Todays book is Natural Satellite by @sixpossumsinatrenchcoat!!
I’ll be so real, I’m so proud of this book. I had the chance to take a book arts class for school, and for my final project I decided to go ahead and do a fic binding. This book is one I’d had planned out for a while, and this was my chance to actually create it!!
You can’t see it super well in these pictures, but the edges of the book are painted! And they have stars! So you’ll just have to trust me when I say it looks really really cool.
Honestly this fic is very important to me just in general. When I was first playing ISAT I was told several times completely separate people that I desperately needed to read Natural Satellite as soon as I finished the game, and they were very much correct!
For the typesetting I really wanted to try and capture the energy of the game itself, which I think I was able to do pretty well!
The title page is based on the orbital path of tsuchinshan-atlas, aka the second moon that we had for a few months last year. It felt very fitting for the contents of the fic hehe!
You can read the fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53412649/chapters/135189547
seriously, this book is such a work of art. the quality is insane, all the little details are so thoughtful & beautifully laid out…. objectively one of the coolest things that's ever happened to me.
bonus pics bc i got way too excited unboxing this thing:
A Detective Beebo epilogue. In the wake of the true end, Ángel struggles to pick up the pieces. Ending 1 spoilers abound.
Ángel tries to be a good secretary. Unfortunately, outside of certain impossible, supernatural, totally physics-defying circumstances, it seems like detective-ing is mostly pretty boring. It’s a lot of standing around in the rain, waiting for something to happen. And filling out business tax forms, and income tax forms, and rental insurance forms, and—just—paperwork, in general. So much paperwork! Ángel never had to read this many documents when he was a CEO.
“That’s because you were a terrible CEO,” Oliver says helpfully.
Ángel gasps. “How could you say that!!”
“Because of your track record as a CEO?”
“Well,” Ángel huffs. “Well! Well… yes.”
[If you follow me and have yet to play Detective Beebo: holy shit please play Detective Beebo]
Ángel tries to be a good secretary. Unfortunately, outside of certain impossible, supernatural, totally physics-defying circumstances, it seems like detective-ing is mostly pretty boring. It’s a lot of standing around in the rain, waiting for something to happen. And taking shifts sleeping while you wait for your contact to call you back. And filling out business tax forms, and income tax forms, and rental insurance forms, and—just—paperwork, in general. So much paperwork! Ángel never had to read this many documents when he was a CEO.
“That’s because you were a terrible CEO,” Oliver says helpfully.
Ángel gasps. “How could you say that!!”
“Because of your track record as a CEO?”
“Well,” Ángel huffs. “Well! Well… yes.”
“Paperwork is a useful skill.” Ollie leans against him, smiling. “And if you took over, I’d have a lot more time to work the case. It would help me a lot.”
So, yeah. Ángel never stood a chance.
At this point, though, ‘the case’ is still mostly hypothetical. Oliver’s been indulging him, turning down any cases that will take him out of the office. Also known as: most cases.
Ollie’s being very understanding. He gets it. Historically, when Ángel takes his eyes off him, Oliver dies bloodily. Like… almost 100% of the time. Statistically speaking, it’s practically a guarantee.
It’s not going to be like this forever. Even Ángel isn’t that controlling (or, if he is, he knows he’s not supposed to be). They’re just waiting for the dust to settle, putting a little space between Now and Then. Between Oliver being here, warm, alive, barely an eyelash away, and Oliver being dead and dead and dead. It’ll get better. Ángel will get better. And then Ollie can get back to doing what he loves.
But it doesn’t get better.
They hang out with their friends, and it doesn’t get better. They play cards with their new family and it doesn’t get better. No matter what does or doesn’t happen, Ángel knows the score. He knows what lies in wait around the corner. He knows what happens when he looks away.
It’s not just separation. It’s all the little things, a million day-to-day mundanities swirling around them like a swarm of killer bees. Metronomes. Car horns. Fireworks. Freak storms. Mountains, snow-torn and otherwise. Oliver gasps at a display of eclairs and Ángel’s heart twists in his chest.
Ollie notices, of course. He tilts toward Ángel, frowning, before he’s even finished his eclair. (And if that isn’t love, what is?)
“Ángel?”
“Just remembered how cute you are,” Ángel tells him, and winks. “Nothing to worry over.”
He is worried, though. Because even when you’re not trapped in an inescapable death house, there are so, so many ways to die. Rabid dogs. Crossing streets. Flash floods. Gas leaks. Tetanus shots, when did Oliver get his last tetanus shot? Is he up to date? Does he even know?
(“June of last year,” Ollie says promptly, when asked. “Why? When was yours?”
“…No one knows when they got their last tetanus shot.”)
Ángel falls asleep on his desk and opens his eyes in a world of white. The wind whips at his scarf, spits in his eyes, spatters his face with splinters of glittering cold. It’s so dark. It’s so dark. The storm swallows the moon, shatters the stars. There’s not a glimmer of light in all the world but somehow he can still trace the outline of a shadow on the ground, a stripe of cold dead dark spattered with red. The stink of rusted metal, copper-bright and choking. Fear in the air, blood in the snow.
Oliver.
Ángel’s on him in a moment, cradling his head, brushing blood-gummed hanks of hair back from his face. He tries to put pressure on the wound but it only presses more blood out of him, like juicing an orange. Fresh-squeezed human pulp.
Ollie’s face is so cold. He’s so cold to the touch, colder than the wind, colder than the storm. All his light and life drained out into the snow. There’s so much blood, there’s so much blood, enough to paint the whole night red. He can’t be alive, he’s lost too much blood, but somehow his eyes open anyway. He looks up at Ángel. He smiles.
“Wh–” Ángel chokes out, stops to gasp for breath. “Wh-Why would you…” go alone, he’s trying to say. Why would you leave me behind, where I can’t see you, where I can’t protect you? But he can’t force the words through the sobs.
“Sorry,” Ollie whispers. Every word squeezes blood from the gash in his throat, a wash of warm slick scarlet. “I’m sorry. You weren’t there.”
“We’re not supposed to be here,” Ángel moans. “We aren’t here, we got out, we got away, we’re not here anymore!”
