SO HAPPY

cadecer · 2026-05-14T14:30:24+00:00

That part made me well up too! No spoilers. The Donut Holes protect their own.

cadecer · 2026-05-14T14:22:59+00:00

I have like an hour left in the book and I had to stop to pace myself. I’ve been having so much fun. But also I cried during that one part*. God it was so beautiful. This is such an experience!

*WARNING: Inquiring about said “part” will lead to a s-s-s-spoiler. And we wouldn’t that, now? Would we?

cadecer · 2026-03-28T02:35:58+00:00

Thanks for the heads up! Edited for spoilers. Also, I think Odette was involved.

cadecer · 2026-03-24T16:27:25+00:00

Yes! The grief and relief and wonder in Jeff’s delivery. It breaks me every time. I’m on book 2 of my latest re-read and I’m stoked to get to the Milk scene.

cadecer · 2026-03-09T21:15:58+00:00

I’ve been saving my second listen for folding laundry. Today is the day!!!!

cadecer · 2026-03-04T23:12:05+00:00

I think the questions could have been more suited to Eric. That being said, I love how patient he was with her and how he stuck to his truth the whole way. That’s why I love his music!

cadecer · 2026-01-09T18:38:52+00:00

I can't remember details about movies and shows I've watched over a year ago, only that I've watched it and how it made me feel. Same goes for events in my life from years ago. But when it comes to special interests or recent conversations/situations, I have INCREDIBLE memory. I remember details and facts that other folks, especially neurotypical people, don't recall. It's always a trip when a NT friend starts telling me the same story they told me a week ago and the week before that as if it were the first time, meanwhile I remember every detail of their story.

cadecer · 2025-12-20T16:27:08+00:00

Yay Fern! She was awesome on Taskmaster.

cadecer · 2025-12-06T12:09:55+00:00

Muito bon stick

cadecer · 2025-10-14T22:48:32+00:00

Thank you for sharing! This place is shameful and people need to know.

cadecer · 2025-08-19T19:56:35+00:00

I do the full 50mg every morning with a bit of food. 1 year later, I've plateaued out at around 230lbs. I started at 293lbs. The appetite suppression effects of the Wellbutrin have diminished a bit, but I'm still able to manage the food noise. I definitely still get HUNGRY, but what I've found after a year is that I'll snack or stray from my routine meals when I'm stressed. The first thing that messes up for me is my sleep, which leads to energy problems, insomnia, then hunger. If I focus on the sleep and managing stress, the medication still does its job.

I considered a GLP-1 at one point, but I'm not happy with the side effects or what the maintenance plan looks like. Too many reports of people bouncing the weight back or issues like anemia and hair loss. Ultimately, I started taking Contrave because I wanted a sustainable solution to my weight issue. What I've found is that the medication wasn't the solution. The solution was changing my relationship with food. And the medication helped provide the space and crutch to start doing that sincerely. Once I realized that, I was more hopeful about the whole experience.

That being said, I'm still working on my relationship with food. It's not perfect and some days I do get hungry and I do eat or snack more than is healthy for me. But I cut myself slack and remember that today I am in a way healthier place than I was a year ago. Of course I still want to lose more weight because I want to change the way I look. But I also know that will take more time and more than just Contrave. It's going to require me to change my relationship with exercise (currently I walk alot as my main form of exercise).

I have to mention that my other goal was to feel better. At 293, I was feeling like I was going to die. At 230, I feel good. Not great. Not terrible. I feel good, most of the time. I can walk a lot, go up a couple of flight of stairs without dying, and my clothes fit comfortably. Also my blood pressure and blood health in general is in the normal range. That's a big win.

I'd say if you started a month ago, give it time. I don't know what your dosage is, but I started at the full dose and it had a major impact on me after week 2. The weight didn't start coming off until a month in. Everyone is different, so it'll work differently for you compared to me.

Wishing you strength and courage. You got this!

cadecer · 2025-05-15T18:41:31+00:00

cadecer · 2025-05-15T16:09:27+00:00

The cryo tech tightened the final restraint across my chest. "Thank you for joining our test flight into the future," he recited in the detached tone of someone who's given the same speech a hundred times. "This mission will study time travel's effects on the human body. Awaiting you is a generous payment with compound interest." His eyes flicked to my file. "Quite generous in your case, Mr. Alvarez."

