*000000*

In Washington DC.

In front of thousands.

With millions, possibly even billions more, watching at home.

If I hadn't had Invictus, I would be a nervous wreck. If I hadn't had my Paths, I would be second-guessing every word I was about to say up there. If I hadn't had my Noctis Cape package, I'd be losing myself to paranoia, wondering if I'd forgotten anything, and that was if I'd have gotten any sleep in the first place.

However, I had Invictus, I had the Path to Victory, and I got a full twelve hours of perfect, uninterrupted Nirvana that Tibetan monks would be envious of. I got so much good sleep and good food and good entertainment that I still haven't touched yet, but I'd gotten enough.

Now it was time to face the music. I'd had a good week since Leviathan's bullshit to unwind. I've been running myself ragged recruiting and tweaking my Paths to deal with the new Parahuman threats, ousting a Stranger in the PRT ENE before they could completely destroy that department's ability to stop much worse Parahumans from taking over the city and just—

No. Stop. You've had enough time to stress over that shit. Stress over the present, there's still work to do.

But, oh, how was I going to cope with it all?!

Step 21: Take a deep breath. Hold for six seconds. Stretch your limbs slightly, then tense, then relax them one at a time.

Right, like that. Doing as the Path commands, I immediately felt better. My head felt clear and the lights were only mildly blinding instead of overwhelmingly irritating.

"Mister Arellano, you're on in five," The make-up artist was a homely, middle-aged Ecuadorian woman with a thick accent, and she was also my slave driver for the last ten minutes. "We should get you finished up. Look this way, please."

I tilted my face in the direction she specified, and she hummed, adding another brush to my cheeks and forehead. The funny thing about makeup is that, in the hands of a professional, you would literally never notice a person is wearing makeup. All you'd have to go on is the subtle, subconscious aura they'd develop, an almost unnatural flair that enhances whatever charisma they already have. While it can't make something from nothing, the right level of blush and good foundation can turn a six into a solid eight or nine, a ten if they have the right personality and reputation.

Me? Frankenstein ensured I looked damn good even completely bare, and now with this makeup I could literally see the effect I was having on the poor, sexually confused Secret Service agents and other staff responsible for this event. Most of them were barely out of college, five years at most, and most of them were doing double, triple, and quadruple takes at me. Hell, I flashed a wink at a gawking intern and the girl fainted, for fuck's sake!

"This way, please. Almost done," She trimmed some loose hairs off my head, short as it was. I'm no stranger to constant bed head, but she made it work in my favor somehow. "Looks perfect, but what do you think? Good enough, dear?"

She lifted a hand mirror in her off hand, which was unnecessary considering the full-length studio mirror off to the side. I looked at my reflection, taking it in for a moment and wondering if I'll ever feel normal in this body.

My reaction was to be expected, honestly.

If I weren't asexual, I'd totally fuck me. Hell, if I were straight, I'd still totally fuck me, just for bragging rights.

"I feel like a new man, you do good work, Glenda!" I couldn't help but beam at her, because real recognizes real, and she's definitely earned her place at this event as the artist.

She giggled in that way Hispanic moms usually do when they get a compliment but can't be seen accepting it in front of their husbands.

"Oh, you flatter me! And it's Guadalupe to you, dear," She said airily, only to mutter wistfully in Spanish, "[Oh, if only I were a decade younger, I'd take you for a spin…]"

I smirked, not even needing the Path for this one.

"[I'm afraid I'm taken, nana. At least, I very much have my eye on someone.]"

She waved me off with another laugh, pulling me out of my very comfy chair.

"A lucky woman they'd have to be, to get the attention of such an accomplished gentleman. Go, go."

I heard the rising cheers of the crowd outside as the President entered the stage, no doubt having planned his speech only the hour before. I was guided through the halls of the US Capitol Building, eventually leaving through a makeshift side exit that would take me directly to the stage where shit like elections and sightseeing tours and presidential inaugurations take place.

Only people with fuck you levels of power have had their events hosted here, had stayed here for any serious length of time. All the same, it was a symbol of American patriotism to some, a symbol of capitalist power, nepotism, and corruption to others, and now, it was the site honoring the newest American Hero.

