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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-16 08:00:47 EDT

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"Not incorrect, but lacking detail." Abbari leaned back in her seat. "Nereus entered a protracted... well, let's call it what it was, a war between the colonists and the corporations who initially funded the colonization efforts. This followed the discovery of nerephite. It's a bit more politically complex than that, but that will suffice for background."

"So how do genetics, or genopathy, come into play?"

Isaiah led us into his house and its semblance of middle-class perfection. Idyllic Christian family, tons of photos together in grotesque matching outfits, pictures of White Jesus, crosses, framed quotations saying things like, ‘Lord Bless this House’. Wait, is that a giant heckin’ Golden Retriever?

“Oh, dear sweet lord, she found a dog,” Rella complained.

“Look-its-fur-but-also-dog-face-and-tail-OH-MY-GOD-he’s-all-waggy-and‍—‍” OK, spent a while with the dog, not gonna lie. Got a little sidetracked. What year is it?

“Where’s Cooper?” I eventually asked Isaiah’s sister, now downstairs watching Netflix.

“Oh, your loser friends? They’re all upstairs.”

“How long have I been playing with this dog?” I wondered aloud.

“Oh, her name’s Skippy and‍—‍”

“Oh-my-God-Skippy-are-you-made-of-peanut-butter-I-could-just-eat-you-om-nom-nom‍—‍” OK, spent more time with the dog, being completely transparent. She’s really fuzzy and always smiley and I want to adopt TEN.

“Hailey, what in God’s name are you doing?” Rella asked from upstairs.

“Her name’s Skippy,” I told Rella, rubbing Skippy’s belly, tears forming in my eyes for some reason. I used my wrist to wipe them. “Oh God, why am I crying?”

“Can you please get this weirdo away from me?” Isaiah’s sister begged Rella.

Rella hopped downstairs and grabbed my arm like I was an inept child falling behind.

“But Skippy!” I said, being pulled away. She’s following me! “Oh-my-God-she-wants-to-be-my-friend!”

“Ew, why are you crying?” Rella asked.

“I don’t know! ” I sobbed.

Cameras, including TV cameras, rose to attention as speakers lined up at the counter. “This is it,” said Carcosa. “On my signal, Bart.”

An oldish but not extremely old woman got up and blew bubbles. The room erupted into cheers.

Id gasped. “It’s the bubble lady! She came back for the last day! Hi, bubble lady! I’ll see you in the future! Also in the past but you already saw me then!”

The bubble lady waved back. “I look forward and backward to it,” she called.

A younger woman, maybe a student, took the mic. She launched into an operatic aria.

“Handel,” said Bart, nodding. “Always a pleasure to have a little culture in a Western town.”

“We shouldn’t dawdle,” said Carcosa. “Last time we came here, this place got raided.”

The painted looked around his easel. “You were here for anarchist trivia night, too? Or was it the day the bookstore across the street got firebombed?”

“Nah, it was back in Beat times,” said Id. “The fuzz were chasing a jive tip.”

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Sorrel smiled dumbly up at the roof of his tent. Only one side of his vision was clear, the other was fuzzy. But that didn't matter. He would have gladly gone blind for that. Permanent eye damage wasn't new to him anyway.
Lu's face came mostly into view with a proud, crooked grin. He fixed Sorrel's glasses (his vision came back fully into focus) before softly kissing him several times, cradling his face with his palm.

A dark image with white text that reads:

For a moment, she could have sworn she heard their heartbeats, the breath whistling in their lungs. Then her own thudding heart overrode whatever noise had deceived her.
The group stared at her, then someone with watery blue eyes, pasty skin and graying hair raised an eyebrow.
"Even awake, she don't look like much."
Another with lanky dark brown hair and sallow skin snickered. "Can't imagine why anyone'd want a girl who looks like the back of a toilet."
Paige's head felt like it was floating away, miles away from her body. Dammit. I can't let these goons get the best of me. She bit the inside of her lip hard, hoping the pain would clear her mind. As she grimaced, the fuzz in her mind finally starting to clear, the goateed goon with brown eyes sighed.
"Who are we to say otherwise? The ways of Her Holiest aren't for us to know." The goon pointed at the one with the graying hair. "Now go get him."
The graying goon spit on the floor, then skulked out the door.

- From NO SKY LIKE MIDNIGHT, by Nora Shear

The word "fuzz" is in bold pink text. There are star decorations in each corner and a meteor decoration above the text.

One moment he’d been sat at his desk, trying to put together the pieces of whatever the Sinnlenst were up to (and wishing quietly that he’d actually had the courage to speak up and ask the others for more information, because they clearly had more of the shape of the puzzle than he did), and the next he’d been blinking back to blurry consciousness with his head pillowed on his open notebook and his pen clogged with long-dried ink.

