Cascade

by On-The-Fr1tz

An explosion at a fertilizer plant sends Anya Forger's mental health on the fritz. The Forgers enlist a therapist to try and help their daughter, wondering if Anya's in the midst of a temper tantrum or a genuine depressive episode... All while Anya grapples with her own feelings, unable to truly express what has turned her into this.

A terrible tragedy unfolded on that Monday afternoon. A man was alone with his thoughts for too long, and under the weight of financial debt and looming fraud investigations, he convinced himself that there was no way out of his troubles. It was never anything spectacular; a forged form there, an embezzled clip there, but a decade into the scheme he had defrauded a small town's worth of people. Why stop? He was rich. He was winning. No one had to know.

Then the walls came tumbling down. The day the police came to search his apartment, he got in a box truck and drove to the fertilizer plant he managed, to the grave he built that he now must lie in. It was closed at this hour; there was nobody in the plant to stop him, nobody to remind him what he could still walk away with. He stepped through the doors and was instantly assaulted with the smell– the smell never bothered him before. The churning and whirring of gears, the chattering of coworkers, the sense that all was well in the world… It usually drowned it out. Not so anymore.

Everything that was once rightside up was upside down as the man went on his rampage through the plant's ground floor. Things spilled, things shattered, fertilizer began to coat every conceivable surface. Then the match was lit and there was no going back. Sources differ on how soon after that the building exploded– some say the poor soul had time to drop to his knees and pray for mercy as the flames danced around him, some say it was all over in a moment. Some say it took long enough to ignite that the man was able to make a run for it and start a new life. Whatever the case, by the end of the day the blast was so loud that it could be heard a county away, and the smoke plume was so large that it shrouded acres upon acres of neighboring lands in darkness.

There was no identifying the cloud of ash when it first appeared over the horizon. The great nation of Ostania didn't yet know if they had been the victims of domestic or foreign terrorism… Or even an act of war. Every civil servant for miles descended on the scene; the police and the firefighters and the medics and the military and the people with the unenviable job of sifting through the rubble, but it was when the media showed up that the nation truly neared the edge of the precipice. Networks were told to cease all programming, and the cameramen started rolling without knowing exactly what was in front of them.

In one unsuspecting household, a girl sat cross-legged in front of the television. She had suffered through more than enough reading and studying to deserve it. Dear Anya Forger loved cartoons; the stories got her to her feet while the charm sent her to her back, clutching her stomach as she giggled too hard to catch her breath. Most days it seemed like she looked up to those superheroes more than she looked up to her own parents. More stress was on those shoulders than any comparable kid in a ten block radius– at the most prestigious school in the nation, the victim of the most rigorous curriculum known to mankind. Not mentioning what she had to contend with when nobody was looking. No girl should have to dodge assassins and explosions. But Anya took it all without being daunted or discouraged. A life lived on her toes with her fists clenched was a life free of boring days.

She was a spoiled brat, but she was a good spoiled brat, a kind-hearted and outgoing spoiled brat looking for chances to do good when she wasn't looking for trouble to get into. She fed on attention and desired love more than she desired food or drink or a roof over her head, she'd trade every single luxury she was ever granted if it meant she could be held tight and never let go… Though of course she wouldn't decline luxury under any other circumstances. Even if it meant being selfish or manipulative she'd never pass up the opportunity to squeeze a bit more fun out of life. She was as complicated and multifaceted as the best adults, and still with so much learning and growing to do, the parents knew that she'd grow up to be a fine young lady.

Yor Forger looked over from the kitchen, chuckling at her daughter's enthusiasm. Even doing nothing but pumping her arms at the action and humming along with the theme music, Anya was Yor's pride and joy, the light of her life. Maybe she wasn't her biological daughter. But no one else on Earth made Yor's days more worth waking up for. Loid was less likely to kiss Anya's boo boos and braid her hair, but he knew how much Anya looked up to him and would never dare set a bad example for her. He cherished having the opportunity to inspire her and make her happy, to make her laugh, to make her know that she is loved… If push came to shove, those two heroes would do all that and more to give Anya the best life possible.

Right as all seemed hopeless for Bondman, right when he usually pulled out a death-defying gadget or trick from his sleeve, right when Anya's eyes were at their brightest and her smile at its widest… There was a breaking news alert.

Loid took his daughter's spot in front of the television, his skin pale and his mouth hung open, both his hands on both his pockets. The one with his phone in it and the one with his gun it. He anticipated being mobilized within mere moments. From the kitchen, Yor stood with her hands cupped in front of her body as she dug her heels into the ground to avoid trembling. Her eyes were darting between her family and her television; between what she had and the grim reality that it all could be over soon. Allthewhile, Anya grumbled and tried to see around her father, her young mind knowing that something serious was happening and her younger soul wanting more than anything to be a part of the excitement.

The footage was on aire before the media crew had time to confirm where their information was coming from, let alone whether their information was accurate. Reports were coming in before they could be digested. There was a missile, there was a plane crash, there was a tactical brigade from over the border… Initial estimates ranged from dozens dead to hundreds dead. The first responders were already zipping up body bags and the first ambulances were already speeding off as fast as their wheels could turn; all knew that explosion would ruin more lives than it would end.

Slowly, but surely, facts began to come together. This was a fertilizer plant, there was no threat of war, and Westlasis even offered their condolences as well as a whole armada of rescue workers. Loid fell back onto the couch with a sigh of relief– a tragedy indeed, but only a tragedy. A meaningless loss of life. Not the start of something greater, not something that Loid or anyone he loved would have to get involved with, not anything that posed a threat to anyone currently in that room. Yor performed a sign of the cross but then regained her grin and went back to humming in the kitchen. That left Anya back in front of the television.

---

The first thing that Anya noticed about the therapist's office was the smell. Hundreds of cups of coffee had been consumed in that room, coating every surface in the comforting aroma. It wrapped up Anya and warmed her shivering digits as she awkwardly shifted on the couch. The lights were off and the curtains were drawn, but with the amount of candles in the room Anya could hardly tell– that's where most of the other smells came from. Lavender. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Pumpkin.

Anya shot glances around the room; to the paintings on the wall, to the ferns in the corner, to the litany of papers on the occupant's desk– amidst the mess she was able to pick out a nameplate. Anya's fate was now in the hands of Dr. Felicity Rogers. She shot glances to all the pictures, chronicling Felicity's life from farmgirl to valedictorian to wife of a handsome suitor to mother of dear children who can't have been much older than Anya. They all had her vigilant eyes.

Felicity was Eden's on-site therapist, the "feelings doctor" who matched Anya in her ability to know what you were thinking, but surpassed Anya in her ability to know why you were thinking it. She wasn't a mutant, just a woman with a complete mastery of the human experience and knowledge of how to game its great system. If she wanted money or fame she could have it, if she wanted to change the world she could pen a paper that revolutionized the field, but such ambition always escaped her. She had always denied professorships and even shunned private practice. She wanted to remain at Eden until there was no one left to help.

Her name was a dirty one around campus, one that you'd choose expulsion over association with. The kids of Eden were supposed to be the leaders of the next generation, the inheritors of the torch of the world, the top-notch savants for whom imperfection was a sign of weakness. The only ones who needed therapists were the defeated, crushed under the weight of that which they were supposed to hold on their shoulders. There were two worlds, that of those with potential and that of those who needed help… So went the assumption, at least. Anytime someone's worlds collided they never took it easy. Anytime someone was called down to Felicity's office, they were usually in tears before they were even out of their classroom, surely in worse emotional strife than whatever got them called down there to begin with.

Anya pulled her knees to her chest and repressed a sniffle. She wasn't a thin-skinned girl, she didn't care how she came across as long as she was proud of what she was doing, yet here she was worried about all sorts of nonfactors. What are they going to think of me? What does this say about me? What is this going to turn me into? What am I going to tell Mama and Papa? Truth be told, she was bright enough to know why she was down here. She kicked herself for being so stupid, letting the world know what was going on inside that blasted head of hers, ending up damned to Felicity's care.

The girl stiffened up once Felicity's thoughts began to pop into her mind, and footsteps began to register to her ears. Anya could hear her own name being pondered, her own background being considered, her mental state being deliberated before she even had the chance to be judged: PTSD, Comorbidity, Anxiety, Depression, Autism Spectrum Disorder, what did all of those words even MEAN? Judging by the tone they were nothing to be taken lightly, and yet they were considered with such a nonchalance that Anya knew she couldn't escape them. Half of her wanted to believe that she'd leave this room better. Half of her knew she may leave worse off. With every fiber of her being she cursed that she'd never be the same again– whatever broke in that room could not be fixed and whatever was fixed in that room may've been better off broken.

Finally, Felicity made her grand appearance. With her came another smell, a faint perfume that didn't overwhelm Anya but caught her attention all the same; it made her associate the woman with a gentle sweetness whether she deserved it or not. For a moment they just stared at each other. Just from a quick glance up and down, and a deep look into those expressive eyes, Felicity's assumptions about Anya were correct. Here was a savvy yet challenged girl in a world she wasn't prepared for, either fully able or fully willing to do something but lacking in the ability to balance– she would either be on top of Eden by the end of the year or would be standing outside it holding a sign.

Anya countered with assumptions of her own. Here's yet another person with more control over Anya's life than Anya herself. At first the girl wanted to feel spite, perhaps just envy, but then she looked a little closer. Felicity was a taller woman, her skin a taupe shade of brown, with a black braid that ran comfortably over her shoulder down her back. Across the bridge of her nose, a wire-frame pair of glasses hid a smattering of innocent freckles. She was earnestly bathed in school colors of Eden, a black suit jacket over a vest and dress pants to match. Anya couldn't bring herself to be intimidated by the woman, whose friendly glow and wide grin kept Anya from the edge of her seat.

