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kittlesandbugs · 1 year

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Title: The return (AO3 Link here) Pairing: Past Chargestep Warnings: Violence, telepathic shenanigans, embracing villainy Word Count: 2533 Summary: Something wicked returns to Los Diablos. (Steel POV)

"That's a little unusual these days, isn't it?" Ortega gestures to the weekly stack of police reports on the conference table, twice as thick as it normally is. "It's been quiet."

"Too quiet," Argent adds. Her silver face shifts into a scowl and her fingers carve shallow scratches into the table.

"Claws," you say sharply and she retracts them, scowl deepening. You nod to Ortega. "It is definitely unusual."

He leans in close. Both of them are too eager for a fight. "So what's going on?"

You peel the first folder off the pile and flip it open, textured fingertips catching the thin paper easily. You're pleased the fine motor control is almost what it was since you lost your arm. "Grand theft auto. A string of car hijackings from Reno to Los Diablos."

The car engine gives one last dying shudder as it comes to a halt. Loud swears sound off to no one. Not a lack of fuel this time, the gauge reads half full. Smoke trickling from the engine. Sand probably. Someone didn't keep up on maintenance. Swear again. Nothing to do but wait. Can't cross this desert on foot.

It isn't as long as expected before another car crests the horizon. Reach out, mental tendrils seeking, prying, slipping in through the barest defenses. The driver has no intention of stopping. Been a victim of bandits before. A low chuckle. It's funny he thinks he has a choice in the matter as control is ripped away and he's forced to stop beside the dead car and get out.

This car is his problem now.

"Someone coming into town?" Argent asks.

"Looks that way." You make a low noncommittal grunt as you continue reading into a strange twist that explains why the police are stumped.

"What is it? I know that look." Ortega gets up and comes around behind you to read as well. "Well, that's just weird."

"What?" Argent perks up.

"The owners were all found with the previous car in the chain, left dead on the side of the road."

"The car was dead, not the owner," Ortega clarifies quickly. "Either dead engine or out of gas. No memory of who took their car or how they ended up sleeping inside a different one."

"Drugs?"

"Maybe," you say, but you aren't convinced that's the case. It's too neat. At least one of them should have remembered something. Or someone.

"Traffic cams catch anything?" Argent asks.

"No, all the cars were found on smaller roads. They took a much longer route, small back roads. No where they could have been recorded."

She wilts at that. Either it was due to lack of money and expensive privately maintained road tolls, or not wanting to be seen. Probably the latter.

"All cars are on their way back to their original owners. No injuries reported."

She slumps further and rests her chin in her hand. "Sounds like the problem is already resolved. Need more than that to find someone."

Ortega takes his seat again. "What's next?"

You put the carjacking file aside and open the second one. "Thefts at hotels."

"Hotels? Stealing the towels?"

"Less physical, more service theft. Disputed bookings. Businessmen charging an extra room while swearing they did not. The hotels have records and recordings saying they're legitimate charges."

"Sounds like they got caught with a 'companion' and are trying to cover it up." His mouth widens into a salacious grin, and you roll your eyes at his wink.

"When shown the evidence, they claimed they have no memory of it. They only remember going to their rooms after checking in and heading straight to bed."

Wipe the bile and stand on shaky legs. Smiling despite the dizziness, a bark of a laugh slips out. The Farm will regret what it did. So much stronger now. They have no idea what they've created. Not really. They only got a taste during the escape.

Can't wait to turn it back on them in force. Show them. Never be at their mercy again. They won't get any either. No one will. If there's no mercy for abominations, there's even less for their creators. For those that enabled them.

Walk in through the service entrance. Nothing to be seen by people. Nothing to be identified by camera. The door card is right where he left it in the lock. A good night's sleep in a clean bed. Be gone before morning. Takes a few days to get set up with a new apartment. But there's no shortage of hotels in this city. No shortage of weak-minded assholes to take advantage of.

They all deserve it for what they've done. What they haven't done. What they've forgotten about.

What's to come will be unforgettable.

Argent taps her chin in thought. "No memory? Like the carjacking victims?"

"Seems that way." She's quick. Not that you ever doubted it with her recommendation from Ashfall, but there's much more in there than just the brutal fighter she shows. "I don't think it's drugs. In either case." You meet Ortega's gaze, and he nods warily.

