The ward is mostly dark as we leave, night-mode lighting casting everything in soft blue. A couple of other bays glow faintly where students sleep off injuries or ill-advised experiments. A Hearth medic nods to us as we pass, then does a double-take when he sees me upright and not sparking.
Outside, the campus is gorgeous in that pre-dawn way—sky just starting to gray, the towers lit from within. The Grand Hall's big windows are dark now, no speeches, no crowds. The air is cool and smells like wet stone and cut grass.
We walk in companionable silence. Our comm bands ping quietly with delayed messages and overnight announcements, but neither of us opens them; we both pretend they don't exist.
"Sorry your first assembly day ended in… all that," I say finally.
"My speech went well," she says. "The rest can be… repurposed into training material."
I huff a laugh.
"You would weaponize my meltdown into a PowerPoint."
"Obviously," she says.
We reach the Forge tower. At this hour the atrium is almost empty—just a couple of early-rising third-years trudging down the stairs for punishing workouts and one Hearth kid yawning into a coffee cup. The private lift opens for us with a soft chime.
This time, when I step in, I don't feel like I'm trespassing.
We ride up in comfortable quiet. The dampener hums softly on my wrist; my comm glows green; nothing crackles.
At the top level, the door slides open onto the quiet suite corridor. The windows out here show the first hint of sunrise staining the horizon pink.
My door is no longer blank.
Above it, in clean gold letters:
VEGA, MARISOL — HOUSE FORGE — ARCHIVE ECHO
For a second I just… stare.
Lía watches my face instead of the name.
"Ready to go home?" she asks.
The word hits me harder than I expect.
Home. The loft. The ridiculous bed. The hi-tech shower I have only admired, not used, because I was busy conducting unauthorized hallway experiments.
"Yeah," I say, a little hoarse. "Yeah. I'd like that."
My comm band pings as I lift it toward the panel. The lock recognizes me with a soft tone and the door slides open.
It smells like me in here now—shampoo from my bag, faint ozone leftover from the first day, and underneath it all, new fabric and clean wood and that expensive this place has never had a cockroach scent.
The windows show the whole campus washed in early light. The couch is empty; the kitchen is neat. Someone—Alice, probably—has left a folded note on the island with a small basket: fruit, a couple of energy bars, a pill bottle that says electrolytes, one with breakfast.
"I'll give you privacy," Lía says. "Shower. Change. Yell at the shower interface if it misbehaves. I'll be next door if you need anything."
She nods toward the connecting door.
"Knock three times if it's urgent," she adds. "Twice if it's about clothes. Once if you're just panicking and want to talk."
My throat gets tight again.
"What if I just want toast?"
"That's Diana's department," she says. "She'll be here in… two hours." She checks her band. "Use the kitchen until then."
"Bossy," I say, but there's no heat in it.
"Efficient," she corrects, then gives me a soft, rare smile and slips back out, leaving me alone with my ridiculous loft.
For a moment I just stand there.
Then I move.
I dump the hospital bag on the couch, kick my shoes off by the door, and head straight for the loft stairs. The dampener hums, my comm chirps, my body sighs in relief at the familiar layout I've barely gotten to use.
In the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the backlit mirror and wince. My curls are doing avant-garde sculpture, my cheeks are still a little splotchy, and there's a faint dark smudge under each eye. On the plus side, no lightning scars, no burns. Just… me. Tired, but whole.
"Okay," I tell my reflection. "Shower first. Existential crisis later."
The shower panel chirps awake at my touch. It already knows my name now; when I select Vega, Marisol – default, the water kicks on warm, not scalding, and the light shifts to something that makes me look less like a corpse.
The first hit of water on my skin feels incredible. It's like washing off not just the hospital but the whole day—the sparks, the fear, the smell of burnt plastic. I lean my forehead against the tile and let it pound down my back, breathing until my brain stops replaying the arcs in slow motion.
By the time I'm toweling off, my muscles feel like they belong to me again.
In the closet, I finally properly see what Alice meant by "fully stocked." Uniform pieces hang in neat rows—House Forge jackets, fitted trousers, skirts, shirts in crisp white and soft gray. There are also a few sets of casual clothes: dark jeans, soft navy tees, a hoodie with a tiny, discreet Aeternum crest.
I run my fingers over them, half-afraid they'll vanish.
"You are allowed to wear the nice things," I mutter to myself. "The universe will not repossess them if you put them on."
I end up in a simple combo: dark trousers, white shirt, Forge jacket open over it, thick socks. It feels… right. More student than patient. More me than the hospital gown.
Back downstairs, I make myself toast—actual toast this time, not the burnt phantom. The kitchen interface is idiot-proof; the toaster even has presets labeled things like Hearth crispy and Veil pale. I pick something in the middle and watch it pop up, golden and perfect.
I take a bite, standing there in my ridiculous, gorgeous kitchen, and close my eyes.
"Mmmm," I say around the toast. "Finally."
My comm buzzes with a soft message:
FROM: DIANA
good morning, almost-zapper ⚡
eta 1 hr 20 min. do NOT read the forums. that's an order.
I snort, swallow, and thumb back a reply.
ok boss
showered, not sparking.
saving my first meltdown of the day for class
Three dots appear almost instantly.
proud of u 💙
twins want breakfast w u at 8.
i'll bring coffee. u bring that scholarship-student hunger
I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and set the toast down long enough to tap the dampener band, feeling its hum.
Suite. Shower. Shoes. Toast. Messages.
I'm back in my space.
My space.
There's still Rafe to deal with, and League politics, and Echo training, and a whole school watching to see if I blow up anything else.
