“You wanted to be convinced,” Phage told her, then let her front fully again.

They were still in the park, waiting for the taxi, but Ashwin had retreated again and they’d made their way to a table near one of the entrances. And Erik and Brock had been filling her in with Phage’s ‘help’.

She was arguing with Phage about this, now.

Erik and Brock both stood leaning against nearby trees, arms folded, expressions similarly taught and patiently knowing in an annoying way.

“I did want to be convinced, yes,” Sarah said. “But I didn’t think you’d do this. You increased our dissociation and amnesia on purpose? Without my consent? I thought you couldn’t do that.”

She waited for it to respond, and it obliged.

“You did consent,” Phage said simply, before retreating again.

Sarah leaned back and glared up at the quickly darkening sky, and hissed, “Stop being so brief. Explain yourself, please, Phage.”

“I wanted you to hear what Ashwin had to say through Erik and the Audreys as witnesses. And you wanted that too. You may not have given vocal consent while awake, but you did consent to it,” it said. “And Goreth agreed as well. And so did Ashwin. It was unanimous.”

“I don’t remember that,” Sarah said.

“But now you’ve experienced it, and you will remember it eventually,” Phage replied.

Their voices were so different from each other.

Sarah had worked hard to learn how to speak like someone would expect of a woman, to soothe her own vocal dysphoria. She’d learned how to do it on her own, listening to tutorials and practicing in the shower. But Phage preferred to speak in their voice’s lowest natural resonances, chest rumbling like thunder. And somehow that worked, against all feminizing voice coaches’ advice to never speak in a low resonance again. Her voice was fine, no matter what it did.

And when she talked to Phage out loud like this, it was really fun when they were alone, but it made her a little self conscious in public. And it sounded like she was rehearsing to do voice acting for a cartoon.

Which, that would be a really cool job if they could meet the physical and emotional demands of work at all. Or be lucky enough to land the gig in the first place.

Goreth’s voice was even more different and, in a way, more cartoony. They sounded so astoundingly gay when they talked. Almost like they fit in better with Erik and the Audreys, too. More of a trans masc stereotype of early transition than a trans fem one. Even though they were years past their first dose of estradiol, and no longer produced more than single digits of testosterone.

But, being a cartoon show in the shower was good enough. It was a delight, when they could stand to shower at all.

Right now, just between Sarah and Phage, it was a constant niggling distraction to this infuriating discussion.

She’d agreed to this, yes. OK. But now that she was experiencing it, she realized how much of a side show it really was.

Sarah let out a big vocal sigh, relishing how she managed to make it sound like a typical teen girl’s expression of frustration with her mom.

“Are you still skeptical?” Phage asked.

“I’m not skeptical that you’ve created a whole new headmate for me, no,” Sarah replied. “But I want to be skeptical about all the rest of it. I’ve got shit to do, Phage. You know that. Being disabled is a full time job, and our division of labor kind of really sucks sometimes. And this body sure isn’t OSHA or ADA compliant. It’s a fucking hazard.”

Erik snickered and Brock snorted, and she shared knowing glances with them, glad they found that funny.

“Now that I’m remembering more of our discussions,” she added, “I think I’d hoped that you, of all beings in the universe, could have helped prevent our illnesses. And since it seems you didn’t, maybe that’s why I don’t want to believe in everything you’re telling me.”

That seemed to shut it up.

It didn’t surge forward right away to respond to that.

She’d struck a nerve and won the argument, and that made her feel more like she was in control of herself and her system for the moment. A feeling she often felt she didn’t have, though not usually because of her headmates. More because her body just hurt and dysfunctioned all the time, and because the world itself didn’t give anybody any real control.

“Sarah,” Brock said, sounding cautious. “Maybe you’re not being fair to it. You and Goreth have both said that Phage literally saved your lives, and even prompted you to come out as trans when the timing was best. It says it has limits, and always has. Am I getting this right, Erik?” And then, when Erik nodded, they finished, “Maybe if it hadn’t been helping you, if you still survived, maybe you’d be a hell of a lot more sick.”