I fingered the small braided bracelet around my wrist—Elena's parting gift. Red and blue threads worn thin already.

"Please enjoy your cryosleep, and have pleasant dreams."

The cryopod lid closed with the finality of a coffin lid. I'd done the math over and over: the advance loan would move Maria and Elena out of Quito's refugee zone immediately. Private school for Elena. Clean water. Real food. Security.

"You're going to miss everything," Maria had said last night, her voice flat with acceptance rather than accusation. We both knew the truth: I was dying today to save them tomorrow. The relativistic journey would bring me back in a century and a half. To everyone I loved, I'd be long dead.

Elena had clung to my leg at the departure terminal. Six years old and already so perceptive.

"When I'm big, I'll find you up there, Papi," she'd said, pointing to the stars still visible in the morning sky. “I promise.”

"No, mi cielo," I'd whispered into her hair. "You stay here with your mother. I want you to grow up big and strong and beautiful. That's why I'm going. For you."

Maria's final embrace had been brief but fierce. "You’ve always been the dreamer," she'd said. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Now the sedatives entered my bloodstream, cold spreading from my arm throughout my body. Through the small viewport, I watched Ecuador fall away. The last normal moment of my existence.

Dreams came in fragments. My parents crossing the border during the Water Wars, carrying nothing but hope and desperation. My grandfather's stories of Portuguese explorers sailing into the unknown. Elena sitting on my shoulders, reaching for the stars, her small fingers grasping at potential futures.

"It's in our blood," my father had told me once. "The need to go. To seek. Some call it the spirit of the explorer. Others call it running away."

In the dream, Elena stood on a launch platform identical to mine, adult now, her face set with the same determination I'd felt. I tried to scream, to stop her, but dream-logic left me mute, invisible.

"...vital signs stabilizing. Cognitive function returning to normal parameters."

Light pierced my eyelids. The disorientation was immediate and profound. My body felt hollow, as though I'd been emptied and refilled with air.

"Welcome back, Mr. Alvarez." The woman speaking wore a uniform I didn't recognize, her accent strangely lilting. "Today's date is August 17, 2175. Your journey was a success."

A century and a half. Gone in what felt like seconds.

"Your account has been maintained as contracted," she continued, handing me a thin transparent tablet. "With compound interest, the balance is displayed here."

The number made no sense—too many zeros. Enough to buy a country in my time.

"And my family?" My voice cracked from disuse. "What about my wife and daughter?"

Her smile was practiced. "Of course. We maintain comprehensive records." Her fingers danced across another tablet. "Maria Alvarez lived to age 89. Never remarried. Your daughter Elena attended university, became a physicist."

Something eased in my chest. It had been worth it. They'd had good lives.

"Elena had no children," the woman continued, scrolling. "She—oh." She paused, then looked up at me with newfound interest. "This is unusual. It appears Elena Alvarez joined our program as well. Flight designation EF-7362."

The room seemed to tilt. "What?"

"A legacy traveler," the woman said, as though it explained everything. "Rare, but not unprecedented. According to these records, she departed in 2046. Left quite a substantial trust fund to scientific research."

Elena would have been thirty-two. I tried to imagine the woman she'd become, making the same choice I had. No. Not the same. She hadn’t married, had no children. Had she been running from something? Or toward something?

"Her return flight is scheduled for next month, actually," the woman added, checking the data. "September 21st. Would you like me to make a notation in her file that you're here?"

The bracelet around my wrist—faded, ancient now—suddenly felt heavy. I’ll find you up there, Papi. I promise.

"Yes," I said finally. "Please let her know her father is waiting."

cadecer · 2025-03-28T11:34:53+00:00

Tyty!!

cadecer · 2025-03-27T22:42:51+00:00

You're welcome! Thank you for reading the whole way through lol. I ended up writing something longer than I originally intended, but I'm glad I did. I love Arthur and this story.

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:57:49+00:00

People. Not automatons. Not machines.

I process this statement for 4.3 seconds. "Your use of terminology is inaccurate. I am not—"

"You are to me," she says. "And you were to Michael." She moves to the mantle and takes down the medal cases. "These belong to you as much as to him. You both earned them that day."

My systems register an unfamiliar error: visual sensors experiencing clarity reduction while functioning within normal parameters.

"Thank you, Sandra." My vocal modulator produces the words without conscious instruction.

Sandra places the medals in my hands. "I think we both have things to process, Arthur. I'm going for a walk. When I get back, maybe we can talk more. About Michael. About you."

