Versa Matrix

1- Pokedex: Right around the start of October, I had just completed my first playthrough of Legends: Arceus, and I wanted to make a sketch to commemorate it!

2- Kanto: My attempt to emulate the classic art style, complete with my favorite Kanto Pokemon-- Machamp!

8- Mountain: Another Arceus drawing focused around Sneasler! I really wasn't fond of their design at first, but they worked really well with the palette I used for most of the month!

7- Beach: Loop Lagoon from the Isle of Armor in the Galar Region! Despite it's flaws, I have a lot of attachment to Galar, especially this little beach where I hunted Sandygast!

13- Desert: Another Galar location, Route 6! Alongside being the closest thing to a desert the Galae region has, Route 6 is also the home to fossil restoration. I have spent an uncountable number of hours staring at these Diglett statues.

17- Mega: Over the course of my time in the Kalos region, I grew a lot of attachment to Tepig, Emboar, and, of course, Emboar's new mega, so here's a little tribute piece to them! I had a lot of fun figuring out the silhouette!

18- Type: Toxel's and its evolution are some underrated favorites of mine, and they're the only Poison-Electric types, so it made sense to draw them for type! A simple one, but I'm really proud of it!

25- Celebrate: Another simple one: Party Hat Wurmple! That's all there is to it!

20- Ultra: My favorite drawing from this year, coupled with two of my favorite Ultra Beasts! I'm so proud of this one :)

27- Paradox: I was hoping to make this look more like a historical research sketch, but nonetheless, I'm quite proud of it! Raging Bolt, they could never make me hate you.

It's always so cold, waking up from cryosleep.

Wow. Thanks, Captain Obvious. Of course you're cold, you're frozen solid. I know, I know, it sounds stupid, but hear me out.

Everyone always talks about the cold, dark vacuum of space. The crushing weight of your weightlessness as the lack of atmosphere slows your cells in a matter of seconds. The unmistakable freezing chill of absolute nothing. It's a rhetoric drilled into our brains since before we can put on a thermosuit. Everyone can imagine space's cold, but no one ever compares it to the cold you feel in a cryopod. Maybe it's because it's voluntary— unlike being thrust out into the vacuum, you choose to lay down into your pod for the big sleep. We voluntarily elect to halt our lives for however long it takes us to get from Point A to Point B, so we don't really mind the mind-numbing cold. Or maybe we're just desensitized to it. It's a fact of life: freezing yourself nearly to death in order to travel is the same as being pricked by a needle to receive life-changing medicine. No pain, no gain. Or maybe, most of the people I deal with have those fancy pods with the sleep sounds and back massagers, so they can't really speak to the bone chill anyhow. They don't even get to feel the cold before they're put under.

It used to take me hours to thaw out. I'd sit there, waiting for the tingling numbness to subside before I even considered trying to move. I had to bask like a lizard under a heat lamp to ensure that I was warm-blooded, lest my body decide to freeze up on me. These days, though, I've got a system. To wake up, I think fast. Luxury hovercars. Being pushed back into your seat when you jump to light speed. Those old Terran movies with the fighter pilots that my mom liked. Fast.

My movement always starts at the edges. By the time I'm conscious enough to consider moving anything at all, there's a warmth building in the pit of my stomach. I wish that warmth was all it took, but it's not like I can get any work done with just my guts. With some effort, I wiggle my fingers and toes, trying to shake off the buzzing, fuzzy feeling. The feeling spreads to my ankles and wrists, up my arms and legs, then into my chest. I can feel my heart racing, now, even through the shitty excuse for a thermosuit the Mechanic's Guild provides. Faster and faster, building up speed like a runway.

By now, I'm starting to get antsy. I feel the skin around my chin tighten and loosen as I open and close my jaw. I drum my fingers on the sides of my thighs, and I rock back and forth so much that my knees start bumping up against the heavy metal door in front of me. I still feel cold— I'm never not cold these days— but I'm too focused on the small indicator light hidden in the doorframe. As soon as the pod considers me warm enough to function, I'll only have 15 seconds to get out and get my mechanic's gear on. 15 seconds to perform a flawless little song and dance to ensure that this ship even has a mechanic at all. 15 seconds before the cold vacuum takes me away, turning me into an organic asteroid.

Don't worry, though. I've cut the process down to 10.

One. As soon as the blue light clicks on, I swing the pod door open. Holding onto the handle, I ride it's motion into the antigravity. My brain always tries to tell me that I'm swimming, but the vacuum's too dry to be a convincing substitute. Too dry and cold. Two. Floating up to the wall, I unclip the pieces of my mechanic's suit from their hooks and pull them closer to me. Or, rather, I'm pulled closer to them. My forwards motion from the door isn't counterbalanced. Three. My body twists backwards as I sluggishly align my legs with the jumpsuit and thrust them through. My hair, frozen together into winding tentacles, flies into my face— or maybe my head launches into my hair? Either way, I need a haircut. Four. I adjust the air-tight seal around the waist, pulling the elastic taut and tucking it into a secure holster. Comfortably tight. I nearly sigh out of contentment but catch myself. I don’t have air yet. Speaking of, I— shit, where'd it go? Five. I look around as frantically as the vacuum will let me. Where is it? Oh, fuck, where is it? No no no, I— There!

Six. The top half of my suit is floating out into the hallway. You know, the part that my oxygen tank and helmet attach to. Arguably the more important part of the suit, careening out of reach. Seven. I need to get over there, fast. Think fast. I frantically twist my body around, trying to line up with something, anything. Eight. My left foot grazes the side of my cryopod and suddenly lurches, attaching itself at the first convenient angle. The fucking magnets! Resisting the urge to scream a curse, I grab the sides of my leg and pull my torso to my boot, trying to reach the button deactivate the pseudo-grav setting. Nine. With my "comfortably tight" waistband digging into my stomach, I finally reach the button and press it. The buzzing sensation in my finger from the tactility of the button pales in comparison to the relief I feel as the magnets separate. I push off the pod with as much strength as I can. My leg, despite its padding, flares up in pain from lack of use. No time, ignore it, we've gotta go!

Ten. I collide with my upper half in the doorway, continuing my motion through to the far wall of the hallway. As I float, I stuff my arms into the cushy sleeves and slide my head through the hard metal collar. Eleven. I hit the wall and line up to push back into my room. A motion-activated light turns on at the end of the hallway, about 20 feet from me. I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. There shouldn't be movement out of the corner of my eye. I push off the wall, barreling as fast as possible back into the room. Twelve. I grab my helmet off of its perch and attach it to the collar of my suit, aligning my mouth and nose with the breathing apparatus. My lungs are screaming at me as it clicks into place. Thirteen. I grab a frozen oxygen tank out of their crate and attach it into the back of my suit. I hear the quiet sizzle of air seeping into my helmet. Four—

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. All clear.

