In that latest chapter with that final scene, with Corinne's reaction.......... did she have suspicious or figure out that the mc was Iredicci(I know she heard us speak, but I don't think we got further than that)? I saw her reaction to the mc speaking as one of kinda resignation or shame to have her suspicions confirmed.
Corinne definitely suspected, yes. There were a few moments where she clued in; you see it more in her route.
I won’t speak to her reaction here because you’ll see it yourself next chapter. 😉
At some point you have to acknowledge that some of Naruto (specifically Shippuden) was blatant queerbaiting, but that's not a conversation some of y'all are ready to have yet.
WHAT WHO SAID THAT WOW THE WIND SURE IS STRONG TODAY
Learning how to polite disagree is important because it can help maintain positive relationships with others. When we disagree in a respectful way, we show that we value the other person's opinion and are open to hearing their perspective. This can help build trust and strengthen your relationships.
Show that you understand the other person’s opinion: Before introducing your disagreement, show that you understand the other person’s opinion. This can help them feel heard and respected.
Apologize before introducing your disagreement: Apologizing before introducing your disagreement can help soften the tone of the conversation and show that you respect the other person’s opinion.
Use phrases like “I see what you’re saying but…”: Using phrases like “I see what you’re saying but…” or “I understand where you’re coming from, but…” can help introduce your disagreement in a respectful way.
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It can be difficult to know if you’re being too aggressive when disagreeing with someone. Some signs that you might be coming across as too aggressive:
You’re raising your voice: Raising your voice can be a sign of aggression and can make the other person feel attacked.
You’re interrupting the other person: Interrupting the other person can be a sign of disrespect and can make them feel like you’re not interested in hearing their perspective.
You’re using sarcasm or passive-aggressive comments: Using sarcasm or passive-aggressive comments can be a sign of aggression and can make the other person feel attacked.
You’re not listening to the other person’s perspective: Not listening to the other person’s perspective can be a sign of disrespect and can make them feel like you’re not interested in hearing their point of view.
You’re using personal attacks: Using personal attacks can be a sign of aggression and can make the other person feel attacked.
Disagreeing with someone without saying they are wrong is a great way to avoid conflict and maintain a positive relationship.
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Here are some ways you can use to politely disagree with someone who is wrong:
Show that you understand the other person’s opinion.
Apologize before introducing your disagreement.
Pretend to be in the middle or unsure about your position.
Explain that you have a different opinion and ask if you can voice it.
Restate the original point of view or decision so it’s clear you understand it.
Speak slowly. Talking in an even tone calms you and the other person down.
Acknowledge the other person’s opinion before you disagree.
Make sure you make it clear that you understand what the other person is saying and that it is a valid argument before you disagree. It’s okay to disagree with others. However, it’s important to do so in a respectful way that doesn’t attack the other person or their opinions. This can help you find common ground and give each other the opportunity to possibly learn from each other.
It’s important to note that you don’t have to go out of your way to disagree with people, especially if the conversation is not being directed towards you. If you feel triggered, take a step back and analyze your feelings before reacting.
Finally managed to wrestle through the scene I was stuck on in '[conduct] not unbecoming' - thanks to Y'ALL, you glorious supportive dears - so here's a new chapter! I hope you enjoy it. ❤️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Hi, love your blog. Slightly specific question here, but do you have any advice on knowing whether or not to ask someone out? For clarity: I’m fairly sure, but not quite, that my ex from high-school is flirting with me (I’ve just finished uni now, but my childhood friends and I tend to meet up as a group). However, she’s off to uni too in a few weeks after working for a few years. I’ve been told by my sister not to say anything, and by a few friends to say something anyway even if it goes nowhere, because I’m agonising over the whole thing. So, my main question is, is there ever a way to know whether saying something will make things exponentially worse or better, or is it really just about taking the risk and dealing with the consequences after? Thanks so much for your help.