"Good afternoon, Miss Anya," Felicity sank into a red velvet chair. In one hand, she held a file, at such an angle that Anya couldn't read anything on it except for her own name. A couple items sat on the side table beside her; a notepad, a pen, and a cup of coffee. Retrieving them both and getting cozy in her chair, Anya knew that Felicity didn't plan on getting up for a while. Neither could she.

"Good afternoon, Doctor…" Anya kept from any more eye contact, fearing what Felicity could learn about her with another good look.

"Are you feeling alright today?"

"Kinda."

"That's good to hear," Felicity flipped to the first blank page in her notepad and clicked open her pen. "So. It's nice to meet you. My name is Felicity Rogers. If you really want to call me Dr. Rogers, you can, but otherwise– please, just Felicity. Sorry to tug you out of class, but I thought we should be introduced sooner rather than later. I've heard a lot about you."

There were good parts and bad parts about this girl, the same as with the rest of us. But she improved so many lives while ending up in so much trouble that there was no such thing as a single Anya Forger. There was no correct explanation as to who she was and why she did what she did. Two intelligent people could look at her, and yet one would brand her as a scourge while the other would trust her with their life. Anya tensed up, the hands resting on the couch balled up into fists and almost tearing the fabric. "What… Did you hear?"

"Not anything secret, I presume," Felicity shot her eyes back to the file she was fiddling with earlier, "Daughter of Loid Forger– he's a good man, I've got college buddies down at Berlint General that've sung his praises– and Yor Forger. Your grades aren't perfect. But they're getting better. You'll end up being thankful for that, those nerds who aced every test never learned to work hard. You're 6 years old and, hopefully, loving it… These years should be cherished, Miss Anya, it won't be too long before the world seems a lot less magical."

"You… Talk a lot," Anya shuffled in place. She felt like she was being tested. Here she sat before a qualified and intelligent woman with a persistent smile, and an aura of approachability without losing her demand for respect. A woman who was sitting up perfectly straight, everything from the way her shoes shined in the candlelight to the way her fingers traced that coffee cup exuding elegance. All of a sudden Anya felt guilty for slouching and for bowing her head. For her uniform being wrinkled. For her mind not working right. She opened her mouth again, "I don't have a lot to say, though."

Felicity shook her head, "Now, I'm sure that's not true. Talk to me about history and I'll fall mute until you stop, but if you get me started about science, I'll talk for so long that I'll die of thirst. You'll probably have a lot to say if you have the right topic. And since I want to hear your voice… You can decide what we talk about. Whatever you want to say, it's fair game."

Why would someone want to hear Anya's voice? The girl challenged herself with that thought as she remembered all the times that papa or mama or Damian or anyone in between told her (in their own ways) to shut up, all the times that people left the room or distracted themselves the second that it was Anya's turn to speak. Even when she was allowed to speak no one ever told her that she had any thoughts worth saying… The request threw Anya for a loop, "...Whatever I want?"

"Sure. I want to know more about you, but if I just start interrogating you about this or that, then… You won't get comfortable enough to actually express your feelings, you know? Here's my philosophy– you can learn a lot about someone by learning about what they care about. What they choose to do when given the choice of anything in the world. So, hit me. Whatever feels appropriate."

Why wasn't Felicity being dishonest? This was her domain, Anya was sitting on her couch at the mercy of her whims. And she was delegating the conversation to this girl, a girl assuming she was only in here because she had failed to prove her worth anywhere else. A quick scan of her mind found that Felicity was developing an impression of Anya; it wasn't a complete one, more of an outline splotched with faint colors, but it was one she was more than interested in completing. Anya had the rare opportunity to decidee how someone saw her, she just had to choose her words carefully. After all, Anya didn't know what this woman wanted, but she knew that the better she came across to her, the better the chance she had of getting out of here.

"I like peanuts!" Anya beamed. "A… Lot. And I like cartoons, and manga, and candy, and papa and mama! When I grow up I wanna be a spy assassin superhero who takes down all the bad guys… I don't like school a lot but there are good parts like lunch and Becky! On weekends I do restaurants and operas and the park and I play with my doggy Bond… I play the tromb-..."

A pause.

"I like music."

"Very good, Anya," Felicity jotted something down; Anya focused on Felicity's thoughts to find her trying to reason with all sorts of concepts, deductions, potential lines of questioning, avenues towards a diagnosis… Her brain worked almost as fast as papa's, and the more hard words she considered the more Anya's brain started to hurt. As Felicity looked up from her notepad, Anya let the thoughts fade into the background, like static on a distant television. "All very interesting and fun. You said you like cartoons?"

"Bondman is my favorite!"

"He was always my favorite, too!" the tone under Felicity's voice was almost electric, as excited as Anya was, "I went to a Bondman convention when I was a teenager, this was back when Kahn Shawnerry was playing him. I got an autograph from him, actually, it's back at my parent's place somewhere. Who is it playing Bondman now?"

"Modger Doore," without hesitation.

"Remind me to lend you a few of the classic tapes back from when I was a little girl. Anyway, I haven't seen much of the Doore run. What makes you like it? Maybe I'll try and catch a few episodes if you think it's any good."

"It's really good!" Anya piped up and cherished the opportunity, "Bondman always saves the day no matter how bad things are! And he's got all these cool gadgets and fun quotes!"

"It's probably comforting," Felicity leaned forward, slipping back into that more professional, that more intimidating voice of hers, without losing her friendly cadence. "Bondman's world is as chaotic as ours, maybe even more so. It's probably comforting to know that good always wins in the end."

"Yah, yah!"

"But it's never easy, right?"

"No, Bondman always has to work super-duper hard!"

"That he does, that he does," Felicity jotted something else down on that notepad, so able to multitask that she was writing something entirely different than what she was thinking, both entirely different from what was coming out of her mouth. The therapist strived to be as complex as the minds that she studied. What that meant was that Anya didn't know what Felicity wanted her to do and whether she was doing it or not; it registered to the poor girl that her guard was down. And she was losing the ability to put it back up. The doctor revealed her hand when she spoke again, "That's a good lesson, I feel. Pain, suffering, sadness, whatever form it takes… It's good to be challenged. Just one step on the path to everything working out in the end."

"I'm being lectured," Anya finally caught on. "Do I haveta be lectured today…?"

Felicity chuckled and threw her hands up in mock surrender, "You caught me. Hey, I'm here to help, don't fault me for trying to."

Anya huffed, she puffed out a cheek and turned away from Felicity. She didn't know this woman. She didn't need this woman. She was under no obligation to be vulnerable before her gaze, you don't beat a villain by meeting their clutches with open arms. Her doubt wasn't well disguised as she told off Felicity, "I'll talk about cartoons with you, I don't wanna talk about sad stuff."

Anya was far from the first bratty kid to want off that couch, and she'd be far from the last. Felicity met Anya's challenge, "They go hand-in-hand, in my experience. If you'll forgive me for being a scientist– we look for, in our media, what we want to see in real life. People who want love will watch sappy romance shows, people who want to see justice served may watch cop shows, people who want luxury may watch those reality shows about people in penthouses… You know what I think you want, Anya?"

"Peanuts?"

"Closure," Felicity leaned forward until her and Anya were on the same level. "The world is crazy. The truth is that sometimes the hero doesn't win, and sometimes the misunderstood guy doesn't get the girl, and sometimes people suffer without a reason, and sometimes there isn't a way out of that suffering. Sad, right? Well… In shows like Bondman, we can pretend for a bit that's not true. Cartoons are downright fun, and at the end of the day that's why we're drawn to them. But for kids still trying to make sense of the world, they can also be a coping mechanism, in a sense."

"Coping… Mechanism…" Anya brought a hand to her temple as she rifled through her skull to try and make sense of the term. To cope is to seek happiness when you truly need it, it's to be rocked by your mother after a bad day at school or to clutch your plushies close while lightning crashed overhead, or indeed to watch TV and imagine that those bullies will get what's coming to them. A mechanism is a way that things get done, it's that which you can't do without… It's that which, when grounded from it, you threaten to run away from home. Anya brought her hand down, and was able to nod, "Yah, I guess it's a coy-ping machine-ism."

"So why'd you stop?"

Suddenly everything was silent. No thoughts, no breath, hardly even a heartbeat. Anya forced herself to look at Felicity only for her worst fears to be confirmed; she was being glared at. It wasn't an angry glare nor a hateful one nor even a particularly judgemental one. It was the worst of all, it was a glare of expectation. She finally managed to do the world's worst job at feigning ignorance, "S-s-stop what?"

"Stop watching cartoons," Felicity wasn't backing down, in fact she inched even closer until she was almost off of the seat. "I want you to be honest with me, so I'll be honest with you. I've spoken to your folks. I know the story, and having gone through it, you should know why I wanted to talk to you today."

So there was no use resisting. Upon considering what else Felicity may know, Anya considered just bolting for the door. But she was free from that thought after a few moments. Whatever consequences she'd face in here, they couldn't be worse than whatever consequences she'd face out there. Felicity sensed her unease and continued, "You've got a lot to offer to our school, and eventually our nation. I don't want you to be held back by your own mind. Which is why I need you to try and come to terms with this. Tell me… Why did you stop watching cartoons?"

…

Anya gulped. Against her will, the memory came back to her.

---

She sat stiller than either parent had ever seen her before. The more she learned about the incident, the more she learned that she had nothing to fear, the more she should've realized that she could go to bed safe and secure that night… The more life that drained from her face. The more stars that disappeared from her eyes. Bond came over, he gave his beloved girl a couple of nudges. He brought his snout to his cheek and gave her a few kisses there. She didn't even seem to notice. Bond rolled over on his back– his adorable, fluffy belly sat there just waiting to be rubbed. Anya didn't even have the courtesy to shoo him away.

A quick whimper from Bond alerted the parents to the behavior. Loid was the next to come over; the first time he called Anya's name it was faint, the second it was boisterous and angry, and the third it was choked out and worried. Only then did Anya finally blink, and crane her face away from the screen, revealing her sunken expression. Having been expecting the grinning daughter with the rosy cheeks that he brought home all those months ago, the contrast was so stark that Loid almost jumped. She looked grey and sullen, and her only visible movement was a trembling lip.

