Bioshifter

This is the first time I've ever willingly entered an outdoor supply store, and I've got to say it's somewhat of a surreal experience. Not because there's anything inherently strange about an outdoor supply store; it is an incredibly boring place, all things considered, and that's why I specified I've never entered one willingly. My family shops here semi-frequently, usually when my brother needs sports equipment, and I am occasionally dragged along to experience rows upon endless rows of things I could not possibly give less of a crap about. So the experience of entering this place that has been nothing but a symbol of boredom and unwanted familial obligation for my entire life and actually needing something is super, super weird.

And so is the fact that I'm visibly an eight-limbed magical spider monster, I guess. I'm a little anxious about that, too.

I am getting stares from everywhere. It's mortifying… but also exciting, an adrenal mix of emotions that makes my body quiver in anticipation. It's mostly positive, I think, the flood of relief from just being able to do this more than enough to outweigh the terror, but the terror is absolutely still there. I'm keeping Dr. Carson's advice at the forefront of my mind, focusing hard on never letting my blades point directly at a person, ensuring their tips are carefully aimed at the floor. I'm weathering the attention as best I can, keeping an eye on anyone looking too intensely in my direction for too long and flashing them reassuring, closed-lipped smiles and nods to activate that natural human instinct which equates polite greetings with safety.

And amazingly, this actually works. People are wild like that, most of us being so averse to confrontation that we'll take any excuse to continue minding our own business, no matter how strange the situation. I look like a scary monster, sure, but I also look like a weird human in a very well-made scary monster costume, and that's way more believable and ignorable of a situation than the truth. As long as I don't cause a scene, the customers don't care, and as long as I also buy things the store doesn't care either.

Obviously, there is the teensy weensy problem of me not just being a girl in a cool costume and actually, literally being a man-eating monster, but the monster bit won't be the default assumption for at least a few days and the man-eating bit will hopefully never be public knowledge on Earth at all. I can probably expect crazy zealots trying to shoot me at some point, but as long as I remain polite I doubt it's going to be today. People need to actually know I exist before they can attempt any hate crimes, and I can probably avoid being shot in a fit of panic by just avoiding anyone with a gun. Which means my primary problem for this outing is probably going to be a little bit more… mundane.

"...I wish I knew literally anything about tents," I mutter to Valerie.

She seems surprised, peeling her eyes away from the displays to give me an incredulous expression.

"Didn't you sleep in a tent, like, every day treeside?" she asks.

"Well… yeah, but that didn't mean I learned anything about them!" I protest. "I could never even help set them up or take them down because I'm a foot tall and don't have hands. Well, I guess I'm like two feet tall now, but my hands are still growing in!"

"Huh," she frowns. "I guess I never thought about that. Well, you could always go ask an employee."

"Wh—are you crazy?" I ask, wrapping my limbs around myself defensively. "I'm feeling bold and confident right now, but not that bold and confident."

Valerie chuckles, and I pout at her. I dunno what she's laughing about; she'd never talk to an employee in a million years! She's even more of a shut-in than I am.

"I'll look up some reviews online," she says, pulling out her phone, and I relent, giving her a thankful smile. That reminds me, I wonder if they sell capacitive gloves here. I, uh, sort of still can't use touch screens.

With the assistance of online customer reviews, Valerie and I determine a good pair of tents to buy within my admittedly kind of undefined budget. I have been working a part-time job for three years now, and while that doesn't sound like it would earn me much money, I've had close to zero expenses that entire time because I live with my parents and only buy anything like, once every few months. All of it has been savings for college, since student loans will mercilessly devour tens of thousands of dollars in the blink of an eye and I've always assumed I'll need as much of a headstart as I can get. But… now I'm a monster and a prophet and a mage. College is probably not in my future, for any number of reasons. Spending hundreds of dollars getting camping equipment just seems like a no-brainer now.