But right now, before dawn, in my dark-blue-and-gold loft, with warm toast in my hands and my schedule quietly waiting instead of screaming at me, it feels… possible.
Monday can come.
I'll be ready.
⸻
I pad over to the connecting door, toast in one hand, still in my socks. The little status light beside it glows a relaxed green now instead of neutral white—someone on the other side has already okayed the link.
I knock anyway.
"Um… Lía? Where are we having breakfast?"
There's a soft rustle, the faint beep of a comm band, and then the lock chirps. The door slides open.
My brain short-circuits for a second.
Lía is there in full illegal morning mode: loose gray T-shirt, dark shorts, hair down around her shoulders instead of pinned, a mug of tea cupped in both hands. No House jacket, no tablet, just one very distinct pillow-crease on her cheek and bare feet on her side of the threshold.
We stare at each other. Her gaze drops to the toast in my hand.
"You started without us," she notes.
"Basic life support only," I say quickly. "Toast is survival, not betrayal."
The corner of her mouth lifts.
"Acceptable," she decides. "And to answer your question: here. In your suite."
"In… mine?" I glance over her shoulder toward her room. "Isn't yours fancier?"
"Yours has the larger kitchen," she replies, stepping through into my space like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And Mom sent enough groceries yesterday to feed a small army. It would be wasteful not to use them."
Right. Mom: Alice. Mother: terrifying solar war goddess.
She heads straight for the kitchen like she helped draw the floor plan—which, to be fair, she did. Cupboards open and close with soft clicks as she checks what's where, eyes flicking over labels like she's silently writing an inventory spreadsheet. It takes her maybe ten seconds to know exactly where everything lives.
I trail after her, still nibbling toast.
She glances up, taking in my damp curls and clean clothes.
"You showered," she observes. "Good. You look less… electrocuted."
"Wow, soaring praise," I mutter, but my face heats anyway.
We fall into an easy sort of rhythm—she pulls eggs, yogurt, and fruit from the fridge; I feed more slices of bread into the toaster because apparently my trauma response is carbohydrates.
We're halfway through assembling everything on the counter when the front door chimes.
"That will be Leo," she says.
The main door slides open and Leo strolls in like a man who absolutely does not live here but would like to. He's all House Radiant: deep red jacket with gold trim over a light shirt, sleeves shoved up his forearms, sigil on his chest glowing faintly like banked embers. His hair is still damp from a fast shower; his comm band is pinging with alerts he's studiously ignoring.
He stops dead when he actually looks at us: me in socks with crumb freckles on my shirt, Lía barefoot in my kitchen with her tea.
"Wow," he says. "Look at you two, all domestic. Should I come back later so you can discuss curtains and world domination in peace?"
"Shut up and grab plates, Radiant," Lía says, utterly unimpressed.
He grins and obeys, cutting across my suite with the easy familiarity of someone who's already decided this is part of his orbit. As he reaches past me for the cabinet, he automatically shifts his weight so our arms don't brush—like some part of him is still braced for sparks—then his eyes catch on the gray band on my other wrist.
"Dampener working okay?" he asks, jerking his chin at it.
"Feels like someone turned the world from 'stadium concert' down to 'respectful neighbor,'" I say. "I like it."
"Good," he says a little too fast, and then suddenly needs to be very busy with the cutlery drawer.
The next few minutes are… embarrassingly nice. Lía at the stove, doing eggs with precise, efficient movements; Leo chopping fruit with way too much theatrical knife work; me running toast cycles and trying not to get weird about how normal they look in my ridiculous tower kitchen.
At some point we start moving around each other without bumping—sidestepping, reaching around, swapping spots like we've done this a hundred times. Nobody comments on it. It just settles in my chest, warm and fizzy.
We've just set the last plate on the island when the front door chimes again.
"Showtime," Leo says.
The door slides open to reveal Diana, exactly at 07:59, somehow balancing a cardboard tray of cups, a tablet, and a paper bag that smells like heaven.
"Good morning, my electrically complicated ducklings," she announces, nudging the door shut with her heel. "I bring caffeine—decaf for our little lightning miracle—external carbs, and a firm intention to bully Sol into eating more than one slice of toast."
She spots the spread we've already laid out and gasps.
"Oh. You started without me. Rude."
"You're the one who's late," Leo says. "We've been awake for hours."
"It is 07:59," she replies, jabbing at her band. "I am precisely on time. Also, I stopped at Hearth for empanadas, so your argument is invalid."
She drops the bag on the island and the smell of warm pastry and spice fills the room.
We claim spots around the counter—Lía on one side, me opposite her, Leo to my right, Diana across from me. It feels suspiciously like a real breakfast table and not something out of a brochure.
Diana slides a cup toward me.
"Decaf mocha," she says. "Healer-approved, Mom-reviewed, barista-executed. You're welcome."
I wrap my hands around it, trying to look like a person who drinks this on purpose. I bring it to my lips, take a cautious sip…
…and immediately have to fight my entire face.
The bitterness hits first—chocolate trying its best but absolutely losing to "burnt bean water." My nose wrinkles; my eyes do a tiny, involuntary squint; my shoulders try to retreat from the experience.
I force it down and attempt a neutral expression.
Judging by the silence, I fail.
"You don't like coffee," Lía says. Not a question.
I wince, caught.
"I'm sorry, it's just—my tongue feels personally attacked."
Leo snorts. Diana looks personally offended on the coffee's behalf.
"Why did you drink it then?" she demands. "I could have brought you hot chocolate. Or tea. Or juice. Or literally anything else."
"You looked so proud," I protest weakly. "And it smells good! I forgot about the taste part."
