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So, tthis is my looong argument of why I feel Caine can have autism or adhd (or just everything idk)
With no more intro here are my reasons:
1- Hearing without listening.
In almost every chapter we can see Caine hearing the humans (I'm gonna talk mostly abt the session w Zooble) we can see how he actually hears them and participates on the talk but in the moment it gets too complicated he just stops listening. We can see how he only catches the problem but not the emotion on it, he knows that Zooble doesn't like their body, so he gives them a box with parts so they can change! The problem is solved for him but not for Zooble bc he doesn't get the implication in their words.
What do I mean with implications?? CAINE doesn't get tones or under tones, that's why he doesn't understand Zooble, he thinks the problem its LITERALLY their body when it's actually something so complicated as an identity, it's not that he doesn't care, he does! The thing it's that he doesn't understand what an identity is and gets overwhelmed when someone tries to talk him about it bc he mentally can't understand it!
Nowww what happens when they tried so hard to explain smt to him? He gets overwhelmed and he wants time alone trying to get together back to his routine (here its presented as "having control") which is actually smt that many neurodivergents happen to live.
He gets frustrated when something doesn't goes his way because he already planned everything and if anything happens in another way he gets "angry" (aka probably a meltdown) we can see how much he's affected of not winning or how he isolate himself to remember easiest times
Having the gun fight as an example (if I'm not wrong) he waits until he's alone to just watch pictures so he doesn't lose himself there
Nooowww mmy favorite part, his hiperfixation, now, we all know what it is and how it's presented but I feel it can have other meanings such as masking.
When he's in the rings master mood he's "mature" (masking) and can talk and explain himself pretty clearly but when he's in his silly mode (unmasking) no one gets his likes or jokes, I have as an example the Chinese door and the bees, which can be represented as not masking in front of neurotipical (?) ppl, so instead of being funny as he wants, he's kinda awkward for the rest.
Just body language here and I'm gonna read too much on it.
He's always fidgeting with something or has his hands together, I feel that it's a reminder to himself so he doesn't overstep or unmasked in front of everyone. With that I also have to mention that clearly he can't control his tone or volume, sometimes talking too loud or not catching sarcasm from others. Again, clear example it's when he mutters something to bubble even if he's actually talking normally and clearly gets flustered when Zooble catches him.
Just that, he js has an awkward posture or regulations and doesn't control his voice
Now mmy favorite
He doesn't understand his own emotions, he know they're there but he doesn't understand most of them, probably doesn't even have a name for most but we can see how he gets confused or flustered and gets angry because of it!! That's because he doesn't understand emotions!!
For that I wanna say that there is a "circle or emotions" (this example it's actually pretty small)
Caine can only understand the first 6 in the middle, not what else they can be or how worse they get, that's why he doesn't understand what trauma is, he just think it's fear or surprise!!
I didn't mention it but he also doesn't catch social clues (that can go with tones and that) he doesn't catch "normal" jokes at all and we had seen how he takes everything literally.
I've just had a thought! What if the reason the second doctor wore his bow tie with a safety pin wasn't just because he's a scruffy weirdo? (Because he is) But because the bow being tied round his neck was a sensory nightmare for him! It makes so much sense! The second doctor was so autistic coded, especially with the immediate sensory overload just after he'd regenerated and the verbal shutdown, talking through his recorder!
I just learned that the whole âcreepy or evil kidâ thing in horror actually started from old beliefs about disability. thereâs this 1917 film called the black stork which was inspired after a real situation where a doctor let a disabled baby die (this led to many more similar situations) and called it the ârightâ thing to do, the film showed it as a holy and moral act, saying the baby went to heaven because it was âbetter offâ and if the baby had lived it wouldâve been a hindrance on this world, it was even believed that disabled babies would grow up to be criminals. they really believed that being disabled or âdifferentâ made someone evil or unworthy and that they werenât meant to live. and because that real and horrifying idea was turned into a film, it set the pattern for a lot of horror stories that came after, that the idea of a âcreepyâ or âwrongâ child needs to die in order to restore balance. I was literally saying to my husband not long ago âwhy are kids always the creepy ones in horror films?â and now it makes sense, it wasnât random, it came from a fear of difference. whatâs also interesting is how so many of the so called âcreepyâ children in horror show traits that we now recognise as autistic, being quiet, monotonous, intense, sensitive to sound or touch, âwise beyond their yearsâ, being âgiftedâ and even immense pattern recognition that lead people to believe that they are psychic and so on. these things arenât frightening at all, just misunderstood and I personally feel that this overused horror trope has contributed even if just in part to why some dislike autistic people today. although it can be devastating to realise where some stories come from, itâs also so fascinating to trace their roots and to see how history such as this is still present in media today.
