Hello, I made an Inkblot account to post art. Still trying it out, obviously, but so far I like it! I still need to get back to posting art and stuff here as well.
I just got out of the shower which means I’m optimistic about projects and social media so I’m writing this draft before the mood fades and I’m immovable again
Ok so
Been a while. If you still follow this account you may or may not have noticed that the only things that have been posted since December 2018 are posts that say what day it is
A lot of this is because my posts here and on shipitouttahere got screwed up in The Great Tumblr Purge of 2018 and I was mad and didn’t wanna fix it. I still am and don’t.
But I do miss Tumblr. I’ve lurked off and on since then, just liking posts and sending them to friends instead of reblogging to keep my account more or less inactive (except for the dates posts, because it amused me to imagine getting a person looking at my page and wondering how many years in advance I have “It’s December 10th” gifs queued).
I’ve bopped around discord servers. I’ve disappeared from discord servers. I wish it were easier to find and get into discord servers that actually stay active. I’m around on Twitter but not like posting original stuff or anything. I’m on Instagram but the app crashes when I try and make posts a lot of the time so I just post stories. My cat’s instagram is updated with stories more than my own. I chat in Twitch communities a lot.
But I miss the social fandom stuff of tumblr. I started a Miraculous Only Sideblog because I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it (either due to lack of interest or spoilers because they weren’t caught up) and have been enjoying throwing stuff out into the void and getting excited with strangers about theories (please invite me to your Miraculous discords). You might’ve seen my Risk/Strike back comic floating around (warning: spoilers for s4 finale).
However I can’t message people from that account for some reason, and it occurs to me that having a seemingly inactive blog might not be a great way to make friends on the platform, especially if they’re vetting to make sure I’m not a bot (I still get regular new followers who are definitely bots that don’t know what asexual means).
So here’s some updates on me:
in grad school
for biology/teaching
I have no background in biology or teaching
it’s kicking my ass constantly
moved to Colorado
for grad school
even though it’s 90% asynchronous online
having a lot of issues with depression, adhd, loneliness, etc
some shit has happened
I will talk about/send picture of my cat with no warning
he is very cute
he is on my lap right now
I’m very lucky he isn’t trying to type along with me
in my 30s
in case that matters to you
AAA
asexual
aromantic
agender
(and/or nonbinary)
not currently working
due to aforementioned school and shit that happened
Here is where you can find me:
Discord
(DM me for friendsability)
Twitter
mirrankei - personal
shipitouttahere - writing/fanart/complaining about writing
Twitch
notawerwolf - occasionally trying to stream art but ¯\_(。-°)_/¯
why is it called notawerwolf
it’s a long story
might change to or add mirrankei or shipitouttahere but eh
Ko-fi
mirrankei -I keep forgetting about it but I want to try and use it more
Tumblr
mirrankei - here
shipitouttahere - fanfics, other writing, fanart
currently inactive but maybe will bring back
I said a long time ago I wouldn’t update it until I finished Mirror Neuron and gosh I still have trouble with that
atm I’m mostly writing Miraculous fanfic on @clawsoutspotsoff, which I may reblog here as well (not sure yet). I’m also posting the polished fics on my AO3 and rambling on the shipitouttahere twitter about fandoms and writing issues occasionally.
Some time ago when I left tumblr because of all the fuckyness I said that I wouldn’t post again until I finished Mirror and then I didn’t finish Mirror.
I HAVE FINISHED WRITING MIRROR
I probably won’t post the last two sections here, but they are all up on AO3, along with the revised/edited rest of the fic.
100 is a lot unless you write a lot of dialogue. I wonder if just linking fics on my word press would work because god damn this site is making things difficult. It’s like they’re trying to have people not use it.
yeah I noticed this, and I completely hate it lmao because I do write a lot of dialogue and I write small paragraphs for easy readability ): I might have to post everything on AO3 and just link it on here :/
The title apparently counts as one line since it wouldn’t let me go past 99.
Seriously @staff ????
IMPORTANT EDIT
EVERYONE CALM DOWN!!!
I tried this on desktop and did not hit a limit. It looks like a limitation of mobile posts.
I didn’t bother going past 543 because ain’t nobody got time for that, but there is no 100 block limit on desktop. You’re just going to have to post your fics on your computer or through your mobile web browser instead of the app.
Please reblog this version of the post so that people don’t totally freak out
100 is a lot unless you write a lot of dialogue. I wonder if just linking fics on my word press would work because god damn this site is making things difficult. It’s like they’re trying to have people not use it.
yeah I noticed this, and I completely hate it lmao because I do write a lot of dialogue and I write small paragraphs for easy readability ): I might have to post everything on AO3 and just link it on here :/
heyyyyyy so here’s the fic I wrote for the @bnhasummerexchange event, for @rutilatedho! I hope it’s enjoyable in some way or other, and if not, at least it amused ME.
[Read it on Ao3]
Shouto liked to think of himself as a decently balanced person. He understood his faults, he paid attention in classes sometimes, he knew some of his classmates’ names. Perhaps sometimes he’s not the most composed or reasonable person in the room, not the brightest or the quickest on the uptake, but that was inevitable when you’ve grown up with a tyrannical abusive twit of a father and what could Shouto be expected to do about that?
He appreciated summer for the chance to freely exercise his right side. In other times of the year it concerned others if he maintained crystalized ice over an entire half of his body, potentially risking frostbite, but in the summer there was little anyone wanted to do about it but join in.
Not to mention, it’s ridiculous to entertain the idea of his right side causing frostbite. He knew better than to do that; it’s his own ice, after all. He would save the frostbite for a particularly annoying day of school he wants to skip and not a day sooner.
“Dathhhhs pitty neat Tododoki, but it don’t tchangth how it tasthe,” Kaminari mouthed into Shouto’s forearm.
“Natsuo insisted I’d done it before,” Shouto protests. “Swear on my pops, you keep your tongue there another five minutes and the froyo flavor I ate should come through.”
“That’s cheap as hell, Todoroki, you hate your pops,” Uraraka chimed in from her front row seat to the spectacle.
“I love my pops?” Shouto squinted at her, confused. “I can’t make them the same with my quirk. The new brand mixes in a smooth milk and creme with the strawberry to really bring out the tartness of the flavor. I would protect my pops with my life.”
“Eyy!” Kirishima cried from his position a little higher up Shouto’s arm than Kaminari, “I think I tasthed thomething dust dow!”
“Whaaat? Theriouthly?” Kaminari said.
“Eyah, thorta… thavory?” Kirishima guessed, eyebrow raised. “Ait, ait, no, ait… no, dat’s thweat.”
“Yeah, I asked them to discontinue that flavor,” Shouto scoffed. “Nasty as hell, catch me dead before I touch it again.”
“What’s going on?” said Midoriya from the living room entrance.
A shiver went up Shouto’s spine, and Kaminari and Kirishima fell to the ground with twin yelps as their tongues were suddenly thawed free.
“Todoroki says he can make his ice into different flavors if he eats something before,” Uraraka explained to a bewildered Midoriya, who absently dropped his schoolbag in the middle of the hall.
I think it’s part 6??? I’ll change it if I’m wrong.
ANYWAY I TOLD MYSELF I COULDN’T POST STUPID THINGS UNTIL I FINISHED MIRROR SO I JUST HAVEN’T POSTED ANYTHING SORRY
There will be one more part after this. And that’s all the parts.
Enjoy.
It is, eventually, returned to its confinement. Alex and the others are kind enough to allow it some time first to explore - under supervision, of course.They trail behind, watching as it explores the hallway, looking into every room, examining the walls and light fixtures and doorways. On its first trip through, it had been focused more on staying upright and hadn’t had a chance to study the scenery. It’s not particularly exciting, but it’s infinitely better than staring at the same four walls through the glass.
It sighs as said glass closes behind it. Danielle and Sarah float around the side of the container to watch; Sarah in particular had complained it wasn’t safe, but there wasn’t enough room for all six of them.
It turns to face Alex, who is pushing at the door, testing its integrity out of curiosity. It crosses its arms, smug. It never bothered with the door itself, figuring it would be too highly alarmed and difficult to open.
“Shall we begin?” Dr Igwe says, interrupting him. He sounds eager, as he has since it first transformed into the coffee cup.
Alex huffs and turns away from the door, wiping his hands on his shirt. He leaves handprints behind on the glass.
It scowls. How am I supposed to clean that?
“Right,” Alex says. “Let’s go ahead and begin. Danielle, are the cameras working again?”
“Yes,” she reports. “We’ve cleared the looping footage from the feed.”
“Good,” he says. He side-eyes the typhon. “We’ll have to figure out a way to prevent that from happening again.”
It grins. It had spent long, boring hours traversing a very specific path that had enough variation to look natural. It’s enjoying the payoff of Morgan’s brother’s annoyance, maybe as much as the brief freedom itself.
“How did you gain access to the cameras?” Mikhaila asks. She sounds more curious than accusatory.
It smiles at her, and gestures to the area where the computer terminal rises.
“Hacking,” it says proudly. It figured they would ask, and had been working for some time to translate the concept into a sound, murmuring silently to itself.
“Well obviously you hacked it,” Dr Igwe says eagerly. “But how did you understand how to use the terminal? You were unable to type even words before, how have you suddenly been able to code? You haven’t even had access to a computer outside of our sessions.”
Its smile drops a little.
“...Hacking,” it repeats.
Alex raises an eyebrow.
The confused silence lingers for a moment.
“...How…” Igwe begins again.
“Hacking!” it interrupts, angrily pointing at its eye in an attempt to get the point across. Even if it had the words to explain in detail, it doesn’t know how to express that it’s the very concept it’s used to access the systems, not a series of individual actions.
“You mean… the Hacking neuromod from the simulation,” Alex says, clarifying.
It nods vigorously.
Alex puts his hand on his chin, deep in thought. “Hrmph.”
“And how did you get out of the cell?” Mikhaila asks. Her voice is level and soothing. It’s grateful for that.
But it’s not sure how to explain its escape. It was a combination of things, of misdirecting them during the daily tests, leaning on the terminal looking as bored as possible while part of it that the cameras can’t see fiddle with the wiring beneath the computer, keeping a small part of its body jammed in the opening so that it could slowly pour itself down into the space beneath its cell, hotwiring the computer as it went, activating the recorded footage and slipping out into the rest of the facility.
It ponders how to explain all that. Eventually it waves vaguely at the crack where the terminal rises and says “Leverage,” which really only references the small amount of pushing to keep the opening available, but will hopefully deter them from asking for the details for now.
Alex frowns. “Can you only speak in names of neuromods?”
It scowls at him.
“Easier,” it says, after a moment of frustrated thought. None of this comes naturally for it like it does for them. It thought that was clear from the beginning.
“Why did you go to Alex’s room?” Danielle pipes up. “Why not escape entirely?”
It looks at her, somewhat surprised. Honestly, it had never been its intention to leave. It wasn’t as if it was being tortured, and it did want to help with Alex’s project. It certainly didn’t have any desire to return to the typhon hivemind either.
It pauses, pondering how it’s supposed to answer.
“Boring,” it settles on, gesturing at the walls. Then at Alex; “Morgan.”
Alex’s fingers clench around the picture frame he is still carrying.
It drops its arm, feeling suddenly ashamed of itself. It isn’t wearing Morgan’s body any more, having slipped away from it after leaving the bedroom, seeing the sadness behind Alex’s eyes, like the pain in Mikhaila’s voice, being confronted with something they’d lost. It doesn’t mean to keep doing that to them.
It crosses its arms and looks away, uncomfortable. Its explanation is severely lacking now that it’s heard it out loud. “Morgan” can’t be its answer to everything.
“Well,” Igwe says, either oblivious to the atmosphere or ignoring it, “I’m sure we’ll be able to do something to alleviate the boredom.”
It turns to him and makes a questioning, hopeful sound.
“We can walk around the station some more later, and you can pick some things out. It’s very limited, of course, but…”
Alex raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest. “Perhaps it can tell us what it would like.”
It glares back at Alex’s challenge. Lots of things flash through its mind that could make its cell more like a room- something to sit on, lie on, watch or read or use or look at.
It scowls at the whirlwind of concepts, and at Alex’s insufferable face.