Hi love. Thank you so much <3
I think the best way to go about a situation like this is to ask her for clarification on the situation because you value your relationship with her. Don't make it into a confrontation, but a conversation that allows you to express how you picked up on "XYZ" behaviors and want to see whether you're interpreting them correctly. Hopefully, if she's a good friend, she will be honest with you. It's either the potential beginning of a fun romance/fling, relationship, or a simple conversation to clear up any miscommunication. To save face when encountering the latter, blame it on your recent media consumption. For example: "Oh, my mistake for misinterpreting your actions. I guess I've been reading too many friends-to-lovers books/watching too many movies & TV shows in this genre lately, lol". (Just don't allude to any type of porn, smut, or overtly sexualized content)
I believe that when discerning whether to confess your feelings for a friend, a few factors come into play:
Whether you're capable of being "just friends" if nothing is said. If you're going to romantically and/or sexually obsess over your platonic friend if you continue the friendship as usual, it is best to be honest about your feelings and stay away in the future if necessary. It is the mature thing to do and is doing right by your friend instead of just ghosting them out of fear of rejection.
Proximity to your friend/interconnected social group or professional life. If you're very entangled with this person's family or close friends, consider whether these relationships could go sour if you confess your feelings (they better be for real with long-term intentions, not a lustful connection if you share these desires with these types of close friends). If this is potentially your last conversation/you have much looser social connections with similar friends/family/professional relationships, sharing your feelings can be a reasonable way to part ways honestly or cultivate something you've both secretly been desiring.
It should go without saying, but never confess your feelings if you know they're currently in a relationship. Do not enable emotional and/or physical cheating for your own selfish gains. Being their friend doesn't place you on a higher ethical playing field when it comes to others respecting their loyalties and relationships with their existing partners.
Of course, there are other circumstantial and personal factors that come into play with these types of interpersonal situations. Consider what you're intuition is telling you. Is your desire to confess a strong, lingering pull or an intense, impulsive feeling? The answer to this question – with these other factors taken into account – will be quite telling.
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[[TW: Descriptive images of acid injury and blood, discussions of mental illness, past self-harm, past traumas, major dissociation]]
Neither spoke - there was too much to say. Too much to apologize for, too much to explain, too much to cry and laugh and scream over. The weight of the promise hung heavy in the air, over their heads, heralding a time long gone and nearly forgotten. There were no strings, no black ooze or tar, no white oval faces in the shadows. Just the pair of them, together and silent, crouching beside the bar stools and neither willing to break the tense, warm momentary truce.
It didn't last - nothing could, not even things most needed. Crimson rushed down the stairs, tail-feathers askew, looking furious and desperate all at once. "Nobody is upstairs," he reported, the faint scent of citrus incense and rose hip tea clinging to him. His suit was slowly shifting to a brighter shade, closer to candy apple than scarlet now, as the threat of an enemy diminished.
"Check outside, just in case," Swatch ordered, carefully setting Spam down on his feet before standing themself, straightening their sweater out of habit. "I will attend to Spam's injuries." Crimson gave a sharp nod, then bound out the back door, slamming it behind himself. The butler took a deep breath through their nose, then glanced down to address Spam, only to find the small salesman was gone. "Spam?"
"I'm right here." Swatch spun around and came face-to-face with Spam. He'd climbed up on one of the bar stools, and from there stepped onto the counter, bringing them to the same height. It was nostalgic, and for a moment they forgot about the acid, forgot that awful evening in the grand hall - they were looking at their dear friend Spamton across the bar, flirting and chatting and thinking about what movie they'd go see the next evening for the theaters weekly 'Tightwad-Tuesday' half-priced ticket deal. They'd share a large popcorn, as always, and Swatch would end up eating most of it themselves and at the end of the night Spamton would joke about their bird-like appetite and they would both walk back to the Mansion, commenting on the city around them as they went.
Spam didn't remain standing, choosing to kneel instead beside a cheap notebook and a shattered pen. There was a spot of ink staining the counter, only a few inches across, a few droplets scattered about it. Beside it, taking up much more space, was a wider pool of red, fresh and wet, gleaming beneath the bright kitchen lights. One half of the jagged plastic pen had been stained the same vermilion, and with a jolt Swatch realized it was what Spam had used to 'break the strings.'
