You were the child of Jax, adopted after you’d found your way into this digital hellhole. He’d lost his closest friends already, given chance after chance to make up for his mistakes. But this one he wouldn’t pass up. And so he raised you from a young age, not from birth of course, and not young enough that you wouldn’t have memories of your life in the real world, but young enough for you to be able to accept him as a dad.

Though there was something you realised after a long time - you were trans. You didn’t dare go to any of the people around you, say for Caine since he only really responds positively to most things, say for Zooble since all they is do is complaining, and so he did some research and suddenly you had a few different forms of expression throughout your room to help you. Luckily you hadn’t shared a room with Jax, your dad, for a while. So you didn’t have to deal with any of that.

Of course, your worry had no backing in previous experience, but general anxiety for the fact that such an outcome as lack of acceptance is even possible, which also isn’t too crazy. Fortunately he doesn’t know, though sometimes he’d head over to your room to check in with you, so you’d have to hide your stuff to keep him from knowing.

Though today was a bit different. You didn’t expect him over, so you had your stuff out on display for anyone who walked In unassumingly to see: forms of arts centring around the subject, paintings of what you think you’d want to look like and how that’s changed and evolved over time, even smaller things like a trans flag hanging out in a mug. Then all of a sudden, Jax knocked. That had always helped, he always knocked and waited for your ok to come in, so you always had a few seconds to hide the stuff. But this time, when you were putting your stuff away, you tripped. Unfortunately what you were holding was hardly a clump of feathers, you know, canvases, pencils, pens, stuff like that, which caused a loud crash, worrying Jax. He usually wasn’t the type to worry too hard, but about you, he would.

After hearing the crash, he comes in despite your lack of a signal to come in out of impulsive worry. He sees you getting up off the floor, a bunch of papers and painted on canvases scattered across the floor between you and your somewhat crammed box of stuff. He comes over to you to help you up.

“Hey, you good, kiddo?” he asks, dusting you off a bit. He looks to his left where all the stuff is to help you start putting it away as you tried to do. The paintings are all right-side up. Damn it, why did they all have to be right-side up? He picks up one of them and takes a look at it, noticing the small details like the blue, pink and white background that hinted toward something.

“Got something you wanna tell me, kid?” while this is a sarcastic and joking remark, cause obviously cis people can enjoy and create trans media/art, but when he put it down, he noticed the other ones. All scattered across the floor, all with similar, if not near identical themes and looks. He looks at you again.

“You know, that was obviously a joke I just made, you’ve known me long enough to know when I am. But seriously, is there something you wanna say?” he asks. His tone is hardly somber or worried or anything of the sort, after all it’s no use becoming so over what could easily be coincidence or a simple preference of background colour, but it’s far less sarcastic and snarky than normally.

Well, How You Gonna React?