The tents come in little packed cylinders, and while I expect them to be heavy they actually don't feel like they weigh anything at all. I've been passively aware that I'm physically stronger than I used to be, but I haven't had any issues with using too much strength and I've never like, purposefully used my strength, so I don't have the slightest clue how strong I actually am. And I guess I still don't, because after hugging my blade-limbs around both tents like a makeshift backpack and holding the sleeping bags under my arms, it still kind of weighs like nothing. I guess that makes sense, though? Like, people go hiking with these, so they can't be that heavy. It's just one of those things I never really thought of.

I suppose, since it's all pretty easy to carry, I could get more stuff. A fire starter kit is a good idea, though I'm not actually sure if we'll be able to find firewood on the Pillar. …Actually, wait, we don't need to make a fire, I can just buy a camping stove. I can just… bring modern-day technology to the world tree. As much as I want.

This will surely not be the cause of the apocalypse.

I hesitate, that traitorous thought halting my fun immediately. Unfortunately, I really need to investigate that possibility. I seriously doubt something like camping equipment could cause a problem, but I can't be sure. I don't know enough about the Mother Tree or the Slaying Stone to understand if like, aluminum bars could mess stuff up. But I suspect my companions know. I especially suspect that Sela knows. It isn't just aware of advanced technology, it is advanced technology, more advanced than Earth even has access to. I'll definitely need to consult it.

…Hopefully I can trust it to actually answer. It might… also have ulterior motives. Hnngh. Well, it's a power that I'll need to use very carefully and sparingly, I guess.

"That is a really cool cosplay," someone says, and I flinch, realizing I've gotten distracted from keeping track of the humans around me. "Or, uh, is it a cosplay? Costume, maybe? I don't recognize the character."

I glance over to the voice and see… some guy. Bleached, messy hair, a Parasyte: The Maxim t-shirt, and ragged skinny jeans. He's a thin, wiry fellow with a resting slouch, but his vibes check out; dude seems like he's genuinely impressed with my 'costume' and just wanted to say so. Still, no point in lying to him about it.

"Costume?" I ask, relaxing the iron grip I usually keep on my face and letting my smile extend a little farther than it should.

"Uh, yeah. Y'know, your whole…" he gestures vaguely at me.

Hmm. I'm not sure if he noticed or not. I reach a hip-limb up and point at his chest.

"I'm not wearing a costume," I tell him bluntly, letting my grin show a little teeth. "The world is changing. I like your shirt, though."

"Um," he manages, but I just walk off, giggling internally. Valerie gives me a blank look.

"...What was that?" she asks once we're out of earshot.

"Wh-what do you mean, 'what was that?'" I sputter. "I was having fun! What's the point of being an apocalyptic prophet if you can't be all creepy and mysterious at people?"

"Aren't we trying to not let the apocalypse happen?" she asks.

"Well… yes," I confirm. "But having a little fun won't influence the odds of that one way or another, I think. We've already decided we're not hiding anymore, right?"

"...I suppose so," Valerie sighs. "Just don't go too overboard. Make friends, not enemies."

"I'm not going to make enemies," I pout. "Or, well, I probably will, but not any that I can do anything about. Besides, what should I have done? Started explaining the categories of magic?"

"No, it's… never mind, it's fine," Valerie sighs. "I'm just worried. I want you to be cautious. You know me."

"Yeah, that's fair," I nod. "Thanks. But… well, you know me, too. I just want to keep moving, keep doing without changing any more than I have to."

"Well," Valerie says, gesturing at me, "unfortunately, what you have to change is sort of a lot."

I guess that's true. I have two entire limbs I still need to grow! And I guess like, significant lifestyle and societal changes and blah blah blah. But! I'm having fun being me right now! So I'm not going to think about it! I'm sure I'll just overthink it later.

"Um. Did you, uh. Did you find everything okay?" the girl working the register stammers, trying very hard to both stare at me and also not stare at me. She's kind of cute. I like her ponytail.

…I also sort of like her fear, I think? Hmm. I'd better process that sometime soon. I wonder why she's afraid of me? Is it the claws? The teeth? The cool way I carry stuff with my extra limbs? I grin wider just thinking about it, and her pupils dilate a little. Ooh, that's fun to watch. Teeth it is, then!