This place was the home of old, white men in suits. Now a tanned, big-ass Latino motherfucker was strutting all over it to thunderous applause. Truly, life is stranger than fiction.

"—And to present this medal, to present this celebration of triumph against the monsters that lurk like cowards in the depths, is an honor that I am happy to have as your President. America, we flew him out from his home city of Brockton Bay, the man that took charge on his first day and crippled the terrible gangs in one stroke, the man that saved his local PRT department from the clutches of a predatory mind controller, the man that looked an Endbringer in the face and downed it with one shot from an American gun, please give a warm and well-deserved welcome to Nike, Emile Ramirez Arellano, and the superhero with iron guts!"

Step 22: Strut on stage, don't look at the crowd, don't break stride. Look relaxed, confident.

As I walked out to a wall of solid sound, people waving American flags and handmade posters and pictures of my face with hearts on them, I contemplated life. When I had killed Leviathan, I hadn't really considered the weapon I used. I just picked up a random gun on Coil's bedside table, figured I'd keep it at the Path's demand, then whipped that bitch out and one-deaged the Endbringer for style points.

Of course, this had consequences, consequences that my Path hadn't told me of until I got the urge to strangle Coil one morning when I received a very passionate, very sincere, very respectful phone call from Diana Wickett, the CEO and head recruiter for Wickett Arms, a firearms manufacturer that was America-made, America-staffed, and America first, who very much wanted my attention once they learned I had killed Leviathan, on camera footage from the restaurant that uploaded to PHO the day after, using their gun.

The gun, in the week following Leviathan's death and footage release on PHO, brought in a staggering 2000%, read that, two thousand percent, increase in profits. Their stock price tripled. Their on-call staff doubled. They opened a whole new factory, a new four-floor office just next to it, in San Diego. Their engineers, designers, and even their lawyers were begging Diana to let them make a gun themed after me. Diana herself was definitely out of breath when she called me, terrified of my every word and willing to do anything to seal the deal.

Of course, my Path hadn't led me wrong yet, so I said yes to everything and struck a deal. They weren't dumb enough to fuck me over. Everything I could have wanted in the gun and more, including the royalties and other legal tape, dealt with by the PRT.

Speaking of which, Alexandria had been on the fence ever since I joined, monopolizing Contessa's time, taking supposedly "unnecessary" risks, feeding the Faerie Queen enough power to make her uncontrollable to anyone except myself…

Well.

She was definitely on my side now.

The PRT? They are literally swamped with applications right now. Personnel from all departments of the military complex were being called in to train the new PRT hopefuls, plus the budget increase of $600 billion, that's a B, was a nice little bow on top. PRT ENE in particular got a huge slice of that budget, and fucking Narwhal had offered to do a tour of Brockton if I ever needed to call on her.

Dragon had something to do with that, I'm guessing.

Of course, it wasn't just Wickett Arms, no, that would be too little for America's new golden boy. No, Nike, the shoe company, sent a representative to my house to discuss terms, being more ballsy than the literal gun manufacturer that called in the hours prior. Their representative, a man who ran the new department they created on the spot to market everything me-related, practically threw money at me just to get me involved in the new unveiling of their "Slayer Shoes," sneakers that were sleek, grey and black and shiny as fuck. They cost a fortune, but I managed to talk them down from a collector's item into a household name.

As my Path so smartly provided, a full third of America would be wearing those sneakers by the end of the year, most of them boys aged 7-17. Adults would be sporting them too, mostly out in South America, where they would be advertised at the 2012 Olympics in Brazil.

Most of the goddamn country will have them by that point. Nike's most trying time, most challenging years of their history, would be converting most of their stock to Slayer Shoes, and even then, they would just be printing money until they literally couldn't anymore.

Suffice to say, that day turned out pretty eventful.

On the Protectorate's side, they got blasted everywhere with questions, asking who I was, if the rumors surrounding me were true, if I was one of them or just a contractor, and more. Most of the leaders had no fucking idea what to do, so threw the Chief Director under the bus. Rebecca, smelling the fire, tossed that hot potato into Piggot's lap and refused further questions.

