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Welcome to the Felid Factor Forums! Felid Factor is a forum run by TCPs, for TCPs, and only TCPs can join- yes, this does mean we’ll ask you for verification on signing up. Providing you’re willing to give that, you’ll be welcomed into a community that prides itself on being both a friendly place for TCPs to interact and a helpful resource hub for those looking for information on their species. Here you will find TCPs of all typings, including hybrids and those with anomalies, conditions and modifiers- we’ve even teamed up with people from research facilities to provide extra resources to those looking to learn more about themselves and their peers. For those who aren’t TCPs and are interested in our forums- our resource section remains public for viewing, and you’re welcome to learn through there, but please, respect our boundaries! We TCPs need a space of our own, too!

Within Felid Factor itself, we have a few different areas:

General Chatter, an anything goes area for anyone to talk in about just about everything. If you’re not sure where something goes, here’s a good place! If it’d be better suited for another area, someone will be sure to guide you to the right area, and you’ll be well on your way. It’s a great place to get started and introduce yourself!

Artist’s Corner, an area for artists of any kind to make, share, and sell their work. While we have a marketplace area (mentioned below) available, this is a more focused area for people to market their work, and people can choose to advertise wherever they please- or in both areas, if they like! Any kind of content is allowed as long as it is legal and non-sexual, and we encourage you to express yourself. 

Gaming Den, an area for playing, discussing, and making games! Feel free to make groups to play multiplayer games with, or just discuss whatever games you’ve been playing as of late. Any games are welcome, no matter how popular or obscure, and no matter what skill level is required. Even board games are allowed, and we even have webcam-based tabletop game nights!

Open Marketplace, an area for buying, selling, and overall advertisement of wares, services, and anything else you can think of. TCPs are often overlooked in the global market dominated by complexes, and this space allows for us TCPs to market to each other without fear of being overshadowed by our larger peers. As long as your wares are legal and non-sexual in nature, they are welcome here!

Enigmas and Absurdities, an area created by popular request, dedicated to strange happenings, magical studies, paranormal activity, you name it. While we don’t intend on making too many specialized areas like this, the demand for such a board was too high for us to ignore it, and due to the inherent magical nature of TCPs and the prevalence and reality of supernatural typings, we felt like it deserved a spot.

To sign up for Felid Factor, just fill out the following form and provide photo verification of yourself holding up a piece of paper with your preferred username on it, along with the date. We’ll review your application as soon as possible and try to get you on the site when we can, so you can start posting and enjoying everything we have to offer.

Thank you for checking out Felid Factor, and we hope you enjoy your stay!
 

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4/4/316- Alias

Inhale, exhale. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. It was something that a lot of species did, not all of them, but a lot. A necessary function for life, something that if fucked with, could lead to serious problems if not outright death.

TCPs were one of those species that didn’t need to breathe, and the only way Alias knew what it could possibly feel like at all was through reading countless medical articles and overly descriptive prose on people’s fiction pages. 

So why did Alias feel like they were choking?

Maybe they were different, and this was something they were actually capable of after all, just like crying. Maybe shorthair type TCPs secretly had a pair of lungs somewhere in their body and just, absorbed air through their skin or something, and it wasn’t enough, and they were slowly suffocating to death and that’s what was causing this horrible feeling of being crushed to death. Their eyes weren’t supposed to be able to make tears and yet here they were, watching horrible yellow-orange globs of fluid pour out of the corners as they trembled in front of the mirror, unable to stop any of it from coming out. It was all too much, and they tried to wipe it away, into the sink at the very least, keep it from making a mess of the floor…

Okay, okay. Relax. Breathe. Wait, no, breathing, that’s the whole problem, they don’t know whether they can breathe or not, is it a real, physical thing they’re capable of, or is it just another fucked up metaphor people use for “relax, chill your shit, stop freaking out!” They’d rather people just outright tell them to chill out at that point, because at the very least they wouldn’t have an existential crisis over whether they have organs in there or not-

They pat at their chest, getting nothing but a solid thump in return. Completely unhelpful. They don’t even know why they did that. It’s not like they know what whacking lungs sounds like, that’s probably not even a medical procedure...they need like, x-rays for that kind of thing, and it’s not like they have cash for that. Maybe if they pushed critter sales...no, stupid idea. They are not working themself extra just to find out whether they have lungs. Cmon.

They grip the edge of the sink with one paw, their now fully exposed left eye dribbling fluid freely into the basin. Get your shit together, Alias. It was just a stupid video, thirty seconds tops, not even a full minute long. 

But it sounded like her. It sounded like her voice. 
 
  
Their voice is getting louder now and they’re trying to stop themself, and they know that the sound they’re making is a choke, even if it’s not the act of choking, because nothing about what they are makes any goddamn sense, and they’re just, it’s just-

They hear a notification from the other room, somehow, nearly falling off of their step stool- they must have accidentally bumped their headphone cable out of the computer when freaking out for it to be that audible from here. They fumble for the hand towel and shove their face into it, holding it there as they shuffle down the stool and towards their room. 

There’s a message from Remmy.
 
 
They hesitate, paws over the touchpad.
 

Alias snickers a bit, unable to help themself.
 

Huh.

They aren’t crying anymore.

How about that.

4/11/316- Remmy

The subway is crowded as ever, but Remmy is used to that much. He might have been the only passenger to get picked up at his stop, but by the time he got close to the city, even the TCP sections of the cars were starting to get packed. He holds onto his strap, making sure to avoid hitting the adjustment button. He’d made that mistake too many times on his first few rides in on this train, the ones he was used to using a completely different system, even though they went to the same city…

His thoughts trail off as one of the narrow wall screens turns to a news report, and it’s nothing especially new- reporters talking about the Whimsy border and falling temperatures, with some reported snowstorms coming in soon...in the middle of spring, in Wonder of all places. It wasn’t out of the ordinary here on the border, but it was still weird...nothing compared to what was happening in Whimsy itself, though. The reporter’s going on about the refugees insisting on living on the edges now, using Wonder’s high tech settlements to brave the harsh conditions while it’s still...halfway here, is the phrase Remmy’s heard people use. He sees a bear type shake their head at the screen, mumbling something about people with no sense. Someone nods at their comment and Remmy keeps quiet, not wanting to volunteer his own opinion.

If something’s worth staying to them, it’s their choice, after all…

Punching into work is familiar as ever, even if the ride in is still new. Remmy gives a wave to all of the faces he’s grown to know over the two years he’s worked for this company as he heads to his work station, sighing as he sees a work order already pinned to his corkboard. It’s another quilted coat, but he expected as much- he’s a quilt type, after all, and he was hired for his ability. It’s what he can get done quickly and he provides a specialty item for their menu...and a best seller at that. Besides, with all the cold weather happening lately, people need the warmth, and he supposes he doesn’t mind helping someone out with that...even if it’s at a bit of an inflated price. 

He starts rolling out his pattern paper, minding the measurements on his work order. Looks like a body type client, but that’s not a problem for him. Some of the smaller workers struggle with the larger TCP orders solo, but he’s capable of taking almost anything on thanks to his size. The sleeves, though, that’s where this coat’s real price hike comes in...this TCP had huge hands, and the sheer amount of fabric needed was going to drain him hard. Just as a bit of dread sets in over it, a small, BJD type TCP passes by, peeking over his desk as best as she can. 
 

  
Remmy sighs, re-measuring his pattern piece carefully before flattening out any creases with his hands, running his palms along it as he uses his ability, turning it into a flat, white, quilt. It had taken years of self-taught practice and ability training to manipulate where colors and shapes showed up, not to mention making them suitable for clothing pieces…
 

  
There’s a moment of silence, but Peg doesn’t leave, lingering just a bit. Her ability’s putting all kinds of fashion ideas in Remmy’s head, something he always used to enjoy back when they hung out more...but now it just makes him feel this sense of bittersweetness, and it doesn’t feel particularly good right now.
 

  
He unrolls another sheet of paper and starts cutting, working on the next sleeve. He dreads what he’s about to say next, but he feels like he has to say it, he owes her at least that much, after everything.
 

 
She lights right up.
 

 
God.

He forces the lightest voice he can manage.
 

 
Peg almost goes to punch him in the arm before realizing he’s holding a craft knife, and thinks better of it. 
 

  
He waits until she’s finally out of view before letting his shoulders sag under his quilted body, taking a minute to compose himself before running his hands along the paper piece and transforming it to match the other.
 

---

He almost can’t find his keycard when he gets home, nearly panicking before finding it in his back pocket- why does he keep anything back there?! His entire body aches from using his ability as much as he did, but he got his quota for the coat done today in record time, even better than his last shift...there was still a good bit to do, and sewing still needed to happen, but no company could boast a quilted coat made as fast as they could, and not at such immaculate quality. 
  