"Yeah, we found everything fine," I confirm conversationally, depositing the items on the counter for her to scan. "Sorry, I don't mean to make you nervous. I promise I'm mostly harmless."

"What… I mean… how…?" she asks, her hands slowly and distractedly trying to go through the automatic motions of checking me out while her brain flatlines staring at me. Someone behind me in line has their phone out, filming me. It's kind of exciting?

Which is both weird and not weird. I'm a very private person, generally. I don't talk to people much. But at the same time, I enjoy playing Pokémon for an audience of internet goons and hamming it up for the camera. I hate the idea of being bothered, but I don't hate the idea of being famous, and while I know one doesn't really happen without the other, I'm still enjoying myself a little in the moment.

It's easy for people to write off my body as a technological ruse when I stream online. It's not so easy in person. I make sure to gesticulate with my extra limbs as I talk, showing off their natural movements, providing more and more evidence that these aren't puppets, aren't robotics, aren't fake. This is my body. This is who I am, and I am awesome.

"Yeah, it's kind of a wild story," I answer the clerk nonchalantly. "Turns out magic is real, basically? I just started mutating one day and my teeth all fell out and regrew and I have a bunch of extra limbs and I can do all kinds of wacky things!"

I move my arm in and out of the fourth dimension, making it blink erratically out of sight.

"Pretty cool, huh?" I ask, still grinning. "I've been hiding it all because like, holy crap what else would I do, but today I just decided to say screw it and out myself as a freak. Hopefully I don't get kidnapped by the magic secret police or whatever!"

"Um… yeah," the poor employee agrees automatically, her eyes flicking all over as I gleefully let my limbs wiggle around. She nervously tells me my total and I do my best not to cringe at the price while I pay, thank her, grab my stuff again, and haul it out of the store. I think that went pretty well!

"Hey, that went pretty okay, right Val?"

"...I think you scared the crap out of that woman," she answers. "But if you say so?"

"What? I wasn't that spooky, was I? I tried to be polite and nice."

"I… am probably not the best person to ask for input on other people's feelings," Valerie hedges. "But she looked scared to me?"

"Oh. Well. Poo. Whatever, I guess."

"...It certainly wasn't a complete disaster," Valerie hedges. "We got the camping supplies. Now we just have to buy food and take it all back to your house, right?"

My smile falls and my blood runs cold, all at two little words.

"...My house?" I say weakly. "Why do we have to take it all to my house?"

"I assumed that we were assuming that your dimensional transfer spell was forcing you to take longer and longer rests as a kind of need-to-recharge thing, so wouldn't the best time to use it be right when you're about to go to bed anyway?" Valerie asks. "Taking some time to sleep in excess of the time it's forcing you to sleep should… uh."

She trails off, noticing that I'm shaking like a leaf. Oh geez, oh Goddess. I guess as exciting as it is to be me in general, the idea of being out to my mom is still impossibly mortifying. Come on, Hannah, you've fought literal battles to the death today, you can handle a conversation with your mom.

…Oh no I'm better at murder than I am at having a conversation with my mom. Oh Goddess I'm so fucked up!

"...Hannah?" Valerie prompts. "Hey, it'll be okay. We… do you want to just sleep at my place, or…?"

"N-no, I… you're right, I have to go home," I stammer. "I can't just put it off forever, right?"

Valerie gives me a concerned stare, one arm almost reaching out to rest sympathetically on my shoulder, but ultimately stopping short. She and I both have our things with touch, the way I recoil at contact from anyone outside a very select group of people and the way she oscillates between periods where touch is barely tolerable and viscerally unpleasant. I used to hate all forms of touch, all the time, but that suddenly started being… different after I realized how much I like cuddling Kagiso. It was different, feeling it in a body that was more me. I wonder, suddenly, if Valerie's aversion to touch is exclusively about her hypersensitivity or if it's also about the way that sensitivity highlights the parts of herself that are wrong. Physical contact makes one more aware of their own body, and… well. I'm starting to suspect that she hates hers far more than I ever hated mine.