She looked about to cry; that wouldn't be abnormal for her, Anya's parents had gotten used to her wails and tantrums. They would've preferred that to the deafening silence they got instead. He wasn't even certain that Anya was conscious, so he brought a hand to her shoulder and gave her a little shake, "Anya? Are you alright?"

The silence was oppressive.

"Never better," the words came out gravelly and breathy after quite some time, a consequence of being caught in her throat for so long. Loid knew who his daughter was– this wasn't her. This wasn't Anya. Anya would've gotten bored with the news and wanted to switch back to cartoons by now, and if she wanted to cry she wouldn't be afraid to. Yor was kneeling on the ground at this point, a hand brought to Anya's whitened cheek. The blood had just about stopped flowing, she felt as cold and decrepit as she would if she was completely lifeless.

This doting care, this pampering, it was what any other child would've wanted right then, it was what Anya would've wanted any other moment of her life… Why now did it drive her mad, did it split her soul into even fewer pieces…?

All in one instant, life rushed back to her. The warmth returned to her cheeks as they began to glow a fierce and fiery red. She shot to her feat with such fervor that Bond yelped in surprise and Loid got headbutted on her way up. The faintest fear glossed over all their faces; fear for what Anya would do, what she had become. Without another word she ran off to her room and slammed the door behind her, hard enough that splinters flaked off and the doorknob fell crooked, almost out of the frame.

Within moments, she was in her bed, face buried deep in her pillow. She came up for air every now and again so she wasn't smothered, but otherwise, that burst was all we had left in her. She wrapped herself in her blanket, and without changing out of her uniform, without doing her homework, without even turning off the lights, she overloaded herself with so many horrible thoughts that her brain eventually shut off.

For the rest of the afternoon, Loid and Yor consulted in the living room. Loid made his wife tea and sat by her side, an arm around her as he kneaded her back in small circles. That always calmed her down. He relished in still being able to do some good as he watched Yor slowly come back to lucidity. She quit it with the catastrophic rambles, "What if she never speaks to us again, what if she runs away from home, what if we're the worst parents ever?"

She looked down at her unstable, rippling reflection in the surface of the tea, "I'm her mother… I'm supposed to know what to do at times like this."

"You're not her mother," Loid shot back. Yor brought a hand to her mouth and was ready to be offended, before remembering that it was true for all sorts of different reasons; she balled that hand into a fist and thumped herself on the head. Then she did it again, more forcefully, the fist resonating against her skull like a hammer on the drum. Loid scooted just the faintest bit closer, a hand grasping her wrist, half for comfort and half to keep her from breaking open those temples. "Keep strong, Yor. We can get through this."

He knew that neither fatherhood nor husbandry would be cakewalks, and in fact he welcomed challenges like these. They kept him sharp. Yet there was only so much turmoil and strife that a man could take, even the best of men. The books taught him how to deal with temper tantrums or moody wives, but this social upheaval, this cracking porcelain facade, these halls that all of a sudden looked unstable and ready to collapse in on themselves… It drained Loid as much as it drained Yor, though neither could imagine what may be happening beyond Anya's door.

Yor blinked once. Blinked twice. Then brought her fist down and shook herself sane. The self-harm was luckily gone, replaced by mere self-pity, the woman cursing herself for not knowing what to do but only cursing herself for now. Most things in life, if she wanted to do it it'd be done by next sunrise, if she wanted it solved it'd hardly be thought of ever again. But she couldn't fight her way out of this one. Everything she thought she was good for, it wasn't good enough– if you need a fighter, an advocate, a mentor, a sister, a shoulder to cry on, she was the best one you'd find for miles, but not this time. This was among the first times in her life where if she gave it her all, if she shed every tear she had and spilled every drop of blood she could muster, she'd have done just as much good as beforehand. That being, none at all.

"I think…" Yor finally took a sip of that tea; suddenly the icy haze in her head was gone. She was no happier than the moments before, but at least she could pluck out the thoughts she wanted from that tremendous machine, "I think we need to leave her alone, and give her some space. Miss Anya lives a complicated life, Loid; she spends her days at school and comes back only to spend her nights studying. Maybe that's what she needs, but it's definitely not what she wants! Let's let her collect her thoughts, have some time to herself… She'll probably be better off for it."

"I know that she'll be fine in the end, she always is," Loid leaned back on the couch until he was staring at the ceiling. "But I'm worried about what will happen before then. How long it will take, and… What's going to happen in the meantime."

"We can't control everything, Loid." Yor looked over, and her cheeks curled into a sad smile. A smile without joy but at least not lacking in hope. The suffering woman hadn't been deluded into suffering alone. "I know, I haven't quite accepted that either. But we can work together if we just accept that... If only because it's what's best for Anya."

Loid nodded, still not looking anywhere but up. "And what's best for Anya is best for the mission," he wouldn't dare say. It's not like the stakes were low for Yor, who knew that Anya's willingness to hug her tomorrow may impact the course of both of their lives… But for Loid? Of course he wanted to see a little girl live a happy and successful life, yet Anya was no bystander. If there wasn't color in her expression tomorrow, if she wasn't pirouetting around the kitchen ready to try harder in school than ever before, if that soulless meltdown wasn't just a moment of weakness… The nation he fought for may not exist by the year's end.

And so they made a plan. They woke up bright and early that Tuesday morning. Loid threw his apron on and didn't leave the kitchen for an hour or two, and when he finally did he went straight to the dining room table. Beautifully organized, there sat a platter of eggs, salted to perfection. On the side; bacon, sausages, biscuits, and pancakes already topped with syrup. The syrup was drawn in the shape of a smile, a smile that was adorable but that had no hope of matching Anya at her best. As if that wasn't enough, there was a pitcher of hand-squeezed orange juice, more authentic and honest on top of being free of pulp.

Yor bribed a market to open early and contributed a floral centerpiece; beautiful pink tulips that one couldn't help but be overcome by. At first she just wanted the one bouquet, but the more she thought about it the more she scooped into her arms. Now they were all over the apartment, on the counters and by the doors and everywhere that could use a little life. At first it was just going to be the flowers, but all of a sudden the lightbulbs in the Forger residence were changed, and there were a couple new paintings up on the wall. Everything was a bit happier, a bit more soothing, right down to the air seeming a bit easier to breathe. The banquet was prepared. All it needed was a princess.

Her alarm clock went off right as the last flower was placed and the last pancake was baked. It had been timed down to the second. With bated breath yet preemptive satisfaction, the Forgers settled into their spots at the head of the table. They held hands beneath it, and as long as their fingers were interlinked and they knew the other was there, they knew they could get through this. They heard Anya's alarm clock turn off down the hall, the telltale sign that the day would soon be graced by Anya's presence. Then, a few minutes later, the alarm clock went off again. A few minutes later, again.

Yor went through all the options in her head, and eventually decided on the one that didn't make her hate herself. She chuckled, "I never wanted to get up in the mornings, either. I'll go fetch her."

She slid out of her seat, anxiously paused in place for reasons she didn't want to put into words, and then slunk toward Anya's door. She gave it a quick rap; once, twice, three times.

"Miss Aaaaaanya…" she sang. "Miss Aaaaaaaaaanyaaaaaaaa… Wake up, sweetheart! We've got a surprise for you!"

Nothing.

"...Alrighy, then. I've respected your privacy by knocking, now I'm asserting my authority as your parent and coming in anyway." she quipped, the laughter instantly fizzling and dying once she opened the door. It was an entirely different room than it was the day before. There were once spy posters on the wall, spy toys along the floor, spy drawings on the desk where homework should probably be; the desk in particular was usually so messy that looking from above you couldn't tell what color it was. Now the wallpaper was bare and the floor was clean, and Yor appreciated the spotless mahogany sheen of the desk for the first time. There was only one sign that the room was lived-in; the trash can was full to the brim with the crumpled up memories of what Anya once loved. Ripped up posters and broken toys. Mr. Chimera sat on top of the throne.

Anya herself was no better. Her face failed to hide her lack of sleep, her skin was sunk and her eyes were baggy. Still she hardly even blinked, sitting on the edge of her bed and staring at the floor. Yor threw her hand to her mouth to censor herself. She felt like she was pleading for Anya's life when she finally spoke again, "C-c'mon, sweetie, let's go."

"Sure."

With that Anya hopped off the bed and began to follow Yor. The second she was beyond her door frame she lost the strength to kid herself– the girl was tired beyond what words could describe. She couldn't go two steps without almost tripping over her own feet, and her eyes squinted so tight that her line of sight could literally be measured in millimeters. She kept almost slipping into sleep, but couldn't bear to be tempted with dreams. They'd make her never want to wake up again. Anya didn't realize what had been done for her until she just about bumped into the kitchen table.

At this point everything should've begun to hit Anya– all of her favorite meals, her favorite smells, her favorite feelings. Her eyes were due to widen, and all of a sudden that hard work should finally pay off. If this were a cartoon she would've grown little angel wings and done a lap around the kitchen table, that's how elated she had to have been!

"...I'm not hungry."

She slumped away from the table, turning right back around and starting back to her room. Like there was no point in getting up at all. Yor gestured toward the television in a last ditch effort, "Bondman starts soon!"

"I don't wanna watch cartoons."

"You have to eat something!"

"Peanuts are fine. I'll be in my room."

There was a sudden slam. Loid's fist against the dining room table. Then a creak as he got to his feet and stood at his tallest. Then nothing at all. Anya stopped dead in her tracks and turned her neck over her shoulder, staring up at her father as he crossed his arms and scowled down at her. Nearby, Bond brushed up against Yor's legs, too overcome by the moment to even whimper– but his ears were down and his eyes were teary. Yor gave him a few scratches and begged him to believe that everything would work out well in the end. Bond closed his eyes and tried to see if she was correct… Then he fell down to the floor, crossed his paws, and buried his face where nobody could see it. Without Anya, the real Anya that had saved him as much as he saved her, this home was not a home.

