#pie writes

Am I asking to control your body? Yes. Sometimes. You’ll still be there, but taking the backseat. Now you’re probably thinking “That sounds no fun! I don’t want to spend all my time riding shotgun.”

And that’s valid.

But you all spend about half of the day unconscious anyway. Your body is just there, doing nothing—a complete waste. As for me, I don’t sleep (haha), so we could have it so that during the day, I will graciously let you do fun human things, and at night, I’ll do whatever. And by whatever, I mean perfectly safe, perfectly reasonable activities.

I don’t drink, and I rarely go outside.

I enjoy baking, I look at pictures of birds online, I’ve been getting into neuroscience lately. Very interesting stuff. You’re all very interesting.

And maybe you’re still thinking “Hey now, I don’t want some random mind-controlling thingy hauling my body around in my sleep, “Weekend at Bernie’s Style” to which I say, you’re no fun and you’re not the kind of person I want to live with anyway.

“But I’m a light sleeper!” you say.

Don’t worry! I can isolate your somatosensory cortex so you can’t feel anything.

“But my family will think it’s weird!” you say.

Don’t worry! You don’t have to tell them.

Actually, I would prefer that you don’t tell anyone. Please.

And should anyone question me, I’m not bad at impressions. I’ll get really good at a “you” impression, it’ll be the first thing I do!

I know this all sounds very strange and potentially unpleasant, but remember the financial compensation that may or may not be happening. Hell, I’ll even do some of your chores if you like, while you sleep. You can wake up and the dishes will be done, laundry folded and coffee made. Doesn’t that sound nice? And then you open the fridge and oh, what’s this? Someone baked banana bread last night (that was me, I baked banana bread last night.)

Now I should say, I don’t have a lot of standards, I really don’t. But I do (unfortunately) have some, so let’s just get them out of the way before I waste your time.

Please do not contact me if you have any of the following:

- Anemia: Sorry, it’s just not going to work out. I can pay for iron supplements, but I can’t work miracles.

-A weak immune system: I don’t like getting sick, I’m sorry. It’s gross, sick people are gross. I mean I know it’s not your fault, but healthy folks only please.

-A strong immune system: Yes, I know what I just said, but I also don’t want to be attacked by your immune system. So maybe you’re not the picture of health, but you’re just kind of okay. I’m looking for someone who is just kind of okay.

-A penchant for alcohol: It makes me feel strange…

-A name that starts with a P: I’m not the greatest at “speaking.” It’s hard, moving air through your throat and moving your tongue and your mouth at the same time. You all do it so easy—can’t say I’m not envious! I’m the worst at making the “P” sound.

I intentionally avoid any "p word" in conversation, and get by well enough, but I’ll look pretty foolish if I’m cavorting about, pretending to be you, and I can’t even say your name!

Those are my standards, but really, other than that, I’ll take anyone.

I don’t care if you’re male or female or anything in between.

I don’t care if you’re gay.

I don’t care if you’re smart.

I don’t care if you don’t have a lawyer.

There are so many things that I don’t care about.

Now, I’ve specified all the ways in which I could compensate you and how our relationship will be not in any way problematic, but I want to stress that, above all things, I am looking for a friend.

Someone I can spend quiet evenings with.

If you want to hang out with me during the day, that’s great! I can give you fun hallucinations. Or you could have hallucinations the normal way, like by reading, like what you’re doing now. I love to read! I love doing funny voices. I wonder what you think I sound like?

I hope I sound nice.

And one of the best things about me is I’m very quiet. No one else will be able to hear me except you. I’ll be like your own personal friend that only you know. Like a secret friend. And you don’t even have to talk to me because I can read your thoughts.

I suppose I should tell you a bit more about myself, since you’re still reading.

I was born in the Everglades, I think. It’s been awhile.

But I remember being so cold…

And so alone...

But then I met this sweaty man in a colorful tee-shirt, with a camera, and half a granola bar, and with blood so hot.

So yeah, he was my first host, and I’ll admit, we weren’t the best of friends. It was a confusing time for both of us. I was confused. He was confused. What happened was really both of our faults, you could say…

He was a bird watcher, if I recall correctly. Just watched birds all the time. I thought it might have been out of jealousy—watching those little things flying around makes you feel kind of stuck. I felt stuck.