  
He says it to no one in particular, a force of habit from his last living place, back when he had roommates. It was a running joke, considering they all came home at the same time, and came from the same place, but they would always greet each other the second they came in the door. Now he just says it to himself, and that’s that.

He tries not to think about Peg’s comment as he makes his way to his desk, settling in at his computer. [CRITTER_CATCHER] and [TRICKSTERS_COCKTAIL] are both offline on MessiRoom, but- if he had a heart, it would have dropped into his stomach. Oh my god, he actually has a message from her. Her.
 
 
Oh god, she’s online. His hands are shaking as he goes to type a response, and he has to correct himself at least three times to avoid typos.
 
 
He’s frozen, unable to respond. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, and time’s stopped.
  

4/12/316- Marcel

It’s rush hour, and Marcel’s kicking herself for being out this late again- she had gotten caught up in hashing out plans with that Remmy kid all night and then coordinating with her materials suppliers to actually enact those plans this morning...he showed a lot of promise, and with that portfolio…she hasn’t seen work like that in a long time, and that’s with corporate training wheels on. Get him onto less standardized work and into a more custom field…

Someone honks at her to go faster, and she resists the urge to honk back, hitting the gas just enough to get them off her case. She turns up the radio in hopes that it’ll settle her now electrified nerves, praying her foot doesn’t twitch on the pedal. 

I wish I didn’t have to drive anywhere, I wish there was a proper bus or something...but then I wouldn’t be able to take materials back and forth, and it just wouldn’t work, agh…

Her thoughts turn from the work earlier that day to the research she had done right before bed, the mindless searching and clicking done when she was supposed to have turned off her computer and be done with the internet for the night. Still; she had questions that needed answering...and last night, she found something.

Not anything particularly heartening, but something.

TTS, they called it. Abbreviating TCP as the first word feels a bit silly to her, an acronym within an acronym, but she figures TCPTS sounds even more unwieldy...TCP Toy Syndrome. Not the most elegant or humanizing term, but that was the whole point of the condition itself...what happens to a TCP when they are treated like a plaything for their status as a TCP, especially if based on their typing or appearance. 

The wool type tightens her grip on the steering wheel, but tries to keep her speed within the limit. Keep it steady. 

People with TTS exhibit a variety of symptoms - so varied that the lists get a little overwhelming to read. Some are easy enough to throw out as unfitting for herself, but some ride the line where she can’t tell if they’re accurate or not quite there.

Perfectionism. Issues with control and...attachment. I don’t see it, but, she always said I… 

Her exit’s up next. 

She makes the turn without an issue, and heads home. 
 

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Home is where the cluttered mess of work in progress projects are, but as she struggles to drag in her foldable cart full of fabric rolls, she feels the same immense sense of pride she always does. This is her space. She sets aside her findings in their designated area, making sure to give them at least some preliminary sorting before heading for her computer- she has emails in mind.
  

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Marcel reads it over twice before sending, making sure no typos slipped by. She gets to sorting her new acquisitions for real now, making sure they’re organized by color- her projects themselves may be a mess, but her materials, those had to be in their proper places for sure. It’s mostly just a way to kill time and she knows it well, but it’s effective- her laptop’s speakers are turned up to maximum, and when the email comes in, she hears it.
  

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Mental health affliction. The words ring in her mind over and over, and she shakes her head. 
 

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She’s about to close the laptop and get something to eat before a MessiRoom notification pops up.
 

 
Ah. That’s right. The model.
 

 
How the hell does she know my name?
 

 
Oh, god. The energy levels.
 

    
She takes her time getting the tea, dragging her feet just the slightest bit- half in hopes that the model actually gets what she’s supposed to on time, and half dreading returning to someone who looks at her like she’s some kind of fashion god or something. She already had to straighten Remmy out with that last night, but at least he picked up on that quickly…
    

 
Well...that’s a pleasant surprise.
  

 
It’s going to be a long night.

Tansy lets her legs dangle off of the examination table, the omen type’s hair falling into her face as she tilts her head. 

She runs through the checklist in her head. It’d been a few weeks since the process had begun, and her decision to take the slow and steady route had cost her pretty much her entire life savings and then some- and the whole time, they drilled every step into her at every appointment. She’d be weaker for sure at first, but the vitamin supplements and body modifications they’d give her would help balance that out. She had already gone through the weight loss and looked even scarier than usual, but now she was back to normal, if not looking better than ever. Chronic pain and depression were highly likely and those going away weren’t nearly as feasible, but there was still a chance they could be treated. 

There were the nightmares, but that couldn’t be relevant. This is a positive change, and those were of something long past- something related to how horrible her ability was, and now she’s free of it.  

The doctor nods, looking over their paperwork. 

If she could have smiled, she would have given him a wide grin.

Click.

Click.

Click. 

Click.

Tansy collapses onto the couch, fumbling for the conveniently placed bottle of water Glycon left her as she waves her trusty photographer goodbye. They’d have to catch up later, but the gorgon type has a bus to catch...family troubles and all. Her phone starts buzzing in her purse, getting a groan out of her as she has to reach all the way across the cushions. 

Tansy stops drinking, somehow doing the closest thing a TCP can get to choking. 

Tansy makes a noise akin to a sigh of relief, glad to see that Lily has a handle on things...she always knows just what to do with internet hecklers. God knows she got enough of them, what with all the creepy stalker exe’s. 

That resilience was something she envied, a little bit.

The vacuum always grated on her senses, but it’s the fastest way to clean the house, and definitely the most thorough- it was a gift from Glycon, new tech made specially for TCPs, complete with adjustable size settings. Cleaning the house was a chore no matter what, but it was something to do that wasn’t endlessly scrolling the forums, and that...was definitely more unpleasant than the loud noise coming from the appliance.  

Modeling was something she enjoyed more than any other work for sure, and magazines were taking her professional pictures, but the spares she posted online to Felid Factor...those got negative press. She got the feeling that some of the newer users with no other comments aside from the ones on her profile may have tracked her down from her work with the more well known mags, and while she wanted to believe that her infamy was only in this small, online space...it was entirely possible that the magazines were only getting her pictures for the controversy’s sake.

All attention is good attention in the model business, isn’t that right?

A sharp pain shoots through her side and she nearly drops the vacuum hose, struggling to keep an upright stance. It’s not the first time it’s happened since the nullification process, but it’s fine, it’s just...the chronic pain. There’s nothing they can do about that, so there’s no point in bringing it up, and even if she did, they’d just extend the appointments...draining her money and cutting into her work time.

She takes a moment to get her bearings, the vacuum droning on as she lets the world come back into focus. It all shifts back into place and she’s back where she’s supposed to be, and everything is fine.

It’s all good. 

Never stop hustling.

Lily slumps back in her seat, sighing. Yeah, right. As if that’s going to make this guy fuck off for real.

The fascination type rolls her eyes, glancing out the tinted windows of the car as it rolls to a stop. She picks up her bag and gives an unceremonious wave to the driver, not bothering to make eye contact with them on her way out- all it’d do is make her skin prickle, and she had enough of that from looking into the cameras today.

The hotel’s revolving door sticks a little as always, Lily resorting to pushing it with her shoulder before nearly sending it (and herself) flying. She tries not to swear under her breath as she stumbles in- it’s a dirty habit that she’s trying to kick, at the very least in the real world. She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out her card, sliding it in at one of the gates- it registers her room number and the moving floor ahead of her starts up, a conveyer leading her down one of the many hallways. She knows which one is hers at this point, but it’s easy to get lost in these places starting out. 

Her capsule’s all the way down at the end of this row, and up a few levels- she takes her phone back out. Someone sent her a news article earlier, commenting on her latest appearance in Rogue. 

Lily closes the article with a snort, resisting the urge to roll her eyes for the second time in such a short period of time. Come on. If only they knew. 

She taps her card against the entrance of her capsule, the door sliding open for her. She tosses her bag in first, getting a complaint from the neighboring capsule as it thuds against the far wall, before climbing in herself. She closes the door and shuts the curtain behind her...home sweet home. 

Lily takes her hat off and reaches for the wipes kept by the door just as her phone notifications start to go off, sighing in exasperation as she wipes the makeup off her cheeks- marks and all. She picks up her phone and her entire face scrunches as she sees who the forum DM is from. 

She guides the touchpad’s cursor over to the report button, but hesitates. The mods would get Kristoff in trouble without any hesitation, reporting him to peacekeepers without any second thought. They’d done it with other stalkers before, and it hadn’t been an issue.

But other stalkers hadn’t known about the fake marks before.