“Words,” it says, disgustedly.
Alex snorts.
“Books, then,” Mikhaila says. “You can certainly read well enough. And we may as well give you access to the computer as well.”
It glances at Sarah, braced for a protest. To its surprise, she doesn’t.
“We should leave the testing area open,” she says instead. “These… entertainment options should go outside the glass.”
It makes a noise of protest.
Sarah turns to it. “You can have access to the rest of the room. But you’re not to go in the rest of the facility unaccompanied.”
It chirps, perking up instantly at the prospect. “Agree!”
“Sounds like a plan,” Alex says. He seems pleased. The glass opens behind him, and he steps out.
It thinks he looks relieved to get out. If being stuck in here for five minutes is that distressing, imagine how I feel, it thinks smugly.
Alex goes around to the back of the main terminal. It follows him, cautiously, but none of the operators try to stop it as it flicks past the open door. It settles next to where Alex is standing, looking over his shoulder.
“No more hacking either,” he says. “I will give you access to what you need, and if there’s anything else, you can ask for it.”
It doesn’t say anything. Alex raises an eyebrow, and it looks innocently back.
He taps at the terminal, and it looks down to see what he’s doing. There’s a screen pulled up, one it doesn’t really recognise from the simulation, but it can figure out from Morgan’s memory; Alex is making a new account.
His hands freeze over the letter keys. They drop to his sides.
“I need to enter a name for you.”
It stares at him.
“TransStar account or not, we may as well have something to call you.”
It looks around the room. The operators are all out of the glass area now, watching curiously. It looks down at the screen, with its muddle of letters that aren’t words and have no meanings, and the blank space with a flashing line waiting for Alex’s input. It looks up again.
“Maybe… Ty?” Danielle suggests.
Short for typhon? it thinks, and it must make some sort of face because the others throw out alternatives.
“Or Allen?”
“That’s just as bad.”
“Elliot?”
“Bambi.”
“Shadow.”
“It’s not a dog.”
“Morgan?” Alex asks quietly. The operators don’t hear, and continue their argument.
It is deep in thought, staring blankly at the family photo Alex has left on top of the computer terminal, but it shakes its head. It is not Morgan. No matter how much it wants to be, it isn’t Morgan, and it isn’t going to take that name.
The photo is helping it, though. It has something in mind, just an itch in the back of its mind, but it can almost reach it. Something that belongs to itself, something not quite Morgan, a memory, a word, a pattern.
It mouths to itself, trying to translate the words into ideas into the next item in the pattern into words again.
Morgan’s memories. Morgan’s knowledge. But not Morgan.
December.
January.
“February,” it says.
Alex looks at it.
“February,” he agrees.
There’s a rush of warmth in its back (its heart, its face) as he types. The word appears on the screen.
He finishes the account. He enters February’s last name as “Yu.” It has a user number, and a digital mail address, and its password is “qwerty” (“You can change it when you’ve figured out how to write,” Alex challenges). They leave after a while, and the door shuts behind them, but the glass container stays open, and it turns the lights off and on and off again and scrolls through its accessible files without really remembering any of them.
Alex leaves the photo on top of the computer. It floats around the room but it comes back and picks it up before settling on the floor, leaning on the outside of the glass and looking through the dim light and the smudged frame at Morgan’s lightly freckled face.
Just a short section today because I am on a trip! Might not be anything else until I get back. But this is one of the sections I’ve been most looking forward tooooooo
Alex is in the mess hall with Danielle when the facility goes into lockdown. He pauses with his spoon full of mushy, rehydrated peas halfway to his mouth, frowning as the emergency lights flare into existence and the door slams shut. He can hear the echoes of other doors shutting and locking in the adjacent hallway. His suit blares an alarm, but he immediately shuts off the sound.
“What's going on?” he demands of Danielle.
“Hang on, I'm checking,” she says, processors whirring. “Sarah set it off, but I don't know...wait.”
She sinks a little in the air, and if she still had her face, it would be rapidly paling.
“A containment breach? But that can't be…”
“We’re under attack?” Alex says, standing. His voice is calm, but his knuckles are white as they clutch the side of the table.
“No, it's not from the outside, it's internal. But the typhon--”
“The typhon has escaped its containment!” Igwe shouts, the sound piping though Alex's suit and Danielle's sub-speaker.
“What?!”
“That's-- how is that possible?” Mikhaila joins in. “I can still see it on the camera!”
“It hacked the damn cameras!” Sarah spits. “It's a looping video. I don't know how the hell it managed to get into our systems, but when we went in for its physical it was not in the container.”
“It isn't just camouflaged?” Alex asks.
“What is there for it to turn into? There's nothing in there with it!”
“We did not open the cell, just in case,” Igwe assures Alex, “but there is no sign of it. Psionic disablers are having no effect.”
“Damn it,” Alex murmurs.
“Igwe is searching the lab and containment,” Sarah says. “Mikhaila, help me search the rest of the building; I'll take west, you take east.”
“Roger!”
“Danielle, get Alex somewhere safe. And Alex, don't you dare do anything to compromise your safety. Stay close to Danielle, get a weapon and your psychoscope, and stay put. We can't risk--”
“I know, I know,” Alex growls. “Everyone, stay on the line. Check all the cameras and keep us informed of any other changes it might have made to our systems. And just stun it! Don't use lethal force as anything but a last resort.”
“Got it,” the operators chorus.
“Alex, let's get to your quarters,” says Danielle.
“Yes, yes.” Alex is already at the door, violently putting in the override code. “God damn it, it was going so well. Was it just playing with us?”
“Who knows,” Danielle says. Her taser is armed, and there's a high pitched whine indicating her psionic disabler is as well. “On the bright side, it shouldn't be able to get out of the building. We're still completely under quarantine.”
“It shouldn't have been able to get out of the lab either,” Alex mutters. “Any news?”
“Not yet,” Sarah answers. “I have turrets armed at all potential exits, but there's no sign of it.”
“Nothing on the cameras either,” Mikhaila adds. “I'm searching room by room.”
“Are you safe, Alex?”
“Getting there, Dayo.” Alex is huffing a little from the exertion. “I have my pistol, and my psychotronics are in my room. We're almost there.”
“No sign of movement in the vents as far as I can tell,” Danielle reports. “Nothing’s set off any of the triggers.”
“Same for maintenance rooms,” Igwe adds. “But I have found something interesting; the floor in the cell has a segment slightly out of place. Where the computer terminal comes out.”
“That explains where it hacked us from,” Mikhaila mutters.
“Check the ground and walls!” Sarah orders. “Anything with mechanical operation or that might be connected through the electronics.”
“So, literally anywhere,” says Danielle.
“Alex, status?”
“We’re fine, Sarah,” Danielle answers for him. “He’s opening the door now, the hall is clear. We’ll--”
“Shh!” Alex says, waving his hand. All the operators immediately stop speaking.
He stands in the doorway of the darkened bedroom, peering inward. Danielle’s view is blocked by his body, and she floats slowly to the side to get a better angle.
“Danielle, stay here,” Alex says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Keep your weapons armed, and be on alert.”
“Alex, what’s wrong?” Sarah demands, though her voice is lowered.
“It’s here, in my room.”
“What?!”
“Shhh!” he reiterates. He stares in silence into the dark, eyes narrowed.
The typhon stands next to his bed. The dark shape is completely still, its head lowered. There’s no sign of its usual swirling or flickering.
“Wait here,” Alex tells Danielle, “But stay on guard.”
“Alex…” she protests.
“We’re on our way over,” Sarah says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Alex nods, although she can’t see him. He steps into his room.
The typhon doesn’t react to his movement. Alex walks slowly, quietly, towards it, holding his hands out to show he doesn’t mean harm. As much as he longs for the secure feeling of his pistol in his hand, he neither wants to risk scaring the typhon, nor provoking it.
“Hey there,” he says quietly. “You gave us a bit of a scare, disappearing like that.”
The typhon makes a short, barely audible humming sound in acknowledgement. It doesn’t otherwise move.
Since it doesn’t seem to be upset, Alex steps closer. He’s approaching it from a better angle now, and he can see that its form, though humanoid, isn’t its usual self. It’s smaller, and though the room is dark, Alex can see tan skin beyond its normal patches and hands. Its hands are held in front of its chest, elbows resting on its ribcage, head lowered to stare fixated at an object in its hands.
“What are you doing in here?” Alex asks.
The typhon doesn’t answer except by sighing, its shoulders rising and falling with a strangely choked sound. It’s trembling.
“Are you alright?” Alex continues. He steps forward again, and he’s right up beside it. Its bowed head reaches just above his shoulder. Something in him wants to reach out and rest his hand on its head, ruffling the hair it’s currently sporting to comfort it. He hesitates, hand half raised, unsure what to do.
By now, all three operators are lingering in the doorway, peering in. Their headlights are turned off, keeping the room dark, and they wait silently. Their weapons are still drawn, but no longer armed.
Alex glances back at them. He shrugs. I have no idea what it’s doing.
He tries one more time to get its attention. He takes a long breath and swallows, then rests his hand on its shoulder. “What’s got your attention, there?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
The typhon lets out a sob, and Alex feels his spine go cold from bottom to top at the sound. It turns to face him, looks up at him with brown eyes, framed with faint freckles and messy black hair. It grips the object in its hands, its pale peach hands, knuckles white around the picture frame Alex keeps on his bedside table.
It’s Morgan’s face staring up at Alex, slightly strained as if holding back tears. It looks exactly like Morgan, right down to its outfit, which isn’t the TranStar space suit it had worn in the simulation, but clothes that Morgan would have picked out of the closet on a day off.
It takes a moment for Alex to regain his breath, and another for his racing mind to slow down long enough to process anything.
“Morgan.”
The typhon’s first word is a mournful, choked up moan. Alex supposes it's an appropriate choice.
“...Yes,” he says, as if they are having a pleasant conversation. “That's Morgan. And me, and our parents.” He points to each in turn, the family portrait still clutched in the typhon’s hands. “This wasn’t included in your memories; it was taken just before the two of us left for Talos.”
It stares at the picture, running its fingers over the glass. “Morgan,” it says again, quietly. It sighs and shuts its eyes, like it's trying to hold back tears.
“We were so excited to finally get going,” Alex continues. “We had been working on the project remotely from Earth, but construction of the station itself took years.”
It hums again, brow creased in thought. Alex studies its face, a perfect replica of Morgan’s, as it studies the same face in the photo. It's one of Alex’s favorite pictures of them, a rare semi-candid one instead of the many stone-faced ones their parents insisted were professional. Morgan and Alex are both smiling, on the brink of laughing, and there's just a hint of a smirk on their mother’s face even as she rolls her eyes, their father’s face as solemn as ever, but with one arm around her shoulders and the other around Morgan’s, slight crinkles around his eyes betraying his pride.
The typhon doesn't look like Morgan’s laughing face in the photo. It looks older, tired, like Morgan had been on Talos during its last days.
“Alex.”
Alex blinks. The typhon is looking at him with an inscrutable expression, one that doesn't quite fit Morgan's face. It takes Alex’s hand in its own, squeezing it gently before handing him the picture and walking past him to the hallway.
The operators part for it, though Sarah lingers for a moment, weapons sparking briefly to life.
It ignores this, gently putting a hand on her side and pushing her out of the way. It blinks up at the flashing alarm lights.
“You can't just leave like that,” Sarah says sternly. She sounds wary, but not nearly as venomous as she did before. “We thought you were trying to return to the other typhon. If the turrets found you before we did, they would have shot to kill.”
It turns to blink at her, a vague expression of realization on its borrowed face. It frowns, brow furrowing for a long moment.
After a prolonged silence, it looks up at her, and at the other three operators and Alex standing behind her.
It takes another second, tasting the word silently in its mouth before speaking again.
Apparently a chasse is a kind of dance step, and the word I was looking for is ‘chassis’. WHOOPS OH WELL
The next test, despite Alex’s promise (“I said maybe”, it can imagine him saying, smugly), is not anything to do with changing shape. It is not happy about that, but it doesn’t protest either. It wonders if its taking Mikhaila’s shape has changed their plans again; none of the five have brought it up, but it knows they are all aware of what it can do. There are the ever-present cameras, after all.
