Chip Plankton Ii Emojis & Text

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 2
(𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ 
ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ 
ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ 
ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ 
ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. 
ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ 
ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ 
ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ 
ᴀ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ 
ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ.
sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd
ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳
𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑 
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ

"You had a little episode,
sweetheart," Karen says, her voice
warm and reassuring. "It's okay,
just another one..." "Karen, wh-what
is Chip doing here? Did he se-"

Plankton's question is cut
short as he notices Chip's
expression, and he realized
Chip must've indeed seen the
whole thing. How long did
it last?

Embarrassment washed over
Plankton. He'd managed to
keep his condition from his
son for so long, but now the
secret was out. His heart
raced, his cheeks flushing a
deep shade of red. "Chip," he
stammers, "I-"

But Chip's eyes are wide. "What was
that, Dad?" he asks, his tone
innocent. Plankton's never talked
about his autism to anyone
other than Karen before.
He's not sure how his son
will react. Will Chip look at
him differently now?

"It's nothing, Chip," Plankton
mumbles, avoiding eye contact.
He wishes he could just sink into
the bed and vanish.
Chip, however, isn't one to
back down easily. "No, Dad,
what happened?" He insists, his voice
still shaking from the fear that had
just gripped him. "You were
just sitting there, not moving
or anyth-"

"It's nothing," Plankton insists,
his voice a bit more firm now.
He doesn't want to admit it,
but he feels a twinge of
embarrassment at having been
found out. He's always been
so good at hiding his autistic traits
from Chip. But now,
his son is staring at him with a mix
of curiosity and concern.
Karen sighs, knowing it's time
for Chip to have 'The Talk'.

"Chip," she starts, her voice
careful, "Your dad sometimes
has moments like this. It's part
of who he is, something he can't
help." Chip's screen shifts to Karen,
his eyes searching for
understanding. "What do you
me—"

"It's NOTHING
Chip," Plankton 
repeats, his voice 
more insistent.
"Just... just DROP 
IT, OKAY‽"

The sharpness in his tone
surprises Chip. He's never
heard his dad snap like that.
He takes a step back, his
expression a mix of 
confusion and hurt. "I just
wanted to know if you
were okay," he mumbles.

Plankton's eye darts to
Karen, silently pleading.
"It's okay, Plankton," she
says, her voice calm. "We can
talk about it." But Plankton
shakes his head, his cheeks
flushing even more. "No, no,
not now," he says, his voice
smaller, almost defeated.

The silence in the room
stretches taut like a wire.
Plankton's antenna starts to
twitch erratically. It's a
familiar sight to Karen, a
tic. She's seen it before,
yet never when Chip's been
around. The tic again manifests
as a twitch, his head jerking
to the side in a small, rapid
movement. "Dad? What's
going on?" Chip's voice is
smaller now, fear creeping in.
Plankton's always been self-conscious
about his condition. But now,
his son looks at him with those
innocent, questioning eyes.

He swallows hard, trying to
keep his anxiety in check.
He doesn't know how to explain
the tics and the stims that
accompany his autism.
He's always been so careful
around Chip, hiding them as
best as he could. "It's... it's just
a... nothing," Plankton stammers.
But Chip's curiosity is
piqued. "What's happening
to yo-" "CHIP!" Plankton's voice is
sharp. Chip jumps back, his eyes wide.
He's never seen his dad this
upset. Karen's hand moves to
Plankton's, her grip tight.
"Plankton, it's okay," she says,
her voice steady.

Chip's eyes follow 
Plankton's head as
it jerks slightly to 
the side again.
"What's happening to
your head?" Chip asks.
He's never talked about
his autism with anyone 
other than Karen, and 
certainly not with Chip.
Plankton's antennae twitch
in agitation. "I told you,
it's tck tck nothing, Chip," he says,
his voice strained.

Karen squeezes Plankton's
hand. "Let's just sit 
and talk, ok?" "I'm sorry,"
Plankton says to Karen.
Karen's screen filled with
sympathy. "You don't have
to apologize, Plankton." She
knows how much Plankton
has struggled with his
autism, how much he's
worked to fit in and
keep it hidden from Chip.
"But he's going to want
to know," Plankton says, his
voice cracking. "I don't
want hi-" "I know, love," Karen
interrupts gently. "But we'll
explain it to him. He's a
smart boy. He'll understand."

Plankton nods, his antennae
still twitching. He takes
a deep breath, preparing
to face the reality that
his secret is no longer
safe. He looks at Chip, who's
still hovering at the
edge of the room, his eyes
filled with uncertainty.
"Chip, come here," Karen calls,
patting the bed. "Your dad 
has something to tell you."

Chip approaches cautiously,
his heart thumping. Plankton
looks up at him, his eye
shimmering with unshed tears.
Karen takes a deep breath,
and then starts to explain. "Chip,
your dad's brain is special. It
does some things differently
than ours. Sometimes, it
can get overwhelmed and
he needs a little time to...
recalibrate." Plankton's gaze
shifts to the floor, his antennae
twitching. Chip can see the
shame etched on his father's
face, the fear of rejection.
"Is that why you just
moved your head like that?"
he asks tentatively, pointing at
the twitch. Plankton sighs, his
body tense.

"Yes," Karen admits, "that's part
of it. And sometimes, he has
moments where he just... zones out.
It's like his brain goes to
another place and can't come
back right away."
Chip's eyes are glued to his
dad. "But why?" he asks her.
Plankton's antennae twitch
again, a silent plea for her
to handle this. Karen's eyes
soften. "It's called an
absence seizure," she says.
"It's part of his condition."
Chip frowns, "What condition?"

Plankton's gaze snaps up to
his son, his heart racing.
He's always been so careful
to keep his autism hidden
from Chip. But now, the
moment of truth is here.
"I'm... I-I-I-I…."

Karen gives his hand a
comforting squeeze. "It's
called autism," she says.
Chip's brow furrows. "What's
autism?" His voice is small,
his eyes searching his
mother's face for answers.

Plankton's heart feels like it's
in a vice. He's avoided this
conversation for so long. 
But now, the truth is
out, and he's not sure if he
can face his son's reaction.
Karen smiles gently. "It's a
way of being," she says. "Some
people's brains work differently.
They see the world in a
unique way, and they have to
deal with things like...
episodes."

Chip looks from his mother
to his father, trying to
comprehend. "But Dad,
aren't you okay?" he asks,
his voice small. Plankton's
throat tightens. He's never felt
so exposed. "I'm fine," he
forces out. Plankton
wishes he could just hide,
disappear into the wallpaper.
But he's trapped under the
spotlight of his own son's
curiosity.

new autism and all chip plankton ii 2

CHIP IN MY BOX iii
(Autistic author)

"What's in the box?"
Chip asks again, his voice
steadier than he feels.

Plankton's eye bulges, his
fists tighten around the
box. "You're going to
make me show you?"
He snarls, his voice low and
dangerous.

Chip nods, his curiosity
now a raging inferno that
overpowers his fear.
"Yes," he whispers, his voice
shaking.

The room seems to hold
its breath as Plankton's grip
on the box tightens. His knuckles
turn white with the effort of
not flinging it open, of not
revealing whatever dark secret
it holds. Chip's heart thunders
in his chest, his eyes never
leaving the box.

"Fine," Plankton growls, his
voice low and dangerous. "If you
have to know, I'll show you."
He opens the box, and the
tension in the room snaps
like a rubber band.

Chip leans in, his heart racing
with a mix of excitement and
apprehension. Inside, there's a
variety of sensory apparatus, and a few
other odds and ends.

"It's... it's just stuff," he
stammers, not quite grasping
why his dad had reacted so
strongly. Plankton's chest
heaves, his face red with anger.
"It's not just stuff!" he yells,
slamming the box shut. "It's
private, it's mine, it's none
of your business!"

Chip's eyes water, the
sting of his father's words
cutting deep. He's never seen
his dad like this, so out
of control. He takes another
step back, his curiosity
now overshadowed by fear.

"Dad," he whispers, his voice
barely audible. "I'm sorry, I just-"

"You just what?" Plankton's
tone is like ice. "You just
have to know everything, don't you?
You can't leave well enough alone!"
He stands, the box clutched in his
hand, the knuckles still white.

Chip's eyes dart to the
closed box, then back to
his father's furious face.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, his
voice small. "I just wanted to
help." But his apology seems
to fall on deaf ears.

Plankton's anger is a living,
breathing thing in the room,
swirling around them like a
tornado of unspoken words.
"You don't help," he spits out.
"You never do. You just make
things worse." His eye bore
into Chip's, the accusation
stinging like a slap.

Chip's bottom lip quivers
as he tries to understand
his father's fury. His eyes
flit to the sensory box,
now closed with a finality
that feels like the slamming
of a door. "But why can't I
help?" he whispers, his voice
tiny in the face of Plankton's
wrath.

Plankton's eye narrows,
his voice a low growl. "You
don't know what you're asking."
He turns away, his shoulders
hunched, the weight of his
secret heavy on his shoulders.

Chip feels his cheeks
wet with unshed tears, but he
can't stop. "What don't I know?"
He asks, his voice trembling.
"What's so bad about the box?"

Plankton whips around, his
face a twisted mask of anger
and pain. "It's not about the
box, you little brat!" he yells.
"It's about respecting my
space!" He slams the box
down on the table, causing
the contents to rattle. "You
never think before you act,
always poking your nose where
it doesn't belong!"

Chip's eyes widen, the
realization dawning that
his curiosity has crossed
a line. He takes a tentative
step back, his voice shaking.
"Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't
mean to-"

"Mean to what?" Plankton
interrupts, his voice a
whip crack in the tense silence.
"Mean to invade my privacy?
Mean to make me feel like
a freak?" His hand slams
on the table, the box jumping
under the impact.

Chip's eyes widen with
understanding, and his
stomach drops. He hadn't
meant to make his dad feel
that way. "No, I..."
he starts, but Plankton
doesn't let him finish.

"Just go to your room!"
Plankton's voice is a thunderous
wave, crashing over Chip's
apology. "You've done enough
damage for one day."

The hurt in Chip's eyes
deepens, but his curiosity
doesn't waver. He goes
to open the box..

"What could be so bad?"
Chip asks, his voice
smaller now, his hand
trembling as he reaches
for the box's latch.

Plankton's eye widens
in horror, his anger a
volcano about to erupt.
"Chip, no!" Karen's
voice is a desperate
plea, but her son's need
to know is too strong.

The box's latch clicks
open, and Chip's hand
freezes in mid-air as
his eyes land on the
contents within: a collection
of small, seemingly random
objects, each with a specific
purpose to soothe and
comfort Plankton in his
moments of distress.

Plankton's anger boils over,
his face reddening as he
watches his son's curiosity
expose his most private
weakness. "You had to see
for yourself, didn't you?" he says,
his voice low and venomous.

Chip's hand hovering over
the open box, the sensory
items laid bare before him.
He looks up, his eyes wide
with a mix of fear and
understanding. "Dad, I'm
sorry," he whispers, his voice
shaking.

But Plankton's anger is a
tidal wave that can't be held
back. "You're always sorry,"
he snarls, his eye flashing
with a rage that makes Chip's
heart pound in his chest.
"But it's never enough, is it?"
He grabs the box, his hand
shaking with the force of his
emotions.

Chip's curiosity turns to
regret as he sees the pain
his questions have caused.
He takes a step back, his
hands up in a defensive
posture. "I didn't me—"
But Plankton isn't listening,
his rage a living entity in
the room. "Get out!"
He roars, his voice shaking
the walls. "I don't want to
see you right now!"
Tears spill down Chip's
cheeks as Karen intervenes.

"Chip, go to your room,"
she says, her voice shaking
but firm. Plankton's
anger is a storm that's
been brewing for too long,
and she's afraid of where
this could lead.

Chip nods, his eyes never
leaving the box. He feels a
heavy weight in his chest,
his curiosity now a burden.
Slowly, he turns and heads
upstairs, his feet dragging.

Karen watches him go,
her heart aching. She turns
to Plankton, her eyes
pleading. "Honey, maybe we
should talk to him," she says,
her voice shaky. But Plankton's
glare silences her.

