March Writing Challenge: 100 Stories. 1 Month.

[Gryphon Matsuoka]

#96 - Wired
Word Count: 2006

The metas had lost the civil war against the non-powered humans - the ones at Hammel, that is. America was slowly tracking down the others. In other countries, the institutions for metas remained unknown, for now, at least. But these meta-hating, meta-fearing people who had turned on the powered humans didn't eradicate every single one, though many were lost to the cause. The remaining metas were controlled, to 'protect those around them'. That was what the government said, but it was hard to believe - all they wanted was control. That's all they wanted, because they were fearful of something they couldn't properly regulate.

The control came in the form of an implant, mainly. Some abilities called for different measures, but they were accounted for. These implants were attached to the temple and wired around to the top of the neck. They were dampeners on the brain, and as most abilities were controlled by the brain, they were kept under control. These weren't permanent dampeners, however. Those who wished to aid others using their powers could have the control alleviated slightly, but extremes were still impossible. Most of the Hammel students and metas living in Pilot Ridge chose to have this. The remainders either refused to be used, or were deemed too unpredictable and untrustworthy to be considered. For people with things such as wings for example... well, that depended. If they were submissive and said that they wouldn't use their extra limbs under any circumstance, unless they were given permission, they were allowed to keep them, but they were still restricted as much as possible. The others... well, unless they had a secondary power, they wouldn't be classed as meta anymore, simply put.

Gryphon was one of these people. If he got caught. He adored his wings, but he wasn't going to just give in. He still had fight in him - and this was ridiculous. The only times metas had been a danger was when they were untrained or mentally unstable. The rest were responsible with their abilities and used them carefully. Why was this happening? With Kodi, Phoenix and Oriel, he had escaped the main fight. They had reached the Vermont border and had been attacked - he had almost died - but he made it. Just about. One of his wings was crushed at the end, and was currently bandaged up, but for a successful recovery, he couldn't keep his feathers hidden. It was very dangerous. His arm was broken, which made nothing simple. Both of these were almost on the mend. He taken a few stabs to the stomach, which was now badly scarred, part of his ear was taken off from a stray bullet that had almost hit his head and he had a scar on his cheek, where someone had cut his face.

Basically, he had looked better, but he was still alive, and that was what mattered.

Kodi's face and arms had been a little cut up, but he was practically healed by now. Phoenix had been in a bad state, stab wounds in bad places, gunshot to the arm, but he was fine now. Oriel had been like Kodi, maybe a little worse. Apparently, after the worst of the damage had been dealt to Gryphon and Phoenix, their lovers hadn't held back. That may have been the only reason they were alive.

Everyone else was back to normal, health wise, but Gryph was still weak. He couldn't move without his stomach giving him agony and he slept a lot more than he stayed awake. It was worrying to the others. It had been about a month and a half since that fight, and a month since they'd lost. The four metas here were in a safehouse, surrounded by many non-powered people (they were the only metas there, to their knowledge) who were against the attacks and the suppression. They were there to keep these remaining powered people protected. It was a relief.

Gryphon was sat in a big armchair, half awake, watching the TV screen relay the news. He didn't know where the others were right now, probably all asleep - the news had just started, it was pretty early - but they would be about soon enough. Kodi would probably be in a panic, since he got a lot of nightmares these days, numerous ones involving losing Gryph, but he couldn't move now. He'd left a note on the bedside, but he wasn't sure if Kodi would have the level head to see it. Probably not.

He heard a door open and slowly look towards it. Oriel. Gryphon looked back at the TV, "They found more people," He croaked out, shuffling only slightly, "They're spreading the search further." Which meant at this rate, they would be discovered soon. Gryph didn't need to say it, it was obvious enough. Oriel regarded him a little. Since this shit had all began, since Gryphon had nearly died... well, he still dicked around a bit around the others, but when it was just the pair of them, him and Gryph, he was... nicer. He sighed and walked past, leaving this room to get to the kitchen. Gryphon continued to watch the TV.

"Now, our main story. Numerous meta-humans in the state of Vermont and the surrounding areas have been wired. The protective devices, called M-O-L-D's, that's the Meta Override and Limitation Devices, have been successfully installed on many of the powered humans. They control the mutations in the body and brain to keep the powers these humans have developed from harming others. Police are currently broadening their searches as some of the students are unaccounted for. If-"

"Gryph!" The winged man blinked and deterred his attention away from the television, looking towards the voice - Kodi's voice. He gave an apologetic expression as the dentokinetic came closer and as he complained at the older one, "You scared me! I t-thought..." Gryphon had been distracted by the TV again. Kodi growled as Gryph paused and began to rewind what he'd missed, "Gryph!!"

"Look." The avian man said quietly, pointing at the TV. There were about ten people on there, but... three of them were Phoenix, Kodi and Oriel. It was like they were wanted, like they were... were criminals. Gryphon wasn't listed, but the other people all seemed younger than him. They were probably just Hammel students. Gryph swallowed nervously as Kodi began to stutter, "...t-that's..." He couldn't even get the words out. Gryphon nodded and began to get up with a small groan, "That's you." Kodi rushed to his side and tried to get him to sit, calling him a moron for moving, but Gryph just wanted to sit on the sofa so he could sit with Kodi. He was sat again, fiddling with Kodi's hair as his head lay in the winged man's lap, and he pressed play.

"If you see any of these students, or suspect you know of a meta human in your area, call the number on your screen now."

Phoenix walked in, rubbing his face and yawning, and Gryph pointed towards the kitchen without a word. Phen scuttled off through the door, and sounds of conversation were heard from there moments later.

"How you feelin'?" Kodi mumbled, playing with Gryph's shirt. He muted the TV, "I could be worse." He was better than he was a week ago, but that was always the case. At least that was always the case, he couldn't afford to deteriorate. Gryphon sighed, looking at his broken arm, and Kodi remembered something, "We can get that off today." He said, poking the cast. Ever since they had lost the civil war, they knew going to any hospital, even the one they had gone to before, would be the end of them, but luckily, the swelling had gone down enough so that Gryph could just slide the cast off, which he did now, carefully, despite Kodi's whinings. It all seemed to be in order. His wing was going to take a little longer though.

It was then that there was a heavy knock at the door. Gryphon looked at Kodi as they knocked again, and the other two didn't seem to appear. Kodi got up and signalled for Gryph to go hide, which he did as fast as he could, in the state he was in. He listened to the conversation as well as he could from the bedroom, the door cracked open slightly to aid him,

"Can I help?" That was Kodi.

"Yes. We just need to take a look around." That sounded too suspicious. If this was the police.... Gryphon snuck out enough to catch Kodi's eye who was looking back, once he saw him, with wide eyes. Gryph could see the fear. Run, he mouthed, Get out, I'll distract him.

Kodi scowled in reply to that idea. Leaving Gryphon behind was basically surrendering him. There was no way he would do that. Gryph sighed, and winced as he did something he really shouldn't do. He tucked his wings into his back and hid them under his clothing. And then he stumbled downstairs. Two policemen were looking around. Phoenix and Oriel were there too, now, and one of these officers was very suspicious of the three of them - those two and Kodi. Gryph just seemed tired to him. The avian man looked to his boyfriend, before pointedly looking at the other policeman who had a walkie-talkie and a gun. When he looked at Kodi again, he saw the dentokinetic pointing out the same thing to Oriel. The pair of them signalled one another and dived forward to grab the gun and device off of their respective officers, dropping the walkie-talkies and holding the guns to their heads. Gryph kept a vague eye on the whole situation, but was feeling pretty faint. He began sitting down as the other two began their threats and instructions.