It looks up at the cameras as it pokes the answers to today’s questions. More morality stuff, but not the damn train thing again, at least. It knows it should be paying more attention, but its mind is elsewhere. The questions are still boring and limited in scope. Alex and the operators are still talking amongst themselves, not directly to it, and it doesn’t really care what they think of its answers.
It’s still thinking about mimicking, and neuromods, and memories.
When it had changed into Mikhaila, it hadn’t been thinking about every body part and detail, it had just remembered what she was like as a whole. The same with the coffee cup and the chair. It was the concept that was important, not the details; it didn’t remember if it had toes under the space suit shoes, or if it had lungs and a spleen under its skin, but it had felt human enough at the time.
It supposes it was the same way in the simulation. It had thought it was human, so it was able to be human. But the concept of ‘human’ was too vague, so it couldn’t make its form into… into whatever it would look like if it were human (it wasn’t Morgan. The fact that it wasn’t and never had been is burned into its mind).
But if it takes the overall concept of communication, of speech and writing and words, can it make itself understood? Can Alex take someone’s ability to speak and change it into a neuromod and jam it into it?
It hums to itself as it ponders this, a low vibration running through its body. It pokes the answer to the next question without really thinking about it (one of Morgan’s favorite high school teachers had said that when taking a test, the first instinct is usually correct), and runs over all the neuromods (virtual neuromods) it had installed in itself in the simulation.
Leverage (to move the train tracks), telekinesis (to move the people, or the train), mobility (get there before the train), regeneration (withstand being hit by the train), stamina, conditioning, dismantle, repair, hacking… it goes on and on, and even the ones it (as Morgan) hadn’t chosen to install it intimately knows, because it is typhon, it is where half these abilities come from, it has them written into its DNA from long before the empathy and morality that Alex is so obsessed with. It wants to experiment with them all, human or typhon.
It leans on the terminal, its head resting on its hand while another hand taps at the screen. It can have as many hands as it wants. It watches Alex and the operators and the cameras as they watch it. Fingers tap idly on the terminal, its not-feet also tapping along to the rhythm that isn’t really a heartbeat. It is doing whatever it can to alleviate the boredom.
-----
The typhon is cooperating with the tests, finally, without any protest beyond finding new ways to express how utterly bored it is. Alex doesn’t mind that so much. It still seems to enjoy raising its fingers at him, but only in response to a quip or teasing comment.
“I think it must need more stimulation,” he says, mostly thinking aloud. “Its recent lack of sass is actually somewhat worrisome.”
“It has seemed to stop most of its private exercises,” Danielle agrees. She isn’t looking at the screen that displays the typhon’s containment, but she can have the cameras’ signals feed into her directly. “It’s been kind of petering out for the past few days.”
“Well, Dayo and I have more or less finalized what kind of transformations we want to see it perform,” Alex says. He rubs his chin thoughtfully as he watches the screen. The typhon is floating around the perimeter of its cell, swirling and rolling in the air as it moves. “Ever since Mikhaila’s encounter, it hasn’t shown much interest in appearing human again.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” she says. Her charging station beeps, and she pulls away from it to join Alex at his computer. “It looks more and more like the normal typhon do.”
Alex sighs and moves his hand to his forehead to rub there instead. “I hope we aren’t losing progress with it. I want to move forward but…”
“...but you can’t have direct contact with it, because it’s still a threat. That stunt you pulled after the simulation was bad enough. If the others found out you did that, you--”
“And we can’t even communicate with it enough to determine what level of threat,” he says, cutting her off. He sighs heavily, and pulls his hand away from his aching head. His fingers are somewhat wet with sweat and oil, and he needs a shave. There hasn’t been much time for self-care, even if he could spare the resources. On the one hand, he can’t wait for the next supply run, but on the other… “We need to have absolute proof that it is not only safe, but useful to us, before we break quarantine.”
Danielle says nothing. Her processor and motor whir softly. They watch the typhon drift aimlessly around and around the perimeter of its cell.
Alex sighs and shuts the screen off.
“I’m going to have something to eat. Call the others and tell them to meet me in the simulation room in half an hour.”
“Get some rest, too,” Danielle says firmly. “Unless you want Igwe to sedate you again.”
Alex grunts in response. “Two hours, then.”
He leaves his office, and the door shuts behind him. Danielle keeps watching the typhon on her internal systems for a few minutes. It is still going in circles, though it’s changed direction. She sighs to herself, and goes to meet the other operators.
-----
The typhon is still somewhat listless at the next meeting. They put off the mimicking test again, in favor of Igwe checking its physical wellbeing. They haven’t spoken of their worries in front of it, and as such it is somewhat irritable about repeating the same thing again.
Igwe pokes and prods at it with various tools. He runs a basic medical scan, takes samples of its tissues and organs and fluids, and asks it yes or no questions. It crosses its arms and manages to make its entire body give off the impression of rolling its eyes.
“Just bear with us,” Alex says.
“Everything appears normal, as far as I can tell,” Igwe says, floating back from it. “Molecular structure is still stable, the implanted neurons are still stable, no major changes at all. It seems to be perfectly normal.”
The typhon throws its hands up. It could have told them that (if it could tell them anything).
“I understand your frustration, but we do need to make certain everything is still functioning,” Alex says. “You may not recall, but there was some… difficulty with infusing Morgan’s cells into you. We have to continue routine check ups, along with more detailed ones on occasion.”
It cocks its head. It remembers flashes of when Morgan’s cells were put into it, but nothing particularly solid. Confusion, mostly, and a desperation to get away. That might have been because of pain, but it isn’t sure. Beyond those quick sparks of memory, there’s just black nothing, and then waking up as Morgan. It wonders if it is the first typhon they tried this with, or if it has failed cousins that were fed to the recycler when they refused to be cognizant.
“Have you been feeling anything wrong recently? If there’s anything that has been hurting or if you feel sick, please be sure to let us know. I can run more detailed tests.”
It shakes its head at Igwe’s question. It flickers into its humanoid shape and taps its temple. Then it gestures at the container.
“So it’s all neurological then,” Igwe inquires.
It nods.
“We are working on improving your stimuli,” he informs him. “I know you must be tired of hearing this, but we must ask you to be patient.”
It huffs a little, but nods again. It knows. It’s up to it to make its own entertainment.
Part of this might be a little off because I wasn’t able to find a good reference for the beginning of the game without watching it all over again whoops. That’s ok that’s what editing is for.
It's still sulking when Alex returns, his posse of operators following. It glances up at them, then folds tighter into itself.
“Come on, back to work,” Alex says.
It doesn't bother to flip him off.
“What's wrong with it?” Igwe asks. “There's nothing different about its vital signs or brainwaves.”
“It's sulking,” Alex says.
“I told you you shouldn't have insulted it,” Mikhaila says.
“It was encouraging teasing!”
“It was mean. It's been doing its best.”
“Well it isn't now,” Sarah says. She floats closer to the glass. “Get up. You want us to treat you better, you have to earn it.”
It looks at her. It knows she's right, it's the one that's an experiment to tame an alien monster, but it still feels like it isn't fair.
And it isn't mad at Sarah. Or at any of the operators, really. It still feels responsible for them, even if it's saving them (or finding their bodies, so many bodies) wasn't real. It's only mad at Alex, for acting like he knows better as usual and rubbing it in its face.
When Morgan got in a fight with Alex, it tended to linger.
It reluctantly pushes up from the wall and assumes its humanoid form. It walks to where it knows the terminal will rise and crosses its arms, waiting impatiently.
The terminal emerges. It puts its hands on it and leans forward. Before Alex turns it on, the screen is black. It sees a glimpse of its reflection, dark on the screen, black and swirling, the glare of the ceiling lights partially obscuring its lack of a face (not Morgan’s face). It clenches its fingers. The screen blinks on.
It looks up at Alex, waiting for the first question.
“You may find this somewhat familiar,” he says. He doesn't look up from his own terminal as he taps commands in. “Just bear with me.”
It is familiar. It looks up at Alex incredulously. This again?
“Just answer the questions however you feel is right to you. There are no wrong answers.”
It's the train problem again, like in the the simulation. It hadn't enjoyed being judged for its choices when it was Morgan in the lab, and it doesn't like being judged for them now.
It sighs to itself and reviews the questions.
Alex’s assertion is wrong. There are wrong answers. They want to know it's morality (again), and its choices here are clearly going to color what they decide to do with it.
The trouble is, looking at the questions now, knowing more than waking up in Morgan’s apartment and feeling more than Morgan’s confusion at Alex’s strange, wistful greeting (how many times in those three years had Morgan repeated that morning?) and being unable to figure out how moving blocks and hiding behind chairs and stopping theoretical trains had anything to do with going to space… knowing why they were asking this, and looking back on its choices on Talos, all of these answers are wrong.
Do nothing, and kill three people, or be responsible for the death of one. But why let anyone die? There are so many options not available to it on this screen.
Use telekinesis to derail the train. Mimic a blade and cut the people free. Blast the tracks with GLOO and stop it.
They have neuromods. They have tools and technology and the ability to stop the trains. What was the point of putting it through all those experiences if it can't use what it’s learned?
It looks up from the screen. Alex and the operators are watching it. It takes its hands from the terminal.
Alex frowns. “What's wrong? Can you understand the questions?”
It nods.
“Just choose whatever you like,” he repeats. “It doesn't have to be the same as what you chose before, and you don't have to choose what you think we want you to. Just tap the one that feels natural.”
It gestures at the screen and shakes its head.
Alex scowls. The operators shuffle in the air, expressing their confusion.
“Let’s just move on for now,” Sarah says, exasperated.
“No,” Alex says. “Answer the questions.”
“It doesn't want to,” Danielle says. “We've already had to deal with yesterday's...setback. Let's just go to the next test.”
What's the next one, hiding behind a chair?
“No.” Alex is glaring at it. “It's still sulking. It's being stubborn. Answer the questions, then we'll move on.”
It's not because I'm pissed at you, it thinks, glaring back, it's because this test is stupid and irrelevant and not applicable to our actual resources!
It walks away from the terminal, restless. It doesn't want to answer the questions, but Alex is standing with his arms crossed, stubbornly refusing to move on. The operators, though exasperated, aren't doing much to convince him, and it knows from Morgan's experience how futile arguing can be. And it can't even express its argument.
It goes back to the terminal. It selects answers at random, not bothering to read them. For the last question, it locks eyes with Alex as it very deliberately selects ‘Push the fat man’.
Danielle emits a stifled laugh. Alex seems less amused.
“Well,” Sarah says, hovering over his shoulder, “You've chosen to do nothing and let more people die, chosen to sacrifice one to save many, and chosen to directly murder one person, specifically Alex, to save the rest. I can't say I disagree with that last one, but it's not exactly consistent data.”
“At least we can move forward now,” Mikhaila says, and the others agree. Alex is still sulking, but puts the command into the terminal.
The screen changes to show a Rorschach test. It cocks its head, confused.
“How is it supposed to tell us what it sees?” Mikhaila points out.
Alex grumpily reaches for the terminal again. “We didn't update the questions yet since discovering it can't write.”
“Wait,” says Igwe.
“What is it, Dayo?” Alex still has his hand over the screen, but doesn't move the test forward.
Igwe turns to indicate the typhon. “It's doing something.”
It's peering at the terminal, resolutely studying the inkblot. Its body is shifting and flickering, not quite abandoning its human form, but not concentrating on maintaining it. The inkblot has made it think of something. It digs deep into itself and tries to pull a certain feeling out of itself...for once, it isn't something it's borrowed from Morgan, but something Morgan borrowed from it.
Alex jumps, startled, as the typhon leaps forward, human shape bursting into the black tendrils that make up its natural form and immediately retracting again, wrapping around itself and weaving into a new shape.
A coffee mug rattles to a stop on top of the terminal.
They stare, bemused.
“What?” says Alex.
“Is it… saying it sees a coffee mug in the inkblot?” says Danielle.
“How does it mimic an object with no reference before it?” Igwe mutters. “We have never seen a typhon do that before.”
“It’s working from memory,” says Sarah. “Once the test got to the inkblots, that’s when the Mimic attacked Dr. Bellamy. It was a coffee mug.”
“So it’s a threat?” says Igwe.
