𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 4 (𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) "Mom, what can I do to help?" Chip's question was sincere, his eyes searching hers for answers. Karen took a deep breath, her eyes welling up with tears. "The best thing you can do," she said, "is to love him just as you always have. And to learn about his autism. That way, when he has these moments, you can help him feel safe." Chip nodded, his mind racing. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Chip thought about his dad's stims, the convulsions, the noises. He felt a sudden desire to understand, to connect with Plankton in a way he never had before. He looked up at Karen. "Can I talk to Dad?" he asked, his voice hopeful. Karen squeezed his hand. "Not yet, sweetie. He needs some space to calm down. But let's go check on him. Together." They approached the closed door. "Plankton?" Karen calls. "Can we come in?" "Yeah fine," Plankton's voice was tired. "Come in." The room was a mess. The pillow lay on the floor, the wall was dented. Plankton was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands. Chip's heart raced, his eyes darting to the mess, then to his dad. "Dad, I'm sorry," he said, his voice trembling. "Dad, I—" But Plankton didn't look up. "I don't want to talk about it," he mumbled, his words muffled by his hands. Chip felt his hope shrivel. "But, Dad..." "Just leave me alone," Plankton said, his voice weak. Karen squeezed Chip's hand, giving him a look that told him to give Plankton his space. But Chip couldn't just leave it at that. He had to try. He took a deep breath and stepped into the room. "Dad," he began, his voice quivering with emotion, "I just want to help. I don't know what's happening, but I want to be here for you." Plankton didn't move, his head still in his hands. Chip took a step closer, his heart racing as his hand reached out tentatively. But as soon as his fingertips brushed against his father's shoulder, Plankton flinched away, his whole body stiffening. "Stop," he said sharply. "Don't touch me." Chip's hand hovered in the air, unsure of what to do. He had never felt so rejected by his father. "It's okay," Karen said soothingly. "Remember, dad's senses are really sensitive, especially after a seizure." Chip nodded, his hand falling to his side. He stood there, feeling lost. He didn't know what to do or say. The room was heavy with unspoken words and untouched emotions. Plankton's breath was ragged, his body trembling with the effort of controlling his own stims. "I'm sorry," Chip managed to whisper. "I just don't kno—" But Plankton's voice cut him off, harsh and sharp. "I said, don't touch me!" The pain in his eye was unmistakable. Chip took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to run, to hide, anything. But he knows that wouldn't help. He looked at his mom, his eyes pleading. Karen's expression was filled with understanding, but also with sadness. She knew this was hard for Plankton, but she also knew that pushing him too much right now wouldn't help. "Chip, why don't you go to your room for a bit?" she suggested. "Let Dad have some time to recover." She squeezed his hand gently. "Let's just give him some time. He'll talk when he's ready." Chip goes to his own room. Karen turns to Plankton. "Honey," she says gently, "We gotta explain this to Chip." Plankton's shoulders slumped. "I know," he sighs, his voice filled with resignation. "But I'm not ready to be 'explained' to him." Karen nods, her eyes full of understanding. "But maybe there's a way we can help him feel closer to you without making it about the seizures," she suggests. Plankton looks up, his interest piqued. "How?" Karen's mind races. "How about jigsaw puzzles?" she says. "You know how you are good at them. It can be a fun way to show Chip the analytical logistic side of your autism. That, and it's a good way to bring you together." Plankton considers this. Karen goes to the shelf in the corner of the room, where they keep their puzzles. She picks out one with a picture of Nosferatu. She brings it to Plankton. "This one?" she asks, holding it out. Plankton nods. "Sure," he says, his voice still tight. They bring the puzzle to the living room and spread it out on the coffee table. Karen starts laying out the pieces. Chip comes out of his room to see. Karen motions for Chip to join in. Plankton sits down with a sigh, his eye scanning the pieces. It's a familiar comfort, something that always made sense to him. He starts to pick out the edges, his hands moving with a precision that was second nature to him. Chip watches, fascinated. "You okay, Dad?" Chip asks tentatively. Plankton doesn't look up. "I'm fine," he mumbles, his voice still sharp. "But I'm not going to sit here and explain my entire life to you." Chip swallows hard, his eyes prickling with tears. He just wants to understand. So he picks up a puzzle piece. The three of them sit in silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional clink of puzzle