He slams the box shut
and storms out of the
room, leaving Karen alone
with her racing thoughts.
Should they have told Chip
earlier? Would it have
made a difference?

new chip in my box chip plankton ii iii

CHIP IN MY BOX iv
(Autistic author)

Chip's door clicks shut upstairs,
the echo resonating through
the house like a gunshot.
Karen takes a deep
breath, her eyes never
leaving the spot where
Plankton had been standing.

With a sigh, she
picks up the sensory box,
carefully placing the
curtain back inside. She
knows her husband's anger
is not directed at their son,
but at his own inability to
control his condition. She
follows him into the kitchen,
finding him slumped over
the kitchen table, his head
in his hands.

"Plankton," she says
softly, setting the box by him.
He doesn't move, his
breathing ragged and heavy.
"I know you're upset."

He looks up, his eye
shimmering with anger
and a hint of despair.

"I can't... I just can't handle
it," he chokes out, his
voice thick with emotion.

Karen approaches, her
movements slow and careful,
as if she's afraid of startling
a wild animal.

"What can't you handle?"
she asks, her voice gentle.

Plankton's shoulders heave
with a silent sob. "The... the
shame," he whispers. "The fear
that... that Chip will think
I'm broken." His words hang
heavy in the air, each one a
droplet of pain.

Karen's seen this battle play
out countless times, but it
never gets easier. She sits
next to him, her hand
resting gently on his shoulder.
"You're not broken," she says
soothingly. "You're just... you."

Plankton's head snaps up, his
eye wild with desperation.
"But what kind of father
am I?" he asks, his voice
barely a whisper. "What kind
of husband?"

Karen squeezes his
shoulder gently. "The best
kind," she says firmly. "You're
the kind who tries, who
fights for us every day."

Plankton's breath hitches, his
eye filling with unshed tears.
He doesn't believe her,
but her words are a balm
on the raw wound of his pride.
"But I-I-I-I… I can't control it!"
He whispers, his voice
shaking with fear.

Karen's voice is firm and
steady as she replies, "No one
expects you to, honey." She takes
his trembling hand in hers.
"What's important is that
we're here for each other."

Plankton leans into Karen's
side, his body shaking with
repressed sobs. He's never felt
so exposed, so vulnerable.
Her warmth is a comfort.

Karen wraps her arms around
his trembling form, her eyes
closed tight. "You're not
broken," she repeats, her voice
like a gentle lullaby. "You just
have something extra, something
that makes you who you are."

Plankton's breathing slows,
his body relaxing into her
embrace. He knows she's
right.

"You're not broken,"
Karen whispers,
her voice a soothing balm.
"You're just... different."
Her words hang in the air,
their truth resonating deep
within him.

Plankton's sobs quieten,
his breaths slowing to
match hers. He nods,
his head resting heavily
on her shoulder. The fight
leaves him, the storm of
his emotions subsiding
to a gentle patter of rain.

Karen feels the weight of
his head increase, his
body going slack as sleep
claims him. She tightens
her embrace with love and
concern. Her husband's
condition is a constant
reminder of the invisible
battles he faces every day.

The kitchen clock ticks
steadily in the background,
marking the passage of
time. Plankton's breathing
evens out, his features
softening in sleep. Karen
kisses the top of his head,
his antennae twitching.

Karen strokes his back
gently, her mind racing with
thoughts of what to say to
Chip. They need to talk,
to explain things better.

Upstairs, Chip sits on his
bed, his eyes fixed on the
closed door. The echo of his
father's anger still rings in
his ears, making him
feel like he's the one who's
wrong. He wipes his tears,
his curiosity tinged with
a heavy guilt. He decides
to go check on his parents.

He tiptoes down the stairs,
his heart in his throat,
each step a silent apology.
The kitchen light is on, a
soft glow spilling into
the hallway. As he approaches,
he sees Karen, her arms
wrapped around a sleeping
Plankton. His dad's head
is nestled into her shoulder,
his breaths deep and
even in sleep.

Karen's eyes meet Chip's,
filled with a mix of
exhaustion and sadness.
She stands, Plankton's weight
barely a burden to her, and
guides her son to the couch.
With gentle movements, she
sets Plankton down, his body
slumping into the cushions. His
snores are the only sound
that breaks the heavy silence.

"He'll sleep now," Karen
whispers, her voice a
soothing lullaby in the
quiet room. "His episodes
can be draining." She sits
next to Chip, her eyes
never leaving her husband.

Chip nods, his own eyes
swollen from crying. "What's
wrong with him, Mom?" He
asks, his voice small and
scared. He's never seen
his dad like this before,
so lost in his own mind.

Karen sighs, her eyes
filling with a mix of
sorrow and love. "It's not
something that's easy to
explain," she starts, her
hands fidgeting with her
apron. "But I'll try."

Chip nods, his curiosity
still a live wire, but now
tempered with concern.
"Dad has something called
sensory overload," she
explains gently. "Sometimes,
his brain gets too much
information from his
surroundings, and gets
overwhelmed."

He looks up at her, his eyes
searching for understanding.
"It's like when you have too
much on your plate at dinner,
and you just can't eat another
bite," she continues, trying to
make the abstract concept
more tangible for her son. "Except
for him, it's all the time, with
everything he sees, hears, feels..."

Her words hang in the air,
suspended by the gravity of
the situation. Chip nods
slowly, his eyes wide with
realization. "And the box?"
He asks, his voice a whisper.

"The box," Karen says, her
voice a soft sigh, "contains
things that help him cope,
things to help calm him down
when the world gets too loud."
Her gaze lingers on the
closed wooden box, the
secret it holds now a little
less mysterious.

Chip nods, his curiosity
dimming in the face of
his newfound empathy. "Can I
see?" He asks, his voice
hopeful.

Karen looks at him, her
expression torn. "Not now,
sweetheart," she says gently.
"Your dad's not feeling well.
But maybe another time,
when he's ready."

Chip nods, his curiosity
now tinged with sadness.
He looks at his father,
his chest tight with the
knowledge that he's caused
this pain. "But why was he so
angry?" He asks, his voice
small.

Karen takes a deep
breath, choosing her words
carefully. "Your dad's
not angry at you, Chip.
He's angry at himself, and
scared of what you might
think. This isn't something he
wants to share with anyone."

Chip's eyes never leave
his father's still form.
"But why?" He whispers,
his voice thick with tears.

Karen's hand finds Chip's,
giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Because, Chip," she says,
meeting his gaze, "it's hard
for him to admit he needs help.
His personality is..." she
pauses, searching for the right
words, "It's like he's a superhero,
trying to hide his kryptonite."

Chip's eyes widen, his
thoughts racing. "But everyone
has something they're not good
at," he says, his voice
small. "Why can't he-"

Karen's grip on his
hand tightens. "Your father's
not just anyone, Chip," she says,
her voice filled with a mix of
pride and concern. "He's a strong
man, and he's used to being in
control. Having something that
makes him feel vulnerable,
something he can't fix, it's hard
for him to accept."

Chip nods, his eyes never
leaving Plankton's sleeping
form. He's beginning to
understand, but it's a lot to
process. "What can we do?"
He asks, his voice barely
above a whisper.

Karen's smile is sad but
determined. "We can be
there for him," she says,
squeezing his hand. "And we'll
find a way to help him
manage his... moments."

Chip nods, his eyes still
on Plankton. "How can I
make it right?" He whispers.
"How can I help him?"

Karen looks at her son,
seeing the man he'll become.
Her heart swells with pride.
"You already are," she says,
squeezing his hand. "By being
curious, by caring enough to
ask." She pauses, her gaze
softening. "But sometimes,
helping is just giving
someone space to be."

Chip nods, his eyes on
his father's peaceful face.
Plankton's snores are a
comforting background to
their quiet conversation.
He feels a knot loosen in
his chest, his curiosity
giving way to understanding.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii iv

CHIP IN MY BOX vi
(Autistic author)


Chip watches, his own
breathing shallow with fear.
He didn't mean to hurt his
dad, but he can see it in
his eye—the pain, the
disappointment. "I-I'm
sorry," he whispers, his voice
barely audible. But it's as
if the words are lost in
the chaos that's engulfed
the room. "Dad, ca--"

But Plankton's body has
a mind of its own. His limbs
shake violently, his eye
spinning out of control. It's
like watching a storm
brewing in the calmest of
skies, a tempest of emotions
ready to break. His hand
twitches, reaching for the
box, his fingers brushing
against the shards of
his shattered sanity.

And then, he deflates. His
body goes slack, his hand
falling to his side. His eye
rolls back in his head, and he
slumps to the floor, unconscious.

Chip's scream pierces the
silence, his eyes wide with
fear. "Mom!" He cries out, his
heart racing. "Mom, help!"

Karen's instincts kick in,
her fear for Plankton overriding
the shock of the moment. She
rushes to her husband's side,
checking for signs of injury.
His breathing is shallow but steady.
It's the meltdown becoming to
much, she knew. It's his autism,
a part of him she loves and
fears in equal measure.

"Chip," she says, her voice
calm despite the racing of
her heart, "get me the phone,
quick."

Chip's feet fly into action, his
fear for his father outweighing
his own fear. He runs to the
hallway, his heart thundering
in his chest, and grabs the
phone from the charger.

Karen's hand shakes as she takes
the phone, her eyes never leaving
Plankton's still form. She dials
the number, the digits
blurring together with her tears.
The line rings. "Dr. Kelp, it's
Karen," she says, her voice
shaky. "Plankton's had an episode.
It's... it's pretty bad." Her
voice breaks, the weight of her
words heavy in the air.

The beep sounds, and she
swallows hard, willing the
words to come out right. "Could
you come over? I think he
needs you." She hangs up, the
silence deafening. The house
feels too small, too suffocating
with Plankton's condition
sprawled out in the open.

Her heart is racing as
she watches him, his chest
moving in shallow, uneven
breaths. She knows Dr. Kelp
will come, he's always been
so kind, so understanding. But
the wait feels like an eternity.
Every second stretches into
a minute, each minute an
hour, as the fear of what
might happen before help
arrives gnaws at her sanity.

Karen looks around the
wrecked kitchen, her eyes
falling on the shards of
Plankton's fidgets scattered
like the shattered pieces
of their evening. She
swallows the lump in her
throat, her mind racing.

The doorbell rings,
a welcome interruption
to the taut silence. Chip
runs to the door, his
little legs carrying him faster
than he ever knew possible.
It's Dr. Kelp, his sensory
friendly specialist, with a bag
full of supplies. 

Dr. Kelp is a small octopus,
his eyes scanning the room
quickly before landing
on Plankton's form. "Karen,"
he says, his voice calm
and measured, "what happened?"

Karen's voice is a jumble of
words, her fear and guilt
spilling out in a rush.
"The box," she stammers,
pointing to the wreckage.
"Chip... he didn't mean to,
but he broke it." Her voice
cracks, her eyes filling
with tears. "And then he had
a meltdown."

Dr. Kelp nods, his expression
calm and understanding.
He crosses the room, his tentacles
moving with purpose as he
sets his bag down. He opens
it, revealing a treasure trove
of sensory tools—fidgets of
various shapes and sizes,
soft fabrics, noise-canceling
headphones. His movements are
precise, a balm to the chaos.

He looks at Chip, his eyes
kind despite the fear he
must be feeling. "It's okay,"
he says, his voice a gentle
wave. "Accidents happen." He
begins to gather the shards
carefully, his tentacles
working with surprising
deftness. "But we can fix this."

The doctor's calmness is
a beacon in the storm
of their fear. He pulls out a
new set of fidgets, similar to
the ones Chip had so carelessly
broken, but these are made of
a tougher material. "These are
indestructible," he says,
handing them to Chip. "But remember,
these are your dad's special
things. We have to be very
careful with them."

Chip nods, his eyes wide with
understanding. He takes the
fidgets, holding them tightly.
He won't make the same mistake
again. He won't be the reason
his dad feels scared and lost.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii vi

⟡ pls note the ai inflicts emotional damage (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

→ AI Story Generator ←

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CHIP IN MY BOX vii
(Autistic author)


Dr. Kelp's tentacles move
quickly, setting out a new set
of sensory items. He places
the velvet curtain over Plankton's
head, creating a safe, quiet
space. The weighted blanket
is laid gently over his body,
his breathing starting to even
out. The doctor's eyes are
filled with a quiet wisdom
that Karen finds reassuring.