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So, a while back I did this piece for a zine that unfortunately did not pan out about Cybertronians living with disabilities, neurodivergencies, etc. It was to be titled Out of Spec! Sometimes when I'm at work, I just can't stop. I will work through all of my breaks because my autistic brain will not let me pause. It's known as Autistic inertia!
I also wrote 3 little ficlets to go with it!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Homelander did not use evidence to form a conclusion; he used a conclusion to organize evidence.
Starlightâs explanations, delayed processing, harmless misalignments of attention never reached him as anything other than rearrangements into what he had already decided was true.
And once Homelander decided what she was or what she had done, nothing she said could change it.
The balcony door unlocks with a soft click, and Homelander steps inside like the penthouse has been waiting for him all along. The cape settles behind him in a slow sweep, the fabric still carrying the faint burn of flight. The city sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, cold and glittering, but he doesnât look at it.
His attention is already fixed on Starlight.
Sheâs still on the couch where he left her earlier, limbs heavy and slow from the cocktail heâd pressed into her hand before his mission. âA little more, darling. Need you compliant,â heâd said with that soft, understanding smile. âNone of that pretend roleplay bullshit tonight, princess. I want the real thingâyour mind thick, your body compliant.â Sheâd taken it because saying no had started to feel like negotiating with a force of nature. Now her thoughts move like slush, and the familiar dissociation armor is already sliding into place across her skin, the same full-body mask she wears whenever he pushes too far.
He had heard it while he was halfway across the city, a single discordant note slipping through the ceaseless roar of wind and distant sirens, faint enough that any ordinary man would have dismissed it as nothing more than the product of his own paranoia.
It was not a confession. It was barely even a fragment: the soft notification chime on the encrypted tablet, followed by the quiet misalignment of a timestamp on one of the intimate photos she had sent him â minutes adrift from the moment she had sworn, in that soft, fogged voice, that she had been completely alone.
It could have been the most innocent of mistakes. A drunken mis-send born in the haze of alcohol and the cocktail he himself had encouraged her to drink earlier that evening, the same cocktail that had already begun to thicken her thoughts and blur the edges of her memory. Something she might not even fully recall in the morning, lost somewhere in the slow, syrupy drift of her medicated mind.
Most people would have allowed the ambiguity to linger, to breathe, to remain unresolved in the space between suspicion and certainty.
Homelander did not allow such spaces to exist.
By the time his boots touched the balcony, the story had already been written in its entirety inside his mind, every small discrepancy stretched and reshaped until it fit perfectly into the only narrative he was willing to accept. The evidence had not led him to a conclusion. The conclusion had simply been waiting, patient and absolute, for the smallest scrap of evidence needed to hurt in a way that justified what came next.
Unhurried boots silent on the marble despite their weight and a fixed gaze that almost passes for warmth if you donât hold it for too long. âI missed you,â he says, voice low and honeyed, like the words could smooth over every fracture heâs about to create.
Then heâs in front of her, gloved fingers tilting her chin with a practiced gentleness that feels less like affection the longer it lingers. âYou look good like this, Annie. Heavy. Foggy. Exactly how I like you.â
Annieâs head felt too heavy, the world tilting in slow increments. When she tried to lift her gaze to meet his, the motion lagged, her neck loose and reluctant. She managed a neutral reply, something simple and safe, the words dragging sluggishly from her tongue.
He tilts his head, studying her with that performative attentiveness that never actually listens. His super-senses catalog everything: the slight hitch in her pulse, the way her breathing catches, the micro-twitch of dissociation behind her eyes. It looks like care. It isnât.
