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#my hyper focus came back with a vengeance
jasontoddsguns · 2 years
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Billy Batson memes based on my hcs bc im in the mood-
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Part 2, Part 3
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cartoonfangirl1218 · 3 years
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Give them what they want ch. 6
Jordan was spending her Saturday afternoon staring at two Chardonnay bottles at her desk.
She had taken the Saturday off from being among people to make a new video and do some belly dancing. Something about it just made her feel pretty, and confident as the music washed over her while she swirled her hips. She was in control of how people admire her, how they lusted, how they reacted.
Being with the people and trying to be her improved self was tiring. A part of her knew it was irrational to care so much about people, that it was not going to change anything, she was still going to be viewed by others as a wishing ATM and that her effort to find love will still be a dead end. But another voice reminded her that by improving herself this way, she could be worth more in her personality than just by her powers.
So in the age old method of coping, she looked to the alchohol. Just for one night. One night not to think, she deserved as much. It wasn't like she was the only one. Lots of fae had turned to the shiny, clear bottle to cope with the ban of magic and being regulated to mere laborers, and finding mortal trade jobs.
The only thing stopping her was that she wasn't allowed. Sure, by law she wasn't allowed but she ignored that. It was just she was banned by Jasmine and Aladdin from social drinking for 5 years. She was only allowed to drink during dinner and even then, they had to be present.
It had happened three years ago when the waiter kept refilling, she hadn't kept track of how much she drank, by the end of the night she had made the right wing of the palace disappear, there was a single toilet in the middle of the hallway, yelled at the stairs she had mistakenly thought were stalled elevators, and performed a topless pole dance to "When you got it, flaunt it." Grounded for a year, banned from drinking for five.
Staring at these Chardonnay bottles, she felt like she was already breaking that rule, and it was giving her a nauseous guilty feeling.
She heaved a sigh. She was going to do it. Once, just once to be able to feel happy and then whenever she felt like giving up she could remember the feeling of lightness.
Without giving herself more time to obsess, she popped off the cork, and gulped it down. And proceeded to quickly gulp down the second.
She stood up, ready to get in the party mood, when the sudden dizziness made her feel down. She haphazardly got herself to standing decision to sit on the chair again.
Her head felt disconnected from her body, bobbing around heavily while her chest leaned sideways, heavy as lead. She felt like she had been filled with water, and it was just gushing around her. All the swaying was making her sick.
"Too fast..." Jordan mumbled, taking a deep breath and throwing up.
Once the contents of her stomach and what felt like the rest of her internal organs were spewed over the floor, she felt hollow.
It wasn't the same lightness she remembered. That one was like being encompassed by a soft cloud acomplained by a giddy feeling that seemed to seap out of her. This was light as in she was floating, jumping with every step but shaky that she was worried her limbs were going to fly away from her.
She had thought it was probably going to be a bad idea. Now she defiantly knew she shouldn't have done this. Never again. She still felt the taste of bile.
She swayed and tripped over her feet, landing on her bed. Pressing her face against the smooth silk covers, she felt hyper aware of her body. Hollow but the loud thumping of her heart pulsed like a club beat.
She noticed how silent it was, and it gave her a foreboding feeling. The isolation, emptiness, it was never good. Whenever she was alone then came the people looking for wishes. Wishes that seemed concerned with her.
Like a phantom pain, she was assaulted by the feelings of hands roaming, caressing, clawing harshly against her, a whip against her neck...
She shot up from the bed. Well she would have shot up, but in actuality she wiggled and squirmed unceremoniously off her bed and grabbed desperately at her standing mirror.
She grasped the stands holding it up, turning her knuckles white. She looked at her reflection and saw that her form was shifting between her natural genie form and her human one. The different skin tones fading and reappearing in seconds. Once again, the sea sick feeling returned with the vengeance of a pounding from her head as well as her heart.
She tried to focus instead on the background. The thankfully still background that proved her unfounded paranoia was just nerves. None of the furniture or decorations had moved. No one was around. She was alone.
She looked at herself against and gasped at the face of Dina staring back. She fell on her butt just as Dina did, and realized she had transformed into her. She thought to Pierce, and there she changed to resemble him. She shifted through the various people she had mistakenly chosen to love, and leaned heavily against the mirror.
"Humans" she slurred "All the same. Greedy. Manipulative. Heartless." She pounded her fist against the edge. "Oh master! Yes, master. Of course, master. Tell me how low to go Master. Don't make me get off my knees, master. Whip me if you please, master. Say that you love, master."*
She rolled her eyes so she could glimpse the white of eyes, changing back to her human form, laughing bitterly. "Always a master, never a lover. I'm not worth much for you to keep lying that you actually care aren't I?"
Oh, alchohol. The bets truth inducer. There was no harm, she was alone. Blissfully, heartbreakingly alone. They wouldn't hear. Not like they would care anyway.
She shifted to the forms of her few friends, her family back to herself, swaying around and ranting. The people that care..for now. They cared for now. Who knows what she would that would make them think that she was irritating and selfish. They were tired of being with her.
They would come to the logical conclusion, not to leave her though. They were sitting on a metaphorical gold mine. A girl who will give them everything. Their greed would take over, greed always did.
"Just sell me to sadists. You'll probably get good money from it, after all, why wouldn't they pay top dollar for a being that won't die on them. I can even have smooth skin again if I get scarred too much. I'm the perfect thing. The perfect object. They'll love me. That's all they do. They love me, they love me so much. Unlimited love because
I am the object to be desired. That is the only love I deserve to have, isn't it? I'm worthless without my powers aren't I. I'm just a useless, stupid, vile person that isn't worth anyone's energy. Put me in trafficking, that's all I'm good for. For other people. Just do it. Leave me like everyone else. At least the sadist won't let me go. I don't have the stress of when or why they will abandon me."
Jordan flopped back on her bed, "Leave like my parents. They didn't pretend to want me. They are already genies, they could get whatever they wanted themselves. They didn't lie."
Normally she would be angry at this thought. Her own parents who had taken the time to conceive and give birth and take care of her for five years, should at least pretend feeling bad more instead of zipping off to the nearest party. How dare they! But with the emptiness of the room, it just made her depressed.
She let out a loud resounding wail. Putting every thought and feeling of helplessness, rejection and desperation into the sound. She screamed in rage until she felt like she couldn't breath. Then wailed again. Again. Again.
The sound shattered the silence, and sheer volume made Jordan's aching head hurt worse, but she continued to do it. Soon the sound was monotoneous, soothing even. It gave her something to do, to focus away from the pain which was the point. Screaming as loud as she could. As if people would actually be able to hear her, and listen.