She blinks, then laughs, shoulders relaxing.
"Okay, that's fair. Hand it over."
She plucks the cup from my hands and slides a different one toward me from the tray.
"Try this. Steamer. Zero coffee. Maximum cozy."
I eye it suspiciously, then sip.
Sweet, warm, vaguely vanilla, no bitterness.
"Oh," I breathe. "This tastes like a hug."
"See? I can work with that," Diana says, satisfied. "New note: Sol is a no-coffee zone. We respect that in this house."
"In this tower," Leo corrects around a mouthful of empanada.
"In this brand," she insists.
I take another grateful sip of not-coffee and feel my shoulders drop an inch.
Up before dawn, in my own clothes, in my own loft, knocking on the connecting door like, "Um, where are we having breakfast?" and getting this as the answer—Radiant red and Forge blue and Alice's niece and too much food and a correctly reassigned drink—
Yeah. I can work with this.
⸻
Lía looks at me around a mouthful of bacon, then freezes like she just remembered she has a face. She chews, swallows, and suddenly can't quite meet my eyes.
"Um," she starts, which is already new—Lía doesn't um. "Have you ever had Dutch Bros?"
I blink.
Of all the questions I was expecting from Aeternum's top student, that… wasn't on the list.
"I've… seen them," I say. "Drive-thru stands, right? Lines wrapped around the block. But no. Too expensive for 'I hope my debit card goes through' life."
She nods, staring very intently at her bacon.
"Their Golden Eagle chai is my go-to," she says, voice softer. "It's… like Christmas in a cup. I think—maybe—you might like it."
There's the tiniest hitch before maybe, like she almost didn't say it.
Across from us, Diana's eyebrows go up. Leo pauses mid-fruit-cut, knife hovering, eyes flicking between us with blatant sibling interest.
I pretend not to notice any of that and focus on the important part.
"Christmas in a cup sounds dangerously powerful," I say. "What's in it?"
"Chai, vanilla, caramel," she says, a little too fast. "Soft, not bitter. And the way they steam the milk is… good."
Her fingers tap once against her mug, an unconscious, nervous little rhythm.
"We could… attempt to recreate it. Here. Or—" a tiny breath, "if we ever go off-campus, there's a stand not far from the city shuttle route. I checked."
"You checked?" Leo says, delighted.
She glares at him, faint pink rising in her cheeks.
"I was curious about local caffeine access for students," she says crisply. "It is important for academic performance."
"Sure," he says, grinning. "Purely scientific interest. Absolutely nothing to do with possibly wanting to share Christmas-in-a-cup with our new Echo."
I feel my own face go warm to match hers.
"I mean," I say quickly, "as someone who has just been rescued from coffee by hot vanilla hug, I would be honored to try your Christmas drink. Replicated or field trip version. Dealer's choice."
Her shoulders loosen a fraction. She risks a glance up at me, and the tiny, pleased smile I get in return makes something flip over in my chest.
"Then I'll… work on a recipe," she says. "For the tower first. Controlled conditions. We can benchmark it."
"She's going to make a spreadsheet," Diana stage-whispers. "You've just unlocked seasonal beverage protocol."
"I like seasonal beverage protocol," I say, hugging my steamer closer. "It sounds cozy. And less likely to electrocute anyone than my usual protocol."
Leo taps his knife against the cutting board in fake solemnity.
"It's decided then. First: survive Monday. Second: Christmas in a cup, Aeternum edition."
Lía's ears go a little pink at the tips, but she nods.
"Agreed."
I take another sip of my not-coffee and imagine it warmer, spicier, draped in caramel and vanilla and whatever "Christmas in a cup" feels like when you've never really had the kind of winter people write songs about.
"Deal," I say. "But if I get addicted, I'm blaming you."
"That is an acceptable risk," she replies—and this time, when she looks at me, she doesn't look away.
I can't help it—I light up. A real, unfiltered grin hits my face, eyes going full crescent-moon. For once I don't tamp it down; I just… beam at her, clutching my steamer with both hands like she's personally invented joy and offered me a sample.
"Christmas in a cup sounds amazing," I say. "I'd love that."
Lía freezes for half a second, like someone hit pause. The tips of her ears go pink again, then the color slides down to her cheeks. She looks almost flustered, which is wild, because this is the girl who coolly gave a speech in front of the entire academy like it was nothing.
Her brows knit, just a little, like she's trying to debug her own reaction. Why is my face doing this? vibes.
Before my brain can spiral about it, Leo barrels in like a golden retriever with a new tennis ball.
"All right, seasonal beverages for later," he says, abandoning the fruit in favor of dramatic pronouncements. "Very important follow-up question, Sol: what about In-N-Out?"
I blink.
"Like… the burger place? Yeah, I know In-N-Out."
He grins, undeterred.
"Good. Then hear my visionary proposal: for lunch, we go off-campus—properly cleared, calm down, Lía—and indulge in a Double-Double, milkshake, fries. Maybe animal style if you're feeling powerful. You'll love it, Sol, trust me."
"I already love it," I say, laughing. "I'm from California, remember? In-N-Out is basically a food group."
He slaps a hand over his heart.
"You're telling me I nearly lived in a world where you'd never had In-N-Out? I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes."
"She literally just said she has had it," Lía says, but there's a tiny smile tugging at her mouth now, the earlier fluster fading into fond exasperation.
Leo leans toward me conspiratorially.
"Still. First-week-at-Aeternum rule: all major emotional events must be followed by either carbs, milkshakes, or both. You've already checked 'electrical incident' off the list, so I vote we invoke the burger clause."
Diana is already tapping on her tablet.