And then Phoenix collapsed. Gryphon's eyes went wide and he looked at Kodi, as Oriel dashed to Phen and collapsed on top of him. It was then that the avian man spotted the darts. "Kodi..." He warned, the dentokinetic, looking around nervously. He shot both of the officers in the foot as Gryphon remained where he was sat, hands over his head simply because he had no energy to move that much. Kodi came over and Gryph saw the dart aimed his neck, embracing it with his arms, so he would take it instead, as he felt the sting and the very quick sedation. He couldn't understand what Kodi was saying, but he vaguely remembered his lover's panic as he was shot too, and he remembered footsteps before blacking out.

When he woke up, he was on a hospital bed. He blinked, feeling odd, somehow. When he yawned, he felt something attached to his head, and looked towards it.

No.

He reached his hand up and touched the implant on his temple, tracing the wires all the way around and down to his neck. He looked blankly forward. So they had been found.

His back felt odd. The avian man move his hand down his spine, feeling bandages, and when it stopped on something, his breath caught.

A stump. There... there was a stump. His other arm reached behind him and did the same. Another stump. His breaths shook and he sat up with a wince, still reaching behind, as if he had mistaken himself, still searching for a sign of his wings. His breaths quickened as he tumbled into a state of panic, muttering denial as someone came into the room and rushed to his bedside. By this point, Gryphon was beginning to sob, and slumped on his side, body shaking with every tear that rolled out, covering his face.

"They're gone, K-Kodi," He stuttered, distraught, "M-my wings, they're.. t-they're gone....!" He peeked up just enough to see the anger on Kodi's features and the wires looping around his head. They had lost.... how... how did they lose?

[James Lawrence]

37. Urban

Lights. Lights everywhere.

Even as it neared midnight, the streets of New York City lit up. The entire city was illuminated with lights, on billboards, on skyscrapers. There was a reason people called it the city that doesn't sleep. Movement, at all times of the day. Always turned on.

The heart of the city was full of life. People making their way, locals that knew the area like the back of their hand and tourists exploring the city for the first time. Craned necks and wide eyes taking in the city with wonder and excitement, while others just wanted to get home without being bothered.

James was neither of them. He couldn't be called a local, but the streets were still familiar. Familiar enough to remember without a prompt. A few weeks ago, he had arrived, moving from the sleepy town of Pilot Ridge back to his hometown. A much needed change, he had decided upon graduation. Right now, he was staying with his parents again, the tiny apartment still unchanged. He needed the familiarity; craved it after being away for so long. Not by choice.

But he came back. There was nothing in Vermont to hold his interest. Here, in New York, James had possibilities. A potential future in the notoriously difficult world of show business. They said if you could make it in New York, you could make it anywhere. And he dreamed of doing just that. Making a name for himself; something more. Something not offered to him before.

He had the determination, the drive to succeed. James knew he could too, given the opportunity. Walking the streets, head held high, a guitar case in his hand. He just needed the chance to prove himself. The talent was there, as well as an unshakeable ego. James knew he was good enough to make a name for himself.

There were other hopeful dreamers just like himself, wishing for their moment. Hopeful dreamers that littered the streets at this hour, vying for attention. They all made their way across bars and clubs, all reaching the same answer.

No.

Rejection after rejection. As the night progressed, James grew more and more frustrated. No openings. None for awhile. All booked. Come back on open mic night. Come back when you're twenty one. The same answers he had been hearing for the past few weeks. He exited the last bar, deciding to call it quits for the night. It was undeniably harder than expected. He still walked with confidence, projecting the collected image that most came to associate with the name James Lawrence. A few no's did nothing but slightly bruise his inflated ego. If anything, he felt bad for them, saying no to his unrecognised talent. When he became famous, they would regret it. As he moved through the dwindling crowds, James imagined the potential future. Him, on stage, where he belonged. A nice thought.

It was easy making a name for himself in Pilot Ridge. It was also a hundred times harder where it mattered; here, in New York City.

[Gryphon Matsuoka]

#28 - Recoil
Word Count: 601

Gryphon held the pistol with two carefully placed hands. Untrained, they shook slightly as he slowly aimed at the paper target down the other end of the firing range. If he was going to get better at protecting himself, he had to do this. He had to learn how to handle guns. Agile combat and acting defensive only got him so far - sometimes a gun was necessary for whatever mission was laid out for him, and he couldn't use one currently. He would probably be more of a danger to himself than the enemy in his current gunman ability, which was probably at about six out of a hundred. He could identify a gun and hold it the right way around, shoot and miss with incredible skill. For the sake of survival, that had to change.

Kodi wanted to come too, but some of his technology had suddenly gone on the blink, and that wasn't something you could just desert, apparently. He said he might be there later, or he might not. It all depended on how quickly his computers decided to begin working again.

But Gryph shouldn't be distract by now. His hands fidgeted on the gun, still looking down the range. A well-stood woman was behind him, watching. She was an instructor of sorts, used to work in the army, so she knew how to handle a gun. Said she wouldn't do so violently again, and she trained others to keep them from hurting themselves. Apparently, even the gun Gryph was holding now packed a pretty big punch. Considering its size, the spy struggled to believe that, but he wasn't the expert here. And the expert was apparently very patient. Gryphon checked the safety was off and steadied himself, taking a long, slow breath.

He pulled the trigger and the kick-back of the shot jolted him and, only partially prepared for it, Gryph stumbled back a step. He checked the target. He'd hit the shoulder. That wasn't too bad. "Good." The voice came from behind him, firm, with authority you could recognise without even glancing at the woman, "Now again. Hold your stance tighter, your arms were moving too much." Gryphon nodded and shifted on his feet a little, aiming the gun again. The woman's voice came again, "You have to have confidence. If you convince yourself you don't know what you're doing, you won't do it right." She instructed, "Just imagine it's him or you. And if you don't take that shot, you'll be the one on the ground." Her words sounded like a well rehearsed speech, maybe things she had heard herself before. Gryphon swallowed as he took the shot again, recoiling, still a little unprepared. The bullet had taken a better path than last time though, making a hole between the diagram's chest and head, below the neck and a bit to the left. The woman continued once more, "If you miss, he could kill you. He could kill your partner. He could kill many others." Gryph's expression became more focused as he reset the gun and held it up again, arms strong, and he took the shot once more, jolting only a little as the bang of the gun rang through the range. He checked for the shot mark - it was right through the head.

Gryphon let out a heavy breath as he put the safety on. The woman rested a hand on his shoulder, "Good work, soldier," The name seemed to be a force of habit kind of thing, but Gryph felt it was a compliment, "Good work."

[Georgina Speer]

#3 - Subtle
Word Count: 606

Georgina Speer would never make a good criminal. The proof was in the pudding. And the pudding flavour was Grand Theft Auto V for PS4. George really liked this game, and it did nothing to help her studying at all, because it was such a god-damn brilliant distraction! She had beaten it a while back, and was in the midst of going through it all against, although it wasn't necessary. The fact that it was an open world left so many opportunities - the game could be finished, but there could still be so much more to do! It was utterly fantastic and more games needed to be made like this, gosh darn it!