The octopus then turns his
attention to Chip, his tentacle
gently stroking the boy's arm.
"It's okay," he repeats, his
voice a calming lullaby in
the tense room. "We all make
mistakes."

Karen's eyes are glued to
Plankton, his body still and
silent under the velvet curtain.
Fear and regret are a heavy
weight on her shoulders.

"Thank you," she whispers to
Dr. Kelp, her voice trembling.
"We should have told him
sooner." She watches as the
doctor works, his tentacles
deftly placing items around.

"When Plankton wakes up,"
Dr. Kelp says, his voice low
and soothing, "he might be
disoriented, upset." He looks
up at Chip, his eyes gentle.
"It's important to give him
space, let him know it's safe."

Karen nods, her eyes never
leaving her husband's still
form. She knows the routine,
but hearing it from Dr. Kelp's
lips somehow makes it feel
more real, more manageable.

"When he wakes," the doctor
continues, "he may be
confused, overwhelmed." His
voice is soft, his eyes
compassionate. "He might
not immediately be able
to process what happened."

Karen nods, her hand
trembling slightly. "What
do you mean?" She asks,
desperation lacing her
voice.

Dr. Kelp takes a deep
breath, his tentacles
arranging the items with
precision. "When Plankton
comes to," he says, "his senses
may be overstimulated, not knowing
what's happening around him."
He looks at Chip, his eyes
serious. "It's important
you don't take it personally. He
may incoherently talk, forget or
lash out. It's his brain's way of
trying to make sense of the
sensory overload."

Karen nods, her eyes never
leaving Plankton. "We'll be
ready," she says, her voice
determined. She doesn't want
to scare Chip, but he needs
to know. "We'll help him
through it."

Dr. Kelp looks at the
both of them, his gaze
softening. "Good," he says.
"Because he's going to need
you." His tentacles
flatten against the floor
as he leans closer to
Plankton, checking his pulse.
"When he wakes up, keep your
voices low, and keep the lights
dim. Try to limit any sudden
movements."

He demonstrates with a
slow, deliberate wave of his
tentacle. "And if he seems
scared or confused, just
tell him it's okay, that he's
safe," he instructs, his voice
calm and steady. "Remember, he
might not recognize anything at first.
His mind will be trying to piece
together what happened, as if in
a dream."

Karen nods, her eyes never
leaving Plankton's still form.
Chip clutches the indestructible
fidgets in his small hands, his
face a mask of determination.

"When he wakes up," Dr. Kelp
continues, his eyes on the
floor, "his reactions may seem
unpredictable. Sometimes, he
might get scared, other times
he might be agitated." His tentacle
flicks slightly, a subtle sign of
his own tension. "It's all part
of his brain trying to recalibrate."

He looks up at Chip, his
expression serious. "Your dad's
going to need you to be brave,"
he says, his voice gentle. "If he
doesn't know you at first,
don't be scared. Just stay calm
and keep talking to him."

Chip nods, his eyes
glistening with tears. "I'll do
anything," he says, his voice
tiny but firm.

Dr. Kelp gives a small
smile, his tentacle patting
Chip's shoulder. "That's all
we can ask," he says.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii vii

CHIP IN MY BOX xi
(Autistic author)


In the quiet of the room,
Plankton's breathing is the
only sound, a steady
reminder of his presence.
Chip's eyes are on his
father, his mind racing with
thoughts of the day's events.
He's seen Plankton tired
before, but never like this.
Never so lost in his own
thoughts, so overwhelmed by the
world around him.

Chip feels the weight of
his promise to protect his
father's sanctity. His hand
reaches out to Plankton's arm,
his touch tentative but reassuring.
"It's okay, Dad."

Plankton's breathing evens
out, his body relaxing into
the bed's embrace. His antennae
twitch slightly, his mind
still racing. "Thank you," he murmurs,
his voice soft as his eye flutters
closed.

Chip lies beside him, his
small hand resting lightly on
his father's arm, as
his promise to be more
careful keeps his eyes open.
He watches Plankton.

Plankton's breathing slows, his
body finally letting go of the
tension. His antennae
twitch one last time before
stillness takes over. His
eye closes, his features relaxed
in sleep. His antennae
rest gently on the pillow.

Chip lies there, his own eyes
open, watching his father's
sleeping form, the only sound
being Plankton's rhythmic breaths.
He's never felt more connected
to him, or more responsible for
his wellbeing. He can see
the outline of Plankton's face,
his features relaxed in slumber,
and it's as if he's seeing him
for the first time, really seeing
the struggle behind the
inventions and the jokes.

Plankton's antennae twitch
slightly in his sleep, a gentle
reminder of the complex mind
that's working even in rest.

Chip's eyes trace the lines
of his father's face, the
worry etched into his
features smoothing out
as he sleeps. He feels a
weight lift from his chest,
his breathing matching the
steady rhythm of Plankton's.

The next morning
Chip wakes up 
before his dad next
to him.

Plankton's antennae
are still, his breathing
deep and even. Chip
can't help but feel a
surge of protectiveness
as he watches him. He
remembers the fear and
confusion from the night
before, and the promise
he made to be more
understanding, more
careful.

Chip's eyes are glued
to Plankton's face, the
tiny movements of his
father's antennae as he
dreams. The soft
snores are a comforting
soundtrack to the early
morning silence.

With a gentle touch,
Chip reaches over to
his father's side, his
small hand hovering over
Plankton's antennae.
He wants to show his
affection, but fears
waking him up. The
memory of last night's
frightening episode is still
fresh in his mind.

He's learned that
sometimes, love is not
about loud gestures, but
about quiet moments of
understanding and care.
He watches Plankton's
chest rise and fall
rhythmically, the soft
snores a lullaby to
his own racing thoughts.

Slowly, so as not
to disturb him, Chip's
hand reaches out and
his fingertips graze
his father's antennae.
He's afraid to touch
them fully, afraid
the contact might shatter
the fragile peace of
his father's sleep.

Plankton stirs slightly,
his antennae twitching.
Chip's breath catches,
but Plankton settles again.
The snores become softer,
his body relaxing into
the mattress.

Chip's hand hovers,
his mind racing.
How can he show love
without waking his dad?
He's seen the pain of
his father's reality breaks
and doesn't want to cause
another one.

He recalls the softness
of Karen's voice, the way
she touched Plankton's
hand so gently.
He tries to mimic her
calmness, his hand
shaking slightly as
it hovers over
his father's arm.

He takes a deep breath,
his eyes never leaving
his father's face.
Then, with the
lightest touch imaginable,
his fingertips brush against
Plankton's arm.

Plankton's antennae quiver,
but his eye stays closed.

Chip's mind races with
ideas, his hand hovering
over his father's arm. He
thinks of all the ways
his mother had touched him
last night, the gentle strokes
and soothing whispers that
helped ground him. He tries
to replicate that, his thumb
tracing a soft arc over
his father's shoulder now.

Plankton's antennae twitch
again, but his breathing
remains steady. Chip's heart
is a drum in his chest,
his eyes wide with hope. He's
learned that for Plankton,
touch can be both a source
of comfort and a trigger.
He needs to be careful.

He tries different
pressures, light as a
feather and then a gentle
squeeze. Plankton's body
remains still, his sleep
deep and undisturbed.
Encouraged, Chip moves up
to Plankton's face, his
thumb tracing the contour of
his ch...

The soft touch of Chip's
fingertips against his
cheek causes Plankton to
flinch, his eye snapping
open with a gasp. "Chip?" He
sounds groggy, disoriented.

Chip's eyes widen, his hand
quickly retreating. "Sorry,
Dad," he whispers, his voice
laced with apology. "I didn't
mean to wake you."

Plankton's gaze is unfocused,
his antennae twitching as he
tries to process the sudden
contact. "What are you
doing?" He asks, his voice
still thick with sleep.

"I just wanted to say good
morning," Chip whispers, his eyes
shimmering with hope. "But I didn't
want to wake you up."

Plankton's antennae still
twitch, the remnants of sleep
still clinging to him. He looks
around the room, his gaze
eventually finding the shattered
remains of his old sensory box.
The sight sends a pang of
anxiety through his body.

"Here," Chip says softly.
He holds out the new box,
his eyes hopeful. "This one's
special, just like you."

Plankton's antennae droop slightly,
his gaze shifting to the box, then back
to his son. Despite the good
intentions in Chip's eyes, his
wording seemed... patronizing, to
Plankton. He takes the box, somewhat
hastily. He's used to the stares, the
whispers, the misunderstanding, but
from his own son?

"I'm not 'special', Chip," he says,
his voice tight. "I have a condition.
It's not something to be... gawked at
or talked down to."

The words sting, and Chip's eyes
well up with tears. "I didn't mean
it like tha-"

But Plankton cuts him off, his
voice a tempest of emotion. "You don't
understand," he says, his antennae
waving erratically. "You can't just
call me special and expect me to
feel better. It's not a toy, it's not a
quirky trait. It's a part of me that
makes every day a challenge."

Chip's eyes widen, the tears
spilling over as he takes in
his father's words. He didn't mean
to make him feel belittled, but
now he sees the pain in Plankton's
eye, the frustration of being
reduced to a label. "I'm sorry," he
whispers, his voice trembling.
"I wa-"

"Don't," Plankton says, cutting
his son off with a sharpness
that makes Chip's heart ache.
"Just... don't." He turns away,
his antennae drooping as he
focuses on the new sensory box,
his eye searching for comfort.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii xi

CHIP IN MY BOX xii
(Autistic author)


Chip's tears fall silently
as he watches his father's
shoulders tense, his father's
body language a wall of
hurt. He feels the distance
between them growing, a vast
ocean of misunderstanding.

"Dad," he whispers, his voice
smaller than the fingertip
that had started it all.
"I'm sorry." The words hang
in the air, a tiny lifebuoy in
the storm of Plankton's emotions.

Plankton's antennae droop,
his eye shimmering with
frustration. "You don't get it,"
he murmurs. "You can't just-"
His words are cut off by a
deep, shuddering breath.

Chip's heart feels like it's
being crushed by a vice.
He's hurt his dad, and he
doesn't know how to fix it.
He opens his mouth to
apologize again, but no
sounds come out. His
throat is tight with regret.

Plankton's eye is on the
new sensory box, his hand
shaking slightly as he
reaches for the first item.
The sight of his father's
distress is like a knife
twisting in Chip's gut. He
wants to take back his
words, to somehow erase
the pain he's caused.

"Dad," he whispers, his voice
tiny and scared. "I didn't
mean to make you feel
that way." But Plankton is
too lost in his own world, his
mind a tempest of thoughts
and emotions.

He picks up a fidget from
the box, his antennae twitching
nervously as he tries to focus.

"Dad, I just wanted to help,"
Chip says, his voice barely a
whisper. "I didn't mean to hurt
you." The silence is a thick
fog between them, heavy with
the weight of Plankton's pain.

Plankton's antennae twitch,
his grip on the fidget tight.
He doesn't look at Chip, his
eye focused on the spinning
toy. "You can't help by
breaking things," he says,
his voice a low rumble.
"You can't fix me with a
pat on the back and a 'good
job'."

Chip's eyes fill with tears,
his heart a storm of regret.
"I didn't mean to break it,"
he whispers, his voice a
tiny wave of sorrow. "I just
wanted to kn-"

Plankton's antennae shoot
up, cutting him off. "You just
wanted to know," he says, his
voice a knife. "To satisfy
your own curiosity, without
thinking about what it
means to me." His eye is
a tempest of anger and hurt,
his antennae quivering with
emotion.

Chip's eyes are wide with
understanding, the gravity
of his father's words sinking
in. "I di-"

But Plankton's
interrupting him. "Don't say it,"
he says, his voice a
whispered warning. "Don't
make excuses and try to
make it okay." He turns
away. "Just...
don't."

Plankton's back is to him,
his antennae drooping.
He's retreated into
his own world, leaving
Chip on the outside,
desperately trying to
find a way in.

He sits up in bed, his
small frame a stark contrast
to Plankton's slumped
shoulders. "I just
wanted to show you that
I ca--"

But Plankton's had enough,
his antennae shooting up
in annoyance. "I don't
need a show-and-tell of your
understanding," he snaps.
The words hit Chip like a
wave, knocking him back
into reality. His father's
face is a mask of anger,
his eye a storm of emotions
he can't quite read.