“Oh, Ángel.” Oliver reaches up, takes Ángel’s shaking hand in one of his. His grip is so gentle, his strength already fading. “Don’t you understand? We’ll always be here. We’ll always haunt this place.”
“But—”
“Ángel,” Ollie says again.
“Wh-Wh…”
“Ángel!” It’s a whisper that’s almost a shout, sharp with urgency. Suddenly a hand is shaking his shoulder, and—
—Ángel jerks awake. At his desk. In the office. Not in the house, he’s not in the house, he’s here, they’re both here, Oliver’s alive and he’s shaking his shoulder. Not bleeding, not freezing. Alive.
“Ángel!” he whispers, “come quick!!”
Ángel’s already on his feet, knees half-bent, reaching for his knife.
“Quick, you have to see!!” Ollie’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, both fists clutched to his chest like hamster paws. “Look, look!!!”
Ángel looks.
Mozilla Firefox is dozing on the windowsill, stretched out on his back with all four paws in the air. And he’s not alone. Somehow, somewhere, in spite of the fact that the big beautiful baby literally never goes outside, he’s found a kitten. Or maybe the kitten found him? It’s tiny, small enough to fit in Ollie’s palm, just a perfect little whorl of coal-black tucked into the fluff of Mozi’s belly. Both of them are purring like a lawnmower.
Ángel stares in total silence for at least 30 seconds. Then he says, “That’s so cute.”
“I know!!!!!” When Ollie spots the knife in Ángel’s hand, his smile falters. “Oh. Um. Were you… Did you have a bad dream?”
“No, no, of course not!” No, that’s stupid. Ollie’s never going to believe it. “Or, I mean. Yes.”
“About…”
Ángel hates himself a little. Ollie looked so happy a second ago. Now even his giddy little wiggles have stilled. Ángel hates that. He hates being the reason for Ollie to look like that. He doesn’t want to be something that hurts.
“I was late for school,” he ad-libs. “And when I got there, I wasn’t wearing any clothes.”
“...So you decided to stab your teacher?”
Ángel gives him a roguish grin. “We both know I like to live dangerously.”
###
Days go by, then weeks. It doesn’t get better. If anything, it gets worse. Ángel can see the shroud of death hanging over every corner of every room. They still don’t even know how Linux—that’s the kitten; Nadia adamantly veto-ed ‘Cherubim,’ ‘Elohim,’ and about half a dozen other lesser angels—got into the office. What if Mozilla Firefox got out the same way? Ollie would go after him, of course he would. He wouldn’t wait around for Ángel to get his shoes on. He’d leap into action while the trail was still hot, and then he’d leap in front of a—a moving car, or an anvil or something, and he’d be dead forever. For good. And half the cans in the kitchenette are totally expired. What is it you get from improperly canned food? Botulism or something? Isn’t that totally incurable?
“C-Careful!” Ángel yelps, when he sees Oliver reach for a stack of mail. “Let me do that!”
“Careful about… the mail?”
“You don’t know what’s in it!! It could be, I don’t know, anthrax or something! Or you could cut yourself!”
Oliver sets the stack aside and gives him a patient look. “Ángel.”
“Querido?”
“I think you need to get out more.”
“H-Hey! I go out! We went to that bakery this morning. And last weekend, we watched all those movies with Nina!”
“Yes,” Ollie agrees. “We go out. But I meant on your own. Without me.”
Ángel can’t suppress a flinch.
Ollie’s face softens. “How about this. I’m going to be here all night, making phone calls for this case. I’m not going to leave the office even once. I can lock the door and, and be really really careful. I won’t even open any mail.”
“Don’t tease me!!!!”
“I’m not.” He’s still smiling, but his eyes are serious. “I understand, Ángel. Really. But I—I don’t think it’s going to get less scary until you let it be a little scary.”
“...But I don’t want to?”
Ollie opens his mouth, then hesitates. “The gallery.”
Ángel leans across the desk, knits their hands together and squeezes.
“It was…” He can feel Oliver’s shiver through through the place where their palms meet. “Not good.”
“Understatement,” Ángel mutters.
Ollie snickers. “Yes. I was, um. I was alone there. And I was going to die there, all alone, in a puzzle I couldn’t solve, that—didn’t make sense, didn’t have any rules…” He shakes his head vigorously, like he can physically shake off the memory. “So. Afterwards, I just. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t look at it, didn’t—feel any of it, anything about it. And it was okay, except. Anytime anyone mentioned anything s-supernatural—anything, you know. Haunted…”
This time they both shiver.
“I’d just sort of fall apart,” Ollie shrugs. “Spiral, and hyperventilate, and then forget why I was even upset in the first place. And I would have done that forever, I think. I don’t think I ever would have got any less scared. Not until I met another House.”
Ángel barks a bitter laugh. “Don’t tell me it was a good experience.”
“No. No, it was not. But I’m… less afraid now, I think. Because I didn’t have any other choice. And you don’t have a choice either. Because honestly, Ángel, I love you, but I can’t be the only thing in your life. It’s too much.”
“You’re not—” Ángel starts to protest, but he can’t even finish the sentence. He has sort of revolved around Oliver, since they got out. And he doesn’t want to be a burden. He doesn’t ever want to be something that Ollie has to throw away.
Oliver bumps him on the arm with his forehead, like a big gangly cat. “So, go get a drink with Vivi. Catch up. For an hour! And I’ll be here with the door locked, and I’ll—I’ll even turn on my ringer! So you can call me and I can let you know I’m still alive.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Ángel says automatically.
“Hey. Have I broken a promise yet?”
Ugh. “...No…”
“Then I promise. I’ll be right here when you get back.”
###
“Wow,” Vivi snickers, when Ángel’s finished catching her up. She’s got one elbow on the bar and her boots propped on the footrail of his stool, twirling the straw in her (very overpriced, very-much-on-Ángel’s-dime) drink. She nudges him with her shoulder, shaking her head admiringly. “Bunny boy must be a saint.”
“Yeah,” Ángel says dreamily. “He’s the best.”
“No, I mean, for putting up with you. You sound exhausting.”
“Wh— Hey!!”
“Like, totally suffocating.”