But enough fangirling - onto the reasons why George would make a terrible criminal.

One - she may have become a very sharp shot on console games, having mastered the art of analog sticks and triggers, but in real life, she had only handled guns a handful of times. Headshots may have come easily to her in this game, but the characters could also take a lot more damage than the average human, and she would not be as sharp minded when she wasn't allowed to just press 'Restart' after fucking up too bad. And that was all too easy for her, because she went into half of the missions with no subtlety in her manner, guns screaming and laughing maniacally as she shot every living being in sight. The difference in success rates between GTA and real life in doing that would be astronomical.

Two - she would not keep anything in one piece. Cars would be easily reduced to chunks of scrap metal, if she could manage such a feat without reducing herself into chunks of scrap meat. Helicopters would burst into flames easily. Motorbikes would be the death of many and boats... you don't even wanna know. There would also be lots of crumbling buildings and a lot of people after her for the damages caused, probably also including whoever she worked for, if she did work for something. Maybe it would be better to be independent. She kept that in mind for if her criminal career ever took off. Or existed past video games. Next point!

Three - in relation to damages done and equipment wasted, George would barely be scraping any money. She would get her cut of the money from a mission or whatever and would have to spend it on a new car, new weaponry and, you know, the other things people buy. Food would be good. Yes, that and hydration. Maybe clothing too. But she would have no money and it would be so obvious why that was the case, which brings the final point into play.

Four - George would be arrested on day one. Okay, maybe she would be slightly capable of staying on the down low for a while, but unless she picked up her act, she would be out of breath within two minutes of running, and would easily be caught that way. She could pretend like she got the money elsewhere, if she somehow got away from the cops, but how? She couldn't just say a relative died and gave her loads of money through a sketchy account. Her family weren't sketchy people. They were good people! She shouldn't be going to jail, goddamnit!

...oh wait.

Well, she had been distracted enough to get caught, so she had actually just been arrested, but if anything, that just proved her point, as the game faded and loaded back at the police station, and she ran off again, mini-gun in her character's arms.

No crime for George.

[Gryphon Matsuoka]

#17 - Experience
Trigger Warning: Attempted rape
Word Count: 1214
Also side note, this is definitely an AU.

Gryph was.... nervous, to say the least. He was almost completely inexperienced, and he... he didn't know about... anything, really. He was nineteen, so he was underage when it came to drinking, but he had had a friend get him a fake ID. He didn't like doing that, but the same friend had been showing him possible people to get intimate with, since he was still a virgin, but... Gryphon didn't know about his sexuality. He just didn't like the idea of getting into sexual contact with... women. And he had hardly fathomed the idea with men, and he wasn't perfectly certain how it would work... all... all the same he wanted to see what he thought of things, so he managed to get into a gay bar, thanks to that faux ID, and now he was sat, waiting for his drink, knee bouncing impatiently. It wasn't his first time drinking, funnily enough, just his first time considering... messing around. He wasn't even sure he was ready to.

There were numerous people in the bar, and... a lot of them were attractive. It made Gryph blush a bit as he thought about it, and he stayed sat where he was. There were a few guys off to his right, and... oh, now there was someone right next to him. They flashed him a warm smile, "You okay, there? Seem a little nervous."

Gryphon shook his head, returning a shaky smile of his own, playing with his hands as a drink was placed next to him. He thanked the bar keep before looking at the older man next to him, "I'm f-fine. Just..." Just what? "Just... my friend said they would be meeting me soon, I can't see them." No one was coming to meet him, in actuality, and in hindsight, that was a terrible decision to not have made. But Gryph would be fine. This man seemed nice. He excused himself for a moment to go to the toilet, and caught eyes with a shady looking person on the way there. Dyed hair, multiple piercings, leather and Gryphon hadn't missed the way he had checked him out. It made him shudder. Maybe he would just finish his drink and go, lie about anything he needed to when he saw his friend at university on Monday.

When he returned, the conversation between himself and the stranger rolled on comfortably as Gryph sipped his drink, trying to down as much as he could, whilst talking about things such as university, silly stories, just average things. And then Gryphon began to feel funny. His vision began giving in on him a little, eyes blurring. Maybe it was the alcohol - although, it wasn't all that strong... was it just him? "Hey," He slurred to the gentleman, who's concern was on the rise, "D'you feel funny?"

The man shook his head, feeling Gryph's forehead with the back of one hand, and holding his waist with the other as he slowly sagged, "No, I feel fine. Are you tired?"

"Mmm....hmm?" Gryphon muttered, struggling to process a little and slipping into the man's arms, with no other means of support. His body seemed to have given in completely. The man nodded again, "Come on, I'll take care of you." He mumbled, his tone of voice slightly altered as he began to get Gryph to his feet.

And then he was on the ground.

And now he was being held again. Wait, who was this? This wasn't...? Gryphon began to mumble, but the man with the white hair spoke over him, "Shh, come on." He piled the flopping nineteen-year-old into his car and belted him in, before getting in himself and driving away.

Gryph didn't remember the car journey. He remembered arriving at an apartment, though. He hadn't exactly gained much sense though; if anything, he'd lost more of it. He asked for a name somehow and got the reply of "Kodi," among lots or other words. He was lead to a room and then they were kissing, poorly on Gryph's part, considering his state of being, his confusion and his lack of knowledge. He was carefully laid down on a bed and crawled over, there were hands going lower, and he just... couldn't remember anything.

"Where'm I?" He interrupted, quietly, through mutters that slung together as if they were only supposed to be one word. The man (Kodi...?) didn't stop, but he slowly down slightly, groping Gryphon's stomach muscles as he did.

Oh yeah, Gryph had lost his shirt at some point.

"My bed," The man sneered, chuckling to himself. Gryph groaned quietly, struggling to think straight as the lustful person continued his escapades, "What're'y'doin'?" He mumbled, lazily slumping a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Foreplay." He said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. Gryphon didn't understand why though, and he didn't have much time to think about it, as he slowly slipped out of consciousness.

------------------

Gryph woke up confused. He blinked his eyes awake and he could feel someone next to him, he could see that he didn't recognise this place... he... what had happened? His head throbbed - all he could remember was talking to a guy, and drinking, and now he was here, in a stranger's bed, and it wasn't even the same guy... was it?

He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

He sat up and shook slightly, feeling waves of nausea beginning to attack his already shaky nervous system, and he clambered off, trying to find a toilet. Struggling in that, he just about managed to make it to the kitchen sink before heaving. It wasn't a pretty sight, and it wasn't a fun way to wake up. He wanted to go home. He didn't like this at all. He was searching around for a cup to get water and for medication when footsteps lead into the room.

"Go sit down, I'll get you some stuff."

"But-"

"Go."

The man seemed pretty solid on that point. He came in a minute later with painkillers and water and explained what had happened the night before as Gryphon took them, but very vaguely. Gryph was left even more confused, and he was scared. In the end, instead of asking questions, he swallowed uncomfortably, looking at the ground, folding his arms, "...t-take me home." He requested. Well... more, ordered. The man seemed annoyed, but did so anyway, leading Gryphon to his car and following his directions back to his house. He didn't want police. He didn't want an ambulance. He didn't want a fuss. He just wanted to be left alone.

