had reached down and released the control collar from the predator. It was now loose!

Surprise rose in Milek’s mind when the predator didn’t immediately rampage and rip the Human’s throat out. Instead, it stood still on all four of its legs, nose pointed out and mouth closed. It had an intense look in its front facing eyes and its muscles flexed.

Then the Human ran. Its speed and grace was unbelievable. Making a noise, the animal then followed along. Milek was afraid the predator had come to its senses and was aiming to kill the Human.

Then it didn’t. The Human would gesture at the different hard light constructs and the predator, with a blazing speed even greater than the Human’s, would run at them.

The animal streaked up and down ramps. The creature balanced on the pivoted board and allowed its weight to lower it down the other end, displaying the terrifying intelligence the predator possessed. Its speed was shown off when it bolted into a long, curved tunnel and shot out of the other end. Its agility was presented when it quickly weaved in and out of the closely placed rods.

All the while, the Human continued to bound at speed across the arena in his sweater vest and Oxford shoes, garments that did not look like they were designed for athletic achievement.

Then, after the pair rapidly ran from one end of the arena to the other through the obstacle course, the Human ended the display. The animal sat before the Human and patiently waited. The Human reached into a pocket in the chino pants and retrieved a brown strip. Milek’s instincts repulsed when she caught the odor of meat. The Human handed the strip to the animal, which ate it and then waited.

Horror filled Milek when she realized what had just occurred. The Human didn’t mind control the predator. He had tamed the predator.

The Human replaced the collar and, now without the restrictions of the line, far more gracefully led the animal back to their pen after which he collected his hard light emitters.

It took a few minutes for the crowd and judges to regain their senses. After a few more minutes of deliberation, the judges announced they had made a decision. A podium was brought into the arena and names were announced.

As Milek expected, her name was announced as the winner with Fessin taking second place. A Rukkin’s fabilisa earned third.

While happy with her victory, Milek felt it was unearned. The Human had made a display never before seen in galactic history. He had brought a predator, a tamed one at that, and easily displayed it to a crowd. She knew fear and bias kept the judges from voting for his animal.

She nudged Fessin. “Join me, I want to talk with the Human.”

Fessin looked nervously over at the Human’s waiting area. No other contestant or spectator had gone anywhere near his space. Even his neighbors had quickly vacated after the announcement. “Are you sure? That animal…I don’t know. It’s terrifying.”

Milek agreed. However, she knew something else was more important. “Fessin, we’re being rude. This is the Human’s first experience outside of its home and we’re avoiding him. Come, we need to introduce ourselves and show that the galaxy is a friendly place.”

Hesitating a moment, the pair gathered their courage and approached the Human. The Human looked up and bared his teeth at the pair. Milek froze when she saw the teeth. There in his mouth, along with the expected plant molars and cutting incisors, were sharp teeth designed to consume meat.

The Human quickly put his hand over his mouth to conceal his teeth. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I forgot that showing teeth is considered hostile. Please forgive my breach of decorum, we show teeth on my planet when we’re happy.”

Fessin swallowed hard next to Milek. “That’s fine. We all have our species body language we have to be careful to control. Accidental offense is common, so we don’t take it. I’m Fessin.”

“I’m Milek,” Milek said as she tried to fight against the fear that looking at the Human’s front facing eyes gave her. She also noticed the Human’s breathing was steady and slow. He had just made a lengthy run from one end of the arena to the other and showed no sign of exertion at all. They hadn’t lied on the survey about their ability to run distances.

“You can call me Arthur. This was quite the experience. Petunia here also enjoyed it greatly,” he said, bending over and rubbing a hand over the top of the animal’s head. The creature’s tongue lolled out and it panted when the hand contacted the fur.

“Can I ask what you call that animal?” Fessin asked, staring at Arthur casually contacting a vicious predator.

“Ah, yes. These are what we call dogs. These types of shows are common back on Earth, though we usually only have dogs in them. This particular dog is a breed known as a King Charles Spaniel. Beautiful and graceful they are,” Arthur said as he spoke of the animal like it was a strider.

Milek marveled at how controlling these animals was so common that the Humans had pet shows specifically dedicated to them. She also took note of the animal’s name. King. Yes, that was appropriate for such a dangerous beast. It was truly a king among predators.

Arthur then turned his mouth down. “Sadly, it seems we have quite a bit of stiff competition out here in the galaxy. Big fish, small pond as they say back home. I had hoped our display would have given a better impression on the judges.”

Milek didn’t want to ruin his impression of the galactic community by telling him the judges were too scared of his King to ever grant it any points. So she gave a smaller lie. “I think it was the entry that caused issue. You seemed to be uncoordinated.”

Arthur balled up one of his appendages and punched it into the other. The loud slap from the immense force scared Milek and Fessin. “Of course! That must have been it. The entry is quite important after all. You see, we didn’t properly practice under this gravity.”

“That’s important,” Fessin said. “This planet’s gravity is on the heavier side this year. Next year will be on a more average planet.”

Arthur’s head cocked to the side, “Too heavy? No, sorry, it’s quite too light for us. Maybe a third or so of what we’re used to. Maybe I’ll have to compensate next year by fashioning up a weight vest. That should offset some of the difficulty walking. I have to be careful or I’ll bounce up in the air like a lunatic.”

To demonstrate, Arthur bounded up so high that the bottoms of his Oxford shoes were level with Milek’s eyes. He let out a sound that sounded mirthful. “Oh my, this is fun. Reminds me of holiday on Mars.”

More horror came to Milek in that moment. How high Arthur casually leapt in the air made her think that even more of that survey wasn’t a cover to scare the galactic community. It was looking to be true. All of it.

“So, uh, how long have you managed to tame these dogs? The technology would be valuable on other planets to keep predators in check,” Fessin said as he backed away slightly from Arthur in fear.

Arthur looked down at the animal. “Technology? Oh no, we’ve been friends for around, oh, 30,000 years, give or take. It was before written history, so we have to estimate based on genetic information and archaeology.”

Milek’s eyes went wide. These Humans had tamed a wild predator before they could even write.

Arthur continued, “Humans and dogs, or wolves they came from, are quite compatible. They can run long distances like us. We share complex hunting and social groups. We have strong coordination abilities. It was a perfect match provided by random evolutionary chance.”

Milek’s worries grew when she started to understand what just stepped onto the galactic stage. A strong, fast predatory animal with intelligence and social coordination just entered the broader community.

“Can we expect you again next year,” Milek asked, lacking anything else to say and not wanting to offend the dangerous Human before her.

The Human’s mouth turned up, “Probably not.”

Milek and Fessin both felt relief at the statement.

“It’ll be my wife’s turn. She has a wonderful Irish Wolfhound pup she’s working with that will be ready for show next year,” Arthur said in a tone that sounded like pride.

Milek and Fessin turned to look at each other. They knew that they’d still go and, whatever this Irish Wolfhound thing may be, it couldn’t be any worse than what they just saw. It was a King after all. Nothing was scarier than a King.
Part 2 Here