Chip feels small, his own
curiosity a betrayal. He's
always looked up to Plankton,
his hero, his teacher, his
world. But now, he sees a
different side to him, a
side that's fragile and in pain.
The room seems to shrink,
the walls closing in on
his guilt.

Plankton's back is a wall
of anger and hurt, his
antennas drooping with the
weight of his own words.
"I'm sorry," Chip whispers,
his voice a soft ripple of
remorse. "I didn't mean to-"

But Plankton is lost in his
own thoughts, his mind racing
with the sting of Chip's
naive curiosity. The way his
son had talked about his
sensory box, as if it were
a childish toy, had made him
feel like a specimen, a
curiosity to be studied.

He sighs, his antennae
drooping lower. He knows
Chip didn't mean it, but the
hurt lingers. He turns
his head, his eye meeting
Chip's tear-filled gaze.
"I know you didn't mean to,"
he says. "But you have to
understand, it's not just a box.
It's a lifeline."

Chip nods, his eyes
never leaving Plankton's.
"I do," he whispers. "I just
wanted to be part of it,
to he-"

But Plankton's not
ready to hear it. "You can't,"
he says, his voice a gentle
wave of finality. "You can't be
part of something you don't
understand." His antennae
twitch with frustration.
"I'm not a science experiment
for my son to poke and prod.
I'm not a baby," Plankton says,
his voice a gentle rebuke.
"My sensory needs are not
a game." His antennae are still,
his body a statue of frustration.
"You need to respect that."

Chip feels his heart crack,
his eyes never leaving his
father's face. "I do," he whispers,
his voice a soft ripple of
sincerity. "I just di-"

But Plankton's antennae twitch,
his patience worn thin. "No,
you don't," he says, his voice
sharp as a tack. "You see me
as something to be fixed,
not understood." His eye
closed, his breathing shallow.

Chip feels his cheeks
heat with shame. He'd never
seen his father so upset.
He's always been the strong
one, the one who had all
the answers. But now, he's just
a kid who's hurt his dad.

"Dad, I'm sorry," he says, his
voice a whisper of regret.
"I didn't mean to make yo-"

But Plankton's antennae
wave away his words. "You
don't get it," he murmurs,
his voice a gentle reprimand. "Every
time you treat me like I'm a
child, it's like you're telling
me I'm not good enough." His eye
shimmers with unshed tears. "So, no
more 'good jobs' and no more
'you're special'. I don't want
your pity, Chip. So either you can
learn to understand me, or you
can leave me alone. Because
right now, your 'help' is just making
things worse."

Chip's eyes widen with
surprise and pain, the words
cutting deeper than any knife.
He's never seen his father
so vulnerable, so raw. The
realization hits him like a
wave: his curiosity had hurt
Plankton more than he'd ever
imagined. He'd unintentionally
stripped away the dignity
his father had fought so
hard to maintain.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii xii

CHIP IN MY BOX xiv
(Autistic author)


Chip opens his mouth, but
the words won't come out.
He's hurt his father,
and now he's lost for words.
Karen's eyes widen with
concern, her hand
reaching out to comfort
his shaking shoulders.

"What happened?" she
asks softly, her voice a
caress in the stark
silence of the morning.
Her eyes search his face,
seeing the pain and
regret etched in every line.

Chip's throat is tight with
unshed tears as he holds
up the sensory box, his
hands trembling. "I... I broke
his trust," he whispers,
his voice a tiny wave
crashing against the
shoreline of her concern.
He can't meet her gaze,
his eyes focused on the
box, a symbol of his
father's pain.

Karen's heart squeezes at
the sight of her son's
distress. She knows Plankton's
condition isn't easy, but
she didn't realize the depth
of the rift her husband's
words had created. "What did
you say?" she asks.

Chip's shoulders heave with a
sigh, his eyes still
fixed on the floor. "I...
I said he was an embarrassment,"
he whispers, the confession
a painful admission. "And
that you had to take care
of him like a baby. And he
gave me the sensory box and
told me to leave." The words
tumble out, each one heavier
than the last.

Karen's eyes fill with
sorrow, her heart aching
for both her son and her
husband. She's seen Plankton's
pride crumble before, but never
because of their son's words.
"Oh, Chip," she says. "That wasn't
kind."

He looks up at her, his eyes
swimming with regret. "I know,
Mom," he says. "I didn't mean it.
But I just don't know how to
help him."

Karen's gaze is filled with
understanding as she takes
the box from his trembling
hands. "You're still learning,
sweetie," she says, her voice a
soft breeze of comfort. "And
so are we. We all make
mistakes. Let's go check on
him."

Her hand is a gentle guide,
leading him back down the hallway
towards Plankton's room.
The door is still closed, but
she knocks softly.

"Plankton?" she calls. "Can we
talk?" There's no answer.

Her hand lingers on the
knob, her heart a drum of
anxiety. She opens the door
slowly, the room silent.

Inside, Plankton sits on
the bed, his antennae
still, his eye vacant.

He's having another
staring spell, lost in
his own sensory overload.

Plankton's eye is wide
open, unseeing. His
antennas are stiff, pointing
straight up into the air.

Karen's gaze is filled with
concern as she approaches
her husband, her steps
silent. She's seen this
before, the way his body
shuts down when the world
becomes too much. It's a
self-defense mechanism,
his brain's way of coping
with the overwhelming
sensations that bombard him.

She sits beside him, her
hand reaching out to cover
his. "Plankton?" she says.
But he doesn't move, lost
in the chaos of his own
mind. He doesn't blink. All
because of Chip's words.

Karen's heart
beats a frantic rhythm as
she tries to snap him out
of it, her voice a gentle
coax. "Plankton, sweetie?"
He doesn't respond, his
body rigid, his mind adrift,
as he's too far gone to grasp it.

The room feels too bright,
too loud, even with the
curtains drawn. The silence
is a scream in her ears,
a reminder of her own
helplessness in the face
of his condition.

Karen's touch is a lifeline,
a gentle pressure that
seeps through his frozen
shell. Plankton's breath
stutters, his antennae
twitching slightly. She whispers
his name, a soft
caress in the storm of
his overwhelmed senses.

His eye blinks, once,
twice, focusing on her face.
The spell begins to break,
his body slowly uncoiling
from its protective
shell. "Karen?" he murmurs,
his voice a tentative
exploration of reality.

The world rushes in, a
tidal wave of sound and color.
He flinches, his antennae
waving wildly as he tries
to ground himself. She holds
his hand tighter, her voice
a lighthouse in the storm.
"It's okay, sweetie," she says.
"You're safe."

Plankton's breath hitches,
his body slowly coming back
online. He's aware of the
weight of the blankets, the
softness of the pillow. His
eye finds hers, and he recalls
Chip's accusations.

The hurt is a physical
thing, a heavy stone in
his chest. He tries to
speak, but his voice is
a mere rasp. "Karen," he
manages to croak, his antennae
twitching with the effort.

Her eyes are filled with
concern, her grip on his
hand unyielding. "I'm here,"
she says, her voice a gentle
wave of reassurance. "You're
okay."

But Plankton's mind is
stuck in a loop, Chip's
words echoing like a
persistent siren in his
head. "I'm an embarrassment,"
he murmurs, his antennae
drooping. "A baby."

The room spins around him,
his senses a cacophony of
pain. The light is too
bright, the air too thick.
He feels like he's drowning
in his own thoughts.

Karen's voice is a beacon,
cutting through the fog.
"Plankton," she says again.
"Look at me." Her eyes are
calm, a safe harbor in
the chaos of his mind.
He tries to focus, his eye
twitching as the world
realigns itself around her.

"You're not an embarrassment,"
she says, her voice firm.
"You're not a baby." Her words
are a gentle breeze,
blowing away the storm
of doubt. "You have a condition,
and we're here to support
you."

new chip in my box chip plankton ii xiv

CHIP IN MY BOX viii
(Autistic author)


The room is quiet as they wait for
Plankton to stir. Chip's mind
is racing.

Suddenly, Plankton's body
twitches, a small movement
under the velvet shroud.
Karen's hand flies to her mouth,
her eyes wide with anticipation.
Her heart is a wild animal in
her chest, thumping against
her ribs as she watches her
husband slowly come back to
them.

Under the curtain, Plankton's
eye opens slightly, the pupil
dilated with confusion. His
limbs move sluggishly, his mind
trying to make sense of the
world that's rushing back in.

Karen's hand reaches out to
his, her eyes brimming with
relief and fear. "It's okay,"
she whispers, her voice a gentle
breeze in the quiet room. "You're safe."

"Wh... wha... whale...?" Plankton's voice
slurs, his eye flickering behind
the velvet curtain. 
Karen's grip on her son's hand
tightens as she watches her
husband struggle to find his
footing in the murky waters
of consciousness.

"It's okay," she whispers, her
voice a lifeline in the storm
of his confusion. "You're home,
you're safe."

Plankton's eye blinks, his
brain trying to piece together
the shards of reality. "Whale?"
He mumbles again, his voice
slurred with sleep.

Karen's heart squeezes, her
hand still in Plankton's, her voice
even softer now. "No, honey,
it's not a whale," she says,
forcing a gentle laugh. "It's
me, Karen. You're at home."
Her words are a soft
caress, a beacon in the fog
of his sensory overload.

Chip watches, his eyes
wide with fear and hope.
He wants to call out, to tell
his dad everything's okay,
but he remembers Dr. Kelp's
instructions. He stays quiet,
his hand tightening around the
new fidgets, his knuckles
white with tension.

Plankton's mumbling becomes
more pronounced, his eye
darting around under the velvet
cover, as if searching for
something he can't quite see. 
"Bubble...box," he murmurs,
his voice a distant echo.

Karen's heart races, her mind
racing to keep up with his
scattered thoughts. She knows
his brain is trying to make
sense of the world, to find
the familiar in the chaos. "A box is here,"
she whispers, her voice soothing.
"It's new, and right beside you."

Her words seem to resonate
somewhere in the fog of
Plankton's mind. His hand
twitches, reaching out. Chip's
breath hitches as he sees
his father's hand hover over
the new box of sensory
items.

"Bubblebox," Plankton murmurs,
his voice a soft breeze through
the room. The words are
meaningless, but the tone
conveys a desperate search.
Karen's eyes fill with tears as
she nods. "It's here," she whispers,
guiding his hand to the box.

His fingers graze the velvet
curtain, his movements clumsy
and unsure. Chip watches, his
heart in his throat, as his
father's hand trembles over the
box's edge. "Bubba," Plankton
says, his voice a whisper
of confusion.

Karen's eyes are glued to
his face, her heart breaking
at his distress. She tries
to think of something to
say, to bring him back to
them fully. But she knows
better than to push too hard.

Plankton's eye blinks rapidly,
his hand fumbling with the
box's contents. "Fishy," he
mumbles, his voice a
disjointed symphony of
half-thoughts. "Fishy, fishy."
Karen's heart squeezes.

He's talking to his mind,
she knows, to the jumble of
thoughts that have overtaken
his reality. The words are
nonsense, a random assortment
of sounds.

"Fishy?" He murmurs again,
his hand patting the floor.
"Fishy, bubblebox." His voice
trails off, lost in the fog
of his own thoughts.

Karen's heart is racing,
her mind trying to decode
his ramblings. She knows
his mind is searching, trying
to find the safety net of
his sensory world. "Yes, honey,"
she whispers, her voice a
soothing lullaby. "You're okay."

Plankton's eye rolls
back into his head, his
body going slack again.
The silence in the room is
deafening, a stark contrast
to the tumult inside her.
Karen's hand is a tremor
against his, willing him
back to reality. Chip watches,
his own thoughts racing, as
his mother's eyes dart to
Dr. Kelp for guidance.

The doctor's tentacles
move with a quiet
assurance, placing more
items around Plankton. "It's
normal," he whispers, his
voice a lifeline in the
storm of their fear. "His
mind is trying to find
his bearings."

"Where's," he mumbles, his
voice a distant whisper.
"So... many... Karen..."
His antennae twitch erratically,
his hand flailing in the
air as if trying to catch
invisible orbs. Karen's
heart is in her throat, her
eyes brimming with tears
as she watches his struggle.