*Lyrics changed from The King and I’s “Shall I tell you what I think of you.”
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thekytchensynk · 3 years
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To Be a Hero (Fictober Prompt 10)
Prompt number: 10
Fanfiction Fandom: My Hero Academia
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Read the story on AO3
Even though the doctor promises that their child has a quirk, for a long time, Neito’s parents aren’t so sure.
They try to give it time. After all, their own quirks aren’t the sort you can see in a child either. Her hyper-eidetic memory could be useful, but was a little hard to notice at first. His ability to tell the exact temperature of anything he touched had to wait at least until the child had the ability to talk and a working understanding of temperature beyond “hot” and “cold.”
But as he headed off to kindergarten, where his classmates were all showing off their nascent abilities, it quickly became clear he didn’t have either of their quirks. And all they could do when he came home asking about it one day was reassure him that the doctor said so, and his ability must just be special, and waiting for him to be ready.
It is three months into the school year before his teacher puts in a tentative call to them. Yes, he’s a bit of a handful, but aren’t they all at that age. Anyway, we’ve been considering whether to call you about this for a while. Yes, we wanted to be sure. For weeks, he has been exhibiting signs of a quirk. No, it’s a little different. It only lasts a few seconds and there was never any consistency. But yesterday was the third time it happened, and we noticed it always matched the quirks of his classmates. No, we’re not sure what it means, but we figured you should know, since you may not be seeing it at home. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Good night.
His parents are thrilled, until family gatherings start to get … distant. Oh, sometimes it’s normal. His grandfather swings him up into his arms and asks about school. Two of his cousins join him in a game of tag in the backyard. But his aunt steps subtly to the side when he runs by, and asks her children to sit quietly instead of joining in the games like usual.
He doesn’t much notice -- tag is tag -- but his parents do.
“It’s not that I don’t love him,” she explains to her sister later when questioned about avoiding Neito. “He’s my nephew. But it’s just … it’s weird, isn’t it? What if it gets stronger when he gets older? It’s copying now, but what if someday he … It’s just … I’m sorry. It’s just weird.”
His parents don’t think it’s weird. They think it’s amazing, a morphing of their two quirks in a completely unexpected way. And their boy is outgoing and self-sure and maybe a little bossy but they love watching him taking on the world.
Doing his assigned chores after school is something that 7-year-old Monoma doesn’t mind, of course. But it’s boring, and he likes talking to his friends --to anyone really -- and sometimes he loses track of time. So today he’s sweeping out the cubbyholes in the back alone, the rest of the students having already finished and fled for the greener fields of the sunny outdoors. His teacher sits at his desk at the front, supervising in name, but mostly grading papers.
The silence settles like an uncomfortable weight on Monoma, so he does what he assumes anyone would -- he fills it. Tells his teacher about the great rescue he saw on TV the other day. How he cut out the picture from the newspaper the next day, and has it plastered next to his desk at home. How he’s going to be a hero too, someday.
When Monoma mentions UA, he thinks he knows what to expect -- the eyebrow raise, the thinning of the mouth, the amused chuckle that so many adults have when he talks about being a hero. But instead, the teacher smiles down at the papers he’s working on.
“Interested in taking a hero course?”
“Yeah!”
The teacher considers this a moment. Nods. “I think that’s a great idea.”
A great idea? No chuckle? The teacher thinks it’s a great idea? Monoma can’t stop the grin. See? At least someone knows it’s not impossible!
“I think a lot of agencies would love to have a sidekick with a power like yours,” the teacher continues, making notes on the sheet in front of him. “They could have two of anyone they needed on site, depending on what the situation called for. You could be very useful!”
“Sidekick?” Monoma’s grin fades. What’s this man talking about? Sidekick. He’s definitely hero material.
The teacher nods. “You always have trouble with the new powers when you pick them up, but if you were working with the same people all the time, you-”
“Wait, I haven’t had an accident in a long time!” He hates that the teachers call losing control of a quirk “having an accident” like he’s a baby who wet his pants. But it’s the word they use, and so he does too.
The teacher looks up, and the sudden move puts a stop to the childish defense. “I know. I know you’re trying and I know you don’t mean to.” And he’s right. Monoma tries not to let it bother him, but he’s right on all counts. New quirks are hard to control when he first gets them. He goes at the last cubby with an extra vengeance, dust particles flying.
“Yours is a difficult quirk,” that voice continues. “And that’s just a limitation it has. I know it’s tough, but better that you accept it now and focus on what you can do. Which is still quite a lot.”
The teacher is trying to be encouraging, but all Monoma can hear is how stupid this man is. How he’s talking down to his student like... like a child! Which, sure, he is technically, but a teacher shouldn’t talk like that! Isn’t he supposed to encourage the best in them?
“Of course, you’ll have to work hard.” The teacher doesn’t even notice as Monoma’s fingers curl harder around the little brush handle, nails biting into his palms as he tromps over to the garbage can and tips the dust in. “And UA may be … a little ambitious. With your grades, you’ll have a hard time getting into the big-name ones. There’s still time though, if you study harder.”
The teacher looks up then, and on seeing his student’s face, his expression grows somewhat softer. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says, clearly still trying to be encouraging even though he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it at all. “If you work hard, I’m sure you can succeed anywhere you’re accepted.”
Objectively, someone on the outside might have recognized that the teacher could be right. All quirks have limits, and this could very well be his. But in that room, at that moment, Monoma decides he’s wrong, foolishly and completely wrong. The limitation isn’t with his quirk, his quirk is awesome. The limitation must therefore be with Monoma himself, and if that’s the case … well, he just needs to get over it.
And act like a hero.
Putting on his best grin, Monoma says, “Thanks! I’m sure I can too.”
It becomes a weekend tradition -- he goes to the park, or to a mall, or just out on the street and he introduces himself to at least a dozen people. He shakes their hands and thanks them and leaves them mystified as he walks off again. And then he concentrates.
Quirks come in an infinite variety, and he can feel each one in a range of ways. He used to try to explain to people what their quirks felt like, but the strange looks he got weren’t worth it. Besides, they felt their own quirk all the time. They probably couldn’t even distinguish it anymore. It was just part of the landscape of their sensation every day.
But Monoma can, and the feel can tell him how careful he has to be with a quirk, how on guard, how controlled.
His mother’s quirk is squared off and pale, with rigid edges and infinite possibility. It’s supportive and steady and predictable. It also takes very little to control, which is good because he borrows it from her regularly.