âYou donât have to do that,â he murmurs, still gentle, still composed.
âDo⌠what?â
âAct like it didnât happen.â The tone stays soft, almost sympathetic, as if heâs offering her an easier path. âI could hear it, Annie. You think I wouldnât know?â
There is no real question in his voice. Only conclusion.
She reaches for something linear, something that can be followed step by step, because that is how she understands the world when it is not being bent out of shape in front of her.
âIt didnât happen the way you think it did,â she says, and even to her own ears the sentence sounds insufficient because it is too large and sheâs trying to compress a chain of small, ordinary decisions into something defensible all at once. She thinks about how to explain the timeline, the context, the delayed processing. But sheâs already done this before â was it yesterday? The day before? She's explained it so many times. And he seemed to understand.
She forces herself to slow down, to break it apart, because maybe if she can explain it just so, heâll understand. But her mind is slow and her head is heavy and she's repeating herself into friction. âThere were multiple conversations open. I send things quickly, sometimes without checking which thread Iâm in. You know that. I was drunk⌠drugged⌠but I only meant to send them to you. I deleted it but not before he could reply. It was meant for you and I did send it to you⌠but you still wonât believe me.â
Her hands move slightly as she speaks like sheâs holding onto the tension of the instability.
He does not interrupt. That is almost worse.
âAnd the messages youâre pointing to,â she continues, pushing through the drag in her thoughts, âthe tone wasnât what you think. He talked constantly, most of it is noise, reactions, fragments. I muted him half the time. I froze. When something crossed into that territory, I either didnât read it fully or I ignored it because I thought it would pass.â She pauses, searching for the exact phrasing that will not be reinterpreted on contact. âIgnoring isnât the same as agreeing. Itâs⌠delay. I donât process like you do. You already know thisâŚâ And she's not sure if her words or slurring, if he's listening, or if he even cares.
There is a small shift in his expression at that, something almost like amusement, as if she has just confirmed a detail rather than clarified it.
âAnd when I did understand,â she adds, more firmly now, âWhen you helped me understand⌠I cut it off. Immediately. Blocked, reported, everything. That part matters. The timeline matters. Youâre collapsing it into one continuous thing when it wasnât experienced that way.â
He tilts his head slightly, studying her with that precise, unsettling focus, as if each sentence is being stripped down to its most incriminating interpretation before it even fully lands.
âYou keep saying âI didnât process,ââ he says quietly, almost kindly, as if helping her refine her own argument. âBut things still happened. You betrayed me, Annie. And you did it again today. You think I didn't hear that? Should we look at the cameras together to see my little whore being a slut today?â
She exhales, a small, controlled release, because this is the point where the frameworks diverge completely. âNo,â she says, âthings can happen before I⌠process⌠assign meaning to them. Exposure and recognition⌠thereâs a lag. And during that lag, I respond in default ways. Neutral. Polite. Sometimes I freeze. Sometimes I redirect. That doesnât mean Iâm endorsing whatâs happening⌠it means I'm still processing⌠especially when itâs traumatic.â
He watches her like she's just described a flaw in machinery.
âStop. Stop with that. He didnât sexually assault you. Youâre not a victim. You liked it. You initiated and escalated. You did all of it and you wonât take responsibility and itâs pissing me off.â
He moves toward her and she backs away.
âNo. Donât do that. Donât pretend like youâre scared of me. As if Iâm the bad guy.â
She doesnât know how to turn it off, the over-explaining, the need to help him understand⌠if she just words things right.
Thatâs the dangerous part. Not the anger, not the grip on her chin, not even the certainty in his voice, but the illusion of processing â the brief, suspended quiet where it seems like something might shift if she just finds the right configuration of words.
It doesnât.
Because her thoughts are not lining up cleanly anymore. The edges blur before she can hold onto them long enough to assemble anything precise. She can feel it happening, that slow, viscous drag in her head where language becomes heavier than it should be, where cause and sequence slip just out of reach as she tries to stabilize them.