“Where’d you get the black eye?” my wife said to me when I got home that evening. She was making a classic dish from her homeland, and I was starving. But before dinner, it was time for a confession.
“I got into a fight at a strip club,” I said. She knows instantly if I fib, and I gave up trying years ago.
“You were at a strip club?” The fight and the black eye meant nothing to my wife; the strip club was all that mattered to her. But I was sure I was on safe ground; I’d been at the club for a perfectly good reason. I opened my mouth to explain, but she held up a wooden spoon like a weapon. “Let me guess. You’re about to tell me that you were there with clients. That you were there for business.”
I had been about to tell her just that. “If you hear me out, I promise you that you won’t be mad at me.”
“Promise?” she said. My wife was angry, but she loved my stories. I could tell from the look on her face that she suspected a good one was coming.
“Pinky swear,” I said, “but I can’t tell you until tomorrow.” I had almost been out of trouble, but this comment got her even more angry.
“Oh, so you can’t tell me because it’s privileged? Is that it?” My wife knew about the solicitor-client privilege thing, and that I never talked about anything other than what happened in open court, on the record.
“I can tell you all about it when it’s this time tomorrow,” I said, “it’s a privilege thing, like you said.”
“Privilege, my ass,” my wife said, dropping the wooden spoon to the counter where it landed with a loud clatter, scattering droplets of what I was sure was a delicious sauce. “You come home with the biggest black eye I’ve ever seen, and you tell me you got it in a strip club. You drop that shit on me, and then you say the rest is privileged. Well guess what? Your dinner is privileged, too, and you just lost your dinner privileges.”
“But I’m hungry,” I said, “and my face hurts. Don’t do that, please,” I said as my wife picked up the pan with the night’s dinner. “Please don’t,” I said, as she opened the garbage bin. “Look, if you’d--” The dinner hit the bottom of the bin with a loud blurping sound. “It’s pizza night for you,” she said.
I slept on the couch that night, and not the living room couch, but the basement couch, where my only company was an old black and white t.v., the internet not yet having yet been invented.
When I woke up the next morning I slunk out of the house silently, like a criminal, and arrived at the courthouse unshaven, in my second best suit and a shirt that was missing a button. When I looked in the bathroom mirror before going to court, I saw that the black eye had spread. Not even sunglasses could hide it. I would have to go to court and face the crown’s witness, the man who had given me the black eye. It was going to be an interesting day.
* * *
A few weeks earlier I’d been at the Jet Set, but only to pick up some cash. I had picked up a few of the bouncers there as clients, and my guy was waiting at the door with an envelope.
“What’s with the car?” I said to Sebastian as he passed me the envelope. He was the Jet Set’s head of security, which was a fancy way of saying he was the club’s bouncer-in-chief. We came from the same part of town, and got along great, but I was wary of him, because he was also the most vicious man I’ve ever met. I wanted to count the cash, but I didn't think that was a good idea around Sebastian. I shoved the envelope in my pocket.
“The Boss is doing a charity thing,” Sebastian said. The car was on blocks, its tires removed, and a sign on top said that all proceeds went to one of the local hospitals.
“Who would buy an old beater like that?” I said. It was an old Mustang, maybe late 70s, and it looked like a complete wreck.
“The car isn’t for sale,” he said, “it’s a fundraiser. You pay ten bucks, you can hit the car with a hammer. A hundred bucks gets you a shot with a sledge hammer. And for five hundred, you put on a welding mask, and use a blow torch.” That explained the burn marks. “Looks like a lot of people got their money’s worth already,” I said. Sebastian nodded. “I’d give it another few days, and then it’s off to the wrecker. Care to take your best shot at it?”
“No thanks,” I said. I needed cash to keep the office lights on; I had to take a pass on a charity, even if that meant missing out on the chance to take a sledgehammer to a car.
“At least take a hammer to it,” a voice said from behind Sebastian. A man stepped through the door and joined us outside. He was an older guy, big, and going to pot, but still a tough customer, bald and with a graying goatee. He looked like an aging biker.
“Peter,” the man said, shaking my hand, “I’m the Jet Set’s owner.”
“Calledinthe90s”, I said. Peter picked up a hammer that had been sitting just inside the door, and told me to take a swipe. It would only cost ten bucks, he said. I took the hammer from him, and took a swing at a side mirror that dangled loosely. I took two more little swipes at it, but it refused to fall off. I handed the hammer back to Peter.
“That’ll be thirty bucks,” he said.
“Thirty bucks? I thought it was only ten.”
“It’s ten bucks per swing,” he said. I opened the envelope that Sebastian had given me, and pulled out one of the G-notes it held.
‘I’ll need change,” I said. Peter gave the bill to Sebestian, and told him to get change, and I watched as Sebastian, the toughest, meanest man I ever met, said, “Yes, Boss,” and departed to get me change.
“Sebastian told me how you got him off that assault thing.”
I’d defended Sebastian on more than a few of his ‘assault things’, and so instead of saying, ‘which one,’ I feigned ignorance. “You know the one I mean,” Peter said, and I did, but I had to make him say it first; that privilege thing again.
“You know the one I’m talking about,” Peter continued, “the one where he beat the shit out of five guys.”
“You heard about that?” I said.
Peter laughed. “Everyone’s heard about that.” Sebastian had committed a violent assault, all of it caught on a video that one of his buddies made, but the trial ended with my client walking, the crown enraged, and me receiving a nice five grand fee, the last of which was now in my pocket, minus the thirty buck tax that the hammer thing had cost me.
“Sebastian showed me the tape, and now he’s showing it to everyone else, and charging ten bucks to see it. Better than any Bruce Lee shit, I told him. Sebastian’s the best. Am I right or am I wrong?” When it came to beating the crap out of people, I had to agree that Sebastian was the best, and said as much. Sebastian returned, bearing seventy bucks in change.
“I need a lawyer,” Peter said. I asked if he wanted to make an appointment to see me at my office. “Nah, we can talk in my office. Come on in.” He threw open the door and we headed inside.
The place had no windows and most of the lights were off. “We don’t open for a while,” Peter said as Sebastian and I followed him down a hall. He opened the door to a small office and gestured for us to have a seat. “I need a lawyer,” he said again, when we settled in.
“For yourself?” he nodded. He must have caught my glance towards Sebastian, because he added, “Sebastian stays. I tell Sebastian pretty well everything.” Having a non-lawyer present could prevent the conversation from being protected by privilege, and I said as much, but Peter said it was fine.
“So what do the cops say you did?” You never ask a client what he actually did; that was like asking him to confess. Instead, you always asked him what the cops said he did.
“They say I slapped my son in the face.” That was a change from the rough stuff that Peter’s bouncers were always getting charged with. It must have been one hell of a slap, otherwise why would the cops even bother?
“Any witnesses,” I said.
“I saw it,” Sebastian said, “plus Earl. He was on door duty that night, plus a couple of dancers.”
“Anyone else?” I said. If the only witnesses were Peter’s faithful employees, then it would be Peter’s word against his son’s, and in an assault case, you were half-way to a not guilty if there were no independent witnesses.
“Three cops,” said Sebastian, “they were hanging around there, just waiting to bust someone from the club.”
“This is gonna be a tough one, I know,” Peter said, turning towards the wall safe behind him. He spun the lock three times with practiced fingers, without giving more than a glance,and the door fell open.
“Here’s five for a start,” he said, counting out fifty G-notes, which he me made me count back to him. “And there’s five more if you do for me, what you did for Sebastian.” Ten Gs for common assault? It sounded too good to be true.
“It’s only a slap,” I said, “and I don’t normally charge that much for something that small.”
“I want you to fight for me the way you did for Sebsatsian. I gotta win this thing. The liquor license guys are always up my ass, and if I get so much as a speeding ticket, they’ll try to pull my liquor license. So fix this for me, Calledinthe90s.”
“Fix this for me,” Peter said again, “the trial’s in a month, and I need a lawyer, and you’re the guy. Do for me what you did for Sebastian.”
“But they have three cops who saw you do it,” I said.
“And the cops had a videotape of me, when I beat those five guys,” said Sebastian, “but you still got me off.” This was true, but I had done some serious outside the box thinking, plus taken some personal risks, to get Sebastian out from under a slam dunk crown case.
“I’ll do my best,” I said. I asked for paper and pen, and in Peter’s small office, I listened to the story of why Peter had given his son a big slap in front of some cops.
* * *
“I’m proud of my son, but when he was growing up, sometimes I had to straighten him out. Give him the big slap now and again.” I could tell that Peter really was proud of his son, Bruce; I could hear it in his voice. Peter’s pride came out loud and clear as he spoke of Bruce, how he’d been a whiz at math in high school, a star athlete (boxing and judo), did good in university, and was now an actuary in some huge insurance company downtown.
“I was so proud of that kid. I even bought him a car when he graduated, even the insurance was prepaid.” Bruce had been proud of his success, too, maybe too proud, and his success had gone to his head. He was a young man with a wealthy father and money of his own and a new Porsche 944, and he drove up and down the strip, hitting clubs on the weekends, partying with the dancers, spending his money.
“Which is all good,” Peter said, “after all, what’s a young guy gonna do when he’s got money in his pocket and girls to help him spend it?” But Bruce had been banned from some of the places on the strip, for being too handsy with the dancers, and one place had thrown him out, none too gently. “Those five guys Sebastian beat? That was me who sent him there. I sent Sebastian there to straighten them out, after they roughed up my son.” For the first time I understood why Sebastian had gone to the club just up the street and beaten five bouncers unconscious.
It wasn’t long before there was only one club left that Bruce could go to: the Jet Set that his father owned. “But I had to ban him, too,” Peter said, “he was all over the girls, all the time, and I can’t have that.” Peter was protective of the women who worked for him.
“So how did that lead to the Big Slap?” I asked.
“He showed up in that car of his, squealing tires in the lot,” Peter said. Earl had been the bouncer on duty and had denied him entrance, there being standing orders in place to keep Bruce out. “Bruce dropped Earl with a sucker punch, and walked in,” Peter said.
I raised an eyebrow. Earl was another client of mine, a giant of a man and I knew that no sucker punch of mine would ever knock out Earl. I raised an eyebrow. “Your son can handle himself,” I said.
“Bruce’s is no slouch when it comes to that kind of thing,” Peter said, and again the pride showed in his voice. “Just like his old man. Not in Sebastian’s league, but still, he’s not a guy to mess with.”
“Was Earl ok?”
“It’s hard to tell. Good bouncers are like big dogs; they never let you know when they’re hurting. Irregardless, the guys are teasing him, getting knocked out like that, sucker punched before he even raised a hand.” After Bruce had bulldozed his way into his father’s club, the other bouncers had tackled him, and dropped him outside, gently enough, and unscathed.
“What happened next?” I said.
“There were cops in the parking lot,” said Sebastian, “they like to hang around sometimes, watching for drunks, so that they can get them for impaired.” I took notes, and listened to the narrative, sometimes Peter talking, sometimes Sebastian, and together they told me the rest of the story. Bruce got back on his feet, and tried to push past the bouncers, but he was getting nowhere. Then Peter came out, and when Bruce pushed again, Peter gave him the Big Slap, a hard open hand that had rocked his son. That brought the cops out of their car, and in no time at all Peter found himself under arrest for assault.
“Typical cops,” Sebastian said, “they miss Bruce knocking out Earl, they miss him trying to force his way in. All they seen is the slap to the face. Bullshit charge, and Bruce doesn't even wanna testify, but the cops got him under subpoena.”
“Tunnel vision,” Peter said, “they got tunnel vision. They’re always trying to find a reason to shut me down.”
That was the story Peter and Sebastian told me, but from the way the cops told it in the disclosure I read, they’d been quietly minding their own business in the parking lot of a strip club, when suddenly and without warning my client stepped up to his son, and for no reason at all, slapped him across the face. Maybe the liquor license guys weren’t the only ones who had it in for Peter.
Not long after that, I was at court for a set date. The court was packed, and we were following the usual routine: a case is called, counsel steps forward, a date is set, the judge calls the next case. The judge was taking no shit from delaying defence counsel, and he was moving his list along with impressive speed, until my case with Peter was called.
“Calledinthe90s,” I said, putting my name on the record, as Peter stepped up from the body of the court. The crown had been powering through the list, but when he heard my name, his head whipped around. His name was Polgar, and he looked at me with hate. He’d been the crown at Sebastian’s five-bouncer case, and he was looking for revenge.
“The case is complicated,” I said to the judge, “with lots of witnesses. We’ll need at least an hour for the pretrial, and the trial itself will be a couple of days.” I hadn’t thought of a defence, and the more time the court gave me to think of one, the better.
“Skip the pretrial, and the trial will be a half-day,” the crown said. “In fact, let’s triage this thing. Expedite it.” I objected, and spoke of the number of witnesses, the long history between father and son, the importance of a fair trial and time to prepare. The judge looked at me like I was an idiot. Like I was a lawyer using delay tactics, which of course is exactly what I was.
“It’s a common assault charge,” the judge said, “a simple slap across the face.” He marked it for a half-day trial, and gave me a trial date in two months. That was super fast, but the Askov case had recently come down, and the courthouse was trying to move things along, otherwise cases would get dismissed for delay. The court recessed after Peter’s case, but before I could leave, Polgar the vengeful crown collared me.
“You pull any shit like you did last time, I’ll complain to the Law Society.” Last time he’d been upset that his victims had all recanted before trial, and had not thought to mention this to him, not even when examined in chief at Sebastian’s trial for beating them senseless.
“Trying to be tough like your Daddy?” I said. Polgar’s father was the Crown Attorney for the County. For decades the elder Polgar had courted a reputation as the toughest Crown in the land, but all he had achieved was massive delay in the courthouse, and a reputation for obtaining convictions, sometimes wrongful convictions, at any cost. Polgar Junior ignored my taunt.
“You know what I mean. If you so much as whisper to the victim, contact him in any way, I’m gunning for your license.”
“Put that in writing, or fuck off,” I said. Peter and I left the courtroom and parted ways. I head back to my office, wondering how I was going to get Peter a not guilty verdict, but I’d been thinking about that for weeks, and I had no idea.
* * *
Trial was a month away, then a week, then two days, and then one day, and I still had no idea how I was going to defend Peter. Three cops had seen him slap his son, and I had no idea what to do.
I was sitting in my office, a beautiful office the loss of which I mourne to this day. It was the only office I’d ever been in that had balconies and doors which opened out to them. It was ten o’clock on a beautiful summer morning, and I was sitting on the balcony with Peter’s file in my hand, and wondering what to do. I read through the crown brief again, and flipped through my Martin’s, a book that I’d fallen in love with when I was fifteen years old, but I found nothing in it that inspired me. Sure, I could argue that Peter had merely been defending his property, preventing a trespass. That was an ok defence, a decent defence, a defence that might fly in front of the right judge, if the evidence came out right. And that would be my defence, if I couldn’t think of anything better.
But I knew there was something better. I was certain of it, and it was driving me crazy that I hadn’t figured it out. I think best when I have a pen in my hand and I’m making notes, so I went through my file for the fifth time that morning, looking at each statement, checking out the Information for flaws, trying to find an angle. In frustration, I went to the notes that I’d taken when I first spoke to Peter, back in his office, after he’d made me pay thirty bucks for charity.
“I was so proud of my son, I bought him a car,” I had noted Peter as saying. I read that again, and the questions about the car that had followed, and how Peter paid for the insurance, on the car, too, and then my brain lined up some dots and connected them, and I gave Peter a call. We spoke, I put my plan together, and later that day I was at the Jet Set, hanging around Peter and his bouncers.
* * *
It was after six p.m., and the sun was thinking about getting ready to set, maybe an hour or so to go. I chilled with Peter and his guys, sitting on lawn chairs outside the Jet Set. Peter was telling stories about the old days, about the times he got robbed, about the cops hassling him, about the liquor license assholes and about the trial next day, and that if he got convicted, the liquor license assholes would pull his license.
“You sure this is gonna work, kid?” he said, putting a massive arm around me.
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but it’s worth a shot.” Peter put his arm down, and looked at his watch.
“The charity event starts in twenty minutes, but I could still call it off.” Peter was nervous; the stunt I was pulling was a bit much, even for me, and I could tell he was worried. “We still got time to pull the plug. Let’s run through this again, ok?”
“Ok,” I said. The parking lot was busy, lots of people buzzing around for the charity. The old Ford Mustang had been taken away to the wreckers. But the Mustang was only a warm up. It was time for the main act, and unlike the aged Mustang, this car was new, a shiny black Porsche 944 that club regulars recognized on sight. It was Bruce’s car, a car famous up and down the strip that ran near the airport.
The shiny 944 stood on blocks, its tires removed, ready to be sacrificed for charity. A large, happy crowd, a slightly drunk crowd, milled around the car. Some were laying claim to a window, others to a door or a light. One man said he was going to torch his name into the hood.
“I should have thought of this earlier,” I said to Peter. I got up, and asked him to follow me. We moved away, and were able to speak with a bit of privacy despite the busy parking lot, because Sebastian and Earl stood guard, and no one tried to get past them.
“What made you think of this thing now, the day before the trial?” That’s what Peter wanted to know, and I didn’t really have an answer for him.
My best ideas come to me randomly. Sometimes they come to me the instant I open the file, giving me a path to a win that I know must follow. I loved it when the dots connected for me right at the start. But what really sucked, was when the dots connected too late, after the case was over, and when that happens, my gift for thinking outside the box is a curse. There’s no point in having a great idea after the case is over.
Defending a criminal case is often like being down a goal in the third period. You’re going to get only so many shots on net, so you better take them when you can, and I hated not taking shots, I hated not taking shots a lot more than I hated missing them. So of late, I’d started forcing myself to think, to examine the facts, to review them over and over again, in the hope of finding a shot.
“I should have thought of it earlier,” I said again.
That’s what I’d said to Sebastian, when Peter had loaned him out to me to fulfill a mission. He dropped by my office to pick up a letter that I wanted him to deliver. He already had the spare set of keys for Bruce’s Porsche, and my instructions on repossessing it. “Once you get the Porsche,” I continued , “park it in another building, then go back to Bruce’s office, and leave this letter for him at reception.”
“What does the letter say?” Sebastian said, and I repeated it from memory:
Dear Bruce,
I am your father’s lawyer, and your father is the owner of your car, a car that he has now repossessed. Your father told me to give you this letter, to let you know as a courtesy that you will have to find some other way home.
Your father will not be letting you drive the car again. No one will ever drive the car again, because your father intends to give it to charity, tonight, at the parking lot outside the Jet Set.”
“Is this even legal? Sebastian said.
“It is a bit like a kidnapping,” I admitted. “But legal. Perfectly legal. Call me from the club when you drop off the Porsche.”
* * *
“My son was pretty pissed when he got the letter,” Peter said, as we waited together for the pending sacrifice of Bruce’s 944. “Yup,” I said. My receptionist had received a series of threatening calls from Bruce, with him promising to fuck me up real good the first chance he got. I was gonna eat that fucking letter, Bruce had said in another message. After he fucked me up real good, he added in another. Bruce left a lot of messages for me.
He left messages at the club, too, and for his father, and they were all the same, that he was coming to the club, and if anyone touched his fucking car, he would kill them.
I saw a yellow cab roll into the parking lot, and a young man jumped out, a young, very angry man. His suit was sharp and his shoes gleamed. He paid the driver in bills, with quick flips of the wrist, the bills falling through the air as the driver snatched at them. Then the young man turned, and stormed towards his father, and towards me. Sebastian and Earl closed ranks, but Peter told them to back off, that he would deal with his son. “This the lawyer?” Bruce asked his father. “Sure am,” I said, standing up. I was ready for him. I’d been in my share of fights in high school, and I knew that I could handle myse--
I felt no pain when Bruce’s hard fist connected with my face. There was a flash, like a lightbulb going off inside my head, and I went down in a heap.
“Guy’s got a good left hook, I’ll give him that,” Sebastian said when he sat me up, “he laid you out real good.”
The right side of my face was already swelling. I opened my mouth to make a witty remark, a manly aside to show my indifference to pain. “It hurts,” I moaned, and it hurt, it really, really hurt. “It really hurts,” I said again, realizing that I’d never actually been in a fight before, and that those fights back in high school weren’t real fights, just me and another kid pushing each other while the other kids yelled ‘fight fight fight’ over and over again.
Earl came over, and together he and Sebastian helped me up. “Never been knocked out, I’m guessing,” Sebastian said. I nodded, and then regretted nodding.
I turned, and saw another figure being helped up. His shoes were now scuffed, and his suit was wrecked, but even with both his hands over his face, I knew it was Bruce.
Peter went over to comfort his son, but Bruce slapped his hand away, and I saw that his face was a bloody mess, like he’d gone a few rounds while keeping his hands down. The cab he’d arrived in was still there. Bruce stumbled over to it, got in the back, and then he was gone. As I watched the cab drive away, I tried to clear my head.
“The Boss is gonna fire me, for fucking up his son,” Sebastian said quietly.
“He’s gonna fire me, for not stepping in to save him,” Earl said. They exchanged looks, and then glanced at me, as if they were about to ask for advice about wrongful dismissal. But my head was starting to clear, and despite the pain, I was happy, I felt good. I felt stoked. My plan had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.
“You look look pretty happy for someone who just got knocked out,” Peter said to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and for any Americans reading this, in Canada ‘sorry’ has a lot of meanings, and in this case, ‘sorry’ meant that I was delighted, that I was over the moon with joy. “I really regret that I have been turned into a witness, even a victim. I don’t see how I can do your trial tomorrow, Peter,” I said to him, “I have a conflict of interest.”
I hadn’t planned on getting punched in the face. I hadn’t expected to have a black eye, either, but when I realized what Bruce had done, I knew that I had a shot at delaying the case, and back then, like it sometimes is now, delaying a case was almost as good as a win.
Delaying a case even a few months could be as good as a win, because the courts were dismissing cases like crazy if they took too long to get to trial. If I could string out the case for a year, it was sure to get bounced. I was so stoked that when I got home I forgot about my black eye, until my wife asked me about it when I walked into the kitchen, and we had our fight that ended with me sleeping in the basement. I went into court the next day feeling low, and looking worse, because my wife hadn’t waited around that morning, and I was pretty sure she was still mad at me.
“Not my fault I was at a strip club,” I said resentfully to myself as I drove to the courthouse, saying things that I hadn’t had the balls to say to my wife. “Not my fault that I got punched in the face, either,” I said, but that was not quite correct; it was my fault, actually. Totally my fault.
* * *
“This is all Calledinthe90’s fault,” Polgar the Crown said the next morning, when at ten o’clock sharp Judge May walked in and his court started like it always did, on time and the parties ready to go, or else. The courtroom was small and the gallery almost fully occupied by young women from the Jet Set, mostly dancers but a few servers as well, along with a few of the bouncers. The court door banged every time it closed, and it stopped banging when the last of the dancers arrived, dressed like she was in a club, dressed for a night on the town.
The dancers attracted a lot of attention, as usual, except from Bruce. Bruce wasn’t looking so good. His face had stopped bleeding at least, but it hadn’t even started to heal, and he was a mask of purple and red and black.
Everyone shut up the moment the judge came in, and in the silence I repeated what had made Polgar so angry the first time I said it.
“I have a conflict,” I said again. My face ached, but I was having trouble suppressing a smile. I gave the judge a brief account of my attendance at the Jet Set the day before to supervise a charity event, when Bruce, the Crown’s key witness, suddenly and without warning or provocation, punched me in the face, hitting me so hard that I almost fell down. When I finished speaking I heard the courtroom door bang behind me, and I turned to see what caused the interruption, and what I saw surprised me. It was my wife.
“Sorry, Your Honour,” my wife said, in quiet apology for the interruption.. She looked around for a seat. Some of the girls from the club shuffled over, and my wife joined them. “Thank you,” she whispered, settling in. I tried to catch her eye, but she looked past me, like I didn’t exist. I gave up when I heard Polgar the Crown start to complain again.
“Nothing ever is normal when Calledinthe90s is involved,” he said, “there’s always something.” He threw his pen onto the counsel table as he spoke. “But this excuse is the worst I’ve ever heard. He gets himself punched in the face, and now he wants an adjournment.”
“And you are opposed to that request?” Judge May said, his raised eyebrows revealing his surprise.
“Yes, I’m opposed. There’s no reason why this trial can’t--”
“Your key witness gave defence counsel a black eye,” Judge May said, “and I think that’s a pretty good reason.” He shuffled some papers in front of him, and closed a file. “I’ll remind you that a lot of cases are getting dismissed for delay, and anything we can get off the docket is a big help.” The judge stood, and so did everyone else. The judge turned to me, and then back to the Crown. “I’ll recess for fifteen minutes, and when I come back you two will tell me that you’ve sorted this out.” The court stood frozen as the judge exited. I was trying to catch my wife’s eye, but she was still ignoring me. Polgar grabbed my jacket and pulled me around.
“You did this deliberately,” he said, “you provoked him by stealing his car.”
“Exercising a lawful act of repossession is not provocation under the law, otherwise repo men would always get the shit beat out of them.” I was using the legal part of my brain to talk, but the rest of my mind was wondering why had my wife come to court? Why today of all days? Did she not trust me? Did she not think that I would be honest with her when I got home, and tell her about everything that happened at court that day?
“Repo men are different. It’s their job to repo. It’s just not the same,” Polgar the Crown said, but the argument that followed was weak, not worth refuting.
“Fuck repo men,” Sebastian said from behind me, “I hate them as much as cops.”
“Not here, Sebastian,” I said, and then I focused my attention back on the Crown, and almost forgot about my wife. “You heard the judge,” I said, “he’s not gonna make me do a trial. He’s gonna give me an adjournment.”
“Fine,” Polgar the Crown said, “but only one, and peremptory.”
“Oh, not at all,” I said. I laughed slightly, ignoring the pain in my face. “The first adjournment is required for medical reasons, to see if I am concussed.”
“So we’ll come back fast, next week, on a set date. I can arrange it.”
“But if I’m concussed,” I continued, “we might need another adjournment. Maybe two, while I get my bearings.”
“Fine. Six weeks, max, then we set a trial date.” He asked the clerk for dates, but I told her to hold off.
“Once the doctors say I’m fit, we’ll need to schedule a motion I’ll be filing, seeking a declaration on whether I’m in a conflict or not.”
“But you already said you were in a conflict.”
I smiled. “I might be wrong. It’s safer to get a judge’s opinion. And that might take a while. Especially if one of us appeals.”
“But you’re just dragging this out, trying to Askov the thing.” Of course that was what I was trying to do, but an important part of Aksoving a case, of getting it dismissed for excessive delay, is never to admit that you’re deliberately causing delay.
“What’s more embarrassing,” I said, appealing to Polgar’s practical side, “having the case dismissed for delay, or having it dismissed because your witness, your so-called victim, punched defence counsel in the face? It’s getting dismissed, one way or the other and it’s only a slap. Common assault. Why don’t you take the easy route?”
When the judge returned Polgar the Crown took the easy route. He stood, and told the judge that the Crown had decided to drop the charge.
I ought to have been thrilled. I ought to have been ecstatic. That’s how I feel when everything goes according to plan, when the last dot gets connected.
But my wife was angry, and when my wife was angry at me, nothing else seemed to matter. I felt as bad as if I’d lost the case, that I’d gotten myself punched out for nothing. But then Judge May, that great man, came to my rescue.
“Dropping the charges, you say? Good idea. So recorded.” Then the judge turned to me.
“Calledinthe90s, will you be filing any charges at the man who gave you that shiner?”
I’m a little ashamed of what I did next, but not really, because my wife was watching and I did what I had to do. I let the judge’s words hang for an instant, and then I turned manfully towards Bruce, the man who had injured me, the man whose face was battered and bruised far worse than mine. “No need, Your Honour, he and I settled things last night. I’m satisfied, if he is.” Sebastian was trying hard not to laugh, and so was Earl, but I kept a straight face. Bruce, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to explode.
“I should think so,” said the judge, “next case.”
I walked out with Peter and Sebastian and Earl, and we waited outside as everyone else came out, all the servers from the club, and the dancers and a couple of more bouncers, and then my wife came out last of all.
“Who is that,” Peter said, ‘Is she one of my girls?”
“That girl is my wife,” I said.
“Is that why you said that stuff at the end, where you kinda implied that you beat the shit out of my son? Trying to impress your wife?” He smiled at me, but I pretended I didn’t understand.
My wife took me home, gave me tylenol and put me to bed, and when I woke up, I told her about what happened, about the dots that I’d connected, about the things that I’d done and the money that I’d made, and how I’d made it. I told her about the rules that I almost broke, and the customs that I hadn’t followed. I confessed everything, or at least, almost everything. I did leave out the odd little bit.
“Did they teach you how to do that in law school,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Beat the shit out of people, like that guy in court.”
“It was just guy stuff, settling a score, that’s all,” I said, like what I’d been through was nothing.
She took me downstairs, and settled me on a couch. I basked in her attention as she fussed over me, brought me soup and a cup of tea.
“I had no idea you were so tough,” she said as she joined me on the couch. I would have replied, but she shushed me when the show was about to start. By now I knew that I was forgiven, that the squall had passed, and I settled contendly on the couch, despite my black eye and my throbbing face. But then my wife hit the mute button.
“One more thing,” she said, pointing the control at my head like a gun, “You go near that strip club, for any reason, and you’ll be sleeping in the basement for a long, long, time.”
“But--”
“No buts. I saw those girls in the courtroom. I don’t want you hanging them. If your bouncer clients need to see you, they can see you at your office, like any other client.”
“But--”
“No buts.” She turned the volume back on.
“Ok,”I said.
“Ssshhh. It’s starting,” she said.

What started as a panicked attempt to get her over-intoxicated friend to a hospital ended up in a disastrous car crash that claimed the lives of her friends... and a careless God crossing the street. But Sammi's adventure wasn't about to end there. In her dying breath, the God curses Sammi to take up her mantel. Now with her three friends resurrected as ghosts, Sammi has to navigate the tricky world of godhood.
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Day 2: Thursday

