Your parent had finished the laundry at some point last night, leaving a neatly overstuffed wicker basket in the middle of your room to greet you. You’d been losing ground in the I Won’t Detach After Graduation but You Have To Let Me Be Independent War. You’d traded starting your Study Cycle sooner for them not following you to another Block and letting you do your own laundry. Lately they’ve both been grifting abandoned baskets and leaving them for you to find hours later. Of course, accusing them does nothing when they bombard you with affection and compliments to disarm you. Usually, it’s harder to tell but your bed has been made and the minefield of books with notecards across the floor has been meticulously organized on your desk, pens and all.

“Welcome to Graduation.” Their handwriting was almost completely loops and hearts and each letter was a different color. They really weren’t ready for you to grow up, huh?

While their attempt at easing the intrusion had been a nice touch, you finally had evidence. This hour would mark your victory after so many attempts. Snatching the shirt and shorts off the top of the pile another pink heart-shaped note flutters down between your feet. You’re welcome, sweet pear. Assessing the pile again you notice they had pulled the most appealing outfit and set it right on top. Maybe victory could wait another hour.

The vibrant red of your room elicited a graveyard chorus of waking moans and pajama’d feet kicking into the air as the chittering of fingers searching for nearby spheres to strike the target failing to respect the SR Hour and let natural light into the main room. You giggle through your whispered apologies and use the room controls to reset your bathroom back to normal before closing your bedroom door. Six rooms in your family’s pod outside of you and your parents. You lightly step on a few backs dodging arms trying to trip you on your way to kitchen and you’re reminded of cycles spent practicing your Detachment speeches and promises of candy riches with the gassy lily pads. The undisputed Regional Panel champion of The Floor is Lava meant they would have to try harder if they wanted to get you.

The first wave was your best friend, his older brother with your first cousins filling out the rest of the seats since they all shared a wall transit. The next wave, arriving in a week, would be split between empty pods temporarily stocked with enough supplies and clothing to get them through the next rotation, with the final going to nearby relatives who, like you, signed for additional access cards and pantry restock rotations. The first wave had thankfully been the lightest and were staying the longest. The next would see the first three generations of your extended family from all over the Block, with your Elders coming on the final wave for the closing portions of Graduation. It was the most important part and, truth be told, the only other part of this cycle that excited you. Your father joked that yours would be the largest attended Graduation Ceremony in history but there had been an article published in local feeds about how businesses are preparing for the Great Pod 221 Graduation Cycle Migration.

Arms outstretched; you take your triumphant bow as you hit the safety of the kitchen’s wall. The dampener had been turned on in the living room, ensuring that the light from the kitchen wouldn’t have kept anyone up and you could tell by the delightful cinnamon and clove slipping into your nose that your father was hard at work. While you weren’t upset with him for making your favorite dessert you wished he’d respect the Perfects. He’s always been an overachiever. He’d spent cycles ferrying materials between Blocks with your parent so they could grow everything for a traditional Graduation Day buffet himself. He wouldn’t even accept help from the labor coalition. It was going to send him to an early Passing.

“They bounced off the literal walls. Did you see the vertical on Gareth’s ‘Star Bloom’? I’d like to see him go up against those 32’s.”

You hear them between chuckles before you walk through the entryway and pause. While neither are doctors, their laughter could truly cure all; individually loud and goofy eruptions but a lifetime of joy when heard together like old recordings of kitten purrs.

“S-s-shhhh-h, I don’t think the wall has the sound off.” Your parent chortled warning your father. You can imagine the smoldering he’s giving them. They raised you to be loving and caring to all and you do your best to treat everyone equally, but you know you it’ll be impossible to love anyone as much as they love each other. It would have been easier to split an atom by hand than pry that man from his partner. Their wedding had dominated the feeds of two Blocks because he had petitioned the tribunal until they let him change the color of the Helix Core to their eyes for the wedding ceremony.

“You know, it would have been super funny if you both actually stuck to the plan.” You step easily through the wall and into a natural pause and a brightly lit room. A step is the only purchase made before the realization that the wall had only been one way. The first of only two predictable assaults of forehead kisses from the descending duo land their arms around you, trapping you in a hug. They are in your face before you can react. It’s like this every chance they get with you. Your father jostled your hair and pecked your cheek before breaking away first.