"Do you have a first aid kit?" Swatch asked, having to avert his eyes from the splash of blood. Spam waved vaguely towards the kitchen, not looking up from the notebook, which he was carefully poking as though afraid it would bite him. Feeling vaguely sick, Swatch rounded the breakfast bar and entered the kitchen proper. A white plastic case with a large red cross on the front was propped up on the fridge, and they reached it easily enough. It was heavier than they expected, and when they set it on the counter beside Spam, something inside sloshed around.
The salesman barely gave it a look, having picked up the notebook now. He was rubbing the corner of the plastic cover between his fingers, as though afraid to open it. Frowning, Swatch undid the latches and popped open the top of the case, only to find…alcohol.
A lot of alcohol.
The noise they made was enough to draw Spam's attention, and he leaned back to peer at the contents of the first aid kit. Boxes of bandages had been replaced with packets of crackers, and bottles of rubbing alcohol had been turned into the drinking kind. A plethora of travel-sized liquor bottles were neatly lined up beneath the snacks, filled to the brim with spirits of all kinds and labeled in sharp, zig-zaggy handwriting. Swatch swung the front of the kit down again, examining the bright-red cross to make sure they hadn't missed some kind of novelty label, but there was none - this was a first aid kit.
"Flash," Spam supplied, an amused tilt to his mouth as he picked up one of the tiny bottles of whiskey and examined the label. "Probably set it up as a prank for Survey that hasn't been found yet."
"Hilarious." Swatch commented dryly, They almost reached out to steal the bottle back when Spam moved to slip it into his hoodie pocket, and had to stop themself. They weren't friends anymore - it wasn't their place, and so they stayed silent as he squirreled away the liquor. "Are there any other first-aid kits in the house?"
"Upstairs bathroom," Spam dragged his eyes away from the desecrated kit to the notebook once more. "And one in the laundry room, I think. But it doesn't matter - I'm fine."
Swatch swung the lid of the kit down with a bit too much force, a thread of familiar irritation worming through their chest. Spam had always been so quick to dismiss their own troubles, their own illnesses, their own injuries, as nothing more than an annoyance. A paper cut or a stubbed toe they could understand, but cutting his wrists to ribbons? Harming himself out of sheer desperation to destroy what was supposed to be nothing more than a hallucination? "Fine? You were attacked in your own home!" They motioned to his wrist - blood was already beginning to show through the tightly-wrapped handkerchief, small red dots like a field of poppies in the snow.
"I wasn't attacked ." Spam wouldn't look at Swatch, keeping his eyes glued to the cover of the notebook. It was bright blue, and still had the sale sticker on the corner. $1.99, written in smooth, curving letters cramped together in the small square. Absently, Spam picked at the corner of the sticker, slowly tearing the dollar sign off and leaving only the numbers behind.
"Spamton-"
"I'm not Spamton!"
The shriek was unexpected, but not as much as the movement - Spam leapt to his feet, the notebook falling from his lap and sliding across the counter top for a few inches before tipping over the edge and falling to the living room floor. They were at eye-level now, and Swatch raised their empty hands in front of them and took a half-step back as those dark, angry eyes fixed on their face.
"I'm not Spamton ," he spat again, "I was never Spamton! Spamton was perfect , he was smart and clever and knew just what to say! He was successful ," Spam thrust his hand out, holding it before Swatch, "He held this stupid city in the palm of his hand, he had everything he ever wanted! Then he lost it all because he couldn't do the one thing that was asked of him!" He curled his fingers into a fist, crushing the imaginary city in his hand. "And he lost everything. " The salesman dropped his gaze, glaring at the counter top instead. "He lost his business. He lost his home. He lost you ."
Before Swatch could point out that they were there, (despite them no longer being friends, despite the physical reminder of wounds they both carried, despite a lot of things) Spam was turning away, tangling his hands in his hair and snarling at the empty living room.