At least he hadn't been touched in the end.

Once they got to his house, he said nothing to the man with the eyeliner and the white hair, and knocked on his apartment door, being let in by his roommate. He wouldn't explain a thing, waved off every worry and locked himself in his room, slumping onto his bed and quickly drifting off again in the safety of his home.

That was a unfortunate first time at a bar, an experience he never wanted to go through again. At least he was a lucky one.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

70. Temperamental.

Lucy was a very compliant individual when she could be. There was little she wouldn't do for her counterpart when it was deemed important enough. She could still be stubborn - and she always would be, despite her progression - but when feasible, she would give her best. She would do her best. She'd maintain some kind of precise appreciation and connection. When it came to certain requests, Lucy expected a fair amount from the psychometrist's behaviour. The years they'd been together provided ample understanding, but she hardly expected this to be requested of her.

A second tattoo.

She tried her best not to seem so struck by the information given to her, especially with the lightly anxious notes she could see playing about Penny's expression. Maintaining some kind of neutrality was key. She'd only ever gotten one before - to signify the ink manipulator herself - and now she wanted something for their still very young boys.

So she made a time; she booked her counterpart in as soon as she could given her own schedule. An allotted time in Lucy's chair with no one else around. They could do this, surely. Lucy was the most reassuring individual when she had to be.

Two dates, one beneath the other to her completely bare back. Just a little series of numbers on her right shoulder blade. Lucy provided herself with absolutely no guidelines or predetermined markings; this was free hand in a completely new way. She knew how to write, and she knew how to do it in her own handwriting with a needle, too. It was far more personal this way.

Things were going fine, until Lucy reeled back.

"Um-"

"Um?" That was never the sound one wanted to hear from someone with something so permanent, even if it wasn't in the Australian's case. It was still daunting. Tension shot through the psychometrist's muscles on instinct, until she felt a gloved hand press against her skin.

"No no, don't do that." She replied quickly, "You'll make it worse."

"Make what worse?"

But she didn't need to answer. Tense muscles were far harder to inject ink into, but even as Lucy placed the machinery down on the adjacent surface, the pain still existed. It was worse. Both hands pressed against her skin; this time to the point where her fingers could curl around her shoulders. She offered the lightest of squeezes.

"It's okay." Lucy tried again.

Confidence lined her reassuring tone, and within time any tension presented by the proverbial canvas seemed to dissipate. It still hurt - as it always would when there was ink finding its place beneath the skin - but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as it could have been.

"I need to move my hands." She announced, carefully.

"Why?" Penny asked her. After all, it was the only thing that was keeping her so grounded now. Another small squeeze and Lucy reeled back, leaving her completely free of her hands. She swung away on her chair, but she didn't go far.

"Because," She said finally, hauling her gloves off as her fingers procured the necessary reflective surface as she made her way back, "You need to see this."

And she did. Penny rose her gaze to the mirror ahead, dark eyes colliding with the smaller series as the ink manipulator turned it to the necessary angle. There, she saw what she couldn't have expected. The reason for Lucy's surprise and slight hesitation to continue. The reason she stopped. Dates no more; the two precise lines had twisted and formed something far greater. The outline of a hierarchy dragon, regal in its design and as willing to watch over a necessity as the one on her wall had been.

"Should I-?" Lucy started, searching for her gaze through the mirror. But she couldn't catch it. Nor could she finish her question.

"No, don't." She shouldn't change it, "It's fine." A word which never meant what it had. A word that shot far greater than it ever could from anyone else's mouth; "It's perfect."

Perfection was a place deemed so fable in the eyes of the Brit. Yet there she offered it, as clear as anything.

"Not quite." Lucy shot back, shaking her head once before her eyes turned down to the palette selections of black she'd aligned herself with. One that lost its colourless shade with a slow progression as she procured a new set of gloves; "I'm making it blue."

And there was no way the psychometrist was about to argue with that.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

6. Believable.

AU: 1890s London

Easing into a married life to a person Lucy loved, but didn't love was never destined to be easy. Michael Blaise maintained the most perfect front with a hand pressed to the small of his counterpart's back. How he led Lucy through the pockets of people in the grand room of the grand estate the Blaise family resided in. How he looked down and smiled at her with a full-toothed expression. How she looked back up and returned the generous notion with one of her own.

Newly weds for months, and everyone knew it. So many turned their gaze to them briefly. Idle chatter from every corner about how perfect they seemed together. Given their mutually hidden disinterests in those of the opposite gender and the understanding that created between them, those people were right. They had no idea how right.

He said something to her, then. Leaning in a fraction too close to where his lips could have grazed her ear with every word he offered. He reeled back. She nodded. He turned on a heel and took her out to the dance floor.

Why? Because he could.

He'd never been one for it. And neither had she. But wealthy lineages and strict houses from adolescence forced some kind of knowledge into the two bodies. They were trying to keep straight faces as tension would briefly run the length of them in a moment of a faltering step. They might've known how, but that didn't mean they were experts.

The next time they made a mistake, she laughed. Really, genuinely laughed as her fingers seemed to caress the line of his arm.

It was beautiful. Symmetrical like most marriages should have seemed. Loveless, and the younger of the Blaise siblings was the only other one to know that as she looked on. She knew such feelings from the woman in his arms were completely, exclusively her own to receive. She could relive those moments time and time again and know for certain where she wanted to be. Who she wanted to be with. She knew that when everyone left and the night was quiet, she would come to her room as she did every other night. This display was like every other display. Hollow. She knew it all.

But it didn't make it any easier.

Through the blurred movements of so many others, they eventually disappeared from view. It forced Penelope to raise her head a fraction, like it might help her catch a glimpse. To no avail, it seemed, and it would feel like a lifetime before they appeared again. No, not they. Just him. Her mother had taken the place of the ink manipulator, and she was lost to the crowd.

Trying to find her was exhausting. Without a move from the spot she was stagnant in, there seemed to be little point in trying to search the sea of faces she'd never invest in.

"Penelope." Like a bolt, the accent-wrapped greeting forced the psychometrist to stand completely straight, as if she somehow hadn't been lined with tension already. Lucy took easy steps to stand at her side, a small brush of her shoulder against hers which seemed to force a slow breath past her lips. Composure. She could do this. Besides, Lucy shouldn't play this way.

"I wondered where you went." She replied, refusing to look to the side. If she looked, she'd stare. It was no secret how painfully wondrous she looked tonight.

Lucy shook her head once, a smile and a breath of laughter cracking past her lips. "I can't imagine this will ever be my forte."

"You looked fine."

A turn of her head, suddenly. Instinct. A drop of her gaze suddenly to her hidden counterpart's mouth. Just a fraction to really drink in the smile she wore before Penny caught her eyes again. Fine wasn't the word she wanted to use. It was the most bland word to describe anything Lucy ever did beneath her own eyes. Fine hardly meant fine at all.

"I thought you might say that." Lucy replied, gracious as she tried to be; "Thank you."

Silence, then. Penny tore her eyes away as she knew a familiar dark set were still lingering on her. Nights upon nights of talking about how difficult this would be, and she was acting like this.

No, it had to be nothing. She was scrutinising it far too much to expect it to be anything more than a simple interaction; as much as Lucy could offer in the eyes of the public. So she kept her eyes forward, determined to keep them there for as long as she needed to. A single look had been dangerous. Another and she doubted she could so easily come up for the air that was her eyes.