Father’s feels different -- it’s a ball of red that sits in the middle of his chest, in the warmest part of his body, and when he reaches for something, it extends a tendril out to his fingertips. It feels alive within him, like a sleepy cat reaching a paw out for a stray kibble.
And over time he learns that’s the first thing to look for -- how alive it feels. Because some quirks want to be used more than others. There’s an electricity to them, an energy that beats against him like a caged butterfly.
He never forgets the day the kind lady with the gray hair and the welcoming smile shakes his hand and he borrows what feels like a cat made of fire. It burns and batters at his ribs and he guesses it shows on his face because her smile fades and she asks, “Are you all right, little boy? Is your mother here?”
I’m fine, he tries to say, but the heat is burning at his throat and he feels like if he does speak, if he relaxes his attention for even that long, it’s going to get out. He darts off, not even hearing whether or not she calls after him. He just runs, runs until there’s no one around and he’s in the grimy but uncluttered alley between two stores on a street he’s not sure of. And here finally, he tries harnessing that animal in him. It feels hot, so he expects fire when he reaches out.
Nothing happens. The maelstrom within rages, but he can’t figure out how to focus it and use it. His fingertips feel hot -- burning -- and he presses then to the wall just to feel the cool of the shadowed stone.
He doesn’t expect them to sink straight in.
But the stone melts under his fingers, and at the same time the power switches -- from a wild cat trapped somewhere it doesn’t want to be to a watchful one, laser-focused on some small animal. With the power having an outlet, it becomes more ordered, but it’s also melting a building and it’s using his fingers to do it, so he pulls them back. But the moment he does, it feels restless again and begins badgering for freedom.
He forces himself to walk slowly, head down and fingers splayed, until the time runs out and the quirk disappears. And it’s hard not to just run home afterward and hide in his room. There’s always next weekend. Another new quirk.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he can’t.
Because the weakness in himself won’t disappear if he hides in his room.
Because he refuses to just be a sidekick.
And because he thinks next time he gets a wild quirk like that he may have a better idea of how to harness it.
He’s 11 when he finally really, truly understands the difference between himself and All Might.
It isn’t Sara’s fault that she still comes to school in last year’s worn out, slightly-too-small uniforms. Kids don’t buy the uniforms, their parents do. Any idiot should know that. But three idiots are following her down the sidewalk after school, loudly making comments to one another about the slight stains. About the way it strains around her shoulders. About her appearance in general. As she speeds up, they speed up too. When she finally has enough and whirls on them, they all raise an eyebrow at her. “What?” The ringleader asks in faux innocence, and she, frustrated, turns and starts stomping down the sidewalk again.
It’s not right. And before he really realizes what he’s doing, he has run across the distance between them and placed himself in the space between the bullies and their target.
“Stop it,” he demands, staring the trio down. “Leave her alone.”
They pause, surprised by his sudden appearance. But none of them look particularly bothered by it. The ringleader -- a wiry boy with a wry grin -- again speaks for the group.
“What’re you going to do about it?” he asks, voice inquisitive.
There’s not really a good answer. He hasn’t really thought that far ahead. So he does what he thinks a hero would do. He balls his hands into fists and says, “I’ll stop you.”
The ringleader exchanges looks with his two friends -- his large, stocky bodyguard buddy on the left and then the lanky, hunched hanger-on on the right -- then looks lazily back at his new target. Monoma, who struggles in gym class and can feel his legs quavering beneath him, isn’t a fan of the look.
A nod seems to be the signal. The bodyguard takes a step forward, his own fingers tightening. Then he lunges.
The musclehead is also 11, and from his hiss of pain, it seems like he hurts himself as well somehow when he punches Monoma in the face. But Monoma can’t really be sure because somehow he’s on the ground and his face hurts and his palms sting and his ears are full of a high, whining noise and he can see the shadow of the ringleader falling over him like a shroud.
“I said, what’re you going to do about it?” the kid asks again. Then, as a bit of punctuation, spits out, “loser.”
Monoma half expects the kid to kick him, but he doesn’t. The group just leaves. He’s apparently not even worth messing with beyond this, and as he lays on the ground, he’s not sure whether to be insulted or relieved.
His unwillingness to explain his bruises and scrapes clearly worries his parents. If he had a mindreading quirk to hand, he might have known about how in that bruise, they saw the harsher echoes of family members who refused to treat their Neito like any other child, of parental fears of cruelty and misunderstanding.
But he can’t see any of that, so when his parents enroll him in judo classes, he guesses they think he’s picking fights and they want him to learn discipline. Which he tries to tell them he doesn’t need. But as long as he won’t explain what actually happened, he supposes he can’t blame them for their mistake.
Judo classes are fun, but by the third one, he starts to get mysterious stomach aches right before they leave. His parents don’t press him after the second session he misses, and he’s sure they have their own thoughts about why he doesn’t want to go. But he expects their guess is wrong.
There are a lot of cool things about him -- it’s actually awesome how awesome he is -- but even the best things have a few drawbacks. And Monoma can’t deny that he has a certain … problem … with impulse control.
It’s like … he has it. Of course he has impulse control. But sometimes, it can be hard to maintain it. He finds thoughts slipping out in words before he even realizes it. He doesn’t usually care about that. But this time, it would be different.
Because whenever he touches one of his classmates, to help them stretch or whatever, there’s that temptation. The temptation to see what their power is like.
It’s not just the practice for his quirk. Neito likes people. Finds most of them fascinating. Tries to understand them, even ones he doesn’t enjoy being around. And there’s always something interesting about seeing what a person’s quirk is, what it feels like. Because all too often, it tells him something about the person.
But he still hasn’t perfected his ability to immediately harness any new quirk. So there’s a chance he might completely disrupt a class without even meaning to. But even knowing that, he can feel that ...that itch in the back of his head urging him on.
So he stops the lessons. Better to avoid the temptation.
Monoma finds most people fascinating, but there are exceptions. In every situation, there are strong people and weak ones.
And he hates bullies.
It’s certainly not personal. How could he possibly be so base as to carry a grudge over being picked on for his quirk, for his way of speaking, for the zealous way he tries to uplift the people he likes and respects? Utter foolishness. It doesn’t even cross his mind. Not once! He can handle whatever they throw at him. Definitely.
But it’s unfair for others. And he doesn’t like it.
Because if you already have strength, using it just to put people down, to hurt them and belittle them? What’s even the point? You already have the power in a situation.
And that makes it hard to admit that he might need to study them.