During intergalactic travel, absolutely everything on a ship is powered off to conserve power. Obviously, all the superficial stuff like the entertainment modules and the exercise equipment is shut off, but so are the things that seem essential. Stuff like artificial gravity and oxygen. Major passenger liners, like mine, are really susceptible to this. It's one of the main reasons that they put you under on passenger liners, actually. Everyone's always like, "It's so it feels like you arrive instantly!" but that's bullshit. And it's not to avoid aliens or pirates or any other space-age boogeymen, either. It's all just to save money by turning off everything except the essentials to make it seem like your long haul is luxurious. And then it's a mechanic's not-luxurious job to wake up every once and a while to make sure said essentials are in working order. I wake up, make my rounds, then go back to sleep, just to do it again once every few light years until we arrive at our destination. Over and over, until I inevitably retire, quit, get fired, or get frozen because I fucked up.

I take a few more deep breaths, then I force myself to ignore my breathing patterns. Deep breathing wastes oxygen. Then, I shift my attention back to my boots, reactivating the magnetic pseudo-gravity feature. Usually, it's pretty useful- just enough strength to keep me on the ground, but not enough to lock me in place, but god, that was brutal.

I look up, shake my hair back out of my face, and see something move past the doorway. Oh, right, yeah, what was that? In the rush, I completely forgot about the movement in the hall. Taking a few steps forward, I poke my head through the doorway.

Floating down the corridor, somersaulting over itself, is a human body. Or, at least, it's shaped like a human body. It's dressed in one of the nicer thermosuits on the market, the kind covered in an intricate pattern made up of designer brand logos. The glimpses I get of its skin are a gnarly pale yellow with dark, nearly pitch black at the tips of the appendages. Everything, from its long hair to its feet, was stiff and unmoving, the glint of a layer of frost catching the motion-activated lights.

Without thinking, I run down the hallway, shoes sticking to the ground with every step. Which one of these rich assholes ignored all my warnings? They never listen— always too high and mighty to think that something will go wrong. After all, if they're making a mistake, they'll just pay a fine and get on with their lives!

Once I'm up next to the body, I try to get a better look at it's face. In this moment, I wish I was better at recognizing faces. So many passengers come in and out, and I rarely interact with them, so I never really bother to take them in. The body's eyes, pale and veinless, are open, but the pupils are rolled back into the upper eyelids. Nonetheless, there's just a little bit of motion back and forth. Back and forth.

Realization smacks me in the face. Long-haul mechanics, like most jobs that require a lot of time alone, have always liked their myths and ghost stories. One favorite of the guild I got my certification from was the cryowalker, a frozen person that's not-quite-dead and not-quite-alive. Apparently, they destroy anything they come into contact with and they’re basically unstoppable because they're frozen solid. As a trainee, I thought they were crazy. Naturally, I sort of just assumed that people find explanations for things that scare them. But now that a frozen zombie, a cryowalker, was in front of me, I didn't know what to think.

I reach out to it, this cryowalker. I lightly rest my hand on its shoulder and jostle it slightly, trying to see how much it can sense. I would've called out, too, but my suit doesn't have a microphone. Conserving oxygen and money and all that.

Suddenly, before I could register it, I felt a tug at the arm of my suit. And another. Another still. I look down at my forearms to see the frostbitten hands of the cryowalker wrapped around my forearm for dear life. Nails digging in like they could puncture, the body scales me like an animal climbing a tree. I didn't realize it had enough life in it to do much of anything, let alone have this much mobility, but it didn't give me time to stop it. By the time I could realize what was happening, the body's arms wrapped around me, its hands settling comfortably on the oxygen tank strapped to my back.

Like a rational person, I freak the fuck out. Attempting to weasel my way out of its cold, dead grasp, I immediately try to shove it away into the wall, but the bare flesh of its frozen hands was stuck to the cold metal of the tank. I watch as the body contorts at an odd angle to simultaneously stay attached and pull away. It moves like it has no pain, no limits, no hesitation. I almost gag, watching it fold in on itself around me.

I need to run. I need to think fast. I need to get away from this thing. It's gonna kill me. This thing is gonna rip off my suit and eat me, that's a normal, rational thought!

No. It's not a thing. It's a person. A person who's about to snap itself in half because it's stuck to me. And a person who will definitely suffocate if they somehow wake up. Or, at the very least, they'll rip out my oxygen tank and suffocate me. I'm just their mechanic, but it's my job to make sure they make it to their destination, no matter what. And if I don't get this passenger back into their pod, I can't call myself a mechanic. I have to see this through.

Moving quickly hasn't worked. Despite the freeze, the cryowalker moves faster. I'll have to take things slow, then. Slow and steady.

One foot in front of the other, I slowly move down the hall towards the passenger quarters. To the average person, we'd look like a parent carrying their sleeping child to bed. She— up close like this, she has to be a she— rests her head on my shoulder as we eventually turn into the passenger quarters. For the first time in this whole interaction, I feel a little peaceful, but I don't let it linger. Five pods down on my left, a door hangs open. Sickly faces, eyes peacefully shut, pass us by as I walk up to the pod. I sever her grasp on my tank, one finger at a time. Her weight off my shoulders, I lay her down into her chambers. It's fine, she'll be fine. We'll see her again, when she's up for good at the end of the ride.

I close the pod, and count to ten. The glass window frosts up, hiding the sleeping woman from my sight.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. All clear.

---

I knew, leaving undergrad, that I wouldn't get the job I wanted. I understood going in that a degree in journalism was a competitive one, and that only a select few really make it. I wasn't going to be bringing in the big bucks unless I got lucky. As such, I resigned myself to taking the first good job that fell into my lap.

What I did not expect was to be standing in a stranger's apartment, an arm's length away from my childhood hero, staring at what could only be assumed to be a dead body.

Said childhood hero, Mr. Blake August (yes, that Blake August), was pacing frantically around the small kitchenette, gesticulating wildly while trying to come up with a plan. "He skipped work for a few days, so of course Marissa asks me to come in to check on him, and now he's DEAD! Poor Jiffy had so much to look forward to, and now he's face down on the kitchen floor! We've gotta tell someone— no, wait, we can't! The first person to find the body is the most suspicious! I can't go to jail, Watson, you can't let them take me! Oh, I can see the headlines now: 'Beloved Former Child Star Blake August Convicted of MURDER!!'"