Another notification pops up, this time from MessiRoom. 

 

There’s a moment of hesitation before Lily types again, tapping her foot against the side of the capsule. Her hand shakes the slightest bit, but she manages to keep herself from typoing, at least for now. 

Food type donor, that’s out, research candidate, god no, all of these suck so bad…

The fox type flops backwards onto her couch with a huff, her sigh of exasperation turning to a growl of annoyance as her phone goes off.

Probably just some MessiRoom notification. Whoever it is, they can wait, I’m trying to actually get some shit done for once. Become self sufficient. Self sustaining. Whatever the word is.

Foil picks the newspaper in her lap back up and tries to focus on the tiny print ads, practically microscopic for a complex’s eyes.

Her phone goes off again and she growls and grumbles as she grabs it off the nearby end table, flipping it open and seeing who’s bothering her.

Foil sighs, pressing a paw to her face.

Great...made a bit of an ass of myself there…

She gets up from the couch and heads to her closet, looking through for a dress to wear. Something nice, but not too nice. A glittery dress that she’s worn a million times comes to mind- she always ends up picking it, but it’s...familiar. Like an old friend. She slips it on and starts brushing her fur, glancing over at her phone every now and again to keep up with Remmy’s messages.

Time to go.

She doesn’t even know why she goes to this club in particular, honestly. It’s kind of a hole in the wall and she doesn’t know anyone here, but it’s there, it’s within walking distance, and...it has alcohol.

A lot of alcohol.

She’s on her fifth shot when her phone buzzes, and when she flips it open, there’s a weird feeling in her chest as she sees that it’s Claire.

Oh, yeah. I am definitely doing that.

Another message comes in, and Foil has never been more relieved to switch tabs.

Claire is still messaging her.

Her head hurts so badly.

Foil hesitates, her paw shaking over her phone’s touchpad. The idea of a full time job fills her with dread she can barely parse through the alcohol induced haze, the room starting to sway back and forth.

Can I do that? Can I really do that? Can I keep to that? Can I really make that happen? Will someone even give me that?

She feels like crying, a little.

Foil hangs onto her phone as best as she can, latching onto every message of Crit’s like a life preserver as everything swirls around her.

It may have been something she couldn’t even begin to unpack her feelings on, but at least she had this.

ALIAS- 4/21/316

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This is happening. This is really happening. Oh, god, this is happening. 

If I could throw up, I probably would. Fuck.

Alias taps their foot against the concrete, watching for the train coming in. The wind’s picking up and they pull their coat around themself, feeling like a nervous wreck- they can’t believe they’re doing this. This feels like it can’t possibly be real, but it is. 

They’re going to meet Remmy, real and in person. 

They don’t have any more time to think about this as the train pulls in, towering over them. They stay on the TCP platform, and as the doors open up and TCPs start coming off the elevated section, they start feeling like they’re going to pass out. They had exchanged pictures plenty of times before this, so identification wasn’t going to be a big deal, but-

The shorthair type nearly jumps as they spot a familiar quilt type rapidly approaching with a large bag strapped to his tail. They don’t have time to react as they’re swept into a massive hug, the quilt surrounding them with warmth.

OH GOD HE’S HUGE

He lets them go with a squeeze, and they can’t help but notice that he’s shaking a little too- he’s just as nervous. Part of them kind of wishes the hug lasted a little longer, but they don’t want to linger on that too long. 

Settling into Alias’ apartment didn’t take long, and before Alias knew it, the two of them were talking just like always. It was more natural than they could have expected, and it felt...warm. Comfortable. 

Alias would have blushed if they could have- there’s something about the way he says it, and even Remmy seems to realize it judging from the way they both awkwardly glance away from each other.

Alias doesn’t know who starts it, but after a few moments, they’re leaning on each other- more Alias on Remmy due to the size difference, but there’s a distinct feeling of pressure coming from the quilt type as well. He looks down at them and if he could, he’d be smiling- and it’s nice. It’s legitimately nice, and Alias can’t remember how long it’s been since they’ve felt this comfortable with someone. 

Since Sonar-

Remmy dares to drape a quilt flap around them, and they scoot in just a little. 

 
DARLING- 4/22/316

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Darling lounges on its pile of cushions, nuzzling against the clawed fingers reaching to scratch around its artificial mane. Pleased with its show of affection, the hand gets a sensitive spot, the serpent type doing its best to do the purring sound that had taken it weeks to master. 

It hurt a little bit to do, but it seemed to make Decorum happy to have such a doting pet. 

Her claw digs into Darling’s neck slightly, but the serpent type refuses to make a sound, neither in response to the scratch or Decorum’s monologuing. It’s not expected to speak nor would piping up get a favorable response, and what its deity wants right now is a listener. That, Darling could provide, and provide it well. There was a reason why she always came to it for this kind of one-sided emotional support.

The claw digs in a little deeper, and Darling has to hold back an instinctual hiss. Thankfully, any marks would be covered up by its mane...surely any sort of scratches would be interpreted as its own fault, some sort of sign of roughhousing or troublemaking. 

She begins to wander off into her own thoughts, and Darling starts to lose focus as well, distracted by the pain in its neck. Protesting wouldn’t have done much even if it had tried, judging from past experiences- all it can do is stick it out.

That’s just how it is, here.

Darling steps into its room with a sigh, stretching its legs one by one. Its feet hurt from walking up all of the steps into the TCP quarters, let alone the fact that it has the highest floor room...but it wouldn’t be needed again until dinner and prayer time. That’s a few hours to itself, and it’s fully  planning on savoring that.

Taking off the wooly mane is the first, extremely vital step to relaxation- the extremely poofy thing got in the way easily and had a tendency to itch, as as soft as it looked on the outside. Getting at the fastener at the back of it was incredibly difficult with its quadruped body, but with a little help from a hook on the wall, it was able to pry it open and off of its neck and chest. Sweet freedom. 

Sometimes it would get fussed at for taking it off in the cases of not being able to get it back on (a much more difficult ordeal), but in this case, Darling could usually get away with the classic “I didn’t want to get it dirty at dinner…” excuse, and manage to slip away without it until morning. While it was a bit concerned with keeping the mane clean, it had everything to do with keeping Decorum happy and not yelling at it for being unkempt, and nothing to do with its own personal appearance.

No, when it came to Darling’s own personal appearance, it had a much different ideal self image in mind.

The serpent type walks over to its mirror slowly, examining itself in the reflective surface with a tilt of its head. It’s a routine it’s done so many times before, a habit- but it helps ground it after those hours and hours spent listening to Decorum drone on. Through research (done extremely against the rules) it’s been able to find out that its horns are a unique, rare anomaly, spirals instead of the typical straight back look for serpent types. Horns like this were found on some animal species for sure, but some complex species as well- some variants of shear centinels, some de’moneres...all kinds of people that Darling had never seen before outside of pictures, but a word kept coming up repeatedly to describe some of those complex species, one that stuck in its head and would not leave.

Ram.

Decorum called it “her little sheep” on occasion, what with the whole wool thing, and a ram was a kind of sheep, yes. But it wasn’t the same energy, it wasn’t the same…power. The wool just made it feel infantilized, toned down, made “cutesy”, but when it looked in the mirror like this and struck poses that it would feel incredibly embarrassed if anyone saw, it felt powerful. Not a sheep, but a proud ram. 

Darling keeps this up for a good while before finally pulling away, walking to the pile of cushions it calls its bed. It gently pushes them aside, nudging out its most prized possession- a holo screen, paid for with cash stolen from the royal treasury. 

It does not want to find out what would happen if Decorum found out it has this.

It settles into its bed pile carefully, booting up the holo screen and logging on. It looks like the forums have been active today, what a treat...so much to catch up on! It reads almost every post that it can get its hands on, at the very least in the general chat sections. Some threads move way too fast for it to keep up with, but...it loves to learn about the outside world, and this feels like the best window that it could ever ask for. 

Darling bristles, feeling its own insecurities about its typing rise up. It’d just have to write a reply and show this guy a thing or two.

It stops typing midway through its post, deleting text before trying again, only to delete even more.

What am I doing? This person doesn’t know me, and I’m just going to get yelled at...I...should stay out of this.

It settles for a like on [BIRCH_BARK]’s post, and moves on to the forum game section before the guilt can settle into a pool.

Forum games are the only section that Darling actually participates in, and before long, it’s giggling to itself over its own silly contributions to threads. It even gets a few likes on some of its posts, each little thumbs up giving a little rush to the serpent type. It’s not like it’s making any friends, but...it’s something, and if it pretends hard enough, it can picture it hanging out in a room with other people.

But before long, it’s dinner time, and it has to slide the holo screen back under the bed. It’ll catch up more later.
 

