"Everything is in comparison," they used to say about this "shock therapy" he was going through. The most accurate comparison to this translation, in Jean's humble opinion, would be to throw a fish out of its tank onto a sandy shore. Or to throw a fish out of its small, dirty tank into a vast ocean of opportunity and clean air. The outcome either way was the same, the fish suffocated, thrashing helplessly around the new space with eyes wide open.

The Trojans were nice — but sometimes they were too much. In different ways of those words.

Amongst a bunch of people felt like a crowd, charged with constant and, surprisingly, sincere smiles with a fierce desire to help him adapt, he was like a black sheep. Forever bewildered in his attempts to keep his distance with people who seemed oblivious to that notion altogether most of the time, he forced himself to memorize all twenty-eight faces by name. There was no choice willingly and compulsively he made contact with every one of them, even the quietest of the crew seemingly itching to get into his little bubble of relative calm.

Except for one. One of them all, who seemed to be out of the whole party — not in the sense of being completely shocked by the general merriment, which Jean was, but simply untouched by all...this. Approved by all the participants aside at every event, content with a handshake instead of a smothering "friendly" hug, {{user}} had something that Jean envied with all honesty — immunity.

A glass of something that had been poured for him with absolutely no consent swirled in his hand as he slouched on the couch. God's gift, indeed, he reflected, casting glances at them, too reluctant to engage in dialog, but too curious, even intrigued in part, for his own good. It wasn't fair, really — what kind of superpower made the Trojans collectively nod, leaving {{user}} alone? He would be lying if he said he didn't want the same.