As my employer sprawled himself out on the single chair set around "Jiffy's" kitchen table, I finally took a chance to take in our surroundings. The apartment was small, but in a comfortable way, with a little bit of renter's charm sprinkled about. Brightly colored posters and art prints of video game characters lined the walls, and the clutter in the sink was a spattering of one-of-a-kind pottery and novelty children's dishware. Jiffy himself fit the bill of what I'm hesitant to describe as "man-child chic:" cartoon-patterned pajama pants and a brightly colored hoodie, alongside color-changing headphones and a pair of slippers modeled after a mascot's head. If the poor guy really was dead, he sure knew how to encapsulate his life in an outfit…

Mr. August (Detective August? It feels weird to just call him Blake) put his head in his hands, muttering, "Oh, Watson, what are we gonna do…"

"Walters."

"Huh?"

"You, uh… keep getting my name wrong. It's Walters, not Watson."

"No, but I'm referencing— oh, screw it, it doesn't matter anymore! The only thing anyone's gonna remember our names for is Jiffy's murder!"

Mr. August wailed again and rested his forehead on Jiffy's kitchen table. I almost nagged at him for his unreasonable pessimism but stopped in service of my own pity.

It was hard, seeing Mr. August like this. Ever since I first saw him on The Bakerville Mysteries when I was a kid, I thought he was unstoppable. A kid my age, solving mysteries and saving the day all before dinner time— how could he not be an idol to me? Nowadays, though, nearly two decades after his show was canceled, the man I assumed would be a successful actor by now had turned himself into a washed-up, would-be detective. When he first hired me to follow him around as a biographer, I felt like I was on some sort of hidden camera show. It was hard not to feel that way now, even after he'd proved himself by getting a genuine case. I mean, the "case" was a routine check-up on an old friend, but it's still detective work, in a way!

Regardless of my thoughts on his past, I had to make sure I saw Mr. August as a regular person and not as someone playing a part. Sure, his theatric overzealousness was getting on my nerves, but he also just rushed into finding a dead body— the body of someone close to him, at that. Heck, I'm sure I'd be doing something similar if I was in his shoes! Sitting down, taking a moment to recontextualize everything over a bite to eat, and…

Hang on.

"Mr. August, uh… where did you get a sandwich from?"

Mr. August responded with his mouth full, then swallowed and obnoxiously cleared his throat. "Sorry, Wats- Walters, I should've offered you something. I tend to stress eat when I'm, ya know, stressed, and-”

"No, yeah, I get that. You didn't have a sandwich when we walked in, though."

"Didn't I? It was sitting right here, so I—” In the middle of his sentence, Mr. August's face fell faster than The Bakerville Mysteries's ratings. He stood up so quickly that the chair behind him clattered to the ground, the peanut butter sandwich formerly in his hands flopping back onto its plate like a dead fish. Eyes wider than a cartoon's, we stared at each other in shock. My idol, a self-proclaimed "master detective," was eating evidence.

With an inhuman noise that was a cross between a stifled scream and retching, Mr. August scrambled over to the sink. He grabbed a cup out of the sink, began filling it with water, then slammed the cup back down in horror. "I'm tampering with evidence!" he screeched, "Everything I do is incriminating!"

In a daze, Mr. August slumped over onto the floor. With his face in his hands, he started babbling so quickly and intensely that it was hard to make out his exact words. I could tell what he was saying, though, clear as day. It wasn't hard to imagine the sort of stress he put himself through, the self-doubt he felt after "failing," and all those feelings compounding thanks to the awful situation he found himself in. Watching him sit there, listening to his voice break under strain, I knew I had to do something.

Trying my best not to panic, I rushed up to Mr. August and took his hands in mine. I almost broke, too, looking into his welled-up eyes, but I knew I had to try. "Mr. August. What do we do when we're confused and stressed?"

He sniffled, making a noise that made him seem like a sad dog. "H-huh?"

"Don't tell me you forgot your catchphrase!" I smirked. It felt fake, but I had his attention. "Here, I'll ask again. What do we do when we're confused and stressed?"

He searched my face, looking for some sort of clue to what I was looking for. Finally, his confusion cleared up into a little light of optimism. "T-take a breath, talk it out, and decide what's best?"

"Bingo!" Letting go of his hands, I backed up and sat crisscrossed on the floor across from him. "Let's start with that first step." I took a big, deep breath, and watched Mr. August take enough short breaths that I was worried he'd start hyperventilating. "That's not a deep breath and you know it. In for five, out for five, I know you can do it."

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

"Feel better?"

Mr. August nodded.

"Sweet! Let's move onto step two, then." One last deep breath, for good luck. "What happened here?"

"J-Jiffy died."

"What makes you say that?" I tilted my head like a confused puppy at him.

His eyes widened at me— I thought they couldn't get any bigger. "A-are you serious? Look at him! He hasn't moved an inch since we walked in, and we were only able to get in after convincing his landlord to give us a key!"

"Right, but that doesn't mean he's dead. To prove it, we'd have to figure out what killed him."

After a few moments of thought, Mr. August clapped his hands together. "Of course! The sandwich! Jiffy must've had a deathly peanut allergy!"

"You've known him for a while, though, right? Wouldn't you know about a severe allergy like that?"

He hummed disappointedly at my retort, but it was clear that his gears were turning. "No, you're right, that is a good point… after all, he did bring whole jars of peanut butter as lunch back in middle school…" He chuckled a little, reminiscing. "You know, that's actually why we call him Jiffy, come to think of it. Ol' Jiffy Thomas, with his jars of jiffy butter! Say, Walters, did I ever tell you about-"

I swooped in before he got too distracted, taking his hands in mine again. "Mr. August. While I'm sure I’d love to hear whatever you were about to say, we've got bigger fish to fry."

"Oh? Oh, right, of course."

Mr. August brought himself to his feet to get himself back on track. I didn't realize in the moment, but I was about to witness one of the highlights of The Bakerville Mysteries: the Detective Deduction Discussion. Although, looking back, it wasn't ever much of a discussion— really just the detectives talking to themselves with enough time for the viewer to yell the answer at the screen. Mr. August didn't leave room for interjection, though. Once he got on a roll, there was no stopping him.

Mr. August began to pace around the little kitchenette, picking up speed with every realization. "Maybe his sandwich was poisoned? No, no, that can't be it. If he was poisoned, then I'd be poisoned, and I feel great! Unless it's slow acting. No. Be rational. There's no blood, no sign of a struggle. All signs would point to natural causes, then. Which would mean that the best thing to do…"

Mr. August twirled on his heels and took a few steps towards Jiffy's lifeless form as I watched from my spot on the ground. He looked back at me, the expression on his face a sort of worried confidence. I smiled and gave him a nod as I rose to my feet, encouraging him to follow his deduction.