Then suddenly, there was a connection. Physicality in the form of familiar fingers curling around her upper arm. Immediately, Penny felt tense, but lost the nerve to remain stiff as her hands were eased away from each other. A small sliver from her arm to her form appeared so she could slide a hand around the curve of her elbow. Linked arms forced the Australian in closer, and she followed the lean.

"Don't blush." Lucy offered, lightly. But the words were difficult to catch with those lips so close to her ear. The statement offered a small rush of air. Penny doubted she could straighten her back any more than she already had. Lucy turned her dark eyes out, aware enough for the both of them in her own way; "If you are, it looks far more like it is than if you aren't."

Physicality was always so easily damning, but sisters by the married tie could find excuses for being close enough. Months made Lucy edge out in her own slightly daring nature, but she still felt safe.

She made playing with fire seem safe.

"I missed you." Lucy finally reasoned on a breath, and Penny was sure she felt the subtle brush of the tip of her nose against her cheek when she offered that admission. Little things that wouldn't mean anything in a platonic sense, but were suddenly so incredibly weighted when she knew their meaning.

She was being so on purpose.

A slight turn of her head, and Lucy was drawing back. Enough to give her ample space to do so. To catch her eyes. To keep it clean.

"I love you." Quiet. Low. Hard to catch for anyone who might be looking - admiring the connection between two individuals who seemed disinterested in even speaking to each other before Lucy been married in - but the look the ink manipulator wore could have threatened to break walls.

She opened her mouth to speak. Likely to answer, but Penelope Blaise beat her to the notion with a small raise of her eyebrows and light repetition.

"Don't blush."

[Calliope Gallo]

71. Divided.

Every week, Chester Douglas called Calliope Gallo. What started as what she assumed was an accident turned into something of a routine. Now on Thursday nights, she looked forward to the moment her phone would ring. She opted to lay on her bed, the device by her head. Surely in minutes, it would ring.

He was gone. Or rather, he was distant. He had a life she understood and he had no choice but to seek it out. The only time he came back was for power training, and she was always in class during that time every week. What she wouldn't have given to just skip one - once - to actually get a look at him. Even if it was from a distance, she wouldn't have minded. Friends had fallen away, now. High numbers dwindled to the lonely few. She lost her relationship to a senseless, perfect act with someone so close to her heart, and then she left too.

Now she had Thursday nights every week with the most important person she had left. Callie always held her childhood friend in such high regard, no matter what he did or said or how he acted.

Like clockwork, the device by her head rang out. A special little tune built only for him. Reaching for it instantly, she practically fumbled to get her hands around her phone and press the right button. Blue eyes to the sky, and she held it to her ear.

"Callie." He said, his voice light. The kind of tone he would only ever take with her, it seemed.

"Hi." She offered back, trying not to sound so weak.

"What're you doing?"

"Oh, just homework." She lied, and he chuckled immediately.

"Sure." Damn, how'd he know?

"What? I am, I swear."

He laughed more. Slightly louder and far more genuine than he did with anyone else. He must have been alone, tonight. Often he made the call distant from the company of others, but she could always tell when he had something to get back to.

"How was work?" Callie asked him, shifting onto her stomach and staring at the yellow tones of her bedspread instead.

"Don't ask me that." He replied, "You don't want to hear about it."

"You're right, I kinda don't."

Light. She had to keep it light. Her free hand started to draw patterns on the fabric beneath her, blue eyes staring at the shifting notions without ever really taking in what she was doing. Nothing was said beyond that, and all she could hear was his breathing. She pressed the device closer to her ear, like it'd help her hear it more. Like it'd make that feel all the more real. Like he could be real again.

"It's not the same." She said, trying her best not to sound remotely devastated. She never brought the subject up.

"There?" Chester asked her, his voice quirking slightly.

"No- Well, yeah, here. But-" A crack in her voice. He used to sit on the edge of the bed with her and talk to her instead of relying on technology. He'd kick his feet off and complain about the brighter notes in her room and stare at her ceiling and she'd get to be beside him. For nothing else but company. Nothing more than someone to talk to.

Nothing more, she was sure.

"Calliope." He sounded concerned.

"Please don't Calliope me." She replied on a breath. It was always his way when he wanted her to listen.

"Calliope," Chester repeated. That was how he knew her, and that would never change, "I'm... Sorry."

Apologies were so rare from his mouth. Were he here, the telepath would have felt just how surprised it made her. He would have seen how she tried to run through her memory to find the last time she'd actively heard him say it.

"Don't be." She said as quickly as she could. "Be brilliant." As if he could ever help that. He was. He most certainly would be; "I miss you."

Pause. A beat. How it dragged. How it lingered.

"I miss you, too."

A hollow moment.

She wondered if he meant to substitute the middle word, too.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#36 – Tight

“Pack a cooler.”

“I’m sure they’ll have food.”

“Pack a cooler anyway.”

Sean Neville had never had to argue so much with a group of adults before over something as simple as food and water. Sometimes, he worried about his friends.

Still, he had won the argument when he reminded everyone that it was his van, and that he was driving. The least they could do was listen when he asked them to pack food and water, particularly when he would pay for it, in whole or in part.

Fortunately, that put an end to it, because the telepath detested arguments among friends. It was one matter to lead protests or participate in sit-ins or Marshall at rallies against the Establishment and the War Machine. It was another matter entirely to argue with friends; that always gave him a headache.

There was a reason he wanted to be a therapist (technically a psychiatrist but already half of his friends forget that he planned to medical school next year) – a profession where he talked other people through their problems in a non-confrontational, open space – as opposed to a politician (someone who lied for a living) or an attorney – a profession where he would be expected to argue all day every day in an adversarial system, and yet be friendly with those same people off the record.

He had enough headaches with the telepathy. Who needed that additional stress?

Everyone considered the van to be huge, which, compared to the other vehicles their friends drove, it was.

Yet, with eight full-sized adults (young as they were, they were adults. Old enough to drink, old enough to vote, and old enough to be drafted), the cooler, and their other supplies, the van felt so cramped.

He shielded heavily.

Shielding did little with marijuana smoke blowing in his face.

The telepath had no rule about smoking in his van, although sometimes he thought he should implement one.

Such as “no smoking in my van.”

Not that he worried about being pulled over. He had good luck with police, despite the fact that every external indication should set off bells for a search. He drove a big VW bus that he and his friends had painted to express their innermost beliefs and emotions. He had long hair and an earring, and he wore bell-bottom jeans with casual clothing.

They were obviously hippies. So of course they had marijuana stashed somewhere.

Several of them were gay and thus breaking the laws against sodomy and same-sex activity. Even though Sean himself wasn’t gay, he had broken those same laws, and continued to break those same laws, and fully intended to do so for the rest of his life.

Not one to turn around while he drove, he smiled into the rearview mirror, hoping that Josh might catch his reflection and know that the smile was for him.

Then someone breathed another puff of smoke in his direction.

“Can you please stop that?”

Thank you, Harvey. Sean could always rely on their health-encouraging friend to step in, if only for his own abstinence ways rather than for the telepath’s lungs. It had the same effect regardless.

“Let’s put it away for now,” Sean said, coming to Harvey’s defense and using his friend’s objection as a way of providing his own peace of mind. Without the distraction of smoke, or the fear of a second-hand high, he could get them to their destination in one piece.

