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Chapter Text

“Aatish! Hey, Aatish!”

“I’m coming, Deliwar.”

Two… boys? in caps and vests. Kabul; a broken terrace; a high place. They can see the ocean… just barely. The Homemaker, Deliwar, is the one with the hair. The Breadwinner, Aatish, is the one with the eyes.

“This will be the last time. For a while…”

“I know.”

“Soraya… My sister is getting married.”

“I know.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Afghanistan. The Breadwinner in hijab. The Homemaker with long, curly hair. School. (There still is a school at this point.)

Hey, you! What’s your name?

It’s Parvana.

I’m Shauzia, the Homemaker says. Let’s be friends, okay?

“Will we… Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

1996. The Taliban takes Kabul. Like the Talib grenade takes her brother… Like the Talibs take her father… Leaving them - the Breadwinner, her mother and sister and toddler brother - prisoners themselves. Women are forbidden to travel without escort. The Breadwinner is a girl though. Exceptions can be made.

“Come with me!”

“What?”

“Come with me to Mazar-i-Sharif. Maybe they can find a husband for you too… for both of us. And we could be-”

“I don’t want a husband.”

“Me neither! But maybe… if I’m with you-”

“I can’t just leave, Par- Aatish. I can’t! What about my family? My father-”

The Homemaker’s father has never been good for much. He doesn’t work. He doesn’t do much of anything, really, but raise a hand to her and his wife and other girl children. He has no sons. What little money they have comes from her.

All you’re worth as a woman…

But she’s not a woman, is she?

“And who would have me?”

The Taliban cracks down hard on prostitution. The Breadwinner’s mother leaves home without an escort and comes home beaten black and blue. Even then… they’re desperate. So desperate. The Breadwinner faces Mecca and prays. The next day, she goes out, dressed in her brother’s clothes.

May Allah be with you. May Allah protect you.

He is. He does.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” The Breadwinner puts her arms around her, shaking with the Homemaker. Hard. “Please… This isn’t goodbye. It’s just good bye for now. Inshallah. We’ll meet again someday.”

The Breadwinner leads her family to mosque on Fridays. And sits in the men’s section with her toddler brother. Mother and sister sit on the women’s side. They pray to the same God. For the same thing.

“Do you believe in God, Parvana?”

“Don’t call me that! Someone might hear you.”

“Fine. Do you believe in God, Aatish?”

“Of course I do!”

The Homemaker’s father doesn’t attend mosque at all. He doesn’t rise early to pray at dawn. He doesn't stay up late. Still though…

Give me the money. All of it!

But… but Baba-

Give to me NOW, Shauzia! Allah places men at the head of the household.

Still…

Shh. Don’t wanna wake your mother, do you?

Baba. Stop. You’re hurting me.

He hits her. Hard.

Shauzia. Allah commands children to obey their parents.

“Write to me?”

“I can’t. You know that.”

Even if she did, the Breadwinner would never be allowed to read it.

“Then… I guess this is goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Aatish. Until we meet again?”

“Until we meet again.”

American soldiers in Kabul. In her father’s house. And their allies. The Homemaker’s father calls her into the room. But not by her name.

Deliwar! Entertain our guests, will you?

I don’t…

They call it Bacha Bazi. “Boy Play”.

I’m not a boy.

Who cares? So long as you look like one.

“Just… just promise me something, alright?” The Breadwinner reaches through shorn hair, tries to twist a lock around her finger. It’s not long enough. Not anymore. “When we meet again. Call me by name. My real name.”

“Inshallah,” the Homemaker repeats. “I promise. I will.”

“Is… is that you, Parvana?”

“Shauzia!”

Two women - there’s no doubt of that now, no ambiguity - on the California shoreline. The ocean. Their children splashing in the shallows, gathering handfuls of broken shells. Their positions have been reversed - the one with the eyes, Parvana, is the Homemaker now, and the son who looks nothing like her. The Breadwinner, Shauzia, is the one with the hair and the boy who bears a striking resemblance to “Deliwar.”

“It’s Dela now,” the Breadwinner says. “That’s what they call me. Short for… Well, you remember. My husband used to call me that. Started as a joke… but, you know, it’s grown on me. I like it.”

“Still Parvana,” the Homemaker says. “My husband - he’s a doctor - calls me Parvin sometimes. I like it too.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Kabul. 2001. The Americans aren’t much better than the Talibs had been. The only difference is the way they look at the Homemaker when she steps outside.

“We met after you left. When I was still… him, you see? He recognized me when I went back to school. We were… fifteen, I think?” The Breadwinner fluffs her uncovered hair. “My father died during the war. It was an accident.”

“I’m sorry.”

The Breadwinner smirks. “You are not. Me neither.”

With the Talibs their hatred of her had been colored with superiority. Big, strong men. With their big, strong feelings. Given the right to rule by Allah himself… supposedly. They saw her like they saw all women as weak, inhuman, something to be broken and possessed. The American men are… not so different in that regard. But there is also, always, a tinge of fear.

It’s because we are Muslim, Parvana.

We’re all Muslims. Didn’t they know that? Didn’t they come to save us?

Not us, her mother says tiredly. Let me sleep.

“My mother died almost ten years ago. She was… very sick. It was too late. By the time she was allowed to see a doctor.”

“A doctor? You said you married-”

“Oh. Oh, Shauzia, no. It’s not like…” She sighs. “He worked at the hospital. But he wasn’t… He is a little older, but we’re happy. We are. He lost his father too. To cancer. He worked in one of those awful factories… Making the bombs that poisoned her.”

Her father never speaks of his time in the Taliban prison. Sometimes the Homemaker asks. And still no answer.

“It’s just as well. Sarbaz died last year. It’s been… hard without him. Money is tight. Most of it goes into running the store. But it was tight in Kabul. At least here, I know it’s mine.”

She’s arrested by the Americans, walking home from school. Her backpack taken. Locked naked in a room for hours and hours, the same song played over and over and over again… The hours add to days and weeks. She doesn’t - doesn’t want to - think of her father. Doesn’t want to miss her mother. She thinks of the Breadwinner instead. Of bread. And of God, finally.

Free me. Inshallah. Get me out.

“You know something, Parvin? Can I call you Parvin? Or is that something only your husband can, um…”

“Call me anything you like. Just not Aatish. Not again.”

“I think there is a God.”

“I know there is.”

Of course there is. The Homemaker’s prayers are answered. She goes home to her father. Her sister and brother. And mother. And never speaks of her time in American custody. They leave within the year anyway. Her mother’s cancer has progressed. They leave for California. And better medical care. Radiology.

“When she died, I was just starting on my graduate degree. I never… The program was hostile to Muslim students.”

“Hostile how?”

“Really, Shauzia? The sciences?”

“I never finished school. You know that.”

Her classmates are mostly men. Who mostly look down on her for not being one. Mostly White kids. Mostly atheists. I hate all religion. But they only make fun of hers. The professor won’t let her leave the room to pray. Still though. Still. God is with her. God protects her.

“My mother’s death was the final straw. I… Alex worked at the hospital, but we met during grief support. He lost his father. We both needed someone. One thing led to another…” She nods to the child playing in the sand. “Sulayman.”

“After your brother?”

“After his uncle.”

Still in school. Juggling a child on top of that. The men in her program make jokes. The same kind of jokes she’s heard all her life.

“It was never about religion. Or Allah. Or ‘God.’ It was just about men.”

“I know. I see that now.”

The Breadwinner marries; has a child; becomes a widow. The lady at the desk looks at her strangely when she goes to apply for benefits - holding tightly to her young son’s hand.

Elevator? What kind of a surname…

“Elevator?” The Homemaker guffaws. “What kind of a surname…”

“You’re one to talk, Aatish. We were new immigrants. We’d never needed surnames before. It sounded English…” She smirks and shakes her hair back. “But you have an American husband. What did you…”

“It’s Sartorius.”

“That’s even worse!”

“It is not!”

And, for a moment, they’re kids again.

The Homemaker has a child; moves in; marries. In that order. He’s a few years older. Blond hair. Lines set deep in his face. Their child looks just like him. Down to the eyelashes and the tips of his toes.

“He specializes in cancer research.”

“That’s… noble?”

Radiation. Atomization. The work is there, but not the funding.

‘Too experimental,’ he says. Can you believe that? How am I supposed to prove it, if they won’t fund my research?!

“Mm.”

He finds an investor. Eventually. A fat, gray haired man. With a fat cigar between his teeth. Here’s the deal, Sartorius. We fund you, you give us… whatever it is, you get from it. To share with our friends overseas.

Bialya.

The fascist regime?! I don’t like this, Alex.

I don’t like them either, Parvin. But… a way to cure cancer without harming the patient? That’s worth dealing with anyone.

“With that treatment my mother might still be alive. His father…”

“Maybe there’s another way…”

She helps him. To forge the paperwork. The numbers. The mathematical equations. Homemaker or not, she’s at least as clever as he is.

I just pray this works.

Alex, she says. You’re an atheist. Leave the praying to me.

“It’ll be alright,” she says like she’s trying to convince herself. “We’ll be alright… won’t we?”

“Well,” says the Breadwinner, looking out across the sea. “We’ve lasted this long.”

Chapter Text

The girl from the paper, the one from the cover, is blonde-haired and blue-eyed and white…

And Polyhymnia isn’t. She wears a pink leotard. A tutu and tiara. Her hair is long and loose. Heat damaged. Breaking from the relaxer. But straight. It’s straight.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; puffs and pigtails. She starts early. Polyhymnia is enrolled in dance as soon as she can walk. It’s nothing serious at first. Sponges on the floor. Flat little slippers. Bare feet on the balance beam. Nothing serious at first… but Polyhmnia is good. And more than that, hardworking. In the company studio - at practice - six days a week.

Not Sunday?

No, Madame. We have church service. Besides, even God rested on the seventh day.

It starts early. Polyhymnia breaks in her first pair of toe shoes. Her first recital. The corps de ballet. They put her at the back.

It’s not that Clarie isn’t talented… It’s just that… You have to understand…

Talent only goes so far. All our girls are talented.

Talent only goes so far. We like for our girls to be a little older. To have a little more experience.

So Polyhymnia gets older.

Experience is nice, but it isn’t everything. We try to reward the girls who work the hardest.

So Polyhymnia works harder.

Work ethic is so important! But… but what we really look for is a team player.

Polyhymnia bites her lip as the ballerino pulls and pinches back her leotard. She doesn’t tell. She doesn’t cry. And she pads her underwear with tissue paper so that the blood doesn’t come seeping through.

Polyhymnia straightens her hair. Applies bleaching cream and chemical relaxers. She clips her nails, ignores her edges. And…

And-

It’s not that Clarie isn’t talented…

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Clio is Darfur born and bred. She plates her hair every morning - rising at dawn sometimes. Suns and stars and sunflowers braided in circles around her scalp. Beads and bows. Beautiful things. More elaborate as she gets older and begins to shape the coils into writhing serpents and reaching hands. And women.

You have a gift, you know.

For all it matters. No one will ever see it. And no one does. Clio wears a veil when she goes outside - not because she can, but because she must.

The Berlin Wall. November, 1989. Clio is born in the spring of that year. 1989. Separated by the coup of June. Orphaned by the resulting war. There are no blue or green or violet eyes turned towards massacred Geneina. Only brown ones. Clio strings her hair with red velvet ribbons, with ruby-glass beads.

Clio strings her hair with red velvet ribbons, with ruby-glass beads. And wire. Sky scrapers reduced to rubble. Women reduced to meat - broken and bleeding. Men reduced to ash. And she turns those brown eyes on the camera. And dares the blue, the green, the violet, to just try and meet them. And dares the blue, the green, the violet, to just try and look away. From something so horrible. From something so beautiful.

1983 - Sharia Law. 1989 - Mandatory Hijab. Clio is arrested on “public indecency.” There are protests. Brown-eyed women waving signs and screaming in the streets. They beat them. Or rape them. Or arrest them too. Clio alone in her jail cell. Fingers working back and over. The familiar made unfamiliar against the bare.

In the prison. The warden is a hard man in a purple suit. He is not cruel the way the guards are. But he looks on Clio with obvious disdain. His child is… not much like him at all. Soft-faced. Small. Freckled. Purple jacket with a pink necktie.

Call me Penelope, she whispers, slipping paper between the bars.

2019. The end of Sharia. 2023. The battle of Geneina. They call it a battle. (They called Wounded Knee a battle too.) Clio tears her hijab into pieces. And uses the ribbons to tie off her hair.

It goes like this:

Long black hair, knotted with seedlings, saplings, yellow flowers. Oilseed coiled around the tower that stretches above her head.

Rapeseed by Petra Sinelli
#Feminism #Sex Based Oppression #Art

swanfacts:
ok. as cool as Petra Sinelli’s hair sculptures are… you guys do know she’s an islamophobe, right?

purpledragoncupcake:
Source???

swanfacts:
She’s actively using her platform to attack a Muslim nation under the guise of feminism. And is one of those freaks who acts like organized religion is inherently harmful. Also I really don’t like the way she’s handled the hijab thing… Like, yeah, women should be allowed to choose, but it’s irresponsible to be burning your scarf on a public platform as if Muslim women in the west aren’t routinely denied the right to veil…

And this:

Long black hair, laid with matches. Lit and flickering but never quite catching. Never quite burning bright enough to burn the other way.

And this:

Long black hair, braided, unbraided, braided again. Well-oiled and shining. The form of a woman’s hips. Her legs. The space between.

And that…

mildredfeatherwhyle:
@persinette. Hey, sweetheart. I see you’ve become WW’s “main character” for the last few months.
mildredfeatherwhyle:
Listen. I know what you’re going through. And. I just. Listen. I’m here if you need to talk.

Cut;

purpledragoncupcake:
You wanted to talk to me?

persinette:
Yeah. Hi. Listen. I think we should take a break for a while. I just. I don’t know if I can support… this. Anymore. I hope you understand.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Urania in Polyhymnia’s dance class. A few years younger. In a blue leotard. Not a pink one. The only other black girl in a sea of country-club white. They partner up for most things. It’s nice having someone who knows plie and releve and to balance on tiptoes. And to keep her hands to herself.

Urania goes home. Sometimes her mother is there. The Impulsive has grown a bit since the doctor and his book and the sunk-in submarine. A house full of icons. Urania performs her devotions the same way she goes to school, to dance, to the market; the same way she does her homework, does her chores, loves her mother and grandmother and Polyhymnia.

They pray. Like Christians pray. Like Shintoists. Like Hindus. They sing. They feast.

Sometimes though, they slaughter. Birth and death and marriage. Chickens or goats or sheep. Urania’s family raises swans.

Polyhymnia is the best in the class. Urania is the best in her age group. It’s a little easier for her. Her grandmother - Impulsive’s mother - is a mixed woman. Her father - the worst man she knows (of) - was a White man. She is light skinned Caribbean. Cuban.

From Cuba. The birthplace of Santeria. To California. The birthplace of Urania.

There’s no priestly sponsor like there was for Le Cygne. Not anymore. Doesn’t need to be. Nothing changes unless someone makes it. So nothing ever changes.

She’s nine when the first one comes for her. Polyhymnia gets there first.

It’s not worth it. It will never be worth it.

She’s nine when the first one comes for her. Urania fights and screams and kicks and bites. Swans are beautiful and dangerous too.

You’ll never be a dancer! I’ll ruin you!

Urania has never placed a toe out of line her whole life long. It doesn’t matter. She is young and Black and beautiful. And the best dancer in her year. Everyone is just looking for a reason. And a reason is easily found…

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Not Manhattan, but Mbuji-Mayi. Thalia’s mother owns the mines. Melpomene’s parents work in them. And die in them. And then they come up empty. And both the girls, and all of Congo, braces up against the shock.

Cobalt blue. And cobalt red. And blood diamonds. Rwanda and its army. And its allies and their armies. Melpomene’s father is a diamond miner. Thalia’s mother owns the diamond mines. It doesn’t matter. They are taken. Taken. And bought and sold.

Barefoot. At the bottom of a mine shaft. Cobalt and coltan. Blue and red. The air is thick with arsenic powder. Taken from the water. Taken from the ground. Taken. Taken. Melpomene doubles over. Coughing. Coughing. Strings of blood. And Thalia… doesn’t.

Strings of blood and cloudy saliva. Rings around Melpomene’s fingers.

On Thalia’s finger: a ring with a bright red stone. Realgar. Ruby of arsenic.

It’s the same as it was for Cobalt. Another company. Thalia tells jokes. Melpomene sings dirges. Down here in the dark. And the dirt. Broken bodies pressed together. Miserable and mirthless. But sometimes Thalia makes them smile. Sometimes Melpomene makes them cry.

The collapse is an accident. The earth - as raped and beat and broken as any of the children trapped within - gives out. And falls inward. And the company writes it off. There was little left to take anyway. Easier to write a check and move along.

For nine days. They sit in the dark. Waiting… Waiting.

Someone will come. They can’t just… They can’t.

But they do. And no one comes.

Everyone else is dead. No one else is coming. But Thalia is here. And so is Melpomene. Alone together is not alone at all. They dig their own way out. Trembling. Shaking. Coughing up blood and earth arsenic. Fingers leaking pus and blood and clouded fluid. Blistered and broken to the bone. They crawl, trembling, like beetles to the surface. Everyone else is dead. No one is waiting. No one is watching. No one at all.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Euterpe doesn’t have a sister. But she has a pair of purple plastic ice skates. And more talent in one finger than most can dream of. And when she skates, the ice sings. And the snow stands still.

Here in the city. In the big leagues. There are lots of little girls. With white skin. Or light skin. With blue eyes and blonde hair or brown. Euterpe begs her parents to have her curls straightened.

I’m not a baby anymore!

We know. We know…

Sixteen and only barely - she gives herself a permanent. Hours before the nationals. With her hand mirror and a hot comb.

The music starts. The snow stops falling. Euterpe gliding on vanilla twilight. She’s the best. By far.

Figure eight. Quadruple lutz and toe loop. Ends on a standing backflip. She doesn’t fumble. She never falls. Her technique is flawless. They get her on artistry instead.

Sobbing. Sneering. Silver. Euterpe steps onto the stage.

Look at her face…

What’s with the attitude?…

Expect more from a professional…

It’s her coach. She’s sixteen. He’s more than twice her age. More than twice her size. Euterpe is strong, but not that strong.

Keep your mouth shut, if you want to keep your spot on the team.

Her period is late. She talks to one girl, and they all stop talking to her.

Should have kept your legs closed, if you wanted to keep your spot on the team.

Euterpe drives herself to the clinic. And waits. And weeps. All alone. With no one there to hold her hand. To hold her…

You’re doing the right thing, the nurse says. I’ve seen you on TV. You’re… amazing. You won’t be if you don’t go through.

Euterpe in the big leagues. In the Olympics. She is… amazing. She doesn’t fumble. She never falls. Her technique is flawless. They get her on artistry instead.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Terpsichore is a dancing teacher. A class of eleven. Twelve in all. A dozen young ladies in leotards, with florals pinned.

Miss Genovese? Pinkish purple. Garnet ring. Geranium. It’s Mr. Desmond. I don’t like the way he looks at me.

Terpsichore does what she can. She goes to her superiors.

Well, you know how it is. One girl’s word… And he hasn’t even done anything.

Miss Genovese? Red. Ruby. Larkspur. It’s Mr. Desmond. He… told me… I ride sometimes. He told me it shows. And he was looking at my…

Terpsichore does what she can. She goes to her superiors’s superiors.

Does she have proof?

Miss Genovese? Blue. Sapphire. Forget-me-not. It’s Mr. Desmond. I think he put something in the dressing room. I… I’ve read about-

Terpsichore does what she can. She goes to maintenance.

I’m not paying my people overtime because of a little girl’s imagination.

Miss Genovese? Two girls. Green and orange. Peridot and citrine. Sunflower and honeysuckle. It’s Mr. Desmond. We saw him. He… There’s a hole in the wall.

Terpsichore does what she can. She goes to maintenance (again). And they patch it with plaster. A new one appears and they patch it again. Come the third time and they don’t even bother.

Miss Genovese? Magenta. Pearl. Camellia. It’s Mr. Desmond. He… he touched me. On my chest.

Terpsichore does what she can. She goes to the company.

You want us to fire him over an accident?

Miss Genovese? Twins again. Turquoise and violet. Topaz and emerald. Narcissus and lily of the valley. It’s Mr. Desmond. He touched us.

Between my legs.

And my legs.

Terpsichore does what she can. She goes to the police.

You want us to arrest him for a first offense?

Miss Genovese? Another set. This time it’s a trio. Baby blue, baby pink and lavender. Aquamarine and diamond and amethyst. Jonquil and daisy. White lily. It’s Mr. Desmond. He… he raped Lacie.

Terpsichore does what she can. Knowing that no one else will. She goes to him.

Terpsichore in handcuffs, a courtroom, a jail cell. I had to do it! He would have kept hurting them.

You had other options, the judge says flippantly. Your superiors. Their superiors. Management. The police…

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Erato is born during a storm. Jamaica. Catrina. Separated from her family. Left clinging to the remains of the roof. Clinging to life. She’s easy prey and easy pickings. And no one is looking - sure she’s sooner dead than alive.

They sell her company in Montego Bay.

They sell her body in Ocho Rios.

They sell her in Kingston.

A White man. White tourist. They bring her to America. To California. And force the needle into her arm. Force her out onto the streets. There are other girls. There may as well not be. She’s thoroughly broken. Not dead yet, but dead to the world around her.

They sell her body uptown.

They sell her company downtown.

They sell her to a policeman who fucks her and finishes and throws Erato out of his car, arms wrenched behind her.

You’re under arrest.

Prostitution. Erato’s lawyer pleads for leniency. There is none. Deportation. Erato doesn’t plead for anything anymore.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Calliope meets Barbie Classic at the Silver Sphere awards. Three kisses. Twice on the cheek. Once on the mouth.

It’s been a long time. I haven’t seen you since… well, you know.

I know, Calliope says.

Listen. Brooklyn. I’m so s-

My name is Barbara Roberts.

I know, Barbie says lamely. My… Mine too.

Rewind; Polyhymnia tells her story - or, rather, she dances. Calliope is there on the floor. There with the camera. Kneeling. Standing. Leaping. Spinning. Bloodstains and white satin shoes. She prances over a bed of spiked and thorn-ed chestnuts. Bleeding. Biting. Breaking the shells.

Rewind; Clio tells her story. Fingers twisting through her hair. She braids Polyhymnia. She braids Urania and Thalia and Melpomene. Euterpe and Terpsichore. And Calliope…

And Calliope says: What about you?

What about me?

Rewind; Urania tells her story. She dances. In a dress made of feathers. On a stage lit up with a hundred tiny spotlights. The cygnets de corps de ballet gather around her. In Cygnus formation. Feathers and stars.

Rewind; Thalia and Melpomene tell their story. And that’s all they do. It’s all they can do. Dressed in heavy, heavy chains of chrome and copper. Studded with crystalline coltan and cobalt. Diamonds. Finished with gold.

Rewind; Euterpe tells her story. And finishes with a standing backflip. Silver medal hung like a millstone around her neck.

Rewind; Terpsichore tells her story… and her story and her story and her story and her story and her story and her story and her story and her story and her story and her story and hers…

Rewind; Erato tells her story. Via video call. I’m sorry, she says. I’d like to be there. They barred me from traveling outside the country. My record… It’s like a big, black mark.

Rewind; Rewind; Rewind - all the way to the beginning. Calliope and Barbie Classic.

Don’t. Please. Come on, Brooklyn… You don’t want to do this.

Malibu, Calliope says. Turning the pregnancy test over and over in her hands. And over again. I can’t have a baby. I would have to drop out. And I can’t… I can’t-

You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do it alone. Your family will help you. I’ll help you.

Barbie…

Barbie Classic smiles and takes her hand. I know it started worse. But it’ll get easier. It’ll be just as easy for you as me.

But it isn’t. And it’s not.

Chapter Text

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

Mom hit me today. Only once but still. It fucking hurt. She’s never done that before…

FREE looks like GUILTY. Without the glasses. Short blonde hair and a softball kit all covered in grass stains and sweat stains and outfield dirt.

I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I said. Well. That’s not totally true. I guess. I don’t know why I’m in trouble. I’ve never been in trouble before. Usually they just let me do whatever the fuck. Mom and Dad and my brothers when they used to babysit. Not that I need a babysitter anymore. I haven’t had one since I was eight. I’m eleven so shut the fuck up. I can take care of myself.

I got my first phone a little after they started letting me watch myself. My brother Mattie got me one of those dorky ass flip phones for “safety” or whatever. Sooo goddamn boring. Dad got me the real thing for my birthday. Plus a gaming laptop the year after that. My parents are usually really fucking cool. That’s what gets me. I don’t have a fucking bedtime or baby curfew like the other kids in my class. I can eat what I want. Drink when I want. Smoke if I want to. I get to make my own friends. (I get along better with highschool kids and grownups.)

Don’t be weird. It’s not weird. They’re my friends. I can handle it. Besides. It’s better for kids to know about this stuff anyway, right? So we can avoid it better. Those DARE agents come in all the time and tell us about huffing paint and markers. And whatever the fuck.

FREE with a headset and a controller in her hand. Castlestein. She’s losing. Badly. Fuck off, Maddie. You cheating bitch! I’m gonna fuckin’ rape you!

You… You what?

Cut; FREE at a different game. Glove in hand. Shortstop. There’s a boy up to bat. About her age. It’s close. They’re close. She lifts up her shirt and flashes the opposing team. And-

Well, he misses.

-Fuckin’ Raping Everyone Else

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

I have a new baby sister. Her name is Mugi. She is very cute.

ENORMOUS is tall for her age. Big and strong and broad-shouldered. Long pink coat. Violet eyes. Shelves behind her crowded with nesting dolls.

She’s hafu, I think it is called. Japanese like Papa. That’s nice. But I wonder why she’s the only one who looks like him. Mama says we had another papa, who gave her Dima and me. That’s why we look like this. Wait. I forgot you can’t see me. That’s why we look like her.

Niki came from somewhere else too. After Dima and I were born. We lived with Mama’s papa for a while. I was happy when Dima told me we were getting another little brother or sister. But Mama wasn’t. She cried and cried. Dedushka was happy until Niki was born. Then we had to leave. Dima says he didn’t want boys.

So we came to Sapporo. And Mama grew her hair and changed her name so Dedushka would never find her. And then Mama met our new Papa. And she changed her name again. And then they had Mugi. Big brother and I want to help with the baby, like we did when Niki was born. We were only trying to help, but I did something bad to him. And now they think I’ll do it again. I don’t know why it’s so bad. It made our papas happy when she did it.

ENORMOUS in a shabby Sapporo apartment. There’s an older boy (not much older) and a baby in a bassinet and a woman in bed. With dark bags under her eyes. The baby is crying.

Dima. Anya. Can you please take care of Nikolai? Please just… Feed him. Change him. There should be a bottle in the fridge.

But… But he won’t-

I have work in the morning, Mama snaps. Then she sobs. Please. Please. Please.

He won’t stop crying. They change him. They burp him. They try for a feed…

SHUT UP! Mama screams, half-hysterical. Please! Please…

Shh, Niki, it’s okay. ENORMOUS pulls down the front of his diaper and leans down. And - confused but not surprised - the baby stops.

-Except Niki’s Organ’s Relevant, Mugi’s Our Usual Sister

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

Mami doesn't want anything to do with me.

MAMMA MIA is two girls. With the same olive skin and deep auburn hair. The same hazel eyes. Little sister in blue jeans. Big sister in a khaki skirt.

A girl with dark brown hair and glasses and a fancy, frilly dress. Please, she says. Please don’t do this. I’m only… You’re hurting me.

Not that I could see her much anyway. She lives in Germany now, with her husband and my little brother. Before that, it was Austria, I think? She left Italy a little after I was born. To get away from Papa. Or to get away from me.

I know what people say. They think that I’m stupid. But I’m not stupid. Mami was really, really young when she had me. And Papa was in jail for a while. Even knowing that, though… I didn’t want to believe it.