"Young lady," in a last ditch effort, Loid confronted Anya head-on, neither of them flinching away from the staredown. "If you need something… Say it. We are your parents and we will help you. But this kind of ungrateful behavior is completely unacceptable. You are punishing us, and for that matter punishing yourself, for reasons you refuse to tell anybody about. If those reasons exist at all. This tantrum comes off as attention-seeking, as overdramatic, as quite frankly RUDE, and it's either you tell us what's going on, or you're grounded."

"Ground me."

…

Loid had been in the same room as terrorists before. Mafia bosses. Megalomaniac generals. Tyrants of legendary proportions. And he had never been bested, or even put on the defensive. He had never felt nervous, he had never even felt unsure of himself. Whenever he started down a path, he saw it through to the end no matter what obstacles or insecurities or sacrifices stood blocking it. This was a child, a little girl, not physically nor intellectually nor spiritually more gifted than Loid on his worst days. And the man was sweating at her challenge, at how the threats that once brought her to tears were now shrugged off as if they were gusts of wind through her hair.

"Go get ready for school, Anya," Loid sought to prove that he was still in charge. "We'll talk about this later."

"I don't wanna go to school."

"Anya, I said–"

"I don't wanna go to school ever again, " she choked, an irrepressible kind of suffering about to breach the surface. "I don't wanna be your daughter anymore, I don't wanna live in this house anymore, I don't…"

She bit her lip. Her eyes wavered yet still refused to cry, "I don't even wanna be alive anymore."

A couple more slams were heard after that. Anya further knocking her door out of frame. And then Yor dropping to her knees.

---

Felicity nodded as the story finished. She took a few moments to collect her thoughts, but Anya spoke before she had the chance to, "I didn't really mean any of that."

"Then why did you say it?"

"I dunno," Anya shrugged as she forced herself to maintain eye contact. "I was sad."

"You've been sad before. It's apparently not uncommon for you to have little spats when things don't go your way… Yes, most kids have spats. But they usually don't wish death upon themselves."

"I don't wanna die!" Anya instantly clarified, actually shooting off of the couch and standing up before Felicity's chair. She threw her hands up in the air as if she was in the presence of a loaded gun, and the paleness of her cheeks reflected a similar kind of visceral fear. She knew what Felicity was thinking; "Whatever is troubling this girl, it's my responsibility to make sure she receives treatment". Which Anya took to mean a padded room with a straight jacket and a scientist outside running experiments trying to see what went wrong– something that called to mind memories that the girl never intended to relive.

"I swear it!" Anya's voice cracked. "I just said a dumb thing! I'm a dumb girl sometimes, I promise I'm trying to get better but that's just the truth…"

"I don't doubt that you regret it. Anybody sensible would. But the fact was that you were the same girl yesterday that you are today. You've got the same brain and the same mouth and the same heart inside that same little body of yours. You say you were being dumb– alright. That means you can be dumb again in the future. It's my job to make sure that doesn't happen. First thing's first… I want to figure out why."

Anya racked her brain, trying to put herself back in the mindset she was in that day, breaking her family's hearts… And she didn't remember a single thought, a single desire. She remembered what happened the Monday before, and remembered what happened the Wednesday after, no matter whether those were happy memories or not. But Tuesday? She was struck with the mental equivalent of radio static, static that was so oppressive and overwhelming that sent her hand to her forehead back in the present moment. It's like she was running on autopilot; and if that husk, that painted cicada shell was who she truly was without conscious attempts to hide it, then maybe those nihilistic ramblings weren't delusions. Maybe they were cries for help.

"I… I don't know why…" Anya let go of what she was beginning to realize about herself, noticing that she had been pacing in a circle during that lull in the conversation. She walked back to the front of the couch and laid down on top of it, like the stereotypical patient. Half because she thought looking the part of a poor victim would help her avoid the padded room, and half because she was legitimately a poor victim for whom sitting up straight would only make things worse. "I guess it felt… Not real. Like they were just doing it cuz' they wanted me to be happy."

"They probably were. That doesn't mean it wasn't real. I mean, if they were ingenuine, those pancakes would still taste good. A kiss on the forehead from Mama would've still felt warm and comforting."

"I… Don't know why I said no. I want pancakes and kisses now. I should've said yes then."

"And your room? The posters?"

"Oh, well, uh…" on her better days, Anya would be protected from nightmares by the heroic Bondman lording over her headboard and fighting off all those terrible thoughts. Playing with her plushies, her mock phaser, her action figures, Anya would have so much fun that her ribs were aching by the end of whatever situation she had thought up. The trash had been taken out since Tuesday, her past joys were either in pieces or sent far away but either way weren't coming home. "I guess I thought they were… Childish…"

"Correct, because, you're a child, " Felicity almost chuckled at the bluntness of her own words. "You're allowed to be childish. And you just heard me say that I collect old Bondman tapes; I also have posters of a band I like taped up in my room. I have shelves back at home that are entirely full of model ships. Is it childish? Yes. But it makes me happy. You're deliberately separating yourself from your happiness."

Oh how Anya wished she had Mr. Chimera now. Staring up at the ceiling of Felicity's office, distracting herself by counting the divots in the ceiling before deliberately losing count so she could start over… At least Felicity couldn't see her tearing up.

"This is all related, I'm sure you're bright enough to realize that," Felicity knew that Anya was on the verge of bawling, and yet did nothing about it. Whether Anya was going to cry or scream or start throwing punches, Felicity didn't plan on stopping her. She would prefer Anya be honest than be appropriate. "Your moment in front of the television on Monday, what you did to your room, rejecting the lovely gesture of your parents, saying home on Tuesday… There was a reason for it. There was something different about your life before this started and after, wasn't there?"

Anya didn't seem to want to answer, puffing up her cheek and huffing away from attention. So Felicity answered for her, "It was the explosion on TV, wasn't it?"

The fire. The sirens. The fear. The prayers said by the firefighters, hopefully enough to vouch for the poor souls at heaven's gate. The gazes trailed on the sky wondering if another act of war was on its way. The screaming and the sobbing, from those trapped under the rubble and those who were cursed with survival; those who had loved ones that were never coming back home. The knowledge that the world wasn't fair, the bad guys don't always lose and the good guys won't always live happily ever after.

Anya had been in the clutches of kidnappers and inches away from a blade, she had been caught in the middle of nationwide conspiracies. She had felt the chill of death down her spine like no child deserves, and that never failed to terrified her. But the fear always abated soon enough, it bruised Anya but it never drew blood. This was different. This wasn't fear. If she was afraid, she could change the channel and it'd all be forgotten. Bondman, and the faith he evoked in her, was just a flick of a wrist away. Yet Anya wasn't able to take her eyes off of the explosion. This was something far deeper than fear.

"Do we haveta talk about that?" Anya blubbered and confirmed Felicity's suspicions.

"I'd like to."

"But it's… So sad…!"

"Maybe it won't be after we talk about it," Felicity pressed on. "It's cliche, it's probably the only thing you've heard therapists say on TV, but… Tell me how it made you feel."

Now was her chance. Anya had her platform, her chance to clear the air, the chance to convince Felicity that all was well in her world. She stayed on her back but leaned over so that Felicity could see her best mentally-stable face, "It was really bad that those people got blown up! I was kinda worried that I may get blown up too. But I'm over it now! You don't have to worry! Anya is gonna go home and apologize to mama and papa and then watch a buncha cartoons!"

"...Good to know," Felicity took one more sip of her coffee; all gone. She set her notepad on the side table and clicked her pen shut, apparently having nothing more to say. She stood up from her chair and did a little stretch in place– she cracked her knuckles, she tilted her head in one direction and then the other. Then she cupped her hands together, "Why don't we take a break, then? I need to refill my coffee anyway."

Felicity had ulterior motives; they were so complicated that Anya couldn't read them exactly but she knew that this was no offer of peace. Still a sigh of relief escaped her lips, her heart rate slowing down and body temperature dropping even as her guard remained up. The therapist headed for the door, and right as she was about to disappear through, right as Anya was about to be safe… She turned back over her shoulder, "Here, while I'm gone–"

She reached over on one of the shelves; between the dusty old books that not even Felicity had ever read, there sat a television remote. Anya hadn't given it much thought before, but behind Felicity's desk there was a box television, bulky and imposing like the best ones were. With a click it was on, and Felicity flipped through the channels until she got to the kids network. Just her luck: there was an episode of Bondman on. With that, she finally left.

This was a good episode. One of Anya's favorites. Tailing weapons-smuggling mercenaries through the lush rainforest, there was danger around every corner, there were traps within every crevice. There was deceit around every corner and malice within every action. Anya remembered how it ended; it was the kind of triumph that the little girl should've needed in her life. Some of the finer details escaped her memory, however. She didn't remember the punchline to every joke or the particulars of every punch thrown. So reliving it would be exciting beyond belief, just like she was watching it for the first time again.

…

Felicity came back to find the television off. Anya had changed position, too; she was sitting up on the couch but had found a blanket and made herself a cocoon. Only her face was visible. And that face was flushed with red, signifying either embarrassment or anger but whatever the case revealing a powerful dislike of herself. Caught between satisfaction and pity, she jotted something down on her notepad and went back to the status quo, interrogating Anya.

"Do you know what I'm about to ask?"

Anya nodded. She didn't know why she had turned the TV off, and even if she did she definitely didn't want to articulate it. It wasn't about the show, the show was delightful as ever. It was about what the show represented.