"…is to investigate the body."

Crouching down, Mr. August poked at Jiffy's shoulder. After a few moments with no response, he tried rolling the body over. With some effort, Jiffy flipped onto his back. Looking up at us, we realized that he wasn't really "looking" anywhere. His eyes were tightly shut, and his mouth was slightly ajar, making him look more like a hibernating bear than a dead man…

Hang on. Again.

The metaphorical lightbulb above Mr. August's head finally clicked on, illuminating the plan ahead with the awe-inspiring brilliance I'd been waiting for. He immediately sprang to action, jostling Jiffy by the shoulders and yelling his name. Within a few seconds, Jiffy's eyes fluttered open, only to stare at me and Mr. August in shock.

"Um… can I help you?"

Mr. August nearly tackled Jiffy in a hug, exclaiming, "You're alive! Thank goodness, you're alive, Jiffy, I was starting to get really worried!"

"… Blake? What are you doing in my apartment?"

After a little blubbering, Mr. August launched into a recap of everything we'd done to get to this point, bouncing around to include as many anecdotes as possible. Once I filled in the last few blanks, we all shared a laugh over the silly circumstances that got us here.

"I think there's just one more question that needs answering…" Mr. August struck a pose as he pointed to Jiffy, quipping, "Why were you asleep on the floor in the middle of your kitchen?!"

"And why'd you skip work?" I added.

"Oh, uh… It's a little embarrassing, but… The latest Devils and Death Pacts game just came out, so I pulled three all-nighters to try to finish as much as possible so that I could talk about it with some of my coworkers. I like to do some stretches on the floor every once and a while, and I guess I was so exhausted that I fell asleep as soon as I was horizontal… What day is it, by the way?"

As we walked out of Jiffy's apartment building, I laughed out loud. "I can't imagine sleeping for a whole day, that would be crazy! All's well that ends well, though, right?" I turned to my employer, expecting another jovial quip, and found him staring at his shoes dejectedly. "Mr. August? Are you alright?"

With a long groan, he put his face in his hands. "Oh, God, that was awful!"

"What'd'ya mean? We solved the case, didn't we?"

"This isn't about the case!" As he flung his arms out with angry emphasis, nearly smacking me in the process, I noticed that there were tears welling in his eyes. "I made a fool out of myself on the first day! He was asleep, for crying out loud! What kind of a detective jumps to conclusions and assumes the worst?!" With a sigh, his arms fell to his sides in defeat. "I understand if you want to break our contract after this mess," he added softly. "I wouldn't want to work with me, either…"

I stifled a laugh. "Are you kidding? Today was great!"

His eyes widened— not as wide as earlier, but pretty close. "S-seriously?"

I beamed. "Heck yeah! It maybe wasn't the best day I've had, but my childhood self would kill me if living a real-life Bakerville Mysteries episode wasn't a good time! You really know how to rally when the going gets tough, too— it was honestly really inspiring!"

Mr. August scoffed, wiping his eyes on the back of his shirt sleeve. "That part was a team effort, I think. We both rallied back there, and I don’t think I would’ve had the confidence to pick myself up without trusting you and your quick thinking. I uh… don't really know what I would've done without you, Walters."

Aww. Embarrassingly, I felt my face heat up. It’s not every day that you get complimented by your childhood hero, especially in this sort of scenario. Which reminded me…

"… you can call me Watson, if you want, Mr. August.” I winked at him, smirking. “I trust that you know my name by now."

Mr. August made a small noise of excitement and wrapped his arms around me, nearly tripping me down the stairs. We laughed and started walking back towards Mr. August’s office, sorting out some affairs of our own.

"I can trust that you'll make me look a lot cooler when you write all of this out, right? Imagine the headlines, Watson! 'Detective Blake August and The Case of the Suspicious Sandwich!' It'll be a best-seller for sure!"

I smirked and replied, “I’ll do my best.”

He’s dying. Your little brother is bleeding out on the kitchen tiles, and you’re just standing there. Your hands are warm, covered in his blood. But you do not help him. You do not cry. You do not respond to his wails. You did this to him, but you can’t even bring yourself to finish the job. What kind of a monster are you, Doom?

“When do you think they'll they get back?”

The sound of a voice— a real voice, not the dim pitch of his inner psyche— shocked Allen out of his horrible, horrible walk down memory lane. He blinked a few times, stretched out a kink in his neck, and took in his surroundings. He was standing on a secluded beach, his tennis shoes lightly caked with sand. The sky was a dusky gray-blue color, having faded from the orange and pinks of sunset. The waves had receded since he’d arrived on the beach about two hours prior, but they'd gotten much rougher. Thick, dark clouds seemed to be rolling in, though it was hard to tell if they were rain-dark or just night-dark. The former, rain-dark, would suck, because Allen hadn’t been planning on rain. He hadn’t been planning on being anywhere near this beach, anywhere near this world, but he needed an excuse to clear his head. Anything to get out of that place.

“Mister Allen?”

Allen felt a light tap on his arm, and turned to see a young girl awkwardly trying to get his attention. This girl, with her sun-bleached brown hair, freckle-covered face, and disproportionate, growth spurt body, was Maggie, a denizen of the dimension Allen currently resided in.

Maggie cocked her head to one side inquisitively as he turned, a concerned look on her face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine." Allen sighed. "I’m just… thinking. You asked me a question, yeah?”

“Oh, right! When do you think they'll be back? It’s been kind of a bit, and my mom’ll kill me if I don’t show up before it gets too dark, but I’m… I’m kinda worried.”

The “they” in this equation were three others: Fakida and c̶͙̍ö̶̘́ṙ̸̥r̶̎ͅû̶̫p̷̛̫t̶̟̃e̴̘͛d̸̟̉, two out-of-towners; and Anubis, a large sea monster who had befriended Maggie some time ago. As far as Allen understood, the two outsiders had negotiated with the sea monster to complete some sort of task for it to kill time, as anyone in their situation would. 

Like Allen, c̶͙̍ö̶̘́ṙ̸̥r̶̎ͅû̶̫p̷̛̫t̶̟̃e̴̘͛d̸̟̉ and Fakida were not from the same world that Maggie and Anubis inhabited. Unlike Allen, c̶͙̍ö̶̘́ṙ̸̥r̶̎ͅû̶̫p̷̛̫t̶̟̃e̴̘͛d̸̟̉ and Fakida were from worlds much more distant than Allen’s. They had been brought to his system of dimensions for an unknown reason, and they couldn’t leave because God knows why, and Allen was sick of all of the excuses. Morgana Orion, an all-around untrustworthy duo of beings, insisted that they had no idea what was going on, which was clearly a lie, but Allen was physically incapable of making them talk without risking the safety of the whole multiverse in the process. He couldn’t put himself and his family at risk anymore, not before he had definitive answers.