“I am not!!”
“The obsessive clingy thing is only cute when you’re a teenager, you know? Don’t you think you’re a little old for this?”
“I am plenty young, thank you very much! In the prime of my life! Still very charming! And I’m definitely not—” Well, okay, maybe he is a little clingy. “I’m not… too old.”
“Uh huh,” she says, visibly unconvinced. “Sounds like the lost-puppy, sad-wet-kitten-in-a-cardboard-box act is getting old, though.”
“Ollie understands,” Ángel insists. He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, if it’s Vivi or just himself. “It’s not like he doesn’t know why.”
A shadow crosses her face. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that.”
“And we’re working on it! We’re… going to work on it. He’s got some experience with that,” with a note of bitterness. “I just have to follow his lead.”
“Hey, I gotcha,” Vivi says, and winks. “Follow the white rabbit, am I right?”
Huh? “Oliver isn’t white.”
“Oh my god, read a book sometime!! Geez!! And stop texting your boyfriend under the table, I can literally see you.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll order a round for the whole bar,” she says sweetly. “And we both know who’s buying.”
###
When he slips back into the office, Ollie is right where he left him. Asleep at his laptop, with his cheek smushed flat against the desk.
Ángel's heart thuds against his sternum. Oliver looks so peaceful. By day he's a pinball of motion, all bouncing feet and squeezing hands and happy little wiggles. Even when he's hyper-focused on a case, he's never still. He's chewing his lip, fidgeting with his collar, twisting a lock of hair between two fingers. Rocking gently in his chair and patting around absently until he's found the orange fluffball twining around his ankles. But right now he’s utterly still.
Maybe too still.
Is he even breathing? Ángel can’t tell, can’t trace the rise and fall of his chest, can’t see the puff of air from Ollie’s slackened mouth. Can’t see even a whisper of motion: no twitch in his limbs, no rapid-eye movement, no pulse flickering in his wrist. In life Oliver is warmth and light and energy, unbounded, electric, and in death he's just, dead. Unmoving. Gray. Ángel knows how it looks when he dies.
…It’s his fault. He got distracted, turned his back, looked away when he should have stayed close and now Oliver’s dead and it’s his fault, again, because it’s always his fault, isn’t it? Only this time he can’t fix it. This time he can’t turn it back. They should have stayed in that House, they never should have left, Ollie could have been safe forever and ever and no one ever would have made Ángel leave.
No. No. He’s being crazy, being just as crazy as Ollie and Vivi and everyone else thinks. He j-just needs to be sure, needs to feel Oliver’s pulse against his skin. He drops to his knees beside the desk, reaches out with shaking hands—
—and a hand snaps up, whip-quick, and catches him by the forearm.
A moment later, Ollie’s eyes blink open. “Oh,” he yawns, “you’re back. Did you have fun?”
“Ollie," Ángel breathes, and closes the space with wild desperation.
Ollie makes a little noise, a sweet little squeak of surprise that melts into a hum of pleasure when Ángel cards a hand through his curls and cradles the nape of his neck.
Even once they break apart, Ángel isn’t ready to let go. He presses his forehead against Oliver’s, lets his eyes fall shut to hide the shine of unshed tears. “Missed you.”
“Yeah,” Ángel admits. He likes everything about Ollie. He feels a little drunk on it, or maybe that’s just the six whiskeys. “You have a good night? Bet you got a lot done, without me to distract you.”
“I did, actually. And I, um.” Oliver clears his throat. “I’m… taking a new case.”
“Oh, yes?” Ángel’s too high on relief to feel anything but giddy. “Another thief? Should I be jealous?”
Ollie doesn’t take the bait. His face is drawn, those big brown eyes unusually serious. “No. Not a thief. Not even a criminal, really. It’s, um. Well.” He pulls in a breath, like he’s trying to gather resolve, then lets it out with deliberate calm. “It’s… a house.”
Still not sure if I'm gonna continue this series, but if I do, it'd be here: ao3.org/works/62761285/chapters/160676647
Detective Oliver Beebo has been invited to a party by an ex-Rich man in the middle of nowhere. Snacks included.
Unravel the mystery of the party, the guests, the house and the strange phenomena that's causing you to forget... something important? Surely it won't affect your love life.
do you like: time loops? gay people? twisty architectural horror? incredibly endearing characters that will live in your heart for years to come? gripping fictional horrors in which to take respite from the soul-crushing barrage of ongoing actual horrors? PLEASE play detective beebo holy shit
via NYPost: Immigration and Customs Enforcement is preparing to launch a “big f–king operation” across sanctuary cities — including Chicago and New York — immediately after President-elect Donald Trump’s inauguration, multiple sources told The Post.
Starting Jan. 21, multi-day “ground operations” will be launched across cities that have served as safe havens for migrants because the local authorities do not cooperate with the federal government when it comes to immigration issues, sources said.
this is an inconceivable relief and should be celebrated, but it is not a permanent solution! please take this opportunity to donate to evac funds now, in this window of time where escape is safe/survivable/even remotely possible. and those going home to rebuild will need support more than ever... if hopelessness has made you feel helpless, let this glimmer of hope drive you to action:
https://gazafunds.com/
also! the US and Israel have a long history of using military might as an excuse to ignore global policy & do whatever they want. visibility & accountability are going to be essential to the enforcement of this ceasefire. keep buying esims to keep gaza online:
An I Was A Teenage Exocolonist retrospective. In the wake of the Peace End, Tangent grapples with her loss of purpose—and with the alien that’s moved into her colony.
Symbiosis holds out a vial containing— Is that a pale violet finger? No. That’s absurd. Tangent isn’t a child, clutching at Occam’s Razor in the hopes of cutting her way to the most obvious, infantile conclusion. He’s brought her a sample of a—a new edible root, or a fungus or something. Another instance of appalling biomimicry from the lawless flux of the Vertumnan wild.
“What is it?” she asks warily.
The alien smiles wide. “It’s my finger!”
“…It’s your finger.”
Psst, time loop likers on my feed: this is your semiannual reminder to play 'I Was A Teenage Exocolonist.' (This fic isn't about the time loop, I just know my demographic.)