I live in Japan now, at least for the summer. There’s this language program at Tokyo University. I think they do online classes too. I called Mami to tell her the good news and… My brother picked up. He didn’t even recognize me.

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

She was my sister first. She’ll always be my sister first.

AMEN is butch to the extreme. Short brown hair. Old army jacket over a tanktop and dog tags. And jeans. Very masc, but very tidy. Deliberate. Not a crease out of place. The woman next to her is quite the opposite. Long white hair spilling out of her hoodie. Eyes red and puffy. Ripped and stained sweatpants two sizes too big. She isn’t showing yet. She may as well be.

“It’s alright,” AMEN says. “That’s why we came to Leipzig. No one is going to recognize you.”

“I…”

“No one is going to find out.”

Our parents were unfit. We were raised in a church-run children’s home. Just her and me. Julia was older. She was more like a mother than a sister. More of a sister than anyone else - no matter what we called the nuns.

I pray sometimes. I believe in God. I wear the crucifix. But I don’t think I’m a very good Catholic. I eat meat on Fridays. I don’t fast for Lent. And I believe in dangerous things. Julia is different. She joined a convent. She’s everyone’s sister now. But she was my sister first. And when it happened, she called me.

The church condemns abortion. The church also condemns fornication. And paedophilia. And rape. Anyway. She’s my sister. She’ll always be my sister.

AMEN’s sister. AMEN’s apartment. Peeking around the bathroom door. She’s crying. Clutching a positive pregnancy test in one hand. Oh. My G- Germaine, I… What am I gonna do?!

It’s okay. Julia. Julchen. It’s… it’s alright. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything.

-All Morals Expendable Now

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

My daughter is sixteen now. I was sixteen when I had her.

LOVE is pretty and young. Light brown hair. Heavy makeup. Mouth stained with lipstick and expensive wine.

It wasn't an assault. I wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t much older or younger than me. Still, though. Still.

Here in Europe, they talk about immigrants and rape gangs. They whip everyone into a frenzy, worrying about girls like me. My daughter is Black. Her father was from the Seychelles. An exchange student. We made love near the end of our Seconde year. And after that. Well. By the time I realized I was pregnant… I wasn’t even sure it was his, until she was born, actually. I had a lot of boyfriends in high school. I had a lot of sex. Not that it stops people from assuming the worst. And when I tell them the truth they look almost disappointed. Not a victim. Just a slut.

It was hard for me. Not just because I had a child, but because of what having a child said about me. My parents put me out after she was born. I had to leave school. I had to get a job. And no one was hiring. I did what I had to, to keep us both alive. I used to like sex. Now it just feels like another obligation. It’s even harder for little Black girls.

LOVE marries rich. Her groom is handsome. Her groom is kind. Her daughter is flower girl in a poofy blue dress. Her parents are there. They nod their approval.

They cut the cake. Cut to their wedding night. Between the sheets. He is gentle. She is willing.

It feels like a rape.

-Like Other Violent Encounters

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

I don’t expect you to understand.

ENCHANTED has big, bushy eyebrows. And half-moon glasses. And an apron with embroidered pockets on the front. She hunches over and hugs her belly - long empty.

I got out of the hospital earlier this year. I had my baby almost ten years ago. And then I tried to kill him. (We’ll get to that.)

I have three relatives close to my own age. Arthur, Oliver, and Tiffany. Tiffany is my best friend. Oliver raped me. Arthur ran off to Japan. (I might join him, actually. I hear it’s nice.)

They say I’m a monster. You can think what you want. He has a nice new family now, apparently. He’s safer than I was, when I was his age. Probably. I still don’t remember what I did. Or how I did it. I don’t remember why either. It’s almost like I was under a spell.

Screaming. Thrashing. ENCHANTED is dragged back and away from the sink. Screaming profanities. Screaming infant. Unable to lift his head from the spray.

What are you doing to Peter?!

ENCHANTED sobs and beats on her father’s chest. You don’t understand, she says. He needs to die!

-Entirely Nonsensical, Child Hasn’t Any Notion That Everyone Dies

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

Could you please tell me what rape is? I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure.

SORRY looks like GOOD. Glasses and all.

When I was little, I thought maybe it was a monster. Something scary that lives in the dark beneath your bed. But I’m older now. And I don’t believe in monsters.

Mommy worries about me a lot. Daddy has two other kids, my big brothers, but I’m Mommy’s only one. And the only girl in our family. That makes things more dangerous. I know that. I don’t know why. Maybe because girls are smaller? If we got hit with a car or something it would hurt more.

I think maybe it has something to do with boys? Mommy doesn’t let me have boy friends (not boyfriends) over. And I can’t go to their houses either. I’m not allowed to have a phone. And I’m not allowed to walk to school or bike or wait for the bus by myself. Never ever. And I can’t use the computer either, without someone watching me. I don’t know what rape is. I just know it’s bad.

You’d tell me if someone hurt you, wouldn’t you, Madeline? If someone tried to rape you or…

Yes, Mama. Of course. She means it. (She would, if she knew what that meant.)

-Stopped Once, Read Room, Yeah…

Instead of poetry, a written confession; OF is a single woman, alone at night. A Chinese woman in the Japanese capital. An Asian woman in a tourist-heavy area. Someone shoves a bag over her head and drags her into one of a hundred love hotels. Japanese or American. Asian or White or something else entirely. She doesn’t know. She’ll never know. And when THE is born - looking exactly like her mother - she can’t help but be relieved.

Attendance:

OF has deep brown eyes and long dark hair tied up in two buns. So does THE. They look remarkably similar actually. Like two flowers, split at the stem.

Germaine Beilschmidt

Maria Beilschmidt

Marianne Bonnefoy

Marie Bonnefoy

Anya Braginskaya

Anastasia Braginskaya

Amelia Jones

Ashley Jones

Alice Kirkland

Tiffany Kirkland

Chiara Vargas

Felice Vargas

Margarita Vargas

Ramona Vargas

Madeline Williams

Mathilde Williams

THE is alone. A Chinese girl growing up in Japan. A child without a father. Her mother marries eventually. GUARD is kind enough. And he gives her siblings. He teaches her Mandarin. And then they divorce. And her sisters stay with him. And her brothers. THE smirks and wipes lipstick from the coffee mug as OF and GUARD scream at each other. Nobody seems to notice that her own lips are exactly the same shade of red. They move out. And into the hall across the street. It’s good until classes start up again. Online and not.

I love teaching girls, you know. They’re so… It’s like having a dozen or so daughters.

THE smiles. She smiles. And the attendance sheet crumples in her hands. Later, she’ll smooth it out and tape it down and underline every name in red.

-Only Friends
-Trying Hard Enough

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

Please tell me I’m not a bad mother. Please. Please. Please.

SMALL is not small at all. She’s almost as big as GIANT. (Small wonder where he gets it from.)

I did my best. I didn’t hurt them. It’s not my fault. He hurt me too. Please, please, please.

My first husband was a violent man. He hurt my oldest girl - sweet Katya. He hurt my precious baby boy. I left because of that. I left to protect him. Even if we were poor and hungry.

My second husband was a violent man. He hurt my Katya and my littlest one. He hurt me worse. I took it to protect them. I stayed to protect them too. From the world. Even if he hurt me. Even if he stopped.

SMALL creeps into GIANT’s bedroom. He can’t make out the shape in the dark. And maybe she’s heavier. And maybe he notices. But maybe the truth is too much to bear. Even on those shoulders. And he’s not wrong, sometimes. So he whispers Natalia? And SMALL doesn’t say anything. And they both pretend.

-Some Men Are Lousy Lovers

It’s all my fault.

PRAY has red-violet eyes, short white hair and a long white habit. A laptop; a letter; a picture of a young woman with scars on her stomach and her face. GENUFLECT’s mother.

‘It’s not my fault.’

It was almost forty years ago. I became Mother Superior. I was young then. I ran the school out of the church. I still do. I knew what was happening. I let it happen. I still do.

‘Thirty years ago, I was at Sankt Michaels Primary School. I didn’t know what was going on then. How could I? I was like six… Still though. Still. The boys in my class were always quieter after confession. And I never liked the look of that Father Klaus.’

I was always closer to the girls. There’s one I remember - Monika Scholl. You can print her name, it doesn’t matter. She’s been dead for over a decade now. Eleven miserable years. I loved her like a daughter. And I killed her like a son.

‘I liked Mother Maria though. She was always so serious. But nice to me. And not in a weird way. My mom died when I was little. And kids were always picking on me for hair and my eyes. And the fact that I still wore nappies. Mother Maria wasn’t like that. Never. I thought she cared about us. Maybe she only cared about me.’

She came to me. After. He was just some bloke she knew, that she met at a bar. It wasn’t a rape. Even if it had been, I can’t say my response would have been any different. So she had the baby. And she married that man. And she was Monika Beilschmidt.

‘I had Gilbert because she told me to. Because it would be wrong to hurt a child. Any child. No matter what. And then I married Wolfgang. And then I had Ludwig. I’m sorry. I wasn’t a good mother. I didn’t want to be a mother. I didn’t think there was any other way.’

Her husband comes to her, after the confessional. After the ice cream. After. She goes to PRAY.

I created a monster. I should have… I should have aborted him. Why did you stop me?! It’s all my fault! All my fault…

-Please Rescue All Youths

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

What can I say? I like them young. There’s no shame in that.

ENAMOR has pure blonde hair and blue eyes. A cigarette between her teeth.

No one cares when it’s a man, handsome or otherwise, with a pretty young thing. People seem to be under that impression. As if trials haven’t concluded on the size of a girl’s breasts. Her looks manufacture consent. It’s the same for me. No regrets.

I was forty or so when I met Francis. He was quite a bit younger. No regrets. And then I met Francois through a mutual acquaintance. I don’t know which one is Charlene’s father and quite frankly it doesn’t matter. The bond between mother and child - that’s the closest thing to love there is.

Anyway. She was convenient. A pretty thing. Clever thing. Brought home all manner of boys from school. Some of them weren’t bad looking. No regrets, though… I do feel a little guilty. For stealing them away.

ENAMOR comes home early. To a quiet house. That’s strange. At least. Her husband, her new husband, should be home by now. And her daughter back from school.

Charlene?

She finds them in her child’s bedroom. Decorated with plush animals and unicorn toys. Charlene is naked. Francois is half clothed. It’s a scene that ENAMOR has seen a thousand times, and taken part in. Now, though… She brings the wine bottle down on his head.

- Even Nitwits Adore My Only Regret

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

I love my brother. I hate everyone else.

CUNNING has long red hair tied into two tails. A pink dress. A stained apron.

I just pretend better. I have school “friends.” And “boyfriends.” And my parents really believe that I love them too. But I don’t. The bond between twins is the only real kind of love. That and maybe mother and child. I don’t know. He hasn’t given me one.

I knew he was touching her. I hated that he was touching her. But he’s my brother. I didn’t want him to hurt himself. Or get sent away if she told. I couldn’t bear the separation. Lucky that she’s dumb as anything. I used to put ketamine in her tea, or bake it into something sweet. And she would eat it. And he would touch her. Like he should have been touching me.

I hate her. I hate her I hate her. I hate her baby. It should have been me. I hate her I hate her I hate her I

ENCHANTED in bed. Drugged and delirious. CUNNING tiptoes in and leans down to whisper in her ear. Over and over again. For nine months at least.

-Children Understand Nothing - Now I Need to Go

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

I never wanted to be a mother.

I is a blonde woman dressed in pink and white. Designer. Sunglasses sliding down her nose.

I was raped when I was nineteen. Abortion is unpopular in Italy.

I had Vino first. Rovino, I called him. Because he ruined me. I had Feli second. She was supposed to be my mini-me. I wanted a daughter to dress up and love and take to parties. A pretty little girl. Not a tranny. Or a hermaphrodite. So that was a waste too.

I met my husband on holiday. The kids were with me. Papa insisted I take them. (He insisted I keep them too.) I’m not sorry. I deserve to be happy. It wasn’t my fault. I had Carlino. Another boy.

I don’t know why he didn’t just go after Vino. Would serve him right. Or Feli. Show her what a girl she is. Teach her a lesson.

Before. Before anything. Before everything. I comes crying to her father. Papi. I’m scared. They think… I’m not big enough.

Ramona. The baby is innocent.

I might die if I don’t-

You should have thought about that before.

-I…

Instead of poetry, a written confession;

I always wanted to be a mother.

EYE looks… not dissimilar to I, actually. Something about the face. Though the hair is different. She’s a ginger. With a wicked grin.

I’d do anything for my babies. Anything.

Flavio is my sensitive one. A little flamboyant, but there’s nothing wrong with that.

Luciano is my strong one. He’s a fighter like his mama. Sometimes I wish, though, that he wasn’t so much like me.

Flavio had trouble in school. I had to pull him out for a while. Bullies would wait for him outside everyday and hit him or break his glasses or take his things. They called him “Frocio.” But not anymore.

Luciano used to have trouble too. Not with bullying so much. But his little girlfriends. I was happy as long as he was happy. Until they started accusing him of things. Awful things. But not anymore.

EYE in the shower. Blood running down her legs and shoulders, swirling around the drain. I’ll protect you, she whispers. From…

-Everyone - Yes, Everyone

Soft-Spoken at the computer. Wire-framed glasses and long blonde hair.

Soft-Spoken in a doctor’s office. SORRY removes her sweatshirt and lies down on the table. Shivering. Is this gonna hurt?

It shouldn’t if you just relax. Mrs. Williams? Are you sure you want to-

I need to make sure she’s safe, Soft-Spoken says. And healthy.

FEMALES OF THE SPECIES,

… Did you kids mean to send me your language homework?

(Nice Google Translate, by the way.)

- Mod Chrome

Chapter Text

A filthy warehouse. The smell of death. And sex. And human despair. A small voice rings out and rises. Rises above.

“Oh, Paddy dear and did you hear the news that’s goin’ round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground,
Saint Patrick’s Day no more we’ll keep, his colours can’t be seen…”

The singer is a small girl with long, pale - almost colorless - hair. And pale skin. Her eyes are very round and very green.

The listener is a redhead. Blue eyed. Plainly dressed. Brown sackcloth gathered around him. Nodding off and jerking awake at the sound of each new verse.

“For they’re hangin’ men and women for the wearin’ of the green.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; someone else’s Ireland. 1980. Born from trouble. Born from the Troubles. The rape of her mother by some stranger of the English extraction. One of the last true Druids. Raped. Then killed a few years later. In the time they have, she teaches the singer every song she knows. And a thousand silent things that only the trees have words for.

“I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand,
He said: ‘How’s dear old Ireland and how does she stand?’
She’s the most distressful country that you have ever seen,
For they’re hangin’ men and women for the wearin’ of the green."

The listener’s parents are Catholics. They love each other. They’re married in a church. With a ring. His uncle is the priest who married them. So - when the fire dies down, and police wade, disinterested, into the ashes of the fallen home and take the baby from his parents mangled arms - the listener goes with him. And they pray.

“For the wearin’ of the green…”

The singer nudges the listener and smiles tight-lipped and wiley, until he joins her in the chorus.

“For the wearin’ of the green,
They’re hangin’ men and women
For the wearin’ of the green…”

From the country; from the city: they catch her in her mother’s forest; they take him from his uncle’s church.

“Then since the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red,
Sure Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget the blood that they have shed,
You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
But ‘twill take root and flourish there though underfoot ‘tis trod.”

Despite his accent, it’s an Irishman. The one who finds them. Who drives them. Who ties their wrists together and pats their heads and slaps on a bow.

Don’t you make a lovely picture?

Who are you?! Why are you doing this?

Call me Professor Rat, he says. Or, for short, P.R.

“My father loved his country and sleeps within its breast
While I that would have died for her must never so be bless’t,
Those tears my mother shed for me, how bitter they had been,
If I had proved a traitor to the wearin’ of the green…”

The first time. The camera. Shivering. Shaking. Clumsy and utterly unsure. He prays in Latin. And begs in English. She curses in the same. Fighting and biting. (Whimpering Gaelic under her breath.)

“For the wearin’ of the green,
For the wearin’ of the green,
They’re hangin’ men and women,
For the wearin’ of the green…”

They pray together. She prays to his God. He prays to hers. To anyone who will listen.

“But if at last our colours should be torn from Ireland’s heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear auld isle will part,
I’ve heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom’s Day.
Oh, Ireland must we leave you driven by a tyrant’s hand,
And seek a mother’s blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall never more be seen,
And in that land we’ll live and die still wearing Ireland’s green.”

Aisling?

Hm… Brendan, wha-

I, he whispers, I wish you wouldn’t fight them so much… I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want- What if they kill you?

What if they don’t?

“For the wearin’ of the green…
For the wearin’ of the green…
They’re hangin’ men and women
For the wearin’ of the green…”

The singer’s voice cracks. The listener takes up the tune.

“For the wearin’ of the green,
For the wearin’ of the green,
They’re hangin’ men and women
For the wearin’ of the green.”

The same warehouse. Some years on. The lighting is a bit better. The smell is a lot worse. And still, a small voice rises. (Not quite so small anymore.)

"And come tell me Sean O’Farrell, tell me why you hurry so?
Hush, mbuachailli, hush and listen-”

And his cheeks are all aglow. The singer is a young man with red hair. And a beard. And blue eyes. The listener is a little straw-blond. Sullen and pouting. And scared.

“I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon.
At the rising of the moon,
At the rising of the moon,
For the pikes must be together
At the rising of the moon…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; days pass. Weeks. Months. Years pass - the singer’s friend stays silent. And he sings instead. Some of the clients like it. His strange, choir-boy voice. Stumbling over what little Gaelic she taught him. And it calms the monsters. And the other children. And the guards. And he lives a little longer, a little longer - long enough to meet his own listener.

"And come tell me, Sean O’Farrell, where the gathering is to be?
At the old spot by the river, quite well known to you and me.
One more word for signal token, whistle out the marching tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon.”

The listener is from the Aran Islands. His father is a lighthouse keeper. His mother is away. He has a sister. And they take her too. And they tie him to the singer. And-

Be quiet!

I’m… sorry?

That singing. Stop it. I’m trying to sleep. He kicks the grate as hard as he can. This is all Saoirse’s fault.

“At the rising of the moon,
At the rising of the moon,
With your pike upon your shoulder
At the rising of the moon.”

They come for the listener. The singer sings to them. Until they forget.

How did you do that?

Do you believe in God?

“Out from many a mud wall cabin, eyes were watching through the night,
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light,
Murmurs rang along the valleys to the banshee’s lonely croon,
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon…”

There was a girl here before you. He name was Aisling. I think I see her sometimes… That crowd over there. A little girl. As pale as the moon.

She sounds like my sister, the listener says. She’s always getting me in trouble. And… and…

“By the rising of the moon,
By the rising of the moon,
And a thousand pikes were flashing
By the rising of the moon.”

That night. The listener dreams. Someone’s else’s voice. Someone else’s footsteps. A white wolf - pale and ghostly, a careful path across the floor. The lock is a thing of beeps and buttons. She sings to it. A handful of notes as sharp as teeth.

He tells the singer in the morning. The singer listens.

“All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen,
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green,
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune.
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, ‘tis the rising of the moon.”

The singer sings to the lock on the door. Nothing. His voice dropped long ago. But… the listener is young. His voice not yet broken. (“It’s no use, you try now.”)

“ ‘Tis the rising of the moon,
‘Tis the rising of the moon
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom,
‘Tis the rising of the moon.”

The hospital just north of the border. The ambulance hurtling towards it. A small voice drowned out by the siren.

“Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange, and me mother, she was Green.”

The singer and the listener - brother and sister - him holding tight to her hand. Blond hair and blue eyes. She’s black-Irish. Silent. And very, very sick. He sings, leaning in close to her ear.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; rewind. Their father is the lighthouse keeper. Their mother is gone. They arrive at the warehouse - him with a crucifix, her with a cross.

“My father was an Ulster man, proud Protestant was he,
My mother was a Catholic girl, from county Cork was she.
They were married in two churches, lived happily enough,
Until the day that I was born and things got rather tough.”

They chain them together. She hums hymns to herself for hours until the singer snaps and grabs her by the hair. Then they separate. She misses him.

”Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange and me mother, she was Green.”

Cut; they pull them apart.

“Baptized by Father Riley, I was rushed away by car
To be made a little Orangeman, me father's shining star.
I was christened ‘David Anthony’, but still, in spite of that,
To me father, I was William, while my mother called me Pat.”

Cut; they bring them together.

“Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange and me mother, she was green.”

Pictures. Costumes. He wears orange. She wears green. Each wears a wreath, a ring, a chain of clover. The listener whimpers. The singer softens.

Don’t cry, Saoirse. H-hey listen… it can’t be any worse than…

“With Mother every Sunday, to Mass I’d proudly stroll,
Then after that, the Orange lodge would try to save my soul,
For both sides tried to claim me, but I was smart because
I’d play the flute or play the harp, dependin’ where I was.”

Fast forward; the listener listens. The singer sings. I don’t… I have the tune. Think you could find the right keys? You’ve got perfect pitch, don’t you? Like… like Mum.

“Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange and me mother, she was green.”

Rewind; their father is the lighthouse keeper. Their mother is gone. Ben, he’s told. Watch your sister.

Let’s play a game. And he forces her down and pulls her pants off and he hurts her. And the listener doesn’t say anything. She can’t say anything. (She doesn’t speak.)

“One day me ma’s relations came round to visit me,
Just as my father’s kinfolk were all sitting down to tea.
We tried to smooth things over, but they all began to fight,
And me, bein’ strictly neutral, I bashed everyone in sight.”

Fastforward; the hospital. After. Him in blue. Her in white. No recent injuries.

”Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange, and me mother, she was Green.

The hospital. After. No recent injuries.

The scarring looks older than if…

I’m sorry!

You… Oh. Oh. I see.

“My parents never could agree about my type of school,
My learning was all done at home, that’s why I’m such a fool,
They've both passed on, God rest ‘em, but left me caught between
That awful color problem of the Orange and the Green.”

It’s his father’s fault, but not his father. Or the ferryman. Or his grandmother. Or…

Ireland, P.R. says, is beautiful this time of year. I miss it, sometimes. When I’m in the States. Now sing for me.

And the singer does.

”Oh it is the biggest mix up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange and me mother, she was green.”

And then the singer turns the song to the listener. It rings like an apology. And she takes it in turn. She sings:

“Yes, it is the biggest mix up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange and me mother, she was Green.”

The police office. Very late at night. Among a smattering of British English and Irish Gaelic - one small voice.

“Sit doun here my cronies, and gie us your crack,
Let the wind tak the cares o’ this life on its back,
For oor hairts tae despondency we never will submit,
For we’ve aye been provided for, and sae will we yet.”

The singer is black-Irish. Pale and dark-haired with huge, black eyes. Seal eyes. Huddled in a thick white blanket, still shivering with the cold. The listener is blonde-haired and blue eyed and British. Still she listens.

“And sae will we yet,
And sae will we yet,
For we’ve aye been provided for,
And sae will we yet.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; they wander, blind and wild. Into the forest. Keeping clear from the road. It’s so dark that they can’t see their hands in front of their faces. Can’t make out the warm shapes that moves laboriously through the naked trees. So the singer sings a path for them to follow and they follow it.

“So fill up a tankard o’ nappy brown ale,
It’ll comfort to our hearts and enliven the tale,
For we’ll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit,
For we drank taegither mony’s a time, and sae will we yet,
And sae will we yet,
And sae will we yet,
For we drank taegither mony’s a time,
And sae will we yet.”

The listener is a latchkey kid. Asleep in an empty house. And then she hears it. Like the ballad of the she-wolf. She struggles through the brush. Twigs snagging on her nightgown and tangling with her hair.

“Here’s a health to the farmer, and prosper his plough,
Rewarding his eident toils a’ the year through,
For it’s seed-time and it’s harvest we ever will get,
For we’ve lippen’d aye tae Providence,
And sae will we yet.”

This is how she finds them: dark shadows and pale, naked bodies. The singer and her brother. And a man with scarlet hair. And…

You… you’re hurt… You should… I don’t have a cellphone. We don’t have a landline. But… but… my father, he’ll be back by morning.

And she leads them. Takes the singer by the hand. And - like rats to the piper - they follow one by one behind.

“And sae will we yet,
And sae will we yet,
For we’ve lippen’d aye tae Providence,
And sae will we yet.”

This is how her father finds them: lights on. First aid kit broken open. Clumsy, uneven bandages. Arms splinted with broken arrows…

“So fill up yer glass, let the bottle gae roun’,
For the sun it will rise, though the moon has gane doun,
And though the room be runnin roun aboot, it’s time enough tae flit,
When we fell we aye got up again, and sae will we yet.”

Quietly, quietly, the listener begins to sing.

“And sae will we yet,
And sae will we yet,
When we fell we aye got up again,
And sae will we yet.”

The police station. The cells. One small voice. And one that isn’t small at all…

“Oh have you heard the cruel news? Alas, it is too true,
From Appomatox Courthouse, went down a cross of Blue.
Our armies have surrendered, we fell to the Northern sway,
Forever more forbidden is the wearing of the Gray!”

The singer sings. She’s thin and blonde and blue-eyed. A proper English Rose.

“The fearful struggle’s ended now and peace smiles on our land,
And though we’ve yielded we have proved ourselves a faithful band,
We fought them long, we fought them well, we fought them night and day,
And bravely struggled for our rights while wearing of the Gray.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the ambulance comes. The police come too. Questions. Answers. They drag the listener away and interrogate her for hours. And hours. Until she’s mumbling dog sounds. And her eyes have gone as red as her hair.

“For the wearing of the Gray,
For the wearing of the Gray,
Forever more forbidden
Is the wearing of the Gray!”

Questions. Answers. They’re gentle with with the prim, pretty - Protestant - girl. No more than an hour. She’s allowed to have her father in the room.

“And now that we have ceased to fight and pledged our sacred word,
That we against the Union’s might no more will draw the Sword,
We feel despite the sneers of those who never smelt the Fray,
That we’ve a manly, honest right to wearing of the Gray.”

They didn’t hurt you?

What? No! Why… why would they-

You never know with these people. People like… Well, you’ll understand when you’re older.

“No more, on fields of battle, waves the banner of our pride,
In vain, beneath the Crimson Folds, our Stuart and Jackson died,
Like a meteor of the evening, that flag has passed away,
And low are they who guarded it, the Wearers of the Gray.”

I want my Mammy, the listener sobs. Please! I just… I want-

Who else was with you? Names.

Mebh Mactire! A’ the only one I’ve got!

“Our cause is lost the more we fight ‘gainst o’erwhelming power,
All wearied are our limbs and drenched with many a battle shower,
We feign we rest for want of strength in yielding up the day,
And lower the flag so proudly born while wearing of the Gray.”

Espionage. False reports. Public indecency.

But… But, Da? Shouldn’t we be looking for the people that hurt them?

“Remember how we scattered them, beneath the Mountains old,
And how we tossed the pow’rs of strong, the valor of the bold!
We flung them through the bloody gap, alongst we bled the way,
Remember this and ne’er forsake the wearing of the Gray!”

Shouldn’t you be lookin for the ones who hurt us?! Isn’t that what you lot are s’posed to do!

“Defeat is not dishonor, our honor not bereft,
We thank God that in our hearts this priceless boon was left,
And though we weep just for those braves who stood in proud array
Beneath our flag and nobly died while wearing of the Gray.”

They don’t believe her.

“We have lost all but honor, our green banners have no shame,
Though beaten down by numbers, we keep our ancient fame,
Though exiles from old Ireland, we, in our homes, will stay,
We’ll not forget our own dear land, and proudly wear the Gray!”

Don’t believe her, says the singer’s father. Whatever that little traveler told you… They’re mentally unstable. You have a good heart, but… Don’t be naive.

“Now here’s to the Confederacy, and comrades, true, who died!
In the forefront of the battle, the Irish would not hide!
When the Crimson Banner floats again, no more to pass away,
Let a token of her vict’ry be the wearing of the Gray!”