The coffee mug seems to take offense at this, and jumps off the terminal. It rolls to the center of the cell, and typhon tendrils burst out of it again, twisting and reforming until it becomes a wooden chair.
Alex snorts. “A little late to be hiding, isn’t it?” he waves his hand. “No, I don’t think it’s threatening us. Just a morbid sense of humor, I suppose.”
The chair twists back into the typhon’s usual shape. It sits, cross-legged, on the floor, looking somewhat pleased with itself.
“Should we continue the test?” Danielle asks.
“I am interested in how it can transform without an object to reference,” Igwe says, before Alex can answer. “Would it be possible to modify our schedule to include tests on its transformative abilities?”
The typhon rolls to its feet and eagerly waits in front of the glass. It puts its hands to the wall and nods, excited by the prospect of something more interesting than the psychology tests. It hadn’t considered using its shape changing as a real way of communication until Danielle had posited that it was changing into the object visible in the ink splatter; if it can master its shifting, it may be able to communicate more easily.
“We can,” Alex says. He has his hand on his chin as he thinks. “But we haven’t worked out a specific test for that yet. It may be better to continue on schedule for today.” He raises an eyebrow at the typhon. “Maybe, if it cooperates today, we can work on the typhon abilities tomorrow.”
It sags, and Igwe sinks a little in the air. Both are disappointed.
“If you wouldn’t mind stepping back to the computer,” says Alex. He sounds unbearably smug.
It flops a little, but floats back over to the terminal. It supposes it can deal with the tests for now, the hope of something new tomorrow the only thing keeping it from sulking at Alex again. He’s moved the test onward, past the inkblots. A pity, it wanted to try shifting into whatever form it saw (or into the inkblots itself-- the black shapes aren’t too different from typhon, really), but Alex seems set on punishing it for sulking with sticking to the boring stuff.
It sighs to itself, and taps its answer.
-----
It doesn’t have much sense of time in its room. The walls are always white; the lights are bright when Alex or an operator comes in, and dim when it’s alone. It’s been alone for what feels like a long time now; it supposes it might be night outside, and Alex is sleeping elsewhere in the… what, building? He might even be in a different building. Does he have a home to go to? It doesn’t think it’s likely, given the conditions it saw through the window. But that’s all it’s seen; a Coral-covered world through a window, a room, a hallway, and its cell.
It imagines, though, that they must be in a smallish Trans-star facility. It must have some sort of shields blocking the typhon from sensing Alex’s cognition, and enough power to keep the operators charged and the computers working. There must be food somewhere, and maybe Alex has an office, communication to the other humans… however many of them are left.
Although it cannot sleep, it can doze off somewhat, daydreaming or meditating. It looks inwards, at Morgan’s memories, at its own memories of the simulation, at the vague typhon concepts and feelings from before it had the ability to be cognizant. It does its best to shut out thoughts of how boring this place is, how the humans clearly don’t trust it, how it wishes it had more autonomy to explore than pacing in circles and analysing its own thoughts.
Said thoughts are interrupted by the sudden sound of the door opening behind it. It turns, looking through the glass, to see one of the operators float through from the bright hallway; the room remains dim. It can't recognize who it is, at first; the operators all look the same, and without any of the other three to compare it to, it's hard to distinguish any of their unique mannerisms.
The door shuts, and the operator floats up to the glass.
“Hey there,” Mikhaila says.
It chirps back, and rotates so it's facing her. It puts its hands to the glass and tilts its head questioningly. None of its keepers have come alone to see it before.
“I...wanted to see how you're doing.”
It shrugs.
“This isn't part of a test or anything,” Mikhaila continues. “I just… I guess I thought you might be lonely.”
It drops its head against the glass. Lonely isn't exactly the word it would use to describe how it's been feeling, but she isn't wrong. And it is glad to have her company. After all, Morgan liked Mikhaila, a lot, even after everything that came between them. It remembers the distinct longing it had felt on Talos, seeing her again, even without the full memory of their relationship.
And it likes her from its own memories too. She's consistently been the one to reach out to it, to try and communicate and understand.
“And I guess I'm a bit lonely too.” Mikhaila lowers herself carefully to the ground, resting there as if she's sitting. “This whole situation...it's pretty crazy, isn't it.”
She doesn't tone it like a question, but it nods in agreement. As boring as it has been for it personally, it's definitely crazy overall.
“The others...well, we’re all business to each other. This wasn't exactly a partnership formed out of love and friendship. I barely even knew them, really, just Alex, through Morgan…”
It nods again, and waits for her to continue. The part of it that is Morgan wants to hold her, to wrap its arms around her in comfort, but it isn't Morgan and she can't feel touch, and there's a glass wall between them anyway. So it just listens.
“It was Morgan's idea, you know. Putting our memories into operators.”
It hadn't known that, but it isn't surprised.
“When the typhon spread so far across the globe, and so many people were dying… We weren't even back earthside yet. A lot of us wounded. Morgan and Alex backed up as many of us as they could-- the typhon can't sense operators like they can humans. They kept us safe.”
She looks up it, the lenses of the operator’s cameras reflecting glare from the dim lights. It can imagine her face in its mind’s eye, eyes wet with unshed tears.
“Alex hadn't backed himself up though. I think he wants to hold on to his humanity for as long as possible, despite the risk.” She laughs bitterly. “Not that I can blame him. I miss so much, you know? Being able to feel things again, to not wonder if my emotions are less valid now that they're all zeroes and ones in a box. I don't know how much of the original Mikhaila I am. How was she different? How much of her memory am I missing?”
She shakes from side to side (shaking her head to clear her thoughts, before pushing her hair behind her ear and thinking all over again). “I don't remember dying. I just remember waking up in this operator and thinking, ‘Oh, I guess that happened.’”
It croons at her sadly and pushes more into the glass. It is all too familiar with those feelings.
“And even though I have all the data, facts and stats containing everything about her, physical and mental and emotional…” Her voice has become quiet, the speakers crackling slightly. “I feel like I don't even remember what I look like. What it felt like to be me.”
She is staring at the ground, where the floor meets metal meets glass. The typhon is just barely visible from that angle, and she wonders if she could see its emotions on its face if she looks up, if it even can understand what she's talking about. She doesn't really know why she came here, except that she isn't comfortable with the others, but she was comfortable once with Morgan, and the typhon is the closest thing she has.
She sees the black of the typhon’s body swirl and tuck inwards, color changing as it does. She looks up at the movement and gasps.
It looks back at her through the glass. It doesn't know what it feels like to be Mikhaila, but it knows what she looks like. It knows what she feels like from Morgan’s point of view, perfect and beautiful. It knows the color of her eyes, the feel of her breath on its skin, the vibration of her laugh in the air. It takes everything it remembers, everything Morgan knew, and it shows her.
The operator backs slowly from the glass, cameras whirring to take in the whole sight. Mikhaila kneels behind the glass, one hand pressed against the wall, the other on the floor. She's dressed in the standard Talos spacesuit, her hair messy, her eyes, slightly reddened from neuromods and lack of rest, staring at the operator as it stares at her. There are wrinkles near her eyes and mouth and forehead, her face is slightly flushed and sweaty. Her expression shows so much hope and longing and strength that it takes the operator’s memory of breath away.
“Please,” Mikhaila says, “Don't.”
The human form immediately melts away into typhon black, and it steps away from her, hands desperately waving out an apology, the rest of its body not even slightly human, flowing over the ground and desperately wanting to puddle into the floor and hide. It never meant to hurt her, it just wanted to help, it doesn't--
“It's okay,” Mikhaila says. Her voice is still a pained croak. “I know you meant well. It's just...hard, to suddenly be confronted with something you've lost.”
It watches her, nervous, not daring to move. She remains in place, and it can't tell what she's thinking through the operator’s expressionless visage.
It takes a few minutes, but Mikhaila composes herself, raising her gaze from the floor to look the typhon in the eye.
“I didn't think you were able to mimic a human,” she says. “We never saw other typhon do that.”
It shrugs. It didn't know it could either, until it did.
“Well, it's a useful thing to know about,” she says. “But don't go and trick us by turning into Alex or anything.”
It gives her a disgusted look and shudders theatrically. Why would I want to?
Blegh, I updated part 1 on my phone to add a tag and the read more disappeared. It’s back now.
Anyway thanks so much for all the support! It feels good to just crank out a fic again ^^. For the record, I don’t know how long this is going to be- I know at what point I want to end it, but I’m not certain how long it’ll take to get there.
The next time it sees Alex, it has not made much progress. It can click, and make some tones at high or low frequencies, but somehow any form of speech is beyond it. It thinks again of the Phantoms, hauntingly repeating confused phrases, the last words and thoughts of their victims, spread out and distorted across the typhon hive mind. It is immensely jealous.
It has seen the others already. It estimates that every couple of hours, the operators drop in to check its vital signs, perhaps make some notes on its behavior. It has no other clues to the passage of time. It tries to speak with them, but the failure of its body to manifest vocal chords means it can’t do much. Mikhaila and Danielle are willing to try and converse with it, a little, and Igwe asks cautious questions or reads his observations aloud, and Sarah just floats menacingly nearby in case it decides to make a break for it.
You trusted me enough to say not to kill me, it thinks in her direction, to no response.
Alex finally appears again after the operators have been in and out three times. It supposes the four of them must have convinced him to get some sleep after all; the bags under his eyes are considerably lessened, and there’s a bit of a spring to his step.
How?! it thinks, watching Alex’s feet as they disappear behind the terminal. Its steps are not so much springy as they are a desperate catch to stop the rest of its body from falling, even after practicing this whole time. It has not gotten any sleep. It has not even felt tired. Just bored.
“Good morning,” Alex says, and it can’t help the flutter of sadness in its metaphorical heart when he doesn’t finish his greeting with ‘Morgan’. “We're going to start with something simple today.”
It presses its hands against the glass, hoping its enthusiasm for something to do is apparent. Sarah doesn't act any more threatening than usual, so it thinks it must be.
“Please step away from the glass for a moment,” Alex says. He is not looking at it, instead typing away at the terminal.
It cocks its head, curious. It trills and complies, taking two steps backwards (with feet! Without falling!). After a moment, the floor where it had been standing opens, and a terminal like the ones outside the glass raises into its room.
It is startled by the movement, and a pulse it's pretty certain is not very humanlike jolts it's way through its body.
“Please step forward to the computer,” Alex is saying, but it has already leapt at it, investigating it from all angles and delightedly pressing on the touch screen.
“Give us a second,” Danielle says, laughing. “We’ll open the program for you.”
It scowls (or thinks about scowling, who knows what it actually looks like) and crosses its arms as it waits. It is impatient to do something. It's supposed to be an ambassador between humans and typhon, but so far all it's done is fail to walk properly and wait in a room.
The screen lights up. There are two buttons displayed on it.
“Let's start simple,” Alex says. “Can you understand us?”
It looks down at the screen. The question is repeated in text at the top. It presses the button labeled ‘Yes’.
Alex grins, and it beams back (maybe). Finally. A solution.
“Do you understand where you are?”
‘Yes’.
“Do you understand who we are?”
‘Yes’.
“Do you understand who you are?”
That's a loaded question. It pauses, its hand still hovering over the affirmative. I am typhon. I am not Morgan Yu, but I have part of Morgan Yu infused into my biology and my identity. I am an experiment in fusing human and typhon, I am typhon with the ability to empathize and understand. I don't know how much of the memories you installed in me are real or fabricated, I don't know how I was created or when, I don't know how close or far I am from being Morgan...I hope it is somewhere close. Morgan is the only identity I have, even if it was only lent to me for the simulation that decided my worth in being left alive.
It looks at Alex, does an approximation of what it hopes is a cheeky shrug, and presses “Yes.”
Alex nods, and notes something on his monitor. “Excellent. Now, why don't you tell me something about yourself. It can be anything. About who you are, what you want, whatever.”
The ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ disappear, replaced by 26 letters, 10 digits, and some punctuation. It eagerly raises its hands over them.
It stops.
It can read words. It understood ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. The words ‘Tell me about yourself’ are plain as day across the top of its terminal. It knows the sound every letter makes and the value of each digit.
It cannot put them together to form words.