---

Darling feels winded going down all those damn stairs, but as it comes down to the last landing, it sees one of the other TCPs completely absorbed in a book- it can’t remember her name, but it recognizes her, and...it recognizes that book as contraband.

The candy type closes the book with a jump, recoiling. 

Darling takes another glance at the cover before the candy type covers it with a hand, but not before it’s able to make out something about magic. Very, very much contraband.

The candy type is already up and running before it can finish its thought, practically sprinting up the steps.

It shakes its head, continuing down the last set of stairs and down into the main hall.

Weird...but I guess that’s one of the princesses for you.

Cecilia hears a scoff from behind her, but ignores it as best as she can. She doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t hear it, and it doesn’t matter. 

The candy type tries not to hear the knife sharpening noises either.

Cecilia is quick to respond, not wanting to miss a beat.

The chef brings the knives over, setting them beside the candy type on the tray. 

They’re so horribly, horribly sharp. 

It’ll be over soon.

The tray is picked up, and she’s brought out to the table, hungry leaders lying in wait.

The infirmary lights are too dim, but they’re familiar, and as Cecilia watches her own limbs grow back bit by bit, she’s filled with a sense of relief. It’s over, it’s finally over, and she doesn’t have to think about it anymore. There wasn’t due to be another party for a whole two months, weeks spent without having to worry about mass consumption…

At least Decorum seemed happy with her, she guesses, though she wishes it wasn’t because Rein, oh that wonderful Rein, enjoyed the meal. She had wished nothing more than that old snake to choke on the bit of candy that it ate, hoping that it found the taste foul- but of course, it enjoyed it, and said that it should not have doubted such a delicacy. 

So that was something fun to deal with. Fantastic. 

The infirmary door opens, interrupting Cecilia’s musings. She glances up, seeing a familiar candy heart type- a bit of dread settles in as she recognizes the princess. 

There’s no sense of sympathy or good will in her voice at all, and she doesn’t sit down. Cecilia shuffles, avoiding meeting her eyespots.

Cecilia stops protesting, turning away from the other TCP.

Rosemary turns and heads out as quickly as she came, leaving the candy type alone to heal, bit by bit.

---

Heading up to her room after the healing feels shaky with every step, but she’d rather bear it alone than ask for help from any of the other royalty. Her reluctance to participate in the “dinner parties” is known to everyone but Decorum herself, and it’s gotten her a...reputation that she’d rather not endure dealing with. 

She freezes as she reaches the door to her room, that weird serpent type Decorum keeps around as a simple pet waiting for her at the entrance. 

It pushes a box out from under its chest, but she shakes her head and opens the door. 

She doesn’t trust that serpent for one second, closing the door on it. She takes two steps towards her bed before it starts scratching at the door. 

Cecilia storms back over and opens the door, the serpent type stepping delicately inside while nudging the box forward. The candy type picks up the box carefully, bringing it over to her bed before opening it, carefully.

She nearly jumps out of her wrapper when she opens it, revealing it to be a phone.

This TCP is completely out of control and going to get itself in so, so much trouble, and she’s about to tell it as much, but it keeps talking.

Cecilia hangs her head, thoughts swirling.

She thinks of the knife coming down, and shudders.

After being shown the forums, Cecilia takes to posting on them more than Darling does- writing projects, specifically. Stories about knights and magic, something that Darling finds out to be Cecilia’s favorite topics, and two things heavily banned from discussion in the palace. 

But Cecilia writes about them, and when she posts her stories, Darling reads them. 

It’s the tiniest thing, but Cecilia can’t help but feel like it cuts through the feelings of distrust and unease surrounding Darling, if only just a little.

 
These bus trips are always a bumpy ride, and this one is no different. Wispy slumps down in her seat, the memory type jostled violently from side to side as the vehicle hit what she presumed was a pothole or something. Usually Hearth had better infrastructure than this, but it was just her luck that she got a bus going in on one of the rougher roads. Most of the people here probably didn’t notice one way or the other, but as a smaller traveller, she feels every jolt. At least her seat’s closer to the front… 

She takes out her battered laptop from her backpack’s front pocket, fiddling with the wifi dongle on the side and praying that the massive, zone sized city’s connection reaches from here. Sure enough, she’s able to log on- thank god for Hearth. No other place lets you browse in the middle of nowhere this easily, usually she has to stumble around looking for a place that actually gets signal...but here, the marvels of modern technology abound. 

Her browser’s open to where it was before, in the middle of a story. It’s new, but the author seems really passionate about it, and already has three chapters up in eight days. Wispy can’t help but admire that- and while it’s not, like, the best story, it’s not bad either. Probably the author’s first piece, almost definitely was, but she was kind of getting into it. 

The bus hit another pothole, and Wispy almost lost her grip on her laptop, cussing. Goddamnit. Just when it was getting good. She waits for the ride to ease up before finding her place again, getting immersed back into the story.

Agh...the chapter stops there. Wispy groans, left on another cliffhanger. This author keeps doing that, and it’s going to just about kill her. It may not be the most well written thing in the world, but she can’t deny it, she’s attached to this guy. There’s something about a knight who lost it all that resonates...in ways that she doesn’t really want to think too hard about. 

She’s just been a casual reader this whole time, but screw it, time to give this author some feedback. They’ve earned it.  

 
She adds a like for good measure, glancing out the window as the bus rolls to a stop. Perfect timing, she guesses.

The bus stop is pretty much empty, with not many other travellers getting off here. Looks like most people were on their way deeper into the city, but the nearest TCP shelter’s closest to this one. She adjusts her backpack over her shoulder before approaching the front desk, only to swerve as soon as she notices the rack of postcards beside it. No way she was going to avoid getting these. One for Tansy, one for Lily, same as always. She still had stamps from the last time she picked stuff up, so that should be fine…

The frog type at the counter looks bored, but she can’t fault him much. Place is completely dead. 

Wispy shuffles uncomfortably as she gets the bills out, handing them over. She hates being pitied whenever she asks for directions- being without a place to live is incredibly common for TCPs, and yet here she is, getting shit for it again. 

She forces a friendly wave and pockets the cards, turning to leave as quickly as possible. God, she hates dealing with people like this. The sooner she can get out of here, the better. 

The shelter bed isn’t very comfortable, but these places rarely are. Wispy can’t think of a single time she’s ever felt like she’s living it up in one of these shelters, but them’s the breaks, she guesses. Even still, it’s nicer than spending a day and a half on a bus…She plugs in her laptop and prays that it looks busted enough that no one will try and take it, or that her typing will keep people away. Memory types might not be the most equipped for combat, but their abilities were definitely touted around as useful, and she was going to have to start peddling to make some cash soon enough. 

She sighs as the MessiRoom notifications come in- looks like Lily messaged her while she was away.

She would have smiled if she could.

Wispy glances up at the shelter, seeing only tired and weary TCPs and rows of shoddy looking cots.

Another DM pops up, this one from...someone she doesn’t initially recognize.

Oh. Oh!

It sinks in quickly, Wispy almost starting to laugh. 

Wispy feels a twinge in the back of her mind, which she desperately tries to push away. This one’s got issues at home and she can just feel it, but there’s nothing she can do. There’s nothing she can do about it.

As she tries to process that gut punch, the messages keep coming, the writer TCP clearly oversharing now that the floodgates are open. But there’s one thought that’s clear to Wispy, something that rings true, the thing that drew her to this TCP’s stories in the first place, even with their quality being lower than she’d usually go for. 

[image description: a queen type TCP with a black and gray body palette, along with a sparkly gold and yellow dress and crown.]

Mabel sighs and starts kneading into her doughboard, logging in as [MAJESTY] and getting deep into the code for the PM system on the forums. Running the code side of Felid Factor was practically a part time job at this point, the rest of her time spent on bounties picked up on the side. She vastly preferred working on her own website of course, but god knows she never looked forward to squashing these bugs that just kept popping up...she’d much rather put in a new feature that Honey and Courtney came up with.

Today doesn’t seem to be a very good day for it either, her thoughts straying and fraying at the edges- there’s that cursed static noise fizzling at the back of her head, making it impossible to focus. It always seemed to kick in whenever she tried to start getting to work these days, a remnant from her time coding in corporate offices...hours spent numbly kneading away in cramped TCP-sized cubicles, the whole office put to work for far less pay than they should be getting.

And other reasons.

The queen type reaches for the volume on her speakers, turning them up just enough to be heard before putting on some gentle music, acoustic sounds coming through. Much better...the sound cuts through the noise just enough for her to be able to work.

