Prowl startles when he hears a knock at his office door. He doesn't have any meetings or appointments scheduled right now, so he had expected several hours worth of time to get ahead on logistical planning for upcoming interplanetary missions. He wracks his processor for any probable event that could result in someone wanting to speak with him, without an emergency alarm blaring.
Tacnet still running simulations, Prowl lays the datapad he was reading face down on his desk and answers, "Come in."
"Heya Prowler, how's our best head tactician doing?" Jazz's voice lilts into the room while he practically bounces inside. Prowl has always thought he appears taller than the mere height of his frame, personality expanding to fit whatever space is given to him. In Prowl's office, that space is quite extensive. Jazz fumbles the door more awkwardly than is characteristic, which is when Prowl notices the two cubes of energon he is balacing between his hands.
"I am our only head tactician," He stalls. This was not in any of his simulations. "What are you doing here?"
Jazz is seemingly perterbed none-at-all by Prowl's blunt question. "Can't a guy say hi to his favourite coworker anymore? 'sides, I noticed you didn't take your evening energon with the rest of us." Right. Most of the other 'bots fuel together around this time. Prowl has never bothered. The mess hall is loud and regardless, he is perfectly capable of functioning without a refuel at this time.
Jazz places one of the energon cubes on his desk and Prowl takes a moment to connect his words with the gesture.
Prowl's optics cycle at nothing. His next vent is deeper, transporting air to suddenly overheating systems. He has no frame of reference for this interaction, and searching Jazz's face is gleaning him nothing, as usual.
"I, er," He says finally, after mentally kicking his social subroutines back into shape. He resets his vocaliser. "Thank you, Special Agent Jazz."
Jazz flashes him [it must be at him; there is no one else here] a blinding grin and leans forward on the backrest of the only other chair in Prowl's office. "Aw, no problem mech! I'm always happy to see you." Jazz says, tilting his visor to catch the light in a mimicry of a wink.
And with that utterly confounding sentiment, he leaves.
Prowl tears his gaze away from the door to look at the energon left on his desk. It is a smooth mixture with foam on top; his favourite energon blend.
He takes a sip. It is made perfect.
Prowl... Does not know what to do with this information.
description: When Mikey sprains his ankle during a supply run with Raph, he decides to leverage it to his advantage. Much to Raph's annoyance.
A/N: hands down my favourite fic I've done for this challenge so far, i love the 03 guys so much. mike is hard as hell to write cause he will just say utter nonsense, but when you get it right its so much fun
prompts taken from here
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Raph rolls his sore shoulders and spins a sai up, catching it deftly in the air. He usually likes knocking some foot heads together, but getting ambushed on their way back from a supply run isn't exactly his idea of a good time. The squirmy feeling he gets from being snuck up on, eyes darting between one shadow and the next, waiting for the glint of a blade or the held breath of an intruder, isn't nice either.
Regardless, he managed to deal with the threat with mostly minimal injuries, sporting only a few bruises himself. He says "mostly" because, well...
"MIKEY!" Raph yells into the mouth of the tunnel. His voice echos back at him and he flinches (Man, is that really what he sounds like?) But at least Mike will probably be able to hear him, wherever the shell he's gone.
Raph isn't worried, (he isn't, really, don't laugh). No one even actually attacked him, in fact, no one was attacking. The shell-brained idiot got so surprised by the ambush, he tripped on his own two feet. Shrieked so loud Raph's ears are still ringing.
So yeah, he isn't worried. Raph had managed to keep the foot ninja away from Mike long enough for him to escape, and the whole thing was his fault for being such a scaredy cat anyway. He'd be whiny and clingy the rest of the trip home and that would be that.
So when he hears the distant "Polo!" ringing off the damp walls and breaks into a run, it's just so he can whack Mikey over the head for being such an idiot sooner. Nothing else, nope.
He rounds the corner to find Mikey curled up in a little nook in the wall, arms wound protectively around a rapidly swelling ankle. When Mikey's gaze lands on his, his face immediately floods with relief. Then it contorts into an expression Raph knows all too well. Mischief.
Grabbing dramatically at both of Raph's shoulders, he practically wails, "Raph! I can't feel my leg, it's all over for me! Oh turtle-god, I think I see a light, I'm too pretty to die!"