"If we're doing off-campus lunch, I need at least forty-five minutes' warning for permissions, transit scheduling, and making sure no one else tries to turn it into a publicity stunt," she says. "But I am fully in favor of burger-based coping mechanisms."
I sip my steamer, warmth spreading all the way down.
"So," I say, pretending to ponder. "Christmas in a cup prototype. Potential Dutch Bros field trip. In-N-Out lunch mission."
I glance between the three of them.
"You know this is starting to sound less like 'orientation week' and more like 'witness protection but with snacks,' right?"
"Exactly," Leo says. "Aeternum-style witness protection. We hide you in plain sight with food and family drama."
"And controlled exposure to carbohydrates," Lía adds dryly.
I flash them another crescent-eyed smile.
"Deal," I say. "You handle the snacks and the scheduling. I'll try very hard not to electrocute the milkshake machine."
"Low bar," Diana says. "We love that for us."
⸻
We keep eating, the conversation drifting into easy chatter—Diana ranting about some assistant practicum assignment, Leo doing a dramatic reenactment of Kaur's disappointed eyebrows, Lía quietly fact-checking both of them.
I reach for more fruit, then catch sight of the pale green and orange cubes on the platter. My hand detours so fast it's almost comical. I grab grapes instead and very deliberately pretend the honeydew and cantaloupe do not exist.
Leo notices. He follows the trajectory of my hand, then looks at the fruit. Then at me. Then back at the fruit like it's personally betrayed him.
"You're avoiding the melon," he says slowly. "Is the melon… offensive?"
"Allergic," I say, trying to sound casual. "Honeydew and cantaloupe both. Itchy mouth, throat gets weird. Not fun."
He goes white.
Without another word, he scoops up the bowl of cut melon, marches to the trash, and dumps it like it insulted his ancestors.
"I almost poisoned you?" he demands, turning back, ears pink. "On our first breakfast? I'm— I'm sorry, Sol, I didn't know—"
My face goes hot.
"Leo, you didn't almost poison me, I didn't eat any—"
"But I could have," he insists, genuinely rattled. "It was right next to you. What if you'd grabbed the wrong cube? What if you hadn't noticed? What if you'd been distracted—"
"Radiant, breathe," Lía cuts in, but she looks just as wide-eyed. She turns to me, all business suddenly.
"What other allergies do you have?" she asks.
Diana has already spun her tablet around and pulled up my profile.
"Yeah," she says, stylus poised. "So we know not to poison you when we make you food or take you out. I would prefer not to spend my assistant practicum explaining anaphylaxis paperwork."
My brain hiccups on two things at once: when we make you food and take you out.
My cheeks go from warm to on fire.
"Um," I say eloquently. "Okay, so. Honeydew and cantaloupe, definitely. Also walnuts. Can't eat 'em. Instant regret. And I'm allergic to cats. And dogs."
Three heads swivel.
"Dogs?" Leo says, scandalized.
"Dog allergy is just eye-watery, sneezy," I clarify quickly. "Prolonged cuddle sessions mean I pay for it later. Cats are worse—if I'm around them too long, my throat starts to close. Melons are contact too, by the way. If the juice touches my skin, I get itchy. So just… no melon salad art projects, I guess."
"Walnuts no, other nuts okay?" Diana asks.
"Yeah. Just walnuts. Pecans are fine."
"Noted," she says. "Walnuts: banned."
"And for the fur brigade," I add, "if I take allergy pills before being around dogs or cats, it helps a lot. So don't panic if I want to pet a dog. I just… need prep."
Leo looks personally offended on my behalf.
"We're getting you hypoallergenic dog time," he mutters. "There's gotta be a way."
Lía is still in full diagnostic mode.
"Any others?" she asks. "Nuts, shellfish, dairy? Latex? Bee stings?"
I blink at her.
"Are you running a clinic intake?"
"Yes," she says, unashamed. "You are Echo-Blooded, Archive subtype, S-class, attached to our team, living adjacent to our quarters. Your vulnerabilities are now my problem. Answer the question."
The phrasing does something awful and fluttery to my insides.
"Uh." I scramble mentally through The List. "Perfumes, but you already know that—headache and nausea, not like, throat closing. Bell peppers get me a little itchy if they're raw, but I won't die, I promise."
Diana, perched at the end of the table, has tan skin and the same impossible blue eyes as Alice. Her strawberry-blonde hair is a messy braid over one shoulder, flyaways catching the light every time she moves, and she writes all of this down like she's etching it into stone.
"No perfume, no melon, no banana, limited raw peppers," she recites.
"Banana?" Leo echoes, horrified.
"Raw bananas," I clarify quickly. "If it's cooked—like banana bread—it's fine. But also… cooked banana is kinda ew, so it's not a huge loss."
"Banana: only safe if baked and emotionally unnecessary," Diana mutters as she types.
"We'll adjust meal planning," Lía says, already mentally reorganizing my entire pantry. "Diana, flag all auto-orders for allergens and substitutes. Leo, no more surprise mystery fruit bowls."
"Done," Diana says, typing like a fiend. "And noted for future outings: we check menus for allergens before ordering, not after Sol's throat gets weird."
My heart stutters again at future outings. At the thought of all three of them staring at menus with that same intense focus they're giving my breakfast plate, just to make sure I don't accidentally die from a smoothie.
I duck my head, poking my fork at the safe fruit.
"Thanks," I mumble. "For, uh. Caring about the not-poisoning."
"Baseline," Lía says simply.
"Minimum standard," Leo adds.
"Brand promise," Diana finishes.
I laugh, a little helplessly, and spear a grape.