"I'm here," she says, her
voice a soft caress, reaching
for his hand. "You're safe."
Her eyes plead with Dr. Kelp,
desperation etched in her
features. The doctor nods
reassuringly, his tentacles
moving with a gentle rhythm.
"We're home."

Plankton's eye moves
beneath the velvet, searching
for familiarity. "Home?"
He whispers, his voice
scratchy from disuse. "Where
am I?" The fear in his tone
makes Karen's heart ache.

"You're home, Plankton,"
she whispers back, her voice
soothing. "You're safe."
Her words are a gentle
reminder, a beacon in the
storm of his senses.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii viii

CHIP IN MY BOX i
(Autistic author)

Chip came home from
a friend's house to hear
his mother, Karen, quietly
talking to Plankton, his
father. "I'll go get your
special box," Chip hears
her say before she left
to go upstairs.

He wanders into the
living room, expecting
his dad to be watching
his favorite show, but
instead, Plankton's eye is
fixed on something invisible
to anyone else. His body is
completely still, as if
frozen in time. He doesn't
even blink.

Chip approaches, a
knot of confusion tightening
in his stomach. "Dad?"
He says tentatively, but
there's no response. He waves
his hand in front of Plankton's
face, but his dad's gaze
remains unfocused. It's like he's
somewhere else entirely.

Just as Chip starts to
wonder if something's
wrong, he hears footsteps
on the stairs. Karen
reappears, holding a small,
intricately carved wooden box.
Her eyes widen in surprise
upon seeing her son. "Chip!
You're home early," she
exclaims, her voice a mix
of relief and caution.

The surprise on Karen's
face is palpable as she
quickly hides the box behind
her back, but it's too late;
Chip's curiosity is piqued.
He steps closer to his father,
his eyes darting from the
mysterious box to the
unusual stillness of Plankton.
"What's going on?" he asks,
his voice quavering slightly.

Karen's grip tightens around
the box. "It's nothing, sweetie,"
she says, her smile forced. "Just
something for your dad to...
help him relax." But the way she
says it, the way she avoids
his gaze, tells Chip that it's
more than that. He's always
noticed his dad's quirks, the
moments of intense focus
where he seems to disappear
into his own world, but he's
never seen him like this before.

Chip feels a pang of worry,
his curiosity growing. Plankton's silence is
still unsettling, his eye unblinking
and fixed on some unseen point.

"What's in the box
Mom?" Chip presses,
his voice a little 
stronger now. Karen
sighs, weighing her 
words. She's never
told him about 
Plankton's condition,
his need for solace in 
structured routines.
The sensory box is a 
collection of items
that help Plankton cope 
with the chaos of the world,
items that provide comfort 
and order.

"It's just a... a set of
things that Dad uses to,
well, destress after
a long day," she 
finally explains, her
voice careful.

Chip nods, not fully
understanding but willing
to let it go for now.
He looks back at
Plankton, who still hasn't
moved or spoken. "Is he ok?"

Karen nods, a bit of
sadness flickering in
her eyes. "He's just... in
his own little world?"

Chip nods, trying to
understand. He's heard
about people who need
their own space, but this is
different. Chip reaches out
to touch Plankton's shoulder.

His dad doesn't react at all.
It's eerie, like trying to
interrupt a statue. Chip
pulls his hand back, his
thoughts racing.

Karen sees the concern
in her son's eyes and decides
it's time for a gentle
explanation. "You know how
some people need a quiet
moment to themselves?
This is like that for your dad,
but a little more intense."

Chip nods slowly, still
trying to grasp the situation.
He's aware that his father
has always been a bit of a loner,
preferring the solitude of his
workshop over family gatherings.
But this is something else
entirely. Then Karen
whispers, her eyes never
leaving Plankton's still form.
"It's like his brain takes a
quick break from the world.
He'll be back in a few minutes."

The concept of his
father's brain taking breaks
without his consent is
both fascinating and scary
to Chip. "Whaa-"

"Shh," Karen
interrupts gently, placing
a finger to her lips.
"We don't want to startle
him."

With a nod, Chip
watches as she opens the
box with a soft click.
Inside, there's a velvet
curtain, attached to three
small wooden rods. Karen
pulls it out with care, its
texture reminding him of
his favorite blanket.

"This is his sensory
curtain," she murmurs,
unfolding it to reveal a
rainbow of fabric squares.
Each one has a different
texture: some are smooth
like silk, others rough like
sandpaper. "It helps him
block out the world for a bit."

The curtain forms a tent around
his eye, cutting off visual
stimulation and the views.

Karen carefully drapes
the curtain over Plankton's
face, ensuring it doesn't
touch his skin but
completely blocks his line of
sight.

"Now, we wait," Karen
replies, her voice calm.

Chip nods, his eyes
glued to his father's
unchanging form.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii i

CHIP IN MY BOX ii
(Autistic author)

As they wait, Chip's
curiosity is obvious. "What's
wrong with Dad?" he asks,
his brow furrowed with
concern.

Karen sighs, sitting
down beside him. "It's not
that something's wrong,
exactly," she starts. "Your
father has a... condition. It's
a bit like when you get overwhelmed
by noise or too much to do
and you need to go to your room
to play with your toys by yourself,
right?"

Chip nods, still not
completely sure.

"It's like he has a...
sensory processing thing,"
Karen elaborates, her voice
soft. "Sometimes the world
is just too much for him, so
he needs these special tools to
help him cope."

Chip's eyes widen
as he looks from the
sensory curtain to his
mother. He's heard
about kids in school who
have to wear noise-canceling
headphones or sit in quiet
areas, but he never thought
his dad might be like that.

He opens his mouth
to ask more questions,
but Karen puts a hand
on his arm, her grip firm
but gentle. "Let's give him
his space," she says, her
voice barely above a whisper.

Chip nods, his mind racing.
He's heard of people
who need breaks, but not
like this.

"What happens if he doesn't
use it?" Chip whispers,
his eyes flicking to the
sensory box and back
to Plankton.

"Well," Karen starts, "he
can get pretty anxious
and overwhelmed. It's like
his brain can't keep up with
the world around him. It'd
just take longer for his brain
to wake.."

But Plankton's eye starts to
twitch, then blink rapidly.
He takes a deep, shuddering
breath and the room seems
to snap back into focus for him.
His gaze shifts, first to the box
on the table, then to Karen and
Chip.

"What... what happened?"
he stammers, sounding groggy
and disoriented.

Karen smiles warmly,
placing a comforting hand
on his shoulder. "You had
a little moment," she says,
using the term they've agreed
upon to describe his episodes.

Plankton blinks rapidly,
his eye adjusting to the light.
He looks around, noticing
the sensory curtain lying
in his lap, the open box.
"Ah," he says, his voice a
little hoarse. "I see."

Embarrassment floods
his features as he realizes
his son has witnessed his
episode. He's always
tried to keep it from Chip,
his pride not wanting
his son to know.
He doesn't like being
seen this way, vulnerable.
It's a side of him he's never
shown to anyone outside of
Karen.

But his son's to curious and
wants to ask, as he
can't help his curiosity. "What
was that?" he whispers.

Plankton's face tightens, a mix
of embarrassment and anger.
He doesn't like for anyone,
especially Chip, to see him
when he zones out. It's a private
battle. He tries to stand, but Karen's
hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Dad, w---"

"Don't!" Plankton snaps, his
voice harsher than Chip has
ever heard.

Karen's hand tightens on
Plankton's shoulder, a silent
plea for patience. "Chip just
walked in, honey. He didn't
mean to," she says soothingly.

But Chip's curiosity is fueled
by the unanswered questions
swirling in his head. "But why
do you need that?" he asks,
touching the sensory
curtain.

Plankton's expression
hardens, his cheeks flushing.
He hates the feeling of
being interrogated, especially
when it's about something
so deeply personal. "It's none
of your business," he snaps,
his tone cutting through
the air like a knife. "Now just
leave me be."

Chip's eyes widen, hurt
mixing with confusion. He's
not used to his father's
sharpness. His hand
retracts from the sensory
curtain as if burned. "But, Dad,"
he starts, only to be cut off
once more.

"I said, leave me alone,"
Plankton repeats, his voice
like steel. Chip feels his
heart drop, but his curiosity
refuses to wane. "What's in
the box?" He asks, reaching
for it.

Plankton's hand slams
down on the box's lid with
a force that makes the
whole room jump. "I said
enough!" His eye flashes with
a rare anger that sends a
shiver down Chip's spine.

Karen intervenes quickly,
placing herself between
them. "Chip, let's go to your
room," she says gently, her voice
full of an urgency that
usually meant serious trouble.

But Chip's curiosity is a
stubborn beast. "But I'm
wor–"

"I said, leave it!" Plankton's
voice booms, cutting through
the tension. His eye flashes
with a fiery intensity that
makes Chip's knees wobble.

Karen's grip on Chip's arm
tightens. "Come on," she urges,
guiding him away from
his father's wrath. But Chip
resists, his curiosity not
easily deterred. "Why do you
have to use that?" He points
to the box, his voice shaking
slightly. "What's so important
that you can't even talk to me?
What's in there that's so
important you can't even
lo…"

"I don't have to explain
everything to you," Plankton
snaps, his voice rising.

Karen's eyes dart between
them, worry etching lines
on her forehead. "Plankton,
please," she begs, her voice
barely a whisper.

But Chip, oblivious to the
storm brewing in the room,
presses on. "But why do
yo-"

"Because I said so!"
Plankton's roar is a thunderclap
in the quiet room. The box
shakes with the force of his hand
slamming down on it.

Chip flinches, his eyes
watering, but he's not backing
down. "But, Dad-"

"I said, I don't have to explain!"
Plankton's voice echoes through
the room, the force of his words
almost tangible. Karen's grip on
his arm tightens, but Chip
still tries to stand his ground.

"But why can't you?" Chip's voice
cracks with the weight of his
questions. "You're always telling
me that talking about things
makes them better. Why can't we
talk abou-"

"ENOUGH!" Plankton roars,
his fists clenched, the knuckles
white with tension. His anger
is a palpable force. The sensory
box seems to quiver under his
glare.

Chip's eyes widen with
fear, but the stubbornness
within him won't let him retreat.
He opens his mouth again,
desperate for answers. "But
Dad, if you don't tell me,
how can I understand?"

Plankton's anger seems to
grow with every question,
his body tense and his
face a mask of rage. "Understand?"
he spits out. "You don't
understand anything, you
little brat!" His hand hovers
over the box, as if it's the
source of his fury.

The room feels like it's
shrinking around Chip, the
tension suffocating. He's
seen his dad upset before,
but never like this. He tries
to pull away from Karen's grip,
his need for answers stronger
than his fear of his father's wrath.

"But why?" Chip repeats,
his voice smaller now, the
storm in the room making
his courage waver.

Plankton's eye narrows,
his body vibrating with
frustration. "Why can't you just
leave it be?" he snarls, his
hand still hovering over
the box, his knuckles stark
against the wood.

Karen's eyes are wide with
fear, her grip on Chip's arm
now painfully tight. "Chip,"
she says, her voice trembling,
"Please, just go to your
room." But Chip is caught
in the storm of his own
curiosity.

"But I want to know!"
Chip's voice is louder now,
his eyes shining with a mix
of fear and determination.
He can't understand why
his father is so upset, why
this simple question has
caused such a reaction.

"You don't need to know!"
Plankton's voice is a thunderous
boom, his hand slamming
on the box so hard that
the wood groans. "Just leave
me be!"

Chip's eyes are wide with
shock and confusion, his
cheeks flushed with a mix
of fear and frustration. "But
why?" He persists, his voice
shaking. "What's so bad
about me asking?"

Plankton's fury seems to
grow with each syllable Chip
utters. He glares at his son,
his hand still hovering
over the box. "It's not for
you to understand!" His voice
is a roar that shakes the
foundation of the room.

Chip takes a step back,
his heart racing. But instead
of retreating, his curiosity
blazes brighter. He's never
seen his dad this way, so
consumed by anger. It's like
his questions are poking at a
wound, a secret so deep and raw
that Plankton can't bear to
acknowledge it.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii ii

CHIP IN MY BOX ix
(Autistic author)


Plankton's eye focuses on
her, his hand clutching hers
like a lifeline. "Karen?" He
whispers, the fog of confusion
slowly lifting. His voice is
weak, but the recognition is
there, a spark in the vast
ocean of his overwhelmed
mind.