I woke up at 1 PM, which I took as a sign that I really needed the fucking sleep.
I did also normally wake up at 1 PM when I wasn’t working, so it wasn’t the best sign, but I was gonna interpret it how I fucking liked.
The ghosts weren’t too mad about me oversleeping. I actually think they were sleeping too because when I woke up, they were all flopped about on the ground like sparkling piles of ethereal goop. Only Blair had been up before me.
“I wanna visit Noah,” she said, the moment she saw me.
“Well jeez, Blair, give me a minute to brush my teeth.” God, she’d barely known the kid a few hours. Technically she didn’t know him at all, she was just passingly aware that he existed. But she did feel responsible for his potential death, which was something I knew a lot about, so I humored her. “Give me half an hour to get my body into a form that somewhat resembles alive—” I cringed at my poor choice of words but kept going “—and then we can make our way to the hospital. Sound like a deal?”
“Can we get breakfast first?” Christopher asked, peeling himself from the floor.
“Does that even need to be asked?” I tossed him a grin. “This place is super fancy. I bet their breakfast is swanky as hell.”
“Please, just nothing crazy.” Joni pulled her head out of the couch she’d been curled up in. If I wasn’t much mistaken, her form was looking a bit better. A bit regenerated. They were all looking a little better, like they were reconstructing their bodies a bit. Not coming back to life, but less car crash victim, more minor injury victim. Like they fell down a staircase instead.
“All right. For you Joni, nothing crazy.” But I was excited to see what this place’s breakfast was like. If your average, run of the mill, motel spot had a semi decent free breakfast, this place was going to blow it out of the park.
–
After the most disappointing breakfast this side of the river, the four of us piled out of the hotel.
“I can’t believe they didn’t have waffles.” Blair looked almost as upset as she had sobbing over Noah’s body. “No waffles.”
“I just can’t believe they charged you for fresh fruit,” Christopher said. “Like, where the hell are we supposed to get our nutrients and all?”
“Technically the fruit was free.” Joni’s lips twisted in an angry smirk, something really only she could pull off. “It was a slicing fee.”
“Yeah, you just can’t, like, eat an unsliced pineapple. You should have magicked them, Sammi.” Christopher had been pissy about the pineapple the whole breakfast, as I’d munched on a box of coco crunch, ignoring their grumblings. Yes, I could have lied about it. But I didn’t want to start a whole fuss. I knew any second, someone was gonna realize that I wasn’t actually supposed to be there, find out I wasn’t actually a guest, and think I snuck in. I didn’t want to be mid convoluted-lie-about-pineapple only to have a bunch of people run in and start shouting at me about breaking in.
I just didn’t have the energy. Or I did but I was saving it. Cause I was about to hit up a hospital, and we were doing it better this time.
We were doing it right.
–
“And if they ask who you are to him?”
“His sister.”
“And if they say that’s not immediate enough family, you are?”
“His older sister, AKA, legal guardian.”
“And if they ask for ID?”
“I already showed it to you.”
Joni nodded as she paced in front of me in the single-use, all-gender restroom in the hospital lobby.
“Okay, one last time, what are you not going to say?”
I took a deep breath. You got this Sammi. “I am not a doctor, nurse, surgeon, or any other medical staff.” The last thing we needed was for someone to ask me to do a medical procedure or ask my opinion. Knowing how easily I panic, I’d probably try to oblige them.
Joni nodded. “Okay. Don’t get involved in any legal muckery either. If someone is like ‘oh yeah, I heard he was in the middle of a drug deal’ or some shit, you just let it happen. We can deal with potentially getting him out of legal shit once we know whether he’s even alive.”
My stomach did a flip flop at the tone of her voice, and I had to remind myself that, all this nonsense aside, there was a very good chance Noah was dead. Kid got a hole punched in his brain after all. I’m no doctor, but I think you need most of that.
I looked to Christopher to steady me. He gave me a steadying nod, and I took a steadying breath.
Okay. Steadied.
I cruised on out of the bathroom, my swanky clothes from the night before in almost pristine condition. I was gonna be the coolest big sister Noah ever had.
“Hi there. I’m wondering where I can find Noah Cellier?” I tossed the hospital receptionist a bright smile.
She smiled back. Off to a good start. “All right dearie, I can look him up. Do you know what department he’s in?”
I chewed my lip for a moment, thinking. ER? OR? Morgue? Could be any, and if I got it wrong, she’d never be able to find him. “Mmm, no.”
“Not a problem.” The older lady began typing spidery fingers on the keyboard. “And when was he admitted?”
My face perked up at this. I knew this one. “Last night,” I said, a confident smile on my face.
She nodded again. “So was this a scheduled visit or an ER admittance.”
“ER I think,” I said, smile not faltering. “He got shot last night.”
Her smile immediately froze into a grimace. “Oh. Oh I’m so sorry. I–well I–yes, okay, please give me a moment.”
My smile was also frozen on my face, no matter how much I wanted to drop it. This was not how big sisters were supposed to react to their brothers being shot. But if I suddenly dropped my smile to a glum, somber expression, that would look weirder, right?
“Right, and are you direct family?” The woman’s lips had, very naturally, gone from cheery smile to alarmed grimace to concerned old granny in a very short period of time, while I still bared my most confident grin at her.
“Yes. I’m his sister.” I could hear Joni hiss ‘just a yes would have worked’ but I tuned her out. Every part of me wanted to say ‘my reaction is totally normal by the way’ just so I didn’t feel so weird, but I was going easy on the lies here. Just the necessary ones.
“All right. He’s in ICU room four. Just a moment.” She tapped a bit more at her computer before handing me a badge and a printed slip. “Just show them this.”
I nodded stiffly.
“Ask her if any of his other family members have shown,” Christopher said, as I started turning away. “That would be a real bummer to run into them while pretending to be his sister.”
Good point. “Did any of his–our–mine, uh, my family stop by yet to visit?” I asked, tripping over my words as elegantly as a waterfall.
The old woman looked back at me. “I don’t have any visitors registered for him. And this would be the first visiting hours he’s here for, so I think you’re the first one.”
Phew. “Okay good to know. Thank you.”
And I walked towards the elevator.
Christopher was celebrating on the way up. “That was sick, Sammi. You really sold it. Or, you didn’t, you looked wigging as fuck, but you didn’t blow it, which is literally just like selling it.”
“Okay, can we actually focus on the good news?” Joni asked.
I fidgeted with my airpods as the elevator loaded and gave the woman next to me a loaded glance. Something that I hoped said ‘oh boy, gotta take a phone call’.
“Yeah?” I asked. “What’s the good news? No one else is there? Cause I didn’t wanna try to sell that one.”
“You’d have to have pulled the whole, like, unfaithful parent thing.” Christopher shook his head. “Which would be an extra hard sell cause you don’t look anything like Noah.”
I had a brief flash of me waltzing into the ICU–5’9” made taller with my chunky boots, pale as the ghosts I chilled with, jet black hair cut in a banged fringe around my round face that everyone swore I pulled off–and trying to convince the parents of a kid with nut brown skin, fluffy brown hair, who barely crossed five feet, that we were related.
The mental image was funny. I could sell it with a few lies for sure, lies that would herald a soap opera’s worth of accusations and drama and probably tear the family apart in the process.
Then again, I might have destroyed the family already by getting their son shot.
Joni’s sigh dripped with exasperation. “ICU. Not morgue. Noah’s alive. We didn’t know that, remember? God.”
We stepped off the elevator and followed signs for ICU until we finally made our way to a very very hospitally looking section of the hospital. Like it was all hospitally looking but this part was like, doctor show levels. Patients hooked up to IVs, tons of tubes coming in and out of people, beeping and all manner of stuff.
Noah was in room four, which was thankfully very easy to find. Inside, we found that Noah did in fact, have a visitor. It just wasn’t one the receptionist would have noticed.
“Blair!” Joni shouted, loud enough for me to jump. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”
Christopher scowled. “Have you just been up here since…” He trailed off. “Shit you really dipped the second we got here, didn’t you?”
Blair smiled serenely. “I wanted to check in on him. You were taking a long time interrogating Sammi in the bathroom so I just hopped up here. Read through his charts. He’s stable but–” She squinted at the chart, as if willing the page to turn. “And that’s all I got. I need your fingers.”
“I don’t really know if we’re gonna like, get super involved in his medical stuff here,” I said. “I mean, he’s alive.” I chanced a glance at the bed. Noah was alive according to the beeping machines, but with his face wrapped up by enough gauze to make a mummy, I couldn’t tell much else about his condition. Not that I’d be able to if he was unwrapped. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t. “That’s what we came here to find out. We can go now, right?”
Blair pouted at this, but my heart was racing a lil uncomfortably in this ICU. Hospitals squicked me out. Too sterile and clean and filled with doctors always treating you like you were after something. At least, in my limited experience that’s how it seemed to play out.
“Look,” I said, teeth grit. “I can’t fix him. I don’t have healing powers. And if I want to get more powers, I need to level up, which means doing schemes, not wringing my hands over the comatose body of a guy I don’t know whose coma-ness is only slightly my fault.”
“Definitely more than slightly,” Joni said. “But she’s got a point otherwise. Noah’s best bet isn’t gonna be us hovering around, feeling bad about him.” She sounded a little flat on empathy here, which I kinda understood. We didn’t know this kid. I wasn’t gonna be able to see through every single person negatively impacted by my godly shenanigans. Blair, underneath her spoiled rave girl persona, was just a big softie.
“Girls are right, Blair.” Christopher tapped his forehead intellectually. “Only way he gets better is if the doctors fix him up or we level Sammi up.”
I scowled at the notion of ‘we level Sammi up.’ But Blair was coming round to the idea, so I didn’t object. Just kinda made a mental note to find a way to throw this back at Christopher if I ever managed to level myself up on my own merit.
“So what now?” Joni asked. “Gotta come up with a new scheme, right?”
Honestly, if you think about it, I was the one leveling them up.
“Well Sammi also kinda needs a real pad to settle down in,” Christopher said. “Like, stoner vibes aside, I don’t really think van life is the life for her.”
Besides, they were my familiars! Not the other way around. They weren’t using me for power, I was using them to pull off my schemes!
“Yeah fair, but that’s not a scheme. Or it is, but a low level thing.” Joni huffed a tendril of hair out of her face. “Self schemes and all.”
Christopher nodded, tapping his chin contemplatively. “Okay, so we work the Cara angle first. See if we can’t bust her out of whatever potential trouble she’s in. Breaking someone out of jail is like a scheme, right?”
“Wait, why do we care more about schemes than finding me a place to live?” I asked, snapping out of my internal grumbling.
“Cause schemes are the only way we can level up, duh?” Joni rolled her eyes. “You owe us, remember?”
“Okay, but like, I don’t have to just level you all up in the first week of being a God!” This was getting a bit out of hand. “Besides, I thought I owed you, like, a trip to the Grand Canyon. Not magical spells.”
Christopher shook his head. “That was before we learned you could give us spells. Now you’re gonna have to fork over both.”
I opened my mouth, all ready to contest the rapidly shifting terms of this whole God thing, when Blair finally stopped her sniffling long enough to fix me with wide, baleful eyes.
“Joni’s right. You do owe us. It’s your fault we’re dead after all.”
After a moment of gawking furiously, I snapped my jaw shut. “All right, fine. We poke the Cara thread, see if she’s in need of any help that’ll trigger a Source quest. If there is, then we chase down that whole fucking rabbit hole until I level up and someone gets more ghost shit. Then we’re finding me a place to live. Everyone okay with that?”
I was rewarded with various levels of smug satisfaction from the ghosts, before I wheeled on my heels and tromped out of the ICU, proverbial steam coming out of my ears.
Maybe I was the familiar after all.
Well, at least Noah's alive! Poor kid definitely rolled a nat 1 by getting accidentally tangled with Sammi. Hopefully Henry pays for his misdeeds. And hopefully more of the ghosts get powers!

I'm hesitant to reach out to a lawyer because I'm not sure what can be done, but as this has unfolded MANY people I work with have encouraged me to speak with someone because they feel our employers treatment of me has been so horrendous.
I work in a hospital and I've worked at this hospital for over a decade. I have a great working relationship with everyone I interact with. I have never been written up or reprimanded and have had only stellar performance reviews from every supervisor I've had over the years. I have worked with many other physicians without these complaints and those physicians have been supportive of me through all this. I am the most senior employee in my position and I work very hard to support our practice. I am always available to help when needed and I carry more than twice the work load of others in my position because of my seniority.
About 4 years ago a new physician joined our hospital. Pretty quickly he revealed himself to be very abrasive and difficult to work with. He shoved nurses, screamed at employees and regularly picked fights and threw fits over things that were far beyond the individual's control. He was spoken to by administration twice in his first year about how he needed to treat staff better or he would be asked to leave. The behavior has continued and management has difficulty staffing his surgical cases because so many people refuse to work in his room.
I was assigned to work closely with him when he arrived and we worked amicably together for a few months. About 3-4 months in he abruptly decided he didn't want to work with me and complained that I "couldn't be trusted with patients" to our hospital's COO. He started making complaints that I was unreliable or unprofessional. For example, adding an emergency surgery to the schedule and not telling me, but later reporting me for not being there. Or, giving me instructions on what he wanted me to do for a patient, but then telling my manager he told me something different and I disobeyed him. I was interviewed by the COO about these complaints but I was not reprimanded. I continued to work with other physicians and he did not work with me. This went on for about a year.
One day the charge nurse of the OR called and said he asked if I could help with a case in the OR and I obliged. We gradually began working together more regularly and things seemed fine. We never directly addressed those previous complaints.
About a year ago I had abdominal surgery and when I returned to work I was limited to lifting no more than 10lbs for some time. I had FMLA coverage documented and filed for my light duty when I returned to work. I started hearing rumors that this physician was complaining that I was "lazy" and just trying to get out of doing work. When I was released by my doctor I returned to my full duties.
About 9 months ago he wrote a note in a patients medical record accusing me of "failing to escalate the patient's declining status to a physician" when I had seen her earlier in the week. (This was objectively false. She was stable when I saw her and I discussed her status with HER physician, which was not him.) He reported this to my supervisor. I was investigated and was found to have handled the situation appropriately.
The day after he wrote that note I received a narcotic prescription request from one of his patients. Given what he had written in that note and the uncertainty of the situation, I felt it was best to get his written confirmation before I filled it. I forwarded him the request with a note, "do you want to fill this?" A few hours later he came storming up to our front desk yelling about how I've been prescribing narcotics inappropriately and how I should never be allowed to treat his patients. Our 2 front desk receptionists reported this to me and to our office manager.
3 days later an employee was standing next to him while he told someone that I am a useless waste of space. He said our office would be better off without me and he won't stop until I'm fired. The employee reported this to HR.
A week or so later I was in my office when I heard him screaming in the hallway "She's incompetent and I stand by everything I said!" his supervisor asked him to step out of the hallway because "she's sitting right over there".
Soon after that I had a meeting with HR where they told me that he had been spoken to about this. He requested not to work with me anymore and they were going to honor that. I went on working with other physicians for the next 6 months.
Over the last six months I have had many people come up to me with comments like, "have you heard the s*** he's saying about you when you're not around?", comments that I'm lazy and I sit around and don't do anything. I've heard these reports from over a dozen people, from different departments, all at different times regarding different instances/comments.
Fast forward to now. I was approached to work with him again and I declined. We are a bigger practice now than we were back then. He now has 3 other people dedicated to supporting his practice and I alone support our two other physicians. For the last 3 weeks we've had many meetings with my supervisor, his supervisor and HR. He has admitted to writing that inappropriate note but claims someone else told him to do it; "he thinks I'm great" and can't wait to work with me again. HR tells me they have nothing to support any reason why I shouldn't be required to work with him. When I've asked "what about all these comments he makes about me all over the hospital?" they say that they asked him about it and he says he's never said those things. I've cited their own policies of "zero tolerance" for workplace violence (which includes bullying, conspiracy, verbal and physical aggression) and said that all I want is a safe work environment, and that working with him is not safe. I suggested that I will continue to work, as I have for the last 6 months, with the two other physicians which is more than enough work to fill a full time schedule.
So I was brought in last week and told that I'm on unpaid leave for a maximum of 60 days or until I agree to work with him. I would rather move on to another job than trust this man not to throw me under the bus AGAIN, but it is difficult to leave a job that I otherwise love and a team that I really enjoy working with. At the very least I feel the hospital should pay for my malpractice tail coverage when I leave, given that they are excusing his false documentation that leaves me open to lawsuit.
TLDR: Documented harassment for 4 years from a specific person, reported to superiors and HR. Said person has refused to work with me for the last 6 months. Now he wants my help. I'm put on unpaid leave because I refuse to help him.
I don't want "lawsuit" to come up whenever my name is searched for the rest of my career. Lawyers of reddit, are there any other options for me that don't involve a public lawsuit? Where do I start?

So, our visit to the vet didn't go very well at all. :(
A huge part of this was that I hadn't realized that Toccio was terrified of the streetcars that pass down the main street where the clinic is located. I live on a short, one way street that ends when it meets this main street, so you can hear the street cars passing. it's not very loud, and Toccio doesn't take any notice. We've also crossed the main street 4 or 5 times to get to less chaotic streets for our walks. While we wait to cross, the streetcars go by, and I hadn't noticed him reacting to them. But after a minute of actually walking down this street, his tail was right down, and I knew he was frightened. and my heart broke. (it's okay! i found a solution for next time)
It was only another minute or two before we arrived at the vet's. It's only a block away. And the waiting room was empty, so I was able to take him right in, and he was so glad to get away from the street. I immediately got him sitting on my lap and he was shaking. I felt awful! It's so awful to see your dog suffer! I pulled him close, and wrapped my arms around him .
The woman who was working in reception immediately led us into an exam room, with a quick stop on the scales on our way. (He's just shy of 10 LBs). She was soft-spoken, in her 20s, and gentle, and he showed no specific anxiety towards her.
When we got to the exam room and were alone, I kept Toccio on the lead so he could check it out. I sat on a chair and got him in my lap, but he was still anxious enough that he couldn't take a treat. So, I got down on the floor, and sat cross-legged. He LOVES it when I do this. He is the perfect size to just curl up in my lap. It's what he most wants when he's distressed.
We stayed like that as we waited, and he began to relax, although he still wasn't taking treats, and I'd brought cheese!!! :(
This is Toccio's treat hierarchy, in ascending order:

• his own kibble
• the actual, legit dog treats I got for him last week. They're small and a bit soft, but not very smelly
• cheese
• chicken

A nurse knocked softly on the door, came in, and joined us on the ground. Toccio showed no reactivity towards her. In fact, he let her take his temperature with the ear thermometer. I thought this was impressive, both for Toccio and the nurse. I was very proud of him.
I had asked both the nurse and the receptionist to please not knock when they entered the room. But either one or both of them continued to do so. I don't remember if they both did. I just remember that people kept knocking, softly, but still!
And then the doctor knocked (sigh), and came in. I don't know what it was about her, but she put both me and Toccio off from the get go. She had a high -pitched voice, and I've noticed that Toccio doesn't like high pitched noises- he's unsettled by the beep of the microwave, my coffee maker, and, oh ya, the beep of the door at the vets that would go off jusssst when he was getting a bit settled.
For me, I heard a strain in her voice. It was tight.
And although she saw me sitting on the floor with him, she approached him while she was standing, with her bright, chirpy tone.
Toccio lunged and snapped.
I thought, "well of course!" And just tried to stay calm for him., and accepting and loving towards him.
She suggested we put a muzzle on, and asked me to do it. I said ok. And he let me put it on, but he still lunged whenever the doc came near him.
So, she said, ok. we have two options. we could put him in a ... (I'm not sure exactly what she said, but it sounded like straight-jacket) and a cone so we could do a physical exam today, or we could reschedule, and give him some medication for you to administer before the next visit.
I said, "drugs, please!!!"
I would have been hesitant about that option had I not read the experiences you have shared about medication for your dogs.
She left for about 5 minutes, and during that time, my dear, sweet boy started to relax. He got off my lap and snuffled around again. He was very happy to eat the cheese I had brought, along with the 2nd tier dog treats I had also brought. He even ate the grey, thin treats the nurse had brought. They smelled like vegetables. Toccio has very little interest in vegetables.
The doc came back in and Toccio tensed right back up and gave her a stern barking. But settled again in my lap. She gave me Trazodone and Gabapentin, to be administered before the next visit. When I said I was familiar with these drugs being used for dogs cause of this group, she said, "Oh? You've done some research!" I don't know why people keep being surprised about that.
(I'm also on Trazodone myself, and it's my wonder drug!)
Before she left, she said, next time, bring some treats that he really likes. !!!
I was so tempted to say, well, I did, and he was happily munching away on them until YOU came back into the room. I just said that I did, and that next time I would bring chicken. (although honestly, when Toccio is in such an anxious state, I wonder if he would even be able to eat chicken.)
I then asked if there was a back entrance that we could use to leave, in part so that we would avoid dogs in the waiting room, but my main object was to help him get outta there without then being confronted with the terror of the streetcar. She said she'd need to check.
It was a-ok, and Toccio was so happy to be leaving. His tail was right up, and all of the people in the back office rooms said, "awwww!" as he raced by them. Once out back, we both just took a moment to chill and get our bearings. I realized that we were in part of the series of connecting alleys that run through a fair length of my neighbourhood, half a block north of the main street. These alleys take us all the way to the intersection we cross to walk the 200 ft to our home. I nearly wept in relief.
This isn't a vent, just a learning experience. But I am surprised and disappointed by how 2 of the 3 staff didn't seem to understand what would be triggering for a smallish, reactive dog, didn't heed my advice, and had clearly never considered the back entrance as a useful alternative entrance for reactive dogs. especially cause a lot of people in my neighbourhood don't drive- by choice- so don't have the car refuge.
I'm, of course, pissed off about the, "you should bring treats" comment. But that struck me as run of the mill doctor arrogance. I thought about requesting another doctor from this clinic, but I don't know if that could blow back on me. The clinic is highly rated by people in my neighbourhood. (I did my homework! ;) ) But I might post a general inquiry about the clinic in one of the neighbourhood community facebook groups.

• I also know that for our do-over visit: my lovely sweet pup won't arrive terrorized by streetcars, or triggered by dogs in the waiting room. cause we'll go there through the alley, and enter through the back door. I'll insist on this.
• I'll bring chicken. I'm keeping a bag of small sized bits of chicken in the freezer, so I will always have some on hand.
• and we'll be on drugs!!! lol. I'm really interested to see the effect on Toccio.

I will, of course, let you know how it goes!
But I also want to share with you that Toccio has learned the "leave it" command, and he chose to not react to 80% of the triggers on our walks today!!! This includes: dogs up ahead and on the other side of the street, passing women on our side of the street, AND passing tall men (a particular) trigger on our side of the street!!!
I'll go into more detail about this in a separate post, cause I find I'm using "leave it" for all sorts of situations.
I'm so proud of my dear little boy!