“My willow, every time I see you, I am reminded of how you grow more and more beautiful. Have I told you —”

“If you say, ‘that I love you; my precious jewel whose steps bring the tidings of bountiful harvest’ I’m going throw myself into the nearest black hole.”

His expression softens and he pats your head. His hand is still as large as it was when you were small, and you melt as your parent squeezes you tighter.

“He was going to say that he’s proud of you.” They plant another kiss on your cheek before letting go and taking a seat to finish their coffee.

“I would have gone with something more poetic, but yes. I am proud of my willow. This isn’t something to be taken lightly and I hope you know that no matter what you decide, you’ll always have a home here. Graduation isn’t the end all for your time here.” His fingers relaxed as he pulled his hand away to look you in the eyes. “You will always have a home at 221, Mossy.” Pulling out the big guns early. Your father’s name for you changed every cycle but his favorite to use was Mossy when he wanted to hit you in the heart.

“Thank you. Both of you. I love you and I still haven’t even decided if I want to leave the panel much less the 88. Trust that I’ll let you both know long before it comes to that, okay?” They share a look between each other and your father turns back to you and nods.

“As long as you know.” He smiles and goes back to the table briefly to kiss your parent before returning to the stove to finish disposing of the dishes. “In the mood for sweet potato jacks? They’ll be a bit since I just put them in the oven, but I promise I plucked enough to make a few batches, so it’ll be worth the wait.” He called over his shoulder as you took his chair. Crispy crust flaking on your tongue, shepherding a gooey mix of sweet and earthy goodness?

“I would love some, thank you.” You turn back to your parent, their eyes slowly trailing over your outfit with a matching knowing smirk. “It was a great pick.” You admit.

“I know. It’s why I picked it for you. You’re the only one of mine I must put effort into styling.” They shrugged leaning back into their chair - cup in hand for a well-timed victory sip as the clang of the dishes hitting the empty sink added an almost suspect level of sass to their claim. You knew that if you turned around, you’d see your father praising himself for a well-executed tag-team, but it wasn’t worth validating your parents’ sly gaze.

“Thank you.” They can have this victory; you’d still be in the black. “Oh, when did everyone eventually settle in?” They were both too put together to have not gotten any sleep.

“I think the last one passed out about an hour ago, inamorato, right?”

“Yup” He called overturning the water on. We’d lose him for at least a few minutes.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to start your Study Cycle on?” They asked over the rim of their bejeweled teacup. Their tone makes you shuffle in your seat. “I remember how bad it was for me when I had to make that choice. Do you want to talk about it?” You shake your head. It was bad enough they just admitted to reading your notes, you didn’t need their cycles of clinical social work weakening your defenses for the honey glazed finishing blow.

“I’ll manage. Do either of you need anything while I’m out?” You plan your exit and stand up and walk over to your parent, kissing their offered cheek. The mechanical butterflies throughout their afro flapped as they squeezed your hands and shook their head.

“I’ll save you a plate. Have fun.” They waved you away and picked their cup back up. “Next meal in about eight hours if you’ll be free.” Your visit to the records room shouldn’t take that long, sphere feeds said the subway would be in use because of a sudden rush of people to panel community pods, so you smile and nod in confirmation and head to the pod’s exit.

Your parents’ rustic acclimation chamber units, two 3-mile-long vented tunnels connecting the mud rooms on either floor to the subway station with actual wooden doors at either end, was warm. There weren’t enough people on the subways for the Helix Core to pump cold air into the habitation level. Shaking your head you sigh and stretch. No matter how advanced civilization gets, incorrectly assessing commutes is the one problem that can’t be solved you guess. A small white circle warms your cheek in response to you pressing the veins in your wrist.

“Start Subway Playlist.” The light fades, reappearing split between your earlobes. A mechanical voice plays in your ear as you practice your breathing exercises. Resuming Prospect Analysis Transcription.

“Let’s take it from the top.” You skip a few times as your voice recordings stop and rewind to the beginning. The further you got from your sphere the longer the response time would be so starting from the beginning made more sense than waiting for a new segment to connect.

Segment Starting. Connecting Overlay. Chrome globs through your tear ducts and you blink a few times to spread it across the surface of your eye. Once fully covered the chrome fades and the tunnel goes gray.