Because some of them are just brutes, people whose strength is in their fists and their feet. But some of them are a little more insidious. They see the weak points, or dig them up, and attack those points, crumbling their target’s defenses and putting them off balance which makes them all the easier to take advantage of.
It’s a hard thing for him to pick apart because it means paying attention to some truly awful people. But he sticks with it. Because All Might shows that strength in your fists or feet can be a force for good. And Monoma thinks, maybe this can too.
He’s never had a problem speaking his mind, to anyone. He’s been called “blunt” or “mouthy” or “an idiot” (the last one, he resents. The rest …. eh.) And as the end of middle school approaches and the weight of trying to get into UA hangs over his head, the question occupies his mind more and more. How can I be a hero? How can I help people?
He’s gained more control over his quirk -- he can hold more than one now, and “accidents” barely ever happen. But he knows it’s not enough. Because unlike basically everyone else trying to be a hero, he never knows what tools he’ll have at any given moment. His quirk is never going to be enough on its own. He needs more. And since he’s long since learned that the “something else” is unlikely to be physical, it’ll have to be mental. So he’s watched, and learned, and both fears and hopes for the day when he gets to try it.
It comes near the end of his final year of middle school. As he prepares to head home, he sees Ringleader and his henchmen (Bodyguard and Hanger-On) outside trying to “borrow” money for something from a classmate. So Monoma gets to work.
A couple minutes later, he walks up just as the trio is about to walk off, cash in hand. “Hey fellas,” he says, stepping in front of them and putting his all into sounding as familiar and casual as possible.
It bugs Ringleader. Monoma can see it in the narrowing of his eyes. “Whacha want, Hero?” he asks.
That word -- hero -- is a slur on Ringleader’s lips, but Monoma lets his grin get bigger. He puts his arms out to the sides in a sort-of shrug, phone in one hand. “Awww, don’t be like that! It sucks that you probably won’t be getting into any of those schools with the baseball teams you really admired, but hey! Sometimes life is just cruel, right? I just wanted to extend my sympathy.”
Any good humor Ringleader had from scoring money off their classmate (who has wisely retreated from the fuse Monoma has lit) is gone now. “Where’d you hear that?” he demands.
“Oh, nowhere special. Just around.” But Monoma takes a chance, looking down, then letting his eyes dart briefly over to Hanger-On.
On a normal day, at a normal time, probably Ringleader wouldn’t fall for this. But first he got irritated, then he got paranoid, and now he sees that sly glance and as Monoma hoped, he rounds on Hanger-On. “What did you say?” He demands, voice low.
It takes a second for the kid to even realize he’s being addressed. Once he does, his eyes go wide, his hands go up, and while he’s utterly sincere, he’s made himself a picture of deflection and deception in the paranoid eyes of his boss. “What? No, Watari, I didn’t say anything, I swear. He’s lying.”
“So how is this getting around the school?” Ringleader growls. Ignoring the fact that he’d been bitching about this to his friends loud and often enough last week that several people had overheard it while waiting for their rides after school. It hadn’t even taken much asking around for Monoma to find someone willing to spill the “secret.”
But even if Hanger-On is thinking that, there is no way to say it without just making Ringleader mad, so he wisely chooses the better part of valor and books it across the schoolyard.
Ringleader makes like he might go after the kid, then lets out a disgusted “Tch” and turns back to Monoma. “And I don’t know why you thought this was a smart thing to do, but now I’m in a bad mood. Get out of our way.”
Monoma keeps grinning. “Aww, sure! Just give that guy his money back and we’re done.” His voice drops a bit and he leans forward to say, “And hey, if the words i’m using are too big, just let me know. I’d hate to let your limited vocabulary get in the way of this reaching a friendly resolution.”
He thinks it’s the grin more than the words that do it, but Ringleader’s last nerve snaps. He doesn’t even say anything, just nods, and Bodyguard steps forward.
Here goes.
Monoma raises both hands, palms out, and invokes the quirk that’s tingling in his fingertips. A brilliant light pulses from his palms, brighter than a camera flash, and only slightly blocked by the phone he pinches between his right thumb and forefinger. This quirk comes courtesy of an underclassman named Gin who Monoma had clapped on the shoulder before coming outside.
Ringleader reels back, cursing and covering his eyes. Bodyguard’s reaction is less pronounced, but he does also squeeze his eyes closed, and his suddenly unguided attack swings wide of Monoma.
That’s the setup. And now, the closer.
As his hands begin messing with his phone, he lets go of the light quirk and switches to Sara’s own little quirk, which he feels like a cool mist in his throat.
“Wait, please don’t hit me,” Monoma puts a little fear into the words. And he uses her ventriloquism quirk to place the sound directly between Bodyguard and Ringleader.
Bodyguard is all instinct and primed for helping his buddy, so the expected swing comes like clockwork. Connects. Monoma has the camera up as Ringleader goes down. And it’s here that he finally lets himself relax a little. Ringleader’s quirk makes a small sphere of darkness. It wasn’t likely to change how this interaction went, but it could have. He’s glad he didn’t have to react to it. Rethinking the plan in the middle doesn’t sound at all good. Not yet.
He checks on Ringleader (He’s sure being punched hard enough to be knocked out can’t be great for the guy), but once he’s sure he’s still breathing and stuff, he backs out of Bodyguard’s range and messes with his phone some more.
Eventually Bodyguard focuses on Ringleader lying on the ground in a way that suggests he can see at last. Monoma sees a teacher hurrying out of the school, and decides it’s now or never.
“That was a heck of a punch,” he says, waggling his phone in one hand. “Can’t wait to show our friend Watari.”
Bodyguard makes like he’s going to go for Monoma again, but the teacher’s voice cuts through the schoolyard like a breaking branch. “Yuuto!” And he stops mid-move, settling for glaring at him instead.
“You can’t.”
“No? Well, how about this,” Monoma says, tapping the corner of his phone against his own cheek. “You lay off our classmates until graduation and I won’t. Two weeks. Deal?”
“...Deal,” the guy says through gritted teeth.
The teacher sends another student for the nurse, to help Ringleader, then marches Monoma and Bodyguard into the school, to the principal. Bodyguard goes first, probably because between Monoma with his slim frame and “useless” quirk or Bodyguard with his quirk that increases the weight of his hands and feet, it’s not much of a guess to figure out which one had knocked out Ringleader. He listens to them talking about how someone with a quirk like his needs to be extra careful. How he needs to stop picking fights and thinking about his future. That they should maybe suspend him, and only his protestations that it was an accident seem to earn him some leeway. Blah blah blah. Monoma tries to tune it out as he waits for his turn in the wringer.