First Previous Wiki
"So," Izkrala said, facing down Phoebe with Juan and several other Alliance leaders at her side. Her physical size increased her intimidation factor, though Juan knew that Phoebe had no fear of them. That much had been made clear by her recent actions and her apparent nonchalance at being caught nearly starting wars the Alliance had no current capability to win.
"We must talk about what you have done."
"Yes, we must," Phoebe agreed. She didn't argue or even frown. In all aspects, she was the picture of serenity, as if this was something trivial. Like an anthill in the rainstorm. Her gaze passed over each of them, calculating and insightful. "I understand your viewpoints."
"Then explain your own, so we may scrutinize your reasons for endangering every living being within our shared nation," Juan said, notes of anger in his tone.
"It is simple. Penny was going to attack the flagship no matter what. So I aided her as best I could, so that I could do my best to keep her alive. Because without Penny, it is quite likely the national security of the Alliance would be highly threatened by Kashaunta's withdrawal of support. And notifying you of what I planned to do was too risky, because of the danger of Sprilnav spies in your organizations. Yes, we destroyed many of their bases. But that does not mean we have to become careless with the single greatest resource the Alliance has: Penny's life. For that is what was at stake here."
"And yet, Valisada managed to learn of your involvement," Juan said. "Do you see that as a failure on your part?"
"Infiltrating one of the highest of Sprilnav attack vessels, tearing through it, and coming out on top? No, I do not see that as a failure, even if they learned of my involvement afterward. What it proves is that we have the capability to debilitate them."
"But you do not have that capability," Izkrala said. "You and Penny do, as a team. And again, we cannot spend such a life frivolously. Given that Azeri was in charge of the 85th Grand Fleet, we can assume the Sprilnav have at least 84 others, each with different leaders, programs, and dangers involved. No matter how much they standardize, you would be foolish to think they could not adapt to us. Much grander nations than us have tried to defeat them. Risking the rousing of Sprilnav wrath for Penny was a decision you made, Phoebe.
Perhaps you believe it was logical. But the problem was, and the problem still is, that you committed an act of war against the most dangerous species in the galaxy without even a peep to any of us. That speaks volumes of how you see us, whether you have spoken those words directly or not. It says that you do not trust us, or that you no longer wish to consider our opinions.
In an Alliance, that sort of belligerence is exactly what gets people kicked out. And were you not who you are, Phoebe, you would be getting kicked out of the Alliance for this. You endangered billions of lives. And by not even discussing it, you told us a very clear message. It is that you think you can do whatever you want, without any consequences."
"I saved Penny's life, and therefore the Alliance. It was not a good decision. It was not an easy decision. But I would go back and do it again if I needed to. Because my goals are beyond your feelings, Empress. I wish to ensure that we win the Judgment, and with Nilnacrawla, Penny will not make any significant outbursts."
"So you blame Penny for your actions?"
"I do not. I blame myself. I do not ascribe either a negative or a positive blame, however. But Penny's emotional state was the reason I did what I did. She was close to snapping."
"It seems that she, too, is a liability," one of the Breyyanik from the DMO said.
"I'm sure if your father was kidnapped, you would have become a liability as well," Phoebe responded. "The fact of the matter is that Penny is too powerful for us to ignore, or properly punish. And if we bring her back to the Alliance and jail her, all our momentum disappears. And she can actually be physically contained, but only if she wishes."
"Yes, we are aware you cannot be jailed," Izkrala said. "We have already seen your demonstration that you are above the rule of law."
"That is not what this is," Phoebe said. "Would you rather that Penny is dead, and some Elder rolls up and blasts your empires apart? We lose that Judgment, and we lose Penny, we also lose Kashaunta, and the interest of the only powers still keeping us alive. This isn't some little fairytale. If we let them, the Sprilnav will kill us all. All that prophecy crap and conceptual power or whatever won't save us from a fleet of planet crackers rolling up on Earth."
"I request an apology for what you said."
"The truth, Empress Izkrala? What do you think Yasihaut would do if she was placed in an orphanage, whether human or Acuarfar? How many videos have we seen of Sprilnav androids landing by the billions along with soldiers they're 'training' while slaughtering entire species? And they publish those, without censorship. They show nukes dropping on medieval cities, or on space stations. They show crawling robots eating their way through toddlers' legs, and skulls being smashed on stairs covered with the ashes of dead cities.
The scale of devastation they can unleash is exactly why we must have teeth. We must be too inconvenient to attack, and we remain that way through Kashaunta. Not every invasion fleet will be like the Van family. Sooner or later, war will come for us. Will we be ready, or will we be clawing at each others' throats for saving the single asset we could possibly win it with?"
"And we count for nothing, then?" Juan asked.
"If I am being honest, yes," Phoebe said. "All of us, including me, count for nothing against even half the might of the Sprilnav that I've managed to confirm. 85 Grand Fleets, each with flagships the size of France, with more guns and shields than all of our total production so far combined. The only chance we have is to join with some of the Sprilnav. Kashaunta is the biggest break we are ever going to get.
Without the linear singularities Penny makes, she is gone, and soon, so are we. It will take decades for us to reach the production levels required to match the Sprilnav, even if we activate all of Aphid's planets and militarize every facet of our society. And yes, that is an accomplishment. Other nations would take millennia, or never get there at all.
But the whole of a galaxy, for billions of years, even if they're demilitarized and haven't produced any surplus besides occasional replacements, is not exactly something you catch up to quickly. And so we need to bite the bullet, make the hard choices, and do our best to retain Kashaunta as an ally. We must do that through any and all means necessary, whether it is giving Penny a back rub or breaking her father out of a flagship."
"And were we as gullible as you think we are, we might believe you," Fyuuleen said. "But while your argument is incredibly logical, and I even support the majority of it, you refuse to address the problem with not contacting us before such a major action. Asking you not to do this again is not enough, because we all know you will, in the interest of 'security' or whatever. So tell us, Phoebe. How will you personally compensate us for this lapse, and ensure that this does not happen again? What precisely will you change about how you conduct operations in Sprilnav space, especially around Justicar?"
"Establishing a line to a network where you all can receive updates is a possibility."
"Updates as infrequent as you would desire are not sufficient," Juan said. "We will be kept fully in the loop."
"Then I will keep you in it."
"That is not enough. We will be making decisions, which you will carry out as a show of good faith," Izkrala said. "Since you're a citizen of the Alliance, surely you can agree to this as well."
"It depends. I will not be paralyzed because of your offended feelings. If an action needs to be done, and you are too slow to decide, I will decide for you," Phoebe said.
"You will not," Izkrala replied. "Because you did that here, and nearly cost us everything. We will be making the decisions from here on out. And you will listen."
"It is my android, and my quantum link," Phoebe said. "If you don't like how I do this, then make your own connection, and talk with Kashaunta through your own hotlines to get established with Penny. I can cede some of my sovereignty around this as a show of good faith. But not all of it. I can consider things you cannot, and can anticipate outcomes that you cannot."
"You could claim to be a billion times smarter than us, and it won't matter," Izkrala said. "Because then, you could have foreseen this problem, decided to ignore it, and continued on with starting your war. It is not you that is the problem, Phoebe. It is your lack of willingness to inform us of actions that are this important. If you are not ready to have a mature conversation about this, and let your narcissism get in the way of honestly considering the problem here, then we will wait happily until your balls drop or whatever you people do when you mature, and you get with the program.
In the Alliance, we are all equal. This also means that two leaders in the Alliance can overrule one. There are more than two here who disagree with you, and few I see who agree. If you do not like this arrangement, then perhaps you are not so smart, considering that you joined the Alliance twice, once as a nation and once as yourself. It does not matter who you are. No preferential treatment. If I can share my power with leaders who rule a hundredth of my Empires' population, you can share your power with the people elected by the people you have vowed to listen to and protect, Phoebe."
"Perhaps you would not wish to talk about elections, Izkrala."
The large Acuarfar grinned. "Resorting to petty insults, then? What if I told you that I could easily win any nationwide election I held in my territory?"
"I'd believe you, because of the decades of social engineering you have done. However, your status as a non-elected monarch does not matter in this case, either. We are all equals anyway. And since I understand your anger, then I am willing to set up a few connections for you all to share with each other; that way we can be equal. Penny herself can decide who she listens to, just like before. Please recognize the wisdom in this compromise.
"I agree to it," Juan replied. "But there still must be consequences for what has transpired. You will sell 50% of your assets, and pay the money you received from that in subsidies split by population to each Alliance nation. We will audit everything, so you will not cheat or lie."
Phoebe nodded. "It is somewhat harsh and arbitrary but an understandable price to pay. For that it is worth, I apologize for my refusal to contact you. But know that your decision later on might mean the different between life and death for Penny if you end up leaking information to the Sprilnav accidentally."
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Juamplo looked out the window, seeing the gigantic plumes of smoke rising from the burning city below him. His transport had rerouted to a new landing pad, at the 104th Visitor Welcome Office. The guards Valisada had sent with him also were clearly disturbed, and one of them even seemed to be trembling at the sight of so much death.
Here and there, scattered skyscrapers littered the ground. Their massive frames had made them easy to topple from below, and the Grand Fleet's attacks had destroyed their foundations utterly. Juamplo could see the massive outlines of the craters in the debris, which was still half-molten. Twisted cages of metal, concrete, and alloy reached up like the claws of the damned, glowing in the unholy red light of their surroundings.
The ash-choked sky was only inside the pocket of shields that had been destroyed. Other city shields had completely closed off the area from non-essential personnel. Sprilnav teams wearing hazard suits wandered amongst the remains. Broken girders and frames, thicker than their entire bodies, stuck out of the rubble at irregular intervals, occasionally puffing out gouts of steam or smoke. Flying medical ships and magnetic collectors hovered over the large wrecks, lifting debris and carting it off. Sometimes, pieces of corpses fell from shattered windows when they were lifted, impacting the ground so far below.
Large sections had also caved in entirely, falling deep into the Underground. Juamplo saw many Sprilnav crowds being held back by shields Justicar had set up at the tunnel, and subway exits. Far overhead, cargo ships waited in orbit for hauled remnants of the Grand Fleet's ships to be pulled off the planetary shields.
They were being tossed back into orbit, where the Justicar World News Network was claiming that they would be reprocessed and their components sold as compensation. Interim Fleet Commander Valisada had issued a statement proclaiming his sorrow for the event and highlighting the presence of rogue agents in his fleet he was cracking down upon. He didn't seem to think that he was at fault directly, though he'd contributed half the amount Justicar was asking for to the fund himself.
It was a massive expenditure for a single Elder, and Juamplo respected Valisada greatly for it. His implant honed in on a figure amongst the rubble but with only two legs instead of four. In a large circle around where she walked, the smoke and steam disappeared entirely, and the glowing red rubble faded quickly to dull greys, blacks, and whites. Ash fell on her grey hair, her soft hands, and her alien face.
Penny was part of the clean-up crew. Hundreds of Sprilnav floated in the air above her, with medical shuttles flying in and out of the airspace above them to pluck patients from where they floated. Blankets of psychic energy emanated from her, covering the injured Sprilnav with healing energy as they floated.
Another few hundred, perhaps up to a thousand, suddenly appeared above Penny again. The new group was immediately tended to by medics, and within moments, the sky above her filled up again. Penny was teleporting people out of the rubble, it seemed. And then Juamplo's view of her faded behind the skyline of the city. The place he landed was still far outside the actual zone of destruction since that airspace was closed. His shuttle was the only one landing on the entire cargo pad, which was an eerie thing for such a large transportation hub.
The blue shields and even a few yellow ones glowed in the night sky. The smoke plumes were still visible between the skyscrapers now, but at the street level, they were harder to see without looking directly up. They stepped onto the landing pad gingerly. Juamplo took a large breath of the air, feeling the wrongness in the lack of ash and smoke within. The shields must have been set to a total seal, then.
And beyond lay the worst destruction he'd ever seen in civilized territory—a terrible graveyard that his own fleet had produced at the behest of one rogue captain. What could Valisada do against people like that, who merely existed to prevent him from being seen as competent? Why had the Elder not deigned to commit that ruinous act under Azeri so he could take the blame instead?
Perhaps Valisada was so disruptive that whoever was against him was trying to get him ousted. Juamplo could see it happening; politics like this weren't exactly rare among higher Elder society. Plots were always simmering in the background, both above and below. Perhaps literally below, on this particular planet.
"We must move," he said. "Valisada demands it of us. May the Everlasting give us his blessing."
And so they began their walk. They skipped the restaurant that popped up beside the walkway, and Juamplo showed a token he'd gotten from a soldier on behalf of Valisada when he'd left the flagship. His shoes clanked loudly as he crossed the threshold of the Visitor Welcome Office. The row of receptionists looked up as one as if to dare him to choose any of them over the others. Juamplo merely walked forward, and thus, he found one that suited his needs.
"Welcome to the 104th Visitor Welcome Office," they said. "Do you wish for a Guide to accompany you on your travels, or to rent a room?"
"I wish to board the monorail to the 107th Visitor Welcome Office."
"The 107th? Is there any particular reason?"
"I have an appointment."
"There are no appointments listed on file underneath your name, Officer Juamplo."
"Because I am going there to arrange one."
"You mean you are hoping to take a peek at the human while the streets are empty, so you can cut in the line."
"No," Juamplo replied, frowning at the receptionist's disdainful tone. "And frankly, your rudeness is uncalled for."
"It is not, considering the number of assassins we have located and caught attempting to get to the Welcome Office over there using this very location. You aren't the first, and won't be the last."
"Do you really believe I'm an assassin?" Juamplo asked. "With such weak weapons, and a token from Valisada himself?"
"Unless the Everlasting personally comes in here and vouches for you, you're not getting past the first security scanner, much less to the actual monorail, and especially not during the lockdown. You pay a bribe, we arrest you. You sit here and wait, we will not. You leave, we also will not, and merely file a report instead. This is how things are."
"You seem awfully sure of your position, receptionist."
"You could put a bullet in my head and I'll be back to work in five kilopulses. You can't kill me in a way that matters. Justicar just took care of that. And no, I will not be fired from my post for telling you this in this tone, even if Valisada personally files a complaint. We are well within our rights to refuse service to anyone under any circumstances, and those rights only expand during lockdowns. There is no one going into the hot zone, and no one going out."
Juamplo moved over to the next receptionist, jumping over the line marker in the process.
"Get me over there, then. I am on a mission."
"Then tell your commander you have met an unexpected delay."
Juamplo sighed, glaring at the man with all his might. The Sprilnav looked down again, focusing on some digital project. Juamplo didn't throw a tantrum. Instead, he merely waited, thinking about what he would do.
"Convey the nature of our problem to the Grand Fleet Commander," Juamplo told one of his guards. They nodded, their eyes unfocused in the token sign of implant interactions. When that was finished, Juamplo walked back outside and ate at the restaurant. The food was acceptable.
And then he got his response. He and his guards went back into the shuttle. They flew up into the sky and dove low into the cargo unloading areas. They passed rows and rows of stopped ships, cargo containers, and abandoned equipment. Instead of hundreds of thousands of workers, Juamplo saw a scant few hundred.
The shuttle entered stealth mode as it approached a blue field. Small electron radiators and strange matter generators flared to life simultaneously. And so it was that Juamplo and the shuttle impacted the shield.
They passed straight through without causing even so much as a ripple of resistance or interference. The ship became visible once again, with ash and smoke falling like rain upon it. The air became punctuated with screams, tearing metal, and collapsing buildings. Smoke swirled around them. But Juamplo was more than ready to seek out the object of his concern. He didn't know what he'd do when he found her, but find her, he would.
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Nichole Brey left the conference with a neutral expression. The DMO demonstrated some new robotics products, one of which claimed to be capable of using true nanite technology on a mass scale. While she wasn't directly familiar with the regulations regarding that, she figured there was a caveat that they hadn't mentioned. Likely power, really. That was the biggest problem for the Alliance.
Dyson technology meant that getting the power itself wasn't the issue. It was transport. There was only so much electricity that could get through a power cable. She turned her attention to the mindscape, using the exoskeleton she'd bought recently to do her walking for her. Many people said it was supreme laziness, but it wasn't like exercise was strictly required now that the hivemind existed. And with her age, that was a good thing. Sometimes, a woman needed to have time for herself, letting her legs walk for her while she took the time to think.
The Sevvi's companies had been quite helpful regarding personal conveniences. Many of them remained and were now in close partnership with the Breyyanik counterparts, the previous best in cybernetics. And generally, the pace of advancement and production quality continued to advance. With Phoebe's direct subsidies, the plague of planned obsolescence was almost dead as a business. Not to mention all the laws Nichole herself had passed when she'd been Council Director. And with so much of the Sol system under Luna's direct jurisdiction, the Breyyanik had followed the laws diligently.
The Blood Bond had been marvelous for Humanity, and Nichole was glad she'd been able to participate in it. Even now, flares of perception from Brey hovered at the edge of her consciousness from the mind bridge.
"So," Skira said. "How did it go?"
The drone, wearing a ridiculous-looking tuxedo, was walking beside her as part of her guard detail. He was accompanied by a few of her human guards, as well as two of Phoebe's commando androids, currently in stealth mode. Since Nichole was directly mentally linked with Brey and a former leader, she would always be a target of the Sprilnav. It was simply a bad idea for her not to take precautions, and the Alliance certainly agreed.
"Well, enough. It could work if you supplement some of your new drone variants with them, but only if you account for the swing in their steps with additional reinforcements near the chest. Did you read up on that fantasy game I told you for ideas?"
"I did," Skira said. "Though a few humans have tried to get me into it, as well. And I suppose I do fit the bill of a 'hive organism capable of mustering endless numbers' a bit."
"A bit?" Nichole asked.
"Well, I'm technically a gigantic plant, not an inherently carnivorous ecosystem. That wouldn't really work with my entire planet if I was. What's the point of having drones if they just eat each other while they're alive?"
"I suppose that is a fair point. But the armor?"
"We already integrate alloys into the current iteration of elite drones," Skira said. "The Quadrants have set up a fully automated surgery line for it, even. That way, the damaged plates can be swapped quickly, and new elites do not have to be stunted or sidelined for very long. Efficiency is very important for someone like me."
"I'm sure," Nichole said. "And I suppose now is a good time to ask. Have you thought about buying my niece a ring?"
"Tanya's mostly recovered now, but we haven't discussed a full marriage yet. I was taught many... conflicting ideas about it, and I have an unpleasant history with such commitments. I do like the limbo the current relationship with her is in. Has she brought concerns to you saying she feels otherwise?"
Skira definitely would fit with Tanya well. They got along great together, and they clearly loved and trusted each other. Nichole felt a pang of sadness at the knowledge that it was too late for her to experience anything like that, but she quickly suppressed it.
In her head, Brey said, "You know, you could always put out a video saying you're single and looking to mingle."
"Absolutely not," Nichole said.
"Than quit complaining about being single, if you are not, in fact, looking to mingle."
"That's fair. Where did you even learn that phrase?"
"The internet of course," Brey said. "I find its contents amusing, and quite enjoy the arguments your species engages in."
Skira was still waiting.
"Sorry," Nichole apologized. "I was talking with Brey. And no, she hasn't directly done this, but my intuition tells me she is feeling a bit impatient. You can always discuss it more with her, however. I won't get in the way of healthy discussion in your relationship, especially if you mean for it to last."
"I do," Skira said. "I do not just throw people away at my earliest convenience. That has happened to me, so... I can't even contemplate doing that in any ethical way."
Nichole smiled. He really was childlike sometimes. Though he was obviously old enough to date and marry, there were still pockets of oddness and social quirks to him that made him more likable and made her protective instinct burn. She suspected that Tanya might have been drawn to those first and then gradually fallen in love with him later on. Both of them were far above age and capable of acting like adults and handling their business as they saw fit. Nichole did not need to micromanage them, nor would she, even if a small part of her yearned for control.
She recognized that part of herself but kept it down as she always had. Whether as a private citizen or as the Council Leader, Nichole had always done her best not to get in the way of the greater good when it presented itself. It was why she still had her connections after all these years and why Juan and the rest of the prospective candidates for Councilors and Council Leader came to her when they needed an unbiased perspective. Of course, Cartoro filled that niche, too, when he wasn't on some pleasure cruise in the Caribbean Sea.
"And that is good that you can understand your perspective, and the reasons for it," Nichole said. "But it will make things difficult, if Phoebe is unable to crack immortality."
"Yes," Skira said. "If not, everyone I love dies. The same if Penny screws up anymore in the Sprilnav territory. I don't know if you have contact with her, but maybe she needs another human female perspective."
"Perhaps she does," Nichole agreed. "She is rather reckless. But so can anyone be. Izkrala told me she believes she helped to fix up Penny a bit, but if that problem remains, I may get involved too. But we can't really do much of this mothering from here. If not because of her age, then because of her distance, or because she is more powerful than the Alliance all put together now."
"I doubt that," Skira said.
"Once a politician, always a politician," Nichole said. "Power means many things, and just one thing. She has the direct ear of Kashaunta and Justicar, and likely Lecalicus as well. Three Elders, with one of them being a Progenitor. That is more power than any alien has ever wielded since the dawn of Humanity."
"And she is squandering it."
"By running around, freeing slaves, and engaging in frivolous battles with Yasihaut? Maybe. But I doubt that she will manage to drive Kashaunta away with actions alone. No matter what that Elder says or does, she is slippery beyond belief. Her secrets have secrets, and her every move is likely calculated to elicit a certain response or reaction. She does much as I once did during my time in the Council. A master of the craft."
"And Justicar?"
"We know too little about him," Nichole said. "And it will likely remain that way, if he keeps Phoebe shut out of his networks."
"At the end of the day, we shall see."
"We shall," Nichole agreed. "But I have faith in her. My life depends on her, so I would say that it isn't misguided."
"Tanya's life depends on her, too. And her every move could be the difference between a Sprilnav coming down to stick a sword through her head, or not."
"You assume we would let that happen."
"The Alliance is too pacifist to do otherwise, and its entire image is built upon that, meaning you are locked into acting in such a way if you do not want to look desperate."
"In a war of extinction, everyone is desperate," Nichole replied. "But we are not simply going to lie down and take it."
"You do not have enough planet crackers to breach Sprilnav defenses," Skira said.
"We do not. Not yet. But thanks to the actions of Penny and Phoebe, we have seen the Grand Fleets in action, and can prepare more properly for their weapons to be turned on our worlds."
"So this is all orchestrated?"
"There is no single coordinator," Nichole said. "Many in my alignment wish for Penny to stir them up into a full civil war. Many in Earth's alignment want her to bend the knee until the Judgment ends, then come back home to be either praised or punished, despite the foolishness of that. But the chaos Penny has generated there is actually to the Alliance's benefit more than its detriment for now, since Kashaunta succeeded."
"Succeeded?"
"By proclaiming her will to put a Grand Fleet under our dominion, making them force Elder Azeri out before they could realize what it would mean for them when his replacement arrived."
"So the new Grand Fleet Commander will be better for us?"
"Yes," Nichole grinned. "Because Valisada is an idealist. We have a profile on him. He wants to build a better society for the Sprilnav, and so we can use that against him."
"He won't see through it?"
"He will see through the first layer, and miss the second. We have plans in place, as does Kashaunta, to ensure that Valisada's efforts do exactly what he truly wants them to do. And in the end, he will walk into our trap. He cares too much about his soldiers, and will be more swayed by his emotions during command. He will be less prone to outbursts like Azeri, more conservative in his battle tactics, and more willing to converse when he should not. In the battlefield of the void, the biggest gun rules. But in the war of the pens on the papers, the smartest mind rules. And Humanity has two AIs and a hivemind."
"And if he is playing you?"
"If he can think that far ahead, it would be impressive, but we have plans in place for that as well. The thing with Kashaunta is that she is a politician, too. The backroom deals and lobbying are well-practiced parts of her power. Those which are not as well known will serve us as well. Kashaunta wants to keep us away from other Elders with her level of power. In that vein, we can influence her actions, too."
"But Penny is not privy to all of this."
"Phoebe is. Why do you think we sent her? We will not just force Valisada's moves when we must, but also those of Justicar and Kashaunta. Though I can't say this is all some single master plan. We've been tweaking them as things have happened, and in recent months, there's been a lot of late night meetings. Phoebe was mostly in control, but now it's back to a more decentralized state, with factions and parties again. But we're still doing our best."
Skira paused, considering her words. His feline face grew passive. "It seems you have your work cut out for you, then."
"As do you, my friend. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you and Tanya are together."