[Parasitism and Opportunism in Mycorrhizal Adaptation
Adaptive codependence has been widely reported[1] in a majority of terrestrial ecosystems[2]. However, the prevalence of developmental dependency in Vertumnan biomes far outpaces any instances cited on Earth[3], producing large-scale ecosystemic shifts whose acceleration proves lethally asynchronous with the human mutation cycle[4] at an average uncertainty quotient (UQ) of 1.68 [see Section 6A for the algorithmic development of UQ as applied through Privik’s Theory of Bioentropic Decay]. As such, the introduction of unresearched native species into human-governed systems increases the risk of colony collapse by—]
“What are you writing?” asks a smooth, lilting tenor—soft-spoken, but not nearly soft enough to account for its unacceptable proximity to her ear.
Tangent flinches so violently that her holo registers the motion as a command and clears her screen, revealing the darkened laboratory. White desks, steel walls. Glass enclosures and ventilation shafts. And a tall, spindly figure with a suspiciously friendly smile.
Symbiosis.
Symbiosis, the alien living among them. A Vertumnan native—an invasive species, in essence—eating and sleeping and interrupting her workflow like any other human. A xenobiological unknown with a proclivity for intrusive questions, with motives wholly undisclosed.
Tangent's eyes narrow. “What makes you think I was writing?” Her latest holo upgrade is wired directly into her inferior frontal gyrus, and derives its transcript straight from her ventral cortex.
“Your gaze was fixed, yet unfocused,” the alien says promptly. “And your pupils were more contracted than would be suitable for such low light. Also, I have been standing here for several minutes.”
“You were watching me?”
“I did not wish to interrupt!”
As usual, his smile gives nothing away. (And Tang thought humans were hard to read.) “Did you need something?”
“Oh, no! No, my needs are very well met. But thank you very much for asking!”
“Then…”
Symbiosis holds out one hand, revealing a glass vial that holds— Is that a pale violet finger? No. That’s absurd. She’s not a child, clutching at Occam’s Razor in the hopes of cutting her way to the most obvious, infantile conclusion. He’s brought her a sample of a—a new edible root, or a fungus or something. Another instance of appalling biomimicry from the lawless flux of the Vertumnan wild.
She waits for an explanation, but he just keeps standing there, smiling.
Oh, fine. She’ll do all the hard work, as usual. “What is it?”
“It’s my finger!”
“…It’s your finger.”
The alien nods obligingly. “Yes, that’s right!”
Tangent looks at his right hand. She looks at his left hand. Neither appears to be missing a finger. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Oh, I see! No, it’s not this body’s finger. I made a new one, naturally. Fingers are awfully useful, you know! So I thought it best to start over with the full set.”
Made a new one, Tangent repeats to herself. “I see. Can I ask why you’ve brought me your finger?”
“It was Dysthymia’s idea!” Symbiosis tells her happily. “He thought you might want one.”
“Dys thought I might want one of your fingers.”
“Well, I suppose it was originally Solane’s idea…” (Of course it was, Tang thinks grimly. Isn’t it always?) “They thought you might feel ill at ease, sharing your community with so foreign a sentience. And then Dys pointed out that you achieve understanding through the acquisition of data! And that you might appreciate an opportunity for more comprehensive study.”
“More comprehensive study,” Tangent repeats. She doesn’t make a habit of repeating herself, much less anyone else. But she doesn’t know enough about the Gardeners to feel safe sending him away, like she would with anyone else who’d presume to waste so much of her time. And to be honest, she does want the finger.
“Yes! An in-depth physical would be best, he said. But I’m having so much fun here!” The alien’s huge, misshapen eyes shimmer, like a dobsmoth inflating its refractive throatsac. “Everything changes all the time; every moment an inimitable surprise! And I suppose it sounded—if you’ll forgive me—somewhat boring, to spend hours sitting idle in a test chamber. I hoped that a smaller sample might suffice, for the present?”
“Mh,” Tang says absently. Her attention is already drifting, locking onto the vial. “Which finger?”
“Well, mine, of course! Could you not tell from the color?”
“No.” She shows him her hand, points at her thumb then her pinky. “Which finger?”
“Ah! The longest. At the center of the hand. I thought it might offer more data…?”
“It’s fresh?”
“Mere minutes old!”
She’s not watching his expression anymore. She’s barely even listening. 96% of her processing power is locked on the AR spreadsheet that’s quickly eclipsing the lab. “A new body, you said. But that’s only a finger. What did you do with the rest?”
“Hmm…” The alien chuckles, suddenly coy. “Do you know, I think that may be private. A gentleman ought to maintain a bit of mystery! Or so I’ve read.”
A useless answer. And pointless, besides. Even if it were only a toenail, she’d find a way to unearth every mystery. With a whole, fresh finger, she’ll have this whole planet in the palm of her hand.
“You can leave it on the table,” she says distractedly. “Close the door on your way out.”
By the time she remembers to add a cursory “Thank you,” the alien’s already gone. The door is closed, as requested, though that doesn’t mean much. He might have slithered out through the vents, for all she knows.
She sets that aside. There’s nothing she can do about it. And she has work to do.
###
Congruence reports that the subsurface dermal cellular structure of the invasive xeno’s finger features no self-repair mechanism to speak of. And isn’t that just wildly illogical? ‘Made a new body,’ Tangent remembers again. So… perhaps each vessel is designed to be discarded—reintegrated—rebuilt anew?
Perhaps for the Gardeners, individual physicality was patched in retroactively, retrofitted to a sentience for which it can never truly fit. Perhaps no singular sentience was ever intended to last, only to absorb and degrade and reform. But if that’s the case—if the Gardeners’ sentience is so incompatible with individual identity, how could they be trusted with the stewardship of a species evolutionarily optimized for specialization, and for—
“Um!” a voice cuts in. “Um, um… Tangent? Can you hear me?”
Tang blinks away her screen to find another intruder. Human this time, at least. Generous curves, a waterfall of pink curls. Aspartame. Tammy. “Yes?”
“Well!” Tammy says, blushing. “Well, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid that I had little choice. I’m acting on orders, you know!”
What? “Whose?”