Raph rolls his eyes, leaning in closer with his arms crossed. Yep, just as he thought; mild sprain. He'll be back to bouncin' around the lair like nothing within the week. "You'll be fine ya big baby, it just needs an ice pack."
"You wouldn't be saying that if your leg nearly got chopped off!" Raph jumps back in disgust as Mikey almost hits him in the face with his toes. Then he gasps in mock horror, clutching the plastron over his heart "What if I can never move it again?"
Raph leans against the far wall and levels his idiot brother with a glare. "Maybe we'll have to amputate."
"Eep! You wouldn't let them do that to me right? Right?"
"Dunno, dude. If you piss Don off there's not much I can do."
"Betrayal! You don't understand, I need my leg! Without it I won't be able to skateboard, or pick things up with my toes, or play Princess Peach and Rosalina at the same time, and I'll need to wear a metal leg all the time and-- WAIT! Do you think Don could make me a cyborg? With like, guns in my knee or something?? He could give me a rocket foot and I'd be able to fly but like, super lop sided cause it would just be on the one side, and--"
Raph flicks him right between the eyes.
As Mikey's clutching his snout and sputtering nonsense (well, sputtering more nonsense), Raph kicks off the wall "You can ask Don to build you whatever cyborg leg you want when we get home. Now are ya comin' or what?" He pointedly offers an hand up.
Raph knows he's in trouble the moment Mikey's eyes go all big and watery. The little fucker takes his mask off, too, to really nail him with The Look. In the saddest, most innocent voice in his arsenal, Mikey pleads "Carry me?"
Raph scowls at him, looks away, looks back, and then heaves the loudest most world-weary sigh he can muster. He never could say no to The Look.
Instead of verbally admitting defeat, he just kneels down on the mucky ground in front of Mikey's hidey-hole. Behind him, Mikey claps his hands like a child and shouts "Yippee!", all hint of despair washed away. Idiot.
For someone who's leg "nearly got chopped off", they manage to get Mikey on his shoulders with relative ease, and for all his complaining, the added weight isn't too bad. It's only a few minutes back to the lair anyway.
Mikey, obviously, is still determined to make them the longest minutes of Raph's life.
"Youuuu missed meeeeee!" He sing-songs, right in Raph's ear. "I bet you were running around so worried, all for little ol' me. You're such a softie."
Raph rolls his eyes and lets as much grouchiness bleed into his next sentence as physically possible. "If you don't shut up, 'm dropping you in the next puddle of muck I see."
"Aaaaww, don't worry, I know you don't mean that. I'm fluent in Raphese." Raph can just imagine the eye-bleedingly bright smile on his face right about now. Shell, he really does love him.
Instead of saying that (Ew, gag), he grins like a shark and twirls a sai threateningly. "Wanna bet?"
Mikey gulps like a cartoon character.
In the end, they both make it back to the lair, sans mud, and Mikey spends the next week weaponizing his sprained ankle to great but diminishing effect. And though he would never admit it aloud,
description: Leo gets hit with a truth serum, and Mikey decides to take advantage of the situation.
A/N: back to it with a blessedly short fic this time. fr i have to start writing less for this else i will burn myself out
prompts taken from here
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"Soooooooo..." Mikey rocked backwards, slowly, dragging the word out like taffy. Leo, even from within his plush cocoon of no less then four blankets, immediately didn't like where this was going.
He threw a teddy bear at Mikey, whining, "Oh Angelo don't even start."
"You don't know what I was gonna say!" He gasped, dodging the projectile without even breaking stride. His eyes were wide and, with a hand over his heart, he looked the picture of innocence. Leo's taught him well.
Maybe too well.
Leo smashed his head into the blankets and said, muffled, "I know what that look means. You got it from me."
"No, no, it's nothing." He waved a hand in the air as if dispelling the very notion. "Just..."
Leo groaned.
Mikey ignored him, the little shit. He continued in a calculated casual tone."...I can't seem to remember where I put my favourite sweater. You know, the fluffy one with all the pumpkins on it?"
Leo made a face, but the words were already being pulled out of his lungs like breath after an age spent underwater "I stole it two weeks ago. It's folded in a box under my bed, next to all the other clothes I steal. They make me feel safe."
This was the problem with accidentally chugging mystical truth serum. Note to self, never steal random potions from Draxum's flat ever again.