Secure attachment concept is like lighthouse in the fog. It is GPS system that tells us where the True North lies. In real life - due to trauma, due to toxic people and toxic system - we won't be able to create secure attachment ambient for ourselves to be at 100 percent level. This is because other people are outside ourselves - we don't choose people who walk randomly in the street and who may choose to cheat us, attack or worse - and this applies to our work environment, customers, any kind of contact that we need to make due to any reason - other people may as well be pathological liars and have their own fake mask for psychopathic reasons of having their secret agenda. This is unknown to us - and we basically can never feel secure around other people. This way - social anxiety cannot be cured - because problem does not lie inside our "wrong" thoughts - the problem lies in outside world which we neither can control nor sanction. The greatest minds of psychiatry and sociology cannot help nor cure narcissism or psychopathy - so how can we expect to cure or fix anyone with our good examples how good person should be like.
Due to trauma, whenever we get into contact with dangerous person - who is harmful and abusive - mentally or physically - we will have trauma response. If the person is extremely dangerous - and we cannot run away - then obvious solution is to wear fake social mask of being pleasant and nice and to smile and to fawn and to be obedient - especially if they threaten to harm the third person or anyone else at any other time. In all other cases - it would be wise to drop off this fake mask - since keeping it on, keeping smiling to toxic people and being obedient to them will cost us both mentally and financially. The cost is too great. It is important that we do no observe our Rejection Sensitivity as personality flaw and some kind of abnormality that we must mask and hide and be embarrassed about and that we must hide it and cover it up. That is masking. If we struggle with social anxiety - it is a sign that we went through trauma - and it wasn't our fault, so the labels that we are cowards and weak and worthless -- are toxic labels, usually placed on us by toxic people who project their own insecurities onto us. When we struggle with social anxiety - one important lesson that CBT never taught us - is that we do not feel bad about feeling social anxiety in the first place - since official medical response to social anxiety is the message of shame and embarrassment - as if social anxiety is something that we must mask and hide and cover up. We do not need to declare that we feel social anxiety - especially not to toxic people who will gladly exploit any personal voluntary information given to them - but it would be wrong to feel ashamed for experiencing social anxiety and hiding it from ourselves.
Secure attachment means acceptance and validation - and we do not need to seek this from other people. We need this acceptance and validation from ourselves - so that we do not go along with our inner critic and beat ourselves down for feeling social anxiety symptoms. From my own experience - this is easier said than done. When we feel fear, panic, overstimulation, when we experience some kind of embarrassment, shame, error, mistake, flaw, imperfection - our inner critic will be strong and tyranny of shoulds will be too hard to bare. It will be very hard to feel compassion and validation towards ourselves and it will be almost impossible to accept social anxiety. The shame and guilt and self blame will be too strong, accompanied with feeling of impending doom and catastrophe. This is where education about narcissistic abuse can help us to at least understand where this unfair judgmental feelings and negative emotions come from:
Narcissists and narc parents are rejectors, not accepters. They are always out to reject because they can't accept you, because that will create difficulties with shame within them. And they can't handle that. So they must be superior, they must be in control. And so they will not accept you. They will reject you because they cannot accept other people just the way they are. 🟥 The shocking truth about your abandonment issues https://www.youtube.com/shorts/ts_8i92bC1g
The opposite of secure attachment is toxic ambient of constant criticism and finding faults and scapegoat to blame about. Constant nagging. Constant complaints - it is sick and tiring and it is illness. Finding faults and making drama about it. I guess that someone with social anxiety who never sought psychological help or psychological explanation - may easily turn and morph into a narcissistic person - predatory type of borderline personality disorder - where shame is now externalized and where the deep feeling of shame is being projected onto narcissistic supply: scared people who are around such person, traumatized shocked people who must be obedient to such tyrant. I see social anxiety as initiation into evil. Our people pleasing and fawning - as much as it is harmful and annoying - is protecting us from becoming oppressive passive aggressive monster who complains all the time and abuse other people around. Without social anxiety trauma - we would become impulsive borderlines. Instead - with social anxiety trauma we are stuck in Quiet BPD subtype:
People with quiet BPD may: - Generally feel unsafe in the world - Feel empty and numb most of the time - Feel frequent shame and guilt - Project an image that appears "normal," calm, and successful - Believe that there is something defective about them - Have a great need for control - At times feel "surreal," as though in a movie or a dream - Look calm on the outside even when they're struggling intensely on the inside - Have extreme mood swings that are sudden and unexpected - Hide their anger, sometimes to the point they don't recognize when they're angry - Blame themselves for things even when they're not at fault - Immediately assume they did something wrong when relationships end or when conflicts arise - Dissociate and mentally retreat when stressed - Withdraw and possibly end a relationship when someone upsets them instead of discussing the situation - Feel that they are a burden on others - "People please," even when it's detrimental to themselves - Fear being alone but push people away - Idealize other people at first, but quickly lose trust in them - Experience "splitting" behavior" (black-and-white thinking or swinging from one extreme to another, with little provocation) (verywellhealth)
Characteristics of Quiet BPD - Becoming suddenly quiet and withdrawn - Failing to return phone calls and texts or to follow through on plans - Saying that "everything is fine" even when stress is high - Feeling that any strong emotional expression is wrong and should cause shame and guilt - Extreme people-pleasing - Saying that nothing matters - Engaging in a string of intense and unhealthy relationships - Constantly feeling that they are not good enough for another person, even when the person is not very desirable (choosing therapy)
So when CBT tells us to expose in order to cure social anxiety - CBT does not tell us that exposure will make us more traumatized - and if we choose to express ourselves fully - that there is danger of becoming full borderline difficult person who is abusing and manipulating and controlling others.
Secure attachment means expressing ourselves - and this can easily turn into unsuccessful interactions which Glasser described - such as relentless unproductive criticism. From my own experience, I was convinced that I have no anger or hatred and I was pretty proud of my peaceful supposedly empathic nature - until I learned about trauma. I was surprised to discover that I actually have a lot of grudge and rancour buried inside me and as I learned not to self-censor myself, this flood of anger and rage started to pop up from me - that I previously firewalled with people pleasing and fawning. The chances are that socially anxious people will exhibit toxic behavior once they remove people pleasing and fawning strategies. Perhaps that is the road that we must pass, something that "normal" children passed in their teen years - kids who were not obstructed by social anxiety and bullying. They had stage and phase where they expressed their dark shadow and have learned in social interaction how to express themselves authentically without being hysterical and abusive. In ACE and ACoA we learned that our feelings and emotions and needs are unimportant and stupid - and that our only way to have social interaction is to be codependent and to fix and attend to other people's problems and their needs.
In real life - narcissists, predators, parasites, psychopaths - will grab and lie into power positions - in order to have unlimited narcissistic supply - other people to criticize and abuse, from the position of power. In patriarchy - their rage and anger will be rationalized as competence and macho behavior - while in reality - it is mental illness, personality disorder. Constant criticism is sickness - it is not healthy. While it is true that being resilient and not being triggered is mental health - the truth is- that once we were exposed to narcissists and predators and parasites - we know too much. This is not mental illness - it is mentally healthy to be aware of reality and to live in reality. The problem is that sometimes reality is twisted and wrong and corrupt. It is important with social anxiety to be aware that other people will trigger us and throw us off balance - their shaming, their fault finding and being accused of - we will be triggered - not because we are sick, but because we know that toxic people are dangerous and they are criminally insane. It is important to know this distinction - that our supposed panic attack is not personality disorder or cognitive distortion as CBT quickly labels it - but instead it is overstimulation to the real threat. It is important that we do not ashame ourselves for feeling overstimulation and feeling worthless for feeling reactions to abnormal people. Toxic people are pathological liars - they wear fake mask, they will appear as competent and strong - but this is only a facade to appear grand in the eyes of others - and they feed on other people's admiration. Toxic people are manipulative and they will hide their psychopathy by appearing charming in the eyes of most people - and hence we will be easily scapegoated once we are punished for being truthful and objective and when we state facts - which toxic people hate - since they live in fantasy and lies. And other people won't believe us - due to fear of being attacked themselves and because they have never seen the true face of predators, only their charming fake side.
Secure attachment would mean that we immediately block toxic people without grudge or reaction-formation - and this way we will prove ourselves, our deep traumatized parts that we take care of ourselves and that we can protect ourselves from the danger - and this self trust will help us curb social anxiety. If we develop grudge against toxic people - we make them important and we end up thinking about them. This is why I prefer Humanistic psychology over CBT. Humanistic therapies are focused more on our Self and our goals and what we want from life - rather than CBT's focus on troubles, problems and what needs to be fixed and monitored and protected from all the time. When we shift focus on our goals and our values and desires and wants and needs - we become busy with things that bring joy to us and sense of purpose and that is why it is important to stay in healthy environment with opportunities where our attention is not being high-jacked by drama producers and hysterics who find faults in anything that moves around. When we free up our mind from masking and trying to please other people - we will start to find something that we find important to us - which we haven't allowed ourselves to admit due to fear of criticism - and this way we will find our mind being occupied with being busy with thinking and resolving and discovering things we like - rather than worrying about worrying what someone thinks about us. Even more so, Leonardo da Vinci grew up in limited and unfair environment, he was ostracized as unwanted child - yet he turned his restrictions and limitations into his own usage. Anatomy was not studied in his time by scholars - it was scrutinized as unholy unsocial activity - yet his work stems from learning about anatomy. He simply turned what was not socially popular or conforming into his advantage. We can find ways how to make our disadvantages into our advantages - as soon as we drop off groupthink and herd mentality.
For example - social anxiety is fear of criticism. However it is exactly the criticism and feedback that can help us improve and become successful in anything that we are criticized about. Perfectionism is bad when we feel bad for not achieving it - the idealized form - however the path and journey to being perfect is another thing - where our sense of worth is not tied to being perfect.
Secure attachment reminds us to be frank. With social anxiety -due to trauma - we will have issues of confronting the wrongdoers and pathological liars and toxic people. We will tend to rationalize and normalize their abusive behavior. We won't talk about it and try to hide it and have compulsion to fix someone else's problems and feel obligation to fix their problems and feel guilty for them having any kind of problems - which is direct by product of ACoA.
Many of the traits of the ACoA are similar to those commonly seen in personality disorders. 🟥Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACOA ) Traits and Treatment Doc Snipes https://youtube.com/watch?v=GAIqOYsTtt8
With social anxiety trauma we will feel shame for someone's shameful actions and this is something that we won't be able to shake off through logic nor discipline. This part is the disorder - feeling responsibility and obligation and duty to feel bad and worthless for toxic people being toxic and abusive. I could not find any fix or solution to this problem of feeling shame for someone behaving anti-socially. The only resolution I found is education - about the laser sharp issues that are related to this disorder and it is about learning the concepts related to it, and I often write these on my social anxiety comments over on you tube topic related to social anxiety;
These are all interchangeable:
RSD (Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria) = Social anxiety = Emotional Dysregulation = Complex Trauma = Toxic shame = After-effects of ACoA & ACE = After-effects of narcissistic abuse, emotional abuse, psychological abuse, mental abuse = Hypervigilance/hypovigilance = PureOCD = Unfavorable power dynamics = Trauma response = Trauma bonding = Neurodivergence = Spectrum, not binary thinking = Amygdala hijacking = Trauma triggers and flashbacks = being criticized for something you can't control = having high moral and ethical standards and enforcing them = someone random complains about our errors when we done superhuman efforts to avoid ALL mistakes which 98.5% percent of people never invest neither physically nor mentally = toxic person complaining and expecting us to know something for the first time without mistakes = Perfectionism = Protesting: someone toxic complaining without fair assessment and basing their protest on bias and prejudice and oversimplification = Protesting: trauma panic symptoms related in an attempt to express OUR OWN judgement and negative evaluation and holding criminals narcissists accountable for their crimes and hidden selfish agenda of exploiting others = Not conforming = Conforming (fawning) to unreasonable standards and neurotypical norms = Conforming to narcissistic abuser and psychopath who would punish us if we don't conform to their Coercive control, hidden agenda and manipulation and pathological lying = Being authentic true speaking the truth to fake people and toxic people who have hidden covert agenda to exploit others = being Agreeable (Big 5 personality trait) = being Open (Big 5 personality trait) = Being Neurotic (Big 5 personality trait) = being healthy, friendly and open to life and people = Attachment issues = Codependency = Listening to our gut feeling = Quiet BPD (PureBPD) = BPD Splitting = Inner critic = Imposter syndrome = Being exposed to Operant Conditioning of Negative reinforcement (rejection, cold shoulder) = Being exposed to Negative reinforcement Breadcrumbs hoping positive reinforcement will come instead = doing the best we can to avoid and mitigate negative reinforcement = Avoidance = Victim of false accusation and slander (overt or covert) = overcompensation and masking and making trauma and or abuse to be functional = being wounded and reacting to someone future faking our voids being fulfilled to hook us up to their lies = Self-referential thinking = identity being rooted in "I am not enough" instead of "I am enough" = Narcissistic Mortification = Sensory overload = Autistic shutdown = Pathological Demand Avoidance
​
"People expect the quiet one to adapt to the loud people but not the other way around"
With social anxiety trauma - we will also have attachment styles issues as well. They go hand in hand. We will form solid trauma bonding Stockholm syndrome relationships with toxic people. Toxic people will charm us with either pretending to be victim whom we need to fix, or through them appearing "strong" and "competent" - who are able to seemingly without fear do things socially that mortify us - so they will appear as godlike from our perspective. This is especially true if we never investigated or learned about narcissistic abuse. Without education - we will be easy target to manipulate and to control. Toxic people will easily ashame us and freeze us into zombie state - who is obedient to their commands.
When we encounter toxic abusive people - we will naturally worry about them and overthink and overanalyze them and we will end up in analysis paralysis state - where they easily can control us by simply shaming us around and screaming at us and our faults and nitpicking our errors.
The devastation does not stop with Stockholm Syndrome of codependency. We will also break ties with healthy and sane people. And then we will end up alone and lonely - since we won't invest into healthy relationship while toxic people will keep us in zombie state of codependency. The pattern of codependency can be broken by us not being silent anymore. When we naturally state the facts and what is bothering us - we will break the trauma bonding - since narcissists and predators seek total obedience. Any kind of criticism and what they perceive as criticism is harmful to them. When we state the facts and when we are honest and authentic - which is secure attachment behavior - we will appear toxic in the toxic people's eyes. We will appear as complainers and boring and annoying to them - because they live in fantasy and reality feels painful to them. When we stay silent to obvious injustice and abuse - we are rationalizing their crime and we pretend that there is none there. The only cure for abusive toxic relationships is honesty and open uncensored talking and discussion and negotiation. Toxic people cannot stand this. It will feel repulsive to them - and they will go away on their own - and some of them may become violent - so caution is needed. I guess we will be able to see when someone is anti-social and criminally insane. Femicide statistics occur when the wives start to speak the truth and when they try to break away from toxic partner. I guess that criminally insane predators know very well that 99,99% of people will never find them as desirable partners - and that they will be alone for the rest of their lives, so they have nothing to lose. Growing up in invalidating toxic ambient makes us susceptible to find similar toxic, criminally insane partners in our adult lives.
Cutting toxic people will not be neither easy nor quick process and we will need to be patient and careful how to cut off predators and toxic people and criminally insane people from our lives in safe manner.
I say in the broken heart marketplace – give a broken heart 6 weeks to eight weeks, maybe even three months, they'll always going to resolve, but the feeling crazy part that doesn't go away until somebody gives you a blueprint, a map – a way to kind of navigate out of the mess. 🟥 Strategies Narcissists Use To Minimize Your Self Trust, featuring Dr. Ramani Durvasula
I believe while growing up - we never learned this life lesson: to have chance to experience what happens when we are honest with all people. We end up believing that honesty is equal to being harmful to them and that they will become hysterical and dangerous if we are being honest to them.
I like this comment from YT about toxic people:
"They always always always have to find SOMETHING wrong with you. Flaws about yourself that you never knew existed all for their own benefit. It’s sick." YT sugarandspice2136
One of the essential ingredients to gaslighting –it is predicated on trust or connection or attachment. We want to be close to gaslighter. It's the only way it can work. Because if a stranger gaslighted me or someone I don't care about, I'm like leave me alone, get the hell away from me. I could take that stance. But if it's someone I love or care about I'm not going to be that dismissive. I trust them so there will be plausibility to what they say. 🟥 Surviving Narcissism https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p9DyAeeST5Q
With social anxiety trauma - CBT does not talk about this that I often mention on my social anxiety writings - is that meaning is important. The construct. The explanation. To know what is happening and why it is happening. This is destroyed each time we experience narcissistic abuse - with triggers and criticism. This is why social anxiety is not our fault. We can feel safe, good, we can be in Ventral Vagal space of emotional regulation - but encountering toxic person - and all this crash down like card deck, stack of cards, and we need to rebuild our sense of security and meaning in life over and over again, like a phoenix, we rise from ashes and fire - with practically any social interaction with unknown and potentially harmful draining people around us.
I reassure the other person that I like them, look I'm finding you funny, because I know how stressful social situations can be and I'm kind of projecting onto them and I want them to feel ok. And I'm projecting onto them and I want them to feel ok because I know how much social situations sometimes don't make me feel ok. I realized I complained a lot, use dramatic language to describe situation, I learned don't do that. Not everybody deserve that. 🟥 Autistic Masking https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36-K-HW3syc
Since CBT never was talking about constructs - I never had words to describe social anxiety from the perspective of meaning and existentialism. Many time when I encounter someone difficult and any kind of hardship - this construction is not completed. I end up not knowing what I need and what makes me happy. As I understand lately - this issue is related to autism spectrum. It is basically borderline issue as well - not having functional Self- and depending on other people to know where to go, what I like and what is my job on this planet.
I believe any neurotypical person, anyone not experiencing ACE and ACoA while growing up - will not have this hidden issue. When they experience some hardship in life - they will feel bad, they will feel negative emotions - but they will remember who they are and what is their mission in life and what makes them happy and what is their job and task and project. For socially anxious - this process of knowing where to go - will not be fully observed - and we won't even know it is a thing to look at. CBT tells us to simply expose - and that exposure will magically make us strong and somehow by chance we will know where to go - but nope - with social anxiety we won't know who we are and where to go - and with exposure we will end up with heavy masking and people pleasing and groupthink and herd mentality and making other people happy and pleased - since we won't know what our needs and wants are. Humanistic psychology, IFS model and Secure attachment concept - is revealing this area of meaning and existentialism that is not found in self help book industry related to social anxiety.
Learning about autism spectrum - I learned useful information - that we don't go along with our automatic responses when we socialize. Instead of quick reply to someone's demand -we have full right to say - wait, pause, I need to think about it - instead of automatically rushing in into someone's demands and commands and suggestions.
Lisa A. Romano u/lisaaromano1 Apr 11 Instead of seeking validation externally, pause and check in with yourself first.
The construct, the meaning, where to go in life- I see with social anxiety trauma as hidden problem - that makes us stuck in procrastination and immobility and passivity - since we won't move on our own - unless being told where to go and when we are forced to become active about something that needs to be done.
There is modern French movie called Ténor from 2022 - it is about student who works as delivery boy, and in his free time he does rap song competitions. In the movie we see him in various socially anxious situations:
1) he is stopped at street by police patrol car and police patrol is being rude to him, demeaning him and putting him down. Yet he is not concerned about it, he doesn't worry much about it. He expresses his anger - where socially anxious person would worry in silence and feel shame for being mistreated by someone in authority. 2) receptionist at Opera house is also being rude to him, when asking for directions, he received rude remarks - it is common theme with social anxiety - being in service position, asking for help from person whose job description is to help - but instead of help there is rude remarks and laziness, not helping to someone asking for help. Again, the main character expresses his anger but he is not consumed about it much. 3) Then he experiences bullying and dismissive attitude by random person attending the class, calling him names (sushi) because of his delivery job. This experience would be triggering to anyone struggling with social anxiety - making these types of job very hard to do. 4) then we see random car passing by group of friends who sit at the steps - throwing bottles at them, there is racial discrimination - yet the main character is not bothered by it later on, he performs in public and sings at rap competition.
Socially anxious person would over-generalize these events, socially anxious person would think that he or she is ashamed for existing, would not appear in public after it, would ruminate about what happened, and would experience feelings of panic and overstimulation - and there is some general gloom doom scenario of punishment and that the world will end if we experience these kinds of anti-social behavior from various types of people - who are actually not important to us, strangers who cannot harm us, who cannot do anything to us to destroy our sense of who we are and where we go in life - yet with social anxiety - this is destroyed. That is what CBT is not talking about - self being destroyed by random toxic people and their toxic behavior.
It's one that it's so hard to break the pattern of. Because you can always find the exception. You can always find the one thing that you did wrong – and go see – I knew it, it is my fault that the entire relationship is a mess. When in reality one thing that you did wrong is one thing that you did wrong. And people do wrong things chronically in relationship. In a healthy secure dynamic you will do things wrong. Partner will not tell you - You are not cause of their unhappiness. Deal with that one thing. Heal and move on. 🟥 Heidi Priebe https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucLUAd4bjMg
I would use autism tip about the pause button on socially difficult situations for which CBT tells us are our over-imagination and fantasy - other people being rude and aggressive.
With trauma we will usually quickly and automatically go with other person's choice, their words, their commands, their explanations and take their narrative as our guideline.
If you want to improve, you must be content to be thought foolish and stupid - EPICTETUS
When we expose, when we are active, when we come out of our comfort zone - we will turn out to be rotten. This is something that CBT is not telling us. We will not appear as idealized as we appear in our thoughts. We will say something bad - because like in social media - there are always critics out there who find faults and imperfections about any kind of action or opinion or event or anything done - there will always be some complainer, valid or rouge one - someone will nag about smallest, insignificant thing that we say or do in public. This is why Secure attachment concept is important. Instead of External referencing locus of control - where other people's criticism is our GPS - we need to have intrinsic locus of control, where our common sense is the ultimate judge about what is appropriate and good and needed at the given moment at any given situation. Due to Hedgehog's dilemma - we will eventually hurt someone's feelings and they will break our feelings of safety too.
"The hedgehog's dilemma, or sometimes the porcupine dilemma, is a metaphor about the challenges of human intimacy. It describes a situation in which a group of hedgehogs seek to move close to one another to share heat during cold weather." (wikipeadia)
"Schopenhauer's hedgehog dilemma is a metaphor for the difficulty of human relationships. We desire intimacy but inevitably push people away. Schopenhauer advocated for a life in solitude in consequence, or, if that's too much, a life of "polite distance" from society." (reddit)
We will eventually say bad things, regretful things, we will be carried by our emotions and rush of the moment. And other people will hurt us too for the same reasons. The narcissistic abuse is when this abusive behavior is chronic and repetitive in the nature and when it occurs even after we warned the other person about their behavior.
CBT is romanticizing exposure. CBT claims that exposure will remove social anxiety. It won't. With any kind of exposure we will embarrass ourselves. We will see how limited we are - what our shortcomings are, lack of knowledge and lack of skills. How unattractive we are - how we are lacking in many areas, and how much scared and pathetic we are, cowards. In our imagination, when we avoid exposure - we never experience these painful realities of making mistakes and being flawed about ourselves. What we feel is trauma and painful repetition in our head of other people being hysterical, dangerous and anti-social - and we choose not to feel or experience that - while we totally ignore about our own limitations and how we are hurting other people - by simply being present. Lazy people will be hurt and harmed by our presence if we ask some job and service from them. With trauma we believe we are not worthy enough to ask for something that we need. And that other people's comfort is more important and more of priority than our needs. With social anxiety trauma we will stay silent and censor ourselves for not disturbing someone's peace. While in the same time, narcissistic people and toxic people will gladly find the smallest mistakes and flaws to trump around about as if it's the end of the world coming.
Ironically, existentialism is saying, if you want to be happy, or at least be happier, stop struggling to achieve complete happiness because that way only leads to disappointment. 📖 How to Be an Existentialist: or How to Get Real, Get a Grip and Stop Making Excuses
In toxic family, in toxic relationship, in shame culture country - we will never be enough for others, we will never be good enough for them. We will always be nuisance to them. Especially if we fall out of the given role put on us. And they will never truly like us or accept us without conditions. We will be nothing else but a piece of old furniture that they can't throw away so we are always scorned, disgusted by them and thrown around in corner and we will be something to put up with. That is how dysfunctional dynamics work, that is shame culture. If we do not comply to the given norm - if we are not compliant and if we are not violently and aggressively stating our needs - we will always be something wrong that must be exploited and farm in order to prove it's worth to toxic people, predators and exploiters. And we end up performing circus tricks in order to impress them and try hard to conform to their coercive control and dehumanized manipulation.
This way we never learn the secure attachment in such toxic ambient. The price tag bias - if we see some high price on some article - we will value it more - even though the price may be hyped up and not congruent to the real worth of that article. We will take more care of something expensive than we would to something that is easily replaced. Low price will be seen as easily replaceable and invaluable. When we live with nagging and constant repetitive chronic pattern of complaining about us and what we do and what we think - our price tag is lowered. If we live with shaming other people do not value us and we end up not valuing ourselves. When our opinion is dismissed by others - we will dismiss our own thoughts and conclusions - even though they may be perfect and totally correct. This is why I speak about putting the price tag on our social anxiety, on our people pleasing, on our fawning and especially on our Negative Politeness where we are very careful not to hurt someone's feelings - because this is conditioned into us due to ACE and ACoA, long term exposure to narcissistic abuse. Putting price tag on us being nice and pleasant. Or another byproduct of abuse- being the fixer. Since these conditioned responses are ingrained and trauma pressed into our subconsciousness - and it will be hard to replace them without developing anti-social personality disorder (by becoming the opposite of being nice and good) - I would rather put price tag on our socially anxious behavior. When we encounter rude, toxic people - and feel shame and guilt and blame - I would put price tag on this too. It means valuing it and seeing it as something expensive - something that costs us our mental health and money and focus and energy - since it is draining to be good and nice and pleasant all the time. Instead of observing our social anxiety as hideous wart that we must hide and mask and cover up with spending money and focus on this cover up activities - let us put high price tag on our social anxiety and start to value it and expose it and feel proud for having social anxiety. If we do not value it, nobody else will. Let examine this price tag concept.
There is byproduct of feeling toxic shame (bad object) - we end up believing strongly that we are worthless and stupid and invaluable. Until someone points out that we are okay, or until we see someone confident and strong doing the exact thing that we are ashamed of in ourselves - then we will feel valued and good about ourselves. This part of social anxiety is related to borderline issue and Complex Trauma. This is disorder part. This chronic feeling of being invaluable is disorder - because this is where our anxiety stems from, our insecurity in social situations. This is where our wrong decisions and self sabotaging decisions stem from. We believe we do not deserve good treatment so we rationalize the abuse and unfair treatment and stay silent about it and never protest about being treated unfair and being accused of something unfair and untrue.
Feeling valued and this value depending on other people is codependency issue, too. This way all my worth and decisions and actions in life will be depended and connected and glued on other people and their permission. This way other people control us and manipulate us and decide about our life - we become unable to make our own decisions that were not previously approved by other people. And this is what happens to socially anxious people when they follow CBT advice how to cure social anxiety - with exposure. We become people pleasers - because our core value worth about who we are as person is tied and contract obligated to unwritten contract of approval of herd mentality and group think and conformity. Toxic shame in ingrained into us. This toxic shame cannot be fixed with exposure. Nor by logic or talking about it or being aware of it. In fact - awareness about toxic shame will bring depression and sadness and why bother attitude. Shame will not have fuel - that we are different from the others and hence invalid and unworthy, that we are second class citizens. And then we end up with masking and overcompensating - trying hard not to appear weak or codependent - by not being moody or angry - since toxic shame being expressed means nagging and complaining about anything that moves - which toxic people do. They allow their toxic shame to be rampant and they direct it against other people - especially those close to them who are depended on them due to finances and destroyed self esteem. It is borderline issue - because with toxic shame internalized we walk around as if we do not have skin.
I see resolution of this borderline codependency issue of toxic shame - through claiming it and valuing it. It is counterintuitive - but it is logical - trauma and social anxiety started with exposure to invalidation and placing conditions on our own worth. Placing value and price tag on our neurosis, fears, panic, overwhelm, quirks and perks and internalizing them as a part of our persona and who we are as person. Instead of hiding those parts - that we embrace them and nurture them - and we will be strong as our weakest link is strong - so it is our job to make our anxiety validated and strong and to know its worth - anxiety makes us safe and it tries to keep our quality of life on high level. Hiding and masking it and feeling ashamed for having social anxiety - will make anxiety worse.
Carl Jung Psychology and Philosophy 🧠, TWITTER:
The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.