"Sounds a lot like Overlord, doesn't it?" He lets out a stiff breath. "Isn't he still in prison?"

"As far as I'm aware, he is. It may be someone new."

"Shame we don't still have your little telepathic friend around to untangle some brains," Argent says with a flippant wave of her hand.

Ortega flinches, but you are pleased to note he doesn't linger on it. Not outwardly, at least. "Any patterns in the reports that could give us some clues?"

"All the victims were businessmen from out of town. According to the hotel reports, all of them said they needed to book an extra room adjoined to theirs for a 'friend.' Then they fought the additional charge in the morning when they received the bill."

"And no one knows what this companion looks like. Cameras?" Argent asks.

You pull a set of photographs from the file and spread them out on the table. "No identifying features. Oversized clothes, hood drawn, full-face mask. No prints, the room was wiped clean, and they wore gloves. Used the service entrance in and out."

"Rather meticulous of them." Ortega's eyes roam across the photos, and Chen can almost see the gears in his head turning. "When and where was the last one?"

"Fairfax, three days ago."

He lets out an impressed whistle, brows rising up. "Fancy. How long has this been going on?"

"Just over a week. Apparently it's taken a while for the pattern to emerge between the different precincts. Same for the cars."

"They need to get their shit together faster if they want us to get to the bottom of this," Argent growls, fingers digging into the wood once again, and this time you can't bring yourself to scold her because you'd almost like to do the same.

The split between the Rangers and LDPD isn't lost on any of you. You could do so much more for the city without these petty rivalries. You sigh and put the file to the side with the carjacking one. "Maybe the next one will have a new clue for us."

Ortega leans in. "What's going on there?"

"Assaults. Muggings."

"Seriously?" he asks, brows quirked, and you know he's thinking that's too small a fish.

Not wrong normally, but… "Mysterious circumstances."

"Mysterious in that they have no memory of who attacked them, right?" Sarcasm practically drips from Argent's words as she rolls her mercurial eyes.

"No. Mysterious in that everyone described a different perpetrator."

Fist connects with the asshole's face, making the most satisfying crunch heard in years. Missed this. Needed this. The adrenaline, the rush that only comes from fighting another person. Can fight. Want to fight. Feels more real, the undeniable connection of fist to flesh.

Just gone out for a drink, really. Not at fault these assholes looked and judged. Beneath them. Nothing. A too familiar feeling. Salt in unhealed, unseen wounds. It itched and crawled under the skin and inside the hindbrain like trapped angry ants, searching for any way out. Any release. Maybe it was infectious. Maybe they felt it too, felt the burning need to start something.

End it. Show them all who's nothing.

His friend comes from behind with a pipe. Duck under his swing like there's eyes in the back of the head. Grab his wrist, twist around, snap his elbow over the shoulder. He sinks to his knees, screaming; silence him with a kick to the head.

Pick the cash from their wallets. Money talks in this city. Don't want to hotel hop forever. Sidestep had compunctions against robbing people, even drug dealing assholes, unless absolutely necessary. But Sidestep is dead, and her morals splattered with her across the pavement four years ago.

Reach into their minds, pliable unconscious clay in proverbial hands, and alter the image of who they fought. Leaving the alley, project the image of someone else entirely.

No one left to see the truth. Or find it.

Ortega frowns and rocks his chair up onto two legs and balances as he thinks. "Like a different instigator at each incident?"

"No. A witness at the bar saw an Asian man leave with the victims. The victims described a young white redheaded man. Another witness saw a bleach-blonde woman leave the alley where they were found. Similar statements in the other incident reports. No two descriptions are the same."

"You think it's the same person as the other ones?" he asks.

"Could be. Possible memory alterations like the others, but this is the first time anyone's seen a perpetrator."

"Maybe the first one wasn't actually telepathic? No one even saw a hint of them."

"What, invisibility?" You don't even want to begin to entertain that thought. They would have to know what this criminal wants for certain to set a trap. And so far you can't even begin to figure out what they're after with all of this. If it's even all the same person, but your gut says yes.

People have done weirder things in your tenure as a Ranger.

"Maybe the third one is the odd one out." Argent's claws click a staccato on the table. "Wasn't there a shapeshifter in Los Diablos a few years back? I remember hearing about it on the news."

"Mierda, that one was a nightmare to hunt down and bring in." Ortega drags a hand down his face. "Riley was the only one who could find them because they couldn't change their thoughts."