Back in control of his mouth, Leo nearly punched himself in the face with how hard he slams a hand over his lips, glaring like he could fight the serum with sheer force of will. "This is so annoying!"
Mikey blinked, then clasped his hands under his chin with a face so sweet he could practically see the love heart special effects, bleh. "Awwwwww, you're lucky that's way too cute for me to be mad."Â
description: Raph isn't quite used to having ninpo yet.
A/N: i promise i'll write about other characters. probably. look i really like raph. not much else to say about this one? i like how it turned out, tell me if there's anything i missed, enjoy!
prompts taken from here
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Raph can't believe Leo benched him.
(Well, some part of him can. He can't imagine letting any of his brother go traipsing around topside with a broken leg. If it was Leo who got trapped under falling rubble, Raph would be doing the exact same thing.)
(But the only reason his leg got broken in the first place, is because Leo insisted they stay in the collapsing building, so whatever. He can stay mad.)
He's being petty, but it's not like there's anyone else here to judge him for it. Leo had just finished putting his cast on when Donnie had gotten the mutant alert on one of his gizmos, so while all his little brothers are out fighting who knows what, Raph is sitting alone in the med-bay, angry at nothing. But being angry at nothing means he can't be worried sick, so, bright sides an' all that.
But that all means that Raph is stuck in bed and he thinks he's going to go crazy. He can't even get up to pace, he's too tense to do any knitting, which doesn't matter anyway because his needles are on the other side of the room which might as well be an ocean away because he can't get up.
He's going to scream. Stress coils icy and bitter around his ribs, constricting like a snake and spitting poison. He hates knowing his brothers are out there without him, knowing that if something happens he won't be able to do anything. Hates feeling helpless. He throws a pillow at the wall, and then goes to punch it for good measure.
Before he can stop it, red ninpo crackles to life across his knuckles and his fist makes contact.
Instead of the satisfying thwack he'd expected, an (okay, even more satisfying) crunching-and-grinding noise echos off the walls like some giant cracking their knuckles. He screams, snatches his hand back like the wall burned him, and watches in confusion as the ninpo construct he hadn't meant to summon (forgot he could summon, really. They'd only known about ninpo at all for a few weeks) fizzles out like popping embers.
Raph blinks, twice, then snaps his gaze away from his hands and back to...
The wall. The wall that is split straight down the middle, a crack like lightning branching up almost to the ceiling. Down around head-height, the crater where his ninpo-ified fist hit the wall is big enough to fit his head in, and the main fracture is wide enough in places to stick a finger through. Some pebbles clatter to the ground.
(âŚwhoops)
Raph looks back at his hands. He'd always been strong, but not accidentally-breaking-concrete strong.
warnings: autistic meltdown, sudden homelessness, spoilers for the end of the show
wordcount: 1134
description: After the lair gets destroyed, Donnie finally crashes. Raph tries to help.
A/N: if i ever try to write this much for a once-a-day challenge again, hit me over the head with a mallet. this was waaay too much for me to try at once but im still quite happy with how it turned out! i forgot how much i like writing :] [oh, im late? its already october 2nd? uuuuh dont look at me]
prompts taken from here
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After they defeated Shredder, the Hamatos got about half an hours rest before night fell and they remembered they didn't have a home. While everyone was panicking, trying to find places to stay where no one would see them and trying harder not to think about the years worth of stuff that Shredder no doubt destroyed, April was busy pulling some strings. She ended up leading them through the back entrance of an antique store, owned by her uncle who was convinced to let her use it while it was closed (Raph couldn't guess how she'd managed that, but he didn't want to know). It was small, smelled cloyingly like dust, had a truly absurd number of grandfather clocks, but most importantly it was safe. Raph was so relieved he wanted to cry.
And then he passed out for about fifteen hours.
(He needs to get April something. He can't just keep saying 'thank you' to her, because he'll die before he's said it enough.)
Which all means, they're having breakfast the day after they became homeless, cramped together in the tiny living room/kitchen combo and bathed in soft purple hues (Donnie's mystech lamps; the lights don't work, and all the blinds are shut in case anyone looks in, but they still need to be able to see.) when Donnie accidentally breaks a vase.
The crash is so overloud that, for a beat, no one says anything. The room is quiet except for the sounds of clocks ticking and Donnie's aggravated breathing.