"And before that - before Spamton - he was Spam Addison . He was a shit salesman, but he had brothers who loved him. Who supported him. Who encouraged him. He was loyal to a fault. Then - that fucking phone ." The salesman tugged at his hair, yanking his head to the side, and Swatch reached out to offer him comfort (and pull his hand away), but he was off, pacing the length of the bar before spinning around and stomping back, heedless of the blood clinging to his bare feet, leaving prints on the wood behind him. "That fucking phone," he repeated again, voice dropping to a whisper as he made another beeline across the counter. Swatch had taken another step back and simply watched as the man wrestled with his demons, unsure if he should speak or not.
"Mike destroyed everything I ever was. And on top of the ruins he built Spamton. Then he destroyed him too." Spam stopped, shoving his bangs out of his face, and behind his clear lenses, tears brimmed along the edges of his eyes, threatening to fall. "And now I'm in ruins again." He laughed, but it wasn't a joyous sound - it was tired and cracked, the stress of the past year and beyond bleeding through the rough chuckle and setting Swatch's feathers on end. "All because of that damned phone."
"Spam-"
"You're still here." Spam rolled his head back, turning it oddly to look over his shoulder at the butler. His eyes, lined with tears, met theirs evenly, the myriad of emotions within flattening to a dull sheen. "You can leave." He motioned towards the door with his injured hand, ignoring the red that was soaking through the handkerchief. "You hate me - there's no need to stay."
" Spam ," Swatch took a step forward, closing the space between them, "I do not hate you."
"You should-"
"I don't ," Swatch crossed their arms and gave the man a stern look, "and it's not your place to decide such things for me."
Spam twisted his head, looking the bird face-to-face, eyes lingering on the deep scar that traced the side of their beak. "You should." He repeated, anger draining, the lines of his face softening as his shoulders relaxed, arms dropping to hang at his sides.
"I don't." Swatch pulled a second handkerchief from their inventory and caught Spam's arm by the elbow, lifting it so they could examine the make-shift bandage. "We may not be more than associates any longer, but I do not hate you for what has happened. I am beginning to see that there were… extenuating circumstances behind many of your actions in the past." They wrapped the fresh handkerchief on top of the old, then pointed to the counter top. "Sit. I will be right back." Without waiting to see if their order was obeyed, Swatch spun towards the back of the house and strode towards the laundry room.
Spam, feeling oddly off-balance (and not only from the blood-loss), sat where he stood, heedless of the blood he'd smeared across the counter top in his mad pacing. His hoodie was splattered with small red dots, and soaked around the sleeve where the cuts were. He hoped one of the kits had hydrogen peroxide - it was good for getting blood stains out of fabric. Frowning, the salesman rubbed the dirty sleeve between his fingers - it was just like him, to ruin a gift like this. Couldn't do anything right.
Swatch returned before he could fall too deeply into self-loathing, setting down a second first aid kit beside the first. This one, when opened, revealed a proper stock of bandages and other first-aid odds and ends. With methodical precision, Swatch pulled out both a pack and roll of gauze, a box of butterfly bandages, and a large tube of antivirus ointment. "You will likely require proper healing," they remarked, turning to grab the roll of paper towels from beside the sink, "but the bandages should stop the bleeding for the time being."
Spam didn't say anything as Swatch lifted their hand, not even a grimace crossing their face when they pushed up the sleeve, the cold, tacky blood squelching and smearing on their feathered fingers. With quick, professional movements, they unwrapped the two handkerchiefs from his wrist and took a look at the wounds. Three deep gashes lined the back of his wrist, the middle longer and deeper than the other two. The bleeding had slowed, but still the wounds oozed and dripped, and Swatch felt a thrill of fear at the idea of these wounds being on the other side of the wrist, over the deep, thick veins that traced the inside of the arm. If Spam had been less careful, if he'd attempted to free himself like that in the throes of the hallucination, well - it didn't bear thinking about.
The bandage already wrapped around Spam's hand was soaked as well, but it didn't seem to be from a different injury. Swatch could remember, clear as day, the wounds that had appeared in Spam's hands, perfect circles apparently caused by a glitch in the file-compression process. It would need to be changed as well, but the bleeding wound took precedence.