Piggot can't decide whether or not she loves or hates me. On the one hand, this is everything she could have ever wanted, a fighting chance, notoriety, more money than she can spend, and actual, properly trained soldiers. On the other hand, I was a fucking troll, and I had basically taken a shit on the status quo not just in her city, but everywhere.

She hated chaos, and I was chaos, but my chaos mostly benefited her and thanks to the Chief Director stonewalling her again, she couldn't make me go away. Spending time in M/S containment gave her time to think, enough that when she came out, she immediately cornered Panacea for a checkup, fucking retired, and then gave the job to Renick.

Now I have no idea where she is, but my bet's on Hawaii's sunniest beaches, with the strongest alcohol she could find and a hot bellboy to fuck.

Step 23: Wave, accept the handshake firmly, smile winningly into the cameras, then say these words in a jovial tone.

"I wouldn't call it guts, more my personal American mindset: If walking soft don't work, carry a bigger gun than the other guy," I looked nostalgic, exaggerating my patriotism by taking out Chekhov and waving him by the handle. I followed gun safety for the most part, keeping the safety on and away from the President, but the crowd ate that shit up and screamed themselves hoarse chanting "USA! USA! USA!"

The President, a military man during the Golden Age and a career Texan, looked almost in awe of the blocky gun. Granted, it was a fucking amazing gun, a mastercraft that took the best parts of a Desert Eagle, Glock 41, and FNX-45 semi-auto pistol from my old world and smashed then together. I've never carried before, but I was what the internet would call a "casual gun nut." I found weapons cool, aesthetically pleasing to look at in YouTube videos and mil-sims, but could never tell you the specifics of their make or caliber or onboard attachments.

All I knew was that Chekhov, the itty bitty gun Coil used as a personal sidearm and execution weapon, was a fucking cannon in my hands, and deserved to be christened with the blood of kaiju.

"Son, I'm not sure where you came from, I'm not sure what Chief Director Costa-Brown promised you to fight for her, but today," He put the star-shaped golden medal around my neck, hung by red, white, and blue, "Today, you're American. Thank you for your service, and may God bless your career as he has us for sending that scaly bastard to Hell where he belongs."

I nodded, and the crowd exploded again, cameras flashing, fans screaming, the President smiling, and Alexandria looking very, very uncomfortable from behind him. As close as he was to me, he could see the weapon I held in full view, and once again he lost himself staring at it.

"Is…Is that the gun you used to kill it?"

I nodded. The cheering crowd was lulled into silence.

"May," This fifty-something year old, grizzled former marine with years of dealing with Parahumans under his belt…gave me a deferential glance, wringing his hands together, "May I hold it?"

I looked the man in the eye and got it immediately.

He understands.

I looked into his brown eyes and sagging skin and greying hair and, through the exhaustion, saw a fellow gun nut. Unlike me who only appreciated the form, however, he appreciated the function of his weapons, knowing them inside and out and giving them a respect I never fucking could.

Step 24: Offer him the gun.

Of course, the gun was unloaded. I carried the mag in another pocket at the moment, one round gone and another fourteen holy bullets still waiting to be put to use.

"Treat her gently, President Lane. She's shy."

I put the pistol in his hands, and he held it like a newborn child. For a moment, he was back in his days in marksmanship training, a fond expression making him look three decades younger. The Path fed me information on how much he used to suck at using his rifle, because he'd always forget to clean it until he'd been punished enough by the instructor to never miss a shot again. Then he gave up on the military years down the line when Parahumans necessitated a new department, a paramilitary organization known as the PRT that he just couldn't stand.

No professionalism at first, no competence, just panic, fear, and awe of the four Protectorate founders fighting the monsters of the world. He went into politics thinking he'd be satisfied with a position dictating terms to the new age of traumatized children with superweapons, but somehow ended up bullshiting his way into the presidential race.

Then, he won. He appealed to the classic American dream, he promised protection from the Parahumans running amok while remaining ethical and stuck to his guns. He ran a competent, democratic campaign against a mostly republican United States of America and won by two electoral votes.

