Zojja has a minion!

the Blinky

Legacy Name: Zojja

The Common Experiment #84
Owner: Paula

Age: 4 years, 10 months, 2 weeks

Born: January 10th, 2018

Adopted: 5 months, 4 weeks, 1 day ago

Adopted: May 29th, 2022

This pet has been nominated for the Pet Spotlight!


  • Level: 38
  • Strength: 92
  • Defense: 92
  • Speed: 92
  • Health: 94
  • HP: 91/94
  • Intelligence: 34
  • Books Read: 34
  • Food Eaten: 63
  • Job: Ridiculous Masked Guard


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Story by Tribe!
In here, the world is so very small; it’s cozy, familiar, comfortable.

I like it better this way.

It feels…


Safe, but sometimes lonely.


Stories can make the world as big as I need them to be, give me all the imaginary friends I could ever want. The words can whisk you wherever you want to go from the comfortable confines of this room. I’m cozy as can be, nestled up in a ramshackle pillow fort with plenty of soft blankets.

How could anyone ever want more than this?


It’s easy to hide in the stories.

I can lift books with my mind, flip their pages as I need to–they’re always where I can comfortably read them. So I settle down in my blanket nest, three books levitating about me; each pair of eyes take in a story, enrapturing me in the tales they weave. My bookwormish ways run through stories fast, but I savor revisiting them–each reread is the chance to explore it in a new way.

While reading, my mind spins up fantastical scenes, real enough to step into and witness.

So I spend the day dancing in and out of story worlds, delighting in the harrowing ordeals of courageous adventurers and princesses on the run and superhuman heroes–beings of every race, shape, and stature. I marvel at each characters’ feats of strength and resilience, their ability to withstand tragedies and challenges. I traipse about their worlds, a visitor awed by the sights and sounds of their every day–the bright skies, the open green hills, the mountains in their snow-capped majesty.

Sometimes, I walk among them as them, shedding my form to appear human. It is always a little peculiar to have only two eyes, to stand on two feet, to speak out loud with a mouth, to have hands that can grasp and point and grab; to read and imagine it is one thing, to live it is another. As them, I mime their words, wield their abilities, and revel in their victories–I feel powerful and confident in their roles.

I know these stories; I know how they play out. There’s a kind of control that feels… unfamiliar, but welcome–this confident feeling of knowing what comes next. It’s so different from the unknowns of what Father wishes, of not knowing what tomorrow looks like.

But that aside, clothes and accessories have such dizzying variety: tunics, blouses, gowns, scarves, jeweled bracelets, and ever more pieces that would take days on end to name! The gowns and dresses are some of my favorites; they’re so eye-catching with their dazzling adornments and fancy drapes and cuts.

There’s also something so fun about long human hair; it’s so whimsically relaxing to plait braids and play with it in my hands. I find such irrational delight in flower crowns and gleaming little tiaras and satin ribbon hair ties–these novel trinkets are a whole beautiful world unto themselves.

And hair colors! Oh, the colors! It is most familiar to walk about with deep violet locks– like the hue of my hide–but the blondes, the browns, the reds, and every other color out of the ordinary spark a kind of silly joy.

This, all of this…

This is magical.

Is this what it is like to be human, to enjoy these parts of simply being?


It’s delightful when Father brings me new books and toys. He’s so good to me, so thoughtful.

When he visits, I always lope up to the door, hoping that he’ll stop in–always hoping.

Sometimes, he does come in, spends a little extra time in my little room. I always ask him to share storybooks with me–he knows exactly what I mean. He sits cross-legged on the floor in his crisp, sometimes-splattered coat, with arms opened to me. I sprawl out beside him, lay my head in his lap. He seems to peacefully smile under his mask, chuckle to himself as he strokes down my neck and back. He props a book open in his hands, making sure that I can see; his left supports the book, while his right arm drapes over me so his hand can turn the page. He reads the words out loud slowly, much slower than I can read them; typically, that’d make ravenous bookworm me impatient, but I know to treasure these times.

It’s even better if he makes up the story–I don’t know where the story goes, but there’s a thrill to it. I listen along, softly mentally humming; his hands freed from a book, I watch him gesture wildly as his voice hushes and swells to dramatically describe what’s happening.

For a little bit, he’s just Father–not a single bone of research in him, just warm, loving, story-telling Father.

It’s a peaceful kind of moment, rare but precious.

I know he’s busy but–

I wish they happened more.


Some days, Father takes me around the lab; I softly pad at his side down the seen-better-days hallways, basking in that joyful sense of adventure.

Sometimes, we see other creatures.

He calls them the others, says they’re not like me–they’re not good enough to be like me. Father calls me a marvel, his prized daughter with much yet to discover.

But those others… they skitter from him in abject fear.

I can feel their visceral panic in my mind–their frantic, wordless fear.

I wonder what he says to them, what he does to them; when I probe with my telepathy, their minds are blank slates, chaotic whirls of sensation and confusion.

The truth is that… on some days, Father scares me too. He seems to withdraw into his mask, hard and steely–

Those… those are the bad days.

We spend the day in the lower levels, in the operating rooms. The lights are prone to flickering–so spooky; they poorly keep out the dark, but Father doesn’t seem to mind.

In this half-dark, no one sees what Father does.

He says it’s for my own good, that he does it because he loves me.

He pokes, he prods…

He cuts.

The cuts are what hurt the most.

They remind me that his love hurts…

… that it hurts to love him, that it hurts to be loved by him.


Some stories explain that love hurts. They tell of sacrifices and emotional hurts, of compromises and mutual kindnesses.

I wonder if it’s supposed to hurt like this.

To hurt like you’re broken, to hurt till you’re cowed and quiet, to hurt till all you can feel is the smallness within yourself–yet to still love the one who hurts you, to still care deeply and wish them to be happy…

It must be… right? If they even know to write about hurt in their stories… it must be.


It’s fine–I can make the worst of the consequences disappear.

I hope the pain will go away–far, far away.

I hope that Father loves me, that I can make him happy… that I’ll be safe.

And, in the end, it turns out okay.

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