He’d also apparently fallen asleep before he stopped writing, if the mess of scribbles on the page was anything to go by – his handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t usually completely unreadable.

*Not that it’d be much use even if I could read it. I’m missing too many steps for any of this to add up properly.*

And too many memories, which was the other half of the problem.

*If I could remember what happened to me the night that I broke my neck, that’d be a start.*

Except that if he did get the memory of those missing hours back, then he’d also find out what had happened to the person he’d apparently drunk from.

*Archer said that there wasn’t enough blood for me to have actually exsanguinated anyone. And he wouldn’t lie about that… would he?*

Except that he’d lied about Fest being a sorcerer. Or, at least, known he was one and deliberately not told him, which was practically lying by omission. And Sabbat had said that he’d made a habit of that, and of thinking that he knew what was best for people.

*And if I had a half-hysterical student panicking at me and wanting reassurance that they’d not just murdered someone, I’d probably tell them they hadn’t whether I thought they had or not, especially if they couldn’t remember anything.*

I get up off the bed. “Todd, who are you talking about? What button?”
“I can’t tell you,” he says. “But it’ll make everything better.”
“Better how? Todd, who have you been talking to? You need to tell me, this is serious.”
He steps back, shaking his head. “You need to go. You need to go now.”
“I promise you, whatever this is, it’s not going to help!”
“Go! Please!” He’s sweating, eyes bulging. Is he sick?
“Tell me what’s wrong—!” I start.
But he’s staring at his hands and, after a second, so am I.
They’re glowing. They’re definitely glowing. A faint, ghostly shimmer surrounding them, like a fairy in a Disney film. It plays around him, hazy and hard to focus on. There’s something comforting about it. Like it’s holding him.
And then the glow leaves Todd, floating out into the air, hand-shaped bubbles of light. I watch, transfixed, as the rest of his body follows suit. It comes away from him like a snake shedding its skin.
“What is that?” I ask, not really sure what answer I could possibly get. Todd certainly doesn’t look like he knows. Actually he looks like he’s in some kind of pain.
“Sorry,” he says, though I can’t tell what for.
There’s a flash of light, brighter than anything I’ve seen in my life. The air itself seems to have caught fire. I throw up my hand to shield my eyes and fall back onto the bed.

a screenshot of several paragraphs of text, the word “fuzzy” digitally underlined in orange. it reads:

He felt the ache in his chest twinge, but couldn't find it within himself to cry any more.

Bazyli returned just when he settled on a blemish on the wall—far too quickly for the kettle to be hot to the touch. Cecyl didn't move, even when Bazyli's fingertips brushed his shoulder; if anything, only curling into himself the tiniest bit further.

"May I?"

Cecyl nodded.

Not noticing the fuzzy knit blanket in
Bazyli's arms before it was being draped over his shoulders, too. So warm it must've been on the chair nearest to the fireplace.

Finally, Cecyl met his gaze, those grey eyes so delicate and round, almost shimmering in the candlelight.

A grin played at the corners of Bazyli's lips—quiet, subtle, soft. "Do you still want an ungodly amount of honey in your tea?" he whispered.

Although hardly more than a slight change in breath, Cecyl chuckled, and nodded.

"Sometimes I wonder if you drink it that way just to appall me."

The final stop for the day was the supermarket. Gabriel was clearly a little overwhelmed, so I guessed it had been a while since he’d food shopped. He also had no idea what he wanted to eat.

‘Can you cook?’

‘If you like jacket potatoes or things with instructions on the packet, yes. If not, no. I’m great at instant noodles.’

‘Ok, we’ll add teaching you to cook to the list.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘Yes, I do. Cooking is a life skill, and you are with me to acquire life skills. Make sure you talk about food when you’re working on things you like. I’ll teach you to cook your favourites.’

‘Would you teach me to cook your favourites please?’

‘If you want me to, yes. Roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and perfectly cooked vegetables, with rich meaty gravy. That’s my favourite.’

‘That sounds amazing. I haven’t had a roast for years.’

‘That’s settled then. Roast beef tomorrow. I’ll show you how to do everything. Don’t worry, you don’t have to remember it all the first time.’

The idea of cooking for him made me feel warm and fuzzy. Too warm and fuzzy. I knew the signs of my demise.

‘Could we pick up a couple of notebooks and some pens please? I’ve got lots of notes to take.’

‘Yep. Well remembered.’

I had to encourage him to select snacks and drinks he liked. When it became clear he was trying to pick only one or two cheap items, I chucked half a dozen of the liked but rejected choices in too. A decent razor, and some quality toiletries including three different bubble baths, completed the shop.

When we got home, I made pasta and meatballs and we started packing away my dungeon. There was no rush to get the new room up and running, it’s not like I was planning to have a sex life while Gabriel was under my roof.