pieces connecting. Chip watches as Plankton's hands move swiftly, placing each piece with precision. He's never seen his dad do this, calculating the puzzle's pattern with ease. Plankton starts to relax, his breathing evening out as his mind focuses on the task. The room feels less claustrophobic, the pressure of their conversation easing slightly as they build something together. Chip's fingers hover over the pieces, uncertain. "Here," Plankton says without looking up, placing a piece in Chip's hand that fits perfectly into the spot he was just eyeing. Karen smiles at this small gesture, hopeful that the puzzle might serve as a bridge between the two. Chip's eyes widen as he fits the piece into place. "How did you know that went there?" he asks, his voice filled with wonder. Plankton shrugs. "It's just pattern. I find patterns.." He trails off, his hand picking up another piece, his mind working through the puzzle without barely even looking at it. Chip watches, a flicker of understanding passing over his features. "It's like your brain sees things we can't," he murmurs. Plankton ignores this. Chip tries again, his voice soft. "Dad, I just wanna ask you; why do you get so upset when people touch you?" He asks, placing a piece with care. Plankton's hand stops mid-air, a piece of the puzzle hovering. His shoulders tense. "It's not just you," he says, his voice tight. "It's about me." He places the piece down and looks at Chip, his eye full of frustration. "You don't get it; you never will.." Karen's eyes dart between them, her heart racing. "It's okay to not be okay," she says gently. "We're here to teach Chip together." But Plankton's gaze remains fixed on the puzzle, his thumbs rubbing against his fingers in a repetitive motion—a subtle stim that only Karen notices. "Dad," Chip says softly, picking up another piece, his voice shaking slightly. "It's just that, when you have those moments, I don't know what to do." Plankton's hand pauses, his breath catching. "What moments!" he asks, his tone defensive. "The moments when you shake and make noises," Chip explains, his voice barely above a whisper. "The moments when you're upset or scared." Karen's heart clenched at her son's brave attempt to connect. "Dad, I just don't get how you can do something as complex as a puzzle, but yet you can't even make eye contact.." Plankton's hand clenched around the puzzle piece, his knuckles turning white. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Without a word, he chucked the puzzle piece onto the coffee table, and then marched to the bedroom, the door slamming behind him.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 18 (𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) Plankton sat on the couch. His monotonous hum starts up as he rocks; a stim. Karen knows he's not gonna repeat whatever Hanna's said. She turns to her friend. "Hanna? What'd you say?" Hanna's eyes dart between them. She looks confused, almost scared. "I... I didn't mean anything by it," she stammers. "I just said it's a hard puzzle." Karen's gaze doesn't waver. "But Plankton's upset," she says calmly. "What exactly did you say?" Hanna swallows. "It's just a saying," she mumbles. "I don't know why he's so sensitive about it." Plankton's rocking intensifies, his antennae twitching. Karen's voice is steady. "Tell me." The room seems to shrink as Hanna's words hang in the air. "Uh. It's just a puzzle," she says, her voice small. "But when I said it was re--- I meant it's just a way to say... ...I'm sorry." Karen's heart plummets. She knows the word. The one that stings like nothing else. Plankton let out a sound in between a sob or a gasp as he grimaced. Karen knew it as a stress response. When that happens, he winces even though it looks like a smile. Not to mention how it sounds like a squeaky chuckle. But Hanna doesn't realize this when she noticed him doing that. Was her friend's husband laughing at her? Plankton felt his stomach drop when Hanna's gaze snapped to him. "You think it's funny?" Hanna's voice is sharp. She stands up, nearing him. "Do you? Because if you're laughing at me, then it's not gonna fly." Plankton shakes his head as Karen finally decides to intervene. "Hanna, I need to talk to you," Karen says firmly. "Let's go over by the kitchen." Her voice's low, but it carries the weight of something important. Hanna's eyes narrow, but she follows Karen. They stand in the kitchen. "Plankton's birth was... difficult," Karen starts, her voice tight. "He was born in a dystocic situation. It was a miracle he made it out alįve." Hanna's screen pales. She had no idea. Karen continues. "His brain got a bit... jumbled up. Pressure on his head while coming out. And that's why... Plankton's autistic." Hanna's eyes widen, her hand flying to her screen. "Oh... Neptune. I had no idea. I'm so sorry." Karen nods. "It's ok. Most people don't know. But it's important you do. I didn't wanna tell you because it's Plankton's story, not mine. But I needed you to understand why he's like he