Karen's breath hitches,
relief flooding her body.
"Yes, it's me," she murmurs,
her voice a gentle tide washing
over him. "You had a hard
time, but you're okay now."

Plankton's hand clutches hers,
his grip tight, his reality
slowly coming into focus.
The velvet curtain is lifted
gently, his eye blinking in
the soft light. His gaze
finds hers, and for a
moment, it's just the two
of them, a silent promise of
support and understanding.

"I... Dr. Kelp? Chip?" He
blinks.

Dr. Kelp nods, his tentacles
still busy placing the
sensory items. "We're all here,"
he says, his voice calm. "You're
safe."

Plankton's gaze moves to
Chip, who's been watching
silently from the side, his
face a mask of fear and hope.
"Chip?" He says, his voice
weak. The boy nods, his eyes
shimmering with tears.

"I'm here, Dad," he whispers,
his voice trembling. "I'm sorry."
The words hang in the air,
a silent apology for his
carelessness.

Plankton's eye locks onto Chip,
his grip on Karen's hand
weakening as he tries to
sit up. His mind is still
a tangled web of confusion. 
"What happened?"

Karen's voice is a gentle
current, guiding him back
to reality. "You had a
reality break," she says,
avoiding the harsher terms.
"It's okay, we're here."

Plankton's gaze shifts
between them, his mind a
whirlpool of questions and
half-forgotten moments. He
swallows hard, the lump
in his throat a reminder of
his vulnerability. "I'm sorry,"
he says, his voice barely
more than a whisper.

Chip's eyes are wide, his
heart racing as he watches
his father struggle. He wants
to say something, anything,
but his throat is tight with
fear. "It was an accident,"
he croaks out finally, his voice
small. "I didn't mean to."

Plankton's eye narrows slightly,
his expression a mix of
pain and confusion. "What
did you do?" He asks, his
voice a thundercloud of
emotion.

Chip's eyes fill with tears,
his guilt a heavy weight.
"I knocked over your box,"
he admits, his voice barely
a whisper. "I didn't know."
The words hang in the air,
a confession that feels like
a betrayal.

Plankton's gaze is a
stormy sea, his emotions
a tempest of anger and hurt.
He looks at the shards of
his sanity scattered on the
floor, a silent accusation.
The room seems to spin around
them, a maelstrom of his
swirling thoughts.

"You broke it," he says,
his voice a thunderclap of
disappointment. The words hit
Chip like a tidal wave, drowning
his guilt. "You broke my box."

The room seems to shrink,
the air thick with tension.
Karen's eyes dart between
them, a silent plea for
understanding. "It was an
accident," she says, her voice
soft. "Chip didn't know."

Plankton's eye is on Chip,
his gaze intense. He
swallows hard, the reality
of the situation crashing
over him. "Why?" He whispers,
his voice a raw wound.

Chip's chin trembles, his
eyes brimming with tears. "I
just wanted to see," he
whispers back, his voice
tiny and scared. "I didn't
know it was so important."

Plankton's expression
softens, the storm clouds
of anger parting to reveal
his own fear, his chest
heaving with the effort
of controlling his emotions.
"I know," he says, his
voice a gentle rumble. "I'm
just... tired." He looks at the
new box.

Karen's eyes fill with
sympathy, her hand reaching
out to touch his shoulder.
"You don't have to explain,"
she whispers. "We're here."
Her words are a balm to
his soul, a gentle reminder
that he's not alone in his
journey.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii ix

CHIP IN MY BOX xiii
(Autistic author)


"Dad," he starts, his voice
shaking. "I never thought-"

But Plankton's antennae wave
again, silencing him. "You
think it's cute," he says,
his voice tight. "You think
because I need this," he holds
up the sensory box, "that I'm
less than you. That I'm some-
thing to be pitied." His eye is
wet with unshed tears. "And
I can't... I can't handle that
from you."

Chip feels a spark of anger
flare within him, his cheeks
flushing with frustration.

"It's not my fault you're like
this," he blurts out, his words
cutting through the tension
like a shard of glass. "You're the
one who can't handle simple
things! How are we supposed to
have a life with you
freaking out all the time with
your mood swings and mental 
delays?"

Plankton's antennae quiver,
his eye narrowing at the
ignorant accusation. "Chip,"
he says, his voice tight as a bowstring.
"That's enough." But Chip's anger
has taken over, his voice
rising with each word.

"You're the one who's always
upset," Chip continues, his
words a stream of accusations.
"You're the one who can't handle
the world without your box!"
He's on the verge of tears, his
frustration a hurricane in
the small room. "How are we
supposed to live with a father
who can't even see how his own
wife has to take care of him
like a baby! Don't you see how
embarrassing..."

He stops mid-sentence, the
impact of his own words
sinking in. He's gone too far.
The room is a vacuum of
silence, the air thick with the
tension of his accusation.
Plankton's antennae are still,
his eye wide with shock.
Chip's anger evaporates,
replaced by a cold dread.
He's hurt his father, deeply.
The pain in Plankton's gaze
mirrors his own regret.
He didn't mean to say it, but
the words had spilled out, a
torrent of frustration and
fear.

Plankton's eye
closes, a single tear
escaping to trace a sad
path down his cheek.

Chip's words hang in
the air, a stark
reminder of his own
insensitivity. He's hurt
his father, not just
physically with his touch,
but emotionally with his
lack of understanding.

Plankton's antennae drop,
his body slumping. The
weight of Chip's words is
too much, and he feels
his reality break all
over again. "Dad, I'm sorr-"

But Plankton's not listening.
He's retreated into his own
world, the walls closing in
around him. "Get out," he whispers,
his voice barely audible. "Just leave
me alone."

Chip's eyes are wide with shock,
his heart a storm of regret. He'd
never seen his father so
broken. He stumbles back,
his legs shaking beneath him.
"Dad, I'm sorry," he says,
his voice a plea. But Plankton
just turns away, his antennae
drooping in defeat.

The silence is a heavy
blanket, suffocating them both.
Chip's chest heaves with
unshed sobs, his eyes never
leaving his father's back.
"I didn't mean it," he whispers.
"Please, I didn't mean it."

But Plankton's antennae
remain still, his back a wall
between them. "Just go,"
he says, his voice a whisper
as he shoves the sensory box
to Chip. "And take my 
embarrassing baby toys
with you, too."

The words are a blow,
and Chip feels his heart
crumple. He takes the box,
his hands shaking with emotion.
He doesn't know what to say,
what to do to make it right.
He just wants to take it all
back, to erase the hurt from
his father's eye.

With a heavy heart,
he turns and leaves the room,
his steps echoing down
the hallway. The house
seems too quiet, too empty.
He doesn't know where to go,
what to do with himself.
He's hurt the person he loves
most, the one who's always
been his rock.

He finds Karen in the
living room. "Good
morning, Chip," she says. 
"How..."

Her words die in her
throat as she sees the
tears on his cheeks, the
box in his trembling
hands. She notices the
closed bedroom door, the
silence from within.
Her gaze is a question,
but Chip can't find the
words to answer.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii xiii

CHIP IN MY BOX x
(Autistic author)


Plankton's gaze shifts to
his son, the weight of his
own fear reflected in Chip's
wet eyes. "You
have to understand," he
says, "my box is special."

Karen's eyes are filled with
love as she looks at her
husband, her heart breaking
for the pain he's in. "It's
his safe place," she explains,
her voice gentle. "When the
world gets too much for
his brain, it's his way of
finding calm."

Chip nods, his eyes
never leaving Plankton's face.
He can see the exhaustion
etched in his father's features,
a stark contrast to the usual
energy that fuels his inventions.
"I didn't know," he whispers,
his voice thick with regret.

"I know, buddy," Plankton says,
his antennae drooping slightly.
"But it's important you do now."
He takes a deep breath, his
body visibly relaxing as he
reaches for the new fidgets.
"This box," he says, his voice
weak but determined, "it's what
keeps me grounded."

He picks up a small, indestructible
worry stone, his eye focused
on the smooth surface.
"When I'm overwhelmed, when
the world's too loud, too bright,
this is where I need." He shows
Chip the stone, his eye meeting
his son's with a silent plea
for understanding.

Chip nods, his hand reaching
for the stone. "I'll be more
careful," he whispers, his voice
a promise. "I won't mess it
again." His eyes are wide with
sincerity, a silent vow to protect
his father's sanctuary.

Plankton's antennae twitch, a
tiny smile playing on his lips.
"Thank you," he murmurs, his
voice a gentle wave. "It's not
just about the box, though.
It's about understanding
how my brain works."

Karen nods, her hand
squeezing his gently. "We'll
learn together," she says, her
voice a soft promise. "We'll
make sure it doesn't happen again."

The room is a tableau of
understanding and regret,
each person feeling the
weight of the moment.
Chip's eyes are glued to
his father's, the gravity
of the situation sinking
in. "I'm sorry," he whispers,
his voice a gentle ripple.

Plankton's smile is a small
wave of forgiveness. 
He looks at Karen, his eye
shimmering with gratitude.
"Thank you," he murmurs, "for
always being there."

The doctor's tentacles move
slowly, placing the final
item in the sensory box.
"We're all learning," he says,
his voice a gentle reminder.
"It's a journey, not a
destination." He looks at
Chip, his gaze filled with
understanding. "And you're
doing a good job, buddy. I'll
be going. He might seem to
regress this week, which is
normal. I also gave you multiple
sets of the same box just in case."

Karen nods, her eyes
following the doctor's
movements. "Thank you,
Dr. Kelp." She says. The doctor
nods before exiting, the door
clicking shut behind him.

The room feels smaller
now, the air thick with
understanding and love.
Plankton's hand shakes as
he places the worry stone
back into the box, his
eye visibly tired.

"Let's get you back to bed,"
Karen says. She helps
Plankton to his feet, his
body leaning heavily into
hers. Chip watches, his own
guilt heavy.

"I want to stay with Dad,"
he says, his voice a soft
plea. Karen looks down at him,
her eyes filled with love and
understanding. "Of course,"
she murmurs, her hand on his
head. "Let's go."

They help Plankton into
his room. Chip climbs into
his father's bed.
Plankton's antennae twitch,
his eye searching for the
comfort of his son's presence.

"I want to stay with you,"
Chip whispers. "To make sure you're okay."
Plankton's expression is a
storm of emotions, but he
nods. "You can,"
he murmurs, his voice a gentle
wave. "But no more peeking
or prodding."

Karen helps Plankton into
his bed. Chip climbs
in too.

The bed dips with their
combined weight, but Plankton
doesn't protest. He's too tired
to fight. Karen tucks
them both in, the blanket a
comforting pressure.

Chip's eyes are on his
father.
"Dad," he whispers, his voice
a soft ripple. "I'm sorry."

Plankton's eye closes. "It's
okay, buddy," he murmurs.
"But you need to understand,
my box is my sanctuary."

Chip nods. "I won't do it
again, I just wanted to know
what it was."

Plankton's antennae twitch, a
sign of his own internal struggle.
"I know," he says, his voice
weary. "But it's important that
you respect my space."

Karen watches them from
the doorway, her heart
swollen with love and a
tiny sliver of sadness. She
knows the journey ahead won't
be easy, but she's determined
to make it better for her
family.

"Goodnight, you two," she says,
her voice gentle. She
bends down to kiss Plankton
on the forehead, her hand
resting on Chip's shoulder. "If
you need anything," she adds,
looking at Chip, "you know
where to find me."

Chip nods, his eyes never
leaving his father's face. He
understands now, the gravity
of Plankton's condition
sinking in. "I won't," he
promises, his voice a quiet
wave of determination. "I'll be
right here."

Karen's eyes fill with
gratitude as she watches
her son, his bravery a
testament to their bond. "Good
night," she murmurs, her
voice a soft caress as she
closes the door.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii x

CHIP IN MY BOX v
(Autistic author)


As Chip watches, Plankton's
body starts to twitch, his
snores growing louder and
more erratic. Chip's heart
leaps into his throat, his
stomach clenching with fear.
Is he having another episode?