Tammy’s face furrows, then smooths into a wide, open smile. “Well, yours, of course, silly! After you finished that study on how your d-digestive—um—your whole, um, eating situation would go a lot more smoothly if you… ate solid food, now and again?”
Oh. That. “‘Family dinner?’” Tangent sighs, with audible air quotes. That’s the name that Cal and Tammy chose. Twice a month, their whole little brood (plus most of the creche, and at least half the adults) gather around one long feasting table. But— “That’s not till tomorrow.”
“We-ell,” Tammy says diplomatically. “Well, then, I think it might be tomorrow today, actually. Er. Right now, I mean. And I know it’s not always easy keeping track, with you working so hard, so I thought you might… not appreciate, maybe, but—benefit? From a reminder.”
Tangent looks her over. As biologically revolting as motherhood sounds, it’s clearly done wonders for Aspartame. She stands taller, firmer, both feet rooted to the floor. There’s no tremble in her hands, no hesitation. She used to flinch anytime Tangent looked her way. Now, though, her smile reaches her eyes. She looks happy.
And besides. That study did confirm that Tangent’s productivity undergoes a 16% drop anytime she goes more than fourteen sun-cycles without physical sustenance.
“I see,” Tangent says grimly. “Thank you. I’ll be there in… What time should I be there?”
“Oh, you’re welcome anytime! But, well.” Tammy looks left and right before adding, conspiratorial, “We did make a pot of spongebread curry. And there’s only so much. If you take more than an hour, I don’t think there’ll be any left.”
Unfortunately, Tangent’s physical body benefits immensely from spongebread curry. (Correlation does not, of course, imply causation, but the numbers speak for themselves: she’s observed an uncannily high rate of scientific breathroughs the morning after she partakes.)
“Alright,” Tang sighs, pushing back from her desk. “Then I suppose I’ll walk you there.”
She’s just taken her seat when the door to Tammy’s kitchen bursts open, revealing Solane arm-in-arm with their pet alien.
“Dys didn’t wish to join us,” Symbiosis announces, smiling.
“Don’t tell them that,” Solane sighs.
“But he didn't," the alien says, surprised. "He said that if he were made to spend one more night in a throng of shouting humans, he would be forced to—"
"I know what he said," Sol cuts in, with a helpless little giggle. "But you're not supposed to say it.”
"It is considered inappropriate to tell the truth?"
"Um. Yeah? Sometimes."
Symbiosis looks perturbed. "But how does one discern which truths are inappropriate?"
Tang was expecting Sol to look impatient by now, or at least a little embarrassed. But their thoughtful frown is entirely in earnest. "Hm... let's say, um... when the truth could be hurtful, and the lie won't do harm? Or have any consequences that might do harm later. Though you don't have to do it with people you know super well. Oh, wow, I probably shouldn't tell you to lie, huh? Uh. Uhh… please don't lie to me?"
"I could never," the alien assures them, with his usual searing sincerity. He takes their hand in both of his and brings it to his chest. "I can think of nothing I'd ever wish to hide from you. All that I am is yours."
"Yeah, yeah," Solane snickers, a little flushed around the ears. "I’m sure you tell that to all the earthlings.”
“I do n—”
“—nothing of the sort, I know.”
Tammy was always a touch too tremulous to stand up to Tangent's company, but Recalcitrant often has worthwhile insights from his research in geoponics. They quickly delve into the more granular details of a genomic adjustment which could accelerate the mutation cycle of non-Vertumnan crops by nearly 500%.
Sol’s alien leans across the table, smiling. “How interesting! And very ambitious, as is so often your way. I do have a question, though, if you’ll allow it.”
He can ask. Whether she opts to answer is yet to be seen. “Yes? What is it.”
“Wonderful! How marvelously accommodating. Well, then, my question is: Why?”
“…Excuse me?”
“For what purpose would you pursue such genomic adjustments?” Symbiosis explains. “To what end?”
Isn’t it obvious? “It could quintuple our crop yield.”
The alien looks surprised. “Do you mean to quintuple your population in one generation?”
“What? Well—not me specifically, but—”
“And have you investigated the ecosystemic consequence of such heightened extraction of carbon and nitrogen from the soil?”
“I—” Tang huffs a breath. “We can’t study something that hasn’t even happened. All we can do is address those problems as they arise.”
“And which problem has arisen here?” Symbiosis asks, still smiling. “Does it demand solution? Or are you merely presenting unasked-for solutions in hopes of manifesting new problems to solve? Ouch,” he adds mildly, as Solane kicks him hard in the shin. “Yes, sugarbug? What is it?”
Sol gives him a pointed look. “Remember what we talked about?”
“Oh, but we talk about so many wonderful things! You’ll have to be more specific!”
“About how some conversations are for dinner parties, and some are more—sort of—maybe more of a one-on-one thing? More of a private conversation?”
“I see,” the alien says somberly, nodding. “Yes, of course. I shall be sure to add crop rotation to the list of subjects inappropriate for mealtime. Please accept my sincerest apologies for any offense.”
“I’m not offended,” Tangent sputters. And then she has to stop talking for a while, lest the shrill of her voice reveal her all-too-visceral offense.
You can read the rest on ao3! (please read the rest on ao3, the tang/marz scene was soooo much fun to write)
Or if Sol/Sym/Dys is more your speed, feel free to check out my other exocolonist fic!
if you're feeling powerless right now—and god knows I am—here's a reminder you can donate to the National Network of Abortion Funds, the Trans Law Center, Gaza Soup Kitchen, the Palestine Children's Relief Fund, and hundreds of other charities that will work to mitigate the damage that has been and will continue to be inflicted
life continues. we still have the capacity to do good, important work. that matters
quick message for US americans feeling fucked up about the trolley problem-ass moral nightmare that is “either vote for genocide, or vote for genocide ~and~ the criminalization of HRT & gender-affirming surgery across all 50 states” — this is probably a good time to set up a recurring donation to a gofundme for aid for palestine.
there is no good option here. every outcome is awful. imo, voting blue could still save a lot of lives (namely: the lives of all the trans & black kids who will not survive another trump presidency), but we all know that there is no winning when choosing between genocide and genocide-plus. if we lose, we’re fucked, & if we “win,” we’re still guilty of fucking manslaughter. so for now, at least, let your shame and revulsion spur you to feed a kid dinner.
i’m not gonna drop a whole list bc i think a lot of people freeze up when they see too many choices, so here’s where i just set up my latest recurring donation. even if you can’t give much, giving a few dollars a month often adds up to more than giving a lump sum once. so just give what you can & then keep giving it.
sorry. thank you. and now i return to my usual ominous silence.