There was a stirring in her chest that felt like Phage reacting to Brock, and she slumped and sighed again.

Then it felt like Goreth was hugging her from her right.

She gave up.

“OK, so what’s the plan? What do we do?” she asked.

“We don’t know where the probe is,” Erik said. “It’s near your old house, by some obscure definition of near, under a mountain by some relative definition of a mountain, according to the sensibilities of the monster from under your bed that claims it came from outer space. And confirmed by a rather friendly and delightfully doofy sounding alien who now shares your head. I’m kind of thinking that the answer is somewhere in your subconscious.”

“Right,” Brock agreed. “And until you all figure it out, it stays buried like it has been, because nobody’s looking for it yet. So we just get to talk about what we’ll do when we do finally find it. If we can even get to it.”

“You’re both totally taking this seriously, though,” Sarah said.

Sarah, like any self respecting trans girl with a penchant for science fiction stories, knew exactly what self replicating nanites were and what the authors feared they could do, as Ashwin had apparently described. She also knew that scientists had declared them most likely impossible.

Erik gave her a wry smile and replied, “Why not? Either it’s real and we’ll find it, or we won’t find it and we’ll never know. But, at least, we can have fun talking about it as if it is real. Imagine what we could do with those nanites if we kept them. Like, just daydream about it. Be horrified by our own bloodthirsty imaginations. Or, imagine how heroic we’ll feel for making the sacrifice of destroying them.”

“Or be horrified by not stopping the march of genocide and mass extinction by not using the nanites to, I don’t know…” Sarah countered.

“Turn the world into gray goo?” Brock asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like everyone deserves it, doesn’t it?”

Goreth nudged her mentally, so she forced herself to relax. It was nice that they were co-conscious again.

“I’m in camp Destroy Them, myself,” Goreth said. “Space colonialism isn’t going to fix Earth colonialism. And I’ve also got too much rage in myself to use them safely, even with you all acting as counter balances and reminders.”

“I think we all might agree on that,” Erik said. “Though, I still want to at least touch the probe itself. If the world can not blow itself up long enough that I can do that, I think I’ll die pretty damn happy someday.”

“Is it space colonialism?” Brock asked.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” Erik replied. “Like, I think Phage and Ashwin are trying to do the responsible thing, to let Earthlings handle this but also to inform us as best they can about it. And they seem like the types who want to strive for an equal cultural contact and exchange, but are smart enough to see when it’s really not possible. But that ancestor ship? The one that dropped the probe off? Nuh uh. We know nothing about them except that they left it here with really suss instructions.”

“And coming to us is probably better than going to one of Earth’s governments,” Brock suggested.

“I think that was really just chance and a long shot,” Erik pointed out. “Phage had no idea who would be on the other end when it came through the Tunnel, and it’s done the best it can with Sarah and Goreth. And us.”

Sarah felt Phage surging forward again, but gently, questioningly.

She let it speak.

“I also have a subconscious mind, of sorts,” it said. “Sometimes my greater self seems to pave the way for what I consciously choose to do, without me being aware of why, how, when, or where it is doing this. I cannot promise that everything will work out in your favor, or mine. But you likely have better chances than if I wasn’t present.”

Sarah exhaled forcefully, “I got a letter from ONE Oregon this week. It’s probably about renewing our Medicaid and SNAP benefits. I hate doing that shit, but I handle it better than Goreth or you, Phage, and it does have a deadline. And we also really need to get back on track trying to get a diagnosis for a disability claim, so we don’t have to rely on our Patreon for all of our money. Though, of course, that’ll get rejected first thing and will take years to be approved, if at all. Peter and Abigail are being so generous, but I really don’t think they can afford us not paying actual rent. And I think the taxi is lost or running late.” She paused for emphasis. “Do we have time for any of this?”

Everyone was quiet while they waited for Phage to reply, which it eventually did.

“This is why it was time to bring Ashwin here,” Phage said. “The nanites can wait. Ashwin brings skills and knowledge that may help you with everything else. Perhaps even your physical pain and fatigue. In any case, we should prioritize your health and security before we search for the nanite probe. Take the time to do that first.”