It drops its hands onto the terminal, staring at the letters. It knows the letters. It knows Morgan could write, could utilize words in multiple languages, and it understands every form of language it has encountered so far and it cannot translate its own thoughts into words.
It moans in frustration. It knows the sound is distressing to the humans, but it cannot care enough to stop. It is so close. The means are right there in front of it, and it can't use it. It drops to its knees, hands dragging down the terminal.
‘Eueodhksxbxm ,!.’xnxz..’’’z, the screen displays.
It shakes its head pathetically.
I can't, it thinks, and if it knew how to form tear ducts it thinks it might be crying. I'm sorry. I don't know why. I can't.
Alex and the four operators watch it, silently. Alex looks disappointed and worried, his brow deeply creased. The operators cannot display emotion, but it can feel their judgement upon it as well.
“Was it…just a fluke?” Danielle asks quietly. “It was just pressing ‘Yes’ over and over…”
Its head tilts up at her and it shakes its head, desperate for her to understand. If the buttons were back it would be furiously pressing ‘No’, but the screen is still letters and there's nothing it can do with it.
“I don't think so,” Alex says. “It was clearly trying to write something, and gave up.”
I didn't give up, it thinks angrily (Morgan hated it when Alex said things like that, especially in front of their parents and colleagues, making Morgan look weak and stupid). You don't understand, it doesn't process! Typhon don't use language!
“I definitely think it understands us,” Mikhaila agrees. “It nods and shakes its head, and it's successfully expressed confusion and even happiness and sadness.”
Sarah makes a motion that must be the operator equivalent of nodding. “I agree. Though I don't know how much help it will be if it can't give us feedback.”
“We'll just have to find a workaround,” Alex says. He still looks disappointed.
-----
The rest of the tests that day are boring, and tinged with the looming sense of failure. It pulls itself off the ground at their insistence, and morosely obliges them by tapping the answers to simple math problems and mundane questions (multiple choice). Then Igwe and Sarah are allowed into its chamber, and Igwe asks it to move in certain ways and they take notes on its physical development, and they leave.
Alex and Mikhaila stay. They watch it circle the glass walls, idly changing form and still feeling depressed about its failure.
“Do you think this is going to work?” Mikhaila asks. She sounds sad.
“It has to,” Alex answers. His eyes don't leave the typhon’s shifting form. “There aren't really any options left.”
“If Morgan were here-”
“Morgan isn't here,” Alex says sharply. “And even with Morgan’s neurons, with Morgan’s mind available to us,” he waves his hands in the direction of the cell, “We have no way to access it.”
They turn to face the glass at the sound of the typhon slamming into it. It has taken a humanoid form again, still mostly black and swirling, but definitely human. Bright eyes glare from behind swirling black tendrils made to resemble hair. It stands hunched, fully formed hands pressed against the wall. Its fingers are curled, and its face-- albeit a vague imitation of one-- is furrowed into an angry, challenging expression.
Alex has seen that expression many times in his life, and it's usually followed by Morgan disappearing for some time and then returning to triumphantly prove Alex wrong.
“That's the spirit,” Alex says. He approaches the glass and looks the typhon in the eyes. It doesn't back down. “I'm not giving up on you yet, don't you worry. This is just a minor setback.”
The typhon continues to stare at him for a moment, then nods. It lowers its hands and takes a small step back from the wall.
“We'll figure something out. In the meantime, you can focus on improving your motor skills to beyond the level of a toddler.”
The typhon visibly bristles, and Alex suppresses a smile. It was always easy to rile Morgan up as a child, and the typhon seems to share that weakness. He hopes the offense it takes might inspire it to take larger strides towards success.
He sighs dramatically and turns away from the container. He gestures to Mikhaila, who obediently leaves the observation area to follow him to the door. “It is a pity though. I had hoped to gain new knowledge and new perspective from you. Considering you have Morgan’s cells, I had hoped you would be smart enough to communicate more complex concepts than yes and no.”
There is another bang on the glass as Alex steps through the door. He turns back to look.
The typhon locks eyes with him. It takes one hand off the glass, and expresses a complex concept to Alex by raising its middle finger.
Alex laughs.
-----
It vents its frustration by storming around its cell. The console was retracted back into the floor, and it has so far been unable to find a way to open it. So, left with nothing else to do, it stays in its human(ish) form and stomps around the ground.
Then it sprints. Then it changes direction. Then it runs backwards and flips off the cameras a couple times.
It knows what Alex is doing. Alex has pulled that trick with Morgan plenty of times, and even Morgan couldn't help but rise to the bait. Fine. You want me to improve my motor skills? Watch me.
It stops running and looks at the wall. It's curved glass, extremely thick, reinforced at the top and bottom and in columns around the circumference by metal. The metal is on the outside of the glass though, so everything between the floor and ceiling is smooth. It does not have a GLOO gun.
It takes a step back, then takes a running jump, one foot hitting the glass, followed by the other, then the first one again, and it runs halfway up the wall before tumbling to the ground. It lands on its feet, knees bending to take the impact. It hurts, and for once it's glad it isn't good at expressing emotion because then that bastard Alex won't see that the stunt was in any way difficult.
It tries again, and this time deliberately backflips off the wall when it loses its momentum. The third time, it is able to smack the ceiling with its hand.
It's petty, for sure. Morgan has always been more physically capable than Alex, and it's a sore spot. But it's not like it has anything better to do between sessions, and Alex started it.
It flips off the camera again, with both hands, then flops against the wall and sits on the floor.
It isn't exactly tired, not in the way humans get, but it recognizes that part of it is hurt from the rough landings, and it will take time to heal. It settles back against the wall and shuts out visual stimuli.
The room always has a faint electronic buzz, and it can feel the vibrations in the glass against its back. It focuses, as it often does, on its memories of the simulation. How it felt to be human.
Head, shoulders, arms, waist, hips, legs, it thinks, working its way down. Then it adds details, hair, eyes (closed), ears, nose, mouth, neck, throat, elbows, wrists, hands, fingers (it's gotten pretty good at that area), fingernails, ribs, belly button (was that absolutely necessary? Oh well), knees, ankles, toes toes toes, why can't it get the toes right, but at least they function properly….
It remembers Morgan taking meditation classes on Talos, and yoga, just because Mikhaila had thought it would be good for the two of them, and they had always said to clear your mind, take deep breaths…. and breath requires lungs, windpipe, diaphragm, vocal chords (god damn it), in through the nose and out through the mouth, and the nose isn't just a shape it has nostrils that go up and connect to sinuses (which go to the eyes somehow??) and connect to the throat (???) and while it's thinking of internal things, there's bones and muscles and a brain and nerves and organs-- organs, it can't make sense of Morgan's limited memories on where they are or what they do, it just knows the sensation of a heart beating in its chest (hammering as it hides from the Nightmare patrolling the Arboretum), of a throat pulling cold, dry air into lungs (after collapsing on the airlock floor, oxygen levels in its suit raising back to normal, lips chapped from the lack of moisture, a piece of Coral stuck to its arm and its leg aching where it had been caught in a Typhoid Nest explosion), of a stomach growling with hunger (trying to decide if it could spare eating this bag of chips or if it should save it to recycle), it knows should have a liver but what does it do (it knows drinking too much alcohol will mess it up, but god that haze helps after tearing through the GUTS with no ammo)....
It sighs, sort of, deflating and dropping the human form it's been piecing together entirely. It's no use. Morgan wasn't a doctor or a biologist, so it only has a vague notion of what makes up a human and how to make it work. It only has feelings to go on, and once again it can't even be sure how accurate they are. It has no idea how much of its experience on Talos was drawn from the real thing.
The thing is, it ponders, in the simulation, it could make itself understood. It occurs to it that it never actually spoke on Talos, when it was being Morgan. It knew Morgan’s voice from the memories, sure, and from January and December and all those recordings. But when communicating with the humans (and the operators, and computers) on Talos, it had simply known the concept it wanted to convey, and they had understood.
If Alex could make the simulated humans understand, why can't he do it in real life?
It's sure there's more to it to that, it knows that it had been wired directly into the simulation’s system, the world built around its mind (and Morgan's), and Alex didn't have control of the real world. But it's still angry at Alex for the teasing. Why is it all on it to figure out how to communicate? Why are they upset with it for being unable to do something its biology and very being isn't equipped to do? Why aren't they at fault for being unable to understand what it is clearly expressing?
It folds into itself, still huddled against the wall. It isn't physically tired (it isn't sure it can be at this point), but it's sick of hearing its thoughts.
I’m trying to maybe get back in the habit of posting WIPs over here. I don’t have a whole lot to share right now, but may as well get started!
Anyway, here’s a Prey fanfic. Major end spoilers.
For a brief moment, it considers simply killing all of them. It is still disoriented, confused from reaching the end of the simulation, finding itself home, on earth, except earth was never its home, it was Morgan’s. Morgan’s home. Morgan’s family.
Morgan’s brother is still waiting with his hand outstretched. Alex had undone the restraints that had kept it trapped in the simulation, bound to a spinning chair that was probably positioned in front of the large window just so that he could make a dramatic reveal of the Coral outside. Alex always did have a theatrical flair, Morgan’s memories remind it.
It is so, so angry at Alex. It has been trapped in a lie, a fabrication to make it believe it was something, someone that it was not. It has been forced to feel what it was never supposed to, to care for all these doomed lifeforms on Talos and do its damnedest to save them, to choose who lived and who died. It was all Alex’s fault. He was the one who had ripped all that away from it.
It was ironic, how the man who hadn’t cared about human experimentation, who had convinced Morgan to put aside all cares for the men and women sacrificed, who saw so many people as variables in an experiment, had forced empathy into its very core. It wants to throw that empathy in his face for being such a hypocrite.
But, it thinks, that’s Morgan talking. Typhon don’t get angry. Typhon defend, and hide, and hunt. They don’t care.
It cares. It has neurons installed in its very being that make it understand. And that is proof that Alex’s theory works.
Morgan has always put work before feelings.
It reaches out to Alex’s hand, the extended part of it shifting to match the shape, the color. It shakes his hand.
Alex smiles, and the relief present in his face makes it feel ashamed for its initial selfish instinct.
——-
The second biggest problem, it discovers, is moving. When Alex fully releases it from the chair, it is expected to follow him to a laboratory.
“We have a lot of work to do,” Alex says. Excitement gleams in his eyes, and it finds it is eager to begin as well. Empathy. “Best to get started right away.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Alex?” Dr. Igwe asks. The processors in his chasse whir softly. “We have been running the simulation all day, you must be tired. You need to sleep.”
“I can sleep soon enough,” Alex says, unconcerned.
“There’s no time like the present,” Sarah agrees. “We can at least get it set up in the lab for later. And if Alex needs rest, we can monitor it for him.”
“All I’ve been doing is sitting around watching the simulation,” Alex mutters grumpily. “I am not tired. If it is ready to go, then so am I.” He gestures to the chair.
“I’m not so sure it is ready,” Danielle says, worry evident in her voice.
She is looking down at the floor in front of the chair. Alex’s eyes and the sensors on the other operators follow her gaze.
It is ready to get started, it thinks, frustrated, if it could just get up off the floor.
Its body can’t decide if it wants to be human or typhon. It uses its arms (humanoid) to grab on to the arms of the chair, using the support to force the rest of it into a somewhat standing position. But it’s other half, is not ready to be legs, and it’s simultaneously trying to crawl up the chair and across the floor.
It’s too used to being Morgan, it thinks, annoyed. If it could just be a little more human, it would be able to walk.
“Perhaps it’s rejecting Morgan’s cells,” Alex mutters, peering over it.
“It was stable enough during the procedure and the simulation,” Igwe says. “Some sort of delayed reaction?”
Sarah has armed some sort of taser from the bottom of her chasse. It sparks threateningly in the air. “Alex, get back. We’ll get the shields back up and contain it.”
“It’s physically unstable, not attacking anyone!”
“I don’t care, Danielle, it’s dangerous, we’re not losing anyone else’s biological body to those things, and Alex doesn’t have a backup of himself yet.”
“It could be reverting back to its typhon instincts.”
I’m not! It thinks angrily, and bangs its fist on the chair of the arm in frustration. I just can’t walk properly because you idiots shoved me in a virtual human body all day and now I don’t have one!