"Really?"

"Yeah, we kept that part out of the official reports." Ortega lets out a pained little chuckle. "She always insisted on staying out of the spotlight."

"Maybe we can bring in Locus," you muse as you thumb through the pages. Young, but possibly stronger than Sidestep was. Slightly different skill set. "She might be able to unravel whatever's been done to these people."

"If there's anything left to unravel." Ortega's chair finally thuds back down onto all four legs and you suppress the wince. Have to break that habit before you move into the new HQ after construction. "The carjacker and hotel 'friend' weren't even seen by the victims."

"They are very different from the assaults," you admit, "but none of us have the skills to try and unravel any kind of mental manipulations."

Argent grimaces and looks away, out the window. "I hate telepaths."

"Why?" Not that you disagree, not at all. You'll never forget what they're capable of. How they can just dig into your mind and… You shake your head. Not the time to think about that particular nightmare.

"I just do," she says with all the finality of a closed book.

Something to look into later. No chance before between recruiting her and your rehab, but now with things going slowing down a bit… There's a reason her tests were spotless. No one comes back that clean. Not with her reputation in San Francisco.

Again, not the time. You shrug. "We're going to have to bring someone in, regardless of how we feel, if we want to get to the bottom of this."

"Where were the attacks?" Ortega asks.

"Same neighborhoods as the hotels, but not every night. Last one was three days ago, near Fairfax."

"Any motive you can see?"

"Money, apparently. That was the only thing that was taken."

"Well that's… mundane. All this for money?"

"Maybe if we map out all the activity, we can find a pattern."

"It's as good a plan as any."

"You do that." Argent stands from the table. "I'm going to see if I can find anything in the field."

"Fairfax?" Ortega asks, eyebrow cocked in disbelief. "What are you going to find that the police haven't? Three days cold?"

"I have my methods," she says sharply, tone brooking no further questions.

You don't entirely like it, especially the attitude, but nod regardless. "It's not a bad plan, you'll be faster to react if something else is called in. But report back before you go after anyone. I don't want whoever this is slipping through the net."

She gives a curt nod and shuts the door behind her, hard enough to rattle the frame.

Ortega is already up, a folder balanced open in the crook of one arm, pinning a thumbtack path to the large FEZ map mounted on the wall. You pick up the hotel reports and begin to do the same.

"A potentially telepathic menace arriving from the north…" you muse quietly as you pin in your own points.

He gives you a pained smile. "Takes us back, huh?"

"At least this one isn't killing anyone. Yet."

"Yeah. And they haven't settled into a location."

You take a step back from the map to see if a pattern reveals itself. Something to give you some kind of clue. There's a feeling in your gut, a leadlike dread settling in the pit of your stomach. Whatever, whoever this is, even if they have been quiet for three days, you don't think they're gone.

This could be the start of something. Something big.

Slap the light switch. Cracked plaster, worn carpet, scuffed floors. Windows. A bed. A table. Kitchenette. Not the best. Not the worst. Fine for now. A temporary safehouse. Just until things have settled. More permanent quarters arranged.

The bag hits the carpet with a dull thud. Step in, slide the deadbolt, latch, lock. Manual locks are better than security systems. More solid, at least. Physical and untamperable. A weight lifts as the last clicks into place.

Pad over to the window and rip the curtain back. The sunset paints the smoggy air acid orange. Shields lower inside and out, taking it in, the fury and furor of a city. Raucous. Raw. Rending. It's almost painful, tearing and clawing the edge of the psyche.

The smile in the window is too sharp. Throw it open. Inhale the stench of oil and asphalt and too many people crammed into too small an area. Familiar. So much better than that static sterile nothingness.

Exhale. Leave the window open. Tamp down the shields.

This is only the beginning. You have work to do.

#kitbug writes things #fhr #chargestep #wei chen #ricardo ortega #lady argent #sidestep #riley owens #not me slowly knocking out shit i've been chewing on almost an entire goddamn year #riley mellowed considerably between farm escape and rebirth lol #it's a good thing she didn't see ric right after she got back #anyway enjoy lol

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elizaditton · 1 year

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Too Small To Be Afraid (Chapter 5)

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Maedri's undercity was nicer than Chancelor's. The videos on the skylights were prettier than the ones above me now, the floors weren't as worn as the tile I tread on now, and the storefronts were lit up with bright neon signs very unlike the plain and lifeless ones that Dad and I are passing by. Chancelor's undercity is dull, gray, and worn-down— or, 'well loved' as Dad put it.