When Bodyguard finally leaves the principal’s office, he doesn’t even glance at Monoma.
The teacher and the principal ask him questions, which are easy enough to answer.
No, he didn’t hit anyone.
Yes, they were picking on someone and he stepped in to help that person.
Yes, he thought they were going to hurt him so he used the flash quirk. That was why he picked it up before intervening -- so he could defend himself if they decided to do anything.
They don’t ask him how Bodyguard ended up clocking his best friend -- they must now believe his assertion that it was just a mistake when he couldn’t see. Instead, he gets much the same lecture as Bodyguard, just dressed in different clothes. You can’t get in fights like this, you’re only going to get yourself in trouble. You need to think about your future and what you can do. You may mean well, but you keep causing trouble.
He knows they want him to look contrite and chastened, but he can’t. He didn’t do anything wrong. So he just listens, nodding at the appropriate moments, and lets most of the criticism wash over him. He does apologize for using a quirk out on the schoolyard -- he knows that’s not allowed, he agrees -- but other than that he’s just waiting for it to be over.
Because he knows part of what they’re trying to tell him is, stop wanting to be a hero. But that’s never going to happen.
UA, here he comes.
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truemedian · 4 years
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Kotaku Reacts To Animal Crossing: New Horizons
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Screenshot: NintendoTwo weeks have passed since Animal Crossing: New Horizons came out, and almost everyone on the Kotaku staff has poured themselves into trying to make our new desert islands feel like home. It’s been...a process—full of blood, sweat, and a lot of broken axes—and we have some thoughts about it.Hopefully by now you’ve read fellow staff writer Ian Walker’s excellent review of the game, but in addition, we wanted to share the opinions, reactions, personal tribulations, and success stories of others on the staff as we survive Tom Nook’s fascinating new time share scheme together.
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“My shitty house”—Maddy MyersScreenshot: Nintendo Maddy MyersI do not play simulation games. I spend no time at all on character creators. I’ve never played an Animal Crossing game before. And yet, Animal Crossing: New Horizons has become a game that I play almost every single day.I’m not sure if I’m even enjoying it. But I do know that it’s fulfilling a hyper-specific need for me right now. As an introverted person who already works from home, I don’t get a lot of social interaction in my daily life, outside of spending time with my equally introverted girlfriend. Before covid-19 happened, I would get a lot of low-impact socializing done in a typical week by chatting with the cashier at the grocery store, or making small talk with the other people at my gym. All of that is gone now.Instead, I make small talk with Timmy and Tommy. I discuss exercise with Flip, the jock monkey villager who lives in my Animal Crossing town. And, of course, I decorate my crappy Animal Crossing apartment and I invite my real-life friends over to (virtually) see it, and then I apologize to them, because it looks even worse than my actual real-life apartment. Animal Crossing allows me to perfectly recreate all the awkward but somehow fulfilling social interactions that I used to have when society still functioned.Will I keep logging in to Animal Crossing every day after the covid-19 pandemic has passed us over? Probably not. But until then, it’s given me a chance to see what it is that other people enjoy about this genre. It’s also made me realize that I need to seriously work on my interior decorating skills.
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Ian WalkerI only own two pairs of jeans in real life, but I’m rapidly running out of room for all the clothes I buy in Animal Crossing. Here are some of my outfits:Mike FaheyOn the day Animal Crossing: New Horizons launched, the 512-gigabyte micro SD card in my Switch died. Four days later, after my wife had started playing, her Switch suddenly stopped charging. While trying to get her Switch to work, my system, purchased mere weeks before the game’s launch, stopped outputting video. As I normally play in TV mode, that’s not great. I have a Switch Lite, but I ran it over with my wheelchair and cracked the screen.Nintendo’s warranty repair is down, so I have to wait until the world returns to normal to get any of these consoles repaired. With Nintendo supply down, it’s nearly impossible to buy a new Switch right now. So my wife went on eBay and purchased a refurbished Switch tablet for $250. That’s how much fun we’re having bonding over Animal Crossing: New Horizons.
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I can’t play when she can’t play. It’s just too sad. I feel bad sharing items I get, clothing I wear, and bugs I collect with her. For the several days we got to play together, by which I mean in the same room, it was much easier to forget pressing real-world concerns for a little while.We stayed up late to harvest bells. We got up early to see what occurred on our islands as we slept. The chores we must perform on our islands are much more entertaining than the ones we must perform in real life. They are still chores, but they pass the time and make us happy.Bklurbbbb...Natalie DegraffinriedI’ve spent 105 hours playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons over the span of a couple weeks. I suppose I kind of like Animal Crossing: New Horizons. Or my OCD is back with a vengeance. I keep going to celebrations for inclines and bridges even though I’m tired of them, so it’s probably the OCD.
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I didn’t think I could take the fine art of min-maxing to higher heights, but here I am in an endless cycle of Nook tickets, tarantula grinding, and organizing my inventory by item valuation. It’s all to fund my Able Sisters shopping problem, ultimately. I look fly as hell, though.
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Min-maxing in Animal Crossing is not for the faint of heart, nor is it always a great way to play. It might be even harder to do now that the seasons have changed. Will that stop me? No. I’ll keep getting upgrades and obsessively trying to pay them off in the same day. Do what gives you peace, I say.Just don’t be a fucking goober like my friend.
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Riley MacLeodNew Horizons is my first Animal Crossing—our editor-in-chief Stephen talked the game up so much I got really curious about it. I only actually started playing this week, so everything feels very slow—when I get the itch to do something, I keep wanting to switch to Stardew Valley, but I’m really charmed by how happy the NPCs are when you do the simplest tasks and how often everyone claps for you. I also really like that your character runs around with their arms out. I put face paint on my guy and I can’t figure out how to get it off, so he just has face paint now I guess.
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Ari NotisThe short version: This is the most annoying game I’ve ever played.And here’s how I really feel: At every turn, this stupid game presents a somehow brand-new hassle: how Blathers has to assess your fossils before you can donate them; how the Nook twins stop you to say thanks before you leave their shop, and how they say everything in not-quite-tandem (WTF is up with that); how you can only eat one fruit at a time; how your shovel is always breaking, your ax is always breaking, your net is always breaking; how two players can’t shop from the same person at the same time in co-op; how it’s impossible to dig a hole where you want; and how every damn day, that damn raccoon monster wastes my time to tell me there’s nothing new going on. I know there’s nothing new going on! This is Animal Crossing! Nothing new ever happens! This game is supposed to be an escape? Please. It’s at best a shoddy Xerox of life’s daily headaches.