Hospital Visit

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
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The hospital Styles and Trss;trk had been taken to was a lot bigger than Kkr;tsk was used to. He’d seen hospitals and clinics before, normally smaller affairs that were privately run and dependent on outside funding, but this one was huge. However, instead of being overwhelmingly human in its outward aspect, there were distinct Mdd;Crb influences in the architecture.
When Kkr and Vss entered the main lobby, it became immediately clear that the interior had also been constructed with both species in mind. The seating arrangements varied between human-style straight-backed chairs, Mdd;Crb bowl-chairs, and large amorphous bags that looked as though they could accommodate either. At the far side of the lobby, the reception desk had both Mdd;crb and humans behind it, the former wearing sashes to denote their profession and the latter crisply uniformed in white.
“Oh,” said Vss. “Oh, my. I didn’t expect this.” She swivelled her body to look from side to side and rubbed her pseudo-mandibles together nervously. “Everyone seems so busy. I thought we’d be able to just walk in and see them.”
The contrast with her assertive nature in the Ladies’ Domino League gave Kkr the impression of someone washed from a gentle tide-pool into the deep ocean and having to swim against the current for the first time. It wasn’t exactly her fault, of course; she was mainly a stay-at-home sort of person, only getting out to associate with her friends. Kkr, on the opposing manipulator, had run carapace-first into many examples of what Styles called ‘culture shock’, usually as a direct result of being acquainted with the human in the first place.
“Kkr! Vss!” A familiar voice, that of Chrr;stk, made Kkr turn. The foreman and his wife Tsch had just entered the lobby; it wasn’t a particularly challenging swim across the lagoon to conclude that they were here for the same reason that Kkr and Vss were. “I thought we’d find you here.”
Vss greeted Tsch with more than a little relief, evidently glad to see a familiar carapace, while Kkr fronted up to Chrr. “Yes, we thought we’d come and see how Styles and Trss were getting along, but this is my first time here and frankly I’m a bit lost.”
Chrr chuckled warmly. “Yes, these places do get like that, don’t they? Humans are good at centralising things like this, especially bureaucracy. Though some of them I’ve spoken to have admitted that they can easily overdo it, which is why they’re not just going full speed ahead.” He pointed with his left primary manipulator. “As I understand it, we ask at the desk, and they’ll give us directions to which room and floor he’s on.”
“Oh.” Kkr felt a little stupid at not having figured that out for himself. “That makes sense.”
Together, all four of them headed over to the desk, where one of the female human receptionists looked up and beamed at them. Kkr (and Chrr, he knew) recognised the expression as one of polite cheer. “Good morning,” she greeted them in fluent Mdd;Crb. “How can I help you?”
“Good morning,” Chrr replied. “We’re hoping to visit two of our friends today. Trss;trk and,” he paused while he prepared his air-passage for the human name, “David Styles.”
“Ah, yes.” The human tapped away at her keyboard, which was approximately half the size of the ones used by Mdd;Crb, due to her delicate sub-manipulators. “The young man who was shell-cracked, and the gentleman who nearly drowned?”
“Yes, that’s them,” Kkr confirmed. “Would it be offensive of me to compliment you on your language skills?” Styles was improving, but he was nowhere near as good as she was.
She smiled, seeming not at all upset by the question, which she no doubt fielded a hundred times a day. “Thank you. I knew I was going into a public-facing role, so I studied it extensively on the trip out. Your friends are on floor three, in rooms three-twenty-seven and three-seventy-six. Would you like a floor map?”
“Thank you.” Tsch accepted the map after the human had helpfully marked it with coloured squares. “We appreciate your assistance.”
That garnered her another beaming human smile, mobile lips closed to hide those meat-tearing teeth. At the same time, the receptionist picked up a small device and squeezed it; there was a soft click, sounding just like pseudo-mandibles tapping together in a pleased fashion. “You are entirely welcome.”
They moved off toward the elevators, marked as such in both human script and Mdd;Crb ideograms. The dual-language motif persisted within the elevator car—large enough to contain the entire group of Mdd;Crb with no pushing or shoving—with buttons of two different sizes, appropriately marked with floor numbers. Vss made a pleased noise at the convenience and pressed the button for the third floor.
“Who shall we visit first?” she asked as they emerged on the correct floor. Now that they had directions and a map, Kkr could tell she was starting to swim with the current instead of against it.
“Whoever is closest, I suppose.” Tsch consulted the map, carefully held in her secondary manipulators. “There is the elevator, so that must be where we are. Did the human say who was in which room?”
Kkr thought back to the conversation. “No, she did not. It may be that Trss is in three-twenty-seven, or she might just have been listing them in numerical order.” He turned to bring his eyestalks in line with the map. “Three-twenty-seven is closer, so we’ll go there, then three-seventy-six afterward.”
They proceeded along the corridor, carefully keeping out of the way of human and Mdd;Crb medical personnel, each of whom nodded politely or clicked their pseudo-mandibles in casual greeting. Kkr and Vss kept their eyestalks on the numbers to the left-most side of the corridor, while Chrr and Tsch watched those on the right. It wasn’t long before they reached the twenties, and they looked for the specific number they’d been given.
After all that, it was clearly marked, the door slightly ajar. Kkr turned to look at Chrr, who was looking at him. “Should we just … go in?” asked Kkr.
“It’s probably better to check first,” Chrr decided. He reached out with his primary manipulator and tapped on the door. “Hello? Is it permitted to enter?”
“Come … on in.” The reply was a little strained, but Kkr recognised it immediately as Trss. He wasn’t surprised at the strain in the young Mdd;Crb’s voice, considering how badly shell-cracked he’d been. The wonder was that he was talking at all.
When Kkr entered along with everyone else, he received a welcome surprise. Styles was there also, wearing what Kkr assumed to be human-style hospital garb, quite different to the blue cloth and yellow hard-hat the human habitually wore on the worksite. He was seated in an equally human-style chair alongside Trss’ bowl-shaped bed with some kind of vertical mobile framework trundling on wheels beside him, attached to his body via cords. “Greetings,” he rasped, his voice a little better than it had been before, but not altogether back to its norm. “Is good see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, but aren’t you supposed to be in room three-seventy-six?” asked Kkr. He ran a worried eyestalk over the medical paraphernalia that was attached to the human. They were tough—he had reason to know just how tough—but everything had its limits.
Styles let out a brief barking sound that Kkr knew to be the human equivalent of laughter. “Nothing there. Bored. Found where Trss, came visit. Walking good.”
Ah, yes, the human tendency to do things because of boredom. Kkr remembered the last time Styles had gotten bored, and had ended up walking kilometres in a storm just to visit himself and Vss, bringing dominoes to show them. That had turned out well, but he couldn’t help wondering how often humans did things because of boredom that ended up badly.
“He’s been … telling me stories … about life back … on Earth,” Trss told them. Kkr figured that his shell-cracks—they weren’t visible under the full-carapace dressing that currently covered his body—were preventing his secondary lung from inflating properly, so he had to both speak and breathe with the primary lung. Also, his internal organs had to be severely bruised from the encounter with the killer-fish, which wouldn’t be helping his speech at all. “Humans … are insane.”
“Well, we knew that already.” Chrr twisted his eyestalks together briefly to show he was joking … mostly. Kkr was getting to know Styles’ expressions by now, and his grin showed nothing but good humour, so Kkr clicked his pseudo-mandibles together to echo the sentiment. “Attacking a killer-fish with nothing but a knife? You’d have to be insane, to do that.”
“Trss friend.” Styles said it bluntly. “No stupid fish hurts friend. Heard story once. Happened long ago, but never forget, once heard.”
The story, as he told it, was hampered by his limited vocabulary. But Kkr got the gist of it anyway.
It appeared that a youngster, not as old as Trss, had been attacked in the surf by an Earth killer-fish—a shark—and it had torn the child’s arm off. The boy’s uncle had gone into the ocean, grabbed the shark with his bare hands despite the fact that it significantly out-massed him, and literally dragged it onto the shore. Then they killed the shark, retrieved the arm, and took both boy and arm to the hospital where the limb was reattached.
By the time he finished the tale, Kkr and the others were staring at him. “And … and he lived?” asked Vss.
“Affirmative,” Styles assured her. “Was close. Too close. But lived.”
Trss coughed out a weak laugh. “Yes, well … it was too … close with … me too. But I’m … personally glad … you brought your … human insanity … with you.”
At that moment, a female human wearing pale green clothing entered the hospital room. She began remonstrating with Styles in human language; Kkr couldn’t understand the exact words she was using, but Styles ducked his head in exactly the same way that a Mdd;Crb youngster would when being shouted at by his mother. “I’m sorry,” the nurse (so he assumed she was) said in reasonable Mdd;Crb as she turned to the others in the room. “We couldn’t find him, so we thought the worst. Fortunately, these medical monitors have locators in them. I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”
“Not … at all,” Trss replied. “He saved … my life … you know.”
“Oh, we know.” She gave Styles a moderately annoyed glare. “But heroes still have to follow the rules, and his lungs are still weak from aspirating things that absolutely do not belong in lungs.” She put her manipulators on the sides of her body and addressed Styles. “What made you think you could just leave your room without permission, or at least telling someone?”
Styles attempted to put on what Kkr suspected was a disarming expression. He also suspected that in the face of the nurse’s ire, it fell flatter than a row of dominoes after one good nudge. “You not say I could not,” he offered, also in Mdd;Crb so everyone knew what was being said.
Out of respect for the nurse, Kkr restrained himself from clicking his pseudo-mandibles together in amusement. Well, he’s got you there, he thought but didn’t say.
She gave what sounded remarkably like an exasperated sigh. “That’s because I assumed you still had working brain cells, so I didn’t. It looks like I’m going to have to correct that little oversight. In the meantime, I need to get you back to your room. And because I don’t feel like making you shuffle all that distance … I’m getting the wheel-chair.”
Kkr wasn’t sure what that last thing was. He understood the words that went into it, but not the final context. All he knew was that Styles didn’t like the idea.
“Negative,” Styles said, his odd lidded eyes opening wide in what may have been fright or horror. “Not the wheel-chair. I be good. Not run off again.”
“Too late.” The nurse’s tone held grim satisfaction. “Next time, maybe you won’t scare us half to death, okay?” She spoke briefly into a radio on her collar, and in a short time a Mdd;Crb orderly pushed an object into the room. It was a chair, with wheels. Two small ones at the front, two large ones at the back.
Huh. So that’s what a wheel-chair is. That must be useful.
Despite his objections, Styles didn’t resist as they loaded him into the wheel-chair, and the tall frame was clipped to the side of it. As he was being pushed from the room, he turned his head. “What about killer-fish?”
“Oh, they found its body,” Chrr replied. “You tore it up good. And they found the hole in the reef and they’re prepping to fix it.”
Styles answered by raising a sub-manipulator in the gesture that meant ‘good’. And then he was gone.
“Sorry again,” said the nurse. “While I’m here, Trss, how are you feeling? Comfortable? Any itches or pains?”
“Comfortable, yes,” Trss replied. “I’ve got no … itches or pains. It’s warm … where the … glue is … but that’s … about it.”
“Warmth means it’s setting nicely,” she said, and pulled out a probe-like instrument that she inserted into the dressings over his carapace. “Hmm, not too high. If it gets uncomfortably warm, let us know immediately, alright?”
“I will … thank you.”
“Good. It’s nice to have some patients who do what they’re told.” She gave him a smile, then nodded politely to the others and left the room.
“Well,” Kkr observed after a moment or so of silence had passed. “That happened.”
“Is it just me,” Vss asked plaintively, “or are human nurses really pushy?”
Chrr clacked his pseudo-mandibles together in amusement. “All nurses are pushy. It comes with the profession. She strikes me as a good one. Styles won’t dare not get better under her care.”
“That makes … two of us,” Trss agreed.
​
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Hospital Visit