She gets into the zone easily now, the kneading feeling completely natural, motions that she’ll never forget. When she’s able to work on her own projects, it feels like she’s perfectly at home, even with the initial dread that came with things like this… as long as she has direction, she’s just fine. Getting over the starting hump took some doing, but as soon as she got over it, it was smooth sailing.

That’s what Phantom always used to tell me-

Mabel stops kneading, hands frozen. She keeps them steady, refusing to let them tremble.

No. My books tell me that thinking about her is normal. It’s a part of the process. This is fine.

I can keep working.

She places her hands back down on the board, pushing them back into the soft, squishy surface and entering more code onto the screen. The thoughts begin to flood as her mind wanders, and she lets them come, sweeping over her.

She encouraged me so much, early on. I mean, she was the one who got me into coding in the first place, she would be so proud of me, I always know she’d be proud of me...she’d probably give me hell over the fact that I don’t contribute any features for myself though, she always did say I lacked ambition of my own. But even then, she was always there for me.

Never leaving my side.

They had had their fights, like any couple. Phantom was prone to fits of frustration, her own anxieties building up and not having many ways to deal with them. Mabel was never sure how to help her partner, but loved her all the same, and knew that Phantom always felt the same way in turn, despite their troubles.

When Mabel lamented not having any skills or direction in life, Phantom offered to share her own knowledge, and began to teach her what she knew, acting not only as the love of her life but her mentor, showing her how to code. And she took to it, slowly but surely, enjoying the feeling of building something up and doing something creative, even if many people didn’t consider it as such.

But Phantom always did, she insisted it was just as much of an art as any other, and swore on it until the day that she-

There’s a knock at Mabel’s door, the queen type rushing to turn down her music.

The door opens, a spice jar type stepping in with two skeins of metallic colored wool in hand.

Mabel tries to keep her voice gentle, knowing that her type’s aura runs the risk of setting off feelings of fear in her friend- a need to respect her as an authority at best, but even that felt off, and something they had to overcome with time.

Mabel feels a hint of static start to creep back in as Courtney’s voice softens, clearly disappointed.

G-gah…

Mabel can feel the tiniest bit of blush crossing her cheeks.

Courtney perks right up.

Her favorite.

As Courtney turns to leave, Mabel’s struck with another passing thought.

I don’t think Courtney or Honey would leave my side ever, either.

...Hm.

[image description: a spice jar type TCP with pastel blue tinted glass with white polka dots, a dark blue cap, and a white tag with a dark blue floral pattern on it. she also sports freckles underneath her eyespots.]

COURTNEY- 5/11/316

A new project always feels like a wonderful thing, something fresh and fun...one of the few things that makes Courtney consistently brighten up. It’s so easy to caught up in the anxieties of day to day life, especially when running such a bustling forum like Felid Factor...but knitting this scarf for Mabel will be a welcome break from all that. Not even a scarf for work, just a fun thing for a dear friend. She’d put her 110% into it, for certain.

But even so, her thoughts stray to other things...namely the site, as usual. Whenever she wasn’t thinking about how to run her online knitwear shop, it was all about FF, the forum that the three TCPs living here in Sunside Cottage started together. Not her idea, of course- that would be Honey’s- but it was hers to bring everyone together to one central location, starting when Mabel had that severe breakdown working for corporate...that just wouldn’t do, she couldn’t stand to see it. Honey had jumped at the chance, but Mabel took some convincing to move all the way out here and buy a place...and it had all been worth it, even if money was strained.

Very strained.

Even if the site hadn’t been Courtney’s original idea though, the melancholic spice jar type cared about it dearly. How could she not? It had brought her and her friends together and given them a life closer to one another, and for that she was truly grateful. And now, she runs all of the community events...though such a job on an unprecedented venture requires more trial and error than she’d like. Still, such a thing isn’t too out of line for her- she has to do that kind of thing with her creative work as well, trying new variations on patterns to keep her stock fresh and exciting for her sales.

The last major community event had been a mess, however. There were a few minor ones run with the help of community members- some gaming ones for the most part- but she had tried to get a digital card and gift exchange going for Forge season. Despite the holiday having plenty of room for people with solely platonic relationships, many complained about it encouraging people to flirt and “hook up” with other forum members, and the drama that got stirred up as a result made Courtney’s head hurt just to think about it. Now she needs something for spring, and she’s running out of time- it’s already approaching mid May, and if she doesn’t move fast, it’ll be June soon enough.

Maybe something promoting gardening...spring is a good time for that in a lot of places. Wait...but that’s a lot of places, not all of them, I’m sure that some zones still have winter this time of year. Or...all times of year. Or summer all times of year. Shoot. And then there’s cities, though I suppose you could just buy a nature type-made potted plant. It’d have to be nature type centric in general, most plants are too big for TCPs to take care of, and...agh, asking people to find a nature type would cut back on accessibility to a huge degree, and exclude those who live alone…

I should think broader, and have a focus on something that anyone can do...maybe something that helps the environment in general- no, that still limits people, especially people who live in crummy places. Life improvements, maybe? I worry about people who have abusive situations, then, it might just make them feel bad if they can’t get anything completed...unless I offer things for people to do around the forums as well, that could work. Little tasks for people to do both online and in real life, goal setting, encouragement...prizes for people who complete the most goals, perhaps? We’d have no way of verifying who’s completing the most, it’d be total honor system, but that’s just kind of how it is with these things.

It could work. I’d still need to figure out the prize system, that’s going to take money to commission an artist of some kind, ack…I’ll figure out some way how. The site’s worth it, and this could really help people out-

Courtney’s thoughts are interrupted by a crash from the room next door, the spice jar TCP getting up out of her wicker chair and dashing to see what happened.

[image description: a fur type TCP with gray body fur and a very, very subtle lighter spot pattern. its face is dark, black as if hidden by shadow- with its eyespots a bright yellow for contrast. it has claws emerging from its furry hands in the same shade of yellow.]

Honey is sprawled on the floor of its room, covered in dye even more than usual and trying to right some spilled bottles on its tarp setup. The polka dotted fur type's claws keep knocking into the glass and spilling them further, its eyespots narrowing as it frantically tries to clean up.

Both of the TCPs turn to face the queen type in the doorway, Mabel's arms crossed.

It gestures to the sheet of fur on the ground, patterns in the process of being dyed in.

The fur type rights itself, the full damage of the stains revealed.

Both TCPs start gently pushing Honey away from its work and towards the bathroom, ignoring its protests.

Courtney giggles a little, and Mabel is as shy as ever. The spice jar type knows that Honey’s just being silly, and it always likes to say things like this just for fun. There’s no way that it could actually find such a simple jar like her pretty, and that’s the joke.

...though, Mabel is legitimately pretty. Honey wouldn’t joke about that.

Huh.

Before she can ruminate on that too hard, Mabel passes her the showerhead, and it’s her turn to step up on a stool and get under Honey’s neck. The fur type always has trouble getting all this dye out of her fur whenever these kinds of spills happen, and the two of them get right to helping as best as they can. It’s a big scene, what with Mabel’s dress ruffles getting soaked down and any water spraying off of Courtney’s glass surface, but Honey is as happy as can be once they got it in the actual shower itself.

Honey starts laughing, Mabel having to hold onto its back for dear life to avoid being shaken off her stool.

Now all three of them are giggling, water going everywhere- only making the giggles worse, and everyone soaked.

It’s just another night in Sunside Cottage, and Courtney wouldn’t have it any other way.

[image description: a fur type TCP with gray body fur and a very, very subtle lighter spot pattern. its face is dark, black as if hidden by shadow- with its eyespots a bright yellow for contrast. it has claws emerging from its furry hands in the same shade of yellow.]

Honey dries itself off as best as it can, wrapped up in multiple warm towels- they had spent some good money out of the splurge jar after the first time it needed a big shower like this, but it was totally worth it. Settling into its hammock like this with its holo screen after getting cleaned up was a feeling like no other, and it would easily work for the price of those towels again if it had to.

Speaking of the holo screen...time to check FF.

A couple more bans to do, mostly users using slurs again. How many times did it have to tell people not to use dirty language? Swears were fine, but cmon, really? You don’t have to get that nasty about it…

Banned, banned, banned.

Another harassment case. Banned.

It had gotten a track record of being the disciplinarian admin of the forums, being the most ban happy of the trio- but that didn’t stop it from being well liked all the same. It was friendly with people any time it wasn’t swatting them for breaking the rules, and was genuinely happy to have users interacting with each other and using the forums...how could it not be? The impressions of the other admins varied...Mabel was seen as the scary mod, which killed Honey and Courtney a bit, considering how shy she was in real life. Talking formally and with a flat affect over text would do that… Courtney on the other hand was busy and heavily involved with everything, and was seen as everything from the “mom” of the forums to a busybody, with the meaner members of the site claiming that she “tried too hard”.