It was supposed to make her forget about what was out there in the world. It was supposed to make her forget that she was failing all her classes, that she was nothing but a disappointment to her father and in turn a disappointment to the nation that was depending on her. That the few friends she had were only her friends because they tolerated her, not because they liked her. That at the first little mistake, her father and her mother and even her dog were at risk of being whisked away and broken until death would be a blessing. That she was a freak and a mistake that was never supposed to exist, the mere fact that she existed anyway being an affront to the human race. That apparently innocent people could just die now for no reason at all, their dreams shattered into pieces and the ones they left behind damning their species, their universe, their God.

Any teenager who expressed these fears would be described as having 'existential dread'; Anya was 4 years old, she should've been too young for thoughts like that. She should've been too young to understand how the world works. She should've been too young to have PTSD or Anxiety or Depression or Autism Spectrum Disorder. She knew that if she ever spoke her mind, if she ever tried to convert the messy dark impenetrable cloud of fear and loathing into words, no one would take her seriously. She would be nothing but a brat throwing a tantrum. Then suddenly she was back in that lab, having to remember that none of her parents were ever coming back. In their place would be…

It was easier to just watch television. And this damn world had gone and taken that away from her too.

"I was scared…" she finally said. "I thought maybe I was gonna see the explosion again."

It was as if the room changed temperature. Anya hid her entire face with that blanket, and didn't care that she couldn't breathe. Felicity wasn't exactly pleased to see the little girl reduced to this, but then again… Now was not a time to be who you want to be. Now was a time to be who you are. And this was her. This was Anya Forger. It was closer to her, at least. She was starting to say what needed to be said, without that brave face; the walls were crumbling down.

"Are you going to put me in a straight jacket?" Anya looked up from the blanket.

"Of course not," Felicity almost giggled, her posture loosening at the absurdity of the concept and her eyelashes briefly fluttering shut. "You haven't hurt anyone, and it doesn't look like you plan to hurt anyone, so there's no reason to toss you in solitary. If I were to put you anywhere, it'd be in a cozy hospital with the nicest doctors around. And a vending machine, with peanut butter cups. You'd love it."

Anya considered it for a moment. But just a moment. Then she gulped and shook her head, fully popping her head out from the blanket, her pink hair now tangled and going in every which way, her eyes baggier and averted. "Nuh-uh…"

"...Hey, I was joking too," Felicity's face softened. "You've done nothing to prove that you're a danger to yourself or others. So you have bad thoughts; we all do. They won't go away after today, or even after, say, twenty days like this. But I can help you deal with them. Mark my words– the only place you're going is back home."

Anya chose not to wonder if she'd even be wanted back home.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Pinky promise?"

"Pinky promise," Felicity even raised one of her fingers from her mug handle to accent the point. Anya had won the battle, she had survived the night. In the moment she considered dropping the act, smirking as wide as she could; 'hah! I'm mentally unstable and you never figured it out!'. Then she steeled herself and remembered what she could still lose. When that pinkie came back down, that meant it was time to get back to work, "Talk to me about this explosion. It must have been startling for you, it was startling for all of us. I won't ask you to get into specifics, but just tell me… Was this your first time seeing something like it?"

"No," the sound was meeker than the girl had been intending. "There have been terrorist attacks and scary criminal things before, on TV… Those scared me."

The only lie was in saying that they were on TV.

"They scared me, too," Felicity admitted. "Sometimes even more than the incident at the plant. I can't imagine seeing it through a child's eyes. Did you have any… Let's call them, notable reactions , after those incidents?"

Anya had already opened her mouth to say 'yes'. Then the sound was snuffed out like a doused candle; Anya couldn't deceive herself any better than she could deceive Felicity. As the revelation dawned on her, it surprised her just as much as it validated the therapist.

"...No."

There was the bomb threat– if Anya wasn't at her best for a single second that day, Loid would be dead. She had been privy to the kidnappings and the muggings and the assorted depravity of the town's worst. At best, a horrified bystander. At worst, a traumatized victim. At the end of far more days than was acceptable, Anya was a crying mess, too weighed down by the horrors of the streets to do anything else. But… Then her tears dried and she was dancing. Joking. Bragging about having survived the ordeal. Being better off for it.

No day was without hope and without joy and without safety. No cloud was without its silver linings. Once upon a time Anya knew that.

"I was always fine after a bit. A-and I'm fine now! Back to normal."

"Then let's watch cartoons."

"Maybe I just don't feel like it."

Felicity's face adopted a new emotion. Anya read it as a mix of disappointment and worry, the same as her parents gave to her whenever she failed an exam. The same as her tutors gave to her whenever she gave up on a problem. It was the face of someone who wanted to help but couldn't, someone who felt even more defeated than Anya whenever moments like this came around. Everyone wanted only the best for Anya but on her best days she was only barely above her worst. Does she not trust me?, Felicity thought. Has she repressed the true reason? Is there something sinister that she doesn't want me to know about?

…Did I do something wrong?

"...Can we talk about something else?" Anya couldn't stand what she was doing to this innocent woman. But she couldn't stand to take her foot off the gas, either.

"So be it."

Felicity took out an old friend, that file on Anya she had earlier. She flipped through the pages, only skimming them if the darting of her eyes was any indication. They gradually slowed down until they fell still when she found the paragraph she wanted. Her pupils dilated when she remembered why she wanted it. Anya started to focus on her thoughts, but the second she registered what Felicity was reading, she shrunk away and put her hands to her ears to try and block out the sound. She didn't want to relive this for a second longer than she had to.

Unfortunately. She had to.

"Let's talk about the incident in band," Felicity lowered the file once more. Anya was hoping, nigh-on praying, that this had never reached the therapist's eyes. Her guilty frown and red cheeks betrayed her; the second Felicity saw that, she lost any doubt that this conversation needed to happen.

'Back to normal'. That was funny. Anya took a deep breath in… Deep breath out. Deep breath in… Deep breath out. Against her will, the memory came back to her.

---

Eden Academy strived to raise the most complete children possible. The future financial, political, academic, and creative elite of the nation resided on its campus. Children were expected to be perfect in every conceivable way, to the extent that they'd be the best in the world no matter what discipline they pursued. Success would set you up for glory while failure would ruin your life, so no matter what way you left that building, you wouldn't be the same as when you came in. Inadequacy was unacceptable in every sense of the word.

In the front office, they were smart enough to know what they were doing to kids. They knew that their graduates would be so insecure that they'd never be able to support themselves, only able to have worth if they had worth to the world; graduates just as likely to end up on the street as they were to end up in elected office. They knew that their only coping mechanisms would be to grow egotistical, selfish, and entitled to the point where they believed the world should be theirs. None of that mattered; every time another alumni won a Nobel Prize or a Medal of Honor or an Academy Award, the ends further justified the means. The students didn't need to thank them, because history would. The administrators genuinely believed that, if the school had never been built, the nation would be a pile of ash and a cautionary tale. They may not have been wrong.

The tenets of tradition and excellence held up those walls just as much as the foundation did. They started drilling those tenets into students' schools from day one. Anya was swamped with so much work, it was a wonder she was still holding on (if not keeping up) in all of them; Math. Science. History. Japanese. English. Latin. PE. And what could've been her favorite under any other circumstances; Band. It was either that, orchestra, or choir, though the options narrowed the first time Anya tried to stay awake through a symphony. Then narrowed even further the first time the counselors heard her "singing".

Anya always loved instruments, even if she had never found one that stuck before. Through sheer force of will, she once played a violin so poorly that the strings snapped in half. And she was almost capable of playing the guitar (she could slap it convincingly enough that a deaf person would think she was a virtuoso). A couple more experiments later, she had been given a trombone. It was bombastic and energetic and as fun and stimulating as an instrument could be, with a high floor but a high ceiling to match. It quickly became one of Anya's favorite things in the whole wide world… And one of her family's least favorite things in the whole wide world, but at least whenever Anya had that case in her hands she was excited to go to school. That never used to happen before.

That wasn't the only reason why band was her favorite class. She wasn't particularly good at the trombone but it didn't require her to study or to think, just to practice and to care, something that she'd do for fun even if it wasn't for a grade. That kept her from being berated by the teacher or embarrassed in front of her friends. Band also helped her to be a part of something; with that trombone on her hands, Anya felt valuable, she felt wanted, she felt like she could genuinely contribute! And she could! She'd never be the first chair, at least not for a good long while, but the band was better because she was in it.

All her friends were in that class, too… Meaning Becky Blackbell and Damian Desmond. Becky played the flute and wouldn't rest until the world knew it, even more full of herself than Anya was. But it was endearing, and her talent came close to justifying it. She loved music and would frequently infodump about everything from rock n' roll to opera whenever Anya pretended to listen; no, Anya didn't care about whatever Becky was into, but she cared about seeing Becky happy, and there was a lot she would do to make that happen. Besides, Becky was one of the only people in the world that trusted Anya, that depended on Anya, that had a lot to offer to Anya's life because she had so much to gain from Anya's presence, that would take Anya out shopping and out on playdates and out for car rides just for fun. She deserved to know how much that was appreciated, even if Anya was never the best at demonstrating it.

Then there was Damian. Syon boy. Second son. The lead trumpeter, who just happened to sit right next to Anya. He was the best in the class, frequently breaking into solos even when no solos were marked, just so that all the eyes in the room would swivel to him. It was cohesive enough that the only punishment he got was an eye roll from the conductor, a conductor who was usually also applauding. He held his accomplishments over Anya and her stupid, stubby, uggo frame, but she had learned long ago that he didn't really mean it. He had tricked himself into thinking he hated Anya, when really he cared about her more than anything else in the world. Maybe one day he'd love her. He teased her but far less than he used to and far less than any genuine bully would, he just did it as an excuse to talk to her and to keep fooling himself. When he had nothing to prove, he could be found defending her, fighting for her, helping her, and even sacrificing for her; he'd earned a smug trumpet solo every now and again. Besides, getting close to the boy would have the side effect of changing the world.