“But that requires bringing Ashwin up to speed, and it’s never ending, Phage,” Sarah said. “The bullshit is an endless landslide and it’s going to drown us.”

“Everything ends,” Phage replied, as the taxi pulled up to the curb. “It is what I do.”

—

Sometimes, passing through a threshold, such as a doorway, will spark different associations and prompt a plurality to change who is fronting. Singlets will experience something similar, forgetting what they were thinking about and why they were entering a given room in the first place. Same mechanism, just a different degree of effect.

The taxi door worked in this way, but all it seemed to do was bring me back to the front. Not to switch me out with anyone else, but to join the gestalt of Sarah, Goreth, and Phage. And it felt like we were almost one person, but we could also choose to be whoever we wanted to be between the four of us.

Both Erik and the Audreys had joined us for the ride, too, the Audreys on the far side of Erik from us. All of us in the back seat of the car. There were four bodies, including the driver, but a lot more people than that, in one vehicle.

Everything and everyone was so much more relaxed. Though not quite at ease, since the taxi driver was a stranger.

But, as soon as Sarah was done giving the driver the address to drive to, Erik leaned over toward us, face bright with eagerness, and asked, “So, Sarah. Tell us more about this science fiction novel you’re writing!”

He waggled his eyebrows.

The Audreys lit up, and Brock immediately asked, “Yeah. Can you do that right now? How did your MC ascend again? What was that all about?”

“Aw, shit,” the driver said, making eye contact with us through the rear view mirror. “You’re an author?”

Sarah spoke for us, feeling anxious but unable to lie about the ambitions that she and Goreth had had since middle school, and said, “I want to be, but it’s taking a while. I’m not published.”

“But you’re writing?”

“Sure.”

“That’s all it takes! Good on you! Don’t mind me,” they said. “Just, maybe tell me the title so I can look for it when it’s done. I love sci-fi.”

“It doesn’t –” Sarah started to say, but I had an idea and gave it to her. And she decided to go with it, “I’m thinking I might call it The End of the Tunnel, I guess.”

“And your name?”

“I’m probably going to use a pseudonym,” she said. “But I haven’t picked it yet.”

“Ah, that’s alright. I’ll just read every book by that title and guess which one is yours,” the driver smiled.

“Sure,” Sarah smirked. “That sounds like a fun game.”

“Anyway, go on. Your friends were asking about your story. I could use that as a clue.”

“Ascension,” Brock repeated.

“Right. Let’s see if I can remember it all,” Sarah said, eyeballing them and frowning at Erik. She repeated the word ‘ascension’ in our head, to prompt my memories, and they came easily. But our voice became strained as I explained what had happened while Sarah tried to assert her way of talking and her accent over my words.

We said, “Our, um, MC, Mortu, had been given an experimental neural terminal made out of the construction nanites. But shem, er, she had such terrible physical dysphoria that even the improved access to the Network couldn’t soothe it. So she decided that she had to get rid of her body. It was a rash decision, against all the advice of her Tutor and the wishes of her partner, Tetsha. But she used her nanites to dissolve her body while keeping her consciousness intact on the Network. And that’s just kind of what happens when anyone with a neural terminal dies. Only, she chose to do it at the age of fifteen. And people of the Sunspot live to about 250 years old, so Mortu was really very much a child at the time.”

It felt sneaky saying all of this in front of a stranger while framing it as fiction. I quite enjoyed it.

“Oh, shit,” the taxi driver said. “I kind of wish I was taking you further now. I wanna hear all of this.”

“We’ve got a few more blocks,” Brock said.

“OK,” Erik said. “And did you say that Ashwin died of old age, and ascended then?”

“Yes,” we said.

“Was that before or after Mortu ascended?”

“Long after,” we explained. It was going to feel weird saying my name in third person, but we did it, “Ashwin was the same age as Mortu. They were peers. So, Mortu became an Ancestor long before Ashwin did, but they remained friends.”

“Wow. How long after ascending did Ashwin leave the Sunspot?” Brock asked.