Then, like a video unpaused, Mikey tips his chair backwards to look around, and all hell breaks loose. "I'll get aâ" He starts, then squeaks and jumps back like a spring when the shatter of glass again rings though the room. Donnie punches through the nearest grandfather clock, twice, kicks a wall, makes some kind of aborted scream, and charges out of the room. He slams the door so hard it bounces back open.
And then, just for good measure, a high pitched electric buzz cuts through the air as all the lights glitch purple, then switch off like a broken TV. Raph stares at the darkness in shock.
Mikey's chair settles back on the ground with a thump. "âbroom."
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Raph finds Donnie in the bedroom (there's only the one; the shop has enough room for about a billion grandfather clocks, but only one or two people are actually meant to live there. Raph doesn't think there's even enough room for a dog, let alone four mutant turtles and a rat) with the lights off. They've been using sleeping bags (another thing to thank April for), and Donnie's dragged his purple one into a corner to sit on, curled around his knees, head shielded behind his arms. The hood of his jacket is pulled up obscuring his head, but there's a faint glow from within that tells Raph his headphones are on, with sound cancelling on their highest setting, if he had to guess.
Which was expected, really. In fact, he should be more surprised it didn't happen sooner. It's always been how Donnie deals with tragedy, like he's used so much energy fighting whatever horror they've faced this time, that when they get home he short circuits. But he'd hoped that this time, it might just be easier, and that's why Donnie'd been okay. Though, they don't exactly have a home anymore, which...
âŚYeah, he really should have expected this.
It doesn't matter how expected the sight is, should be, whatever, because when Raph opens the door, some emotion, sour and caustic, burns up his chest so fast he has to leave before he hits something.
Red magic shimmers around his fists like electricity, like this is something he could fight, like it would be that easy. He doesn't know what he's angry at (if he's really angry at all), only that in that moment he could fight a thousand foot ninja, ten thousand, Shredder himself if it meant nothing and no would one ever made his stubborn, genius brother look that small and breakable again.Â
But it wouldn't. And it doesn't matter besides, because even if Raph took down the entire foot clan right now, he'd come back and Donnie would still be sitting alone in the dark. This isn't something he can punch into submission.
He takes a deep breath and schools his expression neutral, then opens the door again. Donnie... hasn't moved, at all actually. It's unnerving; Donnie is usually always moving, rocking in place or emphatically waving his arms as he talks or tapping away at his phone. But now he's statue still, all his energy drained. Raph curls his hands into fists.
Donnie probably already knows he's here, but just in case Raph knocks his fist against the floor once, a greeting. Some knot in his chest loosens as Donnie knocks his own fist on the floor with a quiet thunk, an acknowledgement, then reaches up to press something on his headphones. He takes that as permission to stay that it is, and sits down on his own sleeping bag.
"You hurt?" Raph asks in a whisper. Donnie doesn't reply, only pulls the sleeve of his left arm up to the elbow and offers it forward. Raph hisses sympathetically; it's not as bad as it could have been (nothing looks broken), but there's some painful looking cuts on his hand and wrist, with blooded glass pieces stuck in the flesh. It's yet another thing that makes Raph irrationally want to bare his fists at some invisible threat, and he feels all the more powerless because he can't.
He takes the arm and starts gently picking out pieces of glass, setting to right at least one thing in this whole mess. He's scared and angry and misses his stuffies and he wants to go home, but this, at least, he can help with. He knows how to help with.
Donnie startles him slightly by asking "Raphie, what are we going to do?" His voice is quiet and strangled, like it's being pulled out of him.
The nickname tugs at him like claws. Raphie. Donnie hasn't called him Raphie since they were kids, reaching for him when he'd cut himself and was too scared to put on a band-aid, or when he woke up from a nightmare. The difference is then he could fix it, but the truth is, that same question has been running through his mind for days and he doesn't have a single clue.
So he decides to be honest. "I don't know," choked, half an admission. He stands up, and tears finally start tracing their salty path downwards. "But whatever happens, we do it together. Anata wa hitori janai, remember?" It doesn't feel like enough.
This is so incredibly niche to my interests, but I made a toki pona translation of redstone and skulk! by @silverskye13 . I'm sure this is very exciting to the five over people in both of these fandoms
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
content warning: i THINK none but tell me if i missed any
AO3: here!
misc: EUGH BOY this took way longer then i thought it would. for some reason this fic fought me from start to finish. song i got was rly good tho! girl hell 1999 by femtanyl is one of my favourites and i already associate it with Cassandra so. its done im free!