“What are we supposed to do to pass the time?” Greg asked.

“We could play a game!” Daphne suggested.

It took precisely two rounds of I Spy (with Sean abstaining both as the driver and because the telepathy gave him an unfair advantage) before the game deteriorated into a rant about Richard Nixon.

That certainly provided enough distraction for the rest of the group.

“...Not to mention his virulent anti-Semitism.”

“I don’t know how Henry Kissinger could be willing to work with him.”

“Kissinger’s a war criminal; he doesn’t care.”

No arguments there.

“When we get to Baltimore, we should make a pit stop,” the telepath suggested. Rather, he warned his passengers that he intended to stop the van irrespective of their opinions. He needed to stretch his legs, he wanted to fill up the rest of the tank, and he thought everyone could benefit from some fresh air and a bathroom break.

Yet, no sooner had he made his announcement than they hit traffic, and Sean screeched the van to a halt.

Bumper to bumper traffic as far as the eye could see.

Unsure of what else to do, Daphne said, “I spy with my little eye...”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#74 – Ballad

“Daddy, sing.”

Thankfully, they were home alone, rather than somewhere in public. In public, Sean never sang, because he considered it the least he could do for other people.

In fact, prior to becoming a father, the telepath had not sung in years, if not decades. He didn’t sing when alone in his car. He didn’t sing along with the radio or with scenes in movies that he liked. He didn’t even sing in the shower. He didn’t sing, because he had no desire to inflict that on anyone else, no matter what crimes or ethical lapses they might have committed elsewhere in life. He didn’t sing privately because he didn’t want to get used to singing and thus slip up when in public. He considered that part of being a responsible, unselfish person.

That had changed with fatherhood. Every parent that he had ever met sang to their babies. Every resource he read encouraged singing to babies. Every anecdote he had ever heard encouraged singing to babies. Everything he knew about neuroscience and early childhood development supported singing to babies.

Every instinct he had told him he should sing to his baby.

So he sang to his baby.

Although mostly while home alone, rather than in public. To the best of his ability, he reserved that for when they were alone, or for when the only other person to overhear them was Josh. His partner knew that his singing was atrocious and joined in the same teasing and self-deprecating humor about his singing voice that the telepath initiated, although the other man had a higher tolerance than the average person. In that Josh would never kick him out of bed for singing to him, if the mood struck him to do so.

By contrast, Eleanor simply didn’t know better.

From day one, the telepath sang to her. He sang lullabies. He sang folk songs. He sang show tunes. He sang selected favorites from Paul Simon’s entire catalog. He sang her to sleep at night or for naps. He sang to her in the car when they had to drive somewhere. He sang to her when they watched television and movies. He sang to her when she wanted to dance.

As a result, she associated his singing with comfort and love, and she thought his singing was good.

While he never wanted her to outgrow the feeling of comfort and security that came from his love and attention, Sean felt confident that, one day, she would understand that his singing was anything but good.

Until that day came and she reached that realization, he would comply with her requests.

“What should I sing?”

She scrunched up her face thoughtfully, before she clapped her hands and answered, “Rose! Rose!”

One could never go wrong with traditional Irish folk ballads.

He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her onto his lap.

Clearing his throat, he began to sing, “Come over the hills my bonnie Irish lass. Come over the hills to your darling...”

Scratchy and off-key as always, but Eleanor smiled and snuggled against his chest.

That made it worth it.

“...Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows. Fair is the lily of the valley. Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne. But my love is fairer than any.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#67 – Correct

The teacher walked through the rows of the classroom, handing out papers to each student in turn. One by one, each boy glanced at his grade. Some felt a sense of accomplishment, while others were disappointed. Several received what they expected and found less internal motivation than external, desiring to please their parents by earning higher marks, or by continuing to earn adequate ones.

Finally, Sean Neville received his.

“See me after class.”

He frowned.

Yet there was an “A” written in the corner of the paper.

That didn’t make sense.

What could he have done wrong?

He had studied so hard for this test. He studied so hard for every test.

He’d thought that he’d had a good grasp of the subject matter.

Hadn’t he? Hadn’t his teacher given him an “A”?

Sean felt so anxious for the rest of class that he could barely concentrate. When the bell rang signaling lunch and recess, he remained behind, watching as his friends filed out of the room to eat and play handball.

Soon, he and his teacher were left alone.

“Don’t be nervous, Sean. You aren’t in trouble.”

Idly, he wondered how obvious his nervousness must have been. He didn’t fidget; nobody made it out of first grade in Catholic school fidgeting, but the Brothers were all so smart and observant. They had God on their side after all, guiding them, and that had to be enough to make them aware of so much.

“You’ve been doing so well with your grades, Sean. You’re at the top of the class.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

His teacher favored him with a smile. “I plan to call your father and mother tonight, but I wanted to tell you first. I plan to move you into the gifted class for next year.”

Sean blinked in surprise.

Not that he considered himself ungifted; his father and mother always called him “bright,” after all, even if they were only his parents. Of course they were proud of him.

Rather, he had never given much thought to how boys ended up in the gifted classes at all. He knew that they started in sixth grade, and, before that, there were only the normal classes and the slow classes. He’d never had any academic trouble so he wouldn’t expect to be in a slow class. But he’d never thought about it either way.

So, for that reason, it was a surprise.

A great surprise.

He smiled. “Thank you, Sir. I’m sure my parents will be very pleased to hear that.”

“I’m sure they will.” The teacher patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t brag about this to the other boys; we haven’t finalized our lists yet.”

“I wouldn’t say anything, Sir.”

“That’s a good lad.”

As promised, he said nothing at lunch, although he beamed with pride a little more than usual.

**************************************

At Catholic school, Sean had sat near the front of the classroom. At Hammel, he sat near the back, as far away from the other students as humanly possible. His first exam had been overwhelming, and he had barely finished on time, distracted by the never-ending onslaught of thoughts he sensed from his classmates.

Yet, he had managed to hand in a completed exam.

When the tests had been graded, the teacher walked through the rows of the classroom, handing out papers to each student in turn. One by one, each boy glanced at his grade. Some felt a sense of accomplishment, while others were disappointed. Several received what they expected. Of them, some vowed to improve their future performance, while others simply didn’t care.

Finally, Sean Neville received his.

“See me after class.”

There was an “A” written on the corner of the paper.

When class ended, the other students rushed to leave. Soon, he and the teacher were alone in the room.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“I did.” The teacher looked more serious than Sean could remember seeing a teacher look at him in a long time. Actually, come to think of it, he couldn’t remember any teacher looking at him quite this way before.

Not wanting to interrupt, Sean waited for the teacher to say whatever was on his mind.

“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt with this past exam, and I want to believe that you didn’t use your powers to help you. But from now on, during exam, I’m going to put you in the alternate testing room.”

Sean blinked in surprise.

Had his teacher just accused him of cheating?

Using the unrelenting voices that plagued his brain and made it impossible to think?

He didn’t know what to say.

“I understand.”

But he didn’t. Not exactly.

When the teacher gave out a pop quiz the next week, Sean was ushered out of the classroom and down the hall to take his test in a windowless room barely bigger than a supply closet.

Despite the cramped conditions and the searing humiliation of the experience, he got an “A” on that quiz too.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#54 – Tide

“Have you given any thought to retirement?”