A Ryoji Mochizuki study. You can start from chapter one here.
“Aigis,” Thanatos says calmly. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I do.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone!”
“I’m not anyone,” Aigis says coldly, then pauses to run the query again. “You won’t hurt me.”
“I kind of think I will, though.”
She expels a puff of trapped steam. “If you’re so concerned for my condition, you could allow me to subdue you without resisting.”
“And then you’d let me go?”
“No.”
“See, that’s the problem,” Death says sadly. “It’d be different if you could really do it. But you can’t, so…”
“Allow me to disagree,” she suggests, and opens fire.
Chapter 3: Memento Mori
A few minutes before midnight on November 25th, Minato blinks awake to a familiar sight: a spindly figure staring down at him. Bare feet, blue eyes. Unearthly pale and inhumanly still. Through the fog of sleep, Minato manages a bleary smile.
Then he remembers that Pharos is gone.
This isn’t Pharos.
Slowly, almost soundless, he slides his hand toward his bedside table. But before he can reach his evoker, the figure speaks.
“Minato-kun,” it whispers; and at last, it moves, raking tangled black hair back from a familiar face.
“Wh… Ryoji?” But why would he… and how would he… “How did you get here?”
Ryoji flaps a hand vaguely, like maybe even he doesn’t know. “S-Sorry. Sorry, I’m sorry, I just—I had to see you, I had to. I feel like I’m running out of time, like we’re running out of time, I can feel it slipping through my fingers, like… like something horrible’s going to happen. Can’t you feel it?” he pleads, suddenly desperate. “It’s so quiet, it’s too quiet, it’s—the horrible stillness as the surf pulls away from the shore, the beach all naked and exposed, the whole ocean holding its breath, and then—” He has to stop to gasp for breath.
Minato pushes up on his elbows. He’s still not sure if he’s awake. “What are you… What? Everything’s fine.”
“You can’t feel it?” Ryoji asks miserably. “No. No. I know that you can. A change in the wind, a cold front, a barometric shift like your ears are going to pop, except instead of your ears it’s everything. Everything is going to change. We’re going to lose everything.”
“Nn…no?” Minato yawns. “No, what? Come on. What?”
Ryoji laughs. It is not a happy sound. “Minato-kun. Have you ever known, really known, that you’re in danger? You can’t see it, you can’t hear it, but you know, you know it’s coming?”
“Anxiety disorder,” Minato mumbles.
Ryoji snorts a laugh. “Aw. Mina-kun. You’re so kind.”
“Not really…”
“But you are! You really are! You’re so good at picking the right answer! But sometimes there are only wrong answers. Sometimes mercy is cruelty and, and cruelty is kindness.” Ryoji spreads his hands wide, baring all his white teeth in a wild grin. “If you can’t save them, will you spare them?”
Okay, Minato is officially awake. “Ryoji. What are you talking about.”
“I don’t know!!” Ryoji giggles. “There’s—haha!! There’s so much I don’t know! It’s like the whole of my mind is the dark under the bed, the monster in the closet, only I can’t exorcize it by looking, because! It’s! It isn’t real until I look!!! A-And once I’ve looked, I can’t un-look. You don’t want me to look, do you, Minato-kun? That wouldn’t be kind.”
“I…” Minato trails off. He’s good at killing Shadows, taking exams. Right and wrong answers and, ideally, a navigator to tell him which ones are which. He isn’t good at… whatever this is.
“It’s okay!!!” Ryoji rushes to reassure him. His time-signature’s shifted along with his tone, minor chords to crashing, discordant majors. “It’s okay!!!! You don’t have to have the right answer!!! I don’t want you to change at all!! I’m just—I’m so glad to have known you!!! I feel so lucky!!!”
“…”
“The monster in the closet…” Ryoji chuckles. “It’s like something from a scary movie. Isn’t it? What is it that Sadako said… ‘Seven days?’”
Minato’s skin prickles.
“That was kind of her, wasn't it?” Ryoji says thoughtfully. “To warn you before she unmakes you. B-But, but! Do you know! I think that might be even crueler! If you know what’s coming but you can’t fight it, can’t prevent it… wouldn’t it be better not to know?”
“I—” Minato remembers to breathe. “—never watched The Ring.”
“But you saw the commercials! They terrified you!”
…Yeah. That’s true. Not that Minato's ever told anyone. He has a reputation to uphold. But it wasn’t Sadako’s sodden broken body that scared him, or that stupid VHS. It was the warning. Seven days. That’s how long you have. You can say your goodbyes, make your peace… just keep it short. There’s only one week left.
“Minato-kun?”
Minato shakes himself off. “Look. Do you need to sleep here?”
“In your bed?” Ryoji asks hopefully.
“On the ground.”
“Haha! I know, I know. But it’s alright, Minato-kun. I don’t need anything from you. You’ve already done more than enough.”
Minato glowers. “I—” haven’t done anything. I’ve known you three weeks. What do you even mean? But he doesn’t get the chance to find the words. Ryoji’s already slung one leg over the sill.
“Rest well, my dearest,” Ryoji says, from halfway out the window. “I think you’re going to need it.”
* *
* * *
* *
Mochizuki Ryoji is a threat.
The Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon AIGIS cannot explain how she knows this. Many humans cannot explain how they know what they know, because human memories are made of meat and light. Their long-term storage systems are highly insufficient and, as such, force them to draw conclusions based on the memory of the memory of data.
Associations, affiliations; pareidolia steered by emotion and allegiance. These things are beneath Aigis. Or, at least, they should be.
They are not.