“Emm… Forty-one years,” we replied.

“How did you come up with all of this?” the taxi driver asked.

“It was kind of like a dream,” Sarah said.

“Ah! Wonderful!”

But Erik and the Audreys were staring at us with quiet alarm and consideration, indicating that they’d taken what we were saying somewhat seriously.

Erik then asked, “So, that means both Ashwin and Mortu are somewhere around three hundred years old? When the story takes place?”

“Closer to three hundred and twenty,” we corrected. “The Pembers’ vessel lived longer than usual.” Discomfort and surprise came from Sarah and Goreth respectively. Sarah was also upset that we were beginning to sound more like me than her, and worried what the driver would think. But we elaborated anyway, “However, Mortu is still on the Sunspot, which is some unknown number of lightyears away and traveling at relativistic velocities. And Ashwin has traveled through the Tunnel. By the Tunnel, they’re the same age, but by the long way? It depends on which direction you’re going. From one end, neither of them have hatched yet. From the other, Ashwin hasn’t arrived at their destination yet. Relativity is weird that way.”

“So, you’re saying,” the driver said, “that Ashwin and Mortu have been friends for three hundred and some years, and then Ashwin just leaves her to go, what, across the universe? Can he go back?”

“Them,” Sarah corrected the driver. “They/them.”

I added, trying to match her voice, “Aswhin can go back, in a way, but doesn’t want to.”

“Ah, so that’s where, like, the plot comes in, right?”

“Not really,” I said. “It is just deep history. The plot is more –”

“Like the Day the Earth Stood Still meets Doom Patrol,” Erik supplied, cheerfully.

“Oh, damn! That’s complex. Anyway, we’re here. I stopped the meter already, here’s the tablet,” they passed the device back to Brock, who examined the screen and chose some options on it. And as Brock did that, the driver asked, “So, does the backstory with Mortu ever come into play in saving the Earth or anything like that?”

“It might,” we said. “W – I just wrote a scene where it’s used to impress the hero’s new friends, and to develop some empathy between human and alien, while at the same time emphasizing the danger that’s looming ahead.”

I was starting to feel disappointed that we’d gotten wrapped up in the conversation, and I hadn’t really paid all that much attention to the interior of the car, or the streets that it had been driven through. Everything was routine enough for Sarah and Goreth that they didn’t bother to shift attention for me. But it was a small feeling. I’d have plenty of time to see everything and really experience it.

“OK,” Brock said. “We’re just dropping Sarah off here. And we’re starting a new meter for me and Erik, right?”

“Yeah,” the driver said. “I just wanted to take a break to listen to more of this story before taking off. Didn’t want to charge you all for that.”

“You’re kind. Thank you.”

“I – hm,” Sarah said, feeling conflicted about a bunch
of things.

“You good?” the driver asked, glancing back at us? “You look like you’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” we said. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Look. Do you need a beta reader or something? I could give you my email. I’ll sign anything you need me to, but I’d love to read this story at any stage it’s at,” they said.

Sarah opened our mouth to protest, but the rest of us clambering to say different things stalled any words from coming out.

“My name is Tom,” the driver said. “He/him, you know. But anyway, pleasure to meet you and hear about your work. And here’s my card.” He reached back with a small piece of paper in his hand with words printed on it. A business card. “You can see my email is tombombagrill, all lower case. Had it since college, which is why it’s that.”

We took the card from him.

“You have a really good night, OK?” he said.

“Thank you, we will,” we replied, then got out of the car, waving goodbye to Erik and the Audreys.

Halfway to the door of the house, it occurred to us what pronoun we’d just used.

‘We’.

Between that and having committed to a stranger to write a book, Sarah and Goreth were both an anxious, embarrassed wreck by the time we laid our hand on the knob of the front door.

Climbing the flight of stairs to get to it had been a whole journey of protesting muscles, exhaustion, and selves recrimination.

Standing there, at the top, with our hand on the cold metal, Sarah took firm control and filled our psyche with the determination to assert direction, and asked quietly, “Goreth, you could use all of this to actually write a novel, though, couldn’t you?”