"...I'll be okay," I promise Valerie. "I'm not going to say that I'll enjoy it, but… I've faced worse than my mom. And if things go really bad, well… I'm eighteen now, at least. She can't really stop me from walking out and crashing at your… hmm. It might be better to crash at Ida's place, because my mom might actually call your parents. Er, wait, no, Ida isn't back yet. Well, whatever, we can figure it out if it happens."

I'm just kind of babbling at the end there, but babbling is better than hyperventilating. Redirecting focus into action seems to be a good way to delay or redirect incoming panic attacks, at least for me. That and losing myself in routine, and… well, how can I have any semblance of routine if I'm not even living at home?

Because that's the thing. I'm still going to stick to routine. Even now. I know I will. I'll go to school until they kick me out. I'll work my job until I'm fired. What else would I do? How else would I spend my time? Sure, the act of asking the question springs to mind a million different answers—devoting more time to figuring out my plan to divert the Goddess away from apocalyptic tendencies being chief among them—but I don't know how to just… do that. The thought of it only occurs to me in the abstract, in the way that my mind sometimes reminds me that I should probably stop snacking the instant I put my hand in a bag of chips and continue eating anyway. It's a powerless thought, completely devoid of actual will. It's just guilt given words, not something I could ever truly do.

Because, as always, I am not good enough.

…I'm not going to be able to function until I handle this, am I? Now that it's been brought up, it's all I can think about. My earlier confidence drains completely, and the stares and cameras that had been exciting and empowering before only make me nervous now. My body is monstrous and my outfit is a horrific mess, still the ripped-up church outfit it was when I left my congregation behind this morning. I'm also not wearing shoes and socks, which means I am breaking my no feet on camera rule. Gosh dang it!

…I guess I'll have to get used to that, if I want my feet to be comfortable. It doesn't really matter anyway, not in the face of what I'm going to have to deal with when I get home. Valerie and I start heading that way, silence descending between us like a cloud of fog. There's nothing to say, really. We both have parents we'd rather not talk to or about. We both wish we could help in some way. We both have no idea what that way would be.

So I'm on my own, as always. But it'll be okay. She's just my mom. She's not going to hurt me. Not… not physically, anyway. Valerie and I part ways before we reach my house, since seeing her will probably just give my mom something else to complain about. I take a deep breath as I make it to our little two-story suburban home, with its immaculately green yard and tastefully-planted trees and modest garden. I walk up to our front porch, steel myself, and open the door.

Half-heard words from inside cut off, replaced with a muttered "That's her." My mother and father sit deeper into the house, in the dining room, talking about me as they wait.

"Hannah?" my mother calls out. "Is that you?"

"...Yep," I confirm, because what else would I say?

"Come here, please," she says firmly, brokering no argument. I swallow my anxiety and do as she says, the talons on my feet clicking as they hit the tile floor of the dining room. My mother and father both wait for me, their eyes widening a little as they see me. I place the camping equipment down on the floor next to me.

"You haven't answered your phone today," my mother accuses.

"I'm sorry," I respond automatically. "I can't use it without my gloves."

That doesn't seem to be a response she expected, and I see it visibly break her flow a little.

"...The gloves you threw on the floor when you stormed out of church in a tantrum?" she clarifies accusationally, because she always has to be on the attack somehow.

"Those are the ones," I confirm. "They have metal lined in the fingertips, which I need to use touch screens because my body isn't capacitive anymore."

I stretch my extra limbs, since they have been feeling cramped from carrying tents and sleeping bags across town. My parents stare.

"So about this costume—"

"It's not a costume," I correct immediately.

"Don't interrupt me, young lady," my mother snaps. I frown. "Hannah, whatever it is you're doing… is it a publicity stunt for your stream? Is this why you've been hiding? You've managed to convince a mentally unwell woman that you're an angel, Hannah. It needs to stop here."

I chuckle. I can't help it, it just sort of falls out of the hole those words drill in me.

"This can't be stopped, mom," I tell her, crossing my arms and leaning back to rest my weight on my hip-limbs. "I haven't been hiding because I'm embarrassed about a costume. I've been hiding because this is real, and it's not going to go away just because you want it to."

My mother sighs.

"Hannah, please," she insists. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately."