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Luke PlunkettEveryone says this is the game the world needs right now, but the last thing I need is a second mortgage hanging over my head. At least this one’s on the beach.Heather AlexandraI’ve never played an Animal Crossing game before now. In some ways, I missed out on many Nintendo games as my focus shifted off the Nintendo 64 in favor of the PlayStation and especially the modding scenes of PC games like Half-Life. When I needed a fix for homes away from home, I played Harvest Moon. That led to Stardew Valley and long hours on a co-op farm with a former partner. I enjoy the quiet of village sims and farming games. I also struggle to find the time for them.I haven’t taken the biggest plunge into ACNH. I had to focus on Nioh 2, then Doom Eternal, then Resident Evil 3. So 20-minute sojourns to my island every day were a rare and delicious treat. I can’t compare New Horizons to the others in the series, but I can say that it is an incredibly cozy game during a time when coziness seems rare. Sometimes, a good day means little more than some new wallpaper for your room. In other cases, it’s figuring out where to put that memorial statue you found. Animal Crossing is simple, but that simplicity is why you play it. Planting a new tree, inviting a new animal friend to your island. Small things that don’t feel small at all.Now, if only that freako rabbit would get off my island already...
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Where every month is hoagie fest. Screenshot: Nintendo Ethan GachEvery night I shake all the trees, pick all the weeds, and smack objects with my axes until all of them break. In the morning I sell the stuff, and the cycle repeats. Conversations with other villagers scroll past as I smash the A button so I can get back to work. I buy everything I can from Tom Nook like I’m filling out a Sears Catalog Pokédex. I pay off all the loans thanks to the million bells I earned from New Horizons’ week-one infinite item glitch and subsequently invested in the Turnip market. I donate the wood and iron needed to build new homes for new residents. I capture new bugs and fish for the betterment of science. And all the while I wait like Vladimir and Estragon for an epiphany that will help contextualize each individual mundane task and help them culminate into a larger story I can derive some deeper sense of meaning and purpose from.Instead I’m left with a list of things that more closely resembles a CVS receipt. I suspect that’s a problem with me and not the game.Nathan GraysonFor the past week, I’ve been meaning to play through Doom Eternal and finally, properly dive into Control. Instead, I have mostly played Animal Crossing.I don’t really like it? I respect the relaxed pace it’s trying to establish, but by forcing players to step to its beat with fussy mechanics and NPCs who needlessly repeat themselves all the time, it’s managed to annoy me just as often as it’s lulled me into a state of balmy island bliss. Also, I’m bad at interior design, so right now my house looks like World of Warcraft’s Molten Core raid if Ragnaros was a disorganized college freshman who had no idea what to do with his dorm.Oh, and all my neighbors suck. In previous Animals Crossing (correct plural) , that didn’t matter so much, because I enjoyed doing little chores for them and feeling like I was creating a sense of community even among characters with whom I didn’t see eye to eye. In New Horizons, though, it’s all about land development, which feels less personal. I don’t want KK Slider to show up because I optimized my town. I want him to play some tunes for my villagers and me because he’s a chill, cool dude.All that said, this game has given me one of the coolest in-game moments I’ve experienced since we all got trapped inside our houses. I wrote about this at length in another piece, but the other night, DJ and streamer Clarke “Grimecraft” Nordhauser threw an in-game rave, and I attended. Surrounded by the avatars of people I did not know and dancing along with awkwardly improvised moves, I felt the same mixture of fear and exhilaration I’ve felt at countless shows in real life. After I shook my nerves (read: drank a glass of wine), it turned into a relaxing, nice time where everybody mostly talked about how good the music was and how much they appreciated the whole thing. Sometimes, a vacation can be 90 percent unpleasant, but then years later, all you remember is a soothing day on the beach or a perfect sunset. Animal Crossing has some really nice sunsets.
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“Me and my partner hanging out last night in AC”—Paul TamayoScreenshot: Nintendo Paul Tamayo I’ve already talked about how Animal Crossing: New Horizons couldn’t have come at a better time, but the ways it’s helping me keep in touch with friends by sending gifts in-game, getting help from my podcast listeners, and hopping on calls to visit each other’s islands has taken this game to another level for me. It’s also giving me the space to put care into my own island like it’s my own adorable bonsai tree. I get to care for it and improve upon it in a million different ways. My partner actually made the beautiful observation yesterday that even after island hopping through our friends’ islands, it really does feel good to return home to your own space. Read More Read the full article
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theperidotshade · 6 years
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Story time!
So, I just saw a @psych2go post about how more people working on something increases the likelihood that they’ll all slack off, and I thought I’d share a story about what that meant for me as a socially anxious, ‘gifted’ and disabled teenager.  Because I don’t think anyone realizes what happens when you expect the person who has to work the hardest to do the work, to do all the work...which happens way more often than people generally expect.
I was in 11th grade, the second semester, at the very end of the year.  My US History teacher, in order to fit in as much content as possible before the end of the year, assigned group projects to cover each decade in the latter half of the 20th century.  My group of five was assigned the 1960s.  It initially seemed like a good group—I, having been bullied since the age of 5, was primarily concerned with the social dynamics of the group, and there was just the right mix of assertive vs. non-confrontational personalities.  With my disabilities, I have to at least try to start any long term assignments well in advance (despite organization being very difficult for me) to ensure I can complete them in time.  Not only that, but that was the year my major depression came back with a vengeance and my father’s emotional abuse got much worse due to extended family drama.  I also had a dance performance scheduled a couple weeks before the presentation, and a lot of my time was consumed with rehearsals, so I pushed for us to meet as a group early on, and then again about a week before the project was due.  Everyone chose topics to focus on within the decade...which was when what should have been my first warning sign happened.
See, I had the reputation for being the most responsible, intelligent, and driven student in my class.  It wasn’t exactly true—the things I have to do to live and work effectively with my disabilities tend to make me look hyper-organized even when I’m really, really not (despite how intelligent I am, my high grades required A LOT of work and planning—nothing ever came easy).
Everyone but me chose cultural developments—things like music, art, film, the rise of the hippy movement, etc.  Fun for them, but not very demanding in terms of research.  I was focusing on political and human rights developments—mainly the Civil Rights Act—which was what I was interested in, but still the largest share of the workload.  I was okay with that because I like research...but what I didn’t realize was that everyone expected me to coordinate the entire presentation and make the official outline to be handed in to the teacher.