âIâm notââ she starts, then stops, because the sentence fractures halfway through. She recalibrates, tries again, smaller this time, more contained. âYouâre⌠combining things. This isnât⌠right.â She canât place why with her mind full of fog and smoke and thick air. She only knows what she did and didnât do and that Homelander doesnât believe her, wonât believe her, and sheâll pay for this.
He reaches his hand out and she flinches. His thumb presses more firmly against her jaw, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold her attention exactly where he wants it.
âThatâs what you keep doing,â he says softly, almost gently. âBreaking it into pieces so it doesnât look like what it is.â
The room tilts slightly, or maybe itâs just her mind slipping again, the medication pulling her further from the center of herself. She tries to anchor on something concrete, the cold seam of the couch beneath her palm, the steady rhythm of her own breathing, anything that doesnât depend on interpretation.
âIâm not⌠breaking it,â she says, slower now, words spaced out so they donât collapse into each other. âI didnât do anything wrong.â Her slow mind is jumping over hurdles in her haze and she knows nothing will change his mind. âI did everything you asked, showed you everything⌠Heâ I didn't ask for that. I didn't consent."
There is a pause, and for a fraction of a second, something in his expression flickers, not doubt, not quite, but irritation at the structure of her answer, the way it refuses to conform cleanly.
Then it smooths over.
He exhales, long and controlled, like heâs the one exercising restraint.
âYou hear how that sounds?â he murmurs, almost kindly. âLike youâre trying to outthink it. Like if you make it complicated enough, it stops being simple.â
Simple.
It didnât feel simple while it was happening. Her thoughts try to reorganize around it and fail.
âIâm not trying to make it complicated,â she says, and thereâs a pause before the sentence completes, like her brain has to catch up to her own voice. âIâm trying to make it accurate.â
His smile shifts, just slightly.
âThatâs the same thing, Annie.â
And there it is again. His quiet inversion where precision becomes distortion, where clarity is reframed as manipulation.
Her hands move, not deliberately, just a small, instinctive motion, fingers pressing lightly into her own arms as if to confirm sheâs still there. The dissociation is thicker now, more pervasive, a soft diffusion at the edges of everything.
She can still track whatâs happening. She just canât keep hold of it long enough to change its direction.
âI didnâtââ she starts again, and this time the words come slower, heavier, each one placed with effort. âI don't know what you want me to say.â
That should be a neutral statement. It isnât.
His expression softens immediately, almost relieved, like sheâs finally said something that fits.
âExactly,â he says.
The agreement feels wrong before she can even process why.
âExactly,â he repeats, quieter now. âYou don't know what to say because you know what you did.â
The logic folds in on itself, clean and self-sealing. Her perspective becomes a limitation rather than data. Her lack of recognition becomes further proof of what she failed to recognize.
She goes still.
Not deliberately, not as a strategy. Annie tries not to move but sometimes she has to check if sheâs still there. Itâs easier to remain where she is, to conserve what little clarity she has left instead of spending it on a response that will be absorbed and restructured anyway.
He watches that stillness, and something in him settles.
Thereâs no satisfaction in it, not exactly. More like confirmation. Alignment between what he decided and what heâs now observing.
âThatâs better,â he says softly, as if sheâs finally stopped resisting something inevitable. His hand drops from her chin, the pressure gone as quickly as it arrived. âYou donât have to fight me on this.â
Fight.
The word echoes faintly, detached from any real sense of conflict. It doesnât feel like fighting. It hasnât, at any point. It feels like trying to map something in real time while the terrain keeps shifting underneath her.
But even that thought slips before she can hold onto it.
He steps back, giving her space in a way that reads as generosity, as if heâs de-escalating something she created. The distance between them doesnât relieve anything. It just makes the room feel larger in a way that emphasizes how little control she has over it.
âI just needed you to be honest,â he continues, voice quiet, almost tired now. âThatâs all I ever wanted.â
Honest.
Another word that no longer has a stable definition in the room.
She doesnât respond.
Anything she says will be used.
Anything she doesnât say will be filled in.
He needed to know. So he decided he knew.