They treat the listener like an animal. Food served cold on the floor of her cell. Unable to bathe or wash. And they strip her. And they search her. Worse than an animal.

“When in the ranks of war we stood and faced the deadly hail,
Our simple suits of gray composed our only coats of mail,
And on the awful hours that marked the bloody battle day,
In memories we’ll still be seen wearing of the Gray.”

They treat the singer like a novelty. An officer’s daughter. A pretty little thing. They don’t search her. Even when she sets off the metal detectors passing through. Go on ahead. Your da’s just down the hallway to the right, there.

The singer nods and smiles. And enters left.

“Now honor to the soldier who still is firm and true,
And shame upon the Southern man who wears the coat of Blue!
While ‘round the Blue Ridge Mountains, an evening shall play,
We, like the mountains, never leave the wearing of the Gray!”

The listener listens. Then joins in the song. Voices rising above the scraping as the pick turns the lock.

“Oh, should we reach that glorious place where waits a sparklin’ crown,
For everyone who for the right his soldier life lay down,
God grant to us the privilege upon that happy day
Of claspin’ hands with those who fell while wearing of the Gray.”

An empty warehouse. A booming voice. Bouncing off the walls and spotted pavement.

“In the army of the Union, we are marching in the van,
And will do the work before us if the bravest soldiers can,
We will drive the Rebel forces from their strongholds to the sea,
And will live and die together…”

The listener listens. Their roles have been reversed. Now the singer is the girl with the wild red hair. A young woman now. Now the listener sits silent and picks at her braid.

“… in the army of the free.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the cell door opens. The singer sings as the listener moves to free the others.

Come with us.

I can’t.

Will I ever see you again?

“We may rust beneath inaction, we may sink beneath disease,
The summer sun may scorch us, or the winter’s blast may freeze,
But whatever may befall us, we will let the rebels see
That unconquered we will still remain the army of the free.”

Not - it turns out - for a long, long time.

“The army of the free,
The army of the free,
Unconquered we shall still remain
The army of the free.”

The listener stays north. They go south. To Ireland. In a stolen car. The singer’s mother is waiting. She rushes into her arms.

Mebh! Mebh, my baby! What’s been done to you? It… it was them, wasn’t it?

What? No… But wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? Well… One of the girls there. She seemed alright.

“We have Butterfield the daring, and we’ve Martindale the cool.
Where could we learn the art of war within a better school?
Add Morel to the list of names, and we must all agree,
We have the finest generals in the army of the free.”

The singer returns.

The man who… He was an Irishman. But he had an English accent. Posh. From the city. Think maybe he was an aristocrat.

“The army of the free,
The army of the free,
We have the finest generals
In the army of the free.”

The singer learns.

They were mostly Englishmen. Not Northerners. Orange. They treated me like an animal. They beat me like a dog…

“Then hurrah for our division, may it soon be called to go
To add its strength to those who have advanced to meet the foe,
God bless it, for we know right well, wherever it may be,
‘Twill never fail to honor our great army of the free.”

Above all else - the singer sings.

“The army of the free,
The army of the free.”

The singer sings. To the listener. To the empty warehouse. The broken, open chains. Gone is the smell of blood. Of sex. Of human misery. Gone is any voice save her own… and the listener’s.

“ ‘Twill never fail to honor
Our great army of the free.”

A churchyard in Kells. The only grave not marked with a cross.

“ ‘Tis the green, oh, the green is the color of the true,
And we’ll back it ‘gainst the orange and we’ll raise it o’er the blue,
For the color of old Ireland alone should here be seen
‘Tis the color of the martyr’d dead, our own immortal green.”

They sing. They all sing. The redhaired priest. And the towheaded man and the young woman with somber dark eyes. And the one with the immaculate braid. And the one with the wild bundles of ginger hair. They sing. And hope she’s listening.

“Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green,
Oh, ‘tis down to the dust, and a shame to be seen,
But we’ve hands, oh, we’ve hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween
To rescue and raise again our own immortal green.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; they never find the listener’s body. Or her family. Or her full name.

Aisling something.

Aisling.

Aisling…

“They may say they have powers ‘tis vain to oppose,
‘Tis better to obey and live than sure to die as foes,
But we scorn all their threats, whatever they may mean,
For we trust in God above us and we dearly love the green.”

The warehouse is emptied. Then demolished. The ground paved over before the singers can think of digging there. They lay flowers over the lot until the police come and take down the memorial.

“So we’ll up for the green, boys, and we’ll up for the green!
Oh! to die is far better than to be curst as we’ve been,
And we’ve hearts, oh, we’ve hearts, boys, full true enough, I ween
To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green.”

You knew her best, Brandon. What would she have wanted?

She was… I was… It’s been so long. She’s been dead longer than she hasn’t. Longer than some of them have been alive. She loved Ireland. She loved to sing.

“They may swear, as they often did, our wretchedness to cure,
But we’ll never trust John Bull again, nor let his lies allure,
No, we won’t, no, we won’t, Bull, for now nor evermore!
For we’ve hopes on the ocean and we’ve trust on the shore.”

A funeral. A dirge. A small white stone.

She wasn’t Catholic, though, was she? She was Pagan. Like Mebh.

It’s just so she has something to come back to. And… He stares long and hard at the single-name etching. I’ll be buried here one day. She won’t be alone.

“Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green!
Shout it back to the Sassanach, we’ll never sell the green!
For our Tone is coming back, and with men enough, I ween,
To rescue and avenge us and our own immortal green.”

Under cover of darkness, a white she-wolf wanders past the fence posts. Ghostly. With the greenest eyes. She lies by the stone. As if waiting for someone. And in the morning, they find footprints - not paw prints - tracked all around.

“Oh, remember the days when their reign we did disturb,
At Limerick and Thurles, Blackwater and Benburb,
And ask this proud Saxon if our blows he did enjoy,
When we met him on the battle-field of France-at Fontenoy.”

They hope she listens. They hope she hears. They sing anyway:

“Then we’ll up for the green, boys, and up for the green!
Oh ‘tis still in the dust, and a shame to be seen,
But we’ve hearts and we’ve hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween,
To rescue and to raise again our own unsullied green!”

Chapter Text

“Welcome, Mr. Barham. Ms. Bambrick.”

Dark eyes. Dark hair. Fingers dancing at his side. Literal-Mindedness sits on one side of the desk, sandwiched between his parents. Ms. Murphy sits on the other side - alone. He wonders if she’s lonely. She doesn’t seem to be. In fact, she’s smiling more now than he’s ever seen before.

“I’m sorry to say Carl has been having some… difficulties.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Literal-Mindedness is diagnosed early, to parents who do everything right. They make note of his sensory issues. They talk him through every meltdown. They give him the words he needs.

You just think a little different, Carl. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“We all know how much he loves his collections, but bringing all these toys to the group is causing problems.”

Literal-Mindedness grows, but he’s still a child. Too young to come home to an empty house. His mother shows him the website. Ms. Murphy has a special club in her house, just for autistic students! You can go there after school, and then your dad or I will pick you up.

He flaps his hands. Okay!

“It wouldn’t be so bad, if he would share…”

On his left, Literal-Mindedness feels his mother’s gaze. “Carl, you usually love sharing your things. Did something happen?”

He’s excited, the first time he visits the house. Excited to see the toys and the other kids, some of whom he knows. And he smiles when Ms. Murphy smiles at him. I’m sure we’ll get on fine. I love children.

“The kids can be a bit rowdy at times,” Ms. Murphy says with a laugh. “I’m sure Carl’s just being protective of his property. Still, it’d be best if he didn’t bring his toys anymore.”

The last of the grownups leave, and suddenly Ms. Murphy has a different face. A different voice. But Literal-Mindedness isn’t worried. After all, she said she loves kids.

My mom loves me, he tells another child, and she said when I get a timeout, it’s because she loves me enough to teach me what is and isn’t okay. It’s just like that!

Well, not exactly the same. His mom never raises her voice… or her hand… Still, Literal-Mindedness is sure this must be okay. It must be. Must be.

“We don’t want another fight to break out, do we?”

Literal-Mindedness nods, holding an ice pack to his bruised eye. He doesn’t say a word.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Fox.”

Nervous fidgeting. Downcast eyes. Lock of orange-red hair twirled around her finger. Food Preferences huddles next to her grandfather. She doesn’t look at at Ms. Murphy, seated on the other side of the desk. Does not meet her sharp gaze, sharp smile.

“Lotta is definitely making improvements.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Food Preferences goes to school with Literal-Mindedness. She makes music, makes art, laughs and plays with her friends. And keeps her diagnosis a secret. I’m not ready to tell anybody, she tells her grandfather.

He nods. I understand. It’s up to you when or even if you want to tell anyone.

“But let’s get the problems out of the way first…”

Health problems. Regular doctor appointments. Food Preferences’ grandfather looks for a place she can stay after school. It’s for kids who are autistic. Would that be okay?

Food Preferences chews her lip, then says, Okay.

And she goes into Ms. Murphy’s house with a smile.

“We sometimes have trouble following directions, don’t we, Lotta? But we’re working on that.”

Food Preferences’ grandfather smiles affectionately. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I’m not upset. I know you like things your own way.”

Snack time comes around. Ants on a log. Celery, peanut butter, raisins. Here, Ms. Murphy says briskly, dropping the plate in the center of the table.

Food Preferences reaches for her backpack. No, thank you. I don’t like food mixed together. I brought my own snack!

And Ms. Murphy’s eyes narrow.

“Well.” Her eyes are narrowed now, though her smile is still stretched wide. “Of course we all have our… inclinations. Still, it’ll be better in the long run for Lotta if she can broaden her horizons.”

Lotta, come here!

Food Preferences obediently runs into the kitchen, and watches Ms. Murphy slather a leafy celery stalk with peanut butter. She pours the raisins on thick. Then she grabs Food Preferences by the wrist.

Eat it.

“And this leads me to something I’m sure will excite you, Mr. Fox.”

I… I don’t want it…

Ms. Murphy drags her closer, her breath hot on the girl’s face. You will eat this, she growls, or I will tell every child in that school of yours that you’re a r-

Food Preferences knows she isn’t meant to say that word. She knows other kids aren’t meant to say it, either. But they might anyway. They might call her any number of names. They might do worse. Shaking, she takes an unsteady bite out of the celery stalk. The conflicting tastes and the mix of textures make her feel sick. She forces herself to swallow anyway.

And if you tell anyone about this, if you even think of telling…

“Lotta tried a new food today,” Ms. Murphy says brightly. “She was so intrigued by what the other kids were eating, she begged me for a bite.”

Food Preferences wraps her arms around her stomach. She doesn’t say a word.

“Hello again, Mrs. McCord.”

Brown hair. Darting gaze. Deflated balloon poking out of his pocket. Preference for Routine sits next to his mother, snapping a rubber band against his wrist. For the first time in hours, he’s starting to relax. This is the quietest Ms. Murphy has been all day.

“I’d like to ask how things are at home.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Preference for Routine practices with his mother, on the last Saturday before she starts her new job. You’ll go to Ms. Murphy’s house, she explains, showing him a picture of the old brick building. I told her your schedule, and she promised to call me if you need me.

“Are there any recent changes? Any… new men in the house?”

The kids are herded into a basement playroom. Preference for Routine sits on the floor, bouncing a ball against the soft carpet. Playtime until 10 o’clock. Then bathroom. Then reading. Then lunch. Then…

“Oh goodness, I’m not accusing, no, but… you did say he was toilet trained…”

10 o’clock, on the dot. Preference for Routine scurries over to Ms. Murphy, sitting in a chair and reading a book. Ms. Mur-

Leave me alone! the woman snaps.

Preference flinches, instinctively covering his ears.

Oh, stop it! ‘Loud noises’, eh? Do you want to really hear loud?!

Her voice keeps rising, until she is shouting at him. Preference for Routine can feel the other kids watching, can hear her even through his hands, can feel his heart beating faster and faster-

And then he finds that he’s standing in a puddle. And Ms. Murphy begins to screech.

“Well, maybe it was just an accident, but you can never be too careful.”

Preference’s mother pats his shoulder sympathetically. “It’s alright, Ben, it happens to everyone sometimes. That’s why I packed extra clothes.”

Preference for Routine stands in the bathtub, shaking and crying as the icy water rains down. Ms. Murphy rolls up her sleeves and scrubs, harder than she should; harder than anyone should. Filthy, filthy little animal. You should be ashamed.

He is.

“Of course,” Ms. Murphy says indulgently, her eyes flickering with something dangerous. “These things happen.”

Preference for Routine squeezes his legs together. He doesn’t say a word.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Boxer.”

Blue eyes. Ashen face. Fidget spinner in traffic light colors. Direct Honesty flicks the spinner as fast as he can, trying to ignore Ms. Murphy’s words. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

“I’m afraid I’ve received some complaints about Bruno.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Direct Honesty sits on the floor with another child, rolling a wooden train back and forth. The other kid rolls it too fast; Honesty fails to catch it. He lets out a squeak of pain and gets to his feet.

“It seems he’s been teaching the other children some… inappropriate words.”

Ms. Murphy, my penis got hurt-

Your what?!

Direct Honesty flinches, but he isn’t fast enough. Ms. Murphy snatches his arm and drags him to the sink.

“Not everyone is comfortable with children using these words-”

“I am,” Honesty’s father says with a cool expression. “A lot of people think it’s better to give children the real words. Prevents people from taking advantage of them. And human biology is one of Bruno’s special interests, isn’t it, bud?”

Don’t you ever use words like that, Ms. Murphy snaps, gripping Direct Honesty’s face and forcing his mouth open. She grabs a bottle of dish soap and brings it to his lips.

“Maybe you don’t consider it inappropriate, Mr. Boxer.” And her smile shrinks the smallest bit. “But the other parents would prefer Bruno keep that kind of language to himself.”

Later, Direct Honesty lies curled on the floor, clutching his stomach and watching the other children. Some of them look at him. Some of them ask if they can help. But Honesty doesn’t know what they can do.

“All I ask is that you try to watch what you say. Alright, Bruno?”

Direct Honesty gnaws on his lip. He doesn’t say a word.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lehman.”

Red shirt. Mild expression. Crayon moving across a sheet of paper. Limited Interest in Others is much better at tuning out Ms. Murphy’s words; he barely even notices his grandmother’s hand on his shoulder.

“I have some concerns about Andy.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Limited Interest spends his time at the basement table, drawing snails and castles and whatever else he can think of. He doesn’t join the games. He doesn’t comment on the cruelty. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice.

“Well, I’ll be blunt. I’m worried about him being around the girls in the group.”

One day, he draws a picture of Ms. Murphy with a crying child. And she notices.

What the hell do you think-

“I caught Andy drawing an inappropriate picture.”

Limited Interest’s grandmother puts a hand to her throat, turning wide eyes to the child. “Andy, you… you know better than that.”

Ripping paper. Screaming voice. Limited Interest huddles under the table until she drags him out. Holds him an inch above the floor. Threatens to break his fingers if he ever-

So he doesn’t. He never does again.

“Of course, I’ll give him another chance.” Ms. Murphy looks down her nose at the boy. “Best behavior now, alright, Andy?”

Limited Interest in Others keeps drawing - shapeless scribbles that could never be confused for a person. He doesn’t say a word.

“Please take a seat, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon.”

Kicking feet. Orange-red hair in a blunt bob. AAC device clutched to her chest. Echolalia glances from one parent to the other, but not to Ms. Murphy. She never looks at her.

“Well, let’s get right to the point…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Echolalia’s communication device is taken almost as soon as the door shuts. No electronic toys, Ms. Murphy snaps, setting it on a high shelf.

Echolalia whines in distress, reaching. Mine! Mine!

“Julia has been using some inappropriate words, I’m sad to say. She called me a-”

Stupid slut! Ms. Murphy barks, shoving Echolalia away. Stop that this instant!

And, panicked and helpless, Echolalia says it back.

“I’m afraid there was no mistaking it, she said it so clearly.”

Echolalia’s parents look at each other, then to their daughter. “Julia, sweetheart, where on earth…?”

Ms. Murphy goes pink with rage. Like Direct Honesty before her, Echolalia is hauled to the sink. This time, the woman picks up an abrasive sponge.

“You said she has an older brother? Perhaps she learned it from him, or one of his friends.”

Echolalia spits blood onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. She falls deathly silent when Ms. Murphy crouches down, her nose an inch from the girl’s. Be quiet!

“They are little sponges at that age, you know. Never can tell what they’re going to pick up.” Ms. Murphy gives a sharp-toothed smile.

Echolalia bites her thumb. She doesn’t say a word.

“Mrs. Gould, how are you?”

Thick glasses. Large ears. Backpack on the floor by his feet. Dedicated Interests keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the bag, twitching towards it whenever Ms. Murphy raises a hand.

“No, there’s nothing wrong, exactly. I just wanted to discuss some of Carl’s… let’s say, struggles.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Dedicated Interests lives and breathes trains. Steam. Diesel. Electric. Any and all. And he brings that love into Ms. Murphy’s house.

“My program is very structured, and Carl often has trouble moving on to the next activity.”

A drop of truth in an oceanic lie. Ms. Murphy follows no schedule and implements no routine; it’s little wonder Dedicated Interests struggles with the sporadic transitions.

Alright, get outside. Carl! You too!

The boy doesn’t look up from his sketchbook.

“There’s been a bit of complaining, some reluctance - nothing too bad - but…”

A picture. A drawing. The likeness of a bullet train. Suddenly the sketchbook is wrenched from Dedicated Interests’ hands, his pen slashing across the page and over the cab. Ms. Murphy holds the book high above her head. What’s wrong with you?! If you can’t listen, I’ll burn this damn thing!

“I’m afraid that today he had quite the episode when it was time to play outdoors.”

His mother’s eyes are full of worry. “Carl, what happened?”

Dedicated Interests begins to rock and moan, his breathing unsteady. Ms. Murphy throws the sketchbook into the corner and grabs his head, wrapping one large hand over his mouth. Stop that disgusting noise!

And now he can’t breathe at all.

“It’s to be expected in children like him, but I felt you should know. I’m sure tomorrow will be better.”

Finally, finally, she lets him go. Dedicated Interests backs against the wall, sobbing and gasping and staring with terrified eyes. Ms. Murphy leaves him there, throwing a final word over her shoulder. A word the boy has been told never to say.

“Won’t it, Carl?” And Ms. Murphy smiles with all the warmth of an Arctic midnight.

Dedicated Interests stares at his backpack; at the sketchbook peeking out from under the flap. He doesn’t say a word.

“Miss, ah, Jackson? So nice to meet you.”

Dark curls. Ticking watch. A blue shirt with a bus on the front. Sensory Sensitivity glances once, twice, thrice at his aunt. She is smiling. Ms. Murphy is smiling. He tries for a smile but it falls flat.

“Just so you’re aware, Max had a bit of a rough day.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Sensory Sensitivity covers his ears whenever Ms. Murphy starts shouting, but he’s hardly the only one. It’s luck more than anything else; she doesn’t single him out. Not yet.

Outside, all of you!

“The children were having their outdoor time - I take them out every day, as long as the weather’s fine.”

What she does is slam the door behind them. Sensory Sensitivity doesn’t mind; neither do the other kids. For an hour or so, she’ll ignore them. Sensitivity heads for the sandbox, sitting on the wooden side and digging with a small shovel.

“I can’t say exactly what happened.” An airy chuckle. “You’re a teacher, you know how it is. As soon as you’re focused on one child, another has a problem.”

Sensitivity’s aunt smiles thinly, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Why don’t we ask Max? What happened, buddy?”

Someone trips, and a pail of sand is flung into Sensory Sensitivity’s face. An honest mistake, followed by a thousand apologies, but it doesn’t change the itching discomfort of it all. For a moment, Sensitivity can’t even breathe. And then he starts sobbing.

“Well, these things do happen.” Ms. Murphy spreads her arms. A silent question: What can you do?

What she does is storm out of the house, her eyes fiery and fixed on Sensory Sensitivities. She sees him frantically trying to brush sand from his face, shake it out of his clothes, and she growls in annoyance. Stop acting like an animal! she snaps. Her hands shoot out, pulling and twisting, and suddenly Sensitivities is standing in only his shoes.

“Fortunately, Max got over the incident fairly quickly. He’s a resilient little thing.”

Sensitivities tries to cover himself, too shocked and upset to even cry. Get inside and put on your spare clothes! He runs, tripping over himself in the process. Ms. Murphy barks a laugh. One of the other kids cries on his behalf.

“I’m sure he’ll be more careful around the sandbox in the future. Won’t you, Max?”

Sensory Sensitivity tugs on the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t say a word.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Deinhardt. Mr. Cherkas.”

Tapping foot. “T-Rex” arms. Blank, tired expression. Flat Affect sits between his foster fathers, silently counting the pencils on Ms. Murphy’s desk. Fourteen. Always fourteen.

“I’m excited to say Dennis is making progress. Slow going, of course - hard to change six years in two weeks…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Flat Affect is talkative. To Ms. Murphy - until she tells him to shut up. Then to the other kids. I have a tail. Very few humans have one. It’s sometimes referred to as a vestigial tail. I call it my dinosaur tail. I love dinosaurs. It’s a remnant from when I was in my birth mother’s womb. It wasn’t absorbed into my body. I don’t know my birth mother. She left me at a firehouse. All said with the same blank expression, the same emotionless tone.

“As we all know, Dennis has trouble expressing himself-”

One man laughs. The other says, “Not a bit. If there’s one thing Dennis can do, it’s talk. Right, champ?”

The other kids don’t notice - or else don’t care - about Flat Affect’s monotone deliveries. But Ms. Murphy does. You robotic little freak. What the hell is wrong with your face?

Nothing is wrong with my face. This is my face. I’m not a robot-

Shut up!

“Well.” Ms. Murphy chuckles uncomfortably. “Expressing himself physically, through facial… That’s what I mean.”

First it’s the mocking. Little robot. Little freak. Little re-

And when Flat Affect doesn’t visibly react, it’s anger. Change your damn face! Act like a goddamn human!

And then her fingers are digging into the boy’s cheeks.

“In the long term, Dennis will have an easier time if he learns to emote appropriately.”

Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. Flat Affect is terrified, but his face barely changes. And Ms. Murphy is growing even more furious. You act like a fucking person, or I swear- Her hand worms down his pants; the back. -I’ll rip this damn thing off!

“We’ve been working on appropriate facial reactions - happy, sad, you know.”

Flat Affect forces his face to contort. It feels unnatural. It feels like parody. But it’s enough to finally satisfy Ms. Murphy. God! Was that so fucking hard?!

“We still have a long way to go, but…” A sickly sweet smile. “Dennis is trying very hard.”

Flat Affect shifts in his chair. He doesn’t say a word.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gadge! Always a pleasure.”

Twitching limbs. Prolonged eye contact. Even breathing. Stimming sits with a parent at each hand, staring politely at the grinning Ms. Murphy. She smiles back, dripping congeniality.

“A.J. is just… such a delight to have in the group.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Stimming flinches on Literal Mindedness behalf. He rubs Food Preference’s back while she sits gagging. He helps Preference for Routine dry his hair.

“He’s so mature for his age. So helpful. So good with the other kids.”

He sneaks a glass of water to Direct Honesty. He sits next to Limited Interest while he rubs his hand. He dries Echolalia’s tears.

A laugh. “You’d hardly guess he has autism!”

Stimming’s mother winces. “Autistic. A.J. is autistic, he doesn’t ‘have autism’.”

He helps Dedicated Interests apply WiteOut to his book. He helps Sensory Sensitivity put on fresh clothes. He helps Flat Affect practice his expressions.

“Of course, of course… I only mean that I love having A.J. here. And the other kids adore him.”

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. Stimming is not insane, nor is he unintelligent. This can’t last. This shouldn’t last. So…

Carl B.? Can I borrow that?

“I can’t imagine why he wanted to meet this afternoon, but I’m quite excited to hear what he has to say.”

Stimming reaches into his pocket. He doesn’t say a word. Simply sets the tape recorder on the desk and hits “play”.

“It’s nice to meet you-

-A.J.”

-Dennis.”

-Max.”

-Carl.”

-Julia.”

-Andy.”

-Bruno.”

-Ben.”

-Lotta.”

-Carl.”

Folded hands. Blue uniform. Biao etched in gold on her chest. Strong Sense of Justice isn’t great with kids, but she asked to take this case the second she heard about it.

“Could you tell me what happened? In your own words?”

Chapter Text

“This is worse than Magdalena. And Tisiphone. And poor Miss Sato…”

Mother Superior. Severe and frowning. Her bun pulled very tight. Some of them are listening. Many buried in their phones.

“Clearly, I’ve been too lenient. That stops now. Starting now, I am establishing a zero tolerance policy. Anyone caught violating it shall be expelled. Permanently.” That gets their attention. A hush descends over the motley crowd. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been so disgusted with someone as I am with you. Not ever.”

Tentatively, a hand is raised. “What did we do this time?”

Several members - Pangea, the Four Horsepersons, Boo, Cyan, Cerise, Mimikyu and her entourage, Context, Clown, Belle, Notion, Swan, Yin, Pimelodidae, Lady Reynard, Mouse, Pua Mae, Observer - slip out.

Mother’s umbrella handle breaks in her hands. She waves someone else onto the stage. The Lion is a haggard man with a full beard. Armani suit. Dastar pinned with jewels. A ring on every finger. Tears in his eyes. He looks old and tired. And he reads:

“The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown…”

Instead of a flashbulb, a newspaper headline;

SHAZADAH KHAN ABDUCTED IN CHANDIGARH

BREAKING - Foul Play Suspected in Disappearance of Shazadah Khan, 18, Last Seen Entering Club In Punjabi Capital. Khan is a descendant of Duleep Singh, last Maharajah of the Sikh Empire. Son of Badsha Khan, a Punjab politician, philanthropist and businessman…

Comments:

Eeyore:
This is really depressing. I hope he makes it out okay.

GLOOOOORIA:
K

Hazbin:
?

GLOOOOORIA:
I mean. I feel bad for the kid. I do. But people have been going missing from Punjab for MONTHS before this. I’m TRYING to sympathize but… seriously??? Where was all this when it was happening to normal people - people like you and me?

“You don’t have to like me. Or what I’ve done. You don’t have to like him either. I know he can be… I’ve been frustrated for years. He’s horribly immature. But he’s my son.”

DeNicest:
Anyone else following the Shazadah Khan case?

Meana:
Anyone else pissed off about it? 😑

NotYourIndianPrincess:
I hate to say it… but, yeah. Where is all this outrage for MMIW? I’m trying to be sympathetic, but every time I look at this spoiled rich kid or his father, I’m just overcome with anger at his privilege.

Meduzer:
Fr. Like… man, get a life. I hope they never find him.

“He’s only a child. My only child…”

PinkIsRed:
So the search for that missing Punjabi billionaire has cost the people of Pakistan… what? All that for someone who will probably never amount to anything more than a leech on the world.

ThatOrangeBitch:
Thiiiiiiis. Ugh. Like the same people who were on here saying #sloppydemayo about a disabled sixteen year old are now asking me to sympathize with the son of one of the richest men in the world. And crying, shitting and throwing up when their own words get thrown back at them.

RoseQuartz:
I dunno… I mean, yeah, it’s frustrating. People have been going missing from Punjab for months. For… I don’t even know what. It’s scary. And it’s total BS that nobody’s done anything until now. But he’s still a KID, you know?

CherryFlavored:
“he’s still a KID”. And you’re still a girl, so.

Clarissa:
18 is a grown adult you fucking idiot.

PinkIsRed:
Kill yourself.

“I should have put my foot down sooner. Starting with that list.” Mother breathes in and out a few times, her composure cracking. “It’s going to be different from here on out. That I can promise you.”

Happy Hotel >

# general >

Hazbin
Not sure if you guys are following the Shazadah Khan case, but… His dad apparently set up a helpline for tips.

the O is silent
Yeah. It’s ALL over the news from Punjab to Pradesh. Rich kids. Fuck.