Okay. No coffee, no melon, no banana, no walnuts, careful with fur.
But apparently? Unlimited overprotective super-genius twins and one mildly feral assistant making sure I don't get assassinated by brunch.
I can live with that.
I hesitate, then figure we're already halfway through "how not to accidentally kill Sol," so… in for a penny.
"Yeah," I say, picking at the edge of my plate. "I guess… if we're doing full disclosure."
Three pairs of eyes, all on me. Not hostile. Just… present.
"I have OCD," I say.
The words land heavier than the allergies.
"Contamination and ritual, mostly. Some checking. It's… better than it used to be, but it's still there."
Diana's stylus slows, her expression going soft. Leo's brows knit. Lía's spine gets even straighter, somehow.
"And generalized anxiety disorder," I tack on, because at this point, why not throw the whole file onto the table. "So if I seem jumpy or overthink-y, that's not you, it's… my brain doing jazz hands."
There's a beat.
"Is that… relevant?" I ask, suddenly second-guessing everything. "For, like, team stuff. I don't know how much you need to—"
"It's relevant," Lía says immediately, cutting through my babbling. "Because it affects how you move through the world. Therefore, it affects how we support you."
Diana nods, scribbling again—but gentler now, like the stylus might hurt.
"Contamination and ritual," she repeats quietly. "Okay. So we avoid springing surprise sensory horror on you. Give you time to prep for new environments. Build in decompression time."
"And if we're doing anything messy in the lab," Leo adds, "I'll tell you exactly how gross it's going to be ahead of time so you can nope out if you need to."
My throat gets tight.
"You guys don't have to—"
"We do," Lía says, not unkindly. "You're Echo-Blooded. Archive subtype. Your mental state is not a footnote; it's central. If contamination fears make certain contexts untenable, we plan for that now. We don't 'discover' your limits in the middle of a crisis."
"Also," Diana says, glancing up at me, "I'm putting 'don't joke about germs in a crisis' on the list. For them." She jerks her head toward the twins. "Not for you. You can joke about whatever you want."
"I would never joke about germs in a crisis," Leo says, then winces. "Okay, I would, but not your germs. Now that I know."
A hysterical little laugh bubbles up in my chest and escapes.
"Thanks, I guess?"
They all soften, just a fraction.
And because my mouth can't leave well enough alone, I keep going.
"I, uh… I was a preemie," I blurt. "When I was born. They said I had fluid in my chest, so I didn't cry. Apparently I came out blue. The doctor had to flip me upside down and thump my chest with one of those little rubber balls to get me going."
Three different shades of alarm flash across three faces.
"Blue?" Leo repeats faintly. "Like… actually blue?"
"Smurf baby," I say, because if I don't joke about it I might fold in on myself. "Limited edition. Collectible."
He makes a pained noise and drops his face into his hands.
"That doctor is lucky Mom wasn't there," Diana mutters. "She would have filed seventeen complaints and also built you a personal NICU."
"Mom thinks that's probably why I'm—" I trail off and gesture vaguely at myself, at the dampener band, at the echo of hospital monitors in the back of my brain. "Like this. Anxious. Weird body stuff. Allergies. Brain that likes to stick on things it shouldn't. Premie plus chest water plus oxygen drama equals… me."
Silence, again. But it's a different kind this time—full, not empty.
Finally, Lía sets her fork down very carefully.
"I am going to say something imprecise," she says. "And then I will refine it."
"Okay?" I say, thrown.
"If the doctor had not 'knocked something loose,'" she says, "you would be dead."
That is… not where I thought she was going.
She continues before I can respond.
"You did not become you instead of being the baby they expected. You are you because you survived a situation most infants do not. Your brain, your body, your anxiety and rituals and allergies—those are what surviving looks like on you. They are not a moral failing. They are not a cosmic error."
I stare at her.
"Also, if anyone implies you're 'broken' because you needed a chest-thumping entrance," Leo says, peeking over his hands, "please direct them to me so I can loudly tell them about the time I set a training room on fire by sneezing."
"And I will bring up the Great Radiant Tower Stomach Flu of Year Two," Diana adds.
"Don't bring that up," he groans.
"I absolutely will," she says.
"I didn't say broken," I protest weakly.
"You didn't have to," Lía says, softer now. "Your tone did."
My cheeks burn.
Caught again.
She folds her hands on the counter, that scary-precise mind of hers clearly shifting gears from analysis to implementation.
"Here is what I know," she says. "You were born under duress. You survived. Your nervous system is particular. Your mind is particular. You are Echo-Blooded, Archive subtype, S-class, with a tendency toward over-preparation and contamination anxiety. All of this is data. None of it makes you less… valuable."
She stumbles, just slightly, on that last word, like she almost said something else.
"Also," Leo adds, "it's kind of thematically appropriate that our walking lightning rod has a dramatic origin story. Mother is going to eat that up."
"Terrible phrasing," Diana says.
"Metaphorically," he clarifies. "She already did the 'almost died as a kid' arc. You're in good company."
My chest feels tight again, but in a different way—like everything is too full, not too empty.
"Okay," I say hoarsely. "So, uh. Add 'preemie, almost drowned at birth, weird about germs' to the file, I guess."
Diana taps her screen one last time, then locks it and sets it aside.
"Done," she says. "And just so you know? Nothing you just said makes you less convenient to assist. If anything, it makes you easier."
"Easier?" I squeak.
She shrugs.
"Clear parameters. Specific triggers. A brain that likes rituals? Great. We can build you protocols. You're not a puzzle box. You're a… very fancy machine with an interesting manual."
"That's her version of comforting," Leo stage-whispers.