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The first time Casey was hugged since she betrayed the Foot, it was in passing.
It was a few weeks after the Battle Nexus New York, everyone in the newly-found and newly-cleaned abandoned subway station, helping renovate the place. It was still clearly dilapidated, damp and slightly stuffy, but Casey was shocked at how fast a sense of home seeped into it's edges. There were recovered posters hanging on the walls, various boxes filled with knick-knacks awaited shelves on the floor, and Donatello had just finished setting up fairy lights throughout the lair the day before.
It was nothing like the Foot.
Which should be obvious. The Foot were the Hamatoâs sworn enemies! Of course theyâd be nothing alike. But she kept comparing the two anyway, for some reason.Â
Casey herself was building something, a skate ramp, she thinks. Mostly, Donatello had pointed her in the direction of a pile of wood and a hammer, and told her to start building. But she knew that making herself as helpful as possible was how she impressed the Foot, and if she had wanted to impress the Foot, she definitely wanted to impress the Hamatos
So she kept hammering, with all her furious need to be liked by these people fueling her.
Honestly, she still didnât understand the Hamatos. They called themselves a ninja clan, but they were so different to all the clans sheâd applied to. For starters, there were only seven of them, eight including her (she's not sure if sheâs included). And their structure is basically nonexistent! Thereâs no separation between basic soldiers and commanders, or commanders and leaders, thereâs no management! Thereâs no ranks for her to progress in, and no higher-ups for her to impress. Sure the Foot were evil, but they were easy to understand.
When sheâd asked about getting a clan uniform, she'd gotten weird looks. She didn't ask again.
Back in the present, the echoing sound of many things falling over in rapid succession startled Casey so bad, she nearly hit her thumb again.
Her eyes snapped to the source of the noise, hammer hefted over her shoulder as she half expected to see a hoard of Foot soldiers invading the subway station. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of Michelangelo, cradling his head and sprawling at the foot of the broken escalator, along with several boxes and piles of disorganized stuff.
"That's what you get for carrying boxes three at a time." Donatello said, elbow-deep in what Casey thinks is a fridge. His words are careless, but the way his arms still and drawn-on eyebrows scrunch belies genuine concern. Getting to know Donatello, Casey was learning, meant getting to know a lot of these small body-language cues.
"Gee, thanks Donald," Michelangelo grumbled, undignified and still very much on the floor.
Seeing her moment, Casey dropped the hammer entirely and very consciously did not salute Michelangelo, because this was not the Foot and they didn't do that here! Instead, she marched to where he had fallen, and stretched a hand in his direction.
"I CAN CARRY SOME OF THE BOXES," she said, at a normal volume, tacking on a quieter "If you want!" on the end.
"Really? Thanks Casey!" He said, taking her offered hand and only stumbling a little bit with the force of being yanked to his feet. Casey, faced with another way to prove herself as the new (maybe?) part of the Hamato clan, was ready to let go and start picking up boxes, but for some reason Michelangelo didn't just let go of her , instead opening his arms wide and throwing her intoâ
âa hug?
A hug.
Her mind crashed to a halt, thoughts both utterly blank and claustrophobically packed. It was⌠warm? He was short enough that his head slotted comfortably under her chin. If she wanted to, she could rest her hands on the back of his shell. She was being hugged?
She was being hugged.
She didnât know what to do with her hands.
It had been⌠a while, since anyone hugged her. She was stiff and frozen, and all too soon Michelangelo pulled away, mild frown tugging at his features. Casey was just looking at her hands. Her emotions were going haywire, and she couldn't tell why. After all, it's not like she needed hugs, or friends, orâŚ
Oh god, she has friends.
That's what this is, isn't it? that's why comparing the Hamatos to the Foot didn't make sense. It was a fundamental mismatch; apples to oranges.
Comparing the Hamatos to the Foot felt wrong, because the Hamatos were her friends.
Mikey jumped backwards, keeping his arms extended as if trying to create a physical barrier between them. "Sorry! Sorry, you don't have to like hugs, I should have asked before- EEP!"
Without warning â half without thinking â Casey rushed forward and hugged Mikey, and this time she did wrap her arms around his shell, squeezing like she was doing her best impression of an orange juicer. He caught on fast, hugging her in return with just as much enthusiasm.