Then we were Goreth, and Goreth’s mind was blank as they tried to consider the possibility.

After a couple of seconds, they said, “I don’t know. Every time we’ve tried to write something that long, it’s stalled out. Like, no matter how much planning we do, it’s so hard to keep at it with the actual writing. I’m better at blog posts and Patreon updates, really.”

“OK, well,” Sarah said. “I bet that guy will eventually forget us. If we don’t get back to him, it’s not that big a deal. Writers are notorious flakes, right? He was just being nice.”

“Writing is a tradition on the Sunspot,” I offered. “It’s not my Art, but if you give me the time to do so, I could try my hand at a book of some sort. You could help if you want.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sarah countered. “I’ve gotta go in there and open that mail before I lose the nerve to do so.”

We nodded to ourselves and opened the door.

And walking through it changed everything again.

—

There was Abigail on the sofa, eating cold cereal and reading a book, and Sarah wasn’t ready to talk about anything.

She adored Abigail, but all she wanted to do was get across the living room without having to vocalize a single word, and hobble down the hallway to her bedroom and hide in there.

So she tried that.

But halfway across the living room floor, there was a, “Oh, hey, Sarah!” from behind her.

She lifted up her free hand and waved, back still to Abigail, pausing briefly to do so before moving on.

“Peter’s out on a call,” Abigail said. “There’s stupid pizza in the freezer.”

It was Sarah’s ‘stupid pizza’, which she’d bought with her own EBT, but Abigail was trying to be helpful and considerate.

Sarah stopped at the doorway and turned to face her housemate and give her a warm smile in thanks, and gave her a thumbs up. Mouth firmly closed.

“No words?” Abigail asked.

Sarah wasn’t non-verbal, exactly, but really didn’t want to talk, so she gave a short, cheerful nod, lips tight.

“Ah, I get it!” her housemate said. Then she slapped the wooden TV tray in front of her and said, “You should read this book! It’s so good!” She held it up so Sarah could read the title. On Both Banks, by Clarence L. Harper IV. And Abigail lit up when Sarah squinted at the cover from across the room. And then she explained, “It’s about how nightmares and monsters and things are working together to protect humanity from themselves and each other. Or, something like that. It’s not all cut and dry, and it’s like a horror novel that isn’t. Or a collection of fairy tales that are nasty and dark, but I think it’s going to have a really good ending. Each story is really different, but they tie together with themes and characters. And it makes the world feel so big and deep.”

Sarah tilted her head slowly to the side to try to indicate that she was thinking about it, and Abigail beamed back at her.

Then Abigail said, “It makes me think of you.”

She had to talk.

She felt flattered, and silly, and deeply resonant with the whole nightmare thing through Phage being such a huge part of her life. Especially with what had just happened today. And she also felt as if Abigail was only making a superficial overture, for the purpose of making a connection, and that felt fake and forced. And it probably wasn’t, but it felt like it.

And it was so complicated, and she knew she had to talk.

She jiggled her left hand up and down, palm up, fingers relaxed, and said, “Um, I really need to do some things right away, like pee. But thank you?! I want to come back out and let you talk to me about it, but I need better shoes!”

Abigail opened her eyes very wide, mouth agape in a melodramatic gasp, and said, “Oh. Take care of yourself! I’ll be right here. Sorry!”

She was totally being sincere. It was just her manner. But Sarah could never read that performative level of feminine expression as anything but fake.

It was so frustrating, too, because Sarah felt like, in not being able to do it herself, she was more often read as male by others.

She smiled again and repeated her thumbs up, and then went right to her bedroom, feet in increasing agony the whole way, to look for her Birkenstock clogs.

She ended up lying flat on her back on her bed for a few minutes, all the tissues in her feet screaming and pulsating in chorus.

Then, in clogs, she went pee, remembering while on the toilet that she’d left the ONE Oregon letter on her computer desk, and she still needed to read that. But there was dinner, which she should cook so she could eat it in twenty-five minutes, and Abigail was waiting for her to talk to her about her book. A book that was not the one that she wasn’t actually going to write. It had already been written. By someone entirely else.