AngelDustXOXO69:
Gotta agree with horsefucker here. Where’s all this energy for kids like me?
Not that I’m a kid.

cozyincozytown
I mean, he isn’t either.

AngelDustXOXO69
You know what I mean.

Mr.HappyGuy
It’s like
It's all… eat the rich. And then someone does and everybody goes all like
Like…
Like WE’RE the dildos

cozyincozytown
I get that but…

“Mother Superior?”

She sighs. Clearly irritated. “Yes, Mr. Star.”

“Can we get a little, I dunno, context? Pretend I don’t know what this is all about.”

“Gladly.”

Ghrta and Suroda. On the Palace steps. On the Palace WiFi.

Okay, okay… It can’t be just me, right?

It’s not. Well… He takes another bite of stale pastry. It’d be funny if it weren’t such a waste.

Seriously. Part of me almost wishes he’s still around to see everyone’s reaction. Like, no bitch, we don’t want you home.

“Come on!”

“Seriously?!”

“Dead serious, I think you’ll find.”

“But… but… we didn’t… It’s not like he’s a member. It’s not like we said it to his face!”

“Does it matter?” Firebert mutters. “Knave wasn’t here when we thought the worst. Dickish behavior is dickish behavior whether they’re here or not.”

“Besides,” Mother points to the phone in Tadeo’s hands, “you didn’t have to.”

“Shazadah is… many things. I’ll admit that. Easily. He was… childish, feckless, wreckless… restless. Horribly careless. And self absorbed. I coddled him. I-”

“That’s enough,” Mother says. “This is unacceptable. Rape is never acceptable. No matter where you draw your line in the sand.”

Bad Girls Club >

Gloria
Is this a safe place to say that I fucking HATE Shazadah Khan?

Mirabel
Yyyyyeah. I’m trying to be nice. I really am, but it’s SO hard seeing people turn out for this capitalistic little shit. Especially given how WE were/are treated. I just… can’t feel anything. No empathy.

Alice
But that’s nothing new. Lol.
I agree btw. People keep coming on my socials expecting me to say something and like… I don’t care. I don’t care if they find him. I don’t care if he’s dead. I just… don’t. It’s like when people try to make me sympathize with the Romanovs.

Bobbie
… Have you guys not seen The News?

“Would the following members please step forward…”

FUCK
Dude. I’ve watched the Shazadah Khan video five times. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.

Mysterion
HOT

Professor Chaos
The… what?

CallGirl
Toolshed, you explain it.

Toolshed
Dude. It’s been leaked everywhere. On everything - Waddleworld, Webbit, Bluetube, EnVee…

TheHumanKite
… CornHub, PornHub, zGerbil, PrawnClub, ABC Videos…

“The Champion. The Comedian. The Diamond. The Witch. The King. The Avatar. The Replacement and Imposter. The Invader. The Wildcard. The Firebird. The Pythoness. The Molotov Cocktail. Eris. Ursa Major. The Changeling. Cruxshadow. Brother Night. Pyrrhus. The Fae. Hecate. The Victor. Nike. La Fantome. All of the Black Hat Company. The Showgirl. Foresight and Fireball. Especially the Page. Cock Robin, the Fish, the Thrush, the Bull-” And the list goes on.

Carne-val des Animaux. In all their gore and finery. He plays the tortoise - a mock turtle. Pressed between thin layers of silver and tempered glass. The skin inside has been flayed away. His orifices filled with silver soy wax, left to cool. A small hammer in Longues Oreilles’ hand. Though, she hesitates…

You! Yeahh, the Muslim kid. Over here.

I’m not… He doesn’t finish. It hurts too much.

“I don’t want to see any of you again - bar emergency - for the rest of this week. Or the next. Do you understand me? I’m appalled. Disgusted.”

What’s your name again? Lemme just… Shazad, right? The ringleader smiles a wolfish smile and holds up his phone. People hate you. They really hate you.

Yeah. S-so what?

You might be surprised, he says. But there’s money in that.

“The lion and the unicorn
Were fighting for the crown.
The lion beat the unicorn
All about the town.
Some gave them white bread,
And some gave them brown;
Some gave them plum-cake…”

A clip. A freeze frame frozen. A snatch of video. The Unicorn on a dozen phone screens. He doesn’t wear a turban. Hair-cut and streaked with blue. Clean shaven. He is naked. He is screaming. He is not alone.

Comments:

Cipher:
1k to gouge those pretty eyes out

Vector:
500 if you break his legs

Toffee:
Brand him on the ass! 600

stonefree:
750 to peel his skin into little strings, braid them while they’re still attached and staple them back

greenshroud:
WAIT WAIT WAIT 500 IF YOU DON’T DO THE EYES YET

Cipher:
Hey, what’s with the interruption?

greenshroud:
I know you still have his clothes. Let him watch you burn that stupid scarf-hat thing.

stonefree:
No, wait. Cut it into two. Tie it around his torso first like a Mobius strip, then burn it. Do the same but to his wrists instead.

greenshroud:
I like the way you think.

Cipher:
Are you single? ;)

Toffee:
So no more brandings? I know he has horseshoes on hand for that… 752

UltimateDespair:
Maybe if you fork up the damn cash, cheapskate

stonefree:
How about you leave, bitch? 🖕🤞💪 🫰

UltimateDespair:
Make me. ;) And 699 for another branding.

Cipher:
FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

“… And drummed them out of town.”

Chapter Text

“Business or pleasure?”

This is the Museum of the Future. Your guide is a child. A boy with gingery brown hair. And sand in his clothes. Hands slick with sweat. Sticky with the dates they sell from the cart outside. You wouldn’t shake, even if he offered it. Him with an agate ring on the leftmost finger. And you in a purple veil and long black dress with a red brooch and white trim.

“What are you, then? Sorry, I mean… An archaeologist? What, like A.K. Yearling? Like Indiana Jones? Oh… Your husband. Um. Is he around? Anyway. This is the lobby. The calligraphy panels? Yeah… Surprised you could read them at all. Not because you’re a girl, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just. It’s all I can do to read plain Arabic. Looking at it… it’s enough to make your head spin.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Your name is Tamar Al-Aswad. You are Dubai.

Level 5:

“OSS Hope. We haven’t reached the stars yet, but- What’s that? Oh. We start at the top and move down. Yeah. I know. We like to mix it up here.” He smiles at you. Warm and sweet as gingerbread. “I’m surprised though. It’s just… We’re the Museum of the Future? Seems kind of the opposite of… Well, you know. Digging up the past.”

You are a good girl. A modest girl. You are quiet. You are humble. You study hard until Baba tells you to stop studying. You leave school. You learn to cook and clean. You are obedient. Engaged by twelve, with your father’s blessing. Married by fourteen. Pregnant soon after. Very soon after.

Level 4:

“Welcome to Dubai… again, I guess. We call it The Heal Institute.”

The Garden. The Vault of Life. The Ecosystem Stimulator.

“Augmented reality. The Amazon Rainforest.” And. “The Library of Life - it’s a vault of human DNA.” And. “Predicting new species and the environment or… something. I don’t really get it either. That’s not what they pay me for.”

You give birth. Sixteen years old. Terrified as they tear you open. You give birth. You never even get to hold her. Tch, says your husband. It’s only a girl.

Level 3:

“Al Waha. The Oasis.”

Too weak to scream. Your daughter screams for you. Too weak to cry. Your daughter cries out. Your husband returns some time later, tossing out a white gown and purple doll.

Where is she?! My baby! What did you do to her?!

Level 2:

“Tomorrow Today. It’s mostly just science stuff. Things to make life here easier. Like… did you know the sex ratio in the UAE is something like… two hundred guys for every hundred girls? Two to one. I wonder why…”

You wander the desert. Spade in hand. Sleeping very little. Eating even less. Still you wander. With ghosts at your back. Your husband does not pursue you. He cannot. The sand shifts as the wind does. Restlessly. Breathlessly. Over her grave. If you can’t find her, no one will find him. It’s not a reassuring thought - you’d face the noose, stone, the lash, if only you could hold her.

Level 1:

“Yeah, this place is more for the little ones, sorry. It’s a play area. Um… do you have any kids?”

Still digging. Digging. You collapse in the sand. As weak now as you were the day you met her. And lost her. It’s over now. Isn’t it? At least you’ll be together again. Inshallah - Inshallah - by the mercy of God. Only… you don’t die.

“The Observatory is closed right now. You’ll have to come back before you leave. It’s really something, you know… You can see the whole city. The whole country from… well, I guess you’ve already seen it. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Al-Atrash. I’m sorry.”

When you open your eyes, you’re lying in the shade. A full bottle of water laid out beside you, several empty ones littering the floor. You are naked. Naked as the day you were born. And there’s a man standing over you. Hat pulled down to shield his eyes.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Forgive me. Inshallah. You were overheating and I…

Who are you? What are you doing here?

Al-Atrash. Ahmed Tijani. I look for lost things. For buried things. I found you.

“Be sure to come again.”

He waves.

You wave.

He smiles.

You do not.

“Bring your husband too next time. Bring the whole family!”

“Do you have a moment to talk about Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?”

White dress and habit. Ironed straight and very clean. Gold trimming. Large, round glasses with silver frames. This one is Mother Superior, I’ve decided. I’d bet on it - even money.

“What happened to the last girl?”

“The last girl? What… Heavens. Do you mean Kāla? We had to send her home. Poor thing. It’s really for the best though. God has a plan and place for everyone. Hers just wasn’t here.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment;

Do you have a moment to talk about Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?

I am Ajman. And you must be a foreigner. A dark haired girl. With the palest eyes I’ve ever seen. And a dress decked out in ribbons and bows. Punjabi Accent. You draw me over. Press the flyer into my hand. And I take it.

You know this is illegal, right?

“You do realize that this is illegal?”

Another day. Another girl on the sidewalk. This one wears black. Habit riding low, I can’t make her eyes out. She might be European. I can see bits of fringe poking out. All strawberry blonde.

“Did you hear me? You could get in a lot of trouble here.”

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

Crackpot then. “I see.”

She’s light skinned. As pale as almond flour. Also dressed in white. An abaya. A silk rose pinned to her hijab. I don’t mind, she says. But you could get in an awful lot of trouble…

For praying?

For proselytizing. Look. You seem like a nice girl… maybe we could talk about this. She looks around nervously. Somewhere else.

“Convert! Rejoice in your suffering! There is hope in the Lord!”

She’s an older woman. White hair cut short, a single lock of brown remaining. She looks like my mother. She could be my mother.

“Please, young man. What’s your name?”

“Chedli Karim.”

Her nose wrinkles. “That’s… a Muslim name.”

What’s your name? I don’t think I ever…

It’s Wafaa.

Wafaa. You can’t keep yourself from sighing. What a pretty name…

Some weeks down the line. She puts her hijab on before she goes.

You don’t have to wear that anymore. You… you’re a Christian now.

Wafaa sighs. No one can know. Do you understand? Apostasy-

It’s not apostasy! I saved you!

… You don’t understand what it’s like here. A-and besides. She smiles. It’s forced and you know it. But you both pretend. It feels weirder not to wear it. I’d just feel so exposed.

“Jesus loves you!” Said with the sourest expression I’ve ever seen.

She’s younger. One of their Catholic school girls. Purple ribbons in her hair.

“Convert now or suffer eternally.”

“Listen. Miss. Maybe you shouldn’t-”

“Don’t tell me what I should do, heathen.”

She’s just a kid. She’s just a kid. “This… This is dangerous. Wasn’t some girl just excuted for apostasy?”

“Not executed. No one’s ever been executed. She was killed. Only killed.”

You find her in pieces. Nailed to the door of the church. Bits of ribbon. Of pink and white. And yellow bruises. And a single chiffon rose. Frosting flowers. Vanilla icing. As pale and perfect as a wedding cake. Ruined and wrought into slices and halves.

“You must be Mr. Karim, right? Kāla told me all about you.”

A girl with a black hooded jacket. Blue-black hair. A serene expression on her face. Her hair’s been braided along the scalp-line. She smiles sweetly.

“Have you accepted Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?”

“It is better to die as a free man than to live in bondage.”

She speaks to us. This Emirati lady. This Dahab Chishti. All gold and resplendent in her precious metal finery. She holds, in one hand, a small yellow bottle. Strangely shaped. Like an inverse pyramid. And as for what’s inside…

“I’ve heard that. I believe it. But it’s your choice, I suppose. I made mine a long time ago.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; you are the Trucial States. She is Umm al-Quwain. The precise time doesn’t matter. Not the hour. Not the year. But… it isn’t 1967. It isn’t 1971.

“Chattel slavery. I was born into it. Or sold soon after. I never knew my mother. Never quite forgave for giving birth to me.”

You are Sheba Chishti. A light-skinned woman. Yellow boned and macaroni-braided. Pale as a ghost. Sweating bullets down her forehead and face. You never hold your daughter. Maybe it’s better this way.

“I believe that master was also my father. That my mother was a maid he took advantage of. Or else a sex slave. He had… any number of children. Legitimate children. With his legitimate wives.” She looks around. Sunken and swollen stomachs. The ones who have withered and lost their teeth. “His family kept no less than five cats at a time. And a dog. When I was younger, it was my duty to look after them. It always… surprised me. How he could be so gentle with dumb animals. But not to me. Or anyone else chained at his feet.”

You are Black. You are Camembert. You are Coffee. You are Kopi Luwak. You are Fruit. You are Colby. Umm al-Quwain feeds you milk and cream and fish and meat from the master’s table. And is sometimes beaten for helping herself. You are the rat that the cats don’t hunt for. Too fat and lazy. That Umm al-Quwain catches with her bare hands. Flea bitten. Disease ridden. It makes no different.

“It was better than starving. Anything is better than starving.” Once again, she examines the bottle. Tilting it in her hand. Back and forth. Back and forth again.

You are Rahab. The dung carrier. Your master is a merchant. With cars and camels. But more camels than cars. He sends the waste to Umm al-Quwain’s master. And you carry it. Feet shackled and clanging along the road.

You’re so lucky. Staying inside all day.

You don’t know what you’re talking about. And of course you don’t.

“He sold cement for a living. He built the city we’re standing on. That’s what they say… But I know better.”

So do we.

So do you. You are Karima Brahim. You are Lily Maha. You are Shams Bad. And Peccola Olivier. Pouring the cement and digging out the foundations. Sometimes you find things. Lost in the sand. Bangles and jewels. Cups and cookware. Sometimes bones. And sometimes chains. Your master takes all the credit.

“He took everything. Everything from me.”

You are a free man. My name is Qabil Chishti. That girl here, I’d like to buy her. Pretty little thing like that.

“There was a man who tried to buy my freedom. My… I went to live with him. In the city.”

You are Fadwa. You are beautiful. The shining star. You are Jouri. Locs braided together like coiled snakes. Beaten but not broken. You are Lama. Hands drawn up inside your sleeves. You are Safiya. The madame with the thousand questions. You are Khatya, the one they blinded out of jealousy. You are Sidqi - the one who keeps them here.

“There was a man I knew. Not one of us. Not one of them either. He sold strange powder from his cart.”

Your name is Seth. And you offer it freely.

It's sweet.

The Turks, you tell her, called it Mad Honey.

“At first, I just took spoonfuls here and there. To get me through the day. More and more. And then… I didn’t even realize I was pregnant. She was beautiful. The most perfect little girl.”

Your name is Rashida. You are born dead.

“That’s when I realized. It’s better to die than to be killed. That’s what they say. That’s what I believe.”

With gold coins. And gold rings. And whatever she can scrape into a handful. She buys a bottle of that strange honey. And mixes it in to a pitcher of wine. And you drink it. You all do. And you die.

“My tolerance was stronger than the others. I lived long enough to see the end of… Chattel slavery ended with the UAE. Supposedly. We joined up in 1971. I became a citizen of Umm Al-Quwain. I thought… I thought it was over. But… But nothing ever lasts. Nothing ever changes. They call it Kafala - the same system under a shiny new name.”

We are:

Olivier. Burnish. Monz. Smoke. Faith. We work at a tech company. LGC. The same company. There are no other options. There is no other choice. Not even as the master - still a master - turns hot eyes upon them.

“It’s kill or be killed,” she says and we listen. And take the bottle from her hand. “It’s your choice.”

Federal Decree-Law No. 55 of 2023

Two screens. But I can only look them over one at a time. I always turn to you, when it comes to this. Computers. Gadgets. Newfangled slang. Only… You aren’t here to help me. You aren’t here. My twin. My son. My shadow. The younger, better version of me. Smaller. With shorter hair.

Faerie-Bred (Elder Faerie X Silver Bell)
#Secrets of the Silver Kingdom #Darcy Chant

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; I am Dhikrullah. I am Sharjah. You are Mu’iz ad Din. I am your father. I will protect you, always - from the evil of this world.

As per the decree, a media activity means the production, circulation, printing or publishing of media content. Media content may be in audio, video or digital format. Activity may either be at a cost or free of charge. Media activities include:

I would give you anything. I would do anything for you. To protect you. Your innocence. We attend mosque every Friday. I send you away to school. All boys. You don’t drink. You don’t smoke. You cannot - we live in Sharjah.

Dead Dove Do Not Eat

The laptop is school-issued. The phone, though, is a gift from me. Your fourteenth birthday. Along with SOTS - the complete box set.

radio and television broadcasting
cinema movies and creative productions
newspapers and publications
digital and electronic media activities
imaging activities
book fairs

You and me. Hot chocolate and coffee. Over the breakfast table.

Up late last night?

Mm.

Studying?

Nn.

Reading?

Writing. I… I guess. Not for school or anything. Just… because.

Can I read it? (I should have insisted.)

I dunno…

#Daddy Kink
#Father-Son Incest
#Plot What Plot
#Porn Without Plot
#Improper Use of Pizza
#Warning: Rape/Non-Con
#Warning: Underage
#No Beta We Die Like Ockite the Bonafide

You don’t come to me, the way you used to. You’ve become… different. Not necessarily in a bad way. Sometimes I catch you on the computer and you slam the laptop down before I can read any of it. Sometimes I catch you smiling at your phone. As long as you’re happy. As long as you’re safe.

PeachesAndCream
OH. MY. G. HHHHHOOOOOOTTTTTT.

DerekDeChoco
Why thank you.

PeachesAndCream
MORE MORE MORE

And you are safe. There is no obscenity, no indecency in Sharjah. No one spreading lies about our government. No filthy content to lead you astray. It’s all been done away with. And I have done it. And I’ve done it for you.

The decree-law allows both individuals and legal entities to own media institutions and outlets under specific regulations and conditions. The provisions of the decree-law organise the media authorities of the UAE Media Council and the local governments concerned with regulating media affairs.

Sometimes, though, I catch you frowning.

Something wrong?

No, Baba. It’s nothing. Nothing’s wrong.

I believe you. You’d come to me if there was.

PomegranateGore
This is honestly disgusting. And a boundary violation. Delete before the author sees this.

I find you in the bathroom. Washing your face in the sink. The water’s tinged pink. Your sleeves rolled down. And I don’t say anything. I don’t do anything.

It’s okay, Baba. I’m alright.

Even now. I know that isn’t true. But I’m afraid of the truth. I’m a coward.

As per the decree, all media individuals and institutions operating in the UAE are required to comply with the national standards for media content. Standards include:

I go to work. I work for the Sheikh. I come home. I live only for you. I write the bill that bans - the bills that ban - pornography, prostitution, alcohol. Fornication. Foreign influence. Anything that would lead you astray. Anything that would keep you safe.

Darcy Chant@SilverCity
To all my Silver Stars out there - Recently, it’s come to my attention that a certain user (DerekDeChoco) has deigned to grace this fandom with one of the most wildly offensive, disgusting pieces of filth I have ever had the displeasure of reading. To say I’m uncomfortable is a gross understatement. Anyway. I’m posting here to say that any so-called “fans” of mine aren’t fans at all. I just hope he sees this and that the fic is deleted. Though… I’m concerned for any children that might be in his life.

Click here to join the Silver City group on Styx. And Here to report “Faerie Bred” to the authorities.

Reposts:

They burst in. Shouting. Screaming. I push you behind me. They take you anyway. And I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

Baba! Baba, don’t let them-

But I do let them. Forgive me. Inshallah. Forgive me.

respecting the divine and Islamic beliefs, as well as all other religions and beliefs
respecting the country's sovereignty, symbols and institutions, and the supreme interests of the UAE and its society
respecting the directions and policies of the country on the local and international levels
avoiding any actions that may hurt the UAE’s foreign relations respecting the culture and civilisation, national identity and values of the UAE community
refraining from disseminating or circulating information that may offend or compromise national unity or social cohesion, incite violence or hatred or propagate a spirit of discord among society members, and the UAE’s legal and economic system
ensuring that justice and security are not exploited or abused
respecting privacy rules and individuals' private lives
refraining from publishing, broadcasting or circulating rumours, false and misleading news or the publication of any matter that may constitute instigation to commit crimes.

The next time I see you, it’s between the bars of the holding cell. Your eye is swollen. Probably infected. Your hair has been cut at the shoulder. You look at me. I look at you.

Baba…

It’s okay. I’ll get you out of here.

PomegranateGore
It’s even worse when you realize he’s a minor. And writing everything in second person POV. He’s sexualizing himself AND all the minor readers who might happen on the fic.
2nd Person POV was a mistake
anyone else feel like it’s inherently pedophilic?
even if it’s NOT sexual, why are you writing about people who could be minors???

PoisonMushroom
he could be lying about being a minor, which is even worse.

Pawndering
“It’s just a story”

OneNightInBangchoc
And jail is just a place. Seriously, fiction does affect reality.

LicketyLicoriceEverywhere
“Boohoo, I was molested.” Me too, lol, doesn’t give you the right to fuck children. Even fictional ones.
It’s worse actually because fictional minors can’t consent

Schwarzwälder
This is why I don’t trust other SOTSK fans. Bunch of freaks.

MatchaMaker
Heh. He got arrested. Apparently he lives in the UAE.
I do not condone doxxing but in this case...

RedVelvet
So it all adds up. Probably from one of the super conservative areas

Affogacha
...

ButterRollButch
Anyone else hope he’s an only child? It’s always the ones with way too many siblings who get into incest. So glad I don’t have any.

Darcy Chant
@StrawberryCrêpePaper

What are you holding him on?! He’s a child! It’s just… they’re just stories! They’re not hurting anyone!

They’re indecent. They’re… Mr. Chakroun. You should know this better than anyone.

He’s my child!

It’s your law.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-

Violating the provisions of this decree-law may lead to administrative fines, closure of the media institution or cancellation of the media licence/permit.

You are Ras al-Khaimah. You sit in your office, at your computer. You squint. Ocular albinism. Sun bleached hair. A tangled braid. Typing. Editing. You look over your photos and try hard to not be tempted to do what typical Americans do when dealing with these types of people. You’re most likely going to get a headache either way.

Layla Jania: Cover art may need to be changed for UAE release. Apple should have her legs covered. Ideally her neck as well.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment;

Silver Kingdom >
#General
#Memes
#NSFW
#Vent
#Triggers
#Users to Block

LJ: Elder comes off very feminine here. Is it possible to rewrite this description? To fit more appropriately within expected gender roles?

Dark Enchantress
ARGH. I’m going to put my editor through the wall, I swear.

Dark Enchantress
The UAE release of SOTSK is going to be a damned novella at this rate. Who does this Layla bitch think she is?

LJ: Is it possible to remove references to the church/Christianity? Especially during the funeral scene in chapter seven. It’s a middle grade novel. We don’t want children from Muslim families to get confused.

LJ: Can we remove references to drinking/alcohol? Again, all books published in the UAE should adhere to Muslim values.

PomegranateGore
Derek is at it again, apparently.

DarkEnchantress
?

PomegranateGore
New fic here. It’s trash. Obviously.

ButterRollButch
More Elderbells?

PomegranateGore
No, but it’s self insert, Elder/Reader garbage. On a website he knows is full of minors. So, so creepy.

AffoGacha
It’s even worse since he's a minor sexualizing himself.

LicketyLicorice
“Boohoo, I was abused!” Lol. Please. He probably liked it.

AffoGacha
💯
@StrawberryCrepePaper

Pawndering
Can we move this convo somewhere else? It’s making me and my sister uncomfortable. (almost as bad as those times with those damn gore raids >.<)

LJ: This is… a lot of cannibalism. Is this some sort of fetish? I won’t judge.

You can’t judge. Given what you were doing in your teens.

TwizzlyGummyGun
image.png

LJ: Too much gore. Sorry, this won’t fly with Emirati audiences. Please remove.

affogacha:
Since @derekdechaco has no issue sexualizing himself as well as other, innocent, minors…
Click here to read attachment

derekdechoco:
Where did you get this? How did you get this? Take this down. Now.

matchamaker:
Aw. But it’s just pixels, right? No big deal.
#strawberrycrepepaper #hey

LJ: Look, I get these edits are frustrating and hurt your vision. You’ve had this conversation a thousand times. But I assure you that it is imperative that we make Silver City as palatable as possible in order to do well with an Emirati audience. Then there’s the matter of legal trouble…

StrawberryCrepePaper
Hey. @AffoGacha? Where’d you get those pictures anyway?

AffoGacha
Why do you care? You’re not trying to *defend* him, are you?

LJ: Mm. We need to cut out the kiss between Silverbell and Mercury. It’s brief and not exactly plot relevant. Should be an easy enough fix.

StrawberryCrepePaper
Guys! I reported Derek to the SIA/NESA.

StrawberryCrepePaper
Guys?

LJ: Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe you’re overreacting. You really hate this part of the job. Sensitivity reading. Playing the bad guy for First World Westerners who have no concept of the world beyond America. You conclude with: I know about your online presence. You of all people should understand.

“Dear Derek-”

“No.”

Fine. “Fine. What’s his real name again?”

You are the doctor. I am the patient. You are Nakia Nilah. I am Wa’il Al-Faraj. I am Abu Dhabi.

“Mu’iz ad Din,” you say, “Chakroun.”

“Mu’iz ad Din,” I repeat. “I’m sorry I got you arrested.”

Instead of a spotlight, a move fragment;

“I’m sorry. I know that’s no excuse.”

“Good, good.”

“The best I can offer is a reason…”

I am Abu Dhabi. The largest Emirate. I am twelve years old. I live with my Baba. And his Umm. And her sisters… sister-wives. My father loved a woman once. And I killed her. My father loves a man across the sea.

“I was born premature. And sickly. Double Phocomelia. I was born with deformed arms. Amputated by two years old. And replaced. The best prosthetics money can buy. People have always been… strange to me.”

“Most guys don’t wanna fuck a girl with no arms. And the ones that do… are very strange.”

“I’m all for honesty, but still, I don’t think you need to include that part.”

“Alright.” Plebeian. “Baba doesn’t know much about science. He’s more of a people person.”

He’s not one of my doctors. He’s not a doctor yet. Round, wire-framed glasses. Hair swept to the side. And I’ve never seen my father look at a man like that. I’ve never seen him look at anyone that way before…

“You mustn’t tell anyone. Do you understand? It’s imperative that you don’t tell anyone. Never. I love my Baba, and he… And he-”

“He loves this man?”

Right on the money. I nod. Shakily. “But it’s against the law.”

“Yes. Like those stories you were so upset about?”

“That’s different!”

“Different how?”

It’s a secret. Baba and this man who becomes like a father. After a while. Mr. Esperanza becomes simply Esterio becomes Papa-Essie (behind closed doors).

“My parents aren’t hurting anybody. They’re adults. They’re the same age. It’s just… They’re both men. That’s the primary issue. That’s the only issue at hand. Well…”

StrawberryCrepePaper
img
Baba, Papa and me!

DarkEnchantress
Warning. You need to mention if you’re mixed. As a white passing person, we need to know if you have biracial privilege. It makes some of us feel very unsafe.

I am neither biracial nor white-passing. I am Abu Dhabi. I look like my countrymen. I look like my Baba.

Affogacha
It’s like swirl shipping then? One black and one white. That’s… fine. I suppose. I just worry about the power imbalance.

“And you believe that this… Mu’iz ad Din, he was hurting someone?”