"I really have missed it here," Dad says for the hundredth time.

I dismiss his comments and return my attention to my phone screen, which displays a map of Pacific Deskmate High School. I know they're more than likely going to show us around on orientation day of all days, but you can never be too prepared. I might as well study this map while I can. I don't want to show up and have no idea where I'm supposed to go. Now, where am I supposed to go?

As I'm fixating on the map of the school I notice Dad in my peripheral vision, taking a right.

"Wait, where are you going?" I ask.

"To the school, where else?" Dad laughs.

"But it's a straight path to Thorne Avenue, we don't have to turn."

Dad stops for a moment and gazes down the street. He looks up at a sign hanging above us which indicates that East Avenue runs through Seren Avenue.

"Oh," he says. "You're right. This wasn't a through street when I was a kid."

"That's why you have me to study the map before we go anywhere," I say, mentally kicking myself over the time we've just saved getting to the school.

"Right. Now, Kaylin, there's some things I want to make sure you know about having a deskmate," Dad says.

Deskmate?! I was so busy memorizing the layout of the school that I forgot exactly what I've been trying to forget— how I'm going to be someone's deskmate. How I'm going to be thrown into a forced relationship with some stranger. A perthean stranger.

My core tightens as my eyes threaten to glaze over. I clench my fist in a futile attempt to ground myself in reality.

I look up, and in front of me is a wooden balcony. I tiptoe forwards and look to the side. The balcony seems to stretch on forever in this place. I gaze ahead only to be met with an enormous set of five digits reaching straight for me. I stumble backwards in disbelief, and bolt to my right. I think I've made my getaway when a massive wall of flesh blocks my path. I turn and run the other way, but I'm halted when the five digits catch up and surround my entire being. I try to punch, to kick, to do anything to get away, but the hand enclosing me has secured itself tightly around my pathetic body. It tightens, and tightens...!

I let out a gasp, and the world around me returns to the familiar gray of Chancelor's undercity. I look around. No balcony. No enormous hands. A shuddering sigh of relief escapes me.

I look ahead to Dad, who is a bit of a ways away from me now, and I race to catch up with him.

"But anyways," he says, "just make sure to maintain eye contact and speak up. And don't make the same mistake I did by not getting their phone number when you meet." He looks back to me. "Got all that?"

"Mhm," I manage, the shock from that daydream still wearing off.

Dad stops and turns to face one of the buildings. "Here we are," he says, looking up at a faded green sign with the words 'Pacific Deskmate High School' written in a light yellow font. The sign isn't even illuminated. We could have walked right past without even noticing it.

Beneath the sign are some windows that stretch to the floor, with the entrance to the school between them. The two windows to the right of the door reflect the image of Dad and I standing a few yards away. I look at myself in the school's uniform. Wearing this doesn't feel right.

"Well, this it," Dad says. "You're all set and checked in ahead of time."

I blink. Dad? Doing anything ahead of time? Am I sure this isn't a dream or something?

"Um, so... what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?" I ask.

Dad raises an eyebrow. "Weren't you listening to anything I was telling you on the way here?"

Uh-oh. What else could I have missed? I didn't think he was saying anything important. I shake my head.

Dad sighs and reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a crumpled up piece of paper and begins to unfold it. He looks it over for a moment, and then hands it to me.

MEET IN GYMNASIUM 8:00 AM, CARMEN 12TH

H-53

"Head to the gym," he says. "When you get off the elevator, head down the hall, hang a right, and then head left. The gym is on the right. You can't miss it. Sit down and wait for them to call out this code. When they do, go with them and they'll tell you what to do from there."

I stare down at the paper. I still haven't the slightest clue of what I should expect or where I should go. And I hate it.

"Don't worry, you'll do fine. I believe in you," Dad ruffles my hair. "Hey," he says.

I look up at him.

He smiles. "Be brave. I'll see you later."

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me by myself in unfamiliar territory and expecting me to interact with pertheans.

'Be brave...'

I take in a deep breath. There's no turning back now.

I reach for the door handle and pull it open. I step inside Pacific Deskmate High School.