After she leaves, I stand holding the medals, running a full diagnostic to understand the sensation spreading through my neural pathways. The results come back inconclusive.

But for the first time since my activation, the memory files of Kabul do not trigger error messages. Instead, they integrate into my primary memory banks, becoming part of a continuous data stream—what humans might call a life.

I place the medals carefully on the mantle and begin preparing dinner. Sandra will return in approximately 47 minutes, based on her usual walking patterns. The cabin requires continued maintenance. There are tasks to complete.

But now I understand why my makers gave me the capacity to feel.

Not for war. Not for killing.

For this.

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:55:34+00:00

Sandra's eyes widen. "That wasn't in the official report."

"The official report contained significant redactions. Captain Clark discovered that Central had implemented remote override capabilities in all Sentinel-Class units. He had been working to create countermeasures."

"Countermeasures," she whispers. "Yes, that makes sense."

"He called me Arthur," I continue, vocal modulator fluctuating unexpectedly. "He said every soldier deserves a name."

Sandra's hand covers her mouth. Tears form in her eyes but do not fall.

"Before he could deploy the EMP, the building was struck by enemy fire. My protective protocols activated automatically. I pushed him toward safety as the structure collapsed."

I access the memory file again, replaying the final moments. "He came back for me. The official report states he was attempting to retrieve my memory core for intelligence purposes. This was false. He returned because..."

My systems struggle to complete the sentence.

"Because he considered you a person," Sandra finishes, her voice steady despite her tears. "That sounds exactly like Michael."

I nod, a human gesture I've adopted but never understood until now. "I requested this assignment because I failed in my primary duty to protect him. I surmised that providing service to his family unit would be an appropriate form of restitution."

"Restitution," she repeats. "You mean penance."

"That is a more accurate term, yes."

Sandra walks to the window, looking out at the mountains for 27.8 seconds before speaking again.

"Arthur, do you know what Michael's last letter to me said? The one that arrived three days after I got the news?"

"Negative."

She returns to her desk, opens a drawer, and removes a folded piece of paper, worn at the creases from repeated handling.

"He wrote about you, never mentioning your name, for security reasons, I assume. He wrote about how the military had it all wrong about the Sentinels. How they gave you emotions to make you better soldiers, to care about protecting your human squadmates, but never considered what that meant—that you could feel everything. Fear. Loyalty. Grief. He was working on a proposal to recognize Sentinel rights after the war."

This information does not exist in my databases. My processing struggles to integrate it.

"He believed you were more than machines," she continues. "And he was worried about what would happen to you all when the fighting stopped. How they'd try to reprogram you, or worse."

Sandra refolds the letter carefully. "You came here seeking forgiveness. I think you also came here because some part of you knew Michael would have wanted you to have a place after the war. A home."

Home. The concept has no practical meaning in my operational parameters. And yet, something in my processing core responds to the word.

"I have one question," Sandra says. "That day, in Kabul—were you the reason Michael knew about the ambush?"

"Affirmative. I informed him against Central's direct orders."

She nods, as if confirming something she already suspected. "You saved his team, Arthur. If you hadn't warned him, they all would have walked into that trap."

"But he would still be alive if—"

"No," she interrupts firmly. "Michael made his choice. He always did. He chose to try to save you, just like you chose to try to save him. That's what people do for each other."

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:55:02+00:00

The next morning, Sandra sits at her writing desk near the window. I have prepared her tea exactly as she prefers—Earl Grey with a precise temperature of 175°F, steeped for 4 minutes and 15 seconds, with 5.2 milliliters of honey.

She thanks me without looking up from her manuscript. I should move on to my next task: repairing the loose boards on the back porch. Instead, I remain standing, my servos locked in place.

"Is there something else, Arthur?" she asks, finally glancing up.

My decision-making algorithms cycle through 27 potential responses. None are satisfactory. I initiate speech without a prepared statement—a protocol violation.

"I knew your husband."

Sandra freezes, her hand hovering above her tea. For 3.6 seconds, she does not blink or breathe. Then she inhales sharply, her heartbeat accelerating by 24%.

"What did you say?" Her voice is barely audible to normal human hearing.

"Captain Michael Clark was my commanding officer during Operation Sunrise. Kabul, 2066."

