How to Repair a Mechanical Heart by J.C. Lillis Page A

here.”
    ***
    I see her fanjournal icon in my head. It pops up in my dreams: the angel statue, the halo of knives.
    “It’s bad, guys,” Abel says. “C’mere.”
    You knew this would happen, says Father Mike.
    hey_mamacita is back. This time she’s posted a picture I’ve never seen before. Abel in his Thundercats t-shirt, pulling a stern face beside a cinder-block wall.
    Under the photo it says:
A MESSAGE OF GRAVE IMPORTANCE.
to miss maxima and the rest of you Cadsim girls: I am officially calling you out. STOP TROLLING US OR ELSE!!! it’s one thing not to agree with our manifesto, but CHRIST ON A BIKE it’s a whole other bag of crazy to come over and attack us and call us, I quote, “psychotic” and “mentally ill.” who are brandon & abel to you, anyway? as far as I recall, you were calling for their heads last year when they ripped apart your fic on Screw Your Sensors every week, so kindly cram it with the mark david chapman references and calling us batshit crazy, especially since you of all people know EXACTLY where we’re coming from.
for the record, YES, we will still have a spy (spies plural) at the Atlanta CastieCon today. they’re already there, and they are READY FOR ACTION as soon as brandon and abel walk in.
and BFC update = plots are thickening. as we speak. there’s still time to join us, IF you dare.
ta-ta.
:-)
    We just stand there and blink.
    “You guys.” Abel taps the screen fast. “That is a personal photo.”
    “Did you post it anywhere before?” says Bec.
    “Facebook, maybe. I don’t know.”
    “Any enemies? Besides the Cadsim shippers?”
    “No. I love everyone,” Abel shrugs. “Except if they suck. But most people don’t‌—‌What is he doing?”
    I’m already in the back room, unzipping the canvas storage chest under the bed. I find them right away, under a couple flannel shirts and four awful Christmas sweaters from our last Vermont holiday with Aunt Meg. Dad ordered the SAFE-U vests five years ago when someone got shot half a mile from our house during deer season. When we took our Saturday walks in the woods with our binoculars and bag lunches, he wouldn’t let me leave without strapping one of these on. Always best not to take chances, he’d say.
    Abel says to Bec, “What are those ?”
    “How would I know?”
    “I thought you knew every inch of this place.”
    I shrug. “Tell him it’s like the vests they wore in Episode 4-23,” I tell Bec. “When they’re rescuing Dutchie from the tentacle robots? Tell him he should wear one too.”
    “Did you get that?” Bec asks Abel.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “It’s like a costume,” I say. “But not so obvious.”
    “Tell Brandon,” says Abel, “that I think he’s full of shit, and that those are bulletproof vests, and if he thinks I’m wearing one of those he’s one hundred percent demented.”
    “Tell Abel that they’re bulletblocker panels , and when your enemies are stalking you and other people are calling them psychotic, it’s actually a fairly intelligent idea.”
    “Tell Paranoid Android he’s officially out of his skull, and that no one in the history of fandom has gotten shot over a ship war.”
    “I bet that’s not true.”
    “And plus there’s no way Cadmus would wear one of those.”
    “Tell him we don’t have writers to save our asses.”
    “Ask Brandon how come he’s such a puss all of a sudden.”
    “Tell Abel to‌—‌”
    “Shut it!” yells Bec.
    I turn around. She’s standing in the kitchen nook in a pink bra with red circles, the one that’s always hanging damp from her shower rod when I use her bathroom at home.
    “Listen, bozos.” She tosses her sleep shirt on the counter and starts yanking on her green v-neck. “Do it or don’t do it. Fight or don’t fight. Love each other or hate each other. Just leave me out of it. Understood?”
    I sneak a look at Abel. He crosses his arms.
    “Yeah,” we mutter.
    “You have anything to say to each other?”
    “Nope,” I