Aigis knows—knows, without doubt—that Mochizuki Ryoji is a threat. When he draws near, her Anti-Shadow firmware fizzles and sparks. She can sense, with a sensory cortex more specialized than any bio-neural network, the way the air warps around him. The way sunlight seems to flinch.
Yet she cannot explain it. Cannot prove it. Of all the maddening, illogical lessons she’s learned from her time among humans, this is far-and-above the worst. To know what, but not why? To know why, but not how? To identify a threat mathematically, objectively, without any margin of error, and fail to produce any evidence? Aigis cannot imagine a worse fate. (Though, to be fair, ‘imagination’ is not one of her core functions.)
In order to manufacture an artificial Persona-wielder, Aigis was gifted with knowledge of the entirety of written human history. Those annals included the story of Cassandra, a fictional navigator whose RAM had desynchronized from linear chronology. Due to the parasympathetic mirror-neural response embedded in her Papillon Heart, Aigis can relate to this fictional human.
In the stories, the prophet Cassandra devotes herself to the man she loves. Then the both of them are murdered by Clytamnestra, who loved him first. Cassandra knew what was coming, and chose not to act.
This was a miscalculation. A more competent soldier would eliminate the threat on sight.
* * *
In the weeks since Aigis seized her autonomy back from the Chairman, the humans have taught her a great deal about how to be a person. Personhood chiefly involves the consistent exercise of agency and intent. Aigis has integrated these values into her routine operation. She does not simply default to her programming. She ruminates. She deliberates. She considers her motives.
Which is why, at 00:00 02 DEC 2006 (JST), Aigis is so surprised to find herself on the Moonlight Bridge. None of her operators—no, her friends—have requested her presence here. And there’s little to learn about the human condition with all proximal humans locked in coffins.
Her surprise only lasts a moment before she sees the threat, and the pattern comes into focus.
It feels like running antivirus software. Like there’d been a bug in her code—impeding her visual cortex, scrambling her RAM—and now that it’s been repaired, she can finally see clearly. She can see all the data, and her place in it. And she can see him. It. The thing that calls itself Mochizuki Ryoji.
“You are a threat,” she tells it, dizzied by the relief of understanding. “You are called Death.”
The monster doesn’t even look surprised. Its eyes don’t widen. Its pupils don’t dilate. There’s no flash of recognition, resignation. In the time it takes Aigis to load her firearm, the puppet named Ryoji is gone. There is only Death.
“Aigis,” Thanatos says. The corners of its mouth turn up into another lying smile, but its eyes are dark. “I don’t want to fight you.”
The energy building in her firearm crackles. “I do.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone!”
“I’m not anyone,” Aigis says coldly, then pauses to run the query again. “You won’t hurt me.”
“I kind of think I will, though.”
She expels a puff of trapped steam. “If you’re so concerned for my condition, you could allow me to subdue you without resisting.”
“And then you’d let me go?”
“No.”
“See, that’s the problem,” Death says sadly. “It’d be different if you could really do it. But you can’t, so…”
“Allow me to disagree,” she suggests, and opens fire.
* * *
The damage report is incapacitating. Power-capacitors offline. Ignition triggers unresponsive. Circumnavigation cauterized completely.
The heap of smoking rubble that is Aigis glares up at humanity’s doom. “If you were truly capable of human emotion, you would not have inflicted so much damage to my chassis.”
“No,” Thanatos says sadly, “you’re wrong, I think. That might be the most human thing about me: I still want to live. So I couldn’t let you break this vessel. I’m not sure if I could make another.”
She tries to nod, but the joint casings in her spinal tract have fused. “You mean to destroy me.”
“Only eventually! Not for ages. A month or two, at least.”
“Why stay your hand now?”
“Because he loves you,” Thanatos sighs. “And I suppose I love him, too, as much as something like me can. Anyway, I already told you, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just wanted you to stop shooting me.”
“Then you miscalculated.” Aigis flips on Orgia Mode, overrides the emergency shutdown. She overclocks her shattered propulsion engine point-blank in Death’s face.
The guttering glow of her HUD illuminates his sympathetic smile for only a moment before the lights go out.
You can read the rest of chapter three here: ao3.org/works/58634896/chapters/150195979
Or start from chapter one here: ao3.org/works/58634896/chapters/149399371
A study on Minato and Ryoji. You can start from ch 1 here. P3/R spoilers through November.
Ryoji takes one step into Minato’s room and stops. “Oh. Hm. Do you believe in deja vu, Minato-kun?”
“Mh,” Minato hums, shrugging out of his jacket and dumping it on the bed. “I dunno. Why?”
“This place… It always feels so familiar. It's so strange. Like a dream.”
Ryoji’s always saying stuff like that. For some reason, coming from Ryoji, it never sounds as weird as it should. It just sounds normal. Like he’s commenting on the weather or something. Nice breeze today! Do you ever feel like you’re not a real person?
Chapter Two: Want To Be Close
Ryoji takes one step into Minato’s room and stops. “Oh. Hm. Do you believe in deja vu, Minato-kun?”
“Mh,” Minato hums, shrugging out of his jacket and dumping it on his bed. “I dunno. Why?”
“This place…” Ryoji drifts in after him, scooping up the rumpled jacket and hanging it neatly on the bedpost. “It always feels so familiar. It's so strange. Like a dream.”
Ryoji’s always saying stuff like that. For some reason, coming from Ryoji, it never sounds as weird as it should. It just sounds normal. Like he’s commenting on the weather or something. Nice breeze today! Do you ever feel like you’re not a real person?
It doesn’t seem like he’s waiting for an answer, so Minato doesn’t give him one. Instead, he leans over the edge of his bed to root around in his school bag. He's pretty sure there's still a packet of Jagariko rattling around in there somewhere.
As soon as Ryoji hears the crinkle of plastic, the fog seems to clear. Sensory stuff, physical stuff. Boring little everyday mundanities. That’s what Ryoji likes best. (Minato sort of gets it. Even when he's dissociating so hard that he can barely hear the teacher, he's still game to get a burger. Chewing. Swallowing. Grease and salt. Basic, physical reminders that he does still have a body, even if he can’t always feel it.)