is. He feels everything so intensely," she explains. "Sounds, lights, smells, touch, can be overwhelming." Hanna nods, processing this new information. "What does that mean for him?" she asks. "For his lífe?" Karen sighs. "It means we have to be extra careful with him. Give him his space when he needs it. And we can't... we can't say things without thinking." She swallows hard. "Things like... what you said." Hanna's face falls. "The puzzle?" she whispers. Karen nods. "Well it's not about the puzzle," she says. "It's the word you used to describe the puzzle, Hanna." Hanna's eyes widen. "Oh no," she breathes. "I didn't mean it like that! I'm so, so sorry.." Karen nods, her expression softening. "It's done. It is just so important to be careful with our words." Hanna nods. "So, how does it affect his personality?" Hanna asks, her voice tentative. She's trying to understand. Karen looks at her for a long moment, considering. "Well, for starters, he's very literal," Karen says. "If you say something metaphorically, he'll take it literally. And sometimes, what might seem like a simple statement to us can be overwhelming to him." She pauses, her gaze going to Plankton, who's still rocking slightly on the couch. "He's also incredibly sensitive to change. Even the smallest shifts in routine can throw him off." "Plankton's so... smart," Hanna says. Karen nods. "He is. He's brilliant. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have his challenges. Sometimes his brain just works differently. He gets overwhelmed. And when he does, he needs me to be there for him, to understand without judging." Hanna nods, her eyes wide. "What kind of challenges?" she asks. "Well," Karen starts, "his senses are heightened. That's why he had earbuds in during the thunderstorm." Hanna nods, looking thoughtful. "He gets overwhelmed by sounds, smells, even textures. It can make his body react in ways that are... difficult, to understand," Karen explains, her eyes drifting to Plankton in the living room. Hanna tries to imagine. "Is that why he seems to not like touch?" she asks. Karen nods. "Some autistic people have sensory ıssues," she says. "My husband's no different. He only likes touch on his terms." "What about when he gets upset?" Hanna asks, her voice lowered. "Does he... I don't know, express it differently?" Karen's eyes soften. "You noticed," she says. "Yes. Emotions can be tricky for him. Sometimes they come out as something else. Like when you thought he laughed, but it was just an involuntary response to stress." "And rocking while humming?" Hanna's voice is softer. "Those are stims, his way of self-soothing. It's like... it's like he's got all this energy that needs to go somewhere, and that's his way of controlling it." Karen says. "He even mumbles to himself, he might wave his hands. All stims. But he doesn't want these to be interrupted or even mentioned." Hanna nods, taking it all in. "So, when he does that... it's not because he's ignoring me?" Karen shakes her head. "No, it's his way of dealing with the world." She pauses. "And when he gets overwhelmed, his stims intensify. It's our cue to give him space, or to help him find his balance again." Hanna looks over at Plankton, his rocking motion slightly less frantic. "But when he's irritable," she says, her voice quiet, "how do we know when it'll be his autism acting up?" Karen sighs. "It's a fine line. But generally, his stims get more intense. He might turn away from you, or get snappy. And when he's upset, it's not always obvious. He might withdraw or get tense. Sometimes he'll just need to retreat, shut down." Hanna nods. "What do we do then?" she asks. "How do we help?" Karen's eyes are gentle. "You just have to be patient. Give him his space, let him have his stims. It's his way of coping. And once he's ready, he'll come back to you." They stand in silence for a moment. "And if he's getting too upset?" Hanna asks. Karen's eyes meet hers. "Then I'd need to intervene. Gently. Remind him of his tools. Like the earbuds, or redirect any aggressions." Hanna nods slowly. "But when he's around people, does he... I don't know, struggle?" Karen sighs. "Socializing is tough for Plankton. He doesn't read social cues like we do. Sometimes he misses things. And sometimes, might say things wrong. But he's trying. He really is." "What do you mean?" Hanna asked. "Well, he just might not face you when he talks, or might not get your jokes. He might get too intense about things, or get upset over what seems like nothing." Karen pauses. "And when it comes to touch, it's not just that he doesn't like it; it can be painful for him. So, it's important to ask before you touch him." Hanna nods. "But how do we know when to back off?" she asks. "When he's had enough?" Karen thinks about this. "You'll learn his signs," she says. "Everyone's different, but Plankton's pretty consistent. If he starts to withdraw, or if his stims get really intense, that's usually when he needs his space." Hanna nods. They go back to the couch. Plankton's still sitting silently. "Is Chip still sleeping in?" Hanna asks. Karen shrugs. "Guess so." Plankton looks up at them. "Hi, Plankton! I'm sorry about earlier," Hanna says. "How's the puzzle going along?" Plankton's eye narrows. "Great," he says, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Just peachy." Hanna swallows, unsure of how to react. She'd never seen him like this before. "I'm not good at puzzles," she says, trying to make a joke. Plankton doesn't laugh. "Maybe you should try a different hobby," he says, his tone flat. Hanna's smile fades. "Okay, sorry," she says, her voice small. "I just wanted to help." Plankton looks away. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't," he mutters. "Plankton; Hanna's just trying to connect with you," Karen says gently. "You know she didn't mean any harm." He nods, but his antennae are still stiff with tension. The room feels heavy. "Look," Hanna starts, sitting on the edge of the chair, "I'm really sorry. I didn't know. I'm still learning. Can you tell me how your autis–" "Don't," Plankton says, his voice sharp. "Just don't." He can't take any more questions, any more probing into his privatė world. Hanna's curiosity feels like an invasion. Karen sighs. "What do you mean?" Hanna asks, her eyes wide with confusion. "I'm just trying to understand." But Plankton can't explain it. Not to Hanna. "Why can't you just leave me alone!" Plankton's voice is a shout. It echoes through the room, sharp and jagged. Hanna flinches, her eyes filling with tears. "I didn't mean to--" "Just... leave me alone," he interrupts, his voice cracking. And he doesn't wait for an answer. He just turns and walks away, his steps quick and deliberate. Karen watches him go, her heart breaking for him. She understands why he's upset, but she also sees the paın on Hanna's screen. She sighs and turns to her friend. "It's okay," she says gently. "He's just overwhelmed. Give him some space." Hanna nods, swiping at her eyes. Karen sits down beside her. "You're doing your best," she adds. "And that's all we can ask for."

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 17 (𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) Plankton steps into the hallway. The house is still. He can hear the distant hum of the refrigerator. The smell of coffee wafts from the kitchen. Plankton makes his way there, his steps deliberate. He sees Hanna at the couch, her back to him. He pauses, his antennas still. Without the storm's cacophony, his thoughts are clearer. He doesn't sign today. Words feel... possible. He clears his throat, his voice raspy from the silence. "Morning," he croaks. Hanna jumps, turning around. "Oh," she says, her eyes wide. "Hi, Plankton." Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. It's clear she's trying not to startle him. Plankton nods, his antennae still. "How did you sleep?" she asks, her movements slow, cautious. He opens his mouth, but the words get tangled. "Okay," he manages, his voice barely above a murmur. The living room's brightness is overwhelming after the dimness of the bedroom. Plankton squints, his antennae twitching, his hand moving to cover his eye. Hanna's gaze is full of concern. She sees his discomfort. "Is there something wrong? I ca--" Plankton shakes his head. "No, no," he says, his voice a bit clearer now. "And I DON'T need the signs today," Plankton snaps at her. Hanna falters, confused. Why's he snippy? "Oh, that's okay! How are y-" "I'm fine," Plankton cuts her off. "Just... need some space." He turns and walks into the other couch, his gait stiffer than usual. Hanna watches him go, feeling like she's intruding. But Karen's words echo in her mind. "Let him know you're here." So, she follows him, trying to mimic the slow, gentle steps that seem to work with him. When Plankton reaches the couch, he sighs heavily. And Hanna sits down beside him. "So Plankton, I see you like puzzles. I can he–" "NO!" Plankton's antennae shot straight up, his voice loud in the quiet room. Hanna jumps, her eyes wide. He knows he's being cranky, but he dislikes this awkwardness. Hanna's to bubbly. "I see you're not wearing those earbuds.." Hanna comments, trying to make small talk. "They're in the bedroom," Plankton says, his voice still sharp. "You don't have to handle it." The silence stretches, thick with tension. Hanna's eyes search his, looking for a clue, but Plankton's face is a mask. "I'm sorry," she says finally. "I just thought the earbuds look cool! Where'd you even get the--" Plankton's antennae quiver with grumpy agitation. "They're not for fun," he snaps. "They're to keep the noise out." Hanna's face falls. "I noticed. Quite the storm last night wasn't it.. I'm so glad to be here! Nice of Karen to let me sta-" "HUSH!" Plankton snaps, interrupting her. Hanna's voice had been rising in excitement, but now it falls to a whisper. She nods. "Yeah, getting up early in the morning can be rough." She pats Plankton's arm. He flinches, his antennae shooting up. "DON'T touch me," he snaps, his voice strained. Hanna's hand has stopped in mid-air. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't mean to--" "Just... don't," Plankton says, his voice still harsh. He can't explain why the simple touch feels like a betrayal. His world is already spinning out of control, and her touch is the last straw. "Just leave me alone." Hanna nods. She tries to fit a piece in the puzzle. Plankton fits another piece in the puzzle. Hanna says nothing, not wanting to upset him more. She goes to try another piece. It did not fit. Then Hanna says something that makes him freeze. "What's with this puzzle? It's so... re---" The word hangs in the air like poıson. Plankton's antennae straighten. That's not right. That's not what puzzles are. His eye narrows. It's the word she used. It's not about the puzzle. He's already getting up off the couch to leave the room. Hanna looks confused, not even aware of what she's done. The word. The word. It repeats in his mind. He can't escape it. Going into the bedroom, Plankton slams the door shut, his chest heaving. Karen stirs in her bed. "Good mo- Plankton?" she mumbles, sleepily. Plankton doesn't answer. He can't. The anger and pain are too much. He sits on the edge of his own bed, his eye stinging. He can't believe Hanna said that. He'd heard it before, the R-word. It's like a kn1fe, shxrp and cøld, cutt1ng into him every time. It's not just a word, it's a declaration of his otherness. He's different, and neurotypicals don't see that as a good thing. Karen's eyes are open now. She's sitting up, looking at his back. "What's wrong?" she asks. Plankton can't face her yet. Can't tell her what Hanna said. Can't tell her that she's brought this person into their lives who doesn't understand. So he only shakes his head. "It's... nothing," he mumbles, his voice strained. But Karen knows him better than that. She's seen that look before. She gets out of bed, her movements slow and careful. She sits next to him, her hand on his shoulder. He flinches but doesn't pull away, though he can't make eye contact. "Is it about Hanna?" she asks, her voice gentle. Plankton nods, antennae drooping. Karen's heart squeezes. What happened? "What did she do?" Karen asks, her hand still on his shoulder. Plankton's breath shudders. He looks away. "Just... nothing," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not a big deal." But his body language screams different, Karen sees. Her eyes are on him, full of concern. "You know you can tell me anything," she says. Plankton nods, but the words stick in his throat. The silence is heavy. Karen's hand is warm. He doesn't move. He doesn't want her to go away. But his mind is racing. He's tried so hard to be normal, to fit in, even if just for his family. And then Hanna has to go and say something like that. It's like she's taking a sledgehammer to his carefully constructed walls. Karen's hand tightens on his shoulder. "You can tell me," she whispers. "Did she say something?" Plankton can't answer. But he has to tell her. He has to get it out. He opens his mouth, but only a squeak comes out. He's too upset to tell her. The silence stretches, his antennae drooping. Then, finally, the words spill out. "She said something about the puzzle," he says, his voice shaking. "It was... hurtful." Karen's eyes widen, her expression a mix of shock and anger. "What did she say?" Plankton's eye won't meet hers. "I can't," he whispers. A single tear falls down his cheek. He shook his head. Karen frowns. "Okay," she says. "Let's go back to the living room. We can figure it out there." She stood up. In the living room, the puzzle sits on the coffee table. Hanna's reading a magazine, oblivious to his pain. Plankton's chest constricts. He wants to scream, to throw things, but, he can't. He sits on the couch, his body rigid with anger. Karen notices, her gaze flicking to Hanna. "Hi, Hanna. What's going on?"she asks. Hanna looks up, her smile slightly forced. "Oh, I was just helping Plankton with the puzzle," she says, her voice chirpy. She sees Plankton. Karen sits next to him. "Hanna, what did you say to Plankton?" Her voice is calm, but her expression is serious. Hanna frowns, confused. "What do you mean?" she asks. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye locked on the floor. He can't bring himself to repeat it. Karen's gaze is on him, waiting. "It was about the puzzle," he says finally. "What did she say?" Karen asks, her tone firm. She looks to Hanna. "Hanna?" Hanna looks at her. "The puzzle is difficult to—" "No," Plankton cuts her off, his voice harsher than he intended. "The way she said it." Hanna's smile falters. "What?" Karen asks, her heart racing. Hanna blinks. "I just said it was hard, like I couldn't do it," she says, her tone defensive. Plankton's breathing is shallow. He shook his head. "It's not about the puzzle," he murmurs, his voice tight. "It's about what you called it." Hanna's eyes widen. "What?" she asks, genuinely confused. Karen's heart drops, afraid of whatever Hanna's going to say.