A damp paper towel made quick work of the dried blood that coated the pale skin, and a dry one wiped away the rest, prepping the skin for the bandages. Spam winced as the split skin was gently tugged, but didn't say anything, didn't make a sound. A thin layer of ointment was smeared across the area around the cuts to prevent any infections. The butterfly bandages were then carefully applied, pulling his skin together, and a square of gauze was placed over top to catch what still managed to seep out. Swatch tugged the plastic wrap off the roll of soft, white gauze and wrapped it snuggly around his wrist, holding the thin cotton in place. They clipped it in place with a little aluminum tab, then nodded in approval.
"It will definitely need a proper healer if you want to avoid heavy scarring," they told Spam, replacing the box of bandages and the tube of ointment in the kit and retrieving a second roll of white gauze. This they set beside him, at his knee, to replace the soaked bandage around his palm. The man stared at his wrist, slowly flexing it up and down. It still hurt, of course, but not nearly as bad as before. Swatch crossed their arms and leaned against the counter, watching the small man with a raised brow. They'd expected a bit more push-back at being bossed around, but he'd sat and been still and quiet the entire time. A year or two ago, such an interaction would have been filled with scolding and banter, arguments about what stupid thing Spam had done this time, disagreements about how to treat the small bruises and cuts he inevitably received from doing said stupid thing.
It almost seemed as though Spam had… deflated . The righteous anger of a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by quiet contemplation as he absently picked at the gauze. His eyes were far, far away - in future or past, who could say? Swatch watched as he paused his picking, then folded three of his fingers against his palm and brought his hand up to the side of his head, pinky and thumb sticking out. He waited for a long moment, before blinking and looking around, searching for someone.
"Spam?" Swatch asked cautiously, and when the small man jumped they almost did the same. A blush crawled against his ivory face, and he dropped his hand into his lap.
"Nothing," he muttered quickly, "never mind."
Swatch slowly nodded, filing the motion away in his head to ask the Addisons about later. Silence once again stretched out between them, until Spam scratched at his right arm and frowned at the cool, gooey feeling of drying blood on his sleeve. With a grimace, the salesman shook out his sleeves, then pulled the hoodie off over his head, revealing a gray t-shirt with a black thumbs-up emoji. He fished a rumpled envelope and the pilfered bottle of booze out of the pocket, then dropped the sweater on the counter beside him.
Butler instincts overrode courtesy, and Swatch plucked the hoodie off the stained wood. Spam stiffened as it was lifted, grip tightening on the envelope, but relaxed when they turned towards the sink and turned on the cold water. They ran the soaked sleeve beneath the chilly water, hiding a grimace as the water ran red, then pink, washing out the blood that hadn't yet stained. Once the water ran clear, they plugged the bottom and let the sink fill, adding a dollop of dish soap (Queen brand, strawberry-flavor). Once it was half-full and had a thin film of bubbles on top, they dropped the whole hoodie in, pushing it down and swirling it around to make sure every inch of fabric was soaked.
"Crimson has missed you."
There was a sharp inhale behind them, but they didn't turn, focusing on rubbing the soaked fabric between his fingers, working the soap into the stains. Spam shuffled on the counter behind them, and after a moment fingers began to tap against the wood.
"He searched for you when you left." Swatch moved on to gently massaging the bloody sleeve, glad they'd had practice getting bloodstains out of Tasque Managers uniform in the past (she had a soft spot for feral tasques that the creatures often didn't share). "He was shocked when he came to help you pack up that morning and found you gone. Scoured the entire Mansion, even the basement, trying to find you." There was another deep breath, followed by a shaky exhale, from the man, and they focused on a small spot on the pocket. "When we couldn't find you, he contacted masters Adapter and Split, and they searched the city, but you were nowhere to be found."
Their hands paused, thumb absently rubbing over a small, dark spot on the stripes of the sleeve. "We dragged the acid pools, and the river." A hitch of breath behind them, trembling and small. "Queen searched them herself, to see if you had… fallen in again. When you weren't found, Crimson was beyond relieved. As was I."