She would have been glad to stay there until nightfall. It was the most comfortable she felt in days, like she actually understood herself a little bit more, a little less like she was floundering. That was, until Mikey tapped her on the back and wheezed "Casey, this is great an' all but I can't breathe."
She released him, and he beamed a smile at her she could feel reflected in her own features. Later, they would order pizza, and all the eight members of clan Hamato would watch Lou Jitsu movies until the sky changed colours, and then changed colours again. Later, when she's thinking about proposing to April, Mikey would help her pick out a ring, and Donnie would help her pick out a wedding outfit. She'd change their lives and they'd change hers.
But for now, for the first time in a long time, she just felt safe.
Content warnings: Character losing time (it's played for comedy and caused by Magic Reasons, but I figured I should warn just in case)
Misc: Truth be told I've had this written for months by this point and just never bothered to post it, but I like it and figured hey why not! Plus all my other fics are between 5 and 75% percent done and I really just wanna post something already. Might put it on ao3 later who knows.
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âAnd it just keeps happening! I keep losing time when Iâm in this place, I come in for half an hour and when I go back out again it's feakinâ 3 AM! I canât be awake at 3 AM! I have a reputation to uphold!â
Joe looks around the place critically while Bdubs is talking: Itâs a small, beautifully decorated cottage with Bdubs' signature building style written all over it. The walls are an expertly crafted gradient including everything from andesite to dead coral, the furniture is neat but detailed, and it all has a wonderful character and atmosphere to it.
It is also, most definitely, a Temporal Zone.
The weight of Time usually lays heavy on Joe's shoulders, like a familiar weighted blanket wrapped around him. Itâs a comforting constant in his life, reminding him that no matter what he or anyone else does, Time still goes on. Stepping into this house is like tripping on a sharp stone and hearing the blanket tear, right down the middle. Itâs still there, of course â you can never really escape Time â but now the weight is distributed unevenly, and it hangs half on and half off your back, dragging on the floor collecting dirt. Itâs unnerving. Itâs uncomfortable.
He tunes back into the world and realises that Bdubs is still talking. ââI went to X about it cause I thought, well it's a problem with the code right? so he can fix it! But he told me to see you for some reason soâ Here! Fix it so I can sleep again!â
Joe does another spin around the room, just for good measure, and asks, âHow long since you spoke to X about it?â
Bdubs grunts in that way he does when he's being overdramatica on purpose. âFor me or for you?â
âEither.â
âWell for YOU it's been about a week, but for ME it happened two hours ago.â
Joe nods along, only half paying attention to what Bdubs is saying. In truth, he already knows what's happened; it's hard not to feel the frayed edges of Time against his mind. He knows what he has to do, so he goes towards where the tear is widest â near a window by happenstance â and sits down on the floor in one quick motion.
As Joe starts rummaging through his inventory, Bdubs keeps talking.
âWhat are you gonna do about it, anyway? I didn't think you were any good with code.â
âOh, I don't touch that stuff. It clashes with my nature.â
Ignoring Bdubsâ confused stare, Joe pulls a needle and thread out from the fabric between space, carefully avoiding the fabric between Time as he does so. Best to not get those two mixed up, in his experience.
Bdubs is apparently still having trouble grasping the situation, because his eyes get somehow even wider and he asks, âWhat the heck, are you sewing?! The fabric of spacetime is warping around my house and youâre sewing?!â
âFabric of Time,â Joe says.
âHuh?â
âThe fabric of Time is warping around your house, no space. And actually, it's always warping around everything. What's happening now is more like the fabric of Time is tearing around your house in particular. It's very uncomfortable.â
Joe takes the threaded needle and closes his eyes, reaching, this time, for the fabric between Time. He feels around until he catches the edge of the tear, and then holds firm.
âYou might want to leave for this bit, by the way. It gets a little weird.â
With his eyes closed, Joe can't see Bdubs' expression. But he can hear the exasperation in his voice regardless.
âYou know what, sure! Fine! I'll see you in half an hour, and that half an hour better actually be half an hour this time, andâ and not five minutes, or a month, or, or yesterday! Got it?â
And with that, Bdubs stomps out of his house, grumbling all the way down the hill.
Joe chuckles fondly, pierces through the fabric of Time, and pulls.
