!serif Your name is Jade Harley. You are presently slumped halfway down the living room couch, utterly drained but _frustrated_. Your eyes dart all over, but there's nothing for them to latch onto. Normally, the tiled floor, noisey ceiling, furniture alignments, and dancing fireplace all serve as fine things to just stare at, appreciating and subconsciously calculating, peacefully sorting shapes out into abstractions and patterns while you listen to conversation or process your own thoughts. But right now, nothing you look at is offering any sort of calm. It's all chaos, and you know it's asking to be solved, but you do _not_ have the energy or mind-space for that right now. You settle on shutting your eyes, blocking out all the stupid sensations you know don't hold any significance, and let yourself slip down the couch another inch or two. The darkness doesn't help you make any sense of your thoughts, though, which are taking the shape of a tornado swirling around the particular questions: why are you frustrated, and who is it right for you to direct it at? _Davesprite_, you jump to, because he came in blathering about something he knew you couldn't stand thinking about, and because he would _not_ drop the subject no matter how many opportunities you shoved right in his face. The only way you could get him away was to shout, fucking _scare_ him away with your plain answer, and you hate that he made it come to that, that that was the only solution. But, another gust your mind flings at you, _couldn't_ you have found another solution? He was clearly hurt, stung by everything you said. _You_ could have dropped the topic yourself, told him you didn't want to talk about it. If he continued afterwords, well, fuck him, you'd abscond elsewhere, or maybe shrink _him_ down to a speck just to make a point. But you didn't tell him explicitly. For each of those opportunities, you assumed he would take the chance to leave, but was he ever even capable of that? He must not have picked up your clues, couldn't have considered _considering_ your own feelings. Which, well, fuck that too, but you know him and you know he wouldn't ignore your thoughts intentionally. It'd hardly be his own fault. If you'd just taken any moment to scrap the topic yourself, you could've prevented all of this. And then there's Jadesprite. You swear just thinking her name gets you riled, but you try to temper that. Right now, it won't help. But honestly, when _does_ it help? You told Davesprite you'd be happier if she'd never existed, and you can't deny that, considering she hasn't been anything but a sharp thorn in your brain-space. But she was also the key to your god-tiering, and all the changes that came with it, which you seriously do appreciate. It's just that tying those to _her_ makes things you feel sour, tainted, like you're only any better off than you were thanks to someone who you wish you could forget—but what good is there in feeling that? You're jealous and resentful of somebody who's _dead_, for goodness' sake. Those emotions have never helped you before, and directing them toward someone long gone is not going to make things any better for you. If you're ever going to be at peace with yourself, you've got to drop everything you feel against her. There's no space for you to hate someone who is a part of you. You realize you've slid onto the floor; you don't remember when that happened. You decide to just stay there for a few moments more. You haven't got anything better to do, and your thoughts haven't lost their grip quite yet. You've still got your eyes shut tight, but you hear a bright voice—Jaspersprite?—from the exit Davesprite took earlier. Of course it's Jaspers, you think, coming to cheer him up. The one and only tentacle therapist, indeed. And of course there isn't anybody coming to help you. Well, _fine_, universe, if that's the way things are going to be, you'll figure out your mind _on your own_. Exactly as usual. You sigh, knowing there's no one around to hear it. And why isn't there anyone? It's a rhetorical question. What you're really asking yourself is, why _should_ there be anyone? You pushed Davesprite away. You were shouting to get him to quit talking about Jadesprite, but you were channeling your actual feelings about her into that. And as he left, you knew you'd said something that hurt him. Everything, probably. Is it a surprise that your hatred of Jadesprite, your impatience with Davesprite, the fact that you violently threw all your emotion at him, did not help any matter at all? Of course it's not. You don't know why you did that, why you let yourself, why you didn't search for or take any other solution, why you let someone hear your negative thoughts. That none of it helped is not surprising in the least. You sit in silence a moment longer. Actually, you think as you lift yourself off the floor, standing now, screw the tornado. You know what else isn't helping? Paying attention to it. You didn't help by shoving your feelings into other people's faces, and you're not helping by stewing in them yourself. Seriously, just _sitting_ here? That is the epitome, the dictionary example of doing nothing. You open your eyes and squint, taking in the bright environment, but it passes quickly and you are up, standing, ready to _do_ something. Jade Harley does _not_ stew in her emotions. Right, so, what are you going to do now? For what certainly isn't the first time, you realize that you are on a three-year ship and there really isn't that much _to_ do here. You look around the room, at the desks and shelves and the mantel space above the fireplace. Everything's already arranged into various patterns and orders, courtesy of you in the days before. You aren't obsessive about organizing or anything, but putting together intentional patterns is a fun hobby, and you like to think the others on the ship enjoy recognizing the little arrangements every once in a while. You consider the other rooms; it's a large vessel and you've gotten to putting your touches on only a few rooms so far. You might have a look at the kitchen next—John's one, you mean. You swear there are at least three clones of every useful room in this mansion of a ship. The thought makes you recognize how...empty, you feel. Ha ha, what? You mean that as in _hungry_. Since that was the direction you were going to head in anyway, you may as well find something to eat. Yes, this ship has snausages in ample supply. Yes, that's because you alchemized them yourself. Off you go! You always had the ability to fly in your dreams, but ever since you've god-tiered, you've been able to do so anywhere. Of course, you