The Rise Of CuteGuy

Back On Track

A few days later, the changes in Xavier were impossible to ignore.

He had been threaded into society’s fabric with more ease than anyone had expected—though to call it “ease” was perhaps misleading. The process had been rocky, bristling with resistance at every turn, but he was adapting. He always did. His sharp mind took hold of the language quickly, though each syllable was laced with his visible disdain. Whenever he spoke in English, it was as though he were forcing bitter medicine past his lips, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly, his voice clipped, precise, and edged with annoyance.

Despite his hatred for the words, for the people who used them, he learned. He absorbed them, spat them back with startling accuracy, and moved on to the next challenge like someone preparing for a war only he knew was coming.

His stance had shifted, too. No longer the same restless figure, tense and brittle as glass, he carried himself now with deliberate control. Every gesture was calculated, every glance sharp. He wasn’t softening, not at all—but he was stabilizing, grounding himself in this unfamiliar world.

And though he never stopped sneering at humans, never stopped voicing his contempt, he was—undeniably—doing well.

grian pov

Scar and Mumbo had been buried in the  workshop all day, the kind of day where the sound of tools and typing bled together into a steady hum. I sat on the edge of the counter, legs swinging idly, trying not to get in the way but curious enough to keep watching. It wasn’t every day you saw them working side by side on something this… ambitious.

They weren’t just tinkering this time. They were building safeguards. Suits—not costumes, not uniforms, but full-on systems. Protection for the day we inevitably found ourselves in space. Hot Guy and Cute Guy, ready for orbit.

Mumbo had gone above and beyond. He always did when it came to safety, but this was different. He’d threaded rebreathers into the lining, designed oxygen tanks with refilters that could last weeks if we needed them, even programmed the suits to self-check for leaks or damage every few minutes. The inside of my helmet had a soft hum now, a faint reassurance that it was alive and watching over me.

But it wasn’t just air.

“Programmable translator,” Scar was saying, gesturing proudly at the device fixed into the suit’s chest plate. “Alien languages, auto-calibration. You could walk into a room full of squids from Neptune and order tea without a hitch.”

“Not that you’d want tea from Neptune,” Mumbo added, eyes still glued to the code running down his laptop screen. “Salt content alone would—well. You wouldn’t like it.”

I snorted, hugging my knees. “Good to know you two have my culinary needs covered. Forget combat, forget survival. The important thing is: can I get proper biscuits on Mars?”

Scar grinned at me, leaning back in his chair with that spark in his eye. “Only the finest Martian biscuits for you, bird boy. Courtesy of Mumbo’s programming genius.”

“Don’t call me bird boy,” I muttered, though it came out softer than I meant. Truth was, I was impressed. More than impressed. These weren’t just gadgets. They were… thoughtful. Every seam stitched with care, every line of code humming with intent.

“Why all the extras, though?” I asked after a moment, breaking the silence that had stretched between the sound of Scar’s tools and Mumbo’s typing. “Oxygen, translators, reinforced plating… it’s like you’re expecting us to be gone for a while.”

Scar’s hands stilled. He glanced at Mumbo, then back at me. “We’re not expecting it,” he said carefully. “We’re preparing. Big difference.”