The lobby, on first glance, is rather small and empty save for a few visitor seats, some potted ficus, and the front desk, where a man is seated giving directions to the school over the phone. To the right of the desk are four elevators, where some students are gathered waiting for the next available ride. As I walk over to join them, some doors open, and everyone clamors to secure a spot inside the elevator.

Tucking myself away in a corner as the doors close, I can't help but worry about what sort of impression I'm giving off. I'd been with the same crowd of people at school since stage three, so this is my chance for a new start. I don't want to mess this up. I wonder what the people in this elevator think about me. Do they notice my worrying? Will they be able to tell that I have a fear of pertheans?

Looking around at the crowd I'm with, I feel out of place with all the students that must be starting high school this year. I wonder how many others will be going into senior year.

The doors to the elevator open up again, signaling the end of our ride. As we step off, I struggle to remember the map I was looking at and the directions Dad gave me to the gym. Instead of guessing or pulling out the map again, I follow some other students down the hall and around a few corners until we finally arrive at the entrance to the gym.

The doors are propped open, and I follow the lead of everyone else through them and over to the bleachers. The glossy hardwood floor is in stark contrast to the worn tile throughout the rest of the school. The floor is marked for different sports to be played, and there's a scoreboard on the other side of the room for competitive games. Three adults stand in place beneath it, conversing.

I pass a group of students talking about how hard it was to get into this school, and I start to wonder how many strings Dad had to pull to get me in here. He must have really wanted me to be here.

I approach the bleachers and scan the rows for someplace I can sit by myself. After a moment of searching, I make my way over to the top of the bleachers and to the side. I take a seat and wipe my sweaty, shaking hands on my skirt.

A tapping noise to the right catches my attention, and I look over to see a boy around my age. His arms are crossed and his brows are woven together as he bounces one leg. His short black hair and green eyes are familiar to me, and I can't help but wonder if I've seen him somewhere before.

Another sound catches my attention, this time a voice.

"If everyone could please find a seat, we'll be beginning shortly!" says a woman with a gruff voice.

Students begin to fill the remaining empty seats in the bleachers, and to my relief, no one sits beside me. The woman who made the announcement before performs a head count, and confers with the other adults who join her in front of the bleachers. Another woman claps her hands together twice, and the room grows quiet.

"Good morning, everyone! Thank you for arriving on time. Welcome to Pacific Deskmate High School!" the woman says.

A 'whoop whoop' reverberates through the room. I'm guessing that was one of the freshmen.

The woman speaking chuckles, and clears her throat before continuing. "I'm Ms. Clemmons, your human co-principal."

Ms. Clemmons is older and has a petite, bony frame. Her wavy blonde hair is restrained neatly behind her, and she wears a flowing navy blue cardigan. To the left of her is a man with short, curly brown hair wearing a shirt and tie. To her right is a bulkier woman whose black hair is wrapped up in a bun. She has on a gray cardigan.

"This is Mr. Day," Ms. Clemmons motions to the man beside her. "Mr. Day is our human nurse, and Mrs. Wright is our human gym teacher," she says, motioning to the woman on her other side.

"We look forward to assisting you this school year," the trio says, their right arms crossing their chest as they lean forward.

"One hundred thirty-six of you will be joining our program today, and with that, our school is completely full this year. Congratulations on making it in!" Ms. Clemmons says.

I take the paper Dad gave me out of my pocket, with 'H-53' scratched in at the bottom. Could I be the fifty-third student out of one hundred thirty-six? But I suppose that would have to mean Dad actually enrolled me sort of early, and I can't imagine him doing anything on time, much less early.

Ms. Clemmons clasps her hands together. "Now, we're going to get right into pairing you all with your deskmates. If everyone could recall the code you received in your confirmation e-mail, we will have H-01 through H-10 follow Mr. Day to meet their deskmates."

Ten at a time? They're moving so quickly! I watch as several students from around the bleachers stand and follow Mr. Day to the gym entrance. A younger student does what looks to be a secret handshake with another student sitting next to him before he speeds off to catch up with the others. So much enthusiasm, and yet here I sit, agonizing over the long year that's ahead of me.

Another group follows Mrs. Wright, and yet another follows Ms. Clemmons, leaving the rest of us waiting on the bleachers for our turn to meet our perthean partners. If I'm doing the math right, with three groups of ten being paired all at once... when the teachers return, it'll be time for me to be paired with my deskmate.