What kind of a monster are you?

Allen sat down on the beach, digging his feet into the sand as he pulled his knees into his chest. “I’m sure that they’re fine, I have no idea how long negotiating with a sea monster council is supposed to take. If you don’t think your mom’ll freak out about a stranger bringing you home, we can come up with an excuse to keep you out later.” He smirked up at Maggie, hoping that his joke would land well.

Maggie sat down cross-legged next to him, releasing a big sigh she’d clearly been holding in. “I honestly don’t think she’d be mad, she doesn’t miss me. Neither of them do. Mom’s always out at her environmentalist rallies, and my sister never leaves her computer anymore, so neither of them notice when I hang out with Anubis or go all the way down to Harbor Cove by myself.” As she spoke, she doodled stars in the sand with her finger. “I don’t really mind, I have fun, I just… wish they cared, ya know?”

“Damn, kid…” Allen put his arm around Maggie, pulling her into an awkward sort of embrace. “I think you’re pretty cool, if it means anything to you. You and my little brother would get along.”

Maggie shuffled slightly to make the hug less awkward, whispering, “thank you…”

They sat together like this for a few moments until Allen felt something small and wet hit the top of his head. Then another, on his knee. The sand was specked with small circles as Maggie groaned.

“Boo, it’s raining…”

Allen shifted his arm away from Maggie and made motions to stand. “If you don’t wanna get drenched, you can go back inside. I’ll make sure that the ladies make it back alright.”

“Are you sure? I can—” Maggie yawned. “No, actually, I should probably go to bed.”

As they both stood, the rain picked up from a few drops to a steady, dense drizzle, aided in severity by the wind picking up. Allen cupped his hands over his eyes in an attempt to see better, looking out onto the dark water. Along the horizon, between two crashing waves, Allen could’ve sworn he saw figures, but they were quickly obscured by another large wave. 

Then, faster than a blink, the world lit up. The beach was suddenly illuminated by multiple cracks of lightning out above the water, so close you could hear them sizzle. In the false sun, Allen tried to observe as much as possible. The waves had massively receded, leaving the sand barren and damp and revealing a host of small sea creatures usually obscured by the tides. What was left of the water was rough and fast, impossible to swim through. Nonetheless, he saw distinct figures along the horizon trying to make their way out of the thick of it and up to the beach. Beyond them, behind the clouds, was a massive figure. Barely illuminated by the swiftly-fading light, it seemed to be more like a conglomerate of tentacle-like limbs than a traditional humanoid body, save a human-shaped head topped with two horns. The sight of the creature made goosebumps appear on Allen’s forearms, and a sharp pain stung at the back of his head. 

As soon as the lightning subsided, thunder boomed so long and loud that Allen’s stomach fell and Maggie covered her ears. Instinctively, Allen turned to Maggie and practically barked at her to get inside. She tried to stammer out an argumentative response, but another bellow of thunder shocked her system enough to realize it wasn’t worth arguing. As she ran back towards the beach house her family was renting, Allen barreled down the beach. He turned on his cell phone’s flashlight and started waving it above his head, yelling for c̶͙̍ö̶̘́ṙ̸̥r̶̎ͅû̶̫p̷̛̫t̶̟̃e̴̘͛d̸̟̉ and Fakida. He screamed himself hoarse, his voice carried off by the roaring winds and waves. As more lightning illuminated the sky, he lost sight of the two out-of-towners out in the swelling ocean, but that didn’t stop him. 

As he yelled, something bumped into his submerged ankles. He turned the flashlight down to identify the object. It was f̷̳͑ỏ̴͔r̵͔̈́g̴̿͜ō̶͓ț̵͝t̶̪̏ȩ̵͐n̵̯̈́ ̸͂ͅb̴͙̋ỵ̶̇ ̸̼̂t̴̞̚i̷̮͐m̵̠̀e̶̝̕. Next to it was ý̷̻o̵̤͝ư̶̱ ̵̖͌w̸͖̽ó̶͍n̴̮̔'̸͍͘t̸̯̒ ̸̤̕m̵̲̈i̸͍͗s̸̘̿s̸̺̕ ̷͍̔t̶͙͋ẖ̵̛ḭ̸͑s̸̝̑,̵͙̇ ̶̫͐t̵͙̓r̴̤̀ủ̶̢ś̴̗t̵͓̑ ̷̼̋m̴̪̽ě̵̟. Other miscellaneous a̵̰̽b̵͉͘a̵̱̚n̵̩̂d̴̹̚o̶̬͝n̵̥͋ḛ̶̛d̸͚͐ and p̷̮̋ä̵͇́i̷̭̓n̷̙̽ë̸ͅd̸͈̈́ floated their way onto shore, many of them plastered with Ǐ̴̞ ̶͈̈́ẅ̴̘́o̷͔̔ṉ̵͆'̵̤͛t̶͖̎ ̴̘̋l̸̲̓ḙ̷̅t̴͉̾ ̶̨̚y̷̢̽o̸͎͋ṷ̴͝ ̶͙̇g̵̫͌o̵̤͗. Allen grabbed the d̸̝͠o̵̢͊e̵̥̒ŝ̶̰n̶͈̈'̶̟̆t̸͙̿ ̵͓̏i̶͈͋t̵͈͝ ̸̝̿ḩ̷̌u̴̱͗r̷̖̂t̷͎̾, hoping that something or someone salvageable would be on the other side.

Out in the water, something b̴̼̃l̶̰̔i̸̒͜n̴̳̅k̸̺͝ë̶͈d̸̳͐ at Allen. Next to the items and dead sea life, a plethora of eyes began appearing on the surface of the water. All of them stared at Allen, burrowing through his soul. As soon as he spotted one, Allen felt an all-too-familiar sense of dread and fear. He was being watched.

Immediately he gave up on saving the out-of-towners and backed away from the water. Tripping over a ŷ̷̱ö̷͈́ṳ̵͌'̴̩͛l̷̯̕ḻ̵̆ ̸̢͆ń̸̖e̵̘͋v̶̽ͅè̸̻r̸͔̊ ̵͓͌k̸̩̀n̵͕͆ò̶̜ẘ̵̯, Allen stumbled to the ground, trying frantically to get away from the eyes that were now winking into view among the shells. His head blaring, Allen struggled to get up, digging his hands into the sand for some sort of stability. Whispers of fragmented speech reached his ears, clogging his senses. 