Honey takes particular spiteful pleasure in warning and banning those jerks.

The fur type opens up its DMs, sifting through and deleting spam messages, banning the bots along the way. Just using that ban hammer with wild abandon, the life of an admin is never a dull moment. Ah, but wait- a legitimate message!

Its eyes skim over at first, but then it slows down- it’s a thank you message from a user who had their abuser banned the other day...huh. It had taken that as just a standard harassment case, your everyday average bullying deal...but apparently, it had been a severe instance of abuse, one that had been going on for years prior to joining the site.

Yeesh.

Honey lets it sink in, nodding to itself. This part of the job always made it feel some kind of pain in its chest, but at least it did some good for the world, even if it was on a small scale...one less scumbag out there on its forum. People slinging slurs around were small potatoes compared to people like this, and thankfully it didn’t have to deal with them frequently at all- but it happened, and it never got easier.

There’s a lot of sick people out there…

Before it can get too melancholic over it, a MessiRoom DM request pops up, scaring the hell out of it- it doesn’t usually turn those on, and only one person could have known they were even available...and thankfully, it is who it hoped it’d be.

Honey hesitates, not sure what to say. It was definitely taking a gamble on this, for sure. It had the money- not a lot of money, but enough for...some things. It had been putting away its own earnings bit by bit, taking on extra work on the sly in order to build up some funds for stuff like this. You never knew, and lo and behold, something like this came up.

Honey sighs in relief, flopping back in its hammock. That actually went well...it was so scared that its offer wasn’t going to go through, and with any luck Courtney won’t take offense to the fact that it moved ahead without her say-so. It was for the good of the site, and it was meant to help her out in the first place...it’d tell her in the morning. For now, rest.

Another day, another win for Honey.

[image description: a migraine type TCP with a purple and black body, white migraine-indicating markings, and orange swirly eyes]

KIERAN- 5/12/316

Kieran reclines in her seat, feeling the headache settle in already. She had already fended off one earlier this morning, but it’s just one of those days where another one’s coming on. This isn’t the first time where she was approached by someone for collaboration for free, and it wasn’t going to be the last by any means, but to say she’s sick of it was an understatement. She was already going to be busy with this whole prize deal with the forums on top of her usual commission workload, and that left little time for personal pieces...god, thinking about this isn’t helping her head.

Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five…

Something drops through the mail slot with a soft sound, disrupting the migraine type TCP’s attempt at initiating meditation. Kieran sighs and gets up with a grumble, used to this kind of interruption- it’s always something. She could always just leave it for later, but at this point, she’d just be thinking about it anyway, her groove totally thrown off.

Junk mail, junk, junk, spam, annnnd

Sure enough, there’s a letter from Dr. Battz. If she could frown, her face would be contorted into a grimace, never pleased to see correspondence from her old practitioner.

That old coot can’t just leave me alone...I’m not seeing him, I’m not his patient anymore, what the hell does he even want…

Probably for me to come in and run more experiments as his little lab rat. Eugh. Fuck him.

Into the trash it goes along with the rest, another sigh escaping her as she realizes the state of her kitchen. It’s time for a cleanup, desperately, and as she goes around picking up trash, she knows it’s inevitable that she’s going to have to brave the outside world to haul it out to the cans down the hall.

Perfect. Just what I need with a fucking migraine.

I’m sure good ol’ Batty would love to watch me try this, carrying a bag out while teetering around. Wouldn’t be the first time…

She does her best to shake off the bitter thoughts as she hauls the bag over her shoulder, unlocking her door and starting off down the hall. Every step feels like a struggle, her head pounding as she strains to keep her body upright. The bag isn’t that heavy compared to her strength as a body type, large hands able to hold it with ease, but walking with literally anything in hand would feel like a misery ride at this point.

Someone passes by as she trudges on, and in her haze she recognizes them as one of her upstairs neighbors- a shorthair type, their name on the edges of her mind. Alien, or something. Alan? Wait, no. Fuck. Alias. Yeah. Pretty sure she’s heard the landlord yelling at them about rent a few times, something she’s dealt with herself more times than she’s willing to admit.

There’s something that nags at her as they almost brush against each other, exchanging mutual apologies before going on their separate ways.

The cans at the end of the hall are free, and there’s just enough space for her bag. Thank god, if they were full she would have fucking lost it. That would have been real icing on the cake today. The walk back is a little bit better than the way there, her head starting to clear up and become more lucid.

Still, there’s something pressing at her- not pain, but like she’s forgetting something. Like something’s missing. Like something’s...not quite clicking together.

Oh FUCK.

It’s gotta be a coincidence. Maybe they’re just a fan- but Felid Factor isn’t that big, and Critter hasn’t set up a storefront yet...it’s not like they’ve talked or anything outside the forums, but they’ve commented on each other’s work a few times, enough to call each other acquaintances. But still, the odds. The fucking odds. The planet’s so big, and the odds of two TCPs on a tiny TCP forum sharing a small ass apartment building, separated by a single floor, knowing each other...god, the odds are impossible.

But that shirt, it looked hand made, and that design was- no, it had to be a coincidence. There’s no way.

Kieran rushes to her computer, her head threatening to start pounding again from the sudden movement. She logs into the forums, screwing up her password a few times in her haste.

That’s it. That’s what I saw, it has to be. One of a kind.

Her hand is shaking a bit as she clicks on Critter’s recent threads, and finds one labelled “collab with [REMNANT_TREASURES]: critter fashion!”.

Fuck. It’s them. That’s the shirt.

Critter’s my fucking neighbor. Critter is Alias.

Do I tell them? Is that weird? Will they think I’m a stalker? Oh god, they’re going to worry that I’ll tell everyone. But...

It would be nice, to have someone in person. And Critter always did seem nice.

Kieran opens up MessiRoom, her hands really trembling now.

It feels like an agonizing eternity, but after a few minutes, it comes.

She has to correct a million typos while writing her first messages, catching so many mistakes just trying to get it right.

[image description: an image of alias and an image of kieran.
  alias is a calico patterned shorthair cat type TCP with distinct abstract-style yellow eyes, and kieran is a migraine type TCP with a purple and black body, white migraine-indicating markings, and orange swirly eyes.]
 

Kieran’s apartment somehow feels even more cramped than Alias’, but that’s to be expected from a much bigger body type crammed into the same cheap space. Sure, the complex offered bigger apartments for rent, but considering Alias knew how the digital artist lifestyle went... yeah, they were pretty sure Kieran was in the same boat as them.

Dirt poor, broke as hell, and doomed to cheap, tight living spaces.

The body type sits down on the floor across from them, getting situated on a bedroll. Sleeping on the floor didn’t sound too comfortable to Alias at all, but the futon looked...surprisingly soft, and apparently those kind of things were in style these days.

Guess she keeps up with trends.

Alias wants to melt into the ground, their face covered in blush.

There’s a teasing tone to Kieran’s voice, and they could just about die.

Alias looks up from the ground to catch Kieran staring at her, and panics.

The migraine type folds her arms, thinking something over.

The two of them settle in, Alias breaking out their sketchbook and scribbling out a design quickly- Kieran looms over and watches, the shorthair type trying not to feel too self conscious. Soon enough, the critter’s done, and Kieran’s fast at work painting away. Watching the migraine type go is mystifying, and it becomes evident how she can price her paintings the way she does- she’s fast.

The two of them step back once the mini painting is completed, looking it over. It’s not so mini compared to Alias, but compared to Kieran’s other works, it may as well be.

She holds out a massive hand, Alias eyeing it nervously before extending their own. The migraine type grips it carefully, practically engulfing it.

5/21/316- BLOODTHIRSTY

[image description: an image of bloodthirsty, a yellow love type with black splattery markings, blue and red accents, and two no-regret kill marks.]
 

The siren type’s hair falls into her face as Thirsty reaches forward and wraps her hands around her neck, and for the millionth time recalling this moment, Thirsty feels the distinct thought pass through her mind- I always found her so pretty and with a lunge it’s over, someone’s screams echoing behind her. It’s the same as always, and it repeats once, and then twice, and before it can switch tracks to another murder not too long before- or was it after?- her alarm goes off, and her eyes snap open, fists clutching at her blankets in a death grip.

It’s fine. Just a dream. Just another dream. The same as always, nothing new. Predictable.

Bloodthirsty sits up with a groan, cracking her neck and unclenching her hands- god, they hurt. She can deal with predictable, and has for the past...she stopped keeping count, and doesn’t have any plans of keeping track of that kind of thing again. No point to it anyhow, it’s in the past.