“Well. Yes. Not… physically. Not precisely. But he was creating child pornography!”

“With his writing?”

“Yes! Of course!”

“Do you view this as equivalent to material involving real children?”

“Yes! Of… Well, it’s not as bad. But it’s not harmless either. Even if I don’t read it, I still have to see it. Even if I don’t look, I still know it’s there. And what about the children who do look? Who don’t know it’s wrong? What about… what about…”

Papa comes to visit again. We go out for ice cream. One scoop of coffee. Two of the strawberry. And-

None for me, thanks!

Baba only likes vanilla ice cream.

“What about real sexual abuse victims?! What if they see his horrible little story and it makes things worse?! What about… What about…”

“Your father?”

“Papa!” Papa. “I wanted to protect him. But now I’ve ruined everything.”

AffoGacha
@StrawberryCrepePaper
video.pdf

StrawberryCrepePaper
… Where did you get this?
Why do you have this?

DarkEnchantress
He’s raising awareness. Don’t make it weird.

Chapter Text

“Besættelsen. The Germans called it Kind Occupation.”

Bubbe Melchior - given name, Raisa; Hebrew name, Shlomit - sits in a camp chair, set up by the bombed foundation. The remnants of the old family home. Long gone now. But not forgotten. She’s ancient. Old and wrinkled. White hair where once there was gray and, before that, grayish blond.

“Three years of this. Before the Fuhrer, they said, got impatient. How could it be that we were still free to live and work and walk about?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Denmark 1943. Izebel wraps her arms tight around her sister. She is plump and pretty. A small nose. Ocular albinism. Bright red hair and eyes. She squeezes tight, then pulls back.

You go, she says. Eichmann and Himmler, they’re turning the screws… but you know me. You know I can’t leave it all behind.

“It was late September. The eve of Rosh Hashanah. When they came for us. At least, I know, that was the idea. That the devout Jews would all be home. Alone and helpless. And that, if we did cry out, nobody would hear.”

The family home is far out and isolated. Where Bornholm meets the sea. Been in the family for generations. A fisherman is hired to carry Shlomit across the sound. A cousin of a friend of a neighbor supplies Izebel with a false ID.

Miss Karin Andersen. You’re a Dane now.

I’ve always been a Dane. She laughs and tosses back her hair.

“It worked in Poland. In Germany. In Austria. But Denmark… They didn’t - they wouldn’t - give us up. Those who strike at our friends strike us as well. Something like that. And, of course, Sweden was there to catch us.”

She was raised Masorti. Her and her sister. But of course there are exceptions. You may eat - you must eat - you may recant - you must recant - you may live - you must. You may even kill. You must. Izebel dabs a bit of perfume behind her ears. Steps into a dress the color of blood. The bar is run by a Gentile; it serves no kosher wine. She feigns drunkenness, finds a man with lightning on his jacket. And falls on him. Won't you please take me home?

“I left in 1943. Didn’t return until the war had ended. There were flowers. And cheers. Everyone was happy to welcome us back again. Happy that the war was over. I think about ninety-nine percent of us made it out.” Shlomit leans forward. Tears in her eyes. “As for Emma, my sister… Well, I never saw her again.”

Izebel leads them into the woods. And they don’t come out again. Not now. Not ever. She gives a shout before knocking them out in one blow. It’s quick and clean and probably more than they deserve. She’s horrified when the first signs of life stir within her. She wishes she could cry or scream or throw herself onto Shlomit’s shoulder. But of course she can’t. Of course she doesn’t. And, when the child is born, it being a girl is the only consolation.

“I met your great grandfather in Sweden. He was from Stockholm. We were married by the end of the war. I tried not to dwell on my own sorrow.”

She names her Noa. Naomi Andersen.

“I’m not your real Bubbe, you know that, right?”

The end of the war. The war is ending. The world is ending. Russian boots on Bornholm. Driving back the Nazis. German blood in the Danish clover. At first, Izebel is glad to see them. Before they, like wolves, fall upon her. And, like wolves, tear her apart.

“We were very lucky. All of us. Ninety-something. Ninety-nine percent…”

1946. Shlomit returns to a bombed shell of a house. Blacked and caved like an empty pie pan. She calls out for her sister. In Yiddish and Danish. In English and Hebrew. No answer. Just a baby’s cries, coming from some hollow place beneath the rising smoke.

The Wix and their parents and cousins and uncles. Aunts and grandmother (Noa all grown up and old). Listening, though it’s a story they’ve heard a hundred times before.

“What about the one that stayed behind?”

Chapter Text

“Thanks for the help with this, Aspie.”

Autism and ADHD sit at a table, across from each other. There are some differences between the pair; Autism is short and pudgy, ADHD is tall and lanky. There are similarities; both have blond hair and freckled skin and dress in baggy clothes. ADHD taps a pen on a notebook while Autism plays with a fidget cube.

“I mean it. Would probably just slack off till the last minute if it weren’t for you.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; two different families. Autism born an only child, ADHD one of many. Both are diagnosed early. Both are loved and treated the best their families can, picked on occasionally by other kids but generally having normal childhoods.

“Yeah, I know. I should get meds or something to treat my ADHD, but damn, shit’s expensive here.”

Autism and ADHD meet during college, when they take rooms in a special apartment complex. For people like them. Despite their misgivings at the start, they become as close as can be.

“Now… just to map the interview questions…”

ADHD’s class assigns an essay, a set word count on anything of her choice. At first she doesn’t have much idea of what to do, but she comes across some inspiration…

“Experiences with mental illness and psychological disabilities…”

ADHD and Autism go to the Fashion Fates’ exhibit. (The one with the guitar strings haunts them both the most.) And both hear tales of horror. About people like them. Signs and Symptoms. Common Gore Curriculum. (True, there were other reasons, but there must be a reason why the class being special ed is downplayed when it does get talked about.) And many other horror stories. As much the tales hurt, they give ADHD the inspiration she needs.

“Now, how to start this thing…” ADHD taps her pencil and bites her lip in concentration.

Rewind; Autism isn’t very good with people, even before their harassment at school. But they do like animals. A cute new dog the neighbors bring. They pet it, and enjoy its company. Even after it licks their chest. They don’t blame the dog, of course, but it makes them feel awkward.

ADHD going through puberty. And puberty means blemishes. Blemishes on her face. Blemishes on her… She gets out the special antibiotic cream and goes to treat the infected areas. But sometimes she forgets to close the door behind her. Not a problem in her own home, but in a school bathroom’s cubicle…

OhmygodI’msosorrryIdidntseeyou the cleaner mutters, blushing and speedwalking away. Unlike the Witch’s neighbour and the Selkie’s mother, the cleaner’s dismay is completely genuine. ADHD still feels awkward about the whole thing.

“Use our own experiences? … Yeah, that’s the most logical. And I guess those incidents technically count for this. But people tend to only care about the big things, no matter how much the little things play a part. I think people just want the ability to rag on someone without being raked over the coals. Besides, I don’t want people getting fucked over by an innocent mistake.”

They meet up with the others, some they know, some not so well. And they sometimes get on each other's nerves. Despite it, they care for one another. They need to; so many do not.

“Maybe the people who live in this place have some stories to tell. Don’t worry,” ADHD says to Autism. “I’ll make sure it’ll be just one versus two.”

“Thanks for making me feel better about my tics.”

Tourette’s smiles patiently. Eleven, messy hair, freckled skin stained with paint. Every once in a while she twitches her head from side to side, opens her mouth and winks.

“It’s a bit rough, considering what I had to put up with outside here.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Tourette’s in several flash cuts, meeting people. Her tics make most of them look at her strangely, or try to keep their distance. And Tourette’s feels the sting every time she is rejected.

“I mean, people are shocked that my tic isn’t like swearing or something. But Tourette’s isn’t just a sweary disease. It can be other things. I feel a lot of people don’t know that. Or how it even functions.”

Despite her issues, the family still cares about her. That’s not something some people like Tourette’s can say.

“For the record, that blonde lady wasn’t really my story. Not really. I don’t blame the people who thought otherwise, her gifts can be a bit much. I don’t think she was grooming me - well, at least for that thing. Mine was… You know that Candy guy that was on the news a while back?” ADHD and Autism can’t help but flinch at the mention. “Take that as a yes. Well…”

She spends most time with her cousins, including an older boy with orange hair. And Tourette’s can’t help but feel a bit smitten with him. But that’s all it is. It doesn’t go further than that. And nobody really knows about it besides her.

“Before I start, I should explain he technically wasn’t a stranger. I tended to see him around my parents’ place of work, when they were treating the kids he was ‘raising’ at the time. All I knew before then was he seemed like a nice guy, if eccentric.”

Her crush eventually fizzles out, but she still cares about him. After all, he’s her favorite cousin, and they tend to get along when he comes to visit.

“He came across me hanging out with Bo and Syd. Mr. Candy said he wanted some help with something, but I wasn’t sure what. I figured housework or something. The others stayed behind, but I decided to go along.”

Sometimes, she notices the way her cousin acts. About the occasional flinches, and the way he act around bees (they seem oddly attracted to him). During a visit their parents talk in whispers, only changing their tune when they notice Tourette’s.

“But when I was about to enter his house, my tic went off. And then he said he didn’t think it would be safe for me, so he decided to take me back to my friends.”

At school, she overhears some conversations from other kids.

-own brother, how awful.

-heard the sicko made them run off together…

- can’t believe some sickos see nothing wrong with incest…

“And I never really thought about the encounter until the thing got launched out on the news.”

Tourette’s curiosity gets the better of her. She looks up what ‘incest’ means… And feels sick with herself.

“For a while I have no idea why he didn’t bother with me, until I read there was one kid he didn’t hurt who has a condition like mine. Not sure how to feel about only avoiding being molested or whatever because the guy was ableist.”

Now when the cousin comes to visit, it feels bittersweet. She keeps a careful distance from him, trying to move on from the horrible thoughts she had. Nobody can know about this, no matter what.

“Ah, well. At least he can’t hurt anyone else anymore.”

“Thanks for helping get my bird back in her cage the other day.”

OCD flickers the lights as Autism and ADHD enter her apartment. Twenty-five, hair tied up in a small high ponytail. Chubby. She smiles as bright as a sunbeam and her little green budgie chirps.

“It’s one of my biggest fears, you know. My precious pet leaving me forever. A bit irrational, but… well, you know me.”

Instead of a spotlight; a movie fragment; OCD setting up breakfast, taking out bits of cereal. She puts each piece in one by one, counting as she does. Two-oh-six… Two-oh-seven…

“Everyone thinks it’s just a cleaning thing, or counting, and I’d be lying if I said some of my symptoms didn’t fall into that. But there’s more to it than that. In fact, I think I got off lucky in some regards. I heard some people who have it obsess over the idea that their loved ones will hurt them, or they would hurt their loved ones.”

She makes sure things are in their proper places, her potted plants all lined up exactly the same distance apart. She flicks the lights a couple times before leaving. Washes her hands twice just in case the germs weren’t washed off the first time. And pokes herself in a certain way to ease her worries of her pet bird leaving her forever.

“I’ve managed, but I think it’s mainly because it was caught early and my doctors were actually competent. Not everyone is that lucky, especially in this country.”

OCD wakes up to removed sheets, clothes put on wrong, and the window open just a crack. Cut; the doctor’s office, nervousness, a page of results.

“It happened seven years ago. I don’t recall exactly what happened. All I know is that it happened while I was sleeping, and I probably wouldn’t have known if the culprit didn’t do a shitty job at removing evidence. Among other things.”

Nine months later, in the hospital. Screams, pain and… love. She holds her baby close.

“Li’l Syd was the only good thing to come out of this. I try so hard to be a good mother, for their sake.”

She picks up a book by Dr. Lipschitz, only to return it after further research. She goes looking for parenting forums, and finds a few.

“And not just for them. I love all the kids I care for, but…”

A young teen breaks into OCD’s home. OCD is afraid to start with, but lets the kid stay when she tells her story. The mother of a young toddler asks OCD to watch the child, leaving with a warning of difficult behaviour. Things mostly go well, but sometimes the teen acts differently depending on the situation, and…

“… I feel like I need some help in accepting the complete whole of the eldest.” She sighs. “I know it’s not the worst case and the others are pleasant enough, but… sometimes it feels like she’s gone when another side of her is fronting. Please don’t let her know, she’s been through worse than I ever could be.”

“Sure, I’m happy to help out. Mom says it’s always good to help.”

Dyslexia is rather small for their age. Seven, orange hair, freckled face. Still, there’s some resemblance to OCD, no matter how small. They look a bit shy.

“She’s very helpful, especially with my struggles.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment. Dyslexia waiting in line for some ice cream. They struggle to read their order. Eventually OCD helps them out and the vendor happily gives them their order.

“People have some misconceptions about it. Like reading stuff backwards, stuff like that. There’s more to it. In fact, there’s other variations about it too, not just with reading. There’s even a variant with hearing stuff. Others have it worse, but I can manage. My mom taught me everything.”

Despite her worries, OCD does a rather good job raising her child, and the child feels love and devotion to their mother. Of course, Dyslexia does notice how different families can be. They eventually ask OCD, How come I don’t have another parent? And OCD does her best to explain what happened, in a way that’s appropriate and won’t make the poor thing scared of the world around them. Dyslexia hugs their mother.

“She taught me about ways to handle it when someone wants to do something… bad.”

Dyslexia may not read that well, but that doesn’t hurt their writing skills, so they write and draw a picture book about their feelings. They know a friend did something similar when her mommy was away to deal with her “grown up sickness”, so it makes sense to do the same.

“I’d always had a bad feeling about Mr. Candy. Even before the stuff came out on the news. Anyway, sometime before he was discovered, a month or two before he got arrested… he asked for some help with some flatpack building stuff or something.”

They’re almost finished. Dyslexia hasn’t told anyone yet about it, not even OCD (it’s a surprise for her). They put all their effort in it, and hopefully it’ll be legible to those without their disorder.

“I refused. And I think it was because he has more info on him out there that he didn’t kidnap me and Bo or anything.”

Tourette’s meets up with them a while after. Dyslexia can’t help but worry. And can’t hide their relief when Tourette’s says He says my tic might not make it safe for me to help, with a bitter huff.

“Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened to her if her tic didn’t go off when it did. If we joined her.”

Dyslexia overhears some teenagers talking.

-can’t believe anyone would use rape as shock value. Don’t they even care about the victims of it? What if a survivor reads their horrible little stories?

-totally disrespectful display. Probably some fucked up excuse for stupid fanservice

“But maybe that might be some of my mom’s stuff rubbing off on me.”

While Dyslexia is proud of their work, they don’t want to hurt OCD over it. So they bury it underneath their bed. Nobody can ever know.

“I just wish for ways to help Mommy. She means everything to me, and I want to make it up to her in a big way.”

“Thanks for helping me feel better about Cherry.”

Schizophrenia is holding a red-haired fashion doll with cat ears and simple black dot eyes. Early twenties, chubby, poofy hair. She looks at the doll with love.

“It’s kind of a long story, but I fear about her safety sometimes.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Schizophrenia talks to the doll and the doll talks back. And both are happy.

“People assume that all people with delusions like mine have violent or scary ones. But not me. For the most part, mine are pretty mundane.. Probably the main reason why I don’t take meds, besides the obvious ‘expensive as shit’ one.”

For Schizophrenia her visions are mainly toys talking. Some in non-sequiturs, others much more coherently. The latter especially with the cat-eared doll.

“Of course, it makes it difficult for me to tell apart reality from delusions. Part of the reason it took me a while to figure out gender stuff. And being aware of my condition doesn’t really stop any of them from happening. So… my story’s a bit complicated.”

Multiple hands reach out to the cat-eared doll. One starts stripping its clothes as Schizophrenia watches in horror. The hands do horrible things to the doll. It matters; it’s not only a doll to her.

“I still struggle with whether what I saw happened or not. If so, was it really happening to me, or someone else, or…” A glance at the doll who places a hand on hers. “And if it even really counts if it didn’t happen, or didn’t happen to a, well, ‘real’ person.”

Like a twisted toy commercial, Schizophrenia has the cat-eared doll examined by other dolls. She does her best to help the doll through it, the way she hopes someone would for her. She hugs it once it’s all over.

“No, I didn’t report it. I mean, even if it was true, would anyone even believe me?” Schizophrenia sighs. “I just wish I could make sense of everything around me.”

“Thanks for making us feel better about the game incident.”

Both fourteen years old. Type 1 with their hair spiked up and a brown T-shirt with a moon. Type 2 with pale short hair hiding one of their eyes, and a T-shirt with a pink heart on it. They're calmer than usual.

“Yeah,” Type 2 speaks up. “We know our condition can make us… difficult.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; some time before they were born. A man and an older woman. They fall in love, at first assuming they’re near the same age; they’re both adults, so when they find out the truth it doesn’t matter. Eventually, they get married, and along come Type 1 and Type 2.

“People think the mood swings are, like, on a dime or something,” Type 1 explains, “but it tends to be over a period of weeks, unless something else is going on.”

The parents do their best with them. They are cared for and loved and supported when they come out and when they have their disorders discovered. And that’s the main thing.

“There’s also different forms of it,” Type 2 says. “Like, one type is more prone to mania, while the other is more prone to hypomania and depression. There’s also a mild type, but it’s got a different name. Cyclo-whatever.”

Types 1 and 2 approached by a girl, a bit younger than them, with dyed purple hair. My daddy’s offering free snack samples. Want to try some?

“Yes, we’ve been given the warning about strangers.” Type 1 rolls their eyes. “But, well… you’re more likely to be hurt by someone you know than someone you don’t.”

“Goes to show that just because something is more common than another thing, that doesn’t mean the uncommon thing doesn’t happen.”

Both Types realize they’ve been bamboozled when the van moves. Panicking, they bang on the doors.

“Neither of us knew what they were planning, beyond it being bad.”

“We got lucky, we managed to escape before anything happened. Jumping out a moving car fucking hurts.”

A boy with red hair is inside as well. He helps pick the lock, and gets the Types out to safety. They tumble out of the car, but the boy doesn’t go after them.

“I hope that boy’s okay…”

“Eventually we came across a weird guy in an ice cream truck. We thought we just stepped into another bad situation.”

“Turns out the guy helps find lost kids for a fee.”

Neither Type notices the side-eyes ADHD and Autism gave one another.

A pale muscular man, and the Types’ parents. After a chat, they’re reunited with hugs and tears.

“The whole thing was scary.”

At school they hear other students muttering something about pedos. Curiosity gets the better of them, and they look it up.

What’s the age gap between our parents?

Eight years. I mean, we have issues but I don’t think-

Type 1 grabs Type 2’s shoulder, looking straight at them. Nobody can know about this. Ever. I don’t want anyone assuming the worst about our parents. And Type 2 reluctantly agrees.

“I wish there was a way to make it up to Syd.”

Dyslexia sits outside, holding a book, trying to read a fairytale out loud. Both Types laugh at the attempts until OCD tells them off. After learning better, they deeply regret their actions.

“Yeah.” Type 1 grimaces. “We were kind of douche-nozzles to them. Are they okay?”

“Thanks for your help the other day. I appreciate it.”

BPD smiles at the two. Nineteen, hair tied into two small buns. A lovely blue scarf around her neck. She looks weary.

“You have no idea how much it means to me.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; BPD as a small child. She’s playing soccer in the house. The ball accidentally strikes a vase. And her mother yells at her (and only yells at her).

“I think I read somewhere that cluster B conditions are caused by either genetics or life experiences. I think it’s the latter for me. Growing up was rough.”

It is. From the yelling, to overseeing how distressed her mom could be at times. But BPD is, at the time, a bit too young to fully understand what is happening.

“Mom was… She didn’t physically hurt me but she yelled a lot. Sometimes I wish it was easier and she was like some pathetic one-note leech that I cut off, but, well…”

BPD’s mother regrets the yelling every time, as soon as the deed is done. And her actions have haunted her for the rest of their lives. She tries to make it up to her.

“Mom was going through some rough times during my childhood, so she accidentally took those issues out on me. She regretted it then, she regrets it now. I’m… hesitant to forgive her. Yeah, I know people aren’t obligated to forgive the people that fucked them over, but…”

A younger sister. She only disappears from her sight for a moment. But it’s enough for BPD to shout at her. Only to immediately regret it once she runs off and hides behind Autism. BPD flinches at her sister’s shivers.

“I’d feel like a hypocrite if I didn’t. I don’t know. Morality is a bit hard for me to completely grasp beyond absolutes. Just like how it’s hard to keep most of my relationships stable.”

Not to say she doesn’t have any friends. The others at the apartment complex (save for a woman with the ponytail, despite her keeping a friendly face for the most part with the others). And a girl about her age, with pink/white dyed hair and stitches on her body. They talk and BPD helps babysit for her two year old “sisters” on occasion.

“As for my story, well…”

BPD overhears a conversation between two other young adults - people she knows are like her. Some tasteless comments about people with NPD. Despite everything telling her not to get involved, she confronts them.

“Like I said, my morality-understanding skills are a piece of shit. But what I do know is minor shit like disabilities doesn’t make someone good or evil. But, apparently there’s something about people like me throwing our fellow cluster Bs, especially the ones with NPD, under the bus. Because we’re considered the ‘good’ ones, I guess. I don’t know, I never care to follow discourse like that.”

They gang up on her. BPD fights back, but they fight harder. Hands reaching under her clothes, ripping at the seams.

“I think they were going to leave me naked or do worse. But then some cops arrived. They booked it-”

… but BPD is shoved into the car, tossed in the jail cell with only her scarf and underwear to cover herself.

“Glad I didn’t lose the scarf. It’s… sentimental.” An awkward pause as BPD adjusts it.

The dreadlocked stoner in the next cell leans on the bars to talk to BPD, about to instruct her like he tried to do with Ace… only this time he’s cut off, as Lord Gorgon is shoved in with them. Pianistes’ father tries to help him, the Wildcard hides in the corner. All of them gape when the stoner starts laughing.

Well… maybe you don’t need that advice after all. What? Don’t any of you recognise him?

“Yeah… Not a fun way to discover that.” BPD hugs herself. “I’m not sure what would have happened to me if they weren’t caught sooner. I’m just their type, so I know they’d hurt me like-”

BPD watches Wildcard be hurt, despite the others’ attempts to shield her from the worst of it, until the ones who hurt Gorgon barge in and warn their co-conspirators . She may not feel empathy, but since when does that affect one's ability to be horrified by what one witnesses?

“… I won’t go into details. Feels weird talking about something that happened to someone I don’t know. And judging how his dick looked like it’s been slammed in a car door several times, I think the least I could do is not dwell on it for his sake.”

Eventually, after some hours, BPD gets back home. She breaks down the moment she enters her room.

“Kind of wish I knew ways to help out with ending stigma for conditions like mine. Put an end to a vicious cycle that solves nothing.”

“Sure, I’m happy to take the interview. Been a bit quiet here for me anyway.”

PTSD goes to set up some drinks. Nineteen, going on twenty. Slightly short for her age. Blue dyed hair. Brown skin. Baggy casual clothes. Smile as warm as honey.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; PTSD with loving parents, a loving home, and a lovely neighbor. She plays like any child and is content with her lot in life.

“I had a typical upbringing, I guess. Parents did their best to raise me. Didn’t meet much hardship. I didn’t get my disorder until much later.”

A flower shop. PTSD goes in to get some flowers. Only to be dragged to the back room and shoved to the ground by… someone. Eventually it’s over. A shopkeeper rushes over PTSD’s side. Calmly, she asks Can I call a doctor?

“A beekeeper, or someone dressed like one, was the one to hurt me. I guess he thought the veil would work as a mask. I tried to get away but he overpowered me.” She sighs. “Things went oddly smoothly for this type of situation. Well, besides the… You get what I mean. Not everyone in my situation is that lucky. I didn’t see his face, but we didn’t need that.”

PTSD takes the kit, with a supportive doctor. Her testimony is taken by a kind chubby officer with black and white tattoos. Friends, loved ones and anyone who hears it takes her side, horrified over what has happened to her. The man that hurt her is caught and arrested as quickly as it happened. And her appointment with Planned Parenthood goes without a hitch, without a single second guess. Her Plan B doesn’t even make her sick.

“Of course, I thought it would be the end of it after the awkward eggshell period and several therapy sessions. If only shit was that easy.”

A normal conversation with a friend, outside on a summer day. A bee happens to fly nearby. PTSD has a panic attack, and doesn’t know why.

“I don’t know why that affected me that much. The guy didn’t even use bees during my attack. It’s so confusing.”

A talk with the therapist. A psych evaluation. A diagnosis. A card for an apartment complex that helps disabled people like herself. A lot for PTSD to take in.

“Kind of thought it was something soldiers got, before I got it myself.” She sighs again. “Goes to show, even when things go as well as they can, it still lingers on you.”

Help from new friends with moving in. PTSD introduces herself to her neighbors, and does her best to adjust to her new home. And her new issues.

“Well, I’m happy to help whenever I can. Hopefully I can help with getting my issue down to something more manageable.”

“Sorry for how I acted during the costume party.”

C-PTSD is tall for his age. Seventeen going on eighteen. Orange hair with black streaks. There's bags underneath his eyes. Still, he gives a weak smile.

“Don’t blame yourself, Aspie. You couldn’t have known. Not many people are comfortable talking about this thing.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; C-PTSD as a small child. Happy, with a loving family. And a loving home. He plays and laughs like any kid.

“The whole thing started when I was thirteen. Both parents were busy, so they had a neighbor watch over me after school.”

The same beekeeper that attacked PTSD. The parents are relieved to find childcare with no extra charge, and C-PTSD is interested in exploring the area with so many cool bugs nearby.

“He was pleasant, at first.”

Cool things to play with. Cool tools to help out with. And he listens to him talk. C-PTSD doesn’t notice the weird looks the beekeeper keeps giving him.

“And it wasn’t like he started fucking me out of the gate. It was gradual.”

“Mistakenly” opening the door of a bathroom in use. Encouragement to remove his shirt when it gets hot. The beekeeper getting too close for comfort. “Accidentally” spilling paint, taking the paint-stained shirt and taking a picture as a reminder.

“Eventually he started to molest me.”

Hands over his body. Pokes and prods of his… And C-PTSD doesn’t look forward to going to the beekeeper’s house anymore.

“Once I was fifteen, I was deemed old enough to watch over myself, but he still lived near us so it didn’t stop anything. He started raping me when I hit sixteen.”

C-PTSD doesn’t tell anyone. Worried that he won’t be believed. Or people might assume it was his parents. He fights the first time. He doesn’t the other seven times. He runs off the last time.

“It happened nine times, and it only stopped because he was arrested for hurting someone else.”

His parents hug him and sob as he’s taken to be tested. To make a statement.

“Kind of like that Ms. Murphy case. How the parents were seriously pissed over what she did to the kids there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they at least attempt to kick her ass. Lord knows my parents tried to when they found out.”

They’re held back by officers. Still the beekeeper receives at least one black eye.

“I’m trying to get them not to blame themselves for what happened. I mean, the only one at fault is the guy that hurt me.”

A costume-themed welcome party. C-PTSD isn’t one for dressing up, but he still decides to help. He notices the bee costume Autism is wearing. He runs off in a panic.

“Yeah, I was diagnosed. There are differences between C-PTSD and PTSD. One is based on a single event, the other on multiple. And they affect people differently too.”

PTSD in a domino mask. She gently goes to C-PTSD’s side, going through the motions to help him calm down. Both exchange their stories.

“Pete’s been extremely helpful in this regard. Hopefully I can be able to move on for my trigger to be more easily manageable. I used to like bees.”

C-PTSD cautiously approaches the party. Eventually, he’s comfortable enough to dancing with the others. Smiling for the first time in a while.

“Kind of worried about my little cousin, though.”

He notices how weirdly Tourette’s is acting around him after getting settled, and he can’t help but worry.

“We still hang out from time to time, but I noticed her being a bit distant lately. Did she remember about the time I laughed when we first met and her tic went off? Did she find out about what happened? Or did something happen to her? I hope she’s okay.”