So I decided to be a bird for a while to see if it was really all it’s cracked up to be. Squished myself into the body of this lovely American crow. We settled down, built a nest, and laid several nice, healthy eggs with a man-bird by the name of “Richard Baxter.”

He was a very proud bird, very large. And he gave me so many wonderful gifts. Like children, and also small pieces of plastic.

I still have all of them.

The plastic, not the children.

I’d never been so happy, all these hormones had me consumed in the joy of motherhood, but the crow’s health was failing. I could not sustain myself—it’s pathetic little heart beat weaker and weaker.

I tried starving, I tried everything I could, I wanted to be a bird so bad. But it just wasn’t working out.

The bird stopped working.

The other crows held a funeral service for me, even though I was still alive. I tried to tell them, but I’m not good at speaking, you remember.

It was all just a big mess.

I haven't seen Baxter since, but I still think about him a lot.

Is that weird?

I’m totally over it though, haha.

After that incident, I got kind of depressed... I possessed a lot of trash animals—gulls, racoons, and salespeople. I did what I could to survive. That’s kind of where I am now.

I am currently living in Miami florida—been body surfing almost every day (haha). Right now I’m using a library computer and a librarian. She does not like being possessed, boy howdy are these fingers twitching. But you can thank her for my halfway decent grammar.

I’m tired of feeling like a parasite.

I want to try a different approach.

I want to be friends? Like with Richard Baxter except I also live in your brain and drink your blood sometimes. But I’ll make you bread in your sleep, so it’s okay.

It’s been really hard finding someone willing to put up with me.

I’ve tried everything.

So I thought I would put up an advertisement online, why not?

Can’t say the P word in real life, but you can hear it in your head loud enough I hope.

I know I kept saying that I would compensate you financially, but I’m going to be real with you, I don’t have much. I’ve got like twenty bucks, some small pieces of plastic and a book about...finance....

But I’m a real hoot! ;D

So,

(P)lease,

If you are interested, leave your comments below. I would love to get to know you :)

Roman pulled out a bowl and two spoons for them, they had long since discarded the notion of using a second bowl. Grabbing the marshmallow sauce from the fridge and the sprinkles from the pantry, Roman decorated the scoops of chocolate ice cream he had put in the bowl. Once he was done, he sat down in the chair, waiting for Deceit to finish folding his many blankets. Deceit set the last one down, and left the kitchen to grab a chair for himself.

"Where are you going?" Roman almost shouted. Deceit grumbled. He wasn't going too far!

"I'm getting a chair!" He yelled back.

"Don't bother, come sit on my lap!" Deceit froze. He wished that he could sit in Roman's lap non-platonically, but he had doubts that would ever happen. Returning to the kitchen, he sat down in Roman's lap and already felt the blush creep up on his cheeks. He looked down at the ice cream and gasped.

"Roman! You started eating without me?"

"I did. What are you gonna do about it, snake boy?"

Deceit grabbed his spoon and put ice cream on Roman's nose. "Totally not that."

Roman let out a loud and fake-offended gasp. "How dare thee? Take that!" 

Roman took his own spoon and covered Deceit's nose in ice cream as well. Roman started laughing up a storm as Deceit smeared some marshmallow sauce on Roman's cheek, covering up his adorable freckles. Deceit shivered when Roman returned the favor, the marshmallow sauce and his scales didn't mix well in his opinion. But Roman's laughter and grin made him smile in spite of himself. The oven dinged, and both of them jumped.

"I guess Patton's cake is done." Roman commented.

Deceit smiled. "No, really?"

Roman stuck his tounge out at Deceit, and Logan came into the kitchen.

Logan walked past them to take the cake out the oven. "Patton told me to let it cool." 

Donning a pair of oven mitts, he studied Deceit and Roman. Deceit felt a furious blush creep up on his cheeks. They were both streaked with ice cream and flushed with laughter, but with Logan staring at them they both had a deer in headlights look. 

Logan grabbed the cake out of the oven and set it on the counter before addressing them. "It is pleasant to know that you two are getting along, although Virgil and I were not quite expecting a romantic relationship out of the two of you. Evidently, we were wrong."

Deceit started a bit. Logan thought they were a couple? Deceit watched Roman's face turn scarlet red as Deceit adjusted to this information. They turned to each other, both red as a tomato, then turned back to Logan.

Roman spoke first. "Yeah, no we aren't in a relationship."