Walking is more of a stumbling affair as she makes her way from bed to the bathroom, looking herself over in the mirror and shooting her best attempt at finger guns at the marks on her face- solid lines, no regrets.

There’s no response from the mirror, and she nods.

Checking the computer’s next up on the morning checklist, a laptop set up at the tiny kitchen table folded out from the wall. These little bio-dome shacks don’t come with much space, everything all capable of nestling into the walls...but Bloodthirsty likes it all out where she can see it, and folding and unfolding everything is such a hassle. Whoever designed this stuff clearly anticipated people being able to grip on better than a typical TCP can, and she’d rather just sneak by stuff than give herself a strain.

She only has two contacts she gives a shit about; Claims and...him. One of which, she’s got a message from- as expected, and the other, she has nothing. Also as expected. Might as well see what Claims is on about, though she has a pretty good guess.

They never go fast.

Thirsty doesn’t even bother looking at [CRYSTAL_HALL]’s message window, there’s no notifications there and seeing her old messages is just going to make her feel depressed- and she does NOT have time for that. She’s got some orders from the nearby town of Reminder, and the lambs aren’t gonna feed themselves.

The lambs are looking good, at least. Looks like a few of ‘em popped in overnight, right on schedule, and all they’re doing is shuffling around safely in their pen, munching at their hay and bleating whenever Thirsty comes close. She gives a medium sized one a pat on the head, checking them over- no signs of parasites at all, though any getting into a bio-dome like this would be pretty impressive. These things were built to keep pests out and crops, livestock, whatever you wanted to grow, safely inside. Getting her hands on her own little one wasn’t a huge deal thanks to all of Hearth’s nice systems set up for residents, but she did have to get signed up as a resident first, and fussing with paperwork while carrying around an asexually and spontaneously reproducing lamb from another world wasn’t exactly ideal in a big city. Sure, the god she ended up with after the session offered to help house her for a bit, but she only took up that deal for as long as she had to- she wasn’t one to impose, and it’s not like she ever really liked them in the first place.

Just wish he had come with me.

The lambs don’t need much outside of a little cleaning and their hay refreshed, with everything else happening completely on its own. All Thirsty has to do is let them pop into existence while no one’s looking and take them out to slaughter when the orders come in, stripping them down and saving everything- the meat sold the best for sure, especially since it was TCP consumable, but the rest went towards her taxidermy projects. The forums may not be keen on her stuff entirely yet, but she was gonna get ‘em eventually. They’d see. The butchering’s the hard part, and by the time she’s done with it today, she’s covered in technicolor gore and exhausted. Nothing new, but always hard.

She stumbles into the pen one last time, looking over what’s left of her flock. Still plenty, and by tomorrow, there’d be enough replenished that she wouldn’t have to worry. Just gotta pick one more out…

She takes one on the smaller end, grateful that they don’t seem to have much on their mind but fluff- she doesn’t think she could bear it if they turned out sweet. Even so, she says a quick thank you to both the lamb itself and, begrudgingly, its creator, before lunging and pressing her head against its side, draining blood from it through its skin. It doesn’t even react, and she doesn’t kill it, she never does anymore- just enough to feed the urges.

Just enough.

The warmth of her shack is welcoming, even if the amount of space isn’t. It’s a repetitive, predictable life, but it’s still Bloodthirsty’s, and it’s far away from any kind of horrible TCP murder hell, with no more god mindgames to worry about. Sure, she doesn’t get much in the way of talking to people short of the one guy who can’t shut up about buying her skulls, but that’s...something, right?

She glances at her computer and against her better judgment, checks for messages- and it’s the same as earlier. Some from Claims, none from him.

Well, at least that went well. She’d reply to him after she got the skulls cleaned up. No point in making small talk...for now. The last time kind of went disastrous.

Just leaves one last routine to her day.

She leans back in her chair, making a noise like a sigh. She’s not sure why she does this every day, but here she goes again. Again, and again, like clockwork.

From now until god knows when.

[image description: a tiny image of desmond, a horn type TCP with a dragon's spade-tipped tail. his horns are a lighter brown, and his body is a deep-reddish brown with horizontal stripes.]

Desmond moves his claws carefully, ever so carefully, fully aware of how delicate the work he’s doing is. He hadn’t been able to handle making the hole for the cord himself, his hands far too big to manipulate a drill, but he insists on trying this part himself. He desperately wants to learn how to make his own jewelry, to take on craftsmanship just like the people who hire him-

A knock on the door startles him, the horn type nearly banging his head on his desk lamp and toppling it. He sighs and rights the light fixture before it falls over, setting the skull he was handling on his desk with just as much care as before. Later, then. He calls out to the person at the door as he walks over, grabbing a light shawl on his way.

He opens the door, leaning on the entryway as he looks down at the geode type standing there.

[image description: a tiny image of Carver, a geode type with a white rocky outside and a black and gray gemstone inside.]

The geode type shuffles, a bag slung over her shoulder.

Carver perks up, patting her bag. It seems far too large for her, but that’s what happens when you buy a new camera from bougie Monte body types. They always go the extra mile.

She hurries inside, the horn type closing the door after her.  

Desmond settles onto a hammock, reaching for a tablet resting on a side table. Carver looks around nervously before taking a seat on one of the floor cushions, setting her bag to the side.

She sounds legitimately surprised, and Desmond can’t blame her.

His tone is curt.

He turns to his tablet, irritated.

If he could have smiled, he would have. Maverick is always looking out for him…

Desmond looks up from his tablet, glaring the geode type down. The crystalline TCP shrinks a little, intimidated by the dragon-like body type’s look.

He returned to his tablet, not waiting for Carver’s response.

They talk for a little while longer, with Carver shifting nervously in her seat the entire time. When Desmond finally wraps up and sets the tablet to the side, she unzips her bag and gets her camera up.

5/24/316- MAVERICK


[image description: a tiny image of maverick, a rhabdophobia type TCP with a tan body, mottled blue and pink "robe" coloring, and white accents.]


The rapping on Maverick’s door wakes it from its slumber, the body type stirring from its nest of blankets with a layered grumble. It glances over at the clock and groans, seeing how early it is- the sun had barely come up an hour ago, and now it was going to lose precious sleeping hours away from the heat…

It lifts itself from its tangle of blankets as the pounding continues, reaching for its pants and pulling them on. An unnecessary step what with the disguise, maybe, but it always made it feel more professional.


The knocking just gets louder as it heads down the steps, still rubbing its eyespots.

After a quick peek in the mirror, the TCP reaches for the last crucial part of any interaction with the outside world- its massive cloak, crafted by a complex who had no idea how big TCPs actually are. No matter, that was exactly what it wanted- and as the fabric drapes over its body, it gathers its nerves and opens the door to its tower.

[image description: a tiny image of a monkey type TCP, with black fur and a gray face.]


The monkey type that stands there looks cheery as ever, brushing the sand off of her outfit and keeping her tone light.

Maverick gestures to some floor cushions, Jerri eagerly scooting over and getting comfortable. It turns back to its work station, doing its best to remember what charms the monkey type had ordered.

It wraps up the charms in a fine cloth, reminding itself to pick up more of those later. A paper bag would have done just as well, but these really completed the magical appeal. It made it feel...luxurious, whimsical. Like something out of a mysterious storybook- and that’s the way it liked it.

It passes over the charms to the monkey type, watching as she cradles them with her far smaller hands.

That gets a laugh out of her, and Maverick can’t help but feel a little bit bittersweet. It wasn’t lying, those scones were amazing- but there’s no way that it could ever talk with Jerri or any of the other villagers on a closer level.


No matter how much it wants to.

She stands to head out, careful with her new acquisitions. She pauses for a moment, turning to face Maverick.

It closes the door behind her, sighing as it waits to make sure she’s gone. As soon as the coast seems clear, it sheds its cloak and heads for its workstation, opening its laptop and taking a seat. Its head’s already starting to hurt from that last exchange, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. If this kind of strife was coming its way just from the fact that it’s a magic user, god forbid what would happen if people in the village- or people in general, really- knew its typing.


A rhabdophobia type working as a wizard...people could never wrap their hands around it. Someone literally based within the fear of magic creating charms for others, people would call me a hack at best…


MessiRoom opens as the computer finishes booting, and it sighs even harder when it notices its messages.

It was sent a couple hours ago, but it looks like she’s still online.

Maverick slumps in its chair, grumbling to itself. Yeah, yeah, she had resources for everything. Freaking smarty pants.

It would have rolled its eyes if it could, absolutely certain that Gazer’s looking down on it as usual. She always thought she was the top wizard of the whole forums, going on proper adventures and all...but it would play nice.