"It's working," I say, a little dazed.
Lía reaches out—not to touch me, but to tap the dampener band with a fingertip, a tiny, grounding movement.
"We will adjust to you," she says simply. "Not the other way around."
I look at all three of them: Radiant disaster boy still kicking himself over melon, Forge tactician calmly rewriting my internal narrative, chaos assistant quietly building a whole scaffolding around my brain.
The part of me that still feels like the blue baby on the table, waiting to see if the world is going to start or not, takes a slow breath.
"Deal," I say. "But for the record, if I ever start ritual-wiping your doorknobs, you're allowed to tell me to chill."
"We won't say 'chill,'" Diana replies. "We'll say, 'do you need a five-minute reset,' and then silently hand you wipes and not touch anything gross until you're ready."
"Honestly," Leo adds, "having someone around who likes wiping doorknobs might be an upgrade."
"Welcome to the team, Sol," Lía says quietly. "All of you."
And for the first time, it really lands that she means it—sparks, allergies, rituals, blue-baby origin story and all.
I turn what she said over in my head—about data, and protocols, and my brain being "particular." The way she talks. The way she moves. The way she doesn't flinch at the words OCD or anxiety, she just… reorganizes the world around them.
It clicks into place with about ten other little things I've been quietly noticing since we met.
I set my fork down.
"My brain works very similar to Lía's autism," I say.
Silence drops over the island like someone hit mute.
Three faces freeze. Even Diana's stylus stops mid-air.
And then—
"Woaaah, how'd you know?!" Leo blurts, eyes huge. "Is ND telepathy the same as twin telepathy? Have we been running the wrong experiments this whole time?"
Diana immediately recovers enough to point her stylus at him.
"First of all, do not call it 'ND telepathy,'" she says. "Second of all—wait, no, actually, do, I want that on a T-shirt."
I suddenly realize what I just… blurted, and panic flares.
"Oh my God," I say, words tumbling over each other. "I'm sorry, was that rude? I didn't mean— I'm not trying to diagnose you or out you or anything, I just—your routines and scripts and how you info-dump and the way you looked at my allergy list like a side quest, it all feels really familiar and my therapist back home kept using the word 'autistic traits' and I—"
"Sol," Lía cuts in.
I shut up on instinct.
She's looking at me, head slightly tilted, expression… not offended. More like I've just solved for X in an equation she left on the board on purpose.
"You drew an inference based on observable patterns," she says. "You were not… incorrect."
I blink.
"So… not rude?"
"You stated facts," she says. "About my cognition and yours. You did not weaponize them. Therefore: not wrong."
"Okay, but," Leo says, waving his fork, "maybe next time we sandwich the 'hey, I think our brains run on similar operating systems' between, like, two compliments? There was definitely a couple social cues missing in the delivery."
I groan and cover my face with both hands.
"I knew it sounded better in my head."
At some point during my overshare, Alice has apparently materialized at the end of the island—tan hands wrapped around a mug, tablet tucked under one arm—like she's been there the whole time, taking mental notes and we're only now catching up.
"For what it's worth," Alice says, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, "damn. Another one. At least Lía won't be alone in her PR classes anymore."
"ND buddies in Media Training is a win," Diana says, perking up. "You can both stare down journalists together and answer questions in terrifyingly precise detail."
"That is not how media training works," Alice says automatically, then pauses. "…Though in your case, it might."
I peek over my fingers.
"Wait," I say slowly, looking at Lía. "You… don't mind me saying it out loud?"
She shakes her head.
"It is not a secret," she says. "Mother insisted we be evaluated early. Mom insisted we have language for it. 'Autistic' is accurate. It explains how my brain prioritizes. It is not an insult."
"And you saying your brain works similarly," Diana adds, "tells us something useful about how to support you. That's not rude. That's a team settings update."
"So when you zero in on procedures and rituals," Leo says, leaning his chin on his hand, studying me, "and Lía zeroes in on spreadsheets and contingencies, that's not just 'Forge nerd' and 'Archive gremlin.' That's… same radio frequency, different playlists."
I squint at him.
"That's actually… a really good metaphor."
"Write it down," Diana says immediately. "We're stealing that for your joint PR session."
My cheeks are still hot, but the tight, shame-y feeling has started to ease.
"So you're not mad I said it," I check. "You're just… adjusting the social-cues-to-words ratio."
"Exactly," Leo says. "Version one: blurting. Version two: 'Hey, I've noticed our brains feel similar, if that's okay to say.' Same content, more padding."
"Next time," Lía says, voice small but steady, "you can also say, 'I think I understand you.' That would be… acceptable."
Something in my chest squeezes.
"I do," I say quietly. "Understand you. At least… pieces. The needing structure. The way noise gets sharp. The way people think you're cold when you're actually just… ten steps ahead and trying not to drown."
Her eyes flick up to mine, startled, then soften. For a heartbeat, it feels like the air between us is humming on a frequency only we can hear.
"Then our brains are similar," she says. "Not identical. But adjacent."
"ND telepathy," Leo mutters again, but this time there's more wonder than joke in it.
"Metaphors," Lía says, clearing her throat. "Complicated, ¿que no?"
I gasp so hard I almost inhale a grape.
"Oh my God, yes. Like, what!"
She relaxes, slipping into lecture cadence again.
"People say things they do not literally mean," she says. "But they still expect you to react as if the non-literal meaning is obvious."
"Yes!" I lean forward, elbows on the island. "Like when someone says 'my door is always open' and you go to their office and the door is actually closed and locked and you're like, cool, so everything is lies and language is fake."
Leo chokes on an empanada. Diana has to slap his back.