She had her phone in her hand, because she was on the toilet and she always grabbed her phone if she was going to sit on the toilet.

So she looked at her messages. It was reflex.

Erik and the Audreys had flooded their little group chat with comments about Ashwin.

No. She’d read those later.

Flipping through it with a flick of her thumb, she still couldn’t help but catch a couple key texts, though.

a-whole-erik-pie: so weird n cool!!! ty for being urslvs! b gd to ashwin!!!!!!!

murder-of-audreys: you’ve really gotta write a book now. it’s a moral imperative.

Why was today so today today? It just didn’t stop.

She felt like she was being railroaded into writing and books, and that was really, honestly, more Goreth’s thing.

Of course, she wasn’t being singled out of her whole system for this. They were all catching it. But, because it was her name they used publicly most of the time, and she just happened to be the one fronting the most today, it felt like it was being heaped on her.

Abigail knew that they were plural. It was why she’d insisted that Peter take them in when the Audreys had introduced them, because she knew that between being trans, autistic, physically disabled, and with nominal DID, Sarah and Goreth really needed the help. And, but also, Abigail felt like she had something in common with them in that regard.

Kind of.

She wasn’t really plural herself, but she dealt with similar brain issues and took interest in plurality because of it.

But, despite that, or because of her own brain issues, Abigail also seemed to forget regularly that Goreth and Phage also existed. So, about half the time, she’d talk about anything as if Sarah was the only one there doing all their things and keeping all their interests.

Peter, the cis straight and probably neurotypical singlet, was better at consistently picking up on their differences and responding to them by name.

Sarah realized she’d been holding in her breath for too long, and let out yet another huge sigh for the day.

And then finally peed.

A bit later, after washing hands and putting the little terrible pizza in the oven, she was back on the sofa with Abigail, listening to details about the book, when she remembered the letter again.

Abigail had recounted about three chapters of the book so far when Sarah apologized and said, “I’m so sorry. I really need to take care of this letter I got from the government. If I don’t, we’ll be in big trouble.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Abigail said. “I think you get the idea, anyway. I don’t want to spoil the whole thing for you.”

“I want to read it when you’re done, OK?” Sarah said, mostly to make Abigail feel good. But, also, there was something about the book that pulled at her.

As if Phage was actually in the book somehow. Or something like it.

Phage was a nightmare turned guardian turned something even weirder. And it had said that Earth made it nervous. It had repeated that a few times, in fact. So, maybe books like this one that Abigail was pushing on her might have some kind of hint as to why.

If not through actual spirituality, then through the propagation of the cultural ideas and concepts that had spawned Phage in their psyche in the first place.

Or, through actual spirituality.

“You’ll be the first to get it when I’m done,” Abigail said.

“Thank you.”

Then, just as she was passing the kitchen on the way back to her room and computer desk, the oven timer beeped to tell her the stupid fucking pizza was ready.

—

The pizza was on a plate on our lap, while we sat on the foot of Sarah and Goreth’s bed and stared at the envelope.

“I think I need to open that before we eat,” Sarah said.

None of us did any such thing. Not for a while, at least. It was like we were frozen solid, barely even breathing.

Eventually, I managed to think fairly clearly, I can do it. And I moved a hand ever so briefly to try to place the plate of pizza on the bed beside us.

No. The hand stopped moving. I’m not ready for that.

None of us were certain who that was, but I think it was Sarah.

Phage barged forward and scowled, growling, “Let Ashwin help you. Please. That is why nem is here.”

But I need to do things for myself.

“You do not.”

And that’s not why Ashwin is here. They’re here to warn us about some nanites.

“I already did that myself, long ago,” Phage said. “Ashwin is here to help you believe what I’ve said, and to help you get things done, so that you can address the nanites when the time comes.”

How?

“Division of labor. Experience. The jolt and joy of novelty. And the shock of realizing that this is all objective reality.”

Erik says there is no objective reality.