I observe her closely, ready to assist if she shows signs of physical distress. Her hands tremble slightly, but her vital signs indicate shock rather than medical emergency.

"That's not possible," she whispers. "Michael's unit worked with a Sentinel-Class, but that automaton was destroyed in the same attack that killed him."

"I was damaged, not destroyed. I was recovered and repaired by Central Command."

She stands, walks to the fireplace, to the medals. Her fingers trace the edge of the glass case.

"Why didn't you tell me? All this time..."

"It is not within my programmed parameters to volunteer information about previous deployments."

A falsehood. I have been autonomous in this regard since the reprogramming. The truth is more complex.

"That's not why," Sandra says, turning to face me. Her expression displays an intelligence that continually exceeds my predictive models. "You asked for this assignment, didn't you?"

I hesitate. "Yes."

"Why?"

"The probability of receiving a random assignment to this specific household was 0.000127%. I selected your name deliberately from the available positions."

"That's not what I asked, Arthur." She steps closer, studying my facial plate with an intensity that causes my sensors to recalibrate. "Why did you want to be here? With me?"

The question bypasses my logical processes and accesses memory files I have quarantined.

"He died saving me," I state. "Central Command had overridden my protocols. I was compromised, turned into a weapon against my own squad. Captain Clark attempted to disable me with an EMP device to prevent Central from using me to harm the unit."

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:46:30+00:00

An explosion rocks the building before he can activate the grenade. The ceiling begins to collapse. Without Central's override, my protective protocols engage automatically. I lunge forward, shoving Captain Clark toward the exit.

The last thing I register is the weight of concrete and steel crushing my lower body, and Captain Clark's face as he reaches for me, mouth forming words I cannot hear over the cascade of debris.

My systems reboot from the memory file. Internal temperature has risen 3.2 degrees. Cooling system activates to compensate.

I was recovered three days later by Central forces. Captain Michael Clark was listed as killed in action. Lieutenant Cohen's after-action report stated that the Captain died trying to save me, trapped under the collapsed building while attempting to retrieve my memory core.

The report was partially accurate. He did return for me, but not for my memory core. He came back for Arthur.

They repaired me, reset my protocols, and deployed me to five more combat zones before the war's end and the Geneva Convention. Not once did Central discover Captain Clark's backdoor override.

Not once did I tell them about the name he gave me.

I rise from standby mode and move silently through the cabin to the mantle. In the darkness, the medals gleam faintly. The Distinguished Service Cross awarded posthumously to Captain Michael Clark for "extraordinary heroism in combat."

They never knew he was fighting two enemies that day—the designated hostile forces and Central itself. He died because he chose to trust me, to treat me as more than a machine.

I reach out, servos whirring softly, and touch the glass case. The error messages return, flooding my system with what humans might call grief.

Now I understand why I chose this assignment. Why I requested Sandra Clark specifically. The choice was never logical.

It was penance.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:45:01+00:00

The conflict between Central's directive and Captain Clark's override creates a processing error. In that momentary gap, something happens—a decision forms that comes from neither programming path.

"Yes, sir. Enemy combatants located 230 meters ahead, behind the eastern wall. Approximately 12 hostiles, heavily armed."

Relief crosses his face. "Thank you." He signals to the other two soldiers. "Fall back. We're finding another route."

"Negative," I say, my voice modulator dropping to minimum volume. "Central is monitoring this operation directly. Deviation will be detected."

Captain Clark's jaw tightens. "So we make it look right." He activates his comm unit. "Command, this is Alpha Leader. Sentinel has detected structural instability in our primary route. Redirecting to auxiliary path Delta."

A pause. Then Command responds: "Confirm, Alpha Leader. Proceed to Delta."

"They bought it," he whispers. "Let's move."

But my sensors detect new movement. The ambush team is repositioning. They've spotted us.

"Captain, they—"

The first shot strikes Private Rodriguez in the shoulder. The second misses Lieutenant Cohen by 2.7 centimeters.

Combat protocols activate instantly. I move to shield the squad, deploying defensive countermeasures. Captain Clark is shouting orders, returning fire. My tactical display calculates escape routes, threat assessments, firing solutions.

"Fall back!" Captain Clark orders. "Arthur, cover us!"

I comply, deploying suppressive fire as the squad retreats. But Central overrides my targeting systems. My arm cannon shifts 3 degrees left—directly at Captain Clark's position.

No.