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
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The hospital Styles and Trss;trk had been taken to was a lot bigger than Kkr;tsk was used to. He’d seen hospitals and clinics before, normally smaller affairs that were privately run and dependent on outside funding, but this one was huge. However, instead of being overwhelmingly human in its outward aspect, there were distinct Mdd;Crb influences in the architecture.
When Kkr and Vss entered the main lobby, it became immediately clear that the interior had also been constructed with both species in mind. The seating arrangements varied between human-style straight-backed chairs, Mdd;Crb bowl-chairs, and large amorphous bags that looked as though they could accommodate either. At the far side of the lobby, the reception desk had both Mdd;crb and humans behind it, the former wearing sashes to denote their profession and the latter crisply uniformed in white.
“Oh,” said Vss. “Oh, my. I didn’t expect this.” She swivelled her body to look from side to side and rubbed her pseudo-mandibles together nervously. “Everyone seems so busy. I thought we’d be able to just walk in and see them.”
The contrast with her assertive nature in the Ladies’ Domino League gave Kkr the impression of someone washed from a gentle tide-pool into the deep ocean and having to swim against the current for the first time. It wasn’t exactly her fault, of course; she was mainly a stay-at-home sort of person, only getting out to associate with her friends. Kkr, on the opposing manipulator, had run carapace-first into many examples of what Styles called ‘culture shock’, usually as a direct result of being acquainted with the human in the first place.
“Kkr! Vss!” A familiar voice, that of Chrr;stk, made Kkr turn. The foreman and his wife Tsch had just entered the lobby; it wasn’t a particularly challenging swim across the lagoon to conclude that they were here for the same reason that Kkr and Vss were. “I thought we’d find you here.”
Vss greeted Tsch with more than a little relief, evidently glad to see a familiar carapace, while Kkr fronted up to Chrr. “Yes, we thought we’d come and see how Styles and Trss were getting along, but this is my first time here and frankly I’m a bit lost.”
Chrr chuckled warmly. “Yes, these places do get like that, don’t they? Humans are good at centralising things like this, especially bureaucracy. Though some of them I’ve spoken to have admitted that they can easily overdo it, which is why they’re not just going full speed ahead.” He pointed with his left primary manipulator. “As I understand it, we ask at the desk, and they’ll give us directions to which room and floor he’s on.”
“Oh.” Kkr felt a little stupid at not having figured that out for himself. “That makes sense.”
Together, all four of them headed over to the desk, where one of the female human receptionists looked up and beamed at them. Kkr (and Chrr, he knew) recognised the expression as one of polite cheer. “Good morning,” she greeted them in fluent Mdd;Crb. “How can I help you?”
“Good morning,” Chrr replied. “We’re hoping to visit two of our friends today. Trss;trk and,” he paused while he prepared his air-passage for the human name, “David Styles.”
“Ah, yes.” The human tapped away at her keyboard, which was approximately half the size of the ones used by Mdd;Crb, due to her delicate sub-manipulators. “The young man who was shell-cracked, and the gentleman who nearly drowned?”
“Yes, that’s them,” Kkr confirmed. “Would it be offensive of me to compliment you on your language skills?” Styles was improving, but he was nowhere near as good as she was.
She smiled, seeming not at all upset by the question, which she no doubt fielded a hundred times a day. “Thank you. I knew I was going into a public-facing role, so I studied it extensively on the trip out. Your friends are on floor three, in rooms three-twenty-seven and three-seventy-six. Would you like a floor map?”
“Thank you.” Tsch accepted the map after the human had helpfully marked it with coloured squares. “We appreciate your assistance.”
That garnered her another beaming human smile, mobile lips closed to hide those meat-tearing teeth. At the same time, the receptionist picked up a small device and squeezed it; there was a soft click, sounding just like pseudo-mandibles tapping together in a pleased fashion. “You are entirely welcome.”
They moved off toward the elevators, marked as such in both human script and Mdd;Crb ideograms. The dual-language motif persisted within the elevator car—large enough to contain the entire group of Mdd;Crb with no pushing or shoving—with buttons of two different sizes, appropriately marked with floor numbers. Vss made a pleased noise at the convenience and pressed the button for the third floor.
“Who shall we visit first?” she asked as they emerged on the correct floor. Now that they had directions and a map, Kkr could tell she was starting to swim with the current instead of against it.
“Whoever is closest, I suppose.” Tsch consulted the map, carefully held in her secondary manipulators. “There is the elevator, so that must be where we are. Did the human say who was in which room?”
Kkr thought back to the conversation. “No, she did not. It may be that Trss is in three-twenty-seven, or she might just have been listing them in numerical order.” He turned to bring his eyestalks in line with the map. “Three-twenty-seven is closer, so we’ll go there, then three-seventy-six afterward.”
They proceeded along the corridor, carefully keeping out of the way of human and Mdd;Crb medical personnel, each of whom nodded politely or clicked their pseudo-mandibles in casual greeting. Kkr and Vss kept their eyestalks on the numbers to the left-most side of the corridor, while Chrr and Tsch watched those on the right. It wasn’t long before they reached the twenties, and they looked for the specific number they’d been given.
After all that, it was clearly marked, the door slightly ajar. Kkr turned to look at Chrr, who was looking at him. “Should we just … go in?” asked Kkr.
“It’s probably better to check first,” Chrr decided. He reached out with his primary manipulator and tapped on the door. “Hello? Is it permitted to enter?”
“Come … on in.” The reply was a little strained, but Kkr recognised it immediately as Trss. He wasn’t surprised at the strain in the young Mdd;Crb’s voice, considering how badly shell-cracked he’d been. The wonder was that he was talking at all.
When Kkr entered along with everyone else, he received a welcome surprise. Styles was there also, wearing what Kkr assumed to be human-style hospital garb, quite different to the blue cloth and yellow hard-hat the human habitually wore on the worksite. He was seated in an equally human-style chair alongside Trss’ bowl-shaped bed with some kind of vertical mobile framework trundling on wheels beside him, attached to his body via cords. “Greetings,” he rasped, his voice a little better than it had been before, but not altogether back to its norm. “Is good see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, but aren’t you supposed to be in room three-seventy-six?” asked Kkr. He ran a worried eyestalk over the medical paraphernalia that was attached to the human. They were tough—he had reason to know just how tough—but everything had its limits.
Styles let out a brief barking sound that Kkr knew to be the human equivalent of laughter. “Nothing there. Bored. Found where Trss, came visit. Walking good.”
Ah, yes, the human tendency to do things because of boredom. Kkr remembered the last time Styles had gotten bored, and had ended up walking kilometres in a storm just to visit himself and Vss, bringing dominoes to show them. That had turned out well, but he couldn’t help wondering how often humans did things because of boredom that ended up badly.
“He’s been … telling me stories … about life back … on Earth,” Trss told them. Kkr figured that his shell-cracks—they weren’t visible under the full-carapace dressing that currently covered his body—were preventing his secondary lung from inflating properly, so he had to both speak and breathe with the primary lung. Also, his internal organs had to be severely bruised from the encounter with the killer-fish, which wouldn’t be helping his speech at all. “Humans … are insane.”
“Well, we knew that already.” Chrr twisted his eyestalks together briefly to show he was joking … mostly. Kkr was getting to know Styles’ expressions by now, and his grin showed nothing but good humour, so Kkr clicked his pseudo-mandibles together to echo the sentiment. “Attacking a killer-fish with nothing but a knife? You’d have to be insane, to do that.”
“Trss friend.” Styles said it bluntly. “No stupid fish hurts friend. Heard story once. Happened long ago, but never forget, once heard.”
The story, as he told it, was hampered by his limited vocabulary. But Kkr got the gist of it anyway.
It appeared that a youngster, not as old as Trss, had been attacked in the surf by an Earth killer-fish—a shark—and it had torn the child’s arm off. The boy’s uncle had gone into the ocean, grabbed the shark with his bare hands despite the fact that it significantly out-massed him, and literally dragged it onto the shore. Then they killed the shark, retrieved the arm, and took both boy and arm to the hospital where the limb was reattached.
By the time he finished the tale, Kkr and the others were staring at him. “And … and he lived?” asked Vss.
“Affirmative,” Styles assured her. “Was close. Too close. But lived.”
Trss coughed out a weak laugh. “Yes, well … it was too … close with … me too. But I’m … personally glad … you brought your … human insanity … with you.”
At that moment, a female human wearing pale green clothing entered the hospital room. She began remonstrating with Styles in human language; Kkr couldn’t understand the exact words she was using, but Styles ducked his head in exactly the same way that a Mdd;Crb youngster would when being shouted at by his mother. “I’m sorry,” the nurse (so he assumed she was) said in reasonable Mdd;Crb as she turned to the others in the room. “We couldn’t find him, so we thought the worst. Fortunately, these medical monitors have locators in them. I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”
“Not … at all,” Trss replied. “He saved … my life … you know.”
“Oh, we know.” She gave Styles a moderately annoyed glare. “But heroes still have to follow the rules, and his lungs are still weak from aspirating things that absolutely do not belong in lungs.” She put her manipulators on the sides of her body and addressed Styles. “What made you think you could just leave your room without permission, or at least telling someone?”
Styles attempted to put on what Kkr suspected was a disarming expression. He also suspected that in the face of the nurse’s ire, it fell flatter than a row of dominoes after one good nudge. “You not say I could not,” he offered, also in Mdd;Crb so everyone knew what was being said.
Out of respect for the nurse, Kkr restrained himself from clicking his pseudo-mandibles together in amusement. Well, he’s got you there, he thought but didn’t say.
She gave what sounded remarkably like an exasperated sigh. “That’s because I assumed you still had working brain cells, so I didn’t. It looks like I’m going to have to correct that little oversight. In the meantime, I need to get you back to your room. And because I don’t feel like making you shuffle all that distance … I’m getting the wheel-chair.”
Kkr wasn’t sure what that last thing was. He understood the words that went into it, but not the final context. All he knew was that Styles didn’t like the idea.
“Negative,” Styles said, his odd lidded eyes opening wide in what may have been fright or horror. “Not the wheel-chair. I be good. Not run off again.”
“Too late.” The nurse’s tone held grim satisfaction. “Next time, maybe you won’t scare us half to death, okay?” She spoke briefly into a radio on her collar, and in a short time a Mdd;Crb orderly pushed an object into the room. It was a chair, with wheels. Two small ones at the front, two large ones at the back.
Huh. So that’s what a wheel-chair is. That must be useful.
Despite his objections, Styles didn’t resist as they loaded him into the wheel-chair, and the tall frame was clipped to the side of it. As he was being pushed from the room, he turned his head. “What about killer-fish?”
“Oh, they found its body,” Chrr replied. “You tore it up good. And they found the hole in the reef and they’re prepping to fix it.”
Styles answered by raising a sub-manipulator in the gesture that meant ‘good’. And then he was gone.
“Sorry again,” said the nurse. “While I’m here, Trss, how are you feeling? Comfortable? Any itches or pains?”
“Comfortable, yes,” Trss replied. “I’ve got no … itches or pains. It’s warm … where the … glue is … but that’s … about it.”
“Warmth means it’s setting nicely,” she said, and pulled out a probe-like instrument that she inserted into the dressings over his carapace. “Hmm, not too high. If it gets uncomfortably warm, let us know immediately, alright?”
“I will … thank you.”
“Good. It’s nice to have some patients who do what they’re told.” She gave him a smile, then nodded politely to the others and left the room.
“Well,” Kkr observed after a moment or so of silence had passed. “That happened.”
“Is it just me,” Vss asked plaintively, “or are human nurses really pushy?”
Chrr clacked his pseudo-mandibles together in amusement. “All nurses are pushy. It comes with the profession. She strikes me as a good one. Styles won’t dare not get better under her care.”
“That makes … two of us,” Trss agreed.
​
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Part 1
We stare at the gaping hole where the balcony doors once were, the shattered glass glittering like ice under the moonlight.
"Mon Dieu, what was that?" Reine whispers, her voice a mix of fear and awe.
I shake my head, unable to formulate a rational explanation. "I don't know, but we need to move. Now."
There’s no time to waste; we need to act fast before the police arrive and questions start being asked—questions we can't afford to answer, at least not yet.
First, we slip on gloves and wipe down every surface we’ve touched, erasing our fingerprints from the glossy expanse of the door handle, the jagged edges of broken glass, and the sleek metal of the railing.
As Reine retrieves the spent shells, I focus on the bullets lodged in the floorboard. Using a pair of pliers, I carefully extract the still warm, deformed slugs.
Next, we gather every shred of forensic evidence we can, working with the precision of surgeons. Every second counts, and as we hear the distant wail of police sirens drawing nearer, the urgency ratchets up.
We collect the fragments of what was left behind by the creature, using tweezers to place each macabre piece into small, sealable bags.
Reine quickly snaps photos of the crime scene, ensuring we have visual evidence of everything we've witnessed.
I spot Zane's phone discarded on a chair, the screen cracked but still glowing faintly. I snatch it up, knowing it could hold the key to understanding not just his infidelity, but possibly even the origins of the creature we just encountered.
Slipping through the service entrance, we make our escape just as the first police cruisers turn into the hotel driveway. The night swallows us whole, just another pair of shadows among many.
The drive back to the office is a silent one, both of us lost in our thoughts, trying to process the night's events.
The moment we step through the door of our office, Abbey looks up from her desk, her face lighting up. But her smile fades when she sees the grim expressions on our faces.
"Everything okay? Y’all look like you've both seen a ghost," Abbey says, her concern evident as she takes in our disheveled appearances.
Reine lets out a weary sigh. "Clear our schedule for the next few days," she tells her. "We've got a lot to sort through."
—
I head to my desk and pick up the phone. I dial Astrid's number. She answers on the second ring, her voice tinged with apprehension.
"Mrs. Everly, it's Ash. I... We need you to listen carefully," I begin, my words measured. “Zane... Something happened to Zane.”
I explain, in broad strokes, the events at the hotel, carefully omitting the more horrifying details. Though I make it clear that Zane won't be coming home and that law enforcement will soon be in touch to provide her with more information.
Astrid's reaction comes as a mixture of shock and a strange, resigned calmness. The line is silent for a moment after I finish speaking; the only sound is her steady breathing.
"I... I don't know what to say. Is he...?" Her voice trails off, unable to finish the question.
"He's gone. I'm very sorry," I reply gently. There's a heaviness in my own voice.
Astrid takes a deep breath, a faint tremble detectable in her sigh. “Okay… What do we do next?”
"First things first, Mrs. Everly," I say, leaning back in my chair, my eyes tracing the grain of the wood on my desk as I gather my thoughts. "We're going to make sure you and the kids are safe. I recommend staying with someone you trust for the next few days, somewhere you feel secure. We'll handle everything from our end."
I can hear the hesitation in her voice. "But, what about... you? What will you do?”
“We’re working on gathering as much evidence as we can, piecing together what happened,” I assure her. “We’re going to do everything we can to get to the bottom of this.”
Her breath hitches slightly, and I can almost see her nodding on the other end of the line. "Okay, Detective Tran. I trust you. Please, just... find out what happened. And stay safe."
—
After the call with Astrid, we dive into the investigation's next phase.
The key, we hope, lies with Zane's phone. Cracked screen and all, it's potentially a window into the motives and means behind the horror we witnessed. The first hurdle, though, is gaining access to the device. With Zane’s… status, asking him for the passcode or facial recognition is a non-starter for obvious reasons.
That leaves us with the fingerprint sensor. It's a long shot, but it's all we have. We've lifted prints before, mostly from scenes less grisly than this, but the principle remains the same. With a bit of forensic delicacy, we manage to lift a clear thumbprint from the back of the phone—Zane's, no doubt, considering the placement and the repeated pattern of smudges.
Using a technique that's equal parts art and science, we transfer the print onto a thin layer of silicone. It's a bit of a MacGyver move, but desperation breeds innovation. Holding our breath, we press the silicone against the sensor. There's a tense moment, a heartbeat where nothing seems to happen, and then the phone unlocks, granting us access.
The phone's home screen greets us, a clutter of apps and notifications that hint at the double life Zane Everly had been living. As we sift through his messages and call logs, we stumble upon a series of texts between Zane and a woman named Chantrea.
The exchanges are a damning chronicle of their affair, sprinkled with explicit photos that leave nothing to the imagination. The intimacy and frequency of their communication suggest this wasn't just a fleeting encounter; it was an ongoing, sordid affair.
Their texts suggest meetings that were carefully planned and executed with a level of secrecy you'd expect from someone with a lot to lose. They mention rendezvous at a place called "Serenity Touch," a massage parlor that, based on the reviews on Google Maps, offered services far beyond the typical spa menu.
Delving deeper into the exchanges between Zane and Chantrea, we begin to notice a pattern of coded language peppered throughout their conversations. Phrases like "extended session" and "private therapy" recur, suggesting that their meetings involved more illicit activities. It became clear that Chantrea was likely a sex worker at Serenity Touch, the massage parlor doubling as a front for a brothel.
Chantrea's messages to Zane were laced with a mix of professional detachment and genuine emotion. It was evident she had developed feelings for him beyond their transactional relationship. She frequently inquired about his day, his thoughts, and, more pointedly, his family. Zane, for his part, navigated these questions with a calculated vagueness, sharing just enough to keep her engaged but always stopping short of revealing too much.
Among the flurry of texts, one conversation, in particular, catches our eye, a discussion that paints a clear picture of Zane's reckless pursuit of thrill at the expense of others' feelings.
In this exchange, Zane suggests introducing another worker from the parlor, Soriya, into their liaisons. His message is cavalier, treating the proposition as nothing more than a novel adventure to spice up their encounters. However, Chantrea's response is anything but enthusiastic. She reacts with a mix of hurt and indignation to a ménage à trois. She accuses Zane of diminishing what they had. Her threat to end their relationship over this is clear and unmistakable, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
The revelation of this discord adds another layer to the already complex narrative. Zane, in an attempt to mend fences and perhaps soothe his guilt, resorts to a classic, albeit clichéd, gesture—a bouquet of roses. His subsequent visit to the quaint flower shop, as captured by our surveillance, now takes on a new significance. It was an attempt at reconciliation, a plea for forgiveness wrapped in the delicate petals of flowers.
The key to unraveling this tangled web, we decide, is Soriya. She's the missing link, a potential treasure trove of information on Chantrea, and possibly even insights into the otherworldly horror we encountered.
But how do you approach a sex worker in a brothel-fronting massage parlor without alerting the entire operation or, worse, scaring her off? Badges and warrants aren't tools in our kit. We need finesse, subtlety, and a bit of creativity.
—
The neon sign of Serenity Touch flickers in the early evening dusk, casting an ethereal glow on the otherwise nondescript storefront nestled between a nail salon and a 24-hour diner. Its windows are darkly tinted, offering no glimpse of the activities within, a deliberate choice designed to preserve the anonymity of its clientele.
As I enter the establishment, the interior unfolds like a scene from a classic noir film—dimly lit, with soft, ambient music floating through the air. The decor leans heavily into Asian aesthetics, with bamboo plants strategically placed around the room, water features bubbling quietly in the background, and delicate paintings of serene landscapes adorning the walls. The air is scented with a blend of jasmine and sandalwood, a calming aroma that seems designed to soothe the senses and disarm any initial hesitations.
The camera, cleverly disguised as a button on my shirt, transmits live footage to Reine, who's stationed in our vehicle parked across the street.
The receptionist, a woman with a calm demeanor and a welcoming smile, greets me. "Welcome to Serenity Touch. My name is Mai. How can I help you?"
I clear my throat, the words slightly catching as I try to adopt the persona we'd concocted on the drive over. My nervousness must be palpable, but just then, Reine's voice crackles softly in my earpiece, a steady whisper of encouragement. "Stick to the script. You've got this, mon amour."