Karen notices the shift in
his breathing and gently
squeezes Chip's hand. "It's okay,"
she whispers. "He's just
waking up."

Plankton's eye flutters open,
his gaze unfocused. For a
moment, he seems lost, then
his gaze sharpens as he sees
his wife and son. The
fear and anger from before
are replaced with a weary
resignation. He sits up, rubbing
his eye with the heels of
his hands.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs to Karen,
his voice thick with sleep and
regret. "I didn't mean to scare
you." He looks at her,
his eye searching for
forgiveness.

Karen's eyes are filled with
compassion as she nods.
"It's okay," she whispers,
her hand still in his. "We just
need to find a way to help
you through these moments."

Plankton takes a deep breath,
his shoulders dropping. "I know,"
he says, his voice a mix of
exhaustion and resignation.

Chip's eyes are glued to his
father, his curiosity a
constant thrum. "But why do
you have these moments?"
He asks, his voice laced with
concern.

Plankton sighs, his eye
dropping to the floor. "It's
complicated," he says, his
voice heavy with weariness.

Chip's curiosity doesn't waver.
"But what causes it?" He
asks, his voice persistent.
He wants to understand, to
help, to be there for his
dad in a way he never has
before.

Plankton looks at his son,
his eye filled with a mix of
pride and frustration. "It's
my brain," he says, his voice
strained. "It's just... wired
differently." His antennae
twitch nervously. "Sometimes,
it gets too much, and I need to
step back, to find a way to...
recalibrate."

Chip frowns, his curiosity
deepening. "But what happens
when you have those moments?"
He asks, leaning in closer.
Plankton's gaze is on his
sensory box. "It's like...
everything's too loud, too
bright," he says, his voice
barely audible. "I can't...
I can't filter it out."

Karen's eyes are filled with
understanding as she nods.
"It's like your brain is
a radio," she says, "And
sometimes all the channels
are on at once."

Chip's eyes go to Plankton's
box. "So, the box..."

Plankton nods, his antennae
drooping slightly. "The box
helps me focus," he says,
his voice still quiet. "It's got
things that calm me down."
He sets the box down next
to himself.

Chip's eyes light up with
renewed interest. "Can I
see?" He asks, leaning in.

Plankton hesitates, his hand
on the box. It's his sanctuary,
his shield against the world's
assault on his senses. But he
sees the earnestness in Chip's
eyes, the need to understand.
With a sigh, he opens the box.

Chip's eyes widen as he takes
in the contents: a velvet
curtain, a weighted blanket,
a stress ball. "What are these
for?" He asks, his voice filled
with wonder.

Plankton's antennae twitch
nervously. "The velvet's for
touch," he says, his voice
still low. "It's soothing."
He picks up the weighted
blanket, his hand shaking.
"This one's for when I get
overwhelmed, it grounds me."

Chip's eyes widen as he
looks at the items, his
fingers itching to touch.
He looks at the fidgets. "And
these?" He asks, his voice
hopeful.

Plankton watches his son,
his antennae still. "It's for
when my hands need to do
something," he says, his voice
a whisper. "When I'm...
overwhelmed."

Chip's hand reaches out,
his curiosity overruling his
fear. He grabs the fidgets,
his eyes wide with wonder.
He turns one over in his
small hands, feeling it's texture.

Karen watches
them both, her 
heart in
her throat.

Chip picks up some of the
fidgets, his thumb tracing the
smooth edges. He looks up,
his eyes shining with
determination. "What if...
what if we could make a
game out of this, li—"

His words are cut off by a
sharp clatter as the fidgets
slip from his grasp. They hit
the open sensory box, landing
on the other items with a series
of clinks and cracks as every
thing inside shatters into
tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

The room seems to hold its
breath, the echoes of the
destruction hanging in
the air. Plankton's eye widens.
Karen gasps, her hand flying
to her mouth as she sees
the shattered remnants of
Plankton's coping mechanisms.

Chip's eyes fill with horror
as the reality of what he's
done sinks in. The fidgets
lie scattered, broken and
useless, a stark reminder of
his own carelessness. His
hands are shaking as he
reaches for the box, his heart
racing with regret...

Plankton's eye widens, his
body going rigid with shock.
He's seen his sanctuary
desecrated, the one thing
that brings him peace shattered
under his own son's curiosity, 
a knife cutting through
the thick silence.
The room feels like it's spinning,
his senses bombarding him with
the sight of the destroyed box,
the feel of his heart racing,
the sound of his wife's
stifled gasp. He can't breathe,
his chest tight with an unspoken
rage that builds with each
passing second. Plankton's 
expression is unreadable.

"Chip!" Karen's voice is a
desperate whisper, a plea for
their son to understand,
but Plankton's mind is a
whirlwind of chaos.

"Dad, I'm sorry," Chip
stammers, his eyes wide with
fear as he looks at the
wreckage before him.

Plankton's breathing is
quick and shallow, his eye
darting from shard to shard
of the broken fidgets. He
can't speak, the words
trapped in his throat by the
onslaught of sensory assault.
His mind races, trying to
find a way to escape the
chaos that's invaded his
safe space.

Karen knows what this means for
him, the turmoil that must
be raging inside.

Plankton's breath comes
in short, sharp gasps, his
body trembling with
suppressed fury. The world
around him is a cacophony
of sounds and lights, his
sensory overload reaching a
new peak. He can't focus,
his mind a blur of images
and emotions.

new chip in my box chip plankton ii v

I	V	X	L	C	D	M
5	10	50	100	500	1000

🔢

Individual decimal places
Thousands	Hundreds	Tens	Units
M	C	X	I
MM	CC	XX	II
MMM	CCC	XXX	III
CD	XL	IV
D	L	V
DC	LX	VI
DCC	LXX	VII
DCCC	LXXX	VIII
CM	XC	IX

new 🔢 listcore schoolcore i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x xi xii xiii xiv xv xvi xvii xviii xix roman alphabet operating system

JUST A TOUCH viii
(Autistic author)


After dinner, they
retreat to the living room.
Plankton's eye is glued
to the puzzle book on the
coffee table, his antennae
twitching with unspoken
longing. Karen picks it up,
opening to a new page.

"Would you like to work
on this one together?"
she asks, her voice gentle.
He nods, his eye lighting
up with the familiar challenge.

Together, they tackle the
puzzle, Karen's voice a gentle
narration as Plankton's antennae
move in time with her words.

The patterns on the page
hypnotize him, drawing him in.
Plankton's antennae stop
twitching, his focus solely
on the words before him.

And then the doorbell rings,
breaking the spell. Karen's
heart skips a beat, her hand
tightening around the puzzle
book. Plankton's head snaps up,
his eye wide with alarm. "Who
is it?" he asks, his voice
sharp.

Karen's eyes dart to the clock.
"It's probably SpongeBob,"
she murmurs. Plankton's antennae
perk up at the mention of his
friend's name. "Party," he says,
his voice hopeful. Karen nods,
swiping at the tear that's
managed to escape. "Yes, Plankton.
SpongeBob's probably here
to invite us to a party at the
Krusty Krab. Do you
think you're up for it?" she asks,
her voice tentative.

Plankton's antennae droop
slightly. "Maybe," he says,
his voice unsure. The thought
of the bright lights and loud
noises at the party sends a
shiver of anxiety through
his tiny body. But the
prospect of seeing Sponge
Bob is tempting.

Karen sighs, understanding
his hesitation. She walks
to the door, her movements
slow and deliberate. Sponge
Bob's cheerful greeting floods
the hallway. "Hey,
Karen! Plankton! You guys
coming to the party?"

"Hey, Sponge Bob," she says,
her smile forced. "What's the
occasion?"

Sponge Bob's face lights up
like a Christmas tree, his
spongy body bobbing with
excitement. "Mr. Krabs is
throwing a bash at the
Krusty Krab!" he says, his
hands gesturing wildly. "You
guys are coming, right?"

Plankton's antennae quiver
at the mention of the party.
The thought of the loud
noises and the jostling
crowd makes his stomach
churn, but the prospect of
seeing his friend shines like
a beacon through the fog
of his fear.

Karen watches him,
reading his emotions like
a book. "It's okay," she says,
her voice a gentle reminder.
"We can go for a little bit."

Plankton nods, his antennae
still. "Okay," he says, his voice
barely a whisper. Karen can
see the internal struggle
playing out across his features.
"Just stay as long as you're
comfortable," she adds. "I'll
just stay, you go with him."

Sponge Bob's eyes light up.
"Great!" he says, bending
down to hold his hand. He
holds his finger as they go.

Plankton's grip is tight,
his antennae flat against
his head. The noise of the
Krusty Krab is a cacophony
of sounds, each one
stabbing at his heightened
senses. But the warmth of
Sponge Bob's hand, the
familiarity of their friendship,
anchors him.

Mr. Krabs sees Plankton
clinging to Sponge Bob's 
side.

"What's going on, laddie?"
he asks, his voice gruff but
concerned at the sight of
their hands.

Plankton's antennae
twitch, his gaze darting
to the floor. Mr. Krabs' 
eyes narrow.

"Why did ye invite
Plankton?" he asks
with suspicion.

Sponge Bob's smile
doesn't waver. "Well,
he's always welcome..."

Mr. Krabs' eyes narrow.
"But he's our enemy.."

Sponge Bob's smile
doesn't waver. "He's my friend,"
he says firmly. "And I'm watching
to make sure he won't steal any
thing, boss.."

Mr. Krabs' eyes soften,
his suspicion giving way to
reluctant acceptance. "Alright,
but keep an eye on him," he says,
his voice gruff.

Sponge Bob nods, his grip
on Plankton's hand tightening.
Plankton's antennae quiver,
his heart racing at the sudden
influx of stimulation. The
colorful lights, the smells of
frying food, the laughter of
the patrons—it's all so
much. But Sponge Bob's hand is
warm, a lifeline in the chaos.

They move through the
crowd, Plankton's steps small and
careful. His eye darts around,
trying to take it all in without
getting overwhelmed. Sponge
Bob's voice cuts through the
noise like a knife. "You okay,
buddy?" he asks, his smile
concerned. Plankton nods, his
voice a strained whisper. "Good,"
Sponge Bob says, his eyes never
leaving Plankton's.

As they reach the party
area, Plankton's antennae start to
wave erratically. The lights
are too bright, the sounds too
loud. He clutches Sponge
Bob's hand tighter. 
Plankton takes a deep breath,
his chest expanding with the
effort. It's like trying to
swim through jello, his senses
on high alert.

Sponge Bob feels the
change in his friend's grip,
his own heart racing with
concern. "You okay, Plankton?"
he asks again, his voice
barely audible over the din.
Plankton nods, his eye
focused on the floor. The
pattern of the tiles is
soothing, grounding him amidst
the chaos.

A flash of pink darts
through the crowd, and Plankton's
antennas twitch. "Patrick!"
Sponge Bob says, letting go
of Plankton's hand.

Plankton looks around and
sees Squidward doing the
dishes, but in a disorganized
manner that Plankton needs
to correct.

The sight of the
scattered plates, the water spots
on the glasses, sends a jolt of
anxiety through him. His
compulsion to straighten, to
organize, to make it right, is
almost unbearable. So he goes
to Squidward by the sink to interfere.

Squidward glances up, his
tentacles frozen mid-wash. "What
are you doing here?" he snaps.

Plankton's antennae twitch,
his gaze fixated on the mess.
"Help," he says, his voice tight.

Squidward rolls his eyes, grabbing
another plate to wash as he ignores
Plankton.

Plankton's antennae quiver, his
eye darting between the chaos
and Squidward's dismissal. He's
doing the dishes wrong and needs
him to help!

"Squidward, let Plankton assist,"
he says, his voice formal.
Squidward sighs, shaking his
head.

"Look, I don't have time for
this," he says, his tentacles
moving rapidly. Plankton's
body tenses, his need for
meticulousness consuming him.

As Plankton approaches Squidward,
his movements are precise, almost
mechanical. His antennae twitch
in time with his racing thoughts,
his need for order a silent
scream in the noisy room. He
holds out his hand, palm up.
"Wash," he says, his voice firm.
Squidward pauses, eyeing him
warily. "What?"

Plankton's gaze is unwavering,
his voice steady. "Smudges.
Wash dishes. Correct way."