“Listen,” Alex says, squatting down to its level. He’s still keeping his distance, though. “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”
Yes! It slips partway out of the chair again. I can understand you.
There’s a sound somewhere behind it, and its head snaps around to follow. The fourth operator is hovering nearby. “Even if it can understand,” Mikhaila says thoughtfully, “How are we supposed to understand it?”
That concept hits it like a sack of bricks. It slumps against the chair in shock. I can’t communicate with them. Typhon don’t have language. It can use Morgan’s neurons to decipher the sounds the humans make, but expressing them itself…!
“Are you alright?” Mikhaila asks. She’s slowly lowered herself to hover next to where it sits puddled into itself. “Can you stand?”
It stares at her. There aren’t any eyes on an operator, but then, it doesn’t really have any either, just vague hints of how it feels to have them.
It forces itself to gather its body up against the chair. It tries its best to mimic a human appearance (head, neck, shoulders, arms, waist, hips, legs) and splits its head part open to form a mouth. It gurgles and clicks pathetically.
Dammit! It thinks to itself. Its thoughts sound just like Morgan’s voice, but that doesn’t do it any good without vocal chords.
It gives up on speech and shakes its head instead. It gestures to its legs, which have still not decided on a decisive number or direction.
“That’s okay,” Mikhaila says. She lowers even further and presses up against its side. The other operators start forward in protest, until Alex raises a hand to stop them. “Can you hold on to me? I’ll help you get over to the lab.”
It’s so relieved that it could kiss her. It surges upward, wrapping its arms (tendrils, tentacles?) around her, careful not to interfere with any of her machinery. She slowly rises, and it follows, using her steady hovering to keep its balance and support some of its weight.
Danielle swoops in behind it, ducking under its other shoulder so it can hold them both. It accepts the help gratefully, and even though it’s still wobbly, it can stand.
“…Alright,” Alex says, watching them. He stands, slowly. He’s as out of shape as ever, and it takes him a bit of effort to get to his feet. But he clearly knows how to do it, his body at least cooperating with his intentions, and it can’t help but feel a bit jealous. “Let’s get you over to the lab for now. Maybe we’ll take a bit of a break there after all.”
—–
It manages fairly well down the hall, using Mikhaila and Danielle as crutches. They walk behind Alex, with Sarah floating backwards beside him, taser still at the ready and optical sensors trained on its stumbling.
It does its best to ignore her, focusing instead on the way Alex moves. Two legs, which seems obvious now, and they alternate which has weight and which is reaching forward. Something in Morgan’s memories tells him toes are important, but Alex’s are hidden inside his shoes, and it can’t figure out how they’re supposed to help except that they are.
Alex’s spine is straight, so it copies that, even though it knows not all humans walk the same (Morgan didn’t), but at this point it can’t even comprehend how different individuals could have so much variation in locomotion. In the simulation, it had walked and run and jumped and climbed with no problems whatsoever, and it wishes it could reach into the part of itself that is Morgan and apply that ease to itself in the real world.
Alex stops and puts a code into a panel on the wall. A door opens, and he gestures for it to go inside. It complies, gently guided by Danielle and Mikhaila, Igwe floating close behind.
The room illuminates as they step in. The walls are off-white, grey terminals arranged around the perimeter. There is a large area in the center of the room, partitioned by by heavy glass walls. The lights that line the ceiling all seem to focus there, as do a series of cameras, pointed at various angles outside the glass.
It has a sinking feeling this is where it’s going to be spending most of its time from now on.
“And here we are,” Alex says. He walks over to one of the terminals outside the glass and taps at it. The door to the hallway shuts behind him, the sound of heavy pneumatic locks following.
Once the outer door is locked, the glass container opens with the sound of heavy machinery.
“Just a little further, okay?” Mikhaila says, encouraging.
It doesn’t want to go inside, but without any way to argue, forcing the issue is just going to look like a threat. The operators gently nudge it forward, and it complies, stumbling over the threshold.
It stands, centered in the room within the room. It lifts its arms, and Danielle and Mikhaila carefully float out from under it, ready to catch it if it falls.
It refuses to fall. It stands, straight as a board, as close to human as it can currently manage, and glares straight ahead at Alex.
Mikhaila and Danielle exit, and the glass container closes. They float over to join their companions, and the five of them stare at it through the glass. It stares back.
The container (its new home, it supposes) is completely empty. There is just the floor, the glass walls, the machinery holding it in, the ceiling, and itself. Its fists clench in anger.
Alex steps out from behind the terminal. “Well,” he says. He sounds awkward. It’s glad. “Are you ready to begin some tests, or would you like to rest first?”
It glares at him. Rest where? it thinks bitterly. On the floor? With everyone watching? Or shall I float up to the ceiling and hang like a bat?
After a few minutes of silence, where it doesn’t move, Dr Igwe clears his virtual throat.
“Well,” he says. “I could use a break, I think. Why don’t we leave our friend to get used to its new surroundings?”
“Sounds good to me,” Sarah says. She’s already heading for the door. Igwe follows. The door opens at their command, and they float out into the hall.
It watches them go. Danielle goes next, though she hesitates, and Mikhaila lingers in front of the glass.
“We’ll be back soon,” she promises. “I know this is all very strange to you, but it’ll get better. I promise.”
Alex is the last to go. He stands with his hands behind his back, gazing at the typhon behind the glass.
“I hope we can work together on this,” he says. “If we can just find some way for our species to cooperate… If the two of us could trust each other…”
It stares at him, then looks up. It gestures at the cameras, the lights, the glass prison. Trust, Alex says, when it’s clear he does no such thing. He doesn’t even give it the dignity of privacy, or something to entertain itself, or even sit down on.
“I know,” Alex says, sighing. He rubs the back of his head and looks around the container. “I guess that we have a long road ahead of us.”
He turns away and walks to the door. It follows him, pressing up against the glass when he stands in the open doorway. It’s dimly aware that it has lost its human form again, supporting itself as a typhon, floating in the air and rippling across the room.
Alex shuts the door behind him. The main lights turn off, but the prison stays dimly illuminated.
It paces the cell for a while, using the glass walls to support its movement. It’s somewhat relieved to be left alone, but it wishes there were a better way for it to express its frustration. It wants to throw something.
It floats another lap around the perimeter. Then, bored with that, it solidifies itself and scurries along the wall like a crab (like a mimic). Moving as a humanoid is getting easier, but it’s still the most difficult. It stumbles the circumference of the room until it can stop using the wall as support, then it walks across the diameter a few times. It only falls twice.
In the simulation, it recalls, the Phantoms had been able to walk like humans do. Faster, even, with lightning speed- it shudders, remembering the first time one had appeared out of nowhere, far too close, far too fast… But then, they were made from human corpses.
This stops its pacing. It looks down at its hands (inky black, swirling, until it concentrates and they become pink and fleshy). Could it have been made from a human corpse?
It drops to the floor. It doesn’t know what form it’s in and it doesn’t care. It can’t be a Phantom. Alex wouldn’t– except he would. Morgan saw what lengths Alex was willing to go to. A corpse was nothing. Alex and Igwe (and Morgan) had forced typhon cells in and out of living, unwilling people for years, with little to no regard for their pain and eventual deaths.
But… the others wouldn’t approve. Igwe might be okay with it, and maybe even Sarah with some convincing, but not Danielle. Definitely not Mikhaila. It still feels a twinge of Morgan’s guilt at the thought of Mikhaila’s father, at her reaction to finding out what had happened. She wouldn’t let them do that to anyone.
Besides, it thinks, trying to calm down, Alex wanted it to be Morgan. And it couldn’t be Morgan if it was someone else. That wasn’t how humans worked.
Unless, it thinks, turning its hands over to look at the back. They look just like they had in the simulation, when being human was simple and natural. What if I am Morgan?
Had Morgan even made it off of Talos? Well, then they wouldn’t have a body, would they. But if Morgan had died on the way back, or what if Morgan had chosen to be a sacrifice for the project? It didn’t seem too far fetched, if the repeated neuromod installation and removal experiment was anything to go by. Morgan had chosen to do that–
–maybe. Or maybe that was just a part of the simulation.
It clenches and unclenches its hands. There was no way to know. Not without asking Alex, anyway, and it can’t communicate a simple yes or no, let alone a complex question.
It shuts out all external stimuli, the typhon equivalent of shutting its eyes and covering its ears (it wonders if it has eyes and ears right now. It’s strangely difficult to tell). It looks inward. It is typhon. It is typhon with the neurons and other cells of Morgan Yu transfused into its being. It relaxes every fiber of itself, and it can feel itself folding and puddling onto the ground, not entirely solid, certainly not humanoid.
When Phantoms died, they left humanoid bodies behind. At first, anyway. If it were a Phantom, it couldn’t become this amorphic form.
That is a relief. It unfolds back into a taller shape and looks around. The room is still dim and empty. The cameras look back at it. It ignores them and resumes its pacing. The movement helps it think. It had helped Morgan think, anyway.
There were other humanoid typhon, it recalls, but that doesn’t really matter. The classifications are a human thing. Typhon are typhon. So long as it isn’t wearing a corpse like a suit, it’s satisfied.
It does wonder about Morgan, though. Once it figures out the whole language thing, it will have to ask Alex.
Well, walking hadn’t taken that long. How hard could speaking be?
Keith stared at the empty cockpit seat where Shiro should have been. The small indent in the cushion sucked at his insides, pulling him until he had to turn away and steady himself against the wall. Voices swam together around him. In bed he nightmared it eating him up whole. . Lance knew he was wearing everyone’s patience out but every minute he kept his mouth closed he could feel his unspoken words welling out of his eyes. “If it wasn’t a malfunction in the wormhole technology then maybe it was teleportation!! Like,” he cupped his hands on top of each other and drew them slowly apart, making warp noises. “Beam in, kidnap, beam out!” “That’s utterly preposterous,” Allura’s raggedy voice explained through a threadbare sigh. “If the Galra were in possession of that sort technology they would have used it against us much sooner.” “Plus it’s just lazy and cheap,” Pidge groaned through her fingers. She rolled over to glare at Lance. “Whoo I’m here and gone! I can be anywhere! Why don’t you suggest ‘ghosts’ while you’re at it?” “GHOSTS!” Lance pounced on the word, jabbing a finger at Pidge’s nose. She let out another groan and facepalmed. “Why NOT ghosts? That witch Haggar uses magic, right? Maybe she turned Shiro into a GHOST!” “Lance buddy,” Hunk said from the couch he had poured himself into, “I get you need to process this, I really do. I totally get it. Was seriously just gonna let your freak flag fly until it was out of your system but Lance,” he waved a hand, “It’s getting a bit much now. I’m getting conversation vertigo, dude.” Pidge let out a prolonged affirmative groan and Allura sighed in relief. Lance bit his lip and put his hands in his pockets, glaring down at his shoes. They hadn’t even touched what they’re going to do about Voltron now. It was clear from the glassy look in everyone’s eyes, the lethargy pervading the entire team, the fact they all crashed in the first room down the hall from Black’s dock, that they weren’t remotely close to dealing with that yet, though Lance could hardly stop passing the thought on his way from one desperate distraction to the next. Lance groused. Speaking of desperate distraction, Keith had vanished almost immediately after the discovery, inconveniently making it impossible for Lance to pick an easy fight. It was a louder and more natural spectacle than anything else he could do on his own and the broody bastard had gone and deprived everybody of Lance’s goodwill. “Could Keith maybe know something he’s not telling us?” he wondered. Keith had a terrible habit of running off into action without telling anyone, so it was possible he had jumped to concl-- The loud groans interrupted that train of thought. “Why does everything Keith do have to itch your butt so hard?” said Pidge. “Did I say that out loud?” “Huh, you think?” “The evidence so far points from rarely to never,” said Hunk. He and Pidge punched the air toward each other. Lance threw a small fit over it, but at least it was something. “Okay, that might have sounded bad, but I meant like, what if we have to look for him?” He glanced at a few random monitors he didn’t know how to use and out the door nobody had bothered to close. “He and Shiro-- You guys don’t think he would--” “Hey Lance, slow down, you’re gonna choke on your own tongue again.” “Sorry-- I just--” Lance stopped and took a deep breath. Pidge rolled herself slowly upright before he could properly order what he wanted to say, panic slowly creeping back into her eyes. “You don’t think he’s doing a solo hunt right now, do you?” Hunk yelped. “No way! We’re dead! He’s dead, he’ll die!” “No chance of that, thankfully, we’d have heard the dock bays opening if he left the ship,” said Coran, and they all sat up suddenly. Lance flushed guiltily at the tray of water and snacks in Coran’s hands; he hadn’t even realized Coran had left the room. “In addition, I happened to drop by the security screen on my way back from the kitchens,” Lance doubted it was as casual as Coran made it sound, “and I can tell you Keith only went back to his own room. Young man probably needs his privacy in a time like this. You’ll also be happy to hear the ship isn’t picking up any hostile signals!” Coran bowed his head. “At least we made a clean getaway.” The room hummed in the silence between chews as everyone circled back to square one. They’d slipped away from their enemies, but only just. Some of their friends were dead. Shiro was gone. Voltron had lost its head. Shiro was gone. Lance folded himself into a discreet spot behind Hunk’s couch. He covered his eyes and bit his lip; his words were welling. . Anyone with half a brain should know that Keith couldn’t do this. Half the time he was sure Shiro was making another one of his horrifying attempts at humor. So sure, until he thought of the sincerity in Shiro’s eyes when he smiled at Keith, voice brimming with pride, the confidence Shiro had. That made it worse. People are always confident in Keith and it baffles him. His instructors at the Garrison were all certain he would make history for all of space exploration someday, all the way until they expelled him. What a waste, what a waste, such a talent, so much potential. Keith wanted to sit them all down and interrogate them on what exactly they thought he had up his sleeve. He’s just good in the air, that’s it. He’s never had a problem with clumsiness and he knows how to move. That’s nothing. Pidge learned an alien language in a day and Hunk fixed an alien shuttlecraft in two hours, and Keith was meant to shine brighter than them? Just because he’s good at moving? He never should have spoken to Black. He tried to think about speaking to her again-- he can’t! Black is Shiro’s lion! Even if he could bring himself to ever look at Black again, he’ll put his hand on her face and nothing will happen. The first time was a fluke. Everyone will see him for the fraud he is. Once they found Shiro he would have to tell Shiro what a disappointment he turned out to be. Or…. What if they never found Shiro? His vision whited out for a tick. That couldn’t happen. They will find Shiro. If they don’t find Shiro Keith will evaporate like a dream in the sunlight. .