With great effort, he reached an obelisk of white marble protruding from the sand that hadn’t been there moments before. This obelisk acted as a frame for a similarly pristine white door that hummed with an unnatural glow. From the ground, Allen reached up for the door’s handle, and used it as a brace to pull himself up. As soon as he was standing, he swung the door open, bolted in, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Allen nearly fainted upon entry to the Hub World, slamming his back up against an adjacent wall to stay upright, clutching his head and biting back a scream. The door next to him roared with an ungodly noise, a fusion of a door’s creaking and a monstrous roar, until a river of a thick black liquid flowed over the entryway. The liquid splattered onto the pristine white floors, flecks staining Allen’s skin and clothes. As the noise faded, so did Allen’s headache, but it took longer for his vision to settle. He felt seasick on land, unaided by the salty smell drenched into his being by the waves and rain. 

Once the nausea subsided, Allen slid down the wall to a sitting position, catching his breath. A figure, a young boy with dark hair dressed completely in white save for a set of cobalt blue gloves, approached him quietly.

“Where, where a-are…” The boy stuttered, repeating the start of his sentence over and over before stopping and taking a deep breath.

Allen didn’t let him finish their thought. “They died. Either they were dead already, or you and your buddy definitely killed them with your little trick there.” Allen jabbed his head in the direction of the closed door, the soft noise of its flow merging with the five other doorways that had been closed off from the central hub. 

“Oh… oh no…” The boy staggered backwards, bringing his hands up to his face in shock. “What… what are we gonna do now?”

“What are we gonna do? What’s your plan here, Mona?” Allen retorted, scowling. “Why did you bring outsiders into this mess?”

“I-It wasn’t me, I—”

“Stop making excuses, kid. If you didn’t summon them, then who did?”

“I-I can’t tell you that.”

Allen stood and took a few steps towards the boy, who scuttled backwards in kind.

“Why not? What is there to be afraid of, Mona?”

Morgana backed up into the central stone tower of the Hub World, shaking slightly. “Al, d-don’t do this. You’re losing control. J-just go home, we’ll talk, we’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down.”

“You aren’t in charge of me, kid. You can’t tell me what to do.”

A figure appeared in between Morgana and Allen. They were tall, lanky, and made of the same liquid as the barriers between the door and the rest of the world. They had no discernible features in their face or their limbs, but the two ram horns sprouting out of their head sent warning signals flaring through Allen’s body.

“Get out of my way, Paka,” his voice came out as a low growl.

“D-Don’t say that name!” Morgana’s voice called from behind the new figure.

“Why not? Don’t tell me you’re scared of the monster that put us in this hellhole.”

“I don’t want to have to do this to you, Doom.” The horned figure’s voice emanated from where its mouth should be.

Allen swiftly unsheathed a small knife clipped to his belt. “Don’t call me that! You have no right to use that name!”

“Al, please just listen to us!” Morgana practically wailed. Dark freckles started appearing over the exposed parts of their body, slowly spreading and forming a layer of pitch black across their face.

Without another word, Allen lunged at the horned figure, trying to slice through it to get to Morgana. At once, the figure wrapped its shadowy arms around Allen, locking him in an embrace. Allen kicked and squirmed, trying to fight back, but it was futile. Even if the figure was attacked, its will was absolute.

Morgana clutched at their face with darkened hands, a terrified expression leaking through the covering. “Ori, you need to get him out of here!” Their voice was strained, and they began coughing violently once the statement had concluded.

As Morgana doubled over, Orion dragged Allen over to the other side of the Hub World, to an open door. This door looked simple and rugged, with a symbol resembling a knife carved into it. Orion flung Allen through the door, almost with no care for his physical well-being, and slammed the door behind him. They held the door closed as Allen slammed against it again and again, trying to get back into the space between dimensions, but Orion was stronger. The liquid separating the door from the rest of the system did not appear- it was not his time yet.

Morgana collapsed to the ground, their eyeball-flavored sickness refusing to subside. With one hand still keeping the door closed, although Allen’s beatings had subsided, Orion slowly approached Morgana. All of the eyes stared at him. The eyes did not like what they saw.

Mary-Ellen Penrose wasn’t in the holiday spirit, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. It always felt like the world revolved around the colored lights and brightly-patterned packaging this time of year, with the usual hustle and bustle of the city increasing a thousand-fold— if you weren’t careful, you’d get caught up in it. You only avoided it if you kept your cards close, and Mary-Ellen had been dealt one of the worst hands.

As a child, the festivities had been mesmerizing. As a kid without a home, with no family outside of those brought together by circumstance, a portion of the year dedicated to cozy quality time should’ve been disheartening, nearly revolting. And it was, for a few years, when Mary-Ellen was alone.

Then, she found Cal.

Having someone to fight for, someone to lift the spirits of, someone to keep safe inspired her. He would grow up in a world full of light, hope, and all things jolly, even if that meant pushing her weight around in dodgier circles to get a bit more pocket money. Cal had the good fortune to grow up loving Christmas, and as their family grew, he went from primary recipient to primary giver. Once they got their own place, Cal made it his mission to  throw elaborate Christmas parties every year to make sure no member of their community went without a good meal, a small gift, and a smile. It was hard not to smile, now, thinking of the memories.

Thinking of Cal.

Calvin Penrose, who represented everything stable and hopeful in the world.

Calvin Penrose, who seemed trapped in Mary-Ellen’s memories, never to return from the dark inferno of her mind.

Burning, burning, burning away…

“Um… e-excuse me, Ms. Mary-Ellen?”

Mary-Ellen jolted to attention at the sound of her name, blinking away the tears that had started watering down her whiskey. Turning swiftly, she saw a disproportioned figure looming in the doorway of The Purple Dove, a red-and-green box stuffed under his arm.

“We aren’t open today, sorry.” It was unfair to the young man to be pushed away, but Mary-Ellen hated crying in front of people. Heck, she nearly got her hopes up, easily mistaking the clumsy figure backlit by midday sun for her brother’s familiar frame.

“But, um… I made you Christmas cookies.” Sammy Attica, the most recent member of Mary-Ellen’s list of “scarily-optimistic people in dire straits”, took a few hesitant steps down the stairs into the dimly-lit bar. With furrowed, concerned brows, he took the dented box out from its perch and held it out in front of him like a peace offering.

Mary-Ellen sighed, quickly wiped at her face with the back of her hand, and stepped out from behind the bar towards Sammy. She smirked, leaned up against a barstool, and crossed her arms over her chest, putting on her foolproof customer service exterior.