“Not really.”

A half-truth.

Sean thought about retirement because responsible people planned for their futures, and Sean Neville was a Responsible Person ™.

The telepath didn’t worry about retirement, just as he never worried about money in any situation. He had never been poor. He had never even thought about being poor on a personal level, although he spent plenty of time thinking about wealth inequality and supported tax increases for his income bracket. People in his income bracket never worried about retirement; they planned for retirement.

Sean had planned for retirement since he had first opened his private practice, years before taking the job at Hammel and moving to Vermont.

In fact, immediately after signing the lease on his first office, he had opened up both his business checking account and a retirement account. Inheritance money from his grandparents, and later from his parents, had been moved around for investments with the help of Josh’s father, who had always treated him as a fourth child. Bobby Bernstein managed investments for his entire family, and Sean benefitted from that as well.

After he had closed his practice and become an administrator, he had traded the higher salary for a generous benefits package, including a steady pension. A pension that had already flourished given that he had reached the twenty-five year mark, and that he intended to work for another ten or fifteen years, barring any health problems.

He paid steadily into Social Security at a high bracket, guaranteeing that his self-selected best thirty-five years would be prosperous ones. His full retirement age for Social Security was 66 and 6 months, which, admittedly, was approaching sooner than he wanted to admit, but he planned to hold off until he maxed out at 70. He didn’t need to collect Social Security until he retired, and that was far enough away that he need not worry. The machinations were in place for when he needed them.

He had lived debt free for years.

His student loans had been minimal compared with current students, and he had paid them off soon after entering private practice. He had paid off his mortgage a decade ago, and he owned the house free and clear. The car was paid off. The boat was paid off. The van had been paid off in the 1970s, and he kept it as a backup – although it remained in excellent restored condition.

He paid his utility bills, his P.O. box, his contributions to insurance, the monthly balance on his credit cards off monthly, so that, at the beginning of each month, he began debt-free once again. Since he and Josh shared a house, a car, and a boat, he had managed to get his partner on a similar schedule.

Truly, the area of retirement that he had failed to think about or plan for was what, exactly, he intended to do, and where he intended to go.

Whatever he did and wherever he went, he planned to have Josh beside him. They had earned those golden years, and, despite four years of reconciliation, they still had many lost years to make up for.

Occasionally, he joked about retiring to Hawaii. The climate differed in every way from New York and Vermont, as there would be no snow, and most of the days were idyllic. He thought that would make for a peaceful place to live, although it would be a culture shock.

Other days, he thought about a house boat.

Not to live full-time, and he had never discussed the matter with Josh. They had so many years before they had to that he never found the time to mention it.

Yet the thought of being able to go out for days, or perhaps weeks, on the water in the good weather charmed him. Rather than taking a day trip, he and Josh could stay out all day and night, cooking in the kitchen, sleeping in the bedroom, sipping wine and reminiscing about the past. Pulling up anchor whenever they wanted and traveling to other places.

Not a sailor in the traditional sense (and surely he would have made an awful one as a member of the Navy, with his pacifism), he had always loved the water. He had always loved sailing, and finding a way to merge that with his final years of relaxation and with his partner held an idealized place in his heart.

Even if he consciously acknowledged how unlikely it was to manifest.

But perhaps a houseboat in Hawaii...

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#26 – Languid

Although Sean knew that his partner would deny it, occasionally, Joshua Bernstein was the most romantic person he knew. The attorney never categorized it as such, instead referring to it as wanting to make him smile or wanting to be a good partner. The telepath never failed to show Josh his appreciation, regardless of what his partner called it.

To demonstrate his affection, Josh had made reservations at Bed and Breakfast Afloat. A bed and breakfast in Boston whose gimmick was that all of the rooms were aboard sailboats, anchored around a central location on land that provided other amenities. The telepath had mentioned finding it once in the listings, and Josh had taken that idea when planning their next getaway over a long holiday weekend.

The boats were bigger and better furnished than Sean’s was, creating a charming and romantic atmosphere, as well as a change of pace.

The only imperfection was that the bedroom contained only a queen-size bed. The telepath hadn’t slept on a queen-sized mattress in years. Although queen-sized beds and king-sized beds shared the same length, he and Josh lost nearly a foot-and-a-half of width, which necessitated more spooning than usual simply to fit in bed.

Not that he could complain about having to spoon with his partner on vacation.

The rest of the accommodations rated as nothing less than idyllic. A boat to themselves. An indoor sitting room and an outdoor deck. WiFi, premium cable for the television, and full stereo and radio access. A kitchenette and dining area. Breakfast included. A Jacuzzi in the bathroom. A prime location at the Harbor within walking or Metro access from the rest of Boston.

Not that they had done much sightseeing this trip. Not that Sean could complain about that either.

Every moment of their vacation had been perfect, as far as the telepath was concerned. Cuddling in bed and sleeping late. Having breakfast with the other guests at the main dining area on land. Spending the day on the water with his partner, watching the other boats and simply enjoying the fresh air and the good weather. Eating an assortment of fresh fruit and finger foods for lunch. Drinking on the deck and shooting the breeze. Kissing or cuddling or making love whenever they wished. Doing a crossword puzzle while his partner read the newspaper. Grilling for supper, and then eating something special for dessert from the nearby bakery, or getting gelato from one of the stands around the Harbor. Sharing the Jacuzzi to relax before bed. Watching a movie or a rerun of M*A*S*H on the nostalgia channel from the bed.

The weather remained perfect throughout the entire trip. Clear skies, bright sun during the day, warm nights with a light breeze in the evening and throughout the night. The boat rocked them gently to sleep at night.

Truly, if Sean had any complaint, it was that the vacation had to end, and that they would have to return to their lives back on land. But all good things had to end.

Besides, they could always return for their next vacation. The telepath would enjoy that greatly.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#51 – Done

Lifestyle improvements:

1) Take the blood pressure pills daily.

2) Quit smoking.

3) Cut back on the hard liquor.

4) Drink wine instead of beer.

5) Drink water instead of beer.

6) Low salt diet.

7) Eat more fresh vegetables and fruits.

8) Baking substitutions.

9) Calisthenics at night.

10) Jog in the mornings or during lunch.

11) Swimming on weekends or in the summer/good weather?

12) Massage therapy for stress reduction.

13) Drink tea for stress reduction.

14) Meditation for stress reduction??

15) Keep up with medical appointments.


They posted the list on the refrigerator.

Sometimes, Josh found himself staring at it, as he found it so imposing.

Fifteen items on a to-do list brought no encouragement. Fifteen! That seemed longer than the weekly grocery list. It was longer than any ingredient list for any baked good that he had made for Sean, for himself, or as part of his lessons from Riley. Far too many changes he had to make, and he felt like he would never check a single one off.

Of course, that was the problem with a list such as that.

He couldn’t check anything off. The entire list consisted of ongoing actions for adopting a new pattern of behavior. He couldn’t drink one glass of tea or go jogging one morning and then check it off as though he was buying Hanukkah presents for coworkers, friends, and family.

Instead, he had to keep with it. Each and every day. Presumably until he died.

Even if he managed to get his blood pressure under control, Josh doubted that his doctor would allow him to stop the lifestyle changes. She had emphasized the importance of combing lifestyle changes with the blood pressure medication, after all. Plus, she obviously had it in for him.