Young Justice Season 3 officially announced!
No news yet on whether the comic is coming back.
To everyone who did #KeepBingingYJ, pat yourself on the back. This is your victory. SYMBIOSI
Netflix just announced that if the show gets 300,000 plus hit per month they will renew it for a third season. If you’re interested in it at all and have a netflix account, please consider watching it. I’ll have it running in the background whenever possible (I’ve rewatched it a million times, Young Justice is fantastic).
Bring it back to life!
FINALLY!!! AFTER THREE YEARS IT’S HERE, HOT OFF THE PRESS!! I LITERALLY FINISHED TYPING THE LAST SENTENCE TEN SECONDS AGO!!!
I’m so happy that I managed to finish this, even though it took such a long time! I hope you all like this, and thank you so much for your patience and support!
For those who haven’t read the previous parts, here is part 1 and part 2 for your reading convenience! I am very proud of this work, so please give it a try!
----
The ringing of the school bell woke Jaime up with a jolt. The corner of his mouth was numb with dried saliva.
A class of strangers brushed past him on their way out the door and to their next classes. He sat up slowly, wiping his mouth and blinking the sleep from his eyes.
He had to stop falling asleep in the middle of class. It was going to affect his grades.
His heart was pounding so quickly he felt like he was going to choke on it. He covered up his mouth, glanced around the emptying classroom, and coughed discreetly into his hand a few times. The pounding lost a little of its intensity.
One of these days he was going to dream himself to death, he thought.
He packed up his schoolwork and walked to his next class.
Walked around the couple making out by the water fountain. Side-stepped the kid standing outside the nurse's office pounding the door with his broken arm. Nodded once to his old lab partner.
He sat down in his next class, recovered his schoolwork, opened up the textbook for the class--
SOMETHING FLEW IN HIS FACE.
His heartbeat raced back up in double time, he leapt a foot from his chair, he grabbed his textbook and slammed it shut around the offending creature.
He held the book shut in his arms, heart pounding. A handful of students around him turned to glare at him for making noise. He dropped the book as though it were on fire; struggled to control his loud, panting breaths; swallowed; sat down. Looked at the book on the floor, because he would need to use it for class, dreading what he might find inside of it now.
When the teacher walked in, his fear of reprimand outweighed his disgust and he grappled for the book. When he put it on his desk and flipped through it, it was rumpled but clean.
--
One hand fisted in his hair, one clenched over his chest, Jaime fought down his rising heartbeat in shuddering breaths.
He glared at the scratches on the cafeteria table in front of him, trying to focus his thoughts away from his nausea. He still felt on edge, somehow, and whatever he did he couldn't control his body for long. His fingers trembled and he took another deep breath, trying and failing to keep himself calm.
He could almost hear something, but it must be in his imagination. The cafeteria echoed its uniform sounds of cutlery and porcelain.
Jaime pulled himself out of the bench. He hadn't bought any food today. He put both hands on the table and balanced himself as he fought down another wave of nausea. His heartbeat hit loud in his chest and his forehead was damp with sweat.
He stared at the table. He didn't have any food. He was in the cafeteria and he felt sick and he didn't have any food.
He lurched himself toward the nurse's office.
--
The nurse barely glanced at Jaime as he stumbled through the door, leaning his weight in the doorknob. "Is something the matter?" she asked.
Jaime frowned, looked at her strangely as he took another deep breath. His heart raced harder at talking to someone he had never met, and he coughed lightly and clenched his shirt. "Something's wrong," he eventually managed to wheeze out.
The nurse glanced at him again, hummingbird-fast, and opened a filing cabinet. "Nothing is wrong," she intoned generically as she pulled out a file and flipped through it. "Everything's fine," she added as she read.
Jaime craned his neck to see when the school had started a patient file on him when he had never reported sick before, but the folder was unlabeled. When he tried to read one of the blue papers peeking out of it, the nurse slammed the file shut and put it away. "Please resume your lessons," she said and returned to her former position, fiddling with some examination tools.
"It's lunch period," Jaime told her weakly, though he wasn't so confident about it now. Had he taken so long getting to the nurse's office that lunch had ended? He looked around the small room; there were no clocks on the walls. Four thousand heartbeats later could have been any amount of time.
"Resume your lessons," the nurse said.
Every second Jaime looked at her he felt worse, and he thought of that kid, that freshman-- had Jaime imagined him? He must have. A colourful and unlikely daydream to excite his boring life. The freshman had warned him about... Something. It couldn't have been important.
"I-- I need to talk to someone," he pleaded to the nurse's cold eyes. "I don't feel right, something is wrong, I-- I can't do this alone," he said, but the nurse didn't move. "Something's wrong with me," he said, his heart hitting his bones over and over and it hurt to be this scared and not know why.
The nurse stepped toward him clinically, eyes narrowing at him as she studied his symptoms. "You're right," she said. "Something is very wrong with you. It makes sense that you would be alone."
Jaime stopped breathing. "Wh-- what?" He gasped.
“That is what happens to faulty students who don’t make the most out of their lessons. They sacrifice their scores for fleeting frivolities, and are unequipped to enter society.” She leaned over and looked down at him, face stern and certain. “Leave this room and resume your lessons. Get your head out of the clouds and put your time into your studies.”
Some rebellion welled up in Jaime’s throat and he swallowed it down. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I— You’re the nurse and I’m— I’m not feeling well—“ He felt suffocated by the wave of shame and guilt that hit him for getting things so wrong.
“You’re not feeling well because you have an irresponsible lifestyle that is bad for your health,” the nurse said. “Stop daydreaming all the time and be serious about your grades. Stop wasting my time and get back to work.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and he felt it through his body like a hammer.
—
The teacher wrote some key words on the board.
Jaime copied them down.
Everyone turned to the next page of the textbook.
The teacher wrote dates and years on the board.
Jaime wrote dates and years in his notebook.
The teacher passed out a stack of worksheets.
Jaime waited.
Jaime accepted the stack from the classmate in front of him.
Jaime took a worksheet for himself.
Jaime passed the stack to the classmate behind him.
Jaime filled the worksheet with key words and dates and years.
—
When Jaime got home, he cooked himself dinner. He had one cup of rice, a sliced carrot with one lettuce leaf, a chicken wing, and an apple. A square meal.
After he finished eating, he washed and dried his dishes and put them away.
He took a shower and brushed his teeth.
He spent an hour with his notes. Turning the pages, reading the key words and dates and years. Looked at the diagrams, equations, and symbols.
He put his notes away in organized folders.
He was in bed by nine.
—
The next day, he was ready to fall apart before lunch.
The key words the teacher wrote on the board were swimming in his vision. Jaime couldn’t remember why he was copying them into his notebook. He was copying them wrong. He didn’t know what the class was about, what subject they were studying. When he got another worksheet later in the period, he couldn’t even read any of the words. They didn’t mean anything to him.
He filled the worksheet with the contents of his notes at random. It wouldn’t do to leave the worksheet blank; that’s what slackers did, and if he didn’t take his grades seriously then he would never be able to enter society.
—
It never got better. It only got worse.
—
The title of “failure” was starting to weigh into him until he couldn’t remember anything else about himself.
He stood in the lunch line, sweating. The cafeteria lady had asked him what he wanted to eat.
He didn’t know which was the correct answer. Lately he had gotten so bad at giving correct answers.
He had to do it quickly though, because classmates were starting to get angry with him for holding up the line. Only bad students held up the line. Someone like that could never enter society.
“Which one should I get?” he asked the cafeteria lady.
“Get the one you want,” the lady groused.
Jaime didn’t understand what that meant.
When Jaime eventually got to the cash register, his tray was still empty. He paid no money for his no food, and then he sat down at his table, staring at his tray.
It was actually a good idea for him to eat like this. A responsible student doesn’t spend money frivolously, and if he didn’t know what he should eat, it was better to keep that money in his pocket.
He looked at the empty seat across from him and remembered the interesting person he had imagined.
His hands had been cold, Jaime thought. He was so tired but he moved like he knew why he was alive. He smiled like he understood and accepted who he was.
He had also done some very bad things, like disrupting class. If Jaime didn’t stop daydreaming about bad people who cause a nuisance for others, he was no better than a nuisance himself.
But he spoke as though his words meant something. He spoke to Jaime as though he had something important to share with him.
He had known Jaime Reyes’s name.
Jaime Reyes startled. How had that boy known Jaime Reyes’s name? Even Jaime Reyes had trouble with it now, since he was a failure.
Jaime tried to remember the things they said to each other, though it was really hard because imaginary conversations were difficult to remember in detail. He thinks he would remember introducing himself, though. It’s an action that feels different from copying notes, filling worksheets, cooking square meals, and studying.
Now that he’s thinking about it, Jaime remembers introducing himself to some classmates. It felt different, like he was imposing himself on the world around him on purpose. He couldn’t remember having that feeling with that boy.
How had he known Jaime Reyes’s name?
—
He copied the words that the teacher wrote on the board. He tried to focus, stop himself from daydreaming, but he wasn’t disciplined enough to get the idea out of his head.
He knew that daydreaming would make it harder for him to write the correct answers. It would make him a bad student and a drain on society. He would be an even worse failure than he was right now.
He knew that, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the daydream was something that actually made sense, unlike any of the schoolwork he was supposed to be doing. Of course, that was because he was daydreaming that there was an imaginary skill with which he would not be a failure, unlike the real skills with which he was a failure.
But, even if it was fake, he couldn’t help but cling guiltily to the idea, like a drowning man scrambling for anything to grab onto to keep his head above the water. It gave his mind something to DO, something he could understand and which appeared to have meaning.
It gave him a person in the world who might matter. Jaime was certain, at this point, that Jaime didn’t matter.
—
When he finished with his classes for the day, he stared down the street that would take him home, and then took a different street.