When he looks up, Ryoji is perched on the foot of his bed, looking at the snack like Koromaru looks—looked at Shinjiro’s cooking. “Can I have one?”
“Fine.”
“Feed it to me?”
“No.”
“You never want to do anything fun,” Ryoji sulks. When he hops up to close the door, his eyes lock onto Minato’s SEES uniform: belt, holster and all. “Minato-kun??? Is that a gun?”
Minato looks, too. It does not look great. He should probably find a better place to stash his evoker. “Uh. No, not really. It’s just a prop gun. Basically a toy.”
“Don’t tell me it’s—”
“It’s for my club.”
Ryoji throws his hands up. “What kind of a club makes you carry a gun???”
“…Gun club.”
“That’s—hm. I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing?”
Minato’s mouth ticks up in just the faintest, subtlest smirk. “Then explain the gun.”
Ryoji flings himself onto the bed, rolling onto his back and curling up like a pill bug with one elbow over his eyes. “I caaaan’t!”
You like it, Minato almost says. He has to physically stop himself. Just because Ryoji can’t go two seconds without flirting doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to encourage him. It seems… sort of dangerous? Which is weird, because Minato had got the impression that he’d forgotten how to feel scared. To feel afraid, you need to have anything left to lose.
“I have to study,” he says instead.
“Oh, me too!! I’ll help!!”
“You can help by being quiet.”
“I’ll be the quietest!” Ryoji promises. “You won’t even know I’m here!”
That’s… probably true. Which is weird, too. Normally Minato finds it annoying, having someone hovering over him. Talking at him. Expecting things of him. Waiting for him to look their way. But being with Ryoji feels almost like being alone.
When he reaches for his headphones, Ryoji catches him by the wrist. “Can I have an ear?”
“...Fine.”
You can read the rest of chapter two here: ao3.org/works/58634896/chapters/149645200
Or start from chapter one here: ao3.org/works/58634896/chapters/149399371
A study on Ryoji, Minato, and the people they love. P3(R) spoilers abound.
“You guys are a weird combo,” Junpei says. “You know that, right?”
“What!!” Ryoji gasps. “No way! Minato and I are made for each other! We’re like rice and curry! Peanut butter and jelly! We even finish each other’s…”
“Homework,” Minato mumbles, swapping the papers in front of them.
Minato is… quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that makes you a good listener—the kind that makes you seem like you’re not all there. Like even when he’s standing right next to you, he’s really somewhere else, listening to something else. Buried so deep inside himself that not even sound can reach him. Somewhere that light has never touched.
It should make him bad company, but it doesn’t. Minato is exceptional company. Transfixing, even. And it’s not just Ryoji who thinks so. He’s seen Minato’s phone. It’s an endless stream of inbound texts, a hundred colorful characters vying for his attention. Most of which are left unread.
Which should be rude! Shouldn’t it? But when Minato doesn’t text back, it doesn’t feel like an insult. You just sort of assume he had something more important to do.
Maybe it helps that Ryoji is so different. ‘Opposites attract,’ and all that. Minato’s silence gestures at hidden depths, abyssal-dark and ocean-deep. And Ryoji is all surface.
“Something about him just feels so… free,” Ryoji says dreamily. “Do you know what I mean? Like nothing he says is ever forced. Like he’s achieved, oh, I don’t know, nirvana, or something; only he doesn’t have to tell anyone, because he doesn’t have anything to prove.”
“Uh huh,” Yukari says, stifling a yawn.
She’s sitting across the table from him, twirling her straw in her iced latte and trying to look like she’s not bored out of her mind. In her defense, Ryoji is kind of a broken record. It’s all, ‘blah blah blah, Minato, blah blah blah, mirrored souls, compliments and complements and narrative foils and Minato Minato Minato.’ Like, seriously, get a hobby.
When she looks up, Ryoji’s eyes are shining, his hands clasped earnestly. “Don’t you think so, Takeba-san?”
“For sure. Totally.”
She only agreed to go on this stupid date to annoy Minato into actually doing something, instead of just staring holes in the back of Ryoji’s head and brooding at him. But she hadn’t expected to spend the entire date talking about her housemate. Wasn’t Ryoji supposed to be popular with girls?
“…so mysterious!” Ryoji is gushing now. “You get the sense that he’s always thinking about something important, something real.”
“Mhmm.” A few tables over, there’s a girl wearing the cutest little cropped halter, hemmed with lace and embroidered with tiny purple roses. If Ryoji were just a little less attentive—if he’d go to the bathroom, at least—Yukari could probably sneak away for long enough to ask where she bought it. But he hasn’t.
The shirt isn’t really in her palette. That girl has the hair for it, long and dark and silky-straight, but Yukari is a summer; jewel tones wash her out. Maybe it comes in pink?
“…do you do, anyway?”
Yukari looks up to find Ryoji smiling at her, clearly waiting for an answer. Oops. She was totally not listening. “Sorry, what?”
“In your club! The Specialized Extracurriculur…” He frowns thoughtfully. “You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the full name! Just the acronym. You have to admit, it’s a little mysterious.”
Oh. Oh. Unfortunately, Mitsuru explained their cover story back when Yukari was busy hating her. And now it’s way too late to ask. “Oh, um… our senpais would be better at explaining…”
“I don’t think Kirijo-san likes me very much,” Ryoji says morosely.
“What,” Yukari snickers. “Did you make a pass at her or something?”
“I only said that, with that hair and those boots, she’d—”
“No, stop, I literally don’t want to know. You didn’t hit on Sanada-senpai too, did you?”
“Well…”
(Hah!!) “You didn’t.”
“If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he noticed.”
She can’t help snorting a laugh. “Ryoji-kun! You are relentless!”
“People like it!” he protests, but he’s grinning, too. “It makes them laugh!!”
“Some people. If you try that stuff on the wrong person, you’re gonna get your butt kicked, you know.”
“Well…”
“Oh my god. Please tell me this story.”
To her relief, Ryoji seems to forget about SEES after his second story makes her laugh so hard that coffee shoots out her nose. And good riddance. Girl talk is way more fun than prying into her supernatural extracurriculars.
You can read the rest of chapter one here: ao3.org/works/58634896/chapters/149399371