Taking a deep breath, I meet Mai's gaze. "Hi, Mai. I'm, uh, sort of new to this kind of thing," I start, feigning embarrassment. “A friend recommended… He says y’all give great massages.”
"Of course, we offer many types of massage—Swedish, deep tissue, aromatherapy… all very relaxing and good for stress," She lists off. "You look tired, maybe you try hot stone? Very popular and good for sore muscles."
"Actually, I was thinking of something perhaps more along the lines of a private therapy session," I venture, using the coded language Chantrea and Zane had employed in their texts. “You know, something more... personal?”
Mai's expression shifts subtly, her welcoming smile tempering into something more guarded, but still polite. Her eyes scrutinize me for any hint of duplicity. "You say your friend tell you about us?" she asks. “Who your friend?”
​​Mai's question catches me slightly off guard. I figure that Zane, with his double life, would likely have used a pseudonym during his visits here. I think back to Zane’s texts with Chantrea, remembering seeing him occasionally refer to himself as "Mr. Zen" in their conversations.
"Yeah, Mr. Zen," I reply, maintaining my feigned casual tone but watching Mai closely for any sign of recognition. "You know, White dude, a bit taller than me, with light brown hair, always looks like he's headed to a business meeting.”
“You know Mr. Zen?” Mai hesitates, her eyes scanning me more intently now, as if trying to peel back the layers of my façade. She leans back slightly, arms crossing as she assesses the truth in my words.
"She’s not buying it,” Reine murmurs through the earpiece. "You have to sound more convincing."
Feeling the pressure, I push a bit harder, the story pouring out more desperately now.
"Look, Mai," I start, my voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm gonna be honest with you. My marriage, it's... it's on the rocks. My wife has been my fucking case a lot lately. And to make matters worse, we haven't been... connected, you know, intimately, for months. I'm just looking for something to feel again, to bring back some... spark."
Mai looks at me, her face showing a hint of curiosity. "Oh, I see. You have big stress, huh?"
“You have no idea…” I say, sighing heavily.
Mai glances around the softly lit lobby, ensuring no one else is within earshot. "Okay, listen carefully," she says, her voice low and urgent. "I can maybe help you, but we have to be very careful, okay? If police come here, I get in big trouble with my boss."
She locks onto me with an intensity that lets me know she’s more afraid of her boss than being raided by the police.
"Look, I'm not a cop or anything," I assure her, my tone earnest. "I'm just a guy at the end of his rope, looking for some relief."
“Okay, I understand," Mai relents. She takes a deep breath, before reaching under the counter and pulling out a glossy brochure that she hands over to me with a flourish. "We offer very special session. Make you feel new love. Guarantee very happy ending. You interested?"
“Yes, very much," I reply, genuinely relieved. “Thank you.”
I follow Mai to a waiting room that is small and tastefully decorated, with a single plush chair and a small table adorned with magazines and a vase of fresh flowers. She gestures to the chair.
"You take time. No rush," she tells me. "Each girl very skilled. You choose, then tell me. I make special arrangement for you."
Opening the brochure, I find myself looking at a series of suggestive yet tasteful photos of masseuses, each accompanied by a name and a brief description of their specialties.
They all appear to be of Southeast Asian descent. As we flip through, I can't help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that some of these women might not be here by choice.
As I continue flipping through the brochure, Reine's voice comes through the earpiece, her tone sharp. "Wait, go back a page. I think I saw her."
I thumb back to the previous page and my eyes immediately lock onto the photo of the woman. Her resemblance to the woman from the hotel is undeniable — the same high cheekbones, the same piercing gaze. Even her hair, neatly styled in the photo, matches the long, straight black hair we saw.
Under her photo, the blurb reads: "Soriya — a touch of mystique with every session. Trained in the ancient tantric arts, she will guide you to new realms of relaxation."
—
Mai leads me down a narrow, dimly lit corridor that twists and turns more than I'd expected, passing several closed doors where the muffled sounds of clients having sex can be heard. Finally, we stop at a door that's slightly ajar. Mai pushes it open, revealing a small room lit by soft, golden light that casts long shadows across the sparse furnishings.
The room is dominated by a large massage bed, draped in crisp white linens, and surrounded by candles that emit a soothing lavender scent. The air is warmer here, heavy with the scent of essential oils that mingle with the faint aroma of incense.
Mai gestures towards the massage bed with a small bow of her head. "You undress, please. Soriya, she join you soon, okay? You relax first."
As I nod in understanding, Mai pulls a thick curtain across the doorway, enhancing the room's privacy before she exits. The sound of her footsteps fades quickly, leaving behind a silence that feels both serene and charged with anticipation.
After a short wait that felt longer due to the anticipation, the door curtain rustles slightly and Soriya enters the room. Her presence commands immediate attention. She wears a silk robe that clings delicately to her form, leaving very little to the imagination—a sheer, flowing garment that accentuates her slender figure.
"Hey handsome," she greets me, her eyes scanning over me. "My name Soriya. What your name?"
I give her one of the aliases I often use in these situations. "Hey, Soriya. My name's Sonny. It's nice to meet you..."
"Sonny, why your clothes still on?" she asks, her expression one of playful admonishment as she pouts seductively. "Massage cannot start until you take off."
"Hey, actually, I was hoping we could just talk for a bit," I say uncomfortably.
She tilts her head slightly, a look of confusion briefly crossing her face before her professional smile returns. "Talk? Okay, we can talk later, but first, you shower. Make you feel more relax, yes?"
Soriya's hand is gentle yet firm as she takes my arm, guiding me towards a glass-enclosed shower at the corner of the room.
"You very tense," she observes, her fingers pressing expertly along my shoulders. "I help you relax first, then we talk."
She's graceful, almost cat-like as she leads me by the arm toward the shower area at the back of the room. Her touch is gentle, yet firm, a professional maneuver designed to ease clients into relaxation.
Her hands move to the buttons of my shirt, intending to help me undress. I gently grasp her wrists, stopping her. "I’d really prefer it if we could start with a chat," I insist, trying to keep the situation under control.
"You look strong, like athlete maybe. You work out, yes?" She taps my arm lightly, her touch light and teasing. "Very big muscle, not just fat. Good."
I chuckle awkwardly, not used to being the focus of such comments. "Thanks. Yeah, I try to keep fit."
"Keeping fit good for stress," she nods.
Soriya’s gaze lingers on me, her eyes sparkling flirtation. "You so handsome. Your wife, she crazy to not see what she have. Why she make you so sad?" Her accent is thick, her words laced with a playful yet sincere tone.
"Yeah, it's been tough," I respond, giving a half-smile as I ease into the role we’ve constructed for this undercover interaction.
I resist the pull slightly, halting her progress. "Actually, Soriya, I really need to talk now. It's important."
She looks at me, a hint of impatience flickering across her face before being quickly masked by her professional demeanor. "Okay, we talk. But why you so serious? You come here to relax, no?"
She pauses, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but then nods, stepping back. "I understand. You nervous, I see. It okay," she says, her voice softening.
Soriya takes a step back and starts to loosen the sash of her robe. "I show you first, so you more comfortable," she explains, her tone casual yet observing my reaction carefully. The silk robe slips from her shoulders, falling gracefully to the floor, revealing her lithe figure, causing me to falter for a moment.
But Reine’s voice crackling through the earpiece snaps me back. “Stay focused, Ash.”
"Soriya, I know about Chantrea," I start firmly. The mention of the name causes her demeanor to shift, a visible jolt of shock passing through her.
"Chantrea? What you know about my sister?" She asks nervously, pulling her robe back over herself.
"Chantrea’s your sister?" I ask, surprise evident in my voice. The pieces begin to click into place, but there's still so much we don't understand.
"Yes, she my sister. What you do to her?" Soriya's voice is tight, her body tensed as if ready to bolt at any moment.
"I didn't do anything to her," I clarify quickly, "but something... happened.”
I explain what we saw back at the hotel, keeping my tone even to avoid alarming her further.
Soriya’s eyes widen, her body tensing. “You show me proof? You have pictures?”
I nod. “I do, but they’re disturbing.”
“I don’t care. I need to see,” she insists, her voice firm despite her obvious anxiety.
I pull out my phone, hesitating for a moment before opening the gallery. I show her the gruesome scene we stumbled upon.
Soriya takes the device, her hands slightly shaking as she views the photos of Zane's mangled, headless body. She gasps, her face going pale at the sight of the chaos and carnage. "This... Chantrea do this?"
"It looks like it," I reply, watching her closely. "There was something unnatural about her, something I've never seen before. She... she wasn't normal."
Soriya looks up from the phone, her eyes haunted. “She promise she not do this…”
I lean forward, keeping my voice low and steady. "What did she promise you?”
She hesitates, then sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. "Okay, I tell you. But not easy story."
I nod encouragingly, showing her it's okay to continue.
"We from poor village in Cambodia," Soriya starts, her eyes downcast. "Life very hard there. Our dad sick, need medicine, but medicine too expensive. Then, one day, men come. They say they have work for us in America. Say we make good money, send home for family."
Her voice falters, and it's clear the memories are painful. "Our mom, she not want us to go. She scared. But we need money for our dad. We think we do right thing."
"What happened when you arrived in America?" I prompt gently.
"Not like they say. They lie to us. They... they take us to place, lock us in room with many other girls. Beat us." The words come out in a rush, her face flush with the shame of recounting the ordeal. "They... they sell us. Sell first time to high bidder. After, force us work in sex work."
The story is all too familiar, a tragic narrative of exploitation that I've heard in different versions too many times.
Soriya wipes a tear from her cheek. "It hard, but we try to make life better here. Chantrea, she always strong one. She say she make them pay for what they do to us."
I nod, my expression solemn as I urge Soriya to continue, recognizing the courage it takes to reveal such personal pain.
Her eyes darken with a fear. "She don’t tell me how. I think she just say to make me feel better. But then I find out."
"What did you find out?" I ask, encouraging her to disclose more.
"One night, I wake up, hear noise from next room. I look, see Chantrea with candles, strange symbols on floor. She chant, not sound like herself." Soriya's hands clench as she recalls the memory.
"And did she tell you what she was doing?" I press gently, trying to piece together the events leading to the horror at the hotel.
Soriya nods, her eyes wide. "She say she do dark magic from old village legend. She say she want become something strong enough to take revenge… She want become Kamhoeng Slab."
"Kamhoeng Slab?" I query, struggling with the unfamiliar term.
Soriya struggles for a moment, trying to find the right words in English. She looks frustrated, then grabs my phone, quickly types something on it. I take the phone back and see that she has entered "Kamhoeng Slab" into Google Translate. The translation pops up as "Winged Wraith."
"'Winged Wraith,'" I read aloud, trying to grasp the significance. "Is that what she wanted to become?"
Soriya nods again, her eyes filled with fear. "Yeah. She believe only way to be strong enough to fight back. To protect us. I scared. I ask her stop. I make her promise to stop."
I pause, taking it all in. This was no ordinary case of trafficking or revenge; it was something far darker and more complex.
“I need you to trust me,” I tell Soriya, keeping my tone gentle. "I just want to help you and Chantrea."
Soriya bites her lip, her eyes darting around the dimly lit room, fear evident in her gaze. "I... I can’t. I don’t let you hurt her." Her voice cracks, the strain of loyalty and fear mixing palpably in the air.
"I just want to make sure no one else gets hurt, including Chantrea. Anything you tell us will be used to help her, not harm her," I assure her, hoping to ease her worries.
"What you want to know?" she asks.
"I need to know where she might go next. Who is she targeting?"
Soriya hesitates. "My sister, she... she say she find the big boss, the one who make us come here." She pauses, her voice barely a whisper. "She think to make him pay hardest. Make him example."
"The big boss?" I probe, my mind racing with the implications. "Do you know who he is?"
She nods reluctantly, her eyes darting towards the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment. "His name Jimmy Inthavong. She say he... he worst one."
"Jimmy Inthavong," I repeat, recognizing the name immediately. He's the head of the Blue Lotus, a mid-tier criminal organization that's been on the radar for everything from illegal gambling rings to murders for hire.
On the streets, he’s known as “the Shrike” because much like the bird, he has a penchant for impaling those who cross him on sharp objects as a warning to others.
"Do you know where she might find him?"
Soriya shakes her head, her fingers twisting a strand of her hair nervously. "No know exact. But she talk about place... a warehouse. Where they keep us when first come."
A warehouse could mean any number of locations in the city. "Do you know where this warehouse is?" I ask, hoping for a lead.
Soriya shrugs, a sign of her limited knowledge. "Somewhere north end of city. Near river. No sure. I only go there one time... too many bad memories."
"Thank you, Soriya. This has been very helpful,” I tell her.
Her eyes meet mine. "You really try to help us? Not just catch Chantrea?"
"Yes, I want to help both of you. I'll handle your sister’s situation carefully. I don't want to hurt her; we just want to stop her before things get worse," I reassure her, hoping to ease the burden she's been carrying.
She nods, giving a small, uncertain smile. "Okay, I trust you. Help Chantrea, please. No want her become monster."
"I will," I say, feeling the weight of that promise.
—
Reine and I spend the next several hours piecing together the clues Soriya provided, cross-referencing everything from old case files to city planning records. We work well into the night, our office bathed in the soft glow of computer screens and the occasional flicker of streetlights from the window.
We start by pulling up all known addresses connected to Jimmy Inthavong and the Blue Lotus. We sift through heaps of digital breadcrumbs, ranging from property records to anonymous tips that had come in over the years. Each piece adds to the mosaic of the Shrike's operations but fails to pinpoint the current location.
Feeling a bit stumped, we decide to revisit the basics. We review hours of CCTV footage from cameras around suspected Lotus properties, looking for any unusual activity that might indicate the location of the warehouse Soriya mentioned. It's tedious work, but it pays off.
Around 2 AM, Reine catches a break. She notices a pattern of vehicles that seem to frequent a large, nondescript warehouse on the northern edge of the city, near the Industrial Canal. The area is mostly abandoned, filled with rundown buildings that scream 'perfect hideout.' It's a place we’ve checked before but not deeply enough.
"That’s got to be it," Reine says, pointing at the screen. "Look at the traffic there. It’s subtle, but consistent. And always at odd hours."
We cross-reference the property with recent purchases and leases, finally finding a match through a shell company known to be a front for Inthavong. It's not concrete proof, but it's enough to go on.
With a location pinned down, we prepare what might be the most dangerous part of our investigation.
Reine calls in a few favors from contacts who can keep the police off our trail for a while. We don't need the added complication of explaining why we're there or what we're dealing with. Secrecy and speed are paramount.
We load up on equipment—more than the usual. We're not taking any chances. The arsenal in our trunk would make a small militia envious. We've got AR-15s, tactical vests studded with extra magazines, and a couple of Glock 19s with suppressors. Everything's laid out in the back of our SUV like a dealer's display at a gun show.
We meticulously rig improvised explosive devices, packing them into little sacks filled with sage and garlic. Reine says they’re good for warding off evil spirits according to Cajun myth. I’m skeptical, but I’ve seen enough tonight to entertain many possibilities.
The drive to the warehouse is tense. We go over the plan repeatedly. Infiltrate quietly and get to Chantrea before something regrettable happens.
When we arrive, the place is more eerily quiet than expected. The moon casts long shadows over the cracked pavement, and the warehouse looms like a dormant beast.
Using a set of bolt cutters, we cut through a chain-link gate and slip onto the grounds of the compound.
Every shadow seems to twitch with the possibility of danger, a reminder that we’re walking into the lair of a monster.
Just before reaching the main entrance, Reine stops short, her hand shooting out to halt me. She points to something in the shadows. My eyes follow her gesture, and my stomach tightens as I discern what’s there. A body lies crumpled against the wall. Tattoos snake up the arms and across the exposed torso—clear gang identifiers that match the Blue Lotus’s known symbols. It’s one of Ithavong’s thugs.
I approach slowly, my flashlight cutting a beam through the darkness to reveal the man’s neck ending in a bloody stump.
I scan the area and find his head a few feet away, eyes wide open in a silent scream, the terror of his last moments etched permanently into his features.
More bodies appear as we advance, each more gruesome than the last—heads, limbs, and other parts scattered haphazardly.
We press on, guided by body parts like a macabre trail of breadcrumbs. The ground beneath our feet crunches with the occasional bone fragment as we move towards the warehouse, its large doors torn off their hinges.
As we close in on the warehouse, the atmosphere is punctuated by the sound of screams and sporadic gunfire.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of gunpowder, and ground streaked in blood. As we cautiously step through the threshold, the interior unfolds into a scene from a nightmare.
Chantrea, fully transformed, moves through the shadows with a terrifying grace. Her form is grotesque and magnificent, a malevolent blend of her human self and something far darker. Long, leathery wings protrude from her back, and her limbs have elongated, ending in talons that rend through flesh and bone with ease. Her eyes glow with a feral, otherworldly light.
Inthavong's men lie scattered in disarray, some still twitching in their final moments. Chantrea cuts through them with deadly precision, her movements neither hurried nor slow, but inevitable.
Their screams are interrupted by the wet sounds of tearing flesh and Chantrea's haunting wails.
At the far end of the warehouse, cowering behind a makeshift barricade of crates and barrels, is the Shrike. The gang leader's usual composure has dissolved into panic. He shouts orders that go unheeded, his men too scattered and frightened to mount any effective defense.
We’re powerless to do anything except find shelter behind an overturned table and bear witness to the unfolding carnage.
As Chantrea advances towards him, Inthavong pulls out his Desert Eagle, his hands shaking as he fires desperately. The bullets cut through the air, but Chantrea dodges them effortlessly. She weaves through the air, her wings beating with a heavy, ominous thud that resonates through the property.
As the last of his pistol rounds click empty, Shrike's false bravado crumbles into raw desperation. "Please, please! Look, I got two hundred grands in that safe right there," he pleads, his voice breaking as he points frantically towards a heavy, iron safe in the corner. "It's all yours, girl, just let me go, alright?"
Chantrea pauses for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as if amused by Inthavong's pathetic attempt at bargaining for his life.
There's a mocking glint in her glowing eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile curls the corner of her mouth. It's a sinister, unsettling gesture that chills the air between them.
With a swift, horrifying grace, she lunges forward, her arms wrapping around Inthavong in a grotesque embrace.
A sickening sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones echoes through my ears. Shrike's body torn in half, right down the center, his body splitting with sickening ease as if made of clay rather than bone and sinew. Blood splatters in an arc, painting a gruesome picture on the concrete floor.
As Chantrea's rage finds its terrifying crescendo, she tosses the two halves of his body in opposite directions with the indifference of a capricious child discarding a broken toy.
The right half flies through the air, trailing a ribbon of entrails and blood, before slamming into a large shelving unit near us. The impact is thunderous, reverberating through the vast warehouse. It sends the heavy shelving teetering dangerously.
We barely have time to react. The shelving unit, overloaded with crates and metal tools, groans ominously, threatening to collapse. Reine grabs my arm, pulling me back just as the structure gives way, crashing down where we were crouched moments ago. Dust and debris fill the air, the crash masking our frantic movements as we scramble for new cover.
Our sudden, desperate dash does not go unnoticed. The disturbance catches Chantrea’s attention, her head swiveling towards us with unnerving speed.
As the dust settles, we find ourselves barely a dozen yards from her, our position dangerously exposed. Chantrea’s eyes, glowing fiercely in the dim warehouse light, fixate on us with a predatory intensity.
Realizing the futility of standing our ground, I grab Reine's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Run!" I shout.