Normally only bad students did anything after school except go straight home and work on their studies, but Jaime reasoned that he was taking a walk, getting some exercise for his health. That was an acceptable reason to diverge.
He kept to the business districts, because it would be safer to stay in public areas and inappropriate to linger around strange neighborhoods. He kept his eyes on signs, because a responsible student should always stay aware of their surroundings.
At some point he spotted a sign indicating a hospital, and he followed it. Medicine was a respectable subject for a good student to take an interest in, after all.
It was only when he stepped foot into the hospital itself that he had his doubts. What business would a high school student have at a hospital? He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t a doctor or a patient— the only thing wrong with him is that he is a failure, and his grades will improve if he tries harder.
He approached the front desk and tried to ask the neat woman there for help, but the moment he opened his mouth he froze in a bone-deep terror.
He shouldn’t waste this busy woman’s time with his whimsical daydreams. What was he even doing here? He should be at home studying his notes. He was already so far behind on his grades.
Thankfully the woman hadn’t noticed him there yet and he quickly backed from the desk and found a corner to hide in, where he could focus and remember how he got here. There was a waiting-room chair in the corner, so he sat on it.
He was at a hospital. He had walked there instead of walking home after his classes ended, because he needed to get some exercise. He had needed some exercise after the exhausting and unsuccessful day he had at school, where he had a hard time focusing because he couldn’t stop daydreaming about a sick freshman boy that he had never introduced himself to but had still called him Jaime Reyes.
Since the boy always seemed so sick, and it was sick of Jaime to be daydreaming about him in the first place, it was only appropriate to go to a hospital. Hospitals had a strong affinity with sickness.
He looked around the room for any clues to where he could go next. He thought of the symptoms he could remember that boy showing— pale face, labored breathing, tremors. . . panic, dilating pupils, bloodied saliva. . .
Glowing fingertips, red and golden eyes?
Jaime rubbed a hand on his forehead. His imagination was getting out of control. If he were a better student, maybe he would know real symptoms to real diseases, instead of making up fantastic impossibilities.
There was a signboard on the wall that pointed out each department of the hospital; for lack of anything else to try, he walked over to see if anything stuck.
Once he got to the signboard, he saw a cat sitting down one of the halls.
That was weird. Jaime was certain that animals weren’t allowed in hospitals— right? Or had he been wrong about that his whole life? Since he was such a bad student, anything was possible.
He checked the signboard; the hallway the cat was sitting in led to the Neurology department.
Bloodied saliva. . . The boy had been speaking at rapid fire speed, the muscles at his mouth had been twitching at random, he’d probably bitten his tongue. The dilating pupils. Could he have had a seizure? Was that what a seizure was?
If nothing else, no other department had a cat sitting in the hallway, and it was as good a place to start as any. Jaime went to the Neurology department, and the cat walked on ahead of him as though it were leading the way.
The further he walked down the hall, the more alive his skin felt. He could feel butterflies in his stomach. His heart fluttered.
He ran across a few nurses rushing from one ward to another, and he avoided eye contact with them. When he went through the door, someone behind a desk asked him for his appointment without looking up.
“Uh,” Jaime said, his throat closing up again. He found himself looking at the cat, who hadn’t stopped walking, but had slowed a little when Jaime stopped. The cat looked at him, and its eyes were. . . wrong, somehow, though he couldn’t put his finger on. . .
“I’ve been seeing things,” he improvised, “I saw something impossible and my doctor sent me here for treatment.”
“Ward C,” the clerk said. “To the right, three doors.”
“Thanks,” Jaime breathed, and the cat was already on its way; he hurried to follow it. Maybe he really was seeing things. He was already such a bad student, such a failure, that maybe he had gotten sick, too. He could vaguely remember learning that mental illnesses were similar to physical disabilities, something people couldn’t contract and weren’t contagious, but he could remember even more clearly that physical disabilities made people into angels and that mental illnesses did the opposite.
He reached the third door, but the cat had ignored it, so he did too, realizing at this point that he was definitely following an impossible cat in a hospital he did not have permission to be in. The humming under his skin kept getting stronger and he was both afraid of and exhilarated by it.
By the time the cat stopped, every nerve in his body was lit up and he knew for no real reason that he was in the right place. He threw open the door.
The boy was there. He was sitting in one of the beds, his arms and legs strapped down to the table and an IV beside him— though on closer look it wasn’t connected to him at all, the shredded tip lying abandoned on the ground. His eyes shot open when Jaime came in.
It was just like Jaime remembered. His eyes were red and gold. He also seemed to be vibrating softly where he lay, enough so that he seemed to blur on the edges. He was even grayer than before and far from unruffled, but he still smiled like he understood something that mattered.
“Jaime Reyes!” the boy cheered. He spasmed; it looked like he had tried to sit up, and the restraints had stopped him.
Jaime didn’t know what to think. The boy’s voice had changed as much as his eyes. It had a slight buzz to it, like there was a second or third voice speaking alongside him. It was hard for Jaime to remember what was possible and what wasn’t anymore. “What happened to you?” he asked, a little scared, a little pained.
“Do not worry about us, Jaime Reyes,” the boy said, and his use of the word “us” put Jaime even more on edge. “We have combined our powers in order to help you escape The Firewall.”
The world seemed to spin around Jaime and he took a few more steps toward the boy, gripped the railing of the bed to steady himself. “Powers? Firewall?”
“The Bart Allen’s power of super speed, while dampened physically by The Firewall, was still active in our brain. So long as we were able to build up the mental momentum, and then maintain it, we could regain some of our superpowers, and thus break part of The Firewall’s hold on us that altered our identity and memory.”
Jaime found, despite all laws of reason, that this made a world more sense than any class he could remember sitting through.
“With this small leak in The Firewall, the beetle was able to break out of our stasis and connect directly with the world,” the boy continued, and Jaime’s head swelled with the new concepts. “The beetle had previously made attempts to re-establish our connection with you, Jaime Reyes, but The Firewall was deliberately created to sever such connections and thus all attempts were feeble, and unsuccessful.”
The beetle? The Firewall? (The Bart Allen?) Jaime’s grip on the bed railing tightened; somehow he thought of Khepri on his test, the mosquitoes on his desk, the bug on the boy’s neck. . . the bug that had vanished from his textbook. . .
“We trusted that you could fight your way here in time,” the boy continued. His left arm darkened slowly from the wrist, turned hard and blue, and steamed; the boy grit his teeth and let out a small grunt of pain, and the restraint fell off, sizzling. He reached out his newly-freed arm toward Jaime, palm open. “Of course we were right, Jaime Reyes. Nothing, no matter how powerful, could ever stand a chance against your heart.”
The organ in question was running like a motor now, and Jaime found himself reaching for the boy’s arm. His hand was cold, as Jaime remembered; it was also tough and hard, like armor.
“It is only by magic that we could combine this way,” the boy said wistfully, “and regretfully it seems a touch is not enough to re-establish connections through the spell.”
“Magic can get you in, but only breaking the magic can get you out,” said another voice somewhere, faintly. Jaime darted his eyes wildly around the room, but the only likely suspect was the impossible cat, still standing in front of the door, seeming to hang back and keep watch at the same time.
The boy squeezed Jaime’s hand and Jaime looked into the boy’s red and gold eyes. The boy smiled. “What do you think, Her-mano? Could you CPR the magic out of us?”
It was possibly the worst time for Jaime’s heart to stop and stars to shine all over his head. The worst time, or the best time.
He leaned over the bed and kissed the boy’s lips, their hands still clasped at an awkward angle between their bodies.
The effect was immediate. The hard shell withdrew from the boy’s fingertips and seemed to crawl in a wave down his hand, up his arm, up his neck, to his mouth, and to Jaime’s mouth. The buzzing under Jaime’s skin thickened and shivered from his lips down to his toes in a great pulse, and a white-hot flower opened in his back between his shoulder blades and reached behind him as the world seemed to swirl and fall away—
No, it didn’t seem to. Jaime opened his eyes, and it was like viewing the world through a computerized lens, categorizing and explaining the world around him, so splendid and wonderful and familiar, and it showed him the world falling apart around him, the boy holding onto Jaime for dear life while the bed under him dissolved; as his other restraints vanished he wrapped both arms and legs around Jaime in a desperate and wonderful and warm hug, and they fell together into nothing.
—
.
-
--
- - - -
-- -- -- -- --
“He cut it pretty close though. Could you see the state he was in? A few more hours inside that thing and he would have wasted away to nothing.”
“It doesn’t matter now. What’s important is that he’s alive and mostly intact. For that we can’t thank you enough.”
Jaime opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of a spacecraft.
Bart laid on the floor beside him, pale and weary and unconscious, but still smiling. Their hands were still clasped together.
As Jaime took in the spacecraft, the humming under his skin, the words that occasionally flew into his vision, the voices — Nightwing and. . . was that Klarion? — he slowly remembered.
Being a member of the Young Justice. Going in a small team to a mission in space, because the beetle made him one of the most important member in any space mission, and running across some suspicious Reach technology.
He had commed into the League for advice, and they had all agreed he was the best-equipped to handle Reach technology. He’d flown out of the shuttle to retrieve it, and the moment he touched it everything seemed wrong. . . He’d had a split second to say “What—“
“—happened?” Bart muttered, jolting awake in full panic, eyes darting around the room, hand squeezing tight in Jaime’s. “Did we make it? Are we dead?”
“Hey,” Jaime said, and Bart turned to meet his eye. This time Jaime smiled for Bart. “Welcome back.”
Bart pulled him into another hug, this time without the panic of imminent death. “Her-mano! We did it!! We’re all back!!”
Jaime squeezed him back just as much. “What was it? How did you—?” He didn’t know how to ask.
“I was listening to your comm with the League, and it sounded like something was going wrong. I had to think really fast, and all I could do was grab the first magic-user I ran into, to fight Reach tech, and get them to teleport me to you before anything happened. It closed around us immediately after we arrived.”
“You trapped yourself in there with me?” Jaime asked, with a little panic.
“Remember some of the information the League got from other Reach parts? In the event that the beetles they sent out to seed Reach invasions malfunctioned or started to misbehave in some way from its programming, the Reach had cleaning technology to remove the beetles from their hosts, reprogram the beetles, and send them out again. It was one in maybe a hundred different kinds of technology the Reach sent everywhere, but it could have hurt you, and it kind of sounded like it was.”
Jaime took a deep breath in, thinking of all that had happened in the blink of an eye. “I. . . almost died,” he realized.
“You didn’t,” Bart said firmly. “You didn’t. You didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” Jaime agreed desperately through his tears.
You are alive, Jaime Reyes.
—
At the sound of conversation in the deck, Nightwing tactfully guided a smirking Klarion into a different room. Give the kids some privacy.
“Kah! Teenagers. Nauseating,” Klarion sneered, and his cat flicked its tail in agreement beside him.
Nightwing shrugged. “Their happiness is a direct result of your help. Take it as a compliment.”
“I don’t want it! Throw it back! I want a redo where I can watch them shrivel away in misery.” Klarion nodded and gave a theatrical cackle. “Ooh, that would have been great! If only!”
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth. . . or a gift cat in the eyes?” Nightwing allowed himself a small smile before he sent a hard look to his old adversary. “But the League will want to know what you get out of doing this for us. I’d like to say it’s paranoid, but. . .”
“Paranoid? It’s smart, BlueDay.” Klarion’s cackle turned predatory as he looked at Nightwing. “‘Why was he already in the League headquarters,’ I bet you’re thinking? Or maybe, ‘How did Kid-Flash-The-Living find ol’ Klarion before Magic Girl or any other presto-bangos in the League who actually belong there’? Don’t second-guess yourself. Those are good questions to be asking.”
Nightwing steadied his jaw and humored Klarion with a smile. “Might have crossed my mind.”
“How dare you! I have some altruism in my spleen somewhere, or whatever place it is people get all squishy,” Klarion exclaimed.
Nightwing held his masked stare.
Klarion put a finger to his smile. “Besides, The Light could make some great use out of this Firewall technology, don’t you think?” he added, flashing a piece of brilliantly shining light in his palm.
By the time Nightwing moved a muscle to react, the witch-boy and cat were both gone with an echo of a laugh ringing through the ship.
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