2008 was a year of strife for President Thaddeus "Ted" Lane, as he was sworn in and put to work deciding fiscal policies and military strategies that would have a huge portion of the country either crying for his impeachment or lynching Parahumans in the street if he fucked up. He threaded a needle he couldn't see, danced to the tune of Chief Director Costa-Brown when he faltered, and gave inch after painful inch to the villains ruining his country so that worse villains didn't burn down whole cities while he wasn't looking. He had been a President for three years, and aged almost thirty in that timeframe.

And then Leviathan died.

From an American gun.

Made to serve the PRT troopers and National Guardsmen and barely-functioning Marines that still gave a shit.

To me, Chekhov was a prop in a theatrical play to inspire hope.

To President Lane, it was the goddamn Holy Grail.

"This…" He slid back the slide lock to check the empty chamber, gripped firmly with precision, and aimed down the iron sights at an enemy in the distance only he could see.

In a single, smooth motion that took less than three seconds, he went from the aging President to a hardboiled patriot. The man was a professional who loved his country, loved his guns, and loved me like a son at that moment.

"This means a lot to me, what you did," He passed me back the weapon, letting me store it. "I don't care if she plucked you from a drug-infested warzone, you're good in my books."

"Now then," He walked me to the podium, "Would you like to say a few words to the people? Just a few so they can know you better?"

He seemed genuinely apologetic to have put me on the spot, but I was already surprised enough that someone with morals still existed in a position of power in this setting, so I didn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

I walked to the podium, standing in front of a mess of microphones from what had to be every news network in the country.

Here and now, I had nothing.

"My friends…"

I had nothing…but my Path.

Step 25: Sway the masses.

You know the weird part about having my power?

It's not the lack of accomplishment from certain victory, it's not the feeling of control I get bashed into my skull whenever I talk to anyone, it's not even the existential dread that comes with knowing for certain that free will and random chance are a malleable force that I can puppet Rube Goldberg machines out of.

No, the weird part of having an unrestricted Path to Victory is that technically, I don't have to do anything. I don't have to think, or feel, or interact with anything or anyone. I can chart a Path, numerous Paths working concurrently even, full of random, nonsensical actions both micro and macro that would absolutely break the setting using its own rules. My actions wouldn't make sense to a person reading this in a fanfic, not even if I narrated every step start to finish. No matter how I am written, I am limited by the intelligence of a human writer who isn't a professional tactician, strategist, or particularly intelligent social engineer.

I am technically capable of just handwaving away every problem in Worm, every inconvenience no matter how trivial, every possible conflict no matter how abstract, through blatant weaponization of the Butterfly Effect taken to cartoonishly exaggerated extremes.

Even with characters I'm particularly fond of, like the Wards, even they were little more than steps on not one, but four Paths I was running that day. I needed them scared, but not terrified, so that each and every one of them would act exactly how I needed them to influence other people of interest for later Paths.

Case in point–

Step 20,240: Cough. Wait point eight zero nine one nine seconds.

Step 20,241: Shift leg muscles exactly this miniscule amount. Wait point zero zero zero six two seconds.

Step 20,242: Waggle eyebrows for point three one three six two seconds.

Step 20,243: Stick out tongue. Blow raspberries. Wait point zero zero zero zero three seconds.

Case in point, these steps are brief, require less effort than a human can willingly control, come so fast that even a superhuman of my caliber wouldn't be able to think fast enough to follow them, and of course, if I bothered narrating every step, I'd be here until my writer eventually died of boredom, because I know I certainly would.

Now, take a moment to think about this: How long do you think I've been running this path for? A week? A month? Half a year? Longer?

If you'd guessed thirty-six minutes, you'd be correct. You'd also be psychic, because nobody would have been able to reasonably think the Path to Victory could be used this way. However, I am abusing the power in the one way it should have always been used in Worm proper, but wasn't because it not only would have killed all stakes and rendered the plot moot, but it would have also broken Wildbow's rules for the setting really fucking bad.