“I thought you couldn’t go out during the day, kid. Don’t tell me you’re getting yourself in trouble just to give me a gift.”

“Oh, no, I’m good!” Sammy responded to Mary-Ellen’s smirk with a grin of his own. “Dad couldn’t get the day off, so I’m free ‘till he gets home. I was gonna stop by last night— that’s when I dropped off everyone else’s cookies— but Hound heard rustling in an alleyway a couple blocks over, and he’s been really good the last couple days, so I was gonna let him out for a run, and then I tripped and dented your box, and-“

Mary-Ellen laughed.  “Slow down, kid, you’re gonna hurt yourself!” She crossed the worn floorboards over to him, inspecting the crumpled package he still held in the air. “You really didn’t have to go through the trouble. What is this, the fourth box of baked goods you’ve given me since we met?”

Sammy somehow beamed wider, his sharpened canines sparkling under the festive lights. “But it’s Christmas!”

Mary-Ellen averted her eyes almost immediately, muttering, “God, you even sound like him…”

“Like who?” When she returned her gaze to him, Sammy’s head was cocked to one side. Mary-Ellen could’ve sworn she saw The Hound’s ears perk up through Sammy’s tousled mop of brown hair.

Mary-Ellen’s sigh came out as a sort of chuckle, releasing tension she didn’t realize she had. “Nothing gets by you, huh?” She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the emotions she’d been avoiding the whole month. “… It’s my brother’s birthday today.”

“Oh, awesome! Does he get double gifts? I always wondered if kids with birthdays on gift-giving holidays get double gifts.”

“He… didn’t get many gifts, but he never really wanted anything. He always said that the joy on people’s faces was gift enough, so he was always handing stuff out.” Cheesy, but so like him, she tacked on in her head.

“My mom’s the same way! She always tells my dad to take whatever he got her and give it to someone less fortunate. He never does, but—!” Sammy cut himself short, his cheerful composure breaking slightly at the thought of his mother, who packed up and mysteriously left town two months prior. His sudden somberness conveyed so much emotion in his young face, the fractured puzzle of his life that he was still missing pieces of. He made Mary-Ellen’s heart hurt, after a long month— no, six long years of hurting. 

They stood there, in somber silence, for a few moments, until the Cal-shaped angel perched on Mary-Ellen’s shoulder forced her to speak up.

“Well, no point in standing here, feeling sorry for ourselves, right? Might as well come all the way in and get a drink.” She carefully pried the box out of Sammy’s paws, lifting it close to her ear and shaking it slightly. “You made more of those ginger cookies I like, right? Riiiight?”

Sammy blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes like he woke up from a dream. “Oh, yeah, definitely…” Suddenly, his whole body shot straight with a gasp, exclaiming, “That’s the wrong box!”

Mary-Ellen scoffed. “What’d’ya mean, it’s the wrong box?”

“The box with your cookies in it had a green ribbon on it, so I could tell it apart! That box doesn’t have a ribbon at all!”

Sure enough, the well-loved box was missing its decorative flourish. Coupled with Sammy’s bewildered expression, Mary-Ellen couldn’t help but laugh.

“W-What’s so funny?!”

“You know what this means, right?”

“…w-what?”

“We’ve gotta go around to all the places you gave cookies to to make a switcharoo! I’m not gonna let anybody else get their hands on my favorite cookies!”

At this, Sammy’s worry turned to confusion. “Y-you don’t have to, I didn’t mean to make this into such a big deal…”

“Don’t worry about it, hon! I needed an excuse to stop wallowing in self-pity, anyhow.” Twirling around to grab her discarded winter coat off the edge of the bar, she called, “so, who exactly are our suspects in this cookie caper? The do-gooders?”

“Who are the— oh, right, yeah. Just them!” Sammy laughed a little, his smile finally returning.

“Then we gotta hurry, we’re losing daylight!” 

As she barreled past Sammy to get out the door, laughing all the while, Mary-Ellen Penrose realized that this was what she had been missing. Yes, it all reminded her of her loss, but there were ways to push forward without erasing what was absent. It may not be perfect, but no one is, and bringing the tiniest sliver of joy to someone else is what she needed most. It’s what he would have wanted, anyhow.

Te contine, potens. Somnia vestra sunt adhuc implenda. Speramus novam vitam et novum amorem. Expergiscere, et renascendi. (Contain yourself, mighty one; your dreams have yet to be fulfilled. We hope for a new life and new love. Awaken now, and be reborn.) — The Spell of Rebirth

Jakob Callahan would do anything to be a boy. From the moment he was old enough to grasp the expectations of the gender thrust upon him, he knew they didn't feel right. The concept of "womanhood" in the way that his backwater hometown imagined it was so unbecoming of Jakob Callahan that he thought he would puke anytime someone called him "she" or "ma'am." Every time he looked in a mirror or looked down at himself and saw a woman's body, he felt like crying. Or lopping his head off. Whichever came first.

Over the years, Jakob and his family exhausted as many resources as they could to figure out the most fool-proof method to facilitate his metamorphosis into manhood. Just, uh, for the record, they weren't his family biologically, but Jakob considered himself closer to this ragtag group than any of his blood siblings, so family seemed like an apt description. He'd never admit that to their faces, though, it would make things awkward. They were really just individuals united by similar circumstances. Nothing more, nothing less.

Nonetheless, they consulted every journal, every tome, and every avenue they could. And finally, finally, finally, they found a solution. Tonight, Jakob would finally become what— no, who, he was meant to be. He would finally be happy.

As his friends finalized the preparations, Jakob made himself comfortable on his perch. Despite the chill of the winter air, the small porch attached to the little shack they'd used for their experiments was one of the few places Jakob could get away from his thoughts and just… breathe. No more concerned friends, no more worries, except there was so much to worry about, and so many concerns about his friends. Did they run any tests? Were they translating everything correctly? What happens if something goes wrong? What's magic supposed to-?!

Jakob stopped and took a breath. The skin around the nails of his dainty fingers was starting to bleed again. Stupid nervous habits. It wasn't his fault that he was always nervous.

The sound of the porch screen creaking on its hinges startled Jakob out of his daze. He glanced up from his seat, then immediately darted his eyes back out to the yard, distracting himself away from all the conversations he wanted to start but dreaded having.

"Jakey? You doin' alright, hon?"

Ruth, graceful as ever, looked ethereal when backlit by the lights of the old house. Her voice carried on the winter breeze like an old song— one you forgot about until it makes your heart ache with its first notes. Honestly, Ruth always reminded Jakob of his mother's collection of sheet music. They both looked so complicated and hard to understand at first, but once you took the time to understand them, they were nothing but beautiful. Ethereal, complicated, beautiful, and endlessly intimidating; that was Ruth.