And so I wait.

And wait.

I have trouble deciding if I want time to speed up or slow down. On the one hand, if time slows down, I have more time to wait, more time in the safety of this human part of the school. But if time were to speed up, I could get this all over with and go home. Either way, I'm sitting here waiting without anyone to talk to and nothing to do.

I can't help but wonder what my deskmate will be like. My fear tells me I'm done for the moment this perthean lays eyes on me, and I know it's not true, but I can't stop myself from worrying. My shaking legs bounce themselves up and down, like the boy sitting across the bleachers. I wonder how my deskmate feels about meeting me. Are they nervous, too? Apathetic? Do they want to meet me?

My insides twist into a knot at the idea of a perthean wanting to meet me.

I look up as five fingers begin to entangle my weak figure. Once my entire body is in this hand's grasp, I feel a constricting pressure as it begins to squeeze.

"I've been waiting for you for quite some time," A voice says. I follow the source upward to a pair of cold, drooping brown eyes.

It's not real! I shake my head back and forth and slap my cheeks. As quickly as it began, my waking nightmare ends and I'm back on the bleachers.

"Fifty-one through sixty, please follow me," says Ms. Clemmons.

Looking around, the bleachers are much emptier than before. I tiptoe down the steps, following the lead of the other students as we make our way over to Ms. Clemmons.

Ms. Clemmons leads us through the gym and back out to the hallway. I nearly trip over my numb legs as we walk in a straight line to the co-principal's office. I'm walking, I realize, towards my deskmate. Every step I take brings me closer to the inevitable. Closer to spending a year stuck as part of some perthean's school supplies.

I can see it now—sitting at my own desk atop theirs, being just about as useful to them as an old, discarded pencil worn down to nothing but a nub. Puny. Undesirable. And not very helpful, at that. I don't see myself as being any help to a perthean, and I don't see any reason that I should require any help from them. What could either of us gain by being forced into a pairing like this?

Before I know it, we've reached the co-principal's office, and I sit myself in a chair beside the door with the other students as Ms. Clemmons disappears with the student given the code H-51. I tuck one leg behind the other to keep it from bouncing, but all it does is cause the other to join in with it.

I wait in agony for my turn. After a minute or so of torment and another student disappearing into the office, Ms. Clemmons reappears from her office with a smile.

"Fifty-three?" She says, her eyes locking with mine.

My heart plummets to the floor. Shaking, I struggle to stand up. I worry whether or not my wobbly legs will be able to hold up the rest of my body.

"Are you excited?" Ms. Clemmons says, opening the door to her office.

"Um, yeah, sure!" I manage to squeak out.

Ms. Clemmons lets me into her office, and closes the door behind us. Her office is rather small, and decorated with succulents and pictures of loved ones. Her desk is pristine and perfectly organized. There's neat stacks of paperwork, and office supplies kept in orderly rows without so much as a pencil out of line. Ms. Clemmons approaches her desk and picks up a folder laying directly atop one of the stacks.

"Would you state your name for me, dear?" She asks, pulling out a pair of reading glasses.

"K-Kaylin," I say, my focus is more on keeping my trembling to a minimum than answering the question.

Ms. Clemmons looks up from the folder in her hands, expectantly.

"Um, Kaylin Finch!" I finish.

"Alright, Ms. Finch," Ms. Clemmons says, "thank you for completing the entrance questionnaire online beforehand, that really helps us speed up the matching process."

"Entrance questionnaire?" I ask.

"Yes, the entrance questionnaire. Your parents might have filled it out for you, that's alright."

Dad doing something early again? He wasn't kidding around about sending me here, was he?

"Anyway," Ms. Clemmons says, "let's get you paired with your deskmate."

My insides twist. My heart rate accelerates. This is it.

Ms. Clemmons approaches a door across from the one we entered and knocks. My deskmate has to be on the other side of that door! My heart threatens to beat right out of my chest as I try to keep my trembling under control.

"Come in!" says a voice from the other side of the door.

Ms. Clemmons opens the door. As much as I want to run, there's no turning back now.

#tstba #too small to be afraid #perthea #g/t #giant/tiny #ugggghhh the conlang stuff had me stalling on posting this #i couldnt decide on month names but i think i got it now lol #anyway enjoy lol

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