She stays where she is, on the floor now without fully remembering how she got there, arms drawn in slightly, not defensive so much as containing, like sheâs holding the remaining pieces of herself in place.
Across the room, he watches her for a moment longer.
Then he exhales, a faint, almost dismissive sound, and looks away first.
Where she is quiet because there is nowhere left for her words to go, he is quiet because the conversation, in his mind, is finished.
And for the first time since he walked in, he looks bored.
âThe way youâre framing this,â he says softly, as if that settles everything, as if perception alone is proof. âThe hesitation. It was against your will? He apologized? You know what you did to me. You ruined me.â
Each clarification is always absorbed, then rotated, then fitted back into the same outline he walked in with.
âIâm telling you what happened from my side" she says, quieter now.
His gaze softens in a way that reads as empathy from a distance.
âThatâs what I mean,â he replies.
And there it is, the closed loop completing itself without friction. Her explanation does not collide with his conclusion; it feeds it, becomes further evidence that she is shaping reality rather than reporting it. The more detail she provides, the more material there is to reinterpret. The less detail, the more he infers to his narrative.
She can feel, with a kind of detached clarity, that there is no version of this conversation where the structure changes. Explanation was never the variable being tested. The outcome was determined before she opened her mouth, and everything since has been measured against that fixed point.
Nothing she says alters the shape he arrived with.
He exhales slowly, almost tenderly, as though heâs the one carrying something difficult. âYou donât have to pretend with me. Thatâs what this is, right? You thinking if you explain it just right, itâll change what it was. Youâre trying to manipulate me and you know it.â
The room feels larger with every word. Explanation itself has become proof of guilt.
When she pushes back, his smile thins. âRight,â he says, soft and final. âWe could have had it all and you destroyed it for⌠him.â The taste feels disgusting in his mouth. "Not a misunderstanding⌠lied to me multiple times⌠continued participating in something that disrespects me and then framed it as "non consensual, overwhelming" and yet, continued it? Listen to yourself. You are who you hang with, Starlight. Fucking degenerates. It makes me sick."
In a second, his gloved hand tightens on her chin, not enough to bruise but enough to remind her how easily he could. The wounded tone fractures into something uglier. He grabs her thighs with both hands and spreads them forcefully, super-strength making the motion casual and impossible to resist. His grip is angry, impatient, the way it gets when the mask slips. âYou pretending to not understand, to deny still, the fucking audacity to lie to me like this⌠to play the victim.â
Annie is frozen, nonverbal, and it only enrages him more. He doesnât wait for sober consent. He never does because consent is implied.
He pushes her down with that terrifying gentleness, fist tightening in her golden hair as he guides her to her knees. The marble is cold against her skin, but his body heat radiates through the suit. He feeds himself into her mouth slowly, deliberately, savoring the way the medication makes her loose and slow. âThatâs it,â he murmurs, voice dropping back into that fake-intimate register, the one that pretends at depth while his eyes stay cold and calculating. âLook at you, Starlight. So good for me. So warm and stimulating. This is what I need from youâevery day, just like you promised. Only I get this. Only I get to see you loose and obedient and mine.â
His super-senses drink in everything: every choked sound, every reluctant twitch of her tongue, the exact rhythm of her breathing as dissociation creeps deeper. He rocks his hips with controlled thrusts, narrating the whole time like itâs romance instead of possession. âDeeper⌠thatâs my good girl. You feel so much better when you stop thinking. When youâre heavy and compliant and canât slip away from me.â The cape brushes her cheek with every movement, a constant reminder of the power imbalance. Vought cameras in the ceiling record it all, but he doesnât need them nowâheâs memorizing it himself, super-hearing tuned to the smallest hitch in her throat. Heâll view them later.