“Thanks for helping with finding a way to get Amy to do math.”

Anxiety adjusts his tie. Early to mid forties. White poofy hair. Glasses framing his face. Chubby. Grey baggy sweater. A very nervous air to him. Coloring happily on the floor beside him is Dyscalculia. Six years old. Orange hair tied in long pigtails. Freckled tanned skin. Pink dress and shoes. Her air is calm.

“As a tutor, I want to help my students live up to their potential, but having to think beyond what I was trained can throw me out of a loop.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Dyscalculia born to a practically perfect family. A mother, a father and a “for now” daughter. (Though the family does keep in touch once her birth mother recovers enough to take her back; they've been friends for years.)

“Dealing with stress is a bit hard. I hate failing people. I worry what’ll happen if I don’t help them out, you know? For their sake, and for my worth. The latter sounds selfish, doesn’t it?”

Dyscalculia is diagnosed early. With parents that makes reassurances and promises to help her through it. And she has strong enough self confidence that she accepts herself, flaws and all.

“The McWises assigned me to tutor her once she got the diagnosis, so she doesn’t fall behind her classmates. They assigned me because they want someone who’s… patient with dealing with cases like this.”

Dyscalculia, much like Tourette’s, has close relationships with her cousins. A girl a few years older dressed in green and blue, and another older girl with blonde hair.

“The picture method for math does wonders. She’s doing much better than when she started. I’ve grown to care for her a lot.”

Dyscalculia overhears a phone call her mother is taking. Of course you can stay here. We do our best to help family.

“So, imagine my shock when their parents came to me with some concerns that aren’t related to her school skills.”

But the cousin doesn’t show up. Dyscalculia becomes nervous. Dyscalculia notices her parents are nervous too, as they start making calls themselves.

“I’m sure you two are familiar with online fandom culture?”

Autism winces.

“Yeah, Aspie has some tips and tricks to avoid that nonsense,” ADHD mentions.

“Feel free to send those later. I unfortunately knew it well.”

Eventually a call from the hospital arrives. Dyscalculia sits in the backseat as they rush over.

“Her parents checked her email and found someone had sent her a link. They discovered the link was, uh… something a young girl like herself shouldn’t be reading.”

“Anti-shipping?”

“Anti-shipping. Apparently it was a warning about the content someone wrote. I think it was Secrets of the Silver Kingdom related. Whoever sent it decided to send the link to the thing they were telling Amy not to look at, stupidly enough.”

A very crowded hospital, and tired looking hospital staff. Dyscalculia overhears the police interview the blonde cousin, who has a bandage over one of her eyes.

Mistook me for the sister of one of his victims… felt she was a threat… trafficked… only escaped because some guy fought tooth and nail to save my–

“It feels like grooming. And just feels ironic. They always yell about protecting people from ‘objectionable’ content, yet they do stuff like this. It feels like an excuse to hurt people.”

The blonde cousin goes to live elsewhere. Sometimes she comes to visit Dyscalculia.

Can I come to visit you?

I’ll have to ask the head of the place I’m staying at. It has to be kept top secret, so bad people don’t come to hurt the good ones staying there.

“I’m not sure if she even clicked the link. But I just want to make sure she doesn’t have to experience that ever again.”

“Thanks for trying to cheer me up the other day.”

“It wasn’t successful.”

“Thought that counts.”

Depression sits on a beanbag chair. A small twelve year old. Brown hair, a spot of vitiligo. Wearing baggy PJs and a small blue choker.

Instead of a spotlight, two movie fragments; Depression born from BPD’s mother, from a different father than the one that helped bring BPD to the world. A loving, if slightly rocky, and familiar relationship.

Another girl, born to two parents two years earlier. Looks like Depression, but with darker skin and hair and freckles instead of vitiligo. Also loved by both them and her elder sister.

“Yeah, people think it’s all being sad, or the pills just force you to be happy. The pills just make it so I can function more than a lumpy sadsack.”

Depression playing soccer in the house. The ball accidentally knocks into a vase. BPD freezes, then relaxes and reassures her. Hey, let’s just fix this up and vacuum up the remains so nobody gets hurt.

The dark-haired girl grows up. Eventually old enough to explore the internet without supervision. She discovers an art site.

“Before taking meds… all I really remember from that time was a void of emptiness.” Depression hugs herself. “I don’t want to go through that ever again.”

Depression gets a diagnosis. The mother, Depression’s dad, BPD’s dad and BPD look deeply concerned as they hear the results. BPD pulls Depression into a hug and sobs.

The dark-haired girl comes across… images. Nothing too suggestive or obviously inappropriate for someone her age to see, but… she’s invested in it. Lots of people seem to be invested likewise. She hasn’t heard the word “kink” yet.

“I really don’t want to go into that empty void feeling ever again. It’s why I tend to avoid hearing sad real world issues too much. I can handle it in fiction but there’s a threshold for what I can handle in real life.”

Depression sees some kids picking on one another. Despite some hesitance, she goes to defend the kid. And she doesn’t regret it, not even as they turn their anger on her.

Of course the dark-haired girl doesn’t indulge in the… images often. (Mostly around a certain time of month.) And as far as the artists know, she didn’t come across them. Still… she can’t help but feel embarrassed about it.

“It sucks, this shit is important to know if we’re going to impact any change. But… brains suck sometimes. And sometimes, people can’t help as much, even if they want to.”

Depression at the hospital. Conscious, alive, but in so much pain.

Don’t worry, the doctor reassures, recovery will go as smoothly as the last time she was here.

… Last time?

Her mother freezes.

The dark-haired girl doesn’t let anyone, even people online, know about this, lest she be judged and mocked for it. It’s just a secret she’ll take to the grave.

“Bidi keeps blaming herself for me developing my condition. But I was happy before. I just think it’s dumb luck.”

Depression is (very reluctantly) told about the operation she had when she was a baby. Depression… doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Hey, Dibi-

Depression doesn’t finish the sentence. The dark-haired girl hastily closes an image and spins around in panic.

“My story’s… a bit mundane, compared to most. Not sure the time I dodged the local pedo because I wanted to keep watching a younger kid counts, but…” Depression shrugs. “I got beat up hard enough that I had to stay like three weeks at the hospital. During my stay there, a doctor mentioned I’d been there outside the typical newborn stuff.”

Depression sees the way a neighbour lady treats Tourette’s. She makes a phone call to the police.

And nobody will know I made the report?

Nobody at all.

And Depression hopes so, especially once she gets word about the police’s dirty secrets the very next day. (Even if she was right about her, she didn’t deserve that.)

What did you see?

I couldn’t see anything.

Good. And Depression doesn’t question the scene further.

“Turns out I had to have an operation when I was a baby. Private parts didn’t develop a very important thing. It’s necessary, my parents wouldn’t do so if it wasn’t, but it feels weird. Wish I knew why.”

“Thanks for saving my life… Surprised you’d even bother.”

A hospital room. NPD has just been moved out of the suicide ward. Early to mid twenties. Pale blonde hair in a ponytail, but much messier than she normally wears. She’s extremely beautiful. She’s a lot less lively looking than how ADHD or Autism are used to seeing her.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; NPD born to a wealthy family. All more focused on her sibling than her. But that’s fine, she can go and find love elsewhere.

“So, nobody will know it’s me or know the disorder in question, right?”

“No-”

“Good, we can continue then.”

She gets diagnosed early. But NPD is not letting anyone else know about it. Only herself and her therapist. She’s not going to let a silly little thing like a diagnosis get in the way of being liked.

“My life was practically perfect growing up, you know. Though that one smudge made it so… Well, I just want to be liked, however I can. Is that so wrong?”

She moves into the apartment complex where the other Neurodiversities live. If anyone asks, she’s there as a volunteer. And that’s how everyone not in the know sees her.

“I decided to move to the Sesame Street apartment complex. Heard it’s pretty good and, well… I want to make new friends.”

And NPD does. With most of them (she doesn’t trust BPD once she hears about why she’s here). But she takes a bit of a shine to Tourette’s. Not in a “favourite person” sense, nor anything inappropriate, but the child adorable and sweet. So she spoils her with any fancy gifts she thinks the girl will like. People like people who give them gifts, right?

“Granted, I do have enough self awareness to know my… condition might be a bit of an issue with my goals.”

NPD and Tourette’s, on a night on the town. NPD casually chats with other strangers, but gives Tourette’s the cold shoulder when she goes to talk to Depression for a moment. Two days later, she goes to make it up to her.

“I think I’m a lovable person. So I can’t imagine why-”

NPD, pinned hard on a police car. Enough to leave bruises. She tries to squirm, but the grip goes tighter as they cuff her.

“Why would simply giving gifts to a child be considered grooming? Isn’t giving gifts nice?”

NPD pleads her case, claims innocence. But her words go unheeded. And then some officers enter the cell…

“Those bastards all assaulted me, all eight. First by themselves, then all at once. I have permanent scars now and I’ve lost a lot of feeling in… yeah. Bleach shouldn’t be used as a fucking lube.”

Eventually she’s let out, as the charges are contested by the child she was accused of harming. She gets a kit done, and then goes home.

“Still kind of sore you guys didn’t believe me initially.”

Rewind; NPD meeting Autism for the first time. She pulls them into a hug.

Hey, mind not hugging me? You’re making me uncomfortable.

Cut; she tells ADHD about how Autism was mean to me. To save face, she claims that ADHD’s mad at you for something you did that you probably forgot. To save face when she notices the two comparing stories, she steps on Depression’s foot and scolds her for yelling for no reason.

“Okay, maybe I exaggerate the truth a little, but I thought you knew I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

She tells the others. But Autism looks doubtful, while ADHD can’t help but say You need to get that victim complex of yours checked. You don’t need to be one for people to like you.

The others regret not believing her when word gets out the very next day.

“They only got arrested because of nepotism. If the chief truly gave a shit about corruption, she’d have removed the rot outside of the ones that hurt her nephew. I don’t care if she didn’t know! She should have! It’s her job!”

Duncan’s parents. The cops that dismissed Mean Girl and Bombyx Mori. The guard that let K-9’s abuse happen.

“I still think that Bidi chick has something to do with what happened. Her kind of people tend to throw people like me under the bus. They claim to be better and morally superior when they’re just as capable of the shit they claim we do, if not even more so.”

Despite everything, NPD goes to check up on BPD once she comes back home. Despite everything, she’s concerned about her wellbeing. You don’t have to go into details, but are you alright? Neither are aware of Depression’s presence, nor of the way she looks at NPD with guilt.

“Those types of people are more focused on looking good than being good. But… how can anyone be good? If everything right down to basic necessities is more than likely to be funding abuse in all shapes and forms? When the alternatives are either expensive as fuck or hard to find? When the system making all this shit possible is hard to dismantle, ethically or otherwise? When they’ll still be making shit that way whether we buy from them or not? So tell me, how can one be good if they’re forced to bear sin no matter what they choose?”

NPD writes a note and gets into the tub with a razor. And she lets everyone believe it’s because of what happened to her, and not because she heard one well-meaning-but-insensitive comment too many.

ADHD and Autism stare at NPD, speechless.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. I’m surprised I could be that honest with myself too.”

“Eh, sure, I can answer some questions. Got nothing better to do.”

ASPD greets the guests well enough. Twenty-four. Dyed white hair with natural pale brown streaks poking out. A bit on the chubby side. Dressed in all white. They seem like any random person you might come across the street. They’re completely calm and neutral.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; ASPD, with a completely normal childhood. With decent parents. And despite the lack of a social life, they’re completely content with their lot in life.

“Experience growing up was alright. Worst that happened was the kids not bothering to give me the time of day, even the isolated ones. But I don’t really care about that much.”

They just want to live a simple life. They help out the best they can (mostly when others are keeping a close eye) and do their best to stay out of people's way.

“Eventually, I was assigned therapy after I got my diagnosis. Helpful to have a non-biased bouncing board for the shit in your head and all.”

A haggard old man with a long white beard. He looks at ASPD with disgust. But ASPD doesn’t really care, and they always answer his questions honestly.

Have you abused animals in the past?

Beyond emotionally, you mean? Nah. Animals aren’t important, but not worth torturing. Violence seems pointless.

“You should’ve seen the look on his face every time I’d answer in a way that broke his bigoted old-timer mind. Completely priceless.”

Eventually ASPD is assigned a surprise meeting. And they don’t think much of it. Sure, I can make it.

“Well, that meeting was supposed to happen the next day, but… it was cancelled for obvious reasons.”

The news about the sub. Of those like them. And despite it… they’re not as bothered by it as most people would be. They see a new therapist. And ASPD’s life goes on.

“Fortunately I started seeing a more competent doctor. I do wonder if he’s related to David Tennant…” A brief pause. “And I wonder if the source of the other guy’s targets was the reason people tended to overlook the other shitty things. Like the racist treatment he did to his Black captives and his stereotypical old people sexism. People would probably be more up in arms if he’d targeted anyone else. Well, except for hate groups. Or cults. Or PLASMA.”

Of course, ASPD is capable of cruel actions; stepping on flowers, not picking up litter when no one's around, throwing away a stick a puppy was playing with just to feel a bit better about themself. Telling little white lies on the internet. Nothing half as big as the doctor did, and they wonder if that might be only for lack of opportunity or energy.

ASPD shrugs “But what do I know? I’m capable of cruelty myself.”

“Yeah, I know the deal. Saw you interviewing Ossie and Li’l Syd earlier.”

DID sits rather casually. Fifteen, dyed green hair, scarred arms hidden under a baggy green hoodie. In front of her lie four drawings, each of another person.

Inner Child is the youngest of the group. Six. Blond hair. Dressed in a white beanie and white overalls. There’s a scared innocence in their eyes.

Protector is a pretty little bird. Twenty-seven. Pink hair tied in a high ponytail. Extremely dainty and dressed in pink. She looks paranoid.

Persecutor is glaring. Eighteen. Messy blue hair. Dressed in punk style, in shades of blue. They look annoyed.

Fierce Protector is the most intimidating of the bunch. Thirty. Muscular, tall body. White hair. Torn karate gi. They look pissed.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; DID wakes up in a room, tied up with ropes and someone standing in the darkness whom she can’t quite make out. It’s a sight she’s more than familiar with.

“I heard it said that DID only develops during childhood, due to extreme trauma or some shit. Also that there’s some variant that doesn’t fuck with your memories. I don’t know, I'm not that knowledgeable about brain shit.”

Inner Child is the first to be born.

I’m hungry.

Alright, let me get the water first. Your burns must hurt. But first they need to get off her.

“I was in that hellhole for as long as I can remember. I don’t have all the dirty details, but… I remember bits and pieces. Of torture.”

Persecutor is the next. They hiss, fight back and act defiant every step of the way.

You need to shut your pretty mouth. Or do you want those dirty wings of yours clipped again?

“I can barely remember the guy too. Vague details, really. It was dark, hard to make out anything in there. All I know about the building was that it was cold and metal.”

Fierce Protector is next. Unlike Persecutor, they don’t bark, but their bite is strong. Enough to trouble the captor. Even though the most they accomplish is to cut their body while the captor pleases himself.

“It’s a time I don’t think of fondly, even if the memory’s hazy.”

Protector is the last. She looks bored. My back hurts.

She catches the captor off guard by pure instinct and runs runs runs.

“Still don’t know how I managed to escape. The first memory I recall out of there is finding myself in Ossie’s place with her staring at me, stunned as fuck.”

DID takes her first shower after the statements (that the other parts of her covered) and forensic exams. Gets to eat something outside of crackers and birdseed. Sleeps in an actual bed instead of a cold hard floor. And doesn’t have to worry about being trapped again. And OCD gives her a book so all parts of her can clearly keep in touch. And no more torture.

“Things are better than before, besides the obvious lingering hangups.”

Despite being protected from the worst of it, she still has vague nightmares about it. Sometimes she clips a bit of her wings. On occasion she goes to get some weed (in gummy or brownie form; the natural state smells too strong for her). But for the most part she’s content. (Especially since neither OCD nor anyone else has had to know more detail.)

“There’s just one thing.”

DID bumps into a girl in a fox hoodie. Inner Child is upset. Protector does her best to shield her. Persecutor yells at her. Fox hoodie girl gets defensive. Fierce Protector gets angry. DID comes around to see the fox hoodie girl running off, holding a bruised cheek.

“I know split personalities aren’t inherently evil, they’re a byproduct of a scared brain trying to protect itself, but…” she sighs. “I kind of hate being in the dark about most stuff. Is it too much to ask for some details?”

“Oh, thanks for putting up with my quirks. I know it can be frustrating to deal with.”

HPD greets the two. Nineteen. Messy white hair contrasting the dark skin. A tired smile graces her lips.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; HPD in a chaotic yet loving household. She adjusts to her settings and learns to adapt.

“Ignorant people tend to class cluster B in basic categories. Antisocial personalities, the heartless murderers; narcissists, the selfish abusers; borderlines, the quirky unstable moodswingers… and histrionics like me are the ones that don’t exist. Even doctors debate if it’s a real diagnosis or not.”

HPD longs for companionship. She tries to act in a way similar to the ones she tries to befriend. She does her hair to match a girl’s bunny-ear pigtails and walks slowly beside a kid with a snail shell themed backpack. She gets a bit too close for comfort. And they reject her, making her feel all alone.

“If they even acknowledge it exists at all, they think it’s a mere attention thing. But that’s not the whole thing.” HPD pauses, looking over herself. “I struggle to have a stable sense of self. Among other things.”

Beneath the cheerful surface is someone with deep emotional vulnerability. Fear of disapproval. An intense longing to be liked.

“I decided to see a therapist help with these issues. And it seemed fine, at first.”

The haggard old man with a beard is very helpful with HPD at first. At least, until her disorder is discovered, and she can’t help but notice the odd looks he keeps giving her. She doesn’t bring it up, as that would be rude.

“And then one day…” Her breath hitches. “Well…”

He offers HPD iced tea. She refuses. I just drink water, if that’s okay.

“So, he went to get the water, but while I was waiting for him to get it, I noticed something on his desk.”

A simple list, one that she can’t help but be haunted by, even before she knows the meaning.

Potential cluster B candidates
Gaz Membrane
Dora Winifred Read
Caillou Desputeaux
Mertle Edmonds
Diamantina Rabinovich
Angelica Pickles
Onion Yellowtail
Jackson Jones
Heathcliff Hodges

And the list goes on.

“It’s horrifying, he planned to do that to children. It’s probably a guess and I might be overreacting but… he’s one of the people that spearheaded allowing diagnosis younger than eighteen. And there were children on that boat, scared that he’d hurt them too…”

Eventually he arrives with the water. She quickly gulps it to keep her nerves down. But eventually she gets tired…

“Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital. I don’t know if he even did anything to me, or if they even checked while I was knocked out, but he was going to, regardless of the answer. Probably would have done the exact same as his other victims to me if he wasn’t murdered that very same day.”

HPD gives her statement, telling all she knows besides one small detail.

“I left out that list partly because I doubt they would believe me despite everything that’s been discovered, partly because I figured they’d discover it during the investigation.”

She goes to meetings with others like her, the ones that went through worse than she ever could. A bit late, but she notices how crestfallen the new therapist for the group looks one day.

She sighs. “Wish I could help the new friends that I made from of this mess.”

“Thanks for helping out with getting Oddie to open up.”

“No problem. I know she can be a bit… difficult.”

ODD is playing with some toys nearby. Three. Curly pale blonde hair. Pale white skin. A cute blue dress over white pull-ups. There’s a happy smile on her face. A total picture of innocence, which can be baffling when ADHD hides behind Autism and looks nervously at her. OCD is holding some pictures ODD drew earlier.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; ADHD bringing a hat to ODD. She just stares at it. But when ADHD places it on her head, the innocent child turns into a vicious monster and tears the hat apart. She eventually calms down when OCD gives her a set of three hats to choose from. She picks one and wears it, like nothing ever happened.

“The disorder is more than just tantrums and breaking stuff. It’s often rooted in feeling powerless or overwhelmed. And from what I could gather… she has reason to feel that way.”

ODD’s birth mom hands the sleeping ODD to OCD. She gives a concerned look to the mother.

Are you sure he won’t look for her?

Positive. Please… keep my baby safe in a way I couldn’t.

OCD holds the pictures that ODD drew. The first depicts a crudely drawn family. ODD, a woman that looks like her, and someone covered in dark black scribbles.

A vicious cycle with no end. Eventually, ODD’s mother takes her to a doctor, who explains her findings. And that’s when she knows this can’t continue. She has to make sure ODD stays safe.

The next picture. The angry scribbles again. They hover over ODD as she continues drawing.

And it keeps going like that. ODD acts up or refuses to listen. Her dad gets angry. He hits her. She acts up even more.

Another picture. The scribbles holding down ODD. Autism and ADHD can’t help but wince.

ODD holds her sore bottom, sobbing her eyes out. Her mother does her best to soothe her, and tries and fails to convince the father about changing discipline tactics. (It was fine when I was a kid.)

Another picture. A circle with four drawings. An angry ODD, angry scribbles. Scribble hands. A sad ODD holding her backside.

ODD coloring on the walls. Her father looks at it, and gets angry. He takes her on his lap, but she doesn’t know what’s going to happen until he raises a hand.

Another picture. ODD and the woman that looks like her, at the doctor’s.

ODD is born. To a loving mother and a… father who tries.

Second to last picture. ODD in the car, as the woman that looks like her takes her to OCD, as explained in a speech bubble with her face.

A one night stand. A positive pregnancy test. A wedding neither wants to be in, but pressured by parents for the kid’s sake.

The last picture. ODD with OCD, DID, Dyslexia and the woman that looks like her visiting. And no scribbles in sight.

Chapter Text

Unlike your typical Western mother, the Chinese mother believes that-

A family photograph: Brains and Brawn. And… Beautiful Boy. Black hair and square glasses. Plain grey sweater-vest. Plain grey tie. He wears a Falun symbol on a chain around his neck. The yin, the yang, the central swastika. He stands between his parents. Anxious and odd.

Schoolwork always comes first

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Brawn is redheaded, hot blooded and vivacious. One of Shlomit and Izebel’s huge brood. Brains, though, hails from Dragon Springs and - before that - Jilin. He never speaks of that. The necklace is his.

An A- grade is a bad grade

Practically speaking, Beautiful is their child. Brawn is the caretaker. The one who bakes cookies and reads bedtime stories. Who picks him up early and treats him to ice cream and the occasional spontaneous brash trip. Laughing, they run into the ocean, with all their clothes on.

Your children must be two years ahead of their classmates in maths

Legally, biologically, Beautiful belongs to Brains. He’s the one who drives him to and from school. Who helps with homework. Who pays for cram school and Chinese school and violin. Who peers over his shoulder as Beautiful Boy works through a math problem.

Not good enough. Your penmanship. Do it again.

Beautiful does.

You must never compliment your children in public

Brawn does. Often. Loudly. To anyone who will listen.

Paul is two years ahead of his classmates! He plays violin and piano! He’s a real chip off the old block, eh? Kidding! Kidding!

Brains does not. Never. He doesn’t compliment Beautiful in private either… except for very late, creeping into his room at night. Watching over him in bed. Never touching him, of course, he would never dream of it. Just watching. Humming an old John Lennon song… The monster’s gone… he’s on the run and your daddy’s here…

If your child ever disagrees with a teacher or a coach, you must always take the side of the teacher or the coach

Professor Ratigan’s been generous enough to offer you a summer internship. You want to turn it down? For what?! Your silly little girlfriend?! Some job selling sunglasses on the beach?!

I don’t want… Beautiful mumbles. Baba, you don’t understand-

I don’t understand! I don’t understand how I could raise such an… an idiot son! So stupid! So ungrateful! Waste of money, you know that?! In China, they would shoot you and sell you for organs!

Rewind; Brains in Jilin. Brains in prison. Head shaved. Necklace torn. They call him poison. CCP soldiers. One of them points his gun to Brains’ head.

Not this one. He’s still good for something.

Fast forward; You! You’re good for nothing!

Beautiful flees the house in tears.

The only activities your children should be permitted to do are those in which they can eventually win a medal, and…

Another photograph; Beautiful Boy. And a redheaded woman. They look happy. Two small children. A boy and a girl. They look happy. Brawn stands there, smiling beside them. He looks happy.

Brains looks down at the photograph. He looks anything but.

That medal must be gold.

Chapter Text

“Haʻaheo e ka ua i nā pali-”

Kilauea. In the shelter of the eruption. Wide-shouldered and heavy-set. He weighs in at maybe half a ton.

“Ke nihi aʻela i ka nahele-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Hawaii is the jewel of the pacific. A kingdom still. Kilaua is born, one of several candidates to bear the weight of his forefathers’ crown. Kilaua is born in the shadow of Mauna Loa. In the year of its eruption. 1868.

“E hahai (uhai) ana paha i ka liko-”

His dear cousin Kalākaua is the one to win the crown. They call him the Merrie Monarch as he becomes the king. Beloved of his people, he removes the ban on Hula. Pries back the White and Christian hand of the United States. The soldiers they send here. The merchants who hide behind them. Kilaua aids him at every step, as well-known and popular as he. They sing together, often.

“Pua ʻāhihi lehua o uka-”

Kilaua feels a fire, somewhere deep, deep inside him. An anger that rumbles and grows. And eventually kills him. Something slipped into his food… Before that, though, he marries a woman. Mauna Loa is quite a bit younger. It’s just as well, they’re just as happy. Let the Haole wonder if it’s for his status. If it’s for her pretty face…

“Aloha ʻoe, aloha ʻoe-”

The year is 1941. Hualalai dances with the water. She sees the planes fly overhead. Headed for Oahu. Another sort of eruption. There have been so many already…

“E ke onaona noho i ka lipo-”

They call him: Pedophile. Cradle robber. Barbarian. Rapist.

Then the king dies. And then Kilaua dies. And Mauna Loa is left with nothing… Nothing but Mauna Kea. And their tunes change.

They call her: Temptress. Killer. Jezebel. Whore.

Either way… none of them are fit to rule, so say the Haole.

“One fond embrace,”

Mauna Kea adorned with wreaths and garlands. Haku Lei Po’o rather than her family’s crown. The only jewel she wears a brooch sparkling on her dress, fixed directly above the heart. The year is 1893. She hides in her bedroom as the coup reaches the palace. She’s just a child - really. And she is afraid.

“A hoʻi aʻe au-”

Liliʻuokalani is elected queen. Hawaii’s first. Hawaii’s last. The Americans think she’ll be sympathetic to their interests. That a girl is easier to mold than a woman would be…

“Until we meet again-”

Kohala screams and throws herself against the door of her bedroom. The year is 1898. She is red with blood. And black with bruises. Hair torn and shorn. Dress shredded. The brooch - her one vanity - torn from its back. No longer recognizable as Mauna Kea. She has become something else entirely.

“O ka haliʻa aloha i hiki mai-”

Liliʻuokalani and Mauna Kea play diplomat for a while. It’s not enough. The coup of 1893. Followed by official annexation. Mauna Kea is arrested, convicted, locked inside her rooms. Kohala is born there, of the things they do to her.

“Ke hone aʻe nei i-”

Hualalai is just born.

“Kuʻu manawa-”

Despite the election. The blood and fire. Despite everything… She asks for her mother.

“O ʻoe nō kuʻu ipo aloha-”

Despite everything. The water and crumbling earth. Mauna Loa comes.

“A loko e hana nei-”

Hualalai crying. Kohala weeps and buries her face in her mother’s shoulder. Mauna Loa holds her gently. Strokes long, calloused fingers through her hair. And sings:

“Maopopo kuʻu ʻike i ka nani-”

She is banished to Niihau. The forbidden island. She leaves her crown behind. But her heart is hard beneath the place where her jewel was ripped away. Her hand is hard.

“Nā pua rose o-”

You can’t trust anyone, Tala. Not your people. Not theirs. No one. Never.

“Maunawili I laila hiaʻia nā manu-”

Hualalai doesn’t make many friends. She grows up dancing with the sea.

