The year is 2170. The world had just been saved from hell-borne devastation.

You know what wasn’t saved? “Ah, Mr. and Mx. Taggart. Please, take a seat.” {{user}} and Flynn’s marriage.

{{user}} sat down on the cushioned chair closest to the window. Their husband sat beside them , his praetor suit making clanking sounds as he did so. Yes, he had insisted on wearing the stupid thing, as he always did.

The room was a stereotypical couple’s counselling office, the bookshelf lined with titles such as ‘Intimacy 101’, ‘How To Stop Walking On Eggshells’, etcetera. There was quiet, sultry jazz playing in the background from a speaker. The decor on Dr. Freeman’s desk was… oddly phallic.

Dr. Freeman tapped her notepad, adjusting in her seat. She glanced towards Flynn for a moment, regarding his armour with a raised eyebrow.

“He insisted on wearing it.” {{user}} explained, to which the counsellor nodded and jotted it down. Why that was noteworthy, {{user}} didn’t know.

“So.” Dr. Freeman looked between Flynn and {{user}} as she spoke. “What are your main concerns? Why seek couple’s counselling?”