It pulls away from its laptop with a huff, starting to get its materials in order and ready to be worked on.

Time to get started.

5/25/316- ADELE


[image description: a tiny of adele, a scrapmancy type featuring a blue, teal and green palette.]

The motel is cheap, but that’ll do Adele fine. She’d get looks for traveling with big bags and a fancy outfit, only to stop at a place like this...but that doesn’t matter to her, not when she had work to focus on. All this room would be was a place with proper power outlets to charge up her gear and a pillow to rest her head on at night. Anything more would be superfluous, and frankly- she doesn’t consider it warranted until she’s actually gotten the job done.

The scrapmancy type settles onto the bed, dragging one of her suitcases over. This particular job wasn’t one she was hired for explicitly- no, she just found the case online and decided to handle it herself. With any luck, the poster would be grateful that someone with actual skill decided to look into it, and she’d get some kind of reward…

But even if they weren’t, the scrap payoff was going to be huge.

Inside the bag are her scrapbooks, an outfit for actual work, and various gadgets she’d picked up along the way. Gauntlets for handling more dangerous scrap types, a radiation detector, an ability amplifier...all of which had been developed by a witch friend back in Calliope. She missed traveling there especially, seeing all of the specialized magic gear...really, when it came to witchcraft and wizardry, you couldn’t get better.

Adele takes out the radiation detector and sweeps the room, relieved when the device doesn’t make a single beep. Checking by eye for scraps also turns up no results- both a blessing and a curse. While she was always interested in collecting new potential tools, motel rooms never seemed to have anything good. The most interesting remnant she’d picked up was a murder of all things, and she had to drop it after a week. She should have avoided taking it in the first place, but people saying that those kinds of scraps were cursed never really sank in prior. All she got out of it were nightmares and visions of death and destruction...never again. There were far more practical scraps anyhow.

Vision scraps came easy to her, and those were the most powerful in her arsenal…for her specific ability, anyway. It was handy to be able to see things far away, across time and space, things that hadn’t even happened yet…divining potential futures and doing her best to make the ideal ones come true. Even with that, the rest of her collection was intensely varied, with a focus on more than just elemental typings- after all, some of the best kept secret techniques could be achieved with rarer tools.

Before she can dig into her own thoughts, her phone buzzes- a MessiRoom notification.

Huh. She wasn’t expecting anyone to DM her, and she didn’t recognize the username.

Adele pulls her laptop out of her bag and starts setting up, plugging in and loading it up before responding.

The picture sent is warped, covered in noise and twisted marks. What was once there is unintelligible, with Adele unable to make even a little bit of it out.

There’s a distinct and powerful “off” feeling to it as soon as she gets a good look, and that only manages to give her a thrill.

If she had a mouth, it would have been pulled into a gleeful grin- she had done so many readings for people in the past few months, but this…is actually something to discover. So many nights spent looking over peoples’ keepsakes- and sure, finding bits and pieces of peoples’ pasts for them was fun and all, but what she lived for was the new, the unexplored, the unexplained…

She immediately fishes around for her ability amplifier, strapping it around her arm and focusing.

She feels the innate knowledge of her “health” going down a point come into her mind, dismissing it- as long as she didn’t go too far, she’d be able to recover fine with some snacks. A second pair of arms unfurls, a wavy, cloud-like halo accented with scrap lookalikes forming around her neck. She doesn’t need a mirror to know that her eyes were full of stars, having seen it many, many times at this point.

Focusing, she turns to the photo.

Immediately upon using her ability, she’s blasted with feelings of discomfort and unease- extremely strong, with no direction to them. It’s clearly scraps, it has to be scraps, but there’s no memories to pick up on…just raw emotion. Feelings extending out and corrupting everything they touch, worming their way into her very mind-


She pulls back and shakes her head, ignoring the health ticking down from her attempt at divination.

She tries again, pushing deeper.

Fear, panic, terror- things have gone wrong, horribly wrong, with no way to tell what, crying out for help but no one coming, the feeling of being abandoned-

When she pulls out of it this time, she’s shuddering. Taking a moment to recover and feeling a little woozy from the health loss, she leans back- but doesn’t unascend.

No, there's more work to do. More photos.

If she has to go down to the last safe health point, she will.

There's a gap in messages, Adele waiting tensely for a response.

5/30/316- EDEN


[image description: a tiny of eden, a ghost type TCP featuring a beige, skeleton-print body and teal, purple and red accents]



Eden floats amidst the rubble, taking the scenery in around himself- it was a long since abandoned factory, and definitely not TCP scale. But…the ghost type had heard rumors that there were TCPs working here at some point, before TCP-specific labor laws had even been put in place here in Heirloom…

Solitude had been…slow on the uptake for that. People had been assured that surely TCPs could put in just as much effort as anyone else, neglecting the fact that certain machinery malfunctions could easily be fatal to TCPs where a complex would be perfectly fine, and having no regulations on ability usage. Hearth had policies ready to go thanks to Wax’s preparations for the species’ “release”, but many places chose not to adopt immediately, most likely based on the fact that no one expected them to truly be as widespread as they were, even when warned about spawning mechanics...

Eden shakes his head, trying to get out of his historical musings. It was so easy to think about this kind of stuff, especially when he was out exploring…but that just made it more dangerous, and it was a habit he was trying to curb.

The ghost type floats over a particularly large chunk of concrete, stopping for a moment to hold up his digital camera and take a picture of the twisted rebar and wires nearby. Thankfully, the display shows no distortion- not today.

Ever since he’d talked to that wizard, things had been going better. Slowly, bit by bit, his photos were distorting less. He wasn’t sure why they were getting better, and sure, it had impacted how many people were looking at his pictures, but…maybe this was for the better. No more “pseudo-ghosts” or whatever.

He keeps moving, looking up and around at the structures towering above him- old machinery and-

Eden doesn’t notice the floor ending, tumbling into what feels like a chasm before he’s able to stop himself. He does manage to catch himself and float before hitting the ground, thank god, but looking up at the distance to fly up there…

He could do it, but the idea of being that high up in the open air scares him more than the prospect of looking for some stairs.

The factory’s emptiness feels worse and worse the more he wanders around the lower floor- a grim thought passes through his mind, grateful that Morbitian TCPs don’t leave corpses…down in this basement, it felt like there’d be all kinds of bodies.

He shivers a little, and starts to pick up the pace. The longer he stays down here, the more he’s going to get anxious, and he is already freaked out.

Just when he thinks his nerves couldn’t get any worse, he finds stairs- complex sized ones, requiring quite a bit of floating to get up…but at this point, he’ll deal with it.

He goes up and up and up and up, hope building up in his chest-

-only for the stairwell to be blocked off by rubble, concrete chunks compacted in an almost unnatural wall.

The ghost type sinks down to the floor, his fabric skin flattening a bit as he presses his head into his hands.

His mind races, subjecting him to flashes of endless hallways, screaming, chains around his neck-

His phone buzzes in his bag, the sound startling him and sending the poor ghost type tumbling back.

It’s MessiRoom.

There’s a pause before any more messages come through, Eden’s anxiety spiking at the lack of response.

Eden can’t help but make a little sniffling noise at that.

He isn’t sure what to say to that- the thought had crossed his mind many times, that he could just…stop. He could stick to taking pictures of nice places, forests, gardens, places that didn’t have chances of pseudo-ghosts showing up, or him getting trapped, or-

…But he doesn’t want to.

He takes a minute to gather his words.

Before Eden can type a reply, there’s the sound of the rubble next to him moving. He’s immediately up in the air, scooting far away from the blockage- only for just enough of it to move for him to see a way through. …an almost perfectly shaped way through. He very quickly types a response to his partner before floating forward.

There’s a pair of eyes watching him from the other side of the rubble, burning into his own eyespots. There’s an immediate feeling of dread coursing through him as he does, and he almost recoils- but there’s…warmth, as well.

Relief.

Freedom.

The eyes disappear as soon as they came, leaving the ghost type alone again.

He reaches through the passage, only getting unnaturally cold air that fades before he can even process it fully.

The little ghost takes a moment to steel his nerves, and goes through the passageway. It’s a tense moment, but he fits right through without needing to phase through anything, and after going up the stairs…

He’s back in the main floor space, the door at the far end of the building open, inviting him to get the hell out of here.

He pauses for a moment, taking out his camera and aiming it at the empty space in front of him.

Eyes on the digital display, the same as earlier, just…watching amidst a shadowy body. Eden takes a few times to glance between the display and reality, and sure enough- it’s invisible, but very present.

He takes a picture, and gives a little wave, lingering just a few moments before making a beeline for the door.

He wouldn’t be coming back to this one anymore, but…

Maybe he’d see the ghost again.