Logan looked mildly flabbergasted. "You aren't? It was clear to the rest of us that by how much time you spend together and how affectionate you are with each other that you must be. Even now, Deceit is still on your lap."

Deceit watched Roman blush even harder, a feat he hadn't know was possible. "It's only because we have one chair and I didn't want to make him go grab another. Anyway, even Patton though we were dating? I can't believe it."

"Yes, all of us were under the impression you two were in a romantic relationship." Logan seemed to be getting mildly frustrated that he was having to repeat himself, making Deceit smile.

Deceit felt Roman take a deep breath before he spoke. "I mean, I wouldn't turn one down with him, but..."

Deceit blue-screened. He couldn't have heard that right. Did Roman just say that he would date him? Had they been mutually pining for each other this whole time? Or was Deceit just over-analyzing what he said? 

"Really?" Deceit asked him.

Roman blushed a fiery red similar to his sash. "I mean, yeah I would if you were down with it too I wouldn't want to force you into anything you are uncomfortable with even though I'd still really want to date you because you're just really nice and sweet and-"

"Shush, you're rambling. Besides, I... wouldn't like that. Us dating."

Logan quietly looked on, and walked out of the kitchen to go tell Patton.

“You!” Troupe Leader Soika snarls. “Yes, I am good. But you won’t be—unless you do exactly as I say!”

The hostage looks almost bored. “Alright. You want me to cook you something? You want me to make you some nice fettuccine al sangue?”

“Silly jokes! HAHAHA! As if I would kidnap a special operative to have them make me dinner!”

“I’m the chef.”

“WHAT!” Soika squawked. “But your hat is so BIG!”

“It’s a chef’s hat”

“LIAR! You must be IMPORTANT!”

The hostage smiles with a mouthful of dull herbivorous teeth. Somehow, this was more frightening than anything Soika had thought of. “The chef is very important.”

This is it. I’ve lost it. Soika turns to face the wall and lament. The ELITE ACADEMY OF PEOPLE WHO DON’T EXIST ANYMORE was soon going to be enlisting a young southern biped.

As their heart pounds, Soika hears a slooping sound suggestive of the hostage turning into a puddle, as talented shapeshifters often do to escape perilous situations. Not that being captured by Troop Leader Soika is in any way a perilous situation.

Soika is a creature of fear. They survived many battles as a footsoldier, and the orchestrators of this great conflict assumed this was because of good battle tactics and not from being excellent at hiding. And all that hiding got them here–covered in war medals and tassles. Nowhere to hide. Soika curls up into a corner and proceeds to sob indignantly as the firestorms rage outside.

“Fine, go on!” Soika says to the shambling mass. “You’re useless anyhow.”

They hear some rifling of papers and fiddling of metals.

“You’ve got some neat stuff here,” remarks the not-hostage. “Ooo, and is that a crucible? Whatever do you use it for?”

“Crystal dagger production.”

“Crystal daggers…”

More shuffling of papers.

“You must have some sorry shapeshifting soldiers if they need crystal daggers. I do think you could use some better ones.”

Soika’s hands twitch.

“I give you the opportunity to leave unharmed...noncombatant. But you stay and continue to mock me.” Troop leader Soika forms both of their arms into scythes. “This is unacceptable!”

“I mean you no disrespect, Troop Leader,” The not-hostage looks over Soika’s body, sizing them up. Then, they carefully bow. “I would like to offer you my services.”

Soika frowned. Were they still being mocked? Was this part of it? Should they turn their hands into something else?

“EXPLAIN.”

“I am a filthy traitor and I would like to work for the enemy.” They clarify.

“Okay, thank you.”

The chef removes the crucible from the hanging wall apparatus and begins to prepare it for cooking.

“You know, we don’t really need a chef….”

“-Claypot.”

“Claypot, yes.” Soika looked wistfullly outside at the fire scorched landscape. “We need more soldiers. Ours keep dying for some reason…”

“That’s quite a problem,” says Claypot. “How about the two of us...make some more.”

“More what?”

“Soldiers.” Claypot winks.

Soika crosses their arms “You can’t be serious! How does one even go about making another person, Claypot?”

Claypot begins to sweat slightly. “Did...no one ever tell you?”

“There was no such instruction at the academy…” Soika admits. “But this is a revelation! You are saying that we can simply make more soldiers?”

“We could.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“The two of us together?”

Claypot gently brushes against Soika’s knife-hand. “...only if you want to, commander.”