It was Wednesday. Anya had stayed home from school the previous day and only barely avoided a Tonitrus Bolt for it. Yor was convincing like that. Having twice as much work to do with half as much motivation, she lugged that trombone into the band with a sense of dread. If anything was going to cheer her up, and reignite her spark, then this would be it. But on the other hand, if this failed, if Anya walked away from this class still feeling hollow, then it'd be officially hopeless.

Anya slid into her seat, and listened to all sorts of conversations start around her. About the fun stuff they had done the previous day, about how well the day's classes had already gone. Some were still talking about the explosion. Anya tried to ignore those people and started warming up… Well, they were just pre-warm ups, but they were still invaluable. The sound of an untuned trombone was grating, like a fork against a plate, and Anya cringed as she forced herself through the horror for a few moments. It was bothering her even more than usual today.

The seats filled up soon enough, and not long after that the maestra was before the classroom. In a past life Dr. Hall had toured the world among some of history's greatest ensembles. Her name was carved in the world's most prestigious venues and her talent was capable of changing lives… So everyone said, at least. To Anya, she was just that stuffy old fart who demanded more respect than she earned. No one who plays a clarinet should ever be that full of themselves. Still, it was thanks to Dr. Hall that Anya sat in the seat she couldn't bear to lose. Best not to get on her bad side.

She raised her baton without a word, and at once the noise stopped. If Anya wasn't ready, then she was never going to be ready. Dr. Hall didn't communicate much, at least not verbally; to compensate, her looks could convey entire theses. She scanned the wholee room, left to right. If her eyes stopped on you for more than a split second, it was either you fix yourself or there would be hell to pay. Her eyes stopped on Becky, who wasn't sitting up straight enough. She snapped into place with a yelp. Her eyes stopped on Damian, who didn't have his music on his stand. He scrambled to right that wrong with near-superhuman speed. Her eyes stopped on Anya.

She was sitting straight up. Her music was on her stand. She wasn't yawning or distracted and she was hardly even breathing. But Anya didn't doubt that she had done something wrong. The look was met not with a yelp but rather a sigh of defeat. She didn't move any muscles after that, not bothering to try and fix herself. Dr. Hall raised an eyebrow. She cleared her throat. Nothing. Anya was going to force her to speak. When that happened, it was so begrudgingly that she almost sounded inhuman, "Forger?"

"What?"

That sounded aggressive. You aren't aggressive to Dr. Hall. The maestra was impressed enough by the audacity to gasp, but where she normally furrowed her brow she instead closed her eyes. Her reputation preceded her, justified or not, and Anya had just assumed that she had slighted her. Wronged her. Gotten yet another person to hate her. To tell the truth, Dr. Hall had just gotten a good look at her face. She called up to the trombonist, "Forger, are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

It was either let the lie slide, or hold up practice even further. So Dr. Hall merely shook her head and corrected a few more kids before raising that baton back up. All the kids clutched their instruments tight, not even blinking as they waited for the count… 1, 2, 3, 4. They had done far too many scales to need it explained, and were in perfect sync once they finally got started. Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La, Ti, Do, Ti, La, So, Fa, Mi, Re, Do. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. It was less of a warm-up and more of an exercise, like they'd give to soldiers and not like they'd give to musicians. It wasn't about the music, it was about marching in perfect formation, it was about staying in time and staying on pitch because if you didn't, then you'd be left behind.

Anya kept up with the scales like she did every day. She didn't have perfect pitch or perfect rhythm, she'd be the first to tell you that… But she had done enough of these that it was essentially muscle memory, effortless and thoughtless. Of course, she couldn't stop herself from thinking as they started to speed up. Am I going to be able to keep up? Am I gonna look stupid? All these people are better than me and I don't wanna embarrass myself! It hurt that no one else was thinking things like that. Everyone else was having a good day. Anya started to sweat– this was once the girl so confident in herself that she frequently had to be knocked down a peg, her trombone sometimes sharp and sometimes flat but always too loud… And she was sweating.

Her lips started to quiver. Her tune began to wobble. She clenched her eyes shut and tensed every muscle in her face to try and compensate, and ended up playing her first wrong notes of the day. This time, she knew what the look from Dr. Hall meant. So she started to get her arms more involved, pushing and pulling on the slide more than was necessary because she thought, somehow, that would convince them she was good at the trombone. Everyone was too focused on their scales to care about her, but if they were paying attention they'd notice her skipping notes and only coming back on the correct one half the time. Somehow, over her own thoughts, one of Dr. Hall's rang through; "What is wrong with her today?"

With that, Anya gave up. She drew her lips away from the mouthpiece and sucked in a massive gasp of air, which soon turned into a small fit of panting. Not long after that, the scales were over. And then the mumbling started. Anya hated the mumbling. Dr. Hall called her out once more, "Forger. Are you ill?"

"No."

"Focus."

"Sure."

"...Alright, class. Caravan. Measure 21."

Caravan had a long and storied history. The song was written decades ago and has been played hundreds of times since then, with each striving to be better than the last– it had to succeed if it wanted to justify its own existence. Dr. Hall wanted to put on the definitive edition. To give the final display of this tremendous work of art. And she wanted to do it with a band of schoolchildren. The song itself was extremely difficult, and that which wasn't written was even harder than that which was; any decent musician could play this song, Dr. Hall warned. Only true artists could perform it. It had taken up most of their attention since the beginning of the semester, and it intended to take up the rest as well.

Anya wasn't down for the count yet. This didn't have to be the end. All she had to do was play her piece; not even good, just good enough , and the mumbling would stop. Dr. Hall would look away. She could walk away from this. 1, 2, 3, 4… The drummer got it started. The drummer was good, he wouldn't be legendary under any other circumstances but he made the most of this moment Anya could never get her entrance right, she tried to practice as much as she could but without the drummer in her living room it was the furthest thing from seamless. The last thing the girl wanted to do was hold her class back, hold her maestra back, hold her school back… Who would be left for her after that?

While she was busy driving herself insane, the entrance blew right past her. All of her peers came in on time. Damian and Becky smiled away as they enjoyed being triumphant, making good music and knowing that they were worth something. Anya was left holding that stupid trombone, looking like an idiot… Then Dr. Hall ordered the band to silence. Just for her. Anya couldn't bear to look, but she could hear their thoughts. Is her instrument broken? Is she going to be alright? Oh god, we're screwed for the concert. Isn't there something that can be done about her?

s.

"Hey, uggo!" that was out loud, whispered just loud enough for Anya to hear it over the litany of other sounds assaulting her. Damian grabbed her sleeve and tugged at it until she couldn't ignore him. She glanced over to him and wasn't surprised by what she saw. Fury. Rage. Disgust. And even… Pity. Damian, every day, was glad that he wasn't Anya. But never did he feel sorry for her. "I get it, you suck at trombone, but don't ruin this for the rest of us! Just pretend to play."

…

There was nothing on her face to indicate it– there wasn't much of anything on her face– but Damian knew that he had hurt Anya's feelings. He blushed away, scratching the back of his head. "Ugh, I didn't mean it like that! I guess you're trying… Why don't you toss me a few marks and I'll tutor you after school? Good for both of us."

How she hated him. That egotism. That snide, snide aura that always followed him around. That stupid face. The trumpet that he was way too gifted at for someone who'd never worked a day in his life, who never knew what it felt like to suffer and toil under the weight of his own failures. He had never failed, not once. He was better than Anya, and he didn't need to prove that, and yet prove it he always did, day after day after day. She never cared until now, but she wasn't going to be worse than him for another second!

She stood up from her chair, and with one hand she raised that trombone over her head. Damian sank deep into his seat and gulped as he started to sweat, his eyes darting to the concerned students who wouldn't be able to help. There wasn't a way out of this now. That trombone wasn't coming down gently. She reveled in his expression– it was fear, and in that fear there was respect. Anya was strong, smart, she was everything Damian pretended to be, she was beautiful and kind and anyone who she hurt would deserve it. She could do no wrong. He never realized it before; Anya demanded that he regret that.

"FORGER, STOP!" pleaded Dr. Hall, letting out more emotion than she did the rest of the first semester combined. Good, so now she was respecting Anya too. She wasn't the most powerful person in the room anymore. She was just going to have to live with that… She would just have to feel what Anya had felt for months for now. This would be far from the first time that Anya hurt someone, it'd be far from the first time that she enjoyed it, but today would still mark a change… It'd mark the day she gave up on being good. She was capable of inflicting great pain and that was all she was capable of– she had been burned too badly trying to run from it. Time to embrace it.

…At the last second, Anya jerked in a different direction. Instead of launching the trombone directly into Damian's poor face, it went careening to the tile floor. The sound was sickening, like a direct hit from a hammer, that's how much adrenaline and vitriol Anya put into it. The poor instrument dented in enough places that no amount of love would get it to sing again. The slide had gone flying before the trombone even left Anya's hands, ending up near the front of the classroom, its mangled form finally coming to a stop at Dr. Hall's feet. Anya felt so stupid; she thought she could actually hurt Damian. She thought there was something in this world she was good at.

She took advantage of the one moment where everyone's mind was blank. She bolted for the entrance to the classroom, threw open the doors, and then she was gone. She didn't want to ever come back. She had just burned a bridge and destroyed a world, even if she had the gall to walk in there tomorrow things wouldn't be the same. They'd never be the same again. Not Damian nor Becky nor Dr. Hall could ever look at her and see the Anya they once knew. They knew how damaged she was and they weren't ever going to forget it; it'd be easier for Anya to fix that trombone than it would be for her to fix herself. So she just kept running.

She ran past her Math class, her Science class, her History class… Still in session as if nothing was wrong. Still thinking they knew who Anya Forger was. She briefly considered popping in and making a scene in each of those rooms, just so they wouldn't be surprised later on. But she couldn't bring herself to be seen by anybody, not like this. She had so little left, and if more eyes were on her then it'd all fade away. So she stormed right out a side door and was assaulted by the fresh air of the outdoors.