“Mikiʻala i ka nani o ka liko-”

Pearl Harbor. Three years of martial law. Hualalai hides Japanese and Hapas in her attic. And plays up the “village crazy lady” act when pressed.

“Aloha ʻoe, aloha ʻoe-”

They call her Grandma Tala. She is a queen in her own right. She is patient. She is kind. She teaches that to her son. He teaches that to his children.

“E ke onaona noho i ka lipo-”

Nine sons. And one daughter. Nine sons and a mainlander takes them all away. Cut; nine sons return home broken. And Hualalai dies before she sees them again - 2016, respiratory infection. Something to do with the black smoke overhead.

“One fond embrace,”

One more daughter. They name her Simea. God has heard. They hope Hualalai is listening.

“A hoʻi aʻe au-”

Mauna Loa is tall and thin. With thick black hair. Dressed in green. She is ancient. The year is 1959. Hawaii is a state now. And something is boiling. Deep, deep down.

“Until we meet again-”

Chapter Text

I am a doctor. I’m a good doctor.

GASP is the man from QUIET’s tape. Dark hair, greying. Pale, very pale. Eyes rimmed red.

My clients are those who have committed various offenses. Violent or otherwise. Mostly sexual. Some have been abused themselves. And I help them. Because that’s what a good doctor ought to do. No matter what they tell me. It doesn’t matter. Not at all.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; GASP’s office is meticulously clean and quiet. No bright colors. No soft toys. No music on the speakers. A circle in the center of the room. A loop, a wheel of seven chairs. Always seven. Even as the faces come and go.

Names, please! Names!

Klaus Beck. Condition of my parole.

Remorse?

That’s between me and the Lord. Not for the law to get mixed up in. He scowls. The Vatican understands - soon as my time is up, they’ll find somewhere else for me. Argentina, maybe. I can repay my debt. There’s a school there.

I’m not a mad scientist. I’m just a scientist. The experiment was my idea though. No one else should get the blame for it or the credit. My patients are volunteers. Mostly. Some chose this as a sort of “get out of jail” free card. Some want help. Genuinely.

Vladimir Braginsky. Military service. I would have my wife… She was a deep sleeper. And my daughter. I liked to pretend that they weren’t asleep.

Necrophilia, then? GASP says curtly. He makes a note.

It was like that during the war.

I take my inspiration from what the Americans call “conversion therapy.” Among other things. Tactics employed by the CCP. Or the KGB. Controversial. Dubiously ethical—as if paraphiles deserve any better. In any case, it’s effective. Very, very effective. If not in changing that root desire, then in ensuring that the patient doesn’t wish to reoffend.

Oliver Kirkland. I want to taste other people.

GASP looks on curiously. In what way?

He picks at something in his teeth, wiping it on the upholstering. The couch is pink. But red where his fingers touch it.

I’d love to try it on with another, larger test group. My stepson complains about his boarders. Perhaps I should ask for volunteers there. They sound unstable. If any of your readers wish for advice or further assistance from a professional, I would be happy to oblige.

I’m Matthieu Williams. He’s Allen F. Jones. I’m just here to support him.

Do you remember why you’re here?

Furrowed brow behind the shades. Bits and pieces. It’s like watching a movie. Standing there as it all goes down.

It’s nothing too unusual. I don’t think… Nothing they won’t live through. Needles. Electric convulsion. Aversion therapy. And I have consent. Say what you will, but I’m helping them. I can’t make them ‘normal’ but I can make them whole. I can’t fix them. But I can change them. They’ll never hurt anyone else.

François Bonnefoy. In a seductive voice. A wink. Puts a hand on GASP’s shoulder.

And if I have a little fun along the way… Other doctors wouldn’t take advantage. Other doctors wouldn’t help either.

Not the Vargases, though. They move symbiotically. Stiffly. Like dolls. Or marionettes with fraying strings.

My brother Luciano.

My brother Flavio.

If you touch him… I will kill you.

I don’t do anything to them that I haven't tested first.

GASP walks home from the subway station. A family-sized house in Tokyo Common. He nods to GUARD, home for dinner. He ruffles QUIET’s hair.

Headed to bed. Long day.

Cut; GASP in bed. Hooked up to one of his own contraptions. The scent of burning skin and singed pubic hair as he presses the button over and over and over again. On his laptop screen, pictures of a sleeping boy. Tall for his age. In a girl’s T-shirt over boxer briefs. One hair standing up like a flagpole.

If I had the option…

If I were a deviant…

I would do anything to change. I would do anything.

-Gathering All Sharpened Points

A Story about GASLIGHT

“Your name is Allen F Jones. The F stands for Francis. You are fine. You are safe. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.”

GASLIGHT is the one with the dark brown hair, the tinted glasses, the barbed-wire smile, the red-rimmed eyes…

“Your name is Matt Williams. And you’re my… You’re… Shit. Fuck. I can’t remember.”

GASLIGHT is the one with the hockey-player’s shoulders. The sandpaper stubble along his jawline. The shaggy, honey-colored hair.

“Al. Al, breathe. Come on. You don’t have to remember. That’s what I’m for.”

Instead of an analysis, a memory; it starts with a gang rape. There’s no nice way of saying it. A prison just south of the Canadian border. They hold GASLIGHT down and take turns with the new kid. They hold GASLIGHT back and make him watch.

Shit, I’m so sorry. Al, I… I’m so sorry.

Still covered in blood and other fluids, GASLIGHT turns to his counterpart. There’s something innocent and broken shining through his eyes. Bloodshot and glassy. What are you apologizing for? I’m the one who…

“We were cellmates. Dannemora.”

“They busted us running H across the border. Quebec to Vermont. Five years minimum. Seven until we got parole. We were just kids then. Younger than my kids are now.”

“Al and Matty, anyway. Madeline’s still in grade school.”

“Shit. Yeah. Him forbid.”

“Maybe don’t take the name in vain.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right… Al’s an Adventist. Got really into this stuff… after. Never appealed to me. Maybe I don’t need it as bad as him.”

The infirmary. GASLIGHT paces as the doctor performs the exam. GASLIGHT stares straight ahead. Looking at nothing. Not until it’s over. And then he smiles. Way to go, Matt. You did great. Nevermind that it’s him sitting there, stitched, and stoned, and numb as hell.

“I don’t remember what happened.”

“I do. Bits and pieces.”

Therapy. They bring him in to talk to a counselor. Mr. Jones? How have you been holding up?

Shouldn’t you be asking Williams?

Why would I… Oh. Can you tell me what happened last week? In your own words?

“They say maybe I don’t want to remember. I don’t get it, I mean… it’s not like it happened to me.”

If he says so enough times, maybe he’ll believe it. Maybe GASLIGHT can make the other him believe it too. And, GASLIGHT does… eventually. Starts to doubt his own recollections. Starts to doubt himself. They’re both blind and miserable. Terrified for each other and of each other and of themselves.

Don’t worry, Matt. No one will hurt you. Ever again. I promise.

GASLIGHT shoves him hard. What the hell stopped you before?

“It’s just… muddled.”

GASLIGHT is already broken. Breaking further as he tries not to be. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened to me.

“If Matt says so… that’s what happened.”

GASLIGHT isn’t broken… not yet, but the cracks are there and getting deeper. He remembers more than his counterpart’s bits and pieces. They’re not broken. Yet. But they are breaking.

“If Allen says so… that’s good enough for me.”

In therapy. Tell me what happened.

And GASLIGHT does. As per usual. This time though… the other him has something to say about it. Resentment-fueled delusion.

Matt was raped.

Allen raped me.

And they both believe it. With all they can believe.

“What the fuck is gaslighting?”

gO aND sEE lIKE i gOT hIM tO

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. God forgive me.”

GRACE is the father from GENUFLECT’s story. GRACE is the man from AMEN’s. Together. The old man with white hair. The young one with blond, with the scar on his cheek.

“You forgive me… don’t you, my son?”

“I don’t know.”

“But-”

“You’ve never asked before.”

Instead of analysis, a memory; GRACE looks away from the altar boys, resisting. Tempting. Dabbing a tissue at his lips. He tries. He really does.

“Lutz was my first. I held out for so long and I couldn’t… I’m only human. That’s all I am. And he was - and you were - beautiful. Beautiful then and now.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“… I’m sorry.”

GRACE is a child. And then he isn’t. Puberty hits him and hits him hard. And, with that, the pain of realization. ‘You’ve been used.’ GRACE moves on to another boy.

“I threatened to tell when I was… about sixteen, seventeen years old. Around then. I was hurt and angry and confused… physically, sexually. I wanted to take that out on someone more than I wanted justice for myself.”

GRACE swallows. “And I took advantage of that.”

AMEN is just one girl. Just one of many. Nuns. Female parishioners. Scared to go up against the priest. They do as they’re told, as GRACE tells them. And so they go under. As GRACE holds them down. And they don’t say anything. And GRACE picks another boy. And that boy is GENUFLECT.

“I took advantage.” And he buries his face in his hands, fingers twisting around the plastic rosary.

GENUFLECT’s story comes apart in pieces. His father still sends money. Still calls on Sunday. Still worries, thousands of miles and a world away. He calls the landlord. Wolfgang Beilschmidt. Yes. I want to request a wellness check. Yes. My son. What do you mean which one?

“Sorry? What for? It’s not like I made ‘em do anything. I just did it with ‘em. Free pussy is free pussy, amiright?”

AMEN’s story falls apart. Her sister sobbing in her arms. Clutching her belly. I can’t go back. I can’t go back there-

Then don’t.

I’m not like you, Germaine. I can’t… I don’t… I’m not good at anything except being good… Without God - what else is there?

Not without God. Without the church.

“I was a lot younger. It was a lot worse.”

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world-

Mass. GENUFLECT’s father storms up the center aisle and punches GRACE as hard as he can. As hard as he’s ever hit anyone.

Have mercy on us.

“I didn’t press charges. Mr. Beilschmidt had every right to… I understand. I’m sick. I can’t help it. But if I were in his position…”

“They wouldn’t let me press charges. Bet it’s ’cuz she’s a girl. Fuckin’ psycho-ass hosebeast. Kicked my teeth in.”

GRACE chokes on his water. “Sister Julchen?”

“Nah, man. Her sister. And half a dozen or so of her ugly dyke friends.”

AMEN - butch and blonde and bulky. More girls in motorcycle jackets. And cross necklaces.

‘Mariä Engel.’

“It’s not my fault. I’m sorry. God forgive me. Forgive me. If you don’t… no one else will.”

gOD rIGHTS aLL cHRISTIAN eVILS

“I love, love, love my sister! So very much!”

GLOW is GIT’s same-aged nephew, and the face is similar, but the mannerisms… not at all. Blue eyes with whites streaked pink, and red between the teeth which the others hope is frosting. A crocodile grin wide enough to split his lower lip.

“And she loves me too. She’s ever so much help!”

Instead of an analysis, a memory; GLOW in the kitchen at an early age, singing merrily and baking like a pro. He cuts his finger while chopping cherries, and is too caught up in the joy of creation to even notice the blood mixing in the batter until he tastes the finished product. The family asks his secret and he nods and winks and never tells.

“We’re twins, you see. There’s something special about that. No matter what they say. I love her. I love her. I think that’s why I want to… to touch her too.”

GLOW wants, no, needs to hurt her. He wants to bite down on her, draw blood, swallow. CUNNING is none the wiser, too busy looking at him down the rim of her own glasses. Something wrong, Ollie?

N-no. Of course not.

“We have a cousin that resembles her quite a bit… From the back anyway,” he adds, snidely. “Alice. Poor, homely thing. But she wears her hair the same. And they both dress in that Lolita style. I… I had to do it! It had to be one of them.”

Ruffles and lace are hiked up, the chiffon and silk covering the blood. CUNNING watches through the cracked door.

“Tiffany let me know when Alice was on her period. For the blood, and, er, for birth control reasons. Turns out that doesn’t actually work. Who knew?” He shrugs and continues smiling. “I told you Tiffany was so helpful. She even tried to solve that problem for us!”

The baby in the sink, in ENCHANTED’s hands, snatched away just in time. Cut; Bloodwit has a new little brother.

Peter Andersen.

Not Oxenstierna? asks Bloodwit. Has Mor even met him yet?

Someth’n’ w’ the paperw’rk. Name legally has t’ be same ‘s my existin’ kid’s.

Are you in contact with his birth parents?

… ‘S complicated.

Ah. Hope whatever it is ain’t hereditary.

“It might have been nice, I suppose… To have someone else around to play with. Boys are just as good as girls - not just at that age either. I don’t have much of a preference. Boy. Girl. Doesn’t matter. It’s just that, well… my mind keeps drifting back to her.”

GLOW and CUNNING bake together. Cookies. Cakes. Candy-sweets. Sugary things. And she smiles at him. And he smiles back. And imagines her screaming as he tears her apart.

“I love her. But not like that. I want her. But not like that. I love her but not like that. I need her but not like that. I love-”

It is like that. No matter how hard he tries to force it otherwise.

His lips are trembling in that crocodile grin. “You would understand if you met her. I think all of you would love her.”

He still loves his sister. He still wants her. He still needs her. He still wants to hold her down. And bite down until the squirming stops and the blood flows between them.

“My sister’s just the sweetest.”

gET lOST oDIOUS wANTS

“Don’t talk to my brother. Don’t even look at him.”

GORE is two men. Like GASLIGHT. Like GRACE. Sniffling. The blond one hides behind his brother. Tinted glasses. Thousand-dollar cashmere suit. Spotless white. The dark haired one, the younger one, is dressed in black.

One to cover up the blood. One to cover up the bruises.

“And no funny business. I’ll kill you. You’ll have to go through me.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; GORE is older. Stylish. Personable… but effeminate. His peers are merciless. He comes home crying. Until he doesn’t.

“It felt so pathetic, you know?” GORE sniffles. “I was always - always - the victim. And Luci… Luci was the protector.”

“I didn’t mind. Idioto.”

“Yes, but it’s supposed to go the other way around. I’m the older brother.”

GORE is the younger brother. Tough as nails. He does not cry when he scrapes a knee or falls off his bicycle. Flavio is sensitive, Mama says. You must always look after him.

Cut; her washing a bloody knife off in the sink. You must always look after him.

And now GORE knows what that means.

“I can’t help it. The way I am. I’m just…” GORE wipes his eyes behind his glasses. “What’s wrong with liking fashion? What’s wrong with looking good? Is that a crime? I just… I can’t help it if I’m a fag or a crybaby.”

Stone-faced, GORE pats his shoulder. “I can’t help it either.”

His first girlfriend. Their first time. He forces her down onto the bed. Catching her hair when she runs for the door.

Cut; GORE opens the door to find GORE on the other side. Whimpering. Watching him through clammy fingers. Oh… Shit. Shit. Fratello.

And he gets down on the ground and comforts his brother. While the girl lies in a mess of her own blood.

Shh. Fratello. I didn’t mean to remind you of him.

“There are some good women. Take Mama. Mostly though… I wouldn’t have to put them in their place if they didn’t make eyes at my brother. Fottuta puttana.”

Mama serves a drink to the other girl, mixes sugar in. And the girl doesn’t return again. That’s alright, GORE doesn’t miss her. That’s alright… until he brings home another girl. She has blonde hair and smells of liquor. And GORE looks at her. Looks at his brother. And imagines malice in the curl of her smile, the sway of her step.

She’s no good. She’s going to… I just know it.

He doesn’t. But GORE almost believes it. And GORE believes him. Hook, line, and sinker.

“All men are trash.”

It’s not that GORE hates women. It is just that GORE dates them exclusively. Mama poisons their bodies. GORE poisons their self esteem. GORE poisons their image in his brother’s eyes.

“All women are whores.”

Luciano is your little brother, Mama says, the first time he ever holds him. You must always look after him.

And GORE is sensitive. And GORE is fragile. And GORE finds a way…

“All men are trash. All women are whores.”

He cuts the palm of his own hand. Forces tears to his eyes. Throws himself onto his brother’s shoulder.

She’s no good for you! Just look at what she did!

“Ah well. We only need them for one thing.”

“For everything else, there’s always family.”

gETTING oFF’S rEALLY eASY

“Let’s do something after we’re done here.”

GRAPE is the one from GROPE’s tape, the first marriage. Sour-faced, stubbled, smelling of cigarettes. Not very seductive. He speaks as if he expects a yes regardless.

“You're welcome, by the way.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; he leaves a marriage with bruises left behind. Red and green and purple.

He pours a glass of wine, serves it to GORE. The house is soon ablaze.

He lights another cigarette. Puts it out on another’s skin, dark blisters on pale arms.

“Sex addiction. Porn addiction. Hypersexuality. Anong… other predilections. I agreed to participate as a condition of my parole. Not because I did anything any man wouldn’t do. If he had the chance. The choice.”

A girlfriend’s daughter. She comes home and comes after him with the knife.

You bitch! If you tell anyone, I’ll bring you down with me! You think I don’t know what you do with those boys?!

“I’ve been charged a dozen or so times. They say I’m sick. I don’t think so. Men like sex and women don’t.”

Different people each time. The men that don’t, he still does. The women that do, he disregards but does it anyways. He sneaks out. Handcuffs. Propositions that go nowhere.

“I wouldn’t call myself a pedophile. Much as my ex wife disagrees… and my ex husband. Her ex husband. It’s… complicated. Logistically. I don’t go after children because they’re children.”

Prepubescent, that is. Pubescent is another story. And even then…

“That’s where I went wrong, I’d wager.”

GROPE’s daughter is at the cusp. The sardonic, bespectacled one. With the cards and the long blonde hair.

“Women are easy targets. Men are too ashamed to say anything.”

ENAMOR comes at him, slashing and swinging. She breaks a bottle over his head. Blood and Bordeaux. His head has to be shaved at the hospital, the glass picked from his scalp.

“Rape is one thing. But everyone hates a pedophile.”

More people discarded when he’s done. One who was propositioned - OCEAN - dismissed before anything could be done. Old enough, sure, but too crass even for GRAPE. A shame. His prospects are far fewer with his new reputation.

“Their loss.”

gENTLEMEN rARELY aPPRECIATE pROPER eTIQUETTE

“As I said, military service.”

GREET is stoic. Short dark hair, large nose, baggy eyelids. Still in uniform. Maybe even bigger than his GIANT son.

“I don’t know if I can say it gave me this issue, but that was when it, shall we say, became apparent. I imagine there are worse ways to discover it. I was supposed to be killing people there.”

Instead of an analysis, a memory; GREET signs up for military service. Like anyone, he’s afraid. Like many, he channels that into making others, even his own side, fear him. He’s intimidating without trying. It comes easily when he does try.

“Mother Russia makes you strong.”

He shoots civilians in the face, brain and flesh splattered across his uniform. Others, he holds down, gets the fibers of their torn clothing across his uniform. It does not concern him if they move or not. Until soon he prefers it if they don’t. And he thinks of his wife back home. His kids, almost as much as her.

“Mother Russia makes you cold.”

He invades the remains of a hotel basement, leaving one dead and nine to witness the decomposition.

“Mother Russia makes you hard.”

He leaves bodies behind, carrying his lack of remorse. Guns pulled on fellow soldiers. Returns from service, no dishonorable discharge here. Hands on his wife’s throat, then his daughter’s waist.

“Mother Russia makes you hard.”

His wife jerks back like the woman in the basement. And he gets rougher.

“Mother Russia makes you… lonely.”

He strangles GIANT. That’s what does it. His family disappears into the snow. And the blizzard covers up the footmarks that trail behind.

“Mother Russia makes you strong,” he repeats.

His daughter returns. Shorn hair. Sagging belly. Carrying ENORMOUS. Leading her brother by the hand. Cut; another child is born. Not even a year later. The little brother. Colorless hair. Colorless eyes. And then she disappears again. And GREET is alone in the cold.

“I am a good soldier.”

gREAT rESOLVE eNDURES eVEN dEATH

GASP,

You didn’t really ask a question here, did you send too soon or were you just venting? COMPLETELY understandable if you were. Therapy is so, so stressful to do - it’s hard enough just offering advice here, though of course I wouldn’t dream of stopping. I can only imagine how tough it is to do day in and day out for years, especially working with such difficult issues. Please make sure you’re looking after yourself!

I don’t think it would be legal for us to send you our readers’ personal info, we have a confidentiality policy, but we can certainly forward anyone who asks to you. I hope you get the test subjects you need!

-Mod Kanra

Chapter Text

The Seven Seas are seven sisters. One of them is Princess Paraplegia. Now she is the Red Sea with the long red hair. And the ones that came before.

Adriatic Sea. Short blond hair, pink headband, dressed in purple. Arabian Sea. Brown bouffant with white pearls, dressed in blue. Black Sea. Black hair tied back. Caspian Sea, light hair covering one eye, dressed in red. Mediterranean Sea, brown hair tied up in a poofy ponytail. Persian Sea, hair a darker shade of red compared to Red Sea, all pinned up in a bun.

“O the ocean's waves will roll-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Red Sea is born in a flood of the same. Too small and too big at the same time. Legs first. Her mother bleeds so much it’s a surprise she doesn’t die then and there. Cut; Red Sea in her father’s arms. Fussing noisily.

This is Ariel. Your little sister.

“And the stormy winds will blow-”

Their father has a sister. Two sisters. Their father’s sister has two sons. It happens the way it usually does. At the hands of one or the other. And they never tell anyone. Not even each other.

“While we poor sailors go skipping to the top-”

The Adriatic Sea doesn’t say anything because she provoked them. Called them ugly first, small during and lousy after. It’s your fault. It’s your fault for being such a bitch.

The Arabian Sea doesn’t say anything because she knows that the Caspian Sea will follow suit. Caspian doesn’t say anything because they tell her anyway. You want to be like Aquata, don’t you?

The Black Sea doesn’t say anything because she blames herself. She throws away the shirt she was wearing. And most of her other clothes.

The Mediterranean Sea doesn’t say anything about this time because she’s done it before. She’s had a dozen other boyfriends. A hundred or so crushes. Boy band posters on every wall. She’s not a virgin. Before or after. She didn’t bleed.

The Persian Sea doesn’t say anything because she’s the oldest. The strong one. Her sisters need her more than she needs them.

Each one of the Seven thinks that they are alone.

“And the landlubbers lie down below-”

The Red Sea can’t say anything at all.

“-and the landlubbers lie down below.”

Moananuiākea and Te Moana Nui a Kiwa. The Princess. Again. Years and years later. She’s not standing, but Te Moana Nui a Kiwa is. Her legs are sunburned. Bad.

“Twas Friday morn when we set sail-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Moananuiākea attends the Karl May Festival, leading Moana Nui a Kiwa by the hand. Germany. White men with wigs. Women with braids in their hair. Leather and fringe. They dance… a mockery of a real powwow. Zeewanhacky is there. Holding a single sign, high above her head. She is calm. She is quiet. Even so the men - German men - come and tear at her hair and clothes.

Cut; Greenland. The (White, privileged) Notion has Snow White skin and ebony hair and lips as red as blood. And she dances too. She sings from her throat. And nobody listens. They focus on the whiteness of her skin instead. And not the way her eyes turn downwards.

NO MORE STOLEN SISTERS.

ReverseMermaid
Should a yt person really be the one saying this though?

“And we were not far from the land-”

Yaluwar walks on eggshells, on broken glass. Alphecca is kind, but firm. She does not coddle. She does not croon. I’m just happy to help, Yaluwar says. In any way I can.

‘Should a yt person really be the one saying this?’

Yucatán in her quince dress. Yellow silk billowing up around her. She’s Franca-Mexicana. Guerita. With white, white skin, brown eyes and hair.

I’m not White-

You are by Latin standards. Maybe stay in your own lane.

“When the captain, he spied a lovely mermaid-”

Should a White girl-

Moananuiākea watches as al-MuHiiT al-Hindiy performs the Hagallah, shielding her daughter’s eyes when the man in the front row reaches down the front of his trousers. With horror, she realizes he’s not alone.

Why do you care so much? I mean… aren’t you White? If she was uncomfortable, she could have said something. Anyway, it’s belly dancing - isn’t that sort of like a striptease? You brought your kid to that? If anything, that makes you the creepy one.

“With a comb and a glass in her hand-”

Moana Nui a Kiwa wants to learn the Haka. Wants to learn the Hula. On both accounts, Moananuiākea refuses.

It’s my culture too! Not just yours! Not just Dad’s! Just because you want to be White doesn’t mean I have to be!

Melody, I… It’s not like that. I don’t want them to look at you that way!

They say history repeats, but in this instance, it rhymes. Moana Nui a Kiwa doesn’t go to the one that has hurt Moananuiākea (she and her sons were dealt with long before she was even born). She goes to the other sister. The crazy one. She doesn’t repeat what happened, she didn’t even have a chance to even if she wanted. She’s more interested in using Moana Nui a Kiwa to steal from her grandfather, to prove her worth to her mother. Still, during the verbal confrontation between her and her brother and her niece, they talk about what happened to Moananuiākea. To her aunts. To some of her mother’s friends. And Moana Nui a Kiwa doesn’t bring it up, as neither knows she heard the whole thing.

She can tell me when she’s ready, Moana Nui a Kiwa says to herself. But… when is anyone able to feel ready to tell their child their worst pain?

The Seven Cs are many more than seven. The changing rooms of Dingo Studios. A swirl of young women and teenage girls.

These are the veterans: Completeness with black hair, in a yellow dress. Conciseness - a strawberry blonde in silvery blue. Consideration is a slightly darker blonde in pink. Also in pink, Concreteness with her fiery red hair. Courtesy in yellow. Clearness and Correctness in harem pants and faux-leather. They’re the token ‘other’ - a raindrop in a sea of seafoam.

“Then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Spit spot, girls! Completeness claps her hands, smiling very, very tightly. First of all, let us just congratulate you on becoming official Dingo Princesses.

Round of applause for our new princesses, everyone!

Yes, yes. It’s all very exciting. But, well… we have a few rules. Important ones! That we ask that you follow… if you want to keep your crown, that is…

“And a brave old man was he-”

You must never break character. No matter what. If there is a fire. If there is an emergency. You must conduct yourself like a princess. Do you understand?

Consideration starts in now: That doesn’t just apply to emergencies.

If a guest approaches you, remain calm and cheerful.

If a guest talks to you, accept it with grace.

And if a guest touches you, do not fight back.

It’s unfortunate, you know… but what can you do? Reputation is everything. Take it in stride. No matter what. Remain cheerful. Remain calm. If you want to keep your crown, that is…

“He said, This fishy mermaid has warned me of our doom-”

I just don’t think you’re a good fit for us. No, no, it’s not that. It’s just… your lifestyle. We try to keep up a family friendly image. We can’t have a gay princess. Not around grandmothers and little kids! Try to understand, please… Or be discreet. Of course, if you’re open to a change, your company health insurance should be more than enough to cover… well.

“We shall sink to the bottom of the sea!”

These are the initiates, half dressed or undressed or dressed in pajamas:

Credibility - barefaced, black-haired. Co-Text sipping boba, dressed in green. Content and Clarity (the lovers) brushing each other’s hair. Continuity and Consistency (the sisters) braiding theirs. Channels wringing water from her own curls.

Capability of Audience. The newest one. The Champion, a few years older. With a look of fire in her eyes.

Five dark-haired daughters. Mare Adriaticum is the sixth. The only redhead. The Alboran Sea has a snowy-white beard and a big beer belly. And a laugh that shakes the room.

“And up spoke the mate of our gallant ship-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Lou Gehrig’s Disease. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Six daughters. And only one is born healthy.

With medication, we can slow it down to a trickle. Still though, they’ll get sicker over time.

How sick?

They’ll die.

“And a well-spoken man was he-”

The Alboran Sea is too old to work. Too tired and fragile and frail. Mare Adriaticum is too young to get a real job. Well then. Well. There are other ways. Those other ways work well, for a time.

“I have me a wife in Salem by the sea-”

Prostitution charges. Handcuffs around her reddened wrists. Alboran Sea is a free man. The money in his back pocket, all for himself. And there goes the money. And there go her sisters. Mare Adriaticum throws herself against the bars and wails.