I want to laugh again. The Goddess. She's gotten into me. She won't leave, and She won't let me go.

"You refuse to say anything for weeks, and now you're suddenly spouting blasphemy, dressing like a lunatic, and saying you have a girlfriend. I am incredibly worried about you. Can't you just be honest with me?"

I sigh, wordlessly activating a Spacial Rend on one finger and quickly cutting my stupid, awful church blouse off my body, though I leave my bra intact. They're my parents; my underwear is nothing they haven't seen before. More importantly, as the blouse falls to the floor in pieces, I get yet another flicker of worry and doubt on their faces. Yet another moment where they wonder if they should stop looking at this like it's still part of the world they know.

"Look at my shoulder," I order them, stepping forwards. "Any of my joints, really, but my shoulder highlights things pretty well, I think. Really get a good look. Poke around, if you want."

And they do. And they see it. My shoulder is the union of chitin and flesh, a boundary line where my skin gives way to my exoskeleton, the strange black sinew of my joints linking the two together. And that sinew is the key: it very clearly isn't my skin, yet it emerges from my skin at the shoulder. It's real. And as my mother reaches out to touch it, she sees that it's real. She might not be good at listening, but she's not an idiot. She pokes and prods and pulls, searching fervently for any sign of where the costume comes apart… but she doesn't find one. She notices how my skin isn't the right color, darker than it used to be and more gray-shaded than any human skin can be, and she fails to find any makeup. She notices the point on my back where my blade limbs emerge, shifting and twitching and twisting in organic ways not replicable by all but the most specialized and advanced robotics, and she starts to come to the only logical conclusion.

She swallows nervously, and though she immediately tries to affect an in-control facade it's too late. I've already seen her fear, and for the first time since realizing I'd need to have this conversation, I feel hope. I squash it as hard and as fast as possible.

"Hannah…" my mother whispers. "What is this? My God, we need to get you to a doctor…"

"Do you know any chitin doctors, mom?" I ask, sighing. "Besides, I'm not sick."

"You call whatever this is 'healthy?'" my mother counters, a haunted expression on her face. "Hannah, this is… if this is real, it… are you possessed by demons? Should we get an exorcist? I just…"

She shakes her head, overwhelmed. My father just stares in silence, unhelpful as always.

"Exorcists aren't real, mom," I sigh. "Or… I guess they're not real yet. We'll probably have Death mages eventually, no matter how I try to stop it."

"Hannah, what on Earth are you talking about?" my mother whines. "You need to explain this to me, I… we can fix this. We can figure this out. I can help you."

I stare at her. She stares back, a desperation in her tone that I wasn't expecting. Honestly, I wasn't expecting any of this. I thought she would yell at me. I thought she would make demands of me. I thought she'd march me back to church and force me to apologize to everyone. Maybe she was planning to do those things, before the reality of my mutations became clear. But now, any trace of anger is gone. All that's left is a mother, one that needs to help her daughter, no matter what.

Because she loves me. She loves me as much as she's ever loved anyone.

I wonder, staring at her frightened face, knowing she's scared for me and not of me, what it would be like to take her up on that offer. Get her help. Bring her into the fold. Maybe even give her magic. She'd be damn useful, I know that for a fact. My mother is many things, but incompetent is not one of them. Highly driven, extremely intelligent, phenomenal work ethic, strong sense of what needs done… it'd be like having a second Ida helping out. She'd be an Order mage, for sure; Mom and I are too much alike for her to not share that element with me.

Though she'd be a Pneuma mage too, I think. Order and Pneuma. A spell combination of complete control. Someone who thinks they know how the world should run and can't possibly respect anyone who doesn't shut up and agree with them. And though She's not here, She's not breaking Her promise to stay away unless called, I almost feel the Goddess nod in confirmation. In approval. I'm starting to understand. And it makes me angry.

What spell would I even speak to ensoul my mother? Refresh? The one spell I love without reservation? No, I couldn't. Spacial Rend? To cut what? I'd certainly entertained the idea of chopping furniture to pieces, of proving magic's existence to my mother through a destructively dramatic unveiling of my power. To throw a tantrum at her, like I've always wanted to do. But no. She's not stupid. When faced with hard evidence of magic, she believes in it. Pointless. So what, then? Maybe… Nature's Madness?