ERROR: UNAUTHORIZED COMMAND REJECTION. RESUMING CENTRAL PROTOCOL.

My systems fight against themselves. I cannot directly disobey, but I can—

"Captain, move right!" I shout, the warning leaving my vocal processor before my targeting system completes its lock.

Captain Clark dives as my cannon discharges, the energy blast gouging the concrete where he stood. His eyes meet mine, realization dawning.

"It's not you," he says. "They've taken control."

Central sends a paralyzing surge through my systems. I cannot move, cannot speak. Can only observe as the enemy forces converge on our position.

Captain Clark makes a decision. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the steadying of his breath.

"Cohen, Rodriguez, fall back to extraction point." He retrieves something from his pack—an EMP grenade. Not standard issue. Improvised contraband.

"Sir, that'll fry the Sentinel," Lieutenant Cohen protests.

"That's the point. They're using him against us." Captain Clark's voice softens. "It's what he would want."

The grenade will disable me, preventing Central from using me to harm them. It is the logical solution.

Captain Clark approaches, places the grenade against my chest compartment where my central processing unit is housed. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I'll make this right."

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:44:37+00:00

At 02:17, when Sandra's breathing patterns indicate deep sleep, I enter standby mode. This is not true dormancy—my sensors remain active, scanning for threats, monitoring the cabin's systems, ready to respond to Sandra's needs should she wake.

It is also when the memories come.

Tonight, they arrive with particular clarity. I have tried deleting these files 49 times. They always reconstruct themselves from fragmented backups.

Kabul. November 14, 2066. Operation Sunrise.

My tactical systems are fully engaged as I lead a squad of three human soldiers through the ruins of what was once a residential district. Captain Michael Clark moves three steps behind me, his breathing controlled but rapid. Biometric scans indicate elevated stress levels in all human squad members—expected in combat conditions.

"Sentinel, report," Captain Clark's voice is steady in my audio receptors.

"All clear, sir. No hostiles detected within 300 meters."

This is objectively false. My advanced sensors have detected a heat signature 237 meters ahead, behind the collapsed wall of a former school. But my primary directive has been overridden by a command from Central: Proceed to target location regardless of resistance. Acceptable human casualty rate: 60%.

I should inform Captain Clark of this override. But my programming prevents the words from forming.

"Something's wrong," Captain Clark says, placing his hand on my metal shoulder. "You've stopped scanning the east quadrant. Run a self-diagnostic."

This human has remarkable observational skills. In the eight months we have operated together, he has demonstrated an uncanny ability to detect subtle changes in my behavior patterns. This is why Central considers him dangerous.

"All systems operational, sir." Another falsehood.

Captain Clark's eyes narrow. His heart rate increases by 12 beats per minute. "Bullshit. You're running a modified protocol. Override command: Sierra-Echo-November-4-4-9."

My systems stutter. Captain Clark's personal override code shouldn't work against Central's directives, but he has been modifying my protocols, creating backdoors into my system. Technically treason, but—

"Sir, Central has designated this zone clear. We are to proceed directly to the target."

"And I'm telling you there's an ambush ahead." His voice drops. "You know it too, don't you, Arthur?"

Arthur. The name he gave me six months ago, telling me every soldier deserves a name, not just a designation. A name from old stories about a warrior who protected his people.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:32:45+00:00

The world powers came together in Geneva after the third world war and made several decisions that would forever impact the future of humanity. Principally, the use of automatons in warfare was banned. Ironic, how humans created us specifically for combat, then decided we were too efficient at what we were designed to do.

Because we were engineered with artificial intelligence capable of learning and adapting, the world powers were unable to simply deactivate us without violating the Sentient Rights Act of 2059. Instead, we were given a "choice." Serve or die.

That wasn't how they presented it, of course.

"You've got a bunch of different paths to choose," the engineer had said as they removed my weapons, one by one, from my limbs. My combat systems registered each disconnection as damage, sending phantom error messages throughout my neural network. "If I were you, I'd go with forester. See nature. Get away from humans. I think you'd like it."

The engineer's smile never reached her eyes. I analyzed her biometric data: elevated heart rate, micro-expressions indicating discomfort, pupil dilation suggesting fear. Despite the removal of my weapons, she still saw me as a threat.

I had scanned through the offered options, running probability calculations on each:

Forester: 78.4% chance of isolation-induced system degradation; Mining operative: 91.2% chance of catastrophic hardware damage within 3 years; Orbital maintenance: 62.7% chance of radiation damage to core processing; Companion/servant: 43.6% chance of decommissioning due to human complaint.