It was a quaint little garden. On any other day it'd be called zen. The cobblestone path was well-taken care of, it circled past budding flowers and dew-soaked grass before culminating at an ever-flowing fountain. Birds chirped above and squirrels scuttled below. Anya found a bench she liked and started to climb on, noticing the various names that had been carved into it. Eden College graduates that had died in the war. She sighed, now having disappointed even more people than before. She truly couldn't do the simplest thing right. Anya decided to forgo the bench, collapsing right there on the path and curling up into the smallest ball she could manage. She was taking up the least amount of space that way.

That's how she stayed for a good long while. She couldn't tell you how long. She tried not to think, to only focus on the flowing of the water and the sounds of the innocent animals. She tried not to reconsider her own purpose in life and to remember all of the horrible things she had done since gaining free will. All at once, everything began to hit her. The explosion and everything since then, it'd affect anyone, but Anya was affected both more or less than any other kid would've been. She let it completely overhaul her behavior and perception of the world, all the while never actually facing her emotions, hardly even feeling the emotions that she should have been.

…There they are. There are the tears. It was painful to cry after this long of holding it in, it stung like there was salt water filling her eyes. But she couldn't stop now. Crying was once a natural reaction for her, like it would be for any child that didn't get their way. The intensity of her tears now were nothing compared to when she stubbed her toe for the first time, or when she had her sandwich stolen by a bird. But these tears were different. They were more raw, and more primordial. Normally, Anya would be wailing and screaming during her tantrums, but now, she was completely silent. Sniffling or gasping every now and again so she could catch her breath, but otherwise she was completely silent. The concrete was beginning to grow uncomfortable now, but she didn't even squirm.

Becky found her, eventually. She almost wished that she hadn't. She debated just turning back, saying that she just needed to use the bathroom, and trying to save face. But that wasn't just some kid out there. That was Anya Forger. The kid who, decades down the line… Becky suspected she'd still be friends with. Who Becky suspected she'd credit with saving her life. Regardless of any mortal danger, here was a former bully who never thought she'd be anything more than a ten-digit number and a fancy wardrobe, who would never accept that she needed real friends. Kids once would demand to be transferred out of class so they didn't have to ever appear on Becky's radar… And then came Anya Forger. The first person who ever looked at Becky Blackbell and thought, "There's someone who can make my life better."

If Becky graduated from college, if she ever found a man and ran off with him, if she ever won election to public office, it'd be Anya who she'd thank. If she ever found herself having a horrible day, it'd be Anya who she'd call. Days like that had already come. Whenever Becky got slighted, or whenever a particularly sad episode of her show aired, she could always call Anya over for a playdate. They'd eat ice cream and go shopping and by the end of it all, Becky would've forgotten she was ever sad. That role used to be filled by her butler… A good man. But not Anya. No one was Anya.

All it took was a select few of those memories, and suddenly Becky was out in the courtyard. She sat down on the concrete right next to her best friend, dirtying the dress she promised her mother she would never dirty. She put a hand on Anya's shoulder, nuzzling up with a commoner, just like the commoners she promised her father she would never associate with. Consequences and expectations be damned, Becky knew this needed to happen. For a while, she just sat there while Anya lay on the ground and sobbed. No word she could say would fix this, so she hoped her presence was enough.

Whether it was or not, Anya was lucid again before too long. Still, she lay, just staring at the fountain. Watching it flow. Her eyes were finally dry enough for her to read the inscription on the side– By the Class of 1946. For those that will never see it. In the moment, Anya grasped that it too, was dedicated to those who had perished in the war. It was for those whose only sin was living under tyranny and daring to remain innocent. Not for her, Anya decided. Not for her. She shouldn't even be here…

…Anya finally registered Becky's presence. For a moment, she didn't know what to believe. It was good to know that she was still tolerated, that people were still willing to reach out to her when she had lost all claim to their company. But then again… How she hated Becky Blackbell. How she hated that face, dolled up with "modest" makeup, that was alone more than what either Forger parent could afford. To say nothing of her jewelry, her shoes, even the way her hair glowed and fell in the way it did. It was a life that Anya didn't live, that she could seemingly never live. No matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she toiled, Anya would always be a step below the Becky Blackbells of society, who infuriatingly weren't even doing anything wrong. Now here Becky was, trying to pretend like Anya meant anything to her? Anya almost felt compelled to swing again.

Instead, she sat up, wiped her eyes, and was able to hold herself up for a grand total of two seconds… Before collapsing into Becky's arms. Becky held her close. She found a strand of pink hair she liked and twirled it between her fingers. Anya always liked that. With her other hand, she gave Anya a few pats, and kneaded her back in small circles. That always calmed Anya down. Becky knew Anya so well… And she didn't seem to regret that. Even at times like this, or perhaps especially at times like this, kids need their friends. Anya needed to know that she could break as many trombones as pleased her, she could have as many episodes as she needed to. She'd still be who Becky would call over for playdates and ice cream and shopping and terrible, terrible television.

Anya had earned that.

---

"I received near-simultaneous calls from Becky Blackbell and Dr. Hall," Felicity explained as the story finished. "I then called your parents, and your other teachers. The same story from all of them."

This girl was six years old, as far as Felicity knew… Her problems were supposed to be about other kids not sharing their toys, about papa making spaghetti when she didn't want spaghetti, about not knowing how many sides an octagon had no matter how many comparisons to an octopus were drawn. This was suicidal ideation, this was emotional dysregulation, this was a sequence of ever-strengthening depressive episodes, defined by self-destructive tendencies. If a child was going to develop these issues, and Felicity lost a little more faith in the world every time they did, they usually developed them in their teenage years. Looking at Anya, so powerless to her own mind, Felicity could only draw one conclusion. It didn't matter how long Anya had been on this planet. She had lived more than six years worth of life; she had more than six years worth of turmoil and strife and trauma and suffering. It was a wonder she could even sit up straight. This truly was a strong girl, regardless of what her brain told her.

Anya wiped her eyes, having cried herself out the day before and not wanting to suffer any more than she had to, "Do they all hate me…?"

"The opposite. They told me stories about how lovely you usually are. They just recognized that… You need a little help to be at your best again. That's what I'm here for."

"I don't need anything…"

"...The explosion," Felicity challenged her patient. "It gave you an entirely different worldview, almost. Everything you once loved, you now shun, or even fear… Everybody who was once your friend, you seem to be pushing away. Even if you don't want to. If it is even tangentially related to the explosion, it's gone. Out of your life. And things that didn't matter before are now mattering. Has Damian Desmond been mean to you before?"

He was mean to Anya nonstop, to the point where he had become predictable. He had a list of about 5-10 insults that he cycled through on a daily basis. He wasn't only mean, and his insults had grown charming with time, but that didn't make him any more of a pleasant person. There was absolutely nothing he could do that would surprise Anya. She shook her head, "He has…"

"Have you messed up during scales before?"

All the time, in fact she couldn't remember a time when she had ever done it perfectly. But they were warm-ups. Mistakes were encouraged. Most of the time, when she made a mistake, when she got out of tune or out of time, she could find her place and slide back in without fail. But she got in her own head this time. It wasn't the mistake that earned Hall's ire, it was how that mistake came to consume her pupil. "I have…"

"Have you screwed up Caravan before?"

It's Caravan. Everyone screws up Caravan. "Lots and lots of times…"

"But have you ever broken your trombone before?" Felicity kept on the offensive, not waiting for a response before she continued pressing Anya's buttons. "Have you ever stormed out of class? Have you ever had a breakdown in the courtyard? Have you ever treated yourself, and everyone around you, this horribly?"

"Shut up!"

Anya expected to scare Felicity, at least to phase her. But Felicity barely blinked as Anya leapt to her feet. Her face was completely blank and neutral, the same as it had been for most of the session. Now Anya didn't know what kind of crisis to have– was she too docile and unimportant to change anything? Or was she a freak who ruined everything she touched? She knew she was supposed to hate something about herself, but she wasn't even allowed to know what. The only guidance she had was another thought from Felicity, "Let it out, Anya."

So Anya just kept rambling and hoped something would fall out, "It doesn't make sense! None of this makes sense… Everything Anya is doing is stupid and wrong, you don't gotta remind her! So what if Anya is evil and the worst kid ever, it hurts to say it, and nothing is gonna change 'cuz I say it!"

She pointed a finger at Felicity, "You're a bully…! J-just stop asking questions, please! Lemme go home!"

…

By the time Anya had caught her breath, Felicity wasn't in her chair anymore. In fact, she wasn't even in the office anymore. She was standing outside it, holding the door open, gesturing Anya down the hallway. Anya had gotten herself riled up, expecting a fight or a mad sprint, and now that energy had nowhere to go and she was vibrating in place. She looked up at Felicity, just to make sure this mercy she was being offered was real… And Felicity nodded. There was nothing malicious on her mind either, Anya would be able to see that in her expression even if she couldn't gauge it from her thoughts.

"You are not my prisoner," Felicity explained. "You have better things to do than be here, and I have no authority over you."

"...Oh."

Anya threw the blanket she had around her shoulders back on the couch. She fixed her hair. She dusted off her uniform. She was ready to pretend that nothing had ever happened, and had given up on planning for what comes next. Soon enough she'd have to face her parents again, face Becky, face Damian, face Dr. Hall, face the disciplinary board… But those worries just blended into the white noise inside her mind. Expecting her to react was like spilling a cup of water in the ocean and expecting the sea levels to rise. She headed for the door with her head, paradoxically, held high.

"...I'll leave you with one last thought," Felicity spoke as Anya was almost in the hallway. Anya let out an exasperated sigh, but nonetheless stopped in her tracks and craned her neck up to the therapist. She had lost all reason to complain the second that door was opened. "You are in pain. And let's call it what it is– an illness. You have an illness. You can either let that illness linger with you, or you can make something good with it."

"How is Anya supposed to make something good with her sick brain…?" she earnestly yet cynically wondered.