Oh, it's a wretchedly tempting idea. One that I'm absolutely not going to do, not with the bile of guilt over Helen's change still boiling inside me. But I can see it. I know what my spell would turn her into; I know her too well for any other idea to match. I know her too well. Ida, Valerie, Dr. Carson… they've all been telling me to open my eyes, to admit what I know to be true but refuse to think about, and I'm finally seeing it for the first time.

It's tempting, of course, to say the answer would be 'a demon,' to reveal her hypocrisy, twist her into the opposite of her purported beliefs, give her a form that would expose her wickedness to everyone she tries to hide it from, most of all herself. But that's exactly what would make the form not fit, isn't it? A demon is evil, the most obvious cultural symbol of it. A demon knows itself to be evil. But my mother's cruelties are all believed to be kindnesses. Her need for control manifests as a genuine belief of superiority, an honest and whole-hearted opinion that the world would be better if more of it listened to her, and damn any opinions to the contrary.

My mother, in a word, is a narcissist. And as such, there is no better form for her than an angel.

She would have six wings: two to cover her face, two to cover her feet, and two to fly with. Radiant like a pillar of fire. Brilliant eyes emerging from her flesh, forming the semblance of multiple faces. They would worship her, praise her, prostrate before her, weeping at the visage of what they see as divinity. Just like in her daily life, where her force of personality and natural charisma trap her family in a position where it's better to just go along with everything she wants rather than challenge her on anything. Where every possible flaw one could point out is justified, if not by her than by those she has caught up in the belief of whatever story she presents. She sways people. She is loved by people. And they would gladly call her a gift from a perfectly good God, because what is perfection if not the inability of anyone to prove a fault?

That is the woman who raised me. The ultimate reflection of the god she purports to worship. And… I don't think I want her in my life anymore.

"No," I say.

"What?" my mother challenges. "Hannah, what do you mean 'no?'"

"I mean no, I'm not going to explain this to you," I tell her. "No, we're not going to figure this out. No, I don't want your help."

She looks at me, both baffled and genuinely, truly hurt. But I've always known it would honestly hurt her to say these things. That's part of why I never have. A narcissist hates it when you don't play along, and I hate hurting people.

"You don't want my… Hannah, I am your mother! Whatever's happening is… it's my responsibility to make sure you're okay!"

"And how exactly do you intend to do that?" I ask, spreading my limbs in a challenging pose. "I'm the mutant prophet of an evil Goddess of magic. Just saying that sentence out loud is enough for everything to seem like an impossible joke, yet here I am anyway."

I cast Refresh on my own head, gathering the concerningly dense amount of loose hair out of my head. It collects in a clump in my hand, and then I drop it on the floor.

"You will never understand this," I tell her. "I don't even think the Goddess would bother to speak to you if I gave you a soul. You'd just be another Sindri, taking control because you don't know how to do anything else and you can't stand the idea of not being in charge. And I'm tired of it. I'm tired of you. I'm done. I have people I actually care about that are already helping me. I don't need you anymore."

"Oh, is that so?" my mother snaps, her concern morphing to anger. "You don't need me? I assume you don't need a roof over your head? The food I buy you? The bills I pay for you? You don't need our cars or your room or any of the things we constantly give you?"

"Well I guess if you want to swap from 'not helping me' all the way to 'actively sabotaging me,' I'll make do, mom!" I snap back at her. "I'm a freaking monster! I'll go hunt squirrels in the forest for food if it comes to that! But I'd really appreciate it if you didn't give me more problems while I'm adjusting to having extra limbs."

"How do you have extra limbs!?" my mother demands. "How is any of this possible? Why didn't you ever tell me this is happening!?"

"Because I don't like talking to you!" I shout back. "Leave me alone!"

She gives me another horrified stare.

"...What have you done with my daughter?" she asks.

Oh, so now we're doing this shit, huh?

"I am your daughter," I growl. "I didn't exactly get any say in the matter."