They'd done all they could to work out the stains - the fabric would need to soak, then possibly be treated with hydrogen peroxide and rinsed again before going through the wash. Drying their hands on the dish towel beside the sink, they turned, leaning against the counter and leaving a fair bit of space between them and Spam. The man looked pale, sick, and was staring at his hands, which lay listless in his lap, fingers slowly flexing open and closed.
"Why did you do it?" Swatch asked, voice quiet and steady, not quite gentle but certainly not harsh. "Why did you try to kill yourself?"
"I didn't." The denial was quick. When there was no response, Spam glanced up, and found Swatch watching him with a raised brow, waiting for an explanation. And if there was anybody who he owed an explanation to, it was them, wasn't it? "It - I didn't jump in."
"Crimson saw you."
"He what?!"
"He watched you walk into the acid." Swatch's feathers rose slightly, an edge to their voice. The image of finding their youngest sibling kneeling beside a deformed Spam, babbling about watching him just walk in brought back the twist of rage they had felt then, dimmed as it was by time. They would have leaned into the feeling, the anger, perhaps even acted on it, if Spam didn't look quite so stricken at the revelation.
"He didn't." It wasn't a question, but a statement of disbelief. He brought his hands up to cover his mouth, a green tinge building in his cheeks. "Oh god please, please tell me he didn't see that…"
"He did." Swatch held the man's gaze, and Spam looked away first, hands sliding up to grip his hair. "Why did you do it, Spam? Why try and-"
"I wasn't." Spam interrupted, speech breathless, squeezing his eyes shut as he remembered that damnable night. "I - it wasn't supposed to hurt. Mike said…" He trailed off, voice seizing, thick acid rolling at the back of his throat. A hand brushed the back of his neck, then was pressing down, prompting him to lean forward.
"Breath," Swatch ordered, having been a bartender long enough to easily identify the signs of a rebelling stomach. "Through your nose. Out through your mouth." They curled their large fingers slightly around the man's slim neck, keeping him facing his lap as he took in stuttering breaths. "That's it - good job." Slowly, their thumb rubbed gentle circles along the back of his skull, mussing the white-gray hair that had grown long and soft.
It took a few minutes, but Spam's breathing slowly evened out, and the roiling in his gut ceased. His shoulders drooped, and he pressed his head back against Swatch's gentle grip, much like a tasque being pet would. Swatch gave him a minute more of comfort, keeping their hand in place, before asking, "What did Mike say?"
Spam's shoulders pulled back against his ears once more, head dipping, but Swatch followed, keeping up the same soothing circle of thumb against skull. After a drawn out moment, he raised his right hand, palm out, and spread his fingers. "He said it would protect me," he wiggled his third finger, the melted remains of the thorny ring clinging to his skin still. "He said he didn't trust me, after failing to get Neo. But if I trusted him - if I believed his gift would protect me, and stepped into the acid, and proved that I trusted him above all else, then we could try again. He wouldn't leave me."
"So I did it. I trusted him and I walked right in. I'd already lost my brothers, and my friends, and you. I couldn't lose him too. So I stepped into the acid, and I felt it start to burn my clothes, but then I was somewhere else. Somewhere… other . And there was Mike." He tilted his head back, as though he were looking at something (or perhaps someone) looming above them.
"He was so big , Swatch. It was like he took up all the space in the world, and then some. He was watching me - watching us , watching everybody , on these screens. When he spoke to me, I could feel it , from my head to my toes. He wouldn't let me speak. He called me a puppet , said that he created Spamton G. Spamton, that I was just Spam , that I was nobody." Spam flexed his wrist, vividly remembering the vivid acid-green strings that had encircled it only half an hour before.
"He said I did better than others, so he'd let me live, but that he'd leave me a reminder." Mechanically, without thought, he began unwrapping the soiled, bloody bandage from his palm. Layer-by-layer, the perfect circle that punctured skin and bone grew visible, skin pale and well-healed from the ordeal. "He had these too - circles, in his palms. And he gave them to me, so I would never forget what I did. How I failed him."