"That's oddly specific," she wheezes.
"Or when someone says 'I'll be there in five minutes,'" I continue, on a roll now, "and they mean somewhere between five and forty-five, and then they get mad that you believed the number they literally said."
Lía's expression brightens in a way I've only seen when she talks about lab results.
"Exactly," she says. "Or when a professor says 'I don't bite' and then assigns three hundred pages of reading. You very clearly do bite, señor. You weaponize grades."
"Metaphors are not inherently bad," she goes on. "They can be… useful compression tools. But when people stack three metaphors in one sentence and then get offended when I request clarification—" she makes a small frustrated sound. "It is inefficient."
"Yes," I say, slapping my palm lightly on the counter. "When someone says something like 'well, you know, it's like juggling chainsaws while riding a unicycle on a tightrope over lava' and I'm like, okay, which part of that is the actual data? The danger? The multitasking? The lack of training? Do you need help or a helmet?"
"Helmet," Diana wheezes. "I'm giving you both metaphor helmets."
"For what it's worth," Alice says, soft and low, "you're allowed to ask me to translate when people stack too many metaphors. I can usually decode Adult Bureaucrat into Standard Human."
"That would be appreciated," Lía says. "Kaur uses 'iceberg' and 'forest fire' in the same supervisory meeting and then expects instantaneous comprehension. Does she mean slow, hidden danger or rapid spread? These are different risk models."
"And don't even get me started on sarcasm," I add. "Someone goes, 'Oh, great,' and I'm standing there like, 'Is that great-great or bad-great?' Meanwhile they're already on emotion step twelve."
"In my defense," Leo says, raising his hand, "my sarcasm is very good."
"It is," I say. "That's the problem. It's too realistic."
"Okay," Diana says, tapping her stylus against her tablet thoughtfully. "New team protocol: if we use a metaphor and you're not sure what we mean, you can ask 'data or drama?'"
I blink.
"Data or drama?"
"Yeah." She grins. "Data = I'm actually describing a real thing. Drama = I'm just being spicy and the numbers are fake."
"That's… actually genius," I say.
"Write it down," Leo says. "Team Echo-Forge-Radiant communication protocol: metaphors require translation on request."
"Good," Lía says. "Then we can exploit metaphor deliberately, not drown in it accidentally."
"Also, for the record," I add, "when I said my brain works similar to your autism? That was data, not drama."
"Noted," she says. Her lips twitch. "And when I say your Dutch Bros Christmas drink sounds life-changing, that is… fifty percent data, fifty percent drama."
"Acceptable ratio."
Diana looks like she's just been handed a winning lottery ticket and a new spreadsheet in the same breath. "Oh, the media is going to love you three together," she says, practically vibrating. "Charisma and blunt honesty with a side of feral energy. You're a PR director's fever dream. People are going to be buying your action figures for Christmas presents everywhere."
I choke. "Action—what?!"
Leo immediately flexes like a dork. "Okay, but mine better have, like, at least three different light effects," he says. "And a little button that makes it say something cool. 'Radiant Lion, let's go,' or whatever."
"They'll have to include a tiny chair and a stack of books with mine," Lía says dryly. "So children can pose me correctly while I watch you make impulsive choices."
"They're going to put you in the front of the box," Diana tells her confidently. "Serious face, House Forge crest, 'strategist edition.' Leo will be the variant cover with the shiny jacket. Sol'll be the limited-run holographic Archive that parents fight over on resale sites."
My brain blue-screens. "I am not being scalped on eBay," I protest. "Absolutely not."
"Oh, sweetheart," she says, patting the air in my direction. "You already are. In spirit." She drops into a mock-commercial voiceover: "Aeternum's brightest new team: Aurora Prime's twins and their mysterious Archive. Collect all three for maximum neurodivergent excellence."
Alice puts her face in her hands. "Please," she groans, "do not give the League marketing department ideas. They do not need help."
"They absolutely do," Diana counters. "But don't worry, Sol, I'll make sure your merch contract is airtight. You'll get a cut every time some kid hits the 'Archive lightning' sound chip."
I bury my burning face in my hands. "I do not want to hear my meltdown as a sound chip."
"Then we'll record a new one," Leo says easily. He drops his voice to a dramatic rasp. "'Data or drama?'—zap noise."
Diana gasps. "Limited edition catchphrase variant, I'm writing this down."
Lía's mouth twitches, and she gives me a look that's half apologetic, half amused. "For what it is worth," she says, "when Mother sees the three of us together, she will also think 'media strategy' before she thinks 'action figures.' So Diana is… unfortunately correct."
"Good news, though," Diana adds, eyes bright. "You won't be doing it alone. Media sessions come with snacks, scheduled breaks, and my terrifying color-coded binders. We'll script what you're comfortable saying. You just have to show up and be your blunt, earnest, chaotically honest selves."
"And if anyone tries to be gross about it," Leo says, "I'll just blind them."
"You will not blind people on camera," Alice says automatically.
"Metaphorically," he amends.
"Data or drama?" I ask weakly.
"Drama," all three of them reply in unison.
I groan and thunk my forehead gently against the counter—but I'm smiling. Action figures. Media. Merch. All still terrifying abstractions. But with Diana gleefully plotting, Leo hamming it up, and Lía calmly planning countermeasures, it feels… less like I'm about to be devoured by the machine and more like we're building our own tiny, weird corner inside it.
"If I do end up as a limited-run holographic Archive," I grumble into my arms, "I at least get veto power over the outfit."
"Obviously," Diana says. "Brand integrity, babe. We've got standards."