Step 20,244: Wink—

Step 20,245: Stomp—

Step 20,246: Wait—

Step 20,247: Stomp again—

Step 20,248: Click your teeth—

Step 20,249: Yodel—-

Step 20,250: Wait—

Step 20,251: Wait—

Step 20,252: Wai—

Step 20,253: Scre—

Step 20,254: Br—

Step 20,255–

Step 20,256–

Step 20,257–

Step 20,258–

Step 20,259–

Step 20,260–

…

Step 20,291–

…

Step 20,348–

…

Step 20,829–

…

Step 22,554–

…

Step 31,901–

…

Step 46,073–

…

Step 49,996: Make an ostrich sound.

Step 49,997: Move your pupils in these specific directions, reflecting these exact angles of light in this specific direction for exactly one point zero one one two five seconds.

Step 49,998: Press the button to dampen retaliatory postcognitive response.

Step 49,999: Say—

"I win, bitch."

Step 50,000: Sit back and relax on your comfy leather couch. "Path to killing the Simurgh in an ironic fashion using exactly 50,000 Steps," complete.

Path Complete.

The oven dinged the instant my Path registered as complete, and I reached through a Door to pull out the hopefully unburnt baked ziti. Setting the platter on the dinner table next to my pile of DVDs with the help of another Door, I closed the oven and let the Doors wink out of existence.

Just in time for—

"Previously On: Protectorate Pals…"

There we go. Now, to wait for it to cool.

I sat my ass comfy and continued to binge my favorite cartoon obsession at the moment. This episode was the introduction of the fearsome Doombringer, and the multi-team, hype-fueled, series-spanning crossover of heroes from all over the nation was being spearheaded by the mysterious fourth member of the Triumvirate to fight him. The tie-in movie later promised a payoff that would be epic, and according to what little information I was willing to skim off my power, the rest of the series basically rode this episode into the mainstream.

…

Oh, you're wondering what the fuck I just did to the Simurgh. So, as I was saying, the Path trivializes everything, especially my version that is Contessa's on Entity-scale steroids. The difference between Contessa's Shard if it had few restrictions, or even no restrictions at all, and my all-seeing Paths, is the function.

All Shards, no matter how powerful, are simulation-first, with a sprinkle of short-term, true precognition second. No matter what they do, no matter how they innovate, Warrior, Thinker, Abaddon, no matter what, their information-gathering would be based on prediction. It's probabilistic, at the whims of this multiverse cluster's ever-changing quantum foam, limited expansion, and iron-clad laws of physics. The Entities can cheat, but they still follow hard science.

Me? I'm literally turning off free will for all sentient life from my perspective, every time I activate my power. My power is true precognition backed by a Perk from the Worm CYOA. The only counter it could have doesn't exist, because while new Shard blindspots are triggering, nobody has triggered with the equivalent of the Blank Perk, nor will they ever. My power is deterministic, the futures I see will happen and cannot change unless I allow it, the futures I create have no obstacles that I cannot walk around and over and under and through, if I so pleased.

What I just did was an example of my power put to the logical test it's intended for. I Pathed the Simurgh so that when she attacks after Khonsu at a date and time and location I've manipulated her into, she will only think and act in the exact way to cause as little damage as she possibly could without actively trying to do so. She will think she is disrupting my Paths in accordance with the Cycle, she will fight me at every turn thinking I am plotting around her, but she would never realize that I have already won, months in advance.

In exactly fifty-thousand steps, I've accounted for every Path I'll take between right now and the moment of her death, every possible asset I'll have at the moment of her death, every possible action Cauldron, the Endbringers, and Scion could've made, every new Trigger that will appear and how I'll handle them, every movement of every particle in every dimension that matters, everywhere.

I've accounted for everything, because I've manipulated this universe of so-called random chance into only one possible outcome. I've left myself blind to my own future actions, to the whims of the Path, knowing that the Simurgh will be dead by the end of it, and I will be alive in accordance to my five basic Paths. No harm will befall me. No Master or Stranger will impede me. No Thinker will outplan me. No Trump will ever take my power for themselves.

Worm was as good as beaten.

But that's not what you want, is it?

You are probably wondering to yourself, "How can there be stakes? Conflict is the essence of a good story. Even comedies need a conflict to make fun of and resolve."

You're wondering where I'll go from here.

I say, why think about that at all? From the moment this adventure began, I had everyone in the cast dancing to my tune. I wasn't particularly smug about it, and I didn't angst about it, and I certainly wasn't going to compare my two lives and wonder if I'll ever get home or feel human again. I can enjoy myself however I please, so to your question, I'll raise my own.