âYou broke me so many times I just canât anymore. I wanted us to have a healthy thing. I thought we could be so happy. So happy⌠I wanted to give you the world.â
He builds it slowly, deliberately, drawing it out because he can. One hand stays fisted in her hair, the other strokes her cheek with mock tenderness while he fucks her mouth deeper, chasing the validation he craves. âYou were supposed to be my real thing,â he breathes, voice cracking between lust and accusation. âThe one person who wouldnât make me doubt.â
When he finally finishesâthick and hot down her throatâhe holds her there a moment longer than necessary, savoring the way she stays compliant and heavy beneath him. Only then does he pull back, breathing hard, and adjust his suit like the last fifteen minutes were nothing grotesque at all. Quiet tears gather in Annieâs face but she doesnât say anything, she canât. Sheâs still processing. Hot, wet tears on her frozen face and she wishes she could process faster, could collect the pieces enough to understand and leave. But she canât leave him â she never could.
He steps away, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove as if the entire act had been mutual. It was to him anyway and he shapes their reality.
The tablet is already in his hand, timestamps and audio fragments glowing on screen. Nothing conclusive or definitive. Just enough for the story he arrived with.
His voice shifts againâsoft, heartbroken, wounded. âYou sent those to someone else. Minutes apart. While I was gone risking everything for us. I offered you a home, the sea, warmth your own family never gave you⌠and this is how you repay me?â
The spiral pours out, raw and familiar. âYou were my dream. The one real, dynamic thing in this fake fucking world. I tried so hard to understand you. Was that you trying? Was that you trying when you hesitated? When you made me doubt? When you fucking betrayed me? I wanted to give you everything, and somehow itâs always âweâ or âusâ when you apologize for things that arenât even your fault. But never me apologizing, right? The way you twist things.â
He ignores the way heâd just used strength and foreign commands to push past every boundary. Ignores that he wanted her impaired because sober-her kept saying no. No real empathy. Just his own victimhood painted in warm, pseudo-intellectual tones.
She tries one more time to explain, voice still thick from the medication and the act.
He cuts her off with a soft, pitying laugh that doesnât reach his eyes.
âBut I needed to know the truth,â he says, tapping the tablet once, decisive. The red glow flickers behind his irises for a heartbeat. âI know it and you know it. Donât fucking deny it. Maybe I could have forgiven you if you had just admitted it but you manipulated and lied⌠so many times.â
The rage drains away for half a second â then surges back hotter.
Homelander stands abruptly, cape flaring. In one violent motion he grabs the front of her supe costume with both hands and rips it straight down the center. The reinforced fabric tears like paper under his super-strength, exposing her completely. He yanks the shredded remains off her shoulders and throws them across the room like waste.
âYou donât deserve to wear that,â he snarls, voice low and venomous. âStarlight? What a fucking joke. Youâre not a hero. Youâre just a stupid, worthless slut who spreads her legs for anyone who gives you attention. Hanging around degenerates, letting them talk to you, sending them pieces of yourself that belong to me.â He grabs her by the hair again, forcing her head back so she has to look up at him from the floor. His boot comes down on her shoulder, pinning her thereânot crushing, but pressing hard enough that the pressure radiates through her medicated, heavy body. âLook at you. On the floor where you belong. Pathetic. Weak. I gave you everything and you still chose to betray me. I should laser that pretty face right off for what you did.â
For a moment the red glow in his eyes brightens dangerously, the heat building just enough for her to feel it prickling across her skin until she smells burning flesh. Her burning flesh. Then he laughsâshort, cruel, dismissiveâand steps back.
Starlight stays curled on the cold marble where she is, arms wrapped tight around her bare chest, the torn costume lying in a ruined heap several feet away. The dissociation is total now; her eyes are open but unfocused, body rocking almost imperceptibly in the heavy fog of medication and pain. Every slow thought is delayed, struggling to connect. She hugs herself tighter, trying to disappear inside the armor that no longer works.
The rage drains away as quickly as it arrived. He sinks onto the couch across from her, staring like she had shattered him. The cape pools around him like spilled blood. âSometimes love isnât enough,â he murmurs, almost to himself. âI just wish we could do well for once⌠why do you always do this to me? Youâre a bad person, Annie.â
Homelander watches her for a long moment, then scoffsâa short, disgusted sound that cuts through the silence. He leans back on the couch, legs spread casually, cape draped over the armrest, the picture of relaxed satisfaction while she lies broken and exposed on the floor in front of him.
The contrast is absolute.
He is already moving on.
She is still trying to remember how to exist inside her own skin.