Leo gasps so hard a strip of bacon actually falls out of his mouth onto his plate. "Wait—" he splutters, eyes huge. "Does that mean we finally get super suits?!"
Diana points at the fallen bacon. "First of all: food waste. Tragic. Second of all: wow, priorities."
My brain short-circuits. "Super suits?" I echo. "As in… matching outfits. On purpose."
Lía sighs, but it's the long-suffering kind, not annoyed. "We already have standardized training gear," she reminds him. "You own three versions of it, Leo."
"That's gym clothes," he protests. "I'm talking actual hero suits. Custom. Dramatic. Poseable. With pockets that don't lie."
"As opposed to the fake pockets in your Radiant jacket," Diana says. "Rip to all your dreams."
Leo ignores her, leaning across the island toward Alice like an overgrown golden retriever begging for walkies. "C'mon, Mom. Trending Archive, Aurora Prime's spawn, big shiny House Forge–Radiant collab—doesn't this scream 'team uniform budget' to you?"
Alice takes a slow sip of her coffee like she's bracing herself. "No one is issuing you a full super suit because you trended for twelve hours and almost electrocuted a hallway," she says. "There is a process."
"But there is a process," Diana sing-songs, waggling her brows at me. "That's the important part."
"What's the process?" I ask warily, already picturing some horrifying spandex nightmare.
Alice sets her mug down. "Official field suits come after three things," she says, ticking them off. "One: your team is formally registered on the Academy roster. Two: you've all passed baseline safety certifications. Three: you survive at least one mock operation without anyone needing to rebuild a training room from scratch."
All three of them look at me on that last one.
"I make one hallway into modern art," I mutter. "I see how it is."
"Once those conditions are met," Alice continues, "you'll have a design consult with Forge R&D and the League's equipment branch. Mother will almost certainly sit in on yours." She gives me a pointed look. "And yes, before you ask: your sensory needs, OCD, and allergies will all be taken into account."
I stiffen, then relax a little. "So… no itchy tags, no weird seams, and the cleaning protocol won't make me want to cry?"
"Exactly," she says. "Seamless linings. Hypoallergenic fabrics. Easy to disinfect without damaging the tech. No melon-based detergents," she adds dryly.
Diana's eyes sparkle. "Oh, the suit meeting is going to be so good," she says. "We're talking colored accents for House, adaptive armor plating, maybe a built-in HUD, comm integration…"
"Capes?" Leo asks hopefully.
"No capes," Lía and Alice say together.
He slumps. "You're all cowards."
"Capes get caught in turbines," Lía says crisply. "And elevator doors. And villain hands. If you want extra fabric, ask for a coat."
"A long Radiant coat," Diana muses, already sketching in her head. "Dynamic hem physics. Oh yeah, the action figures will eat that up."
I poke at my eggs, trying to imagine it. "What about me?" I ask. "What does an Archive Echo even wear? Big battery symbol? Library card chic? Do I get… shelves?"
"You are not wearing shelves," Lía says, horrified. Then, thoughtfully: "But layered plating could work. Flexible. Lots of hidden interface points for modular tech."
"You're Forge," Leo says, pointing his fork at me. "You need something that looks like 'I can take a hit and also hack your entire battle plan while standing in a puddle.'"
"That's a very specific aesthetic," I say.
"It's a good one," Diana argues. "I'm thinking dark base, gold lines that light up when you Echo something, subtle symbol on the chest, not huge. We're not doing the 'target on the heart' thing. Maybe a hood instead of a cape."
My stomach does a slow, nervous flip. "And… we'd match?"
"Coordinate," Lía corrects. "Not match. Radiant has different spec requirements than Forge. But a unified visual language would be… pleasing."
She says it like a tactical consideration, but something about the way she glances between me and Leo makes my face warm.
"So. Suits later," Alice says firmly. "Classes first. Control training. Media coaching. If, at the end of that, you still want to be molded into miniature plastic for holiday sales, we'll talk."
Leo clutches his chest. "You say that like it's not the dream of every child to see their tiny, articulated plastic self menaced by a six-year-old."
I snort. "Pretty sure my six-year-old self would have chewed the head off my own action figure."
"Relatable," Diana says. "Anyway, whether you like it or not, merch potential is now a factor. That's long-term. Short term…" She flicks her wrist; our comm bands ping with a notification. "You have an assembly in—" she glances at the time, "thirty-eight minutes."
Lía is already standing, collecting plates with that efficient, slightly fussing energy. "We should get ready," she says. "Sol, you need time to brush your hair again?"
"Rude but accurate," I sigh.
Leo hops off his stool, still buzzing. "Fine. No super suit yet. But I'm putting in a formal request that when we do get them, mine glows."
"As long as mine doesn't," I say. "Or at least has an 'off' switch. I do not need to be a walking nightlight."
"Oh my God, you'd be such a cute nightlight," Diana says. "Tiny Archive figure that glows softly when kids are scared."
I put my head in my hands. "Please stop giving Marketing ideas."
"Never," she says cheerfully.
Lía pauses on her way to the sink, looking back at the three of us—Radiant red, Forge blue, and me, somewhere between, steamer still in hand. "Regardless of suits," she says quietly, "you already look like a team."
The words land warm and solid in my chest.
"Guess we'd better live up to the branding," I say, hopping down from my stool.
"Data," Diana says.
"Minimal drama," Lía adds.
"Maximum cool poses once we do get the suits," Leo finishes.
And just like that, breakfast is over, and the next part of the day waits—no suits yet, no action figures, just uniforms, comm bands, and three people who apparently want me alive enough to redesign the whole world around my brain and my allergies.
Honestly? That might be better than a cape.