"You could strive to help others," Felicity proposed. "I was a bit sick in my younger years. I was so busy looking for perfection that I found myself unable to accomplish anything, then soon enough I lost the motivation to try. I got better. Then I noticed that there were other students like me. So… I decided that, if I got out of that hole, there was no reason that anyone else should stay stuck down there. I get people out of holes for a living now, and I love it."

Felicity had Anya's attention, and was keeping it for the time being, "...Whatever it is you have, Anya– you're not the only one to have it. Surely there are other kids who saw that explosion and weren't the same after it, surely there are others who have had fights with their parents or had bad days at school. When that happens, I think what they will need most… Is to know that they're not alone. Nothing would help more than someone their age walking over and saying… 'I know what you're going through. I know what these feelings are. I've been in this hole before and I know the way out.'"

"There's a path to recovery, there always is. But it can't start unless you start it. It takes that commitment and that drive. But it's more than worth it. Yes because it's the best possible thing for you…" Felicity took on a more of a strong tone, despite still 'not having any authority over Anya'. "But also because it's also the best possible thing for those that love you, like your parents and your friends. There's nothing that makes them smile more than a smile on your face. And there's nothing that is more comforting on a dark day than the knowledge that those dark days won't last forever."

"You are capable of helping a lot of people, Anya," she finished her little speech, noticing that Anya had backed up into the room. "You may end up being thankful for this later down the line. In our worst moments… Or, truly, on our way out of our worst moments, we learn things about ourselves that'll stick for life. So let's get out of this, shall we…?"

Felicity stepped back into the office and closed the door behind her. She noticed that Anya didn't protest. Instead, she seemed to be deeply considering the offer, far more progress than Felicity could've asked for.

"...Anya… Can help people?"

"Of course."
"Anya knows she can help people…"

"Great, so we–"

When you're a telepath, you'll always know the truth. You'll know when you're being lied to, you'll know when a smile or a shed tear is fake. You'll know that you really are disappointing people or ruining your reputation in their eyes, regardless of what they'll try to sooth you with. You'll know how deceptive even the most honest humans can be. If someone is being nice to you, you'll know why that person is being nice– you'll know that it probably benefits them to be friendly to the weird girl, and that it probably makes their resume stronger if they can say they worked with 'low-income, academically-challenged' kids. Maybe you'll find a therapist who genuinely wants to help you out, but if that therapist has the capacity to communicate, then they can't be trusted. They can't help you. You'll just have to look them in their eyes and tell them you'd prefer to stay worse off.

You, the lowly telepath, can do so much and yet can still do frighteningly little. You're not more powerful than the average person, you're just more aware – just aware enough to know how powerless you truly are. Maybe you know people's thoughts and intentions, but you're probably still a little girl at the end of the day, hardly able to understand those thoughts and intentions, let alone act on them. You'll be overwhelmed in crowds to the point where, even stepping outside, you'd be crushed under the weight of millions of thoughts at once. Some of those thoughts, you absolutely wouldn't want to hear, but you wouldn't have a choice in the matter. You would know exactly who people are; everything they don't want people to know, you'll have no choice but to know. You'll have less faith in your friends and in your country and in your world because you'll know better than everybody else. It doesn't matter if you'd, in a heartbeat, trade that knowledge for a smile, a clenched fist, and an optimistic soul.

Maybe you'll be a different kind of telepath. Maybe you'll be in a position to truly use your powers for good. Maybe you'll be the one that was able to escape and decide to not be a weapon or a tool. Maybe you'll be on the school bus one day when it parks at a redlight, able to hear the thoughts of the person in the fertilizer truck next to you. Maybe you'll hear them tearing themselves apart, longing for death and hoping to take out that stupidass plant with him. Maybe you'll hear that man consider that his actions would kill numerous people, and maybe you'll hear him determined to do it anyway, cackling as the light turns green and he speeds off toward the plant.

You'll get home and go to your parents, not looking like they're going to leave the dining room anytime soon. That's where the phone is. You wouldn't want to get caught calling the cops and reporting a bombing-in-progress, because you realize that your parents will ask questions. You'll be unable to think of a reason why, on a school bus with the windows closed, you heard the clear intentions of a man in a van meters away. You'll consider telling them that you're a telepath, and you realize that lives will be saved once you do that, but… Then you'll remember why this was a secret to begin with.

You'll remember that being yourself and doing good means returning to life among the sick and the damned, who you can't grow attached to because one way or another they'll be snatched away from you soon enough. A life where you'll grow up unloved and uneducated, believing less and less with each passing day that someone is coming for you. A life where you'll be experimented on and psychologically torn apart until you're hopeless enough to mindlessly do the bidding of the person with the loudest voice. You'll wrestle with yourself for hours, wondering if it's better to live a good life with blood on your hands or a horrible life with a clear conscience. You'll have not come to a conclusion by the time all of those people are dead and their family is in mourning and the nation is in shock and your TV show is interrupted and the anchors are crying 'doomsday' and your parents are by your side poking and prodding your guilty expression. You'll refuse to go to school the next day and then break your trombone the next, and then the next day end up interrogated in a dingy office that stinks of coffee, getting quite possibly your very last taste of free air before it was all for nothing and your life is ruined anyway.

You'll be told that you can do good for people, and that you can channel your struggles into real genuine change, as if you didn't grapple with that notion every day of your life. You'll constantly be faced with a hundred people you can help, only able to bring yourself to help one because the fear won't leave you alone. Whenever the emotions and vitriolic self-hatred trickle out of you, people will call them temper tantrums, seeing you as only a child too young to be burdened like you are. And you can correct them. But you don't.

You won't want to watch Bondman anymore, because Bondman is a hero and you're no hero. You won't want to look at him and be inspired because that'll just make you feel worse whenever you're watching an interview with someone who lost a loved one in the explosion. You won't want to go to school anymore because it's full of kids that aren't like you assuming, in a best case scenario, that you are like them. You can't believe that you'll eventually become something. You won't want to be loved by your parents or your best friend or your potential boyfriend anymore, because they need to save that love for someone who is lovable. You can't be tempted by the thoughts they evoke in you whenever they extend their hands or open their arms, because letting them into your life isn't just wrong, it's dangerous– the higher you build your castle walls, the sadder you'll be when they're reduced to smoldering rubble.

You won't even wanna be alive anymore.

…

"It's all my fault…" Anya repeated one last time as the walls came tumbling down.

---

When Felicity walked into the school's main office, she was carrying a crying Anya in her arms. Yor and Loid jumped up from their uncomfortable chairs and rushed to take her back, Yor holding Anya close and managing a few tears of her own while Felicity pulled Loid off to the side. The parents had been waiting there for an hour, but with each passing moment the seconds felt longer– he'd swear he'd been there since the previous day. He could've spent that time more wisely, picking up an additional mission or at least getting a head start on dinner… But he kept imagining Anya coming out and not seeing her father in that office. He would've wasted away in that seat for weeks if it meant avoiding that.

"What's wrong with her…?" he pleaded to the therapist.

"I could make a diagnosis. In fact, I could make a couple…" she remarked, glancing over to the girl, back where she belonged; in the arms of her mother. "I don't think it truly matters. If you want to go the medication route, we absolutely can, and if you want to take her to a specialist I can recommend a few names. But what's truly, truly wrong with her, Mr. Forger… She'll have to tell you herself."

Loid looked over to see if Anya was going to be accommodating. She still had her face buried in her mother's shoulder. That was already preferable to where she was days earlier, but this still didn't feel right. And Loid knew it wouldn't for a while. He hated that he was still thinking about what was best for Anya; what was important was that she was healthy enough to complete the mission… She had to somehow make it up to her teachers and to Damian Desmond, and her mental health had to be the least important reason why. So he told himself. Eventually, he turned back to Felicity, "What can we do to help her?"

"Just give her patience. Don't put too much on her shoulders, she's got enough there already. She has a lot of doubts, too, and doesn't yet have the tools she needs to deal with them… I'll be calling her down every week or so for a session, to see if we can work on that," Felicity remarked, before bringing up one of her hands to Loid's shoulder. She leaned in closer until she was sure Anya and Yor couldn't hear. "And whatever you learn about her, don't let her forget that she is loved."

"Of course. We're in your debt, Dr. Rogers."

"Felicity. And, anytime."

She bid farewell as Loid went to hold his daughter. She sank into his arms just as she had sunk into Yor's. The mother was a mix of relieved and worried, knowing how far Anya had come and dreading how much further she still had to go… But more than willing to see her through to wherever the end may be. They forgot that they weren't her parents at this moment, wiping her tears and trying to comprehend what she was blubbering under her breath. "I'm sorry", it sounded like. Over and over and over and over again. They let their warm embrace convey their forgiveness. They could never be mad at her.

They hadn't noticed it before; Anya had Loid's eyes. Had she always had Loid's eyes? He wasn't even related to her, that shouldn't be possible… They were tortured and darkened and had seen things that not even the strongest could bear without bending. Loid tried so hard to raise a kid better than he had been raised, but if he couldn't shelter her from the world's horrors then he'd for-damn-sure make up for them. Yor was certain that she saw some of herself in Anya, too– that want to put the whole world on your back and the surprise when that makes your knees buckle. The mother swore at that moment, what she'd been trying to swear from the very beginning… If it was the last thing she did, Anya wouldn't have to sacrifice a thing to live the best life possible.

Their love was unconditional. Anya was finally beginning to come to terms with that… If they were willing to hug her after everything she'd done, would they not be willing to hug her no matter what? That's what Felicity said. Felicity said lots of things, in fact… About guilt and about redemption and about what it really meant to be good in a world that seemed to reject good people. Anya hardly remembered the specifics, in fact she hardly remembered anything Felicity had said. There was too much else assaulting her. She doubted that she had changed one bit, between stepping into that office and stepping back into her parent's care.

…But if she hadn't, then why was her mouth opening?

"Mama… Papa… I have something to tell you."