haven't had the much opportunity to fly anywhere besides on this ship, but it's enjoyable just the same. You speed down the maze of turns, parallel to and just a foot off the floor, wind brushing through your hair; the Prospitan vessel comes from the same planet you spent so much time on, growing up. Everything was so simple when you were exploring Prospit, visiting carapacians or attentively watching Skaia's clouds pass by. You suppose there's a certain sense of unity to spending the next three years on a smaller facet of your dream self's world. Jadesprite... but as you slow down, having just reached your brother's favorite kitchen, any thoughts of that self's reincarnation are dispelled. You are focused, you see, on snausages. You glance around the room quickly, flipping yourself upright to stand. John's kitchen is already fairly tidy; save for the frying pan he used to make this morning's scrambled egg breakfast, and some stray ingredients, the various surfaces are well organized. His kitchen certainly doesn't need any major rearrangement. Sometimes you wonder if your layout overhauls are more trouble than help for the people who actually make use of the rooms, so you've toned down to just putting together patterns for the most part. You do recognize a few spots you could tweak accordingly, though—those spice shakers could be sorted by height into an arc, and you haven't checked inside any of the cupboards or drawers yet. On that thought, you crouch down next to a specific corner cupboard, conspicuously labeled with a sticker of a dog head-silhouette. _This_ is the compartment you're looking for. Admittedly, one of several throughout the ship, but this is the one that's right here. Inside: your personal stash of snausages. Not that you wouldn't be happy to share, but nobody has taken up your offers. They're organized into plastic containers of various different volumes; you pull out a medium-size one, ordinarily enough to last an hour or three, quietly lift off the lid, and dig in. You've gotten just halfway through the mega-portion meal when a familiar voice speaks from what couldn't be more than a foot behind your shoulder. JOHN: jaaade? You bolt up, abruptly broken from your canine-indulgent trance, gulp down a halfway chewed handful-worth, and drop the container, scattering the remaining bites all across the corner. It's John—of _course_ you should've expected him to come in at some point. Oops. He jumps back a step or two, startled. JADE: ack ha ha JADE: hiiii john!!!!!!! John just stares at you, his face contorted into something serious yet utterly confused, and a bit skeptical. He blinks a few times... then drops the expression and bursts out laughing. JOHN: pfff heh heh. JOHN: enjoying your snack, i take it? JADE: y-yeah!! you got it!!! JOHN: heh, ok. JOHN: so what are you up to? i don't think i've ever seen you wolfing (heh) this many snausages at once before! JOHN: or have you been doing that all along, when i'm not around? JADE: noo!! i havent been! serious! You decided you were disregarding that negative emotion whirlwind earlier, and you're sticking to that, but you've been caught with your mouth stuffed. You don't exactly have an explanation made in planning for that. JADE: im just umm JADE: i got really hungry!! thats all! JOHN: suuuure. i totally believe you! wink. He doesn't actually wink. JOHN: you know, i could probably try cooking these. JOHN: i'm just an ordinary only human so we can probably blame my unappreciative tastes on that, but... JOHN: they seem a bit boring just like this! You're relieved that he's dropped the inquiry. But—actually preparing snausages? You've never considered that before. JADE: i guess so! i like them like this but you could probably cook them, yeah! JOHN: just imagine... JOHN: snausage salad! John smiles, oblivious of your own turmoils. Just as he ought to be. JOHN: i bet you'd really like it. JOHN: ... JOHN: soooooooo... JOHN: heh. He spins around, bounces to the nearby sink, and starts pouring water in. You honestly only now recognize it's half full of dishes. JOHN: i'm going to get to work on washing these up. JOHN: i take it i can count on you to tidy up these? JADE: oh! of course! As he searches for a wash cloth from one of the drawers, you collect the snausages off the ground and back into the container. You've really had enough for now, so you seal it up and return it to the cupboard. John gives you a curious glance as you shut the corner door, but doesn't comment. You just stand there for a moment, directionless, watching your brother scrub and rack the dishes one by one. When you notice there's nearly no room left in the dish rack, you interrupt. JADE: hey... JADE: could i dry these dishes, help get them put away? John turns toward you, face bright as ever. JOHN: oh! sure, go ahead! JOHN: here, there's a towel by the stove there. you know where the dishes go, right? JADE: ummm no but ill look!! JOHN: okay! just in the cupboards up here, yeah. JOHN: thanks! You check each of the ceiling-attached cupboards, mapping out where each type of dish belongs, grab the towel, and start drying. You stack the variously colored plastic cups, line up mugs upside-down, arrange the plates rotated a quarter way around on every layer; although you haven't got all that much practice, you clear the rack with decent pace and keep up as John continues filling it. There are only a few dishes and utensils left at the bottom of the sink when John speaks. JOHN: hey jade... You set the frying pan from breakfast, now clean, down into the ground cupboard that holds a miscellany of heavier cooking vessels, then rise. John's wearing an expression more serious than you'd expect from him. Not that it's _that_ serious; it's just... neutral. Inquisitive. JOHN: um, i may be totally miss interpreting you, but. JOHN: are you ok? You were worried he might ask so. Or were you hopeful for that?—No, you were worried. You look away, down at the rack. It's empty; no remaining dish to keep a hold of. You scrunch the side of your dress in a fist as you answer. JADE: uhhhh JADE: yeah? JADE: im fine JOHN: alright... Wait. You knew John would interpret it like that. Shrug it off, worry not. Exactly as you meant for him to, but... it's _wrong_, it _feels_ wrong. You'd done a decent job of ignoring the emotions in your head while helping him, you think, but now they're swelling back up. The frustration and confusion is clawing at you, and you hate suppressing it, and in this moment you feel doing so simply is not _right_. It's visceral, shouting to be shared, to be let out. You unclench your hand. JADE: um JADE: actually i JADE: im not sure i am.