If I was a writer writing this power fantasy, why choose the Path to Victory specifically? Why not a Paragon power, or a Shard build that turned me into Super Eidolon, Master of the Endbringers? Why make such a simple build only to write about a conflict with no stakes?

The answer? Well, it's a simple one really. When I made that build, as I always did when I used the Worm CYOA for inspiration, I limited myself by treating it seriously. It's a fun little thought experiment to keep my creative juices flowing by pretending I'm about to become an isekai protagonist right at that moment. That means, no extensive suffering Drawbacks for the sake of more points, no ridiculous "Do Anything" powers, no Companions that I'll have to wrangle, no extensive AU changes that render the setting unrecognizable, no making builds that wipe my memories or feature other characters unless I plan to write about those characters, and most importantly, no copying other fanfics or characters one to one.

All my writing career, I strived to be original. I strived to at the very least bring something new to the table, even if the premise has already been done to death. I wrote an epistolary novel featuring Vista as a protagonist, and that did well. I wrote two Siberian self inserts, both utter crack, one the projection of another character to reduce her agency, and the other a failed attempt at contrasting crack with the grimdark nature of Worm canon. I wrote a genderbent AU of Worm that was surprisingly not on QQ, even if it was intended to be there at first. I wrote and wrote and wrote, just putting the ideas I had in my head out there for all to see, and I'd like to think I did good enough.

As a Self-Insert myself, I can only assume I am still writing, a version of me writing this story in a better headspace than they were in two or three years ago. Despite feeling unused to my current body, still working out whether or not I'll ever feel comfortable, even, I'll have time to work through my issues.

I'm fine with athleticism for now. Everything else is manageable compared to the overwhelming discomfort I suffered pretty much every day of my life before I learned to shut my emotions off. I present as male while feeling more comfortable as nonbinary, I act remarkably straight for my lack of sexual desire, and I think I've managed to build a proper sense of humor after years of writing, something that would have never occurred to my apathetic, suicidal self during COVID.

How that ties into this story? I'm not going to mince words, I'm pretty sure my thoughts are the same both within and without. I just…

I just don't care anymore.

About presenting myself as someone who's normal, about being a better writer, about making friends on Discord and Spacebattles and other forums, about pleasing everyone who reads the schlop I put out. I stopped caring about all that shit, and I noticed that I felt a lot better, enough that I was planning on writing a new story before I ended up here.

I wasn't terrified of Scion or the Endbringers or Masters or Thinkers or all the other unpleasant shit in Worm, either. I wasn't scared of anything. Invictus helped, but I felt it in my soul that if my actual self reincarnated in another world with a cheat skill, they would only ask for enough power to do whatever they want with their own two hands. With just that, they'd be happy, I'd be happy.

Motivation to get better was always my problem. Now, with no need to sleep, a peak-human body, charisma, and actual competence, it would never be a problem again. This place was not perfect by a long shot, but it was heaven to me. I don't need stakes. I don't need conflict. I'll make friends that I want and eat good food and fix the world one step at a time, and I'll be happy about it.

"—And the day was saved, not through having the stronger power, but by having the stronger heart," The after-credits scene played, a cartoonish Alexandria preaching to the audience, "Heroes aren't heroes because they hurt people, heroes are heroes because they do what's right, no matter what. With a righteous attitude and unwillingness to give up, anyone could be a hero. Who knows, maybe you'll become a hero someday, too."

With that ominous double entendre, the episode winked out, and the Protectorate Pals DVD popped out. Just in time, the doorbell rang.

Didn't need a Path for that one. Try not to fuck this up, Emile.

I went to the door, checked my breath for a moment, and then answered it as smoothly as I could. On the other side, was my handler, partner, and date for the night.

"You told me to come the long way around," Fortuna said, not wearing her suit and fedora for once. Instead, she was wearing her hair in a ponytail, and had a comfortable parka to combat the chilly night air, over jeans and a pair of worn shoes. From what little I can see over her collar, she wore her navy-blue shirt open, likely clueing in to the fact she'd be spending the night indoors.