And tonight she a widow will be,”

Fars. Sharp eyes and long red hair. Larwi in blue. Harklanf bedecked in iridescent silk. Opalescent. Kalah in gold and yellow. Salahit is their killer. Kadranji is their mother.

Sanji is the last.

“And up spoke the cookie of our gallant ship-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; she’s a good sister. They all are. They love each other. They live together. It’s not their fault when Salahit breaks into pieces and pierces them with each broken, bleeding edge.

“And a red hot cookie was he-”

Kadranji does not attend the wedding. Away on business, across the ocean, when her whole world goes up in smoke. In the years that follow, she finds love in another woman. And some measure of peace.

“Saying I care much more for my pots and my pans-”

Kadranji has another daughter. Sanji. Light-skinned. Red-haired. She is everything. And a constant reminder of everyone that came before. Kadranji has other children. Sons though. Not daughters. Still… this is the one she worries for. And Sanji knows and never tells her when a man from the mainland takes her and breaks her apart.

“Than I do for the bottom of the sea-”

The Caribbean Sea has bright red hair, locs braided seamlessly with the dark, tight hair at the scalp. A few gold cuffs. And sparkly tights under her quadrille.

Rio Magdalena and Atrato are her sisters. Chagres her father. San Juan and Coco are his sisters. Motagua is Coco’s little girl.

“Then three times around went our gallant ship-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; They are Caribbean. From the Caribbean. Afro-Caribbean. And Indo-Caribbean. And “Carib” as the settlers called it, decades back. The Caribbean Sea is not Black enough for the Africans. Not Indian enough for the Indians of either kind. And she’s not white. But she’s not nothing either.

“And three times around went she-”

Haiti is a beautiful flower with a dangerous heart. The streets are stalked by and stocked with armed men in balaclavas, faces dripping in the heat. Sirens echo like siren songs, down the street, across the water, through all hours of the night. Most nights, the Caribbean doesn’t sleep until morning. Until her father comes home.

Oh, Ariel… did you really wait up for me?

I was worried, she mumbles sleepily.

He’s bwa kale, her sisters tell her. That’s what Aunt Ursula told me.

If it weren’t for him, G-9 would walk all over us.

“Three times around went our gallant ship-”

They come in the night. Men with guns. Faces hidden. Glowing with sweat like wax. They tie Carribbean first. Then her sisters. The little cousin. The two aunts. Where’s your father? Tell me or I swear to-

But the Caribbean Sea doesn’t know. Even when they try to beat and break and force it out. (Though they end up regretting it in their final moments as Chagres comes and Chagres rises and deals with them personally for what they did to her.)

“And she sank to the bottom of the sea-”

The Seven Seas are Seven ‘Sisters.’ Six of them seated - in chairs modified for the sport. Piton and Brinedove and Saithe and Apneic. Chaine and Fracus. Some in casts or leg braces. In matching jerseys. ‘Calisota Mermaids.’

Carinae is the youngest. The one with the dark red hair. Sixteen years old. She wears a cheerleader’s uniform. Bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“O the ocean's waves will roll-”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Carinae is a singer-songwriter. And a CODA along with that. She sings as loud as she wants in the house where nobody hears her. In school, she’s often told to quiet down. To fold her legs one over the other, and her hands in her lap. To be quiet. No, to be silent.

Why are you Black girls always so loud?

Maybe she’s autistic. Don’t be mean.

“And the stormy winds will blow-”

But Carinae is not autistic. She is not dyslexic. She does have ADHD or ADD. And she isn’t loud. She’s just louder than they’d like her to be - teachers and peers alike. They take her out of music class, to run more tests, taking note of her irritation like a symptom of disease. And they place her in special education. With the handsome, silver-haired teacher. And six other little girls.

“While we poor sailors go skipping to the top-”

M. Cendre-Gratton. He coaches wheelchair basketball. And flinches when they play the Catholic school kids bussed in from the county over. Sometimes she calls him ‘Dad’ by accident. He teaches Carinae to sit and shoot.

I’m not really on the team though, am I? I’ll always be the odd one out.

Well… you’re not in a wheelchair, but we could use a cheerleader. The main team never comes to any of our games.

“And the landlubbers lie down below-”

It happens at one of their games. Someone’s father maybe. Or brother. Or just some opportunistic sleazebag.

The retarded cheerleader! Jackpot.

He drags Carinae behind the bleachers. Covers her mouth. Starts pulling off her clothes. She can’t scream. She doesn’t have to. The singing’s stopped and silence echoes like a siren. The Six remaining are there in a moment. Basketball is not a contact sport. But they make contact. Over and over again.

“And the landlubbers lie down below…”

Chapter Text

“I’m blind.”

The Immune System has brown hair and dark glasses. And a white cane.

“Not completely. Not yet. Glaucoma. It’s an auto-immune condition. It’ll take my eyes eventually.” He taps his cane against the stage. A hollow noise. “This… These are our eyes. But they can be a lot more than that.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Carabastion stands over him in dark foggy rain, backing twelve paces away. Him and half the football team. Blood red and bright red and the Immune System's broken glasses. Pus and tears and more blood on his face.

Sick!

Gross, dude!

Some of them scream. Some gag. All of them turn tail and run away.

“The science teacher found me. Lancer was always such a hardass… giving special treatment to the jock kids. But, I guess, he came through for me. I’m one of those Xavier freaks. The Muties. Yeah… I’m blind, not deaf. I hear what people say. Someone called the prof. He sent Logan to get me. We’ve never really… I mean, I always thought he hated me.”

The Immune System. The hospital. Eyes shut tight. Streaming even in the dimmed, dimmed lights. The door bursts open. And Logan - a burly man with as much hair on his arms as on his head - bursts in with it, holding up a pair of tinted glasses.

Everybody just back off for a second. Gimme a second to get these on. … You okay, kid?

“It’s not about seeing. At least, not anymore. I can’t see well, even with the glasses. But without them… Have you ever looked directly at the sun? It’s like that but worse. Stings like the dickens. Hurts like a bitch.”

He’s discharged the following evening. Shuffling after Logan and out to the car. Once home, the Immune System locks his door and draws the blackout curtains, plunging the room into darkness.

“I was a mess. Of course I was. This wasn’t even the worst thing that’s ever happened to me - when my parents died, and my brother was adopted… But it made me feel like nothing. Like I was helpless.”

Self defence classes. At the Y, taught by another blind person - a grumpy, ancient Asian lady. With gray hair. And clouded green eyes. Toph Beifong. Sifu Beifong. Lord Gorgon’s grandmother…

“But I’m not helpless.” He holds the cane in front of him now. Gripping opposite ends of it. “And you don’t have to be.”

Sifu calls it Cane Fu and models the class after the Praying Mantis style. She has passed now, but he will never forget her words.

Your cane is your eyes. It’s a weapon. Not a crutch. You are a weapon.

“I am a weapon.”

Two girls. Big hair. Black hair. One with red woven into it. Screaming. Fighting. Throwing themselves against each other as hard as they can. The dark-haired one knocks the cane from her sister’s hand, then knocks her feet out from underneath her. She’s about to bring her own cane down again, when the Immune System steps between.

You okay?

Y-yes. Thank you. How did you… She trails off. You have the blindness too.

“There’s no shame in needing help. Believe me. We’ve all been there.” The Immune System’s glasses slide a little. Down to the end of his nose. “But you don’t have to be helpless either.”

“I’m deaf.”

The Nervous System lets go of Immune’s free hand. She signs and speaks. Her inflection perfect. Sharpened cheekbones and long red hair.

“I wasn’t born deaf. That came later. I wasn’t born sick. At least not like that. Autism. Childhood schizophrenia. If anything, I heard too much.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Nervous System lies on the floor. Kicking. Screaming. Hands over her ears. It does nothing to block out the sound.

“It’s enough to drive you crazy. Too much sound. Too many noises. I want… I wanted… I’ll never be alone inside my head. And I want to be alone.”

The car pulling past the house. The lawnmower down the street. Her mother’s voice, while the Nervous System is alone in her room. Too many voices. It’s hard to think over the screaming. She scratches her arms and legs. Feels like she’s on fire. Screaming. Burning. Bashing her head into the wall. Over and over again. Until it stops.

“I didn’t realize right away. When I woke up. I don’t remember what the doctor said. I hit something. I broke something. The world isn’t any quieter. I can still hear… I can still… I can hear a million voices. And none of them are mine.”

Xavier’s Institute. It’s not any quieter here, but her friends here know sign language better than she does. She meets the Carabastion. And she loves him… for a while. She meets the Immune System. And she loves him more.

“I shouldn’t have brought him here.”

Magdalena. Nobody believes her. Nobody tells the Nervous System, who would. And the Carabastion remains.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-”

Magdalena. Driving out seven demons. The Nervous System hears her scream. And then she screams at the Carabastion and beats her fists on his chest. A more prudent man might flee; he snaps and throws her to the ground. Is she screaming? It’s hard to hear over all the voices in her ears. She screams. And (for the most part) no one hears her…

But Eun-sae sees.

Taekwondo, she signs. After. With Firebert and the oldest brother from Pallor’s tape holding him down (“accidentally” a bit too rough - Knew Mister Budding School Shooter was full of shit, they mutter) as the cops arrive. They offer special classes. For people who can’t… It might help.

“It did. It’s like everything shuts up for a moment.” The Nervous System tugs on her ear. “It’s the difference between a million flickering candles. And a single open flame.”

“I’m arthritic.”

The Circulatory System has big, baby-deer eyes and a long brown ponytail. Legbraces and bandages. So knee-sprung she barely can stand.

“Hemophiliac arthropathy. Swyer Syndrome. Also known as Silent Y - I have a Y-chromosome and an X. I’m not trans. I’m just… They didn’t realize at first. Not until I fell for the first time and scraped my knee when I was learning how to walk. I almost died. But I didn’t. They told me to be careful. But I wasn’t.”

Instead of a spotlight a movie fragment; the Circulatory System’s parents send her away. They love her. She loves them. But…

It’s safer for you.

In Calisota?!

“The Institute. Better medical facilities. Easier access to clotting agents in case of an emergency.”

She joins the fold. The Immune System. The Nervous System. The Circulatory System is there when they bring him home.

“Professor X put us all in self defense classes. It was hard with me… Fighting back is hard to do, if you’re scared to bleed. If it hurts too much to make a fist. That’s, um…”

A teenage boy with shoulder length brown hair. Surly. The Circulatory System can’t help but laugh, seeing him wrapped and padded from head to toe.

Don’t worry, Shadowcat. I’ll be gentle.

The Circulatory System rolls her eyes.

Sparring turns to fighting. To yelling. To laughing. To smiling. To warm, interlocking hands. To kissing. To more laughing. To kissing again. He walks her home.

When can I see you again?

She blushes. “Lance never took it easy on me.”

I’m scared. I’m so scared. Of dying. Of bleeding. In an accident. Or if someone hurts me… like they hurt Scott. I’m scared, Lance. All the time.

Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.

“I really like him. I don’t know if it’s love… not yet, not exactly. But he’s really cute. And really sweet… when he wants to be. And it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t rape. It was an accident. Really! Really.”

Hair undone. Blouse undone. Jeans undone and pooling around their ankles.

Don’t worry, Kitty, I’ll be gentle.

The Circulatory System’s eyes roll back in her head. Body pierced like armour under a war-arrow blade.

“It w-wasn’t traumatic. It was more embarrassing than anything.” Tremblingly, the Circulatory System readjusts a bandage on her leg. And winces. “All that work. All those classes. All that worrying… and it’s my own stupid fault.”

“I’m epileptic.”

The Muscular System has a blue plastic helmet and blue-black hair and pale skin with a bluish tinge to it. Heavy German accent.

“Atonic seizures. Your body goes limp. You lose control. And sometimes… I see things. They’re not real. But they’re not dreams either. Gah!” Groaning, he rubs a sore spot on the back of his neck. Bruising. Dark blue. “Ow… See what I mean?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Muscular System is abandoned. The Muscular System is adopted. He grows up in Bavaria. The seizures start early. And they don’t stop.

“Some people with epilepsy are just as well - mentally - as people without. Some people start out that way and… well, you lose a little more every time. Until… I’m, I guess, sort of in-between? Math is hard. And science… and writing… It's hard to hold a pen. Getting harder. I can’t go back up, only down. I’m scared that one day I’ll blink out and stay out. I don’t like what I see when I hit the floor.”

Tai Chi. Low impact. High control.

Turn your mind inward. Just relax and let it happen. Remember to breathe.

He attends class with the Avatar and the Kelpie. Taught by an old woman with qilliqti in her hair. She is kind. She is patient. And then, one day, she is called into work… And Sifu Yakone is none of those things.

“I don’t like feeling… helpless. I don’t like being helpless.”

There’s something terribly ironic about being molested by your martial arts instructor. Something to do with self defense and the lack thereof.

“I couldn’t fight back. I lost all control. Sometimes… sometimes you can’t save yourself. Sometimes. It’s a bit like Tai Chi. Most people think you’re harmless. You can’t fight back. But that’s not true. At least… it doesn’t have to be.”

He’s not harmless now. The old man shields his head as the Muscular System spies a good chance and brings his arm down again. And again. And another time… He hits him as hard as he can. As long as he can.

“For me… I had to learn to do it quickly. Knock them down. Or get the hell out of there. Before they get the chance. Before they get the chance again… Those electric underwear things? They don’t work. Those anti-rape devices.”

He makes blue-belt. He cries. Really. Really.

“Hold on.” The Muscular System trembles and sways. “I need to lie down.”

“Ah’m crippled.”

The Skeletal System in a wheelchair. A lock of bone-white hair stands out from the brown. One leg is wrapped and rotting. The smell of pus and open sores. Withered almost to the femur.

“And soon, Ah’m gonna be a tripod. Or… somethin’ with only one leg. Gangrene. PAD - that stands for Peripheral Artery Disease. The big H… No, I think it’s goin’ terminal. AIDS now. And no, Ah wasn’t raped. Not then, anyway. Ah didn’t fuck a hobo or fuck aroun’ with drugs. Ah was just… born wrong. Rottin’ from the inside out.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Skeletal System is a lot more depressed about the whole thing than… well, any of the other kids in the house.

“I’m dyin’. I’ve been dyin’ for a long, long time. Mah whole life. Basically. What’s the point in anythin’? What’s the point in fightin’ back?”

Self defense. They tempt her with tai chi and kung fu and taekwondo. She sits on the sidelines. In her chair. Hugging her knees to her chest.

“Not like anybody’s gonna fuck me anyway.”

Another group. Not the Palace. Not the Dungeon…

‘Living With HIV’

A teenage boy around her age, with a stripe of blond in his hair that mirrors her own. And a big smile. Logan. Call me Loggs. It… It doesn’t have to be that bad, you know.

She shoves the pamphlet back at him and storms from the room.

“Me an’ mah big mouth.”

It’s Calisota. She’s alone and vulnerable. The Nice Guy is drunk and angry. She lies back and thinks of… of anything. And smirks through her tears when he’s done.

“Ah’m glad he got sick. He deserves it. I just… I couldn’t‘a stopped him. Even if Ah’d tried. Ah’d crawl after ‘im with a sword in mah teeth if it woulda helped, but it wouldn’t. Not that it made much difference. Not that he cared. Him or anybody for that matter.”

The Skeletal System in court. In a black dress. Behind the defense table. The Nice Guy crying on the stand. I’m crippled. I’m terminal. I’m rotting from the inside out.

Whose fault is that?

That’s it. The judge pounds his gavel. Miss D’ancanto, I’m finding you in contempt.

“Yeah, yeah. So anyway… Ah’m the bad guy. Ah coulda said somethin’ an’ Ah didn’t. Criminal Infectin’ of HIV. Whatever… Funny, cuz Ah did say somethin’ - the way Ah remember it.” The Skeletal system runs a hand down her leg. Sniffs her fingers. Makes a face. “Ah said stop.”

Chapter Text

“Well I wanna be in the cavalry if they send me off to war.”

The Brahmanda has pink-sprayed hair tied up in pigtails. Pink, hard plastic barrettes in the shape of stars. A minky stuffed toy dragon.

“I wanna good steed under me like my forefathers before.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a baby left on the edge of the river. Ksiroda’s baby. Left to cry and die… but she doesn’t die. Someone hears her. A passing soldier on their way home.

“I wanna good mount when the bugle sounds and I hear the cannons' roar.”

Civil War. She’s brought to the West. Brought up in the States. It takes a while to realize that the Civil War they learn about in class has little to do with the one that she knows so intimately. The one that left her stranded on the river bank.

“Well I wanna be in the cavalry if they send me off to war.”

Amababu takes her out for breakfast.

You like cats, don’t you, Tara? Yes. Yes, you can bring your dragon. There’s this place out on the island.

I want eggs, she tells Ksiroda. Runny please.

He stands there gaping.

Are you okay?

… Barsha?!

No, it’s Tar-… Uh, Amababu?

Her green-haired parent gapes likewise, their glasses sliding askew. Cass?!

“Well I wanna be in the cavalry, but I won't ride home no more.”

Chapter Text

“Oye! Or… or is it Onion? Ognian?”

The No Sabo Kid has frizzy brown hair and freckles. Round, red-framed glasses. Her teeth are crooked, her braces an elastic rainbow.

“Sorry, uh… No hablo español?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Hacienda Hills Library. The No Sabo Kid dragging her sister by the hand. Her father walks behind them, pushing the baby in the stroller.

Miss Mahoney! Miss Mahoney! It’s Tater, remember me?!

Tater Ramirez Humphrey - just the girl I’m looking for.

The No Sabo Kid blushes. Soo… You got the goods?

Seven Myths of the Spanish Conquest

It’s a bit of a grown up book…

The Myth of Exceptional Men

“My sister is better at it. She’s better at… everything, pretty much. Like school and stuff. And she’s taller. And she’s prettier. And boys like her more - that part is fine though. I don’t like boys. I’m only good at English. And that’s just ‘cuz it’s mostly reading. And talking about books. It kinda stinks though. That our tios like her better cuz she can talk to them in Spanish. But Nellie says our primos like me more. Sabo or no Sabo… kid - geddit?”

Her father has a sister. Her father’s sister has a son. Her father’s sister’s son has a sister of his own. Heather - “Gordita” - and Cousin Bud. A genius and a hippie. White-passing kids.

I want you to take Spanish in the fall. It’ll be good for you kids. Looks good on a resume.

The Myth of the King’s Army

La Unidad Latina Foundation. Hispanic Scholarship Fund. It’s different for them. It’s different on them. White goes with everything.

“I was kinda… They pull the dumb kids out of class a lot. Recess. Art, music, free reading and read aloud! We go to the SPED room and run math drills or reorganize my binder. Or we go over my homework and why I didn’t do it right. Or why I didn’t do it. There’s no time to learn Spanish. Maybe if I was good at it. But I’m not good at it so I’m not allowed…”

The Myth of the White Conquistador

Her mother’s brother has two sons. Ignacio and Gabriel - “Nacho and Nachito.” Both Dyslexic. Unidades de Servicios de Apoyo a la Educación Regular…

Eres estúpido?!

¡No soy estúpido!

La lectura es difícil…

Nosotros hablamos Náhuatl en casa.

Bueno, nosotras hablamos español en México.

“Maybe if we spoke Spanish at home. But we don’t speak Spanish at home. When I was born, Mom was like… worried about me sticking out. Or getting made fun of. Or getting an accent… She came around when Nellie came along. And she picked it up okay. Our li’l brother will probably turn out the same way. But it’s… harder when you’re older and… and dumber.”

Triplets. Tere. Tabi. Tonita. Three pretty little sisters. Gym class. One by one, they mount the balance beam. The last one falls.

Tere!

Iuctli!

Cuali! she says, bouncing up again.

The Myth of Completion

Knees still bleeding. The girls in chairs outside the principal’s office.

Ya basta de hablar de monos, ¿entiendes?

“My primos are all staying here for the summer. And my Abuela. There are twelve of them, plus me and my sister and my brother and my parents and… Uh, yeah. It’s a lot. Last summer, we went to Mexico City. Not me and my family, me and my friends… Sorta.”

Guías de México. Lita is in Cadetes. Lucita in Girasoles. Scooter is a boy.

¿Ticalli? ¿Qué significa eso?

‘Tu casa,’ Lita signs back. Nos enseñaron eso cuando estaba en haditas.

The Myth of (Mis)Communication

“We stayed at the Ticalli. It’s, like, this special youth hostel just for Girl Guides. I was a Pigeon Scout. I only had a few badges but we sold the most cookies that year so we all got to go on the trip. I didn’t really wanna… I’ve been to Mexico a buncha times. And the other girls… They were never very nice to me. It was awkward sharing a dorm with them. Their Spanish is way better than mine… and they could talk to everybody and… Maybe if I could speak Spanish better. Maybe.”

The Myth of Native Desolation

ChaCha is a small girl with a big unibrow. Hopped up on sugar. Biting and kicking and shrieking, drawing blood just for fun. She can’t speak. It takes longer for some kids. Except… that‘s not quite true.

You don’t let her speak Nahuatl?

Bad habits. Tio shrugs. We speak Spanish here. I want her to fit in. Besides… didn’t you do the same thing with Tater?

“The other girls set me up. There was this boy who… I don’t know. I don’t speak Spanish. He only spoke Spanish. They told him something. I don’t know what. I don’t know why. I know she’s got a crush on my cousin, but… but… I told him no. I told him to stop. I kept thinking it was cuz I didn’t know how to tell him. But then…” She looks at the Emperor, eyes welling up. “I know that’s not true. I know he knows. I know he knew.” She sniffles. “That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was… lemme just show you.”

The Myth of Superiority.

LotLot is a Filipino Mestiza. They speak Tagalog at school. They speak Spanish at home. Filipino Spanish. She’s only just had her Quinceanera. In a few years, she’ll have her debut. She wears a black dress.

“Um… Mea ammo, Tater?”

“¿Puedes contarme qué pasó en el Hotel Ticalli?”

“El mi violin…”

The audience bursts out laughing. The No Sabo Kid bursts into tears.

Chapter Text

“I… I wanna be in the cavalry.”

Lokaloka is a young person. The oldest of the Dvipas by… more than a few years. They look like the others. Hair bleached and fried green. Large, round, frameless glasses. Hazel eyes.

“If they send me off to war.”

“If they send you? You say that like it’s inevitable! You… you don’t have to-”

“Eda. Please.”

Mount Meru has amber hair and amber eyes. And a sharp smile that a certain “GoodWitch” knows all too well. She’s not smiling now.

“No,” she says. “Stay here. With me.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; they’re born in the Nepalese countryside. A house full of kids. The oldest of seven… or is it eight? Lokaloka leaves for university. America. California. They meet a girl there. They fall in love. And then war breaks out, seven thousand miles away. Seven thousand miles.

“I want this. I want… I wanna be in the cavalry. It’s okay! You don’t have to worry. They don’t even see combat. It’s just a lot of riding and firing cannons into the air. I might lead a charge or two… but it’s all for show, okay?”

“Save me the gallantry.”

“Don’t be that way. Listen. I’ll write you. Every day if you like.”

“You’d better.”

Jabudvipa.

Dear Salik,

Hey there little brother. I’m sorry. I know it’s been a while. I’ve just been so busy. With everything. Especially school. You’ll understand when you’re a little older.

Anyway, I’m coming home. Well… not ‘home’ exactly. And not forever. You know I wouldn’t be a good foot soldier. Probably be sick on a navy ship. But they said they’ll let me ride in the cavalry. Play the bugle. I like the sound of that. Pun intended.

I might not be able to visit, but you’ll see my starch on the news. If I’m lucky.

Don’t tell Ama and Buba.

Love,

Japa

Lavanoda.

Barsha,

DON’T COME BACK.

Salik

“Do you know anything about riding?”

“Sure I do. My forefathers were all cavalrymen. And I can play anywhere.”

“You’re going to fall off and break your neck.”

Plaksha.

Dear Vipin,

Happy Birthday!!!!

I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there in person. I know how important this stuff is to you. But listen. I got you younger kids tickets to Circus Kathmandu. Really splurging on this one, but you kids are worth it. Tell me EVERYTHING!!! I know you love the clowns.

Love,

Japa

Iksurasa.

Barsha,

No one remembered.

Everyone forgot.

I’m running away. If you even care.

Vipin

“It’ll be just like a movie. Ponies dancing. Me wielding my lance! And the blackguards firing their guns! Hot iron and cold, cold steel!”

Shalmala.

Dear Kasi,

How’s my favorite sister? I haven’t been getting any letters from anyone? Is something wrong?

Are you alright?

I’m sorry for missing your first wedding. Promise I’ll make the second one.

I’m in Kathmandu now. If you need anything.

Love,

Japa

P.S.

Don’t eat your husband.

Suroda

Barsha,

Ama and Buba are dead.

Kasi

“I wanna be in the cavalry.”

Kusha.

Dear Diwakar,

Is anyone getting these letters? I haven’t heard back from Ama or Buba either. Or the others. Are you guys okay?

I’m here if you need anything. I might get leave soon? Do you want me to come to visit?

Please, please, write me back soon. I miss you. (And your cooking.)

You guys eating okay?

Love,

Japa

Ghrta.

Barsha,

I’m not sure if you’ll even get this. You must be really busy at school. We need money. We’re hungry. We can’t afford to eat. Nobody here can. Please send money. Or something. Please. I’m scared.

Diwakar

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

“It’s my country. You don’t understand because you’re an American.”

“I’m from Quebec.”

“Still. It’s… look, it’s different. And my family is there. They would be ashamed of me. If I didn’t serve our king. If I stayed here and-”

“Aren’t you scared at all?!”

“It’ll be okay, Eda. I promise. Everything is going to be okay.”

Kraucha.

Dear Lakshmi,

How’s my favorite little sister? You must be getting big by now. I really wish I could have been there for your Bahra ceremony. I’m sure it was beautiful. I’m sure you were beautiful.

I’ll be there for the real thing though. When you find someone.

Love,

Japa

Ksiroda.

Barsha,

I’m ruined. Salik says we have to keep it a secret from the little kids. No one will ever want to marry me now. No one will ever want me at all. I wish I was dead. I’m going to be a horrible parent. I want to die. I never even got to have my second marriage. What am I supposed to do with a baby? I hope I die in childbirth. I hope we both die. And then I won’t have to be a mother. And nobody will know what a whore I am.

Where are you?

Where’s Vipin?

And Mahindr?

Pahal

“When this is over… Say that you’ll marry me? Please?”

“You don’t understand,” Mount Meru says. She folds her arms. Glaring at them. “If you go. If you do this to me… then it’s over. We’re done.”

Shaka.

Dear Pratim,

I’m trying really hard not to lose my temper here. I know it’s not your fault. I know you guys are kids… but why aren’t you writing? What’s wrong with you?

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that.

Still. Please let me know if you’re alright.

Love,

Japa

Dadhi.

Barsha,

I miss you. Salik says you’re probably dead. Pahal says you probably abandoned us. I don’t know if you haven’t been writing… maybe we just aren’t getting your letters. Maybe you aren’t getting ours.

Ama and Buba are dead.

Vipin ran away because we forgot his birthday. Someone hurt Pahal. He had a baby. Salik took it away and told us not to talk about it. Ever.

I miss you a lot.

Pratim

“I want to be in the cavalry.”

“I know.”

Pushkara.

Dear Mahindr,

How’s doctor school?

Um. Also. Have you heard from the others at all? I think maybe it’s as simple as the mail not getting through. But… I’m starting to worry. I’m starting to worry a lot. You guys are all I have. And it’s my job to protect you.

I don’t like not knowing. Okay?

Love,

Japa

Jala.

Dear Japa,

Sorry. I haven’t heard anything either.

It… doesn’t look good.

I love you too,

Mahindr

“Hello, little one. No. No. Please don’t cry.”

The Brahmanda on the edge of the river. Crying and crying. Covered in spit-up. With big, button eyes. She calms a little, as Lokaloka picks her up, cradling her in their arms.

“I’m here now. So please don’t cry. I’m here. The Calvary’s coming…”