As it was, he had to remain grateful that he and Sean could remain sexually active.

Thankfully, as he couldn’t imagine life without that. Not when they were both only in their fifties.

In fact, the only item that could be checked off the list – theoretically, at least – was number two. Unfortunately, number two ranked as the most difficult to achieve. Hands down, there was no competition.

How could anyone just quit smoking?

Josh might have insisted to his partner that he could stop cold turkey, as a matter of stubborn pride. Yet, inwardly, he could admit that he lacked the willpower. Everything he had ever heard or read or seen told him how difficult it was to quit smoking; nicotine was so addictive, and intentionally so. He smoked every two hours, if not more frequently than that, and going from between half a pack and a pack per day to none at all seemed impossible.

More so when he remembered that the common side effects of quitting would only worsen his blood pressure.

He couldn’t risk eating comfort foods and gaining weight. As it was, he had to cut back on the salt, the fat, and the alcohol, and all three of those constituted his standbys for comforting himself. No more grilled pimento cheese sandwiches and beer.

And he didn’t want to snap at Sean. He knew how irritable he had been about the blood pressure adjustments. The mere thought of snapping at his partner over every little thing because of nicotine cravings or the shakes made him ill. Not when Sean was so patient with him. Not when Sean had vowed to make the same lifestyle changes with him, so that he didn’t have to go through them alone.

No, he couldn’t quit cold turkey.

Yet, none of the other options seemed any more palatable.

Switching cigarettes for nicotine gum or nicotine patches seemed counterproductive. His doctor had insisted that he stop as soon as possible, and the slow weaning process would only prolong the inevitable while simultaneously undermining any progress he might make with the other changes or with the pills. He remained suspicious of e-cigarettes, certain that they would prove even worse for him after an in-depth study. As an attorney, he had seen far too many products marketed as the solution to a problem like addiction, only to see the people who suffered worse side effects or symptoms as a result. Plus, he knew far too many people who had managed to quit heroin by becoming methadone addicts.

Josh didn’t want to become like them.

What else was there?

Sean’s offer played back to him.

He didn’t want to submit to that. Truthfully, it frightened him.

Not that he feared Sean, per se. If anyone would treat him well, would treat him compassionately and professionally without casting judgment, it was the telepath. Rather, he feared the mere thought of such vulnerability.

Despite Sean’s assurances that susceptibility to brainwashing (and despite his partner’s repeated correction, he could only think of it as brainwashing) didn’t make him weak, he knew better. Bad enough that the assault by the Degreas Twins those years ago had proven how physically weak he was (and although the talk therapy he and Sean shared, he still had scars from that terrible day). He didn’t need his mental weakness exploited.

It didn’t help that he trusted Sean implicitly. His awareness that the telepath knew the human mind better than just about anyone else in the world (so he thought), and certainly better than anyone else in Vermont didn’t help. He felt ill when considering how weak he truly was. Physically. Mentally. Morally.

Then he thought about Sean. Sean was so much stronger than him, and not merely because he was meta-human. He was bigger and physically stronger despite the fact that he was older and more susceptible to back and knee pain. He was a pillar of calm and emotional strength, so smart and patient, and always in control. Morally, he outshone everyone else that Josh had met. And his mental powers...Sean didn’t brag, but Josh knew he was powerful.

Despite all of that, the psychiatrist never made him feel inferior. In fact, he went out of his way to show how equal they were in their relationship, if not bending over backwards to put Josh ahead of him. Even now, he had put Josh ahead of him, doing everything to accommodate Josh’s lifestyle changes.

The attorney owed it to his partner to quit. And if that meant complying with this suggestion, then he would find a way to cope.

Together, they could do it.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#86 – Waste

Never in a thousand years had Sean Neville envisioned himself sleeping in an alley.

His father was a doctor. Not merely a doctor, but a well-respected surgeon with administrative duties. His mother was active with charity and through the Church. They had a big house in the suburbs, and two shiny cars in their garage.

Sean also hadn’t spoken to, or seen, any member of his family in over a year. Maybe closer to two; he’d lost sense of time as the days blended together. He hadn’t been back on Long Island during that same period of time. He lived in the City now, and he slept in an alley.

Sometimes, on cold nights, he could find shelter in one of the local churches. He was too young to stay at a proper men’s shelter, which was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it closed off shelter options to him, and on those cold, rainy or snowy or windy nights, any closed door made everything worse. On the other hand, he knew that he was probably too young to sleep in the same room as row after row of grown men, some of whom had drug or alcohol problems, or who were as crazy as he was. Besides, those shelters always asked too many questions, and he couldn’t take that risk.

What if they turned him over to the police? Or to an orphanage? Or worse, what if they realized that he was crazy and they locked him up in an asylum for the rest of his life? He couldn’t risk that.

Never in a thousand years had Sean Neville envisioned himself accepting hand-outs. Yet he did so without pride getting in the way.

He had to eat, after all, and he still earned some sympathy from people for being a kid. He knew that if they were aware of why he lived on the streets, they wouldn’t give him anything, and so he kept that to himself.

Never in a thousand years had Sean Neville envisioned himself lying on a daily basis. Yet, he did that to keep himself safe. He lied about his family situation, even if he kept it as close to the truth as possible. He let other people believe that he had family that he lived with, and that they were simply very poor. Or that he had an adult with him, even if he let slip occasionally that they lived in the street, or if he made it seem like they lived in a shelter together. Or that he still went to school.

He missed school. He missed learning. He felt so stupid now, and, even now he could hear one teacher’s voice in his mind, correcting him in that he was ignorant, not stupid. He lacked knowledge. He lacked the opportunity to gain more knowledge.

Never in a thousand years had Sean Neville envisioned himself picking through a dumpster. Yet, he’d rolled up his sleeves and dug through as much as he could reach. School was out for the day. He didn’t know what school this was; none of the schools in the City had names, merely numbers. P.S. 87 this and P.S. 113 that. They all looked the same.

Yet, this was the best chance he had of finding what he needed.

The first dumpster had been filled with spoiled food. Stuff so gross that he couldn’t bring himself to keep any of it. Nothing was wrapped. Nothing was fresh. Everything smelled funny, and he thought maybe it was supposed to be fish, or maybe Salisbury steak. He didn’t know, but since the soup kitchen was open tonight, he wasn’t so desperate as to need to take any of it.

The second dumpster was less gross. Paper and rubber and the discarded dust and other remnants of the janitor’s cleaning after the school day had come to a close. Digging deeper, he found something.

Unfortunately, it was too light to be a book.

Not that he’d actually thought that he’d find a book. Books were so hard to come by.

But it was almost as good.

It was someone’s test. A completed test. A graded test!

The other kid had only managed to get a 75%, which was probably why they had thrown it away in the first place. But 75% right answers was better than no right answers, or no questions to read at all. And the teacher had written the right answers next to the wrong ones, which made it even more complete.

He could study this. He could learn about...

American history. He could learn about American history from this.

It didn’t matter that he’d lost a couple of years of formal education, and that it was only one test with only a handful of questions. Sean could teach himself this much, and he’d know more than he had before finding it.

Never in a thousand years had Sean Neville envisioned himself taking someone’s discarded schoolwork from a dumpster. But he had, and he was proud of himself for having done so.