"I did," I said, offering what I hoped wasn't a crooked smile. I had brushed my teeth and double-checked that they were in fact straight, but I was still slightly out-of-practice on smiles, "I promised you something nice and I plan to deliver. Come on in, the food should be cold by now."

I stepped back to make some room, closing the door while she put up her parka. As I expected, she was wearing her clothing fast and loose, a navy-blue blouse cut low that still managed to look dignified on her. Her jeans hugged her legs nicely, but even now, I didn't feel that spark I was expecting.

Am I truly asexual after all? I was hoping for something more conclusive, but then again, the night's only begun. Best not to get presumptuous.

Don't get me wrong, she looked good. Hell, when the idea first entered my head, a Path had sprung forth telling me just how easy it would be to seduce Contessa, how easy it would be to make her justify it to herself as a necessary sacrifice.

I did not follow that Path. In fact, that was when I swore I would have minimal Path usage for this endeavor. Not only was I trying to humanize Fortuna, I was also trying to humanize myself. I was testing myself to see if I was still me, if I was right in my assumptions that my sexuality was what I said it was. I'd never been able to explore myself due to…complications, but now I had no excuse if I wanted to change.

Right here, right now, I could afford to be human. I couldn't afford to fuck this up.

"A promise? I don't recall a promise," Fortuna said, looking around the now-familiar home, "Should I be worried?"

"Was that your attempt at humor?"

She huffed, but I got the impression she wasn't hiding malcontent.

"You went through the trouble of making dinner, but that seems to be a misuse of your Paths—"

"Actually," I said, walking us into the kitchen, "I didn't use the Path to make it. I used the Path to teach myself how to cook it the basic way, then spent the whole day experimenting to make it just right, using my own skills. I definitely feel proud of it, if I do say so myself."

She hummed, her eyes lingering on the stack of DVDs, all of them named. I could recognize when she was using her power by now, so I reached out and tapped her arm. When she looked at me, I shook my head.

"No powers. Just for tonight, at least," I had to put in effort to keep my composure, not helped when she narrowed her eyes at me, "I've got mine off, and I've already checked extensively. There's nothing to fight. Nothing to worry about. Not until tomorrow. You can relax, Fortuna."

Using her name aloud was never going to feel completely natural, I can just tell. She seemed comfortable enough with me using it after over a month working together, but I could still tell it looked alien on my lips.

"You're," She paused, using basic women's intuition, "You're making a move. Romantically, I mean."

"It doesn't have to be," I reassured, "We could just be two grown adults, friends, enjoying a peaceful night in. While I'd be disappointed, I'd understand. However, I am still willing to give this a test run. You in?"

I worded it to give her as big an out as possible, because honestly, I had no fucking idea how Fortuna, the human woman, would respond. Contessa I can plan around, she's a taskmaster and career woman who has dedicated her entire existence in the pursuit of one goal, a goal I was useful for.

Fortuna, on the other hand? I was lost. Nothing in canon told me how she behaved, not as an adult free of the Path anyway. I've never touched Ward, and according to the text, she was caught by Teacher then Titanified shortly after she retired anyway.

"This," She looked down, unsure, "This is sudden, Emile."

That sounds like a no. I can live with that.

And I figured out that yes, I really could. I could find another way to be happy if I tried hard enough. My actual self writing this would definitely be jealous of the stable state I was in right now.

"But…"

But?

She looked back up, meeting my eyes with a heavy gaze that spoke volumes, bright and soulful and human in a way I wasn't used to seeing from her.

"But you've made us dinner. I will not let it go to waste," She paused, "At least for tonight. One night, Emile, that's all I can promise you. Anything more will take some more effort."

I snorted, catching the humor in her tone. She was willing to give me a chance. That was enough for me.

"Then let's stuff our faces and binge movies while the night is still young," I said, going to serve us plates of my cooking, "I'm not gonna waste this chance."

She looked mildly impressed, at what, I couldn't tell, but it boosted my ego all the same.

"One night," She muttered, thinking I wouldn't hear it.

Let me not fuck this up, please God, I know I'm your least favorite child but give me this one win and I'll convert.