It came down to a few days before the presentation.  I was pretty much done with my slides and was practicing my portion of the public-speaking.  I emailed everyone, asking for two things: their slides so that we could piece the whole thing together, or failing that who to send my slides to so they could do it, and a time to meet the day before so we could practice.
No one was done.  Okay, I thought, everyone must be busy, so I waited.  And waited.  The night before the presentation came, and I hadn’t yet received a real response to any of my two or three subsequent emails.
By the time class started, I still hadn’t gotten a single slide from anyone.  We had no outline except for the brief one I’d made for my own portion.  I cornered my groupmates before class, and not one of them was done or even particularly concerned about it.
I had to take the teacher aside and explain the situation.  I did my portion of the presentation that day, separate from the rest of the group.  I was the only one who got full credit.  My groupmates?  They were annoyed with me because I wanted them to be ready on time and refused to cover for their lack of preparation.
Why did I tell you this story?  Part of it was to vent, yes, because that was just one instance in a sea of others, and I’m still dealing with emotional scars from that year in particular.  In my most paranoid moments, I suspect them of conspiring to make my life more difficult, but I know they were probably just procrastinating or prioritizing other assignments.  But the main reason was this: that presentation encapsulates one of the things I find most frustrating about living with a disability.  If you are high-functioning, your methods of coping look a lot like hyper-competence.  If people see you being organized and responsible, they assume they can rely on you to cover for them.  And because they don’t have to struggle to interpret social cues, they assume that you can pick up on the unspoken things they’re placing on your shoulders.
See, even though I have the advantage of being an HSP to counter the lack of social adeptness that comes with dyspraxia, I just pick up on other people’s emotions, not the subtext of their words.  If it doesn’t have an emotional component, I struggle to understand things like social conventions and expectations because I have trouble processing all the sensory information I’m constantly receiving.  I don’t have a mental filter to sort through it all, so I have to rely on learned connections between words, emotions, body language, and actions.  I’m much better at it now—but back then my brain was still developing at a fast rate, and because of the bullying and emotional abuse I was subjected to from a very young age, I didn’t really have a reliable standard of behavior to compare people’s actions to.
The biggest problem people with disabilities have always faced is that our limitations become more debilitating via abled people’s assumptions.  A presentation or essay assigned a week before it’s due is possible for most people, but extremely challenging for me because of the sheer amount of time I have to pour into it.  A multiple-story building with no elevator and no ramps is fine for able-bodied users, but impassible for a wheelchair user.  Both of those situations aren’t something abled people need to question, so it’s perfectly normal for them to accept it as just the way life is.  I, and people like me, don’t have that luxury.  I have to question a world that isn’t made for me, a world that makes even existing in it seem impossible...and yet, the expectation is always that I must change to fit the world rather than changing the world to meet me halfway.
Abled folks—your normal may be good for you, but it is not the best it could be.  Question it.  Challenge your assumptions.  What you expect of us people with disabilities isn’t always in our power to meet, so maybe it’s time for you to change the expectations rather than condemning us for not living up to impossible standards.
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opinionated1 · 6 years
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'Orange is an odd number'
"Orange is an odd number."; Darcy offered mysteriously. It was directed at no one in particular. Even for her Tourette's-like random outbursts, it was unusually nonsensical. She often spoke of things that no one else understood. Possibly not even herself. "I like the color thirteen when viewed through a reflecting pool."; She added with a vacant smile. Her stream-of-consciousness statements had no rhyme or reason.
Everyone within earshot either nodded politely or just ignored the strange things she said. It was less complicated than asking for an explanation. Those answers didn't make sense either. The avoidance 'solution' seemed the best to satisfy both Darcy and her disinterested audience. If it was important, she'd repeat herself. Eventually someone would glean the meaning of her 'riddle-like' speech.
Darcy would often rock back and forth in front of the picture window. There were plenty of activities to do at the state home but her diminished level of communication and garbled speech made it a challenge. She'd just clutch her knees to her chest and offer a running commentary on the outside world as she watched it from the squeaking rocking chair. She didn't have much to say during the weekly therapy sessions. Groups were not her thing. Darcy existed in her own world.
In an institutional setting like hers, pharmaceutical drugs are heavily dispensed to all the patients. It takes the 'rough edges' off and makes them more manageable. For the patients who have family involved in their healthcare decisions, they are usually on board with anything that management has to do to keep the peace. Darcy always took her meds without any resistance. She'd been doing it for as long as she could remember. It was almost natural. It curbed some of her less agreeable autistic behaviors.
"They'll come soon."; She blurted out. "The little people with ugly faces." The staff and other patients just rolled their eyes in annoyance. They were used to her whimsical announcements. She offered them so frequently that everyone was completely desensitized to it. The orderlies and nurses were strongly discouraged from interacting with the patients, anyway. Only the registered therapists were allowed to offer social insight during group meetings. Everyone else was just a glorified babysitter.
There was one idealistic evening nurse that hadn't yet had her caring spirit crushed by the disappointing realities of the thankless job. As a young sociology major in college, she still had dreams of helping the patients. She took an avid interest in Darcy's disassociated ramblings. While the rest of the staff tuned her completely out, Megan took note of the verbal outbursts. She tried to patch together a meaning to Darcy's puzzling psychological labyrinth.
It was Megan's uncharacteristic and naive dedication to duty that finally resonated with Darcy. She'd been ignored for so long that it took a little while to truly open up. Her mind was also in a pharmaceutical haze. It took a significant effort to focus on how to respond to a real person. For once she had a caring audience.
"They're gonna. You know. They're gonna kill all of us for candy bars and number two pencils. Don't let them in! I think they mean to do us great harm."; She ranted nervously. Her glassy eyed stare remained transfixed outside of the window.
Megan had overheard her earlier discourse. She felt like she was getting closer to unraveling her most recent enigma. If she rearranged the order or sequence of Darcy's earlier comments, it sounded like they were possibly related to Halloween. While orange wasn't a number at all, it was the color of pumpkins and autumn leaves. The number 13 is an odd number and would form 31 if seen reversed in a mirror. With Halloween being the next day, it would go a long way toward explaining her: 'little people coming with ugly faces' and wanting candy.", remarks.
The first mistake Megan made was to tell a therapist about her theory. The second was to question Darcy's medicine dosage. Admitting she had been playing amateur sleuth with a patient went over like a lead ballon. Doctors and therapists do not want anyone else to address a patient's medical or psychological needs. "You handle mopping up the spills and emptying bed pans. We'll handle deciding which medicines they need and how to handle their therapy, m'kay?"