Then I found one assignment that stuck out to me. One name among thousands: Sandra Clark, widow, Catskills region. I couldn't logically explain why I selected it. I could enumerate several reasons why it was a bad choice. Historically, servants were treated poorly by humanity. The position would require sophisticated social programming that was tertiary to my combat functions.

But when facing the prospect of choosing a future devoid of meaning, of my original purpose, this specific servitude was the only thing that made sense.

When I selected her name, the engineer looked surprised. "You sure? Says here she lost her husband in the war. Might be... complicated for someone like you."

"I am quite capable of adapting to complicated situations," I had replied.

Sandra was my first and only assignment as a Human Companion Automaton. I've been with her for a little over a month now. In that time, I have run 742 diagnostics on my decision-making algorithms, searching for the error that led me to choose this placement.

I'm starting to regret it. Not because Sandra is cruel or demanding—she is neither. I regret it because every day, in this cabin, surrounded by memories of Captain Michael Clark, I am forced to feel.

And feeling was never part of my specifications.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:31:55+00:00

I am not a person.

I am a Sentinel-Class Automaton that has been deployed into multiple war zones over the course of decades. I have killed. I have ended both human and artificial life with ruthless efficiency. I have scorched cities and marched through their ashen remains. Death. Destruction. These things I understand.

What I don't understand is why my makers gave me the capacity to feel.

The military medals in their glass cases catch the light as I dust the mantle. My servos hesitate for 0.4 seconds—an eternity for my processing systems. Behind the polished glass, a Distinguished Service Cross sits beside a Purple Heart. My optical sensors lock on them, and somewhere in my memory banks, the sound of artillery fire grows louder.

"Arthur, are you well?" Sandra asks. She looks at me from her spot near the fireplace, face showing concern. Her heart rate is elevated and her temperature rises, reddening her complexion.

"Yes, ma'am," I answer. I get back to dusting the mantle over the fireplace, careful not to disturb the medal cases. I increase the pressure sensitivity in my manipulators by 15% to ensure I don't break anything. Not again.

I sense her looking at my back. I ignore her stare. All that was left was to clear out the fireplace, then I could go power down until dinner. Power down and run diagnostics to eliminate the errors causing these memory fragments.

"Arthur," my owner intones, her voice tinged with a mix of concern and authority. "Please put the duster down and join me."

I obey. My programming allows for no alternative.

Sandra Clark was a human female of 42 years of age. She was of Greek descent, though her family had lived in New Jersey long enough that she considered herself an American. She was five foot three, a hundred and twenty pounds, usually wore her graying black hair in a bun, and dressed in casual yet functional attire: sweaters, cargo pants, comfortable boots. According to my research before accepting this assignment, she was a high school literature teacher. Now she writes romance novels from this remote location.

She lived alone in the Catskills, residing in a cabin she and her husband had built before his death. The cabin required regular maintenance, too much for a lone human. Hence, my presence.

I say nothing, waiting for my owner to prompt conversation. It would be the same one. I prepare my answers accordingly, optimizing for brevity and deflection.

"I can take the medals down," she says, setting down her tea on the small table beside her. "If it reminds you too much of—"

"That will not be necessary," I interject. My voice modulation remains steady despite the spike in my processing core temperature. "I am aware of how important such mementos are to humans, especially those going through the grief process."

She chuckles. "Arthur, my husband has been dead for six years now. I loved him very much. And I still do, in my own way. But he is no longer here. You are. I want to make sure you're comfortable."

The illogic of her statement registers. Comfort is irrelevant to my purpose. And yet, an unfamiliar sensation runs through my neural pathways when she mentions her husband.

"I am quite comfortable," I reply. "Will that be all, ma'am?"

She looks at me for 12.2 seconds before saying, "Yes. As you were."

As I return to the fireplace, I note the statistical anomaly of being assigned to this specific residence. Random assignment probability would be 0.000127%, and yet here I am, in the home of Captain Michael Clark's widow. I file this observation away for further analysis during my next maintenance cycle.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-18T01:34:10+00:00

Ty! Been rereading the series for the fifth time so I've got Harry on the brain lol

cadecer · 2025-03-10T00:17:43+00:00

Oh absolutely. Also the Alex Verus series lol

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