"And then I was back in the acid and everything burned , and all I could think was that he lied. Mike lied to me, hurt me, and then he left me, too." He twisted his hands into fists and pressed them to his forehead, voice growing louder as he spoke. "I gave him everything. I gave him all of me. And he didn't care - he didn't care about my businesses, or my friends, or my family! He only cared about what I could give him, do for him - he only cared about the Mansion, about the keygen, about Neo."
"He didn't care about me. He never cared about me." The man gave a humorless laugh. "But it doesn't matter - none of it matters anymore. He's gone. I'm here. And all that's left are hallucinations and memories." He glanced down at his bandaged wrist and flexed it. "Fuck Mike."
"He certainly didn't sound like a pleasant man," Swatch agreed.
Spam snorted, then sniffed a bit. "Yeah, he - what?" He stiffened, turning so fast to face Swatch that his neck cracked. "When - when did you hear him?"
"Over the phone, on the way here. I heard him tell you-" Before Swatch could parrot what Mike had said, Spam was reaching out, grabbing the front of their shirt with shaking fists.
"You heard my hallucination?" Something flickered across the lens of his glasses, almost like a shadow, or flakes of snow. "That's - no. He's just in my head. He can't be - you can't have -" The snow grew, the lenses growing dark as static crept in from the edges, obscuring his eyes.
"Spam?" Swatch carefully grabbed the hands that had tangled in the front of their sweater. The man had begun to shake and was listing to the side, like a puppet with its strings cut. "Spam?" They asked again, louder, and glanced around the room. Where had their brother gone? "Crimson!"
There was a thud from outside the partially-open front door, then the red Swatchling was hurrying inside, looking concerned and sheepish by turn. "Sorry! Sorry," he rushed across the room to stand across from Swatch, the breakfast bar and Spam between them. "It sounded like you guys were having some serious conversation, didn't want to interrupt." He rushed to explain. "No sign of Mike. Is Spam okay?"
"I'm not sure," Swatch shifted so they were supporting the man with one hand around his back, and carefully lifted the glasses with their other. The Addison's dark eyes were wide but glassy, unseeing, as lines of code scrolled through them. Once the lenses were pulled away the static ceased, but as soon as Swatch lowered them back onto his nose, the image resumed. "I - I think he crashed. Hard. "
"Shit." Crimson hissed, reaching out to rest his own hand on Spam's shoulder. "Well, there's nothing we can do but wait for him to reboot." He glanced around the kitchen, taking in the bloody footprints on the counter, the sweater soaking in the sink, and the haggard look on Swatch's beak. "Why don't you sit on the couch with him while I clean up?" He suggested gently. "Maybe text one of his brothers and let them know what's going on?"
Swatch nodded and, with halting movements, scooped Spam up. It was too easy - he was too small and far too light. They retreated to the couch as Crimson began bustling around the kitchen, searching beneath the sink for bleach and rags. For a moment they hesitated in front of the couch, wondering if it would be best to set Spam down and let him sit alone while he rebooted. But - well, a selfish part of themself didn't want to let the small man go. So Swatch sat and settled Spam on his lap, letting him rest against their chest.
"What's this?" Crimson, who had been wiping blood and ink off the bar stool, picked up the notebook that had been knocked to the floor earlier, squinting at the torn price sticker on the front. Swatch wordlessly held their hand out, and there must have been something telling in his expression, because their brother passed it over without a word and returned to cleaning.
Swatch picked at the price sticker for a moment, marveling at the deep terror he felt from such an innocuous object.
They're making you write words?
Yes.
What words?
Carefully, he peeled back the bright-blue cover and examined the first page.
Apologies
-Popup - the fight over the phone, leaving, insulting him
-Survey - the fight by the truck, breaking his nose
-Banner - leaving and ignoring him
-Flash - breaking his jaw
-Crimson - running away from the mansion without saying anything
-Swatch
Their own name had been crossed out with thick, black marks that almost tore through the page. Beside it was scribbled Mike , and then…
failing him again and again and again and again and again and again…
The words filled up the rest of the page, and when he turned it he could see them running down the next page as well, interspersed with sharply scrawled traitor and nobody and liar . He nearly tore the page in his haste to turn it, and there it began.