Phage barked a snort, and said, “Call it the consensus of physics itself, then.”

Show me.

“I will not. Not anymore. Not right here. Let Ashwin help. They will show you.”

How did they get here?

“Through the Tunnel.”

That’s in our head?

“That’s in your head, yes. You consented to it.”

Show me the Tunnel.

There does seem to be a subtle but unmistakable difference between the behavior and motives of someone who is fronting, and their behavior and motives when they’re nearly unconscious and thinking ‘from the back’. People tend to be more visceral, more reactive, more honestly themselves when they are not burdened with conscious thought.

“Later,” Phage said. “After you have read the letter. Tonight. When your body sleeps. It will be easiest to show you then.”

I want to go through it.

“No.”

Go through it.

“No.”

Get away.

“Some day, maybe. Not tonight.”

Poooooooooooop.

Also, even in my experience, a nearly unconscious person tends to fall back on the cussing they first learned in life, rather than the really satisfying taboo words. Maybe it’s the oldest association. Your puffsweet may disagree, of course. There are no absolutes when it comes to the mind. Just trends.

What I was getting from this, though, was that Sarah was tired. She was done. She didn’t want anything anymore, but she also didn’t want to let go. She had to stay awake just to see her needs met.

“Very well,” Phage said. “I will open it myself and read what it has to say. Then I will eat this pizza for you, and you may rest. I will meet you at the Tunnel tonight.”

It put the pizza on the bed, then got up and reached for the envelope.

The envelope had been sealed in such a way that there was a finger sized flap on the corner where it could be torn open without the aid of any tool. Phage stuck our pinky in that and expertly tore it open. The tear was near perfect, almost as if a blade had cut it.

It was showing off, just a little, in a deniable way.

Then it pulled out the letter and read it.

It looked like just about every other letter from Integrated ONE and the Oregon Department of Human Services. A letter that was indeed demanding a reapplication for SNAP and Medicaid benefits.

Right near the top, it had a due date listed of ‘1/5/2024’. A little less than a month away, but a reasonable amount of time for a routine renewal.

But in the requirements box was something that made Sarah fill our head with an internal scream of rage and hopelessness:

You must supply evidence that you receive or have applied for Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI), or that you are in the process of doing so. If you cannot do so by the deadline above, your SNAP and Medicaid benefits will not be renewed.

Sarah had already mentioned earlier today that they hadn’t applied and that they were still seeking a relevant diagnosis.

From the thoughts that accompanied her scream, it was clear that she didn’t see any way to meet this requirement, and that it was a total shock to her. Washington State had never required anything like this of them. Oregon was being maliciously unreasonable.

And if their Medicaid was denied, how would they get the diagnosis they needed to apply for SSDI?

Phage remained firmly in front, but let Sarah scream and thrash internally and even bring tears to our eyes until she began to have spent herself.

“It is done,” Phage said. “Obviously, we must apply for SSDI regardless. We will figure this out. We can put this down tonight, and come back to it the day after tomorrow. Tonight, we take care of you. Tomorrow is for Goreth, and upkeep of your Patreon, and more rest. Do fun and light things and recharge the system. And then, after that, let Ashwin learn how to help you.”

There was no response, just the feeling of Sarah letting go.

“I will brush our teeth,” Phage said.

There was still the pizza, but it seemed that even Phage was not immune to the executive dysfunction of this vessel. And it had forgotten about that until it had come back to the bed with freshly minty teeth and a body ready to collapse on the mattress that also held the plate full of uneaten room temperature cheap pizza.

“Oh, Hailing Scales,” it said.

author’s note: Much like the book you are reading right now, On Both Banks (the book Abigail is reading) is a real book, and we all have read it and we emphatically recommend it. If you want to have some sort of idea of what Phage is really like outside of the kayfabe of the Sunspot Chronicles, read this book. Somehow, Clarence wrote something that describes its kind very well, without knowingly having interacted with it before. Admittedly, we were all roommates with Clarence once, and still good friends, but that was before we came out as plural and realized Phage was real. Of course, Clarence was writing from personal experience, too, so, you know.