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Jacques snapped his fingers three times. “It’s fuzzy. I was talking with her, and Quinn interrupted. He has a habit of doing that, right?”

“He does.” Jarek nodded, “But what about Giselle?”

“What about her?”

The only thing stopping him from shaking Jacques by the shoulder, apart from the size difference, was Jarek’s empathy against being touched. He balled his fists and whipped his tail against the dirt. “Where is she?”

Through twists and turns Jacques led him to another tent no different than the one he’d just come from. Inside sat women in a sewing circle. None turned their heads when he entered. None seemed interested in anything other than the task at hand.

He watched for a minute to understand what they were working on. A large scarf? A blanket? He shook the question off when he spotted Giselle.

“Giselle,” he said. If she heard him she didn’t show it. Careful not to disturb anyone, Jarek tip-toed closer and spoke quietly behind her.

“Giselle?” He asked. She didn’t answer. Was she still mad? King Andur had a two-part story about Lady Juine not talking to him because he made her mad. How did that story end? he thought, recalling the long-winded speech Andur made on his knees about his ever-so-intelligent queen being right and needing to be listened to.

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Besides, thinking was somewhat beyond her, at the moment. Her head throbbed. Actually, her entire body throbbed, her head was just the worst offender.
Fox tried to sit up, but couldn’t quite muster the strength to do so, so instead she sank back onto the bed with a groan.
There was a scrape of chair legs on stone and a moment later Av’ry appeared at the bars, a stern-faced guard shadowing his steps.
“You’re finally awake! You really had me worried this time, Fox,” he said.
“I’m not dead, then?” she croaked. “I wasn’t certain.”
“Not quite. Though it was a close thing.”
She could tell. Heavy-duty healing left a mark, and she had been subjected to it often enough to recognize the familiar ache. Not just the mending of a trifling wound, either. Someone with skill had reached into her every vein, power burning through her like a wildfire.
It wasn’t an experience she would ever recommend. It was better than being dead, but only by the slimmest of margins. If you had a low pain tolerance, it could easily tip the other way.
“What exactly happened? I’m a little fuzzy on the details.”

He pinches the light with his thumb and forefinger and stretches it, putty-like, until it’s long and fibrous. Then he loops it over his finger and shapes it into a tiny knot.
He flicks it in my face.
I sputter and sneeze. My head fills with a warm, fuzzy glow.
“What’s the Moth King planning?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” my mouth replies.
Shit. My brain did not authorize those words.

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The image behind the text is a border that is dark blue with gold stars with a black background with neon blue border. An illustrated caticorn holding a pencil and writing in a book with a rose behind one ear is in the lower right corner. A different version of the same illustrated caticorn is curled up writing in the lower left corner

More bullets cut through the wood, but this time they were accompanied by a metallic scream. The sound a VTOL makes when Pahaliah attacks, and the psychic attack fell away suddenly, leaving a momentary, shocked, absence of sensation in its wake.

Snapshot of dark mode document: A BRAVE SACRIFICE, Chapter 7:

“That’s not good enough. I know what this information is worth. To not only the Council but all preternaturals,” I said, and a smirk crossed Doctor Tragedy’s thin lips. He turned his full attention to me, and Mister Sky adjusted his necktie.

“What do you think it’s worth?” he asked, leaning forward. I gazed deep into his eyes and searched for memories of Beryx. He knew Beryx, was friends with him, and was at the trial that ended in the wrongful imprisonment. Now was my chance to save my soulmate.

“I want to go with them when they raid the Haven. I want a sentence, not mine, absolved,” I offered, folding my hands on the table. He blinked at me, and Mister Sky turned to me, unsure of my sanity. There was a good reason I hadn’t told him about this. I didn’t know if it were possible.

“Name the being,” Doctor Tragedy responded without hesitation. Mister Sky turned to him, lips parted, and eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Beryx, The General of the Council of Fire.”

Snippet from A BORN ANGEL (Anniversary edition coming Nov 2027):
(from Chapter 16 of 24)
“Don’t be nervous. The Dark Angel isn’t the nastiest creature to call the Haven home,” he tried to soothe my worries but only made them worse. I pulled my cape tighter and looked around the large entry. Today, it was bright and the hearth to the far left held a blazing fire.

“I’m not from the sector and everything about the Haven is new to me,” I said as he gestured to the overstuffed furniture near the fire. I walked over, and we sat in armchairs opposite each other. He ran a hand through his short raven hair, and his grass green, almond-shaped eyes, caught the light of the fire. I watched them, noticing that the pupil was a slit instead of a circle.

“Lizard,” my mind whispered, and I shook my head. I sat back, and he tilted his head staring at me a bit too closely. I pulled my bag onto my lap and wished the gun was inside as he locked eyes with me.

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