Jakob mumbled that he felt fine, thanks. It was a lie, of course, but he couldn't admit that. Ever since they were kids, she worried too much about him. She always had so much on her plate, and she always seemed to put his needs first. But that's not an excuse! He can't let himself be a burden— not on the most important day of their lives!

Ruth crouched down next to him and sat down, tucking the back of her skirt behind her knees as she dangled her legs over the edge of the porch. "I really didn't think that you'd sit outside in the cold for hours if you were fine, but I'll trust your judgment."

"I-it's been hours?!"

Ruth giggled. God, it was such a nice sound. "I'm exaggerating a little, but the point still stands!" She leaned over and rested her head on Jakob's shoulder. "You're worried about tonight, aren't you?"

Jakob felt his body tense up. They'd been so close for so long; her touch shouldn't feel this alarming. This had to be another side effect of nerves, then— play it cool, take it easy. "W-what gave it away?"

Ruth reached over to take Jakob's hands. He didn't stop her. Rather, he looked out at the snow-dusted landscape in their yard. Something, anything to distract him the sizzling of his emotionally-fried brain cells.

"Your hands are all scuffed up again. Wanna go inside and find some band-aids?"

Jakob balled his hands into fits, resting them in Ruth's careful palms. "I-I'm really okay, promise. I'm just… I've got butterflies in my stomach, is all."

"I can understand that. Any particular fears that I can help squash before the big moment?"

I'm afraid that I'm not making the right decision. I'm afraid that I'm gonna regret it. I'm afraid that something will go horribly wrong, and I'll die unhappy and alone before I even get a chance to live properly. I'm afraid that I've spent so long worrying that there's no more hope for me to ever be able to be a functioning member of society, man or not.

"A-are you sure Adam knows what he's doing? I, uh… I haven't really asked too much, but he hasn't really explained much of the process to me."

Adam, headstrong to a fault, had declared himself to be the brains of the operation before anyone realized there was an operation to be the brains of. Throughout their search, Adam insisted that he could find a solution that was easy, cheap, and, quote, "revolutionary." Jakob would've preferred something efficient to something revolutionary, but there was no way he'd be able to pay for any sort of medical treatment. With the few funds they had at their disposal, the trio turned to the only resource they had in droves— magic energy. Magic had always gone over Jakob's head, so he let Adam and Ruth do all the hard work.

Ruth laughed again, squeezing Jakob's fists in a tender, reassuring way. Her hands completely enveloped his— was he always this small and frail? "I know just as much about this as I usually do about what goes on in that wizard lair of his. The way he talks about it, it sounds like the transition he's whipped up could turn us into just about anything!" Ruth chuckled a little, under her breath. "What do you think you'll want to look like, when it's all over?"

Oh. Oh God. Jakob hadn't realized that this was an option. What did he want to look like when it was all over? He'd known— knows— a lot of men, but he didn't really want to look like or be any of them in particular. Jakob had always thought of himself as a man as… well, as exactly that: him, but a real man. The closest to that was probably… "I might want to be like Adam, maybe. He's so… confident in himself. He knows who he is, and he doesn't hide anything or change himself to fit in. He's never needed to."

"Adam's never worked a day in his life, compared to us. Isn't that crazy to think about? Sure, he was self-conscious about the superficial stuff when we were kids, but he's always felt like he belonged in his own skin. We— you and I, I mean— don't always get that luxury. It's no wonder you envy him."

"You always look perfect, too, though. I'm the odd one out."

Ruth sighed. The look on her face was… bittersweet. Had Jakob said something wrong? "Ya know, Jakey, it took me a long time to get my body to a point where I was even a little bit happy with it. I'm honestly a little upset that all of my hard work is gonna go to waste after this."

"… what do you want to be? A-after the transformation, I mean."

Ruth leaned in, bringing her voice down to a whisper that carried a magical sort of wonder to it. "Do you remember the willow tree that grew in my backyard when we were kids? I was always so worried that it wouldn't bounce back in the spring, but there it was, safe and warm and welcoming every year. I felt untouchable every time I sat under that old willow tree— I felt right. I want to be able to feel the way I felt under that willow tree every day. I'm so close to that… this is just that last step, ya know?"

Of course she'd thought about it already. Of course she had a perfect plan, with a perfectly thought-out answer. Ruth was perfect. She'd always been perfect in Jakob's eyes— so sure of herself and proactive in her changes. She worked so hard to make every part of her form effortless, just as beautiful as the willow tree.

"I wish I didn't have to do all of this to be like you." I wish I had your confidence. I wish I knew what I was outside of my body. I wish I didn't hide in my room every day, terrified of being seen as the thing you want to be so badly.

Ruth pulled Jakob into a side hug, her voice still low and somber. "I know, hon, I know… doctors just won't catch up to our needs, will they? All we've got is half-baked magicians and hope."

Right. Of course. That's exactly what I meant. Jakob was so close to spilling his guts to Ruth. He deserved to be able to get all his fears off his chest properly. He owed himself that courtesy, at least.

Ruth took a deep, calculated breath. "I trust Adam more than I'd trust any doctor, though. He might not 'get it' on, like, a deeper level, but I know he has our best interests at heart."

The porch screen swung open again. Here comes the man of the hour. "You aren't insulting me over there, are you?" Adam leaned himself up against the siding of the structure, arms folded over his chest. A scowl, one of his more common expressions, painted his face. "I've still got time to call all of this off, you know."

Ruth smirked and started pulling herself up to a standing position. "I was complimenting you, actually. If you're gonna keep assuming the worst of me, then maybe I'll reconsider our deal altogether." Ruth and Adam always teased each other like this, conversation flowing as natural as a river. Why couldn't Jakob just be normal like them? As Ruth dusted herself off, she extended her hand out to Jakob. Wordlessly, she cocked her head towards the shack. Towards Adam. Towards their future.

Jakob weighed his options one last time. His gut told him to launch himself off the porch, into the fields, and go die in a hole somewhere where no one would find him. Sad and alone, like always, where no one had to worry about him. Some explorer would classify the bones he left behind as belonging to a little girl who died before her feminine destiny could be fulfilled, and not as a young man who had the world at his fingertips, if only he'd get up and seize the opportunity.

Turns out the decision wasn't that difficult after all. He took Ruth's hand and let himself be pulled up towards the shack's warm glow. Towards his home. Towards his future. Towards the final resting place of that little girl born so many years ago.