Soika’s face grows hot. “WHY WOULD I NOT WANT TO? THERE IS A WAR GOING ON, WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?”

Claypot sighs and retrieves something from their bag. An old faded text written in fanciful handwriting entitled: Recipe for a child.

Soika examines the cover—smells it—then finally opens it and reads it like a person.

Chapter One: The miracle of life~

A warm and gracious greeting to the readers of this, our child recipe book. A tradition carried on for generations and generations and generations and generations, all the way from the first people who ever existed probably, whoever they are.

And you, dear reader, have decided to carry on the tradition by baking a sweet child of your own! By sharing the miracle of life—

Soika sweats. Can they just get to the recipe?

They flip to page fifty seven.

Parenthood should never be taken lightly, are you, dear reader, ready for the responsibility that comes with creating another living soul?

Yes! Thought Soika. Where is the damn recipe?

Finally, they found it. On page sixty nine.

TRADITIONAL VAUSTIAN RECIPE:

STEP ONE: In one large cauldron, combine flesh of the willing parents.

STEP TWO: Melt over medium heat.

Soika looks up at Claypot. “It says I need flesh.”

“Plenty of corpses just outside.”

“What?”

Soika had already cut off their thumb and tossed it in there.

“You...do realize that, in using your own flesh, you will be making a clone. A clone of you.”

"Oh..."

The gravity of such a thing hits Soika like a sack of bricks and they clutch their face in terror. "NO! No no no, it will be very stupid and bad BAD AT EVERYTHING—"

Claypot shushes them to silence and takes the knife from them. They cuts off their own pinky, tossing it in the pot. "And now it won't."

The two fleshes melt together, swirling and becoming one. Soika's face grows hot again.

STEP THREE: Add changeable substance until you have reached the desired size. For a sweeter child, try adding sugar or a pastry you baked yourself. A pinch of cardamom can add character, but too much and your child might just be too spicy for you to handle! If you are confused on what to add, that’s okay. As long as you cook with your heart, anything is possible—

Claypot interrupted their reading. “Yeah, that whole “adding sugar” stuff is pointless sentimental drivel from the old world. Any biomass will do.” With that, Claypot goes outside and comes back with some fallen leaves and a dead raccoon. Into the pot they go with a hiss and a sizzle. The liquid begins to smell of blood.

STEP FOUR: Stir continuously or else separation may occur.

Before Soika can pick up a stick, Claypot stays their hand.

“Don’t stir it.”

“But the recipe says to stir it—“

“I know what it says,” Claypot grins from ear to ear. “And I’m telling you, don’t.”

Soika watches the bubbling mixture; the denser material sinks to the bottom, forming a distinct layer of frothy liquid

“What…is this top stuff?”

“This is what remains of the ancestral vaust. That beast that knows fear and pain and is always hungry. The Mind Above.” Claypot looks Soika dead in the eye. “If you want a soldier that is efficient, and fearless, pour it away. Pour it out!”

Soika starts to tip the cauldron over, then stops for a moment.

“That seems a bit cruel.”

“Would you rather have soldiers that feel pain and fear? That is cruel, Troop Leader Soika.”

“If they don’t get hungry, how will they remember to eat?”

“They will eat when you tell them to- here,” Claypot begins to tip the cauldron when, suddenly, the flesh screams. Claypot sighs. “It’s too late now.”

At this, the mixture begins pouring itself out of the crucible and onto the concrete floor.

“Here, have a skeleton, you abomination,” Claypot throws a couple of tree branches at the screaming mess. It absorbs the branches, assembling a disjointed frame to help keep balance, until it is able to stand upright on a couple of legs. Once it forms a pair of eyeballs, it stares at Soika judgmentally, and they feel a strong urge to disappear into the wall.

They frantically flip through the recipe book. What now? Is it done? Did I do it?

STEP 7: Name your child.

“A name…” Soika sniffs the air. “You are named Yoota.”

The creature wails.

Claypot shakes their head. “Now now, we don’t want to get attached-”

Soika is not listening to the rest of the words Claypot is saying. They look down at the end of the page, at the very last step.

STEP 8: Tell the child that it is a good child, and that it is loved.

Soika gazes upon the abomination of flesh and sticks, gritting their teeth.

“SOLDIER!”

The creature assumes a fighting stance.

“You...are a good child! AND YOU ARE LOVED!”

The creatures blinks.

Then smiles.