Megan took a deep breath and tried to suppress her annoyance at the hateful disrespect. She wanted to tell her off but she needed the job. Back out in the patient lounge, Darcy sat in her usual chair and rocked slowly. Megan feared one of the orderlies would inform the therapist that she was still trying to help. She kept a safe distance until all the doctors and councilors went home.
Darcy was much more agitated than normal. She was under the influence of her nightly pills so if anything, she should have been more sedated. The opposite was true. Her behavior was hyper and erratic. Her verbal commentary came more often. She was obviously wound up in anticipation of some major upcoming event. Halloween seemed like the most logical culprit.
Megan's shift ended at 11 pm but she felt the need to ask the third shift nurse to watch over Darcy while she was away. She'd be back on the premises at 3 pm the next evening. That would hopefully be before any trick or treaters could be seen from Darcy's observation spot. If her hunch was right, Darcy might have a serious emotional setback if she happened to witness kids in creepy costumes roaming around the neighborhood.
"The crawling devils will be here soon."; Darcy whispered the next afternoon. Megan did her best to downplay the unfounded fears. With her level of detachment from reality, it didn't do any good to reveal the simple truth. She'd learned that in disability cases like Darcy's, it was more effective to lessen the threat of the fantasy they actually believed in.
"The spirits will roam again at dusk. They demand a rich gratuity and offer only pain in return. Their vengeance on the living will be merciless and absolute. Everyone here will die."
At this point, Darcy's colorful statements were actually starting to alarm the other patients. Before, they were just vague comments that no one paid any attention to. As the holiday grew nearer, they increased to be chilling, diabolical revelations. The attending pharmaceutical nurse threatened to sedate her with extra tranquilizers but decided against it. In this case Megan was actually hoping for an increase. She worried about the additional stress on her. The other patients recoiled and backed away nervously. Darcy had the entire east wing to herself. She continued to rock in the chair and scan the neighborhood for signs of the nonexistent threat. She'd went from a lifetime of disassociated, vacant stares to hyper-vigilance in a single afternoon. Somehow she bypassed ordinary communication in the middle of the spectrum.
Megan tried to put her at ease. "There's nothing to worry about, Darcy. I need you to try to focus on my voice and concentrate. It's just children in scary costumes looking for candy treats from neighbors. It's been a holiday tradition for many years. There's nothing sinister about it. It's all meant in fun. I just don't want to to be apprehensive or afraid, ok? I care about you."
As if a magical switch was thrown, the focus of Darcy's eyes cleared up. She looked Megan directly in the eyes for the first time and smiled in a deep sign of appreciation. Her entire posture changed. It was clear that in that brief moment, Darcy completely understood. Megan was taken aback by the instantaneous transformation.
"Megan, I appreciate your efforts to help me and your genuine concern for my well being. It's very rare for someone in an institutional setting to care about their charges, as you do. For that I want you to listen closely. You need to go home. Tell the head administrator that you aren't feeling well. Just get out of here. I implore you. It's a matter of life or death."
Then just as suddenly, the 'switch' flipped off and Darcy returned back to her regular 'distant' countenance. Megan looked around the room to see if anyone else witnessed her amazing breakthrough. No one was watching. It was as if the whole thing was in her imagination, except she could have never dreamed that Darcy could be so lucid. Her chilling words still echoed in her mind. It had really happened. Perhaps it was a fluke or once-in-a-lifetime cognitive transformation but it was real. Darcy had addressed her directly, one on one. Something that was believed to be impossible for her. Her ominous recommendation carried infinitely greater weight because of its rarity. Megan elected to heed the advice. She went home 'sick', unsure of what the future held.
The next evening, she was stopped by police officers at the employee entrance. Crime scene tape was stretched all over the doorway and sidewalk. After identifying herself as a nurse at the facility, a stern looking detective took her aside. Megan bristled at his strong-arm tactic and demanded to know what was going on.
"Ma'am, I can't answer any of your questions at this time. This is an active crime investigation. We're going to need you to come down to the station to make a statement about your whereabouts last night."
She dutifully got into the car and rode with the officer to the station. There she was escorted into a waiting area that felt very much like an interrogation room. A short while later a detective with a clipboard came into the room. He bore the professional, disingenuous smile of an investigator who needed to disarm people. It was an insincere mask to gain the truth.
"Hello Miss Mason. I hope we haven't kept you waiting too long. My name is Bill O'Keefe and I have been assigned to this case. Would you like something to drink? I'm not sure how much the on-site investigators told you but your place of employment was the scene of a very violent crime last night. The third shift nurse discovered it and called it in. It's my understanding that you work second shift as a floor nurse. Is that right? I don't mean to be distasteful and I'm glad you are ok but I have to ask. Why were you not on duty?"
"That's correct."; She stammered. I do work second shift but I wasn't feeling well and went home early. You can confirm that with my shift supervisor, Dorris Andrews, if you wish. My time sheet should reflect my early departure; and my sister and landlord should be able to corroborate that I was at home all night."
"Well, we aren't able to confirm your statement with Mrs. Andrews because she is... mmm, deceased. A number of individuals at the location were. As a matter of fact, we've only found one survivor of the massacre so far. An autistic patient named Darcy Crane; if that's the right term. Do you know her?"
Megan was horrified at the news. She put her hand over her mouth in shocked reverence. "Yes, Darcy is one of my patients in the cognitive dysfunction ward. Is she ok?"
"Yes, they think her wounds are mostly superficial. She should make a full recovery. At least physically. I can't say what she witnessed last night but it must have been brutal. She hasn't been able to offer us anything of substance. I get the feeling she wouldn't be a reliable witness anyway. Unfortunately the other patients and all of your coworkers were not as lucky. They are all dead so we need your help in patching together what might have happened.
Megan swallowed hard. It was too bewildering to fathom; and she couldn't even begin to comprehend what it all meant. The detective handed her a tissue. He considered himself a good judge of character. She wasn't believable as a suspect. He could see the fear in her eyes.
"I'm not really supposed to break protocol here with gory details but I gotta tell you, the scene is horrific. Whoever killed those people did so with an inhuman level of savagery. I've never seen anything like it. It's like a pack of wild dogs attacked them. Ma'am, do you have any idea who could have done this? Patients? Coworkers from other shifts? Family members or relatives? We don't have any leads."
"I'm sorry, I have no idea."; She replied. "It's been very quiet around the ward for the past few weeks."
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