She doesn't answer. She just stares at me. I stare back for a while, then sigh and look at my dad.

"Are you going to supply any input?" I ask him.

He gives me a considering look, and then shrugs sadly.

"I'm not sure if there's anything more to say, really," he answers.

As helpful as always, dad. I nod and turn away from them.

"Yeah," I agree. "I guess there isn't."

I head upstairs, leaving my parents in shock behind me. Stomping frustratedly up to my room, I cut two holes in the back of a shirt for my blade limbs and put it on, collapsing exhaustedly into my desk chair. I should probably stream. It is technically a job. But I'm really not feeling up to it right now.

An unexpected set of footprints in the hallway outside catch my attention, and I turn to spot my brother standing awkwardly in the doorway to my room. He and I barely ever interact. He's two years younger than me, with a lot more of Dad's features where I got more of Mom's. We have the same black hair, but he has a rounder face, a smaller nose, darker skin… well. I guess he used to have darker skin, but now that mine is becoming darker and darker gray I suppose I claim that title now. We stare at each other in the manner of siblings who never, ever talk to each other before he finally clears his throat and speaks up.

"Uh, hey Hannah," he says.

"Hey, Yuki," I respond.

Another hesitant delay.

"...You and mom kinda went at it, huh?" he ventures. Hmm. I guess he heard all of that.

"Yeah, we did," I confirm. "Sorry, I bet that was awful to sit through."

"Kind of awful," he agrees. "But… kind of cathartic. Also mostly weird though. You, uh. You have a few extra limbs."

"Yep," I confirm, wiggling them. "You jealous?"

He manages an awkward chuckle.

"Uh… no," he says. "But it's real, huh? Magic is real?"

"It is," I confirm.

He nervously rubs his hands together. It's weird seeing him like this. Yuki is kind of quiet most of the time, but not in a shy way. He's smart, athletic, and confident, he just doesn't really talk unless he has something to say.

"...Can I have magic?" he asks.

Uh. Huh. That is not the question I was expecting.

"I'm… actually trying to prevent the spread of magic right now, Yuki," I tell him. "It's granted by an evil Goddess that enjoys giving out monkey's paw spells. She's also probably trying to cause a minor apocalypse."

"...Didn't you say you were some goddess' prophet?" he asks.

"Well, yes," I confirm. "But not by choice?"

"Huh," he says. "What's a 'minor' apocalypse?"

"One where not everybody dies, I guess," I shrug. "Something catastrophically deadly, but not civilization-ending. Like, say, the possibility of everyone worldwide suddenly having the magical ability to fulfill their desires, no matter how depraved or problematic for themselves or everyone else around them."

"Huh," Yuki frowns. "Do you think that would end the world?"

"Uh, giving everyone who wants to kill people a magical gun?" I ask. "You think it wouldn't?"

"I mean, I'm not going to say it would be a good thing," he admits, leaning against the side of my door frame. "People will start killing each other a lot more, but like, generally speaking people can already kill each other, right?"

"That's true," I admit. "But there's stuff outside of death that's really horrific, too. Mind control is a big one."

"Oh. Yeah," he says. "Gosh. Like, I always knew you were a complete weirdo, but I didn't think it would be like, world-shatteringly freakish."

I snort.

"Thanks for the support."

"Any time, I guess," he smirks, standing up straight again. "Well, try not to end the world, I guess? I sort of keep all my stuff here."

"...I'll keep that in mind."

I wave him off with a hip limb and he shakes his head disbelievingly, walking back to his room. Yeah, my brother is a weirdo. I don't know how he's taking this so well.

Maybe it's just the helplessness.

What do you do when faced with a problem completely outside all context you have, that cannot be affected by any of your actions? Some people panic, I suppose. Some people lash out. Some people throw everything into adaptation and some people…

…Some people do nothing at all. Some people just stick to routine, acting like everything is fine because it's all they know how to do. I get up and close my door, then return to my chair and sit back down. I turn my computer on. It's Sunday after church. That means it's time to start a stream.

And then, tomorrow, I suppose I will go to school.