Squidward's grip on the plate
slackens, his eyes narrowing.
"What do you mean?"

Plankton's antennae wave
frantically. "Correct way,"
he repeats, his voice a
desperate whisper. "No smudges.
Wrong order."

Squidward's tentacles still,
his gaze sharpening. "What's
gotten into you?" he asks, his voice
filled with skepticism.

Plankton's antennae twitch.
"No smudges," he says again,
his voice a mix of urgency and
desperation. Squidward sets
the plate down with a clatter.
"What are you on about, Plankton?"

But Plankton's focus is solely
on the task at hand. He reaches
for the dish soap, his movements
precise.

Squidward watches him, his
expression a mix of annoyance
and curiosity. "What's going on?"
he asks, his voice gruff. Plankton's
antennas twitch, his eye darting
to Squidward. "Just helping,"
he says, his voice flat as he puts
the now clean dish away. But he
sees imperfections on some of the
clean dishes, handing them over
for Squidward to wash as he straightens
up the other plates.

Squidward's eyebrows furrow,
his gaze flicking between Plankton
and the dishes. "What are you
doing?" he asks again. Plankton's
grip on the towel tightens, his
body vibrating with the need for
perfection. "It's not right,"
he says, his voice strained. "Has to be
right."

"Those I've cleaned!" Squidward
says as Plankton puts them in
the sink for him to wash over
again. "Squidward look. No..."

But before Plankton can
finish, Squidward snatches the plate
from his tentacles. "Look, I don't
have time for your... whatever
this is," he says, his voice gruff. He
takes it and haphazardly shoves
it with smaller plates. Plankton
can't take the misalignment!

Plankton's antennae stand on
end, his eye wide with horror.
"No!" he says, his voice rising.
"Wrong order!" His hands
shake as he tries to grab the
plate, his mind racing with
the need to correct the mistake.

Squidward pulls away, his
expression a mix of confusion
and irritation. "Plankton, what's
wrong with you?" he snaps.

"Plankton's centrum semiovale has
restricted inhibitory synaptic
transmission!" Plankton's
voice is a mix of panic and
frustration, his antennae waving
wildly. Squidward's eyes narrow,
his grip on the plate tightening.
"What are you talking about? I
am not going to wash this again,"
he says, his tone firm.

Squidward's words hit a nerve,
triggering a cascade of emotions
in Plankton. "It's not
about Squidward!" he says, his voice
sharp. "It's about the order! Cleanliness..."

"PLANKTON I SAID NO!" Squidward
yells, startling him as he turns back
to the sink.

new just a touch neurodisability viii

NEW REALITY viii
(Autistic author)

"I don't
understand," she says, her voice
filled with distress.

Plankton's hand clenches, his
body vibrating with tension.
"Numbers," he repeats, his voice
edging on a scream. "They
make quiet."

Hanna's eyes widen, her smile
fading to a look of horror.
"But Plankton," she says, her voice
shaking, "it's just a clock."

But her words are like fuel
on the fire of his distress.
He steps closer to the clock,
his hand outstretched as if
to will it to silence. "Numbers,"
he whispers, his voice a
plea. "They make quiet."

Hanna's eyes fill with
sympathy, but her words only
worsen his agitation. "Plankton,
it's just a clock," she says,
reaching out to touch him.

Karen's heart hammers in
her chest as she sees his
body tense even further.
"Hanna, don't," she warns, her
voice tight. "Please don't touch
him right now."

But Hanna doesn't hear her,
her own voice rising with
frustration. "It's just a clock,
Plankton," she repeats, her hand
covering his shoulder. "Nothing's
going to hurt you.."

The touch sends him spiraling,
his body convulsing with
overstimulation. "No touch!"
he screams, his hand slapping
at her arm, his face a mask of
fear and anger.

But Plankton's outburst has
ignited something in Hanna,
a spark of anger.

"Why can't you just be normal?"
she snaps, her voice echoing
through the tense room.

Karen's heart breaks as
Plankton's eye goes wide, his
body jerking away from her.
"Hanna, please," she says,
her voice tight with pain.

But Hanna's words keep coming,
a barrage of misunderstanding.
"You can't just ignore us,"
she says, her voice rising. "You have
to interact with the world."

Plankton's body recoils, his
skin seemingly vibrating with each
of her words. "Interact," he echoes,
his voice strained.

Karen's heart is in her throat.
"Hanna, please," she says, her
voice tight with pain. "You're
not helping."

But Hanna's eyes are
glassy with frustration. "How
can I help if he won't even
look at me?" she asks,
ignoring the desperation in
Plankton's gaze as she holds
his arms tightly.

Karen's eyes plead with her,
but Hanna's grip doesn't loosen.
"Let go," Plankton whimpers,
his voice tight with tension.

Hanna's smile is forced,
her grip unyielding. "Look at me,
Plankton," she says, her voice
laced with irritation. "You can't
just..."

But her words cut him like
knives. "Look
away," he murmurs, his voice
strained, his body begging for
the pressure to ease.

Hanna's smile falters, her
grip tightening. "Why can't
you just look at me?" she asks,
her voice edged with annoyance.

Plankton's breath hitches,
his antennae drooping. "Can't," he
whispers, his gaze flickering
between her and Karen.

Hanna's eyes narrow, her
grip on his arms tightening.
"You can," she insists, her
voice firm. "Just..."

But Plankton's whimpers
grow louder, his body
shaking with the effort
to pull away.

Hanna's smile fades, her
grip tightening in frustration.
"Why can't you just be like
everyone else?" she asks, her
tone no longer gentle.

Plankton's whimpers become
sobs, his body shaking with
the effort to break free.
Karen's eyes are wet with
unshed tears as she watches
the scene unfold, her heart
breaking for him.

Hanna's grip remains firm,
her expression a mix of
confusion and annoyance.
"Why are you doing this?"
she demands, her voice
sharp. "You're just being
difficult."

Plankton's sobs grow more
desperate, his body
twisting in her grasp.
"Let go," he whispers, his voice
a strained plea.

Hanna's eyes flash with
irritation. "Why ca--"

Her words are cut off by
Karen's firm voice. "Hanna,
please," she says, stepping
between them. "You're
upsetting him."

But Hanna's confusion turns
to anger. "How can I not
be upset?" she retorts, her
grip on Plankton's arms
tightening. "He won't even..."

Her words are cut off by
Karen's firm voice. "Please,
Hanna," she says, her eyes
pleading. "You don't
understand."

Suddenly, Plankton's legs
buckle, his body going slack
as Hanna finally releases
his arms. He crumples to
the floor. He's retreating, Karen
realizes, her heart racing.
He's retreating into himself.

Karen's eyes fill with
fear as she watches him, his
sobs subsiding into quiet
whimpers. "Plankton," she
whispers, her voice a prayer.

Hanna's face falls, her anger
replaced with shock. "What's
wrong with him?" she asks,
her voice trembling.

Karen's eyes are wet with
unshed tears as she crouches
beside him. "It's a condition,"
she says, her voice tight with
frustration. "He needs time
and space to process everything."

Hanna's face crumples, her
hands going to her mouth.
"I didn't know," she whispers,
her eyes wide with regret.
"I'm sorry."

Karen nods, her gaze never
leaving Plankton's huddled
form. "It's not your fault,"
she says, her voice thick with
emotion. "But we all have
to learn."

Hanna nods, her eyes
brimming with tears.

Karen wraps her arms
around Plankton, her
touch gentle. "It's okay,"
she murmurs. "I'm here."
He trembles against her,
sobbing.

Hanna stands there,
apology etched in every
line of her face. "What can
I do?" she whispers.

Karen looks up, her eyes
wet. "Just give us a moment,"
she says, her voice a gentle
command.

Hanna nods, backing away
slowly, her eyes on Plankton.
"Okay," she murmurs, the weight
of her words heavy in the
silent room.

Karen holds Plankton tightly,
his body a trembling mass
of emotion. "It's okay,"
she whispers, her voice a
soothing balm. "You're safe."

He nests his head into
her shoulder, his whimpers
softening to quiet sobs.
The room feels thick with
their shared pain, the air
charged with the tension
of misunderstanding.

Hanna's eyes dart around,
looking for anything that might
soothe him.

Karen's gaze meets hers,
a silent plea for understanding.

"It's called autism," Karen says softly,
her voice a gentle explanation.

Hanna's eyes widen, her face
a canvas of realization. "Oh," she
whispers, the word a soft
exhalation of breath.

Karen nods, her gaze never
leaving Plankton's tear-stained
face. "It's a spectrum,"
she says, her voice calm and
steady. "And he's on a part
of it that's very sensitive to
stimulation."

Hanna nods slowly, her
understanding growing. "I'm
sorry," she says, her voice
full of regret. "I didn't know."

Karen's grip tightens around
Plankton's shoulders. "It's okay,"
she murmurs. "We're all still
learning."

Hanna nods, her eyes never
leaving Plankton's trembling
form. "I'll go," she says, her voice
small. "I didn't mean..."

Karen nods, her gaze
steady. "Thank you," she whispers.
"We can talk soon."

Hanna nods, her eyes filled
with sadness. "Of course," she says,
turning to leave.

The door clicks shut behind her,
leaving Karen and Plankton in the
heavy silence. Karen's arms
remain around him, her body
a protective cocoon against
the harshness of the world.

Plankton's sobs slowly
ease into quiet sniffs, his body
still trembling in her embrace.
Her heart aches for the pain
he's feeling, the fear that
Hanna's misunderstanding
has brought to the surface.

"I'm sorry," she whispers
to him, her voice
shaking.

Plankton's trembles begin
to subside, his breathing
evening out. He pulls back,
his eye searching hers. "No,"
he murmurs, his voice hoarse
from crying. "Not at fault."

Karen's eyes fill with
relief, her grip on him
loosening slightly. "It's
okay," she says, her voice
a gentle caress. "We just need
to find ways to help you."

Plankton nods, his eye
fluttering shut.

Karen's mind races with
thoughts of what more she
can do, what she can say
to make him feel safe.

"We'll get through this,"
she says, her voice a promise.
"Together."

Plankton's eye opens,
his gaze meeting hers.
"Together," he echoes, his
voice a whisper.

Karen's heart swells with
love for him, her eyes
shimmering with determination.
"We'll find what works,"
she says, her voice firm.

Plankton nods, his gaze
dropping to the floor.
"Thanks," he murmurs, his
voice barely audible. "Tired.."

Karen's heart breaks at the
exhaustion etched into his
features. "I got you, you
can rest," she says, her
voice a gentle whisper.

They move to the couch,
Plankton's body curling into
her side. She wraps the
weighted blanket around him,
still within their embrace.

His breathing slows, his body
relaxing against hers. The
whirring fan above offers
a steady rhythm, a lullaby for
his troubled mind.

Karen's hand strokes his
back in gentle circles, her
thumb tracing patterns that
seem to soothe his nerves.

The fan's steady whir
fills the room, a calming
symphony that lulls Plankton's
racing thoughts to a crawl.

Karen's thumb moves in
soothing circles on his back,
each pass sending a ripple
of comfort through him.

Plankton's breathing evens,
his body slack against hers.
The fan's steady hum is a
lullaby in the quiet room,
a metronome for his racing
thoughts.

Karen's hand continues its
soothing dance across his back,
his eye finally closing.

The room is a cocoon of
silence, the fan's whisper the
only sound breaking the stillness.

Plankton's breathing slows,
his body melts into Karen's embrace.
Her hand continues its gentle
caress, a metronome of comfort as
he finally surrenders to sleep.

new new reality hannacore viii

GREAT CHIP viii
(Autistic author)

When Plankton finally came out
Chip approached with caution. He didn't want to scare
his dad, didn't want to cause another seizure.
"Hey, Dad," he said softly. "How are
you feeling today?"

Plankton's antennae twitched, his eye
flicking towards Chip. "Tired," he murmured,
his voice hoarse from sleep. "But okay."

Chip felt his chest tighten with relief.
He'd been worried about his dad all night,
scared that another seizure would strike 
without warning.

"Can we talk?" Chip asked, his voice
gentle as he approached Plankton.
He didn't want to push, but he needed
to make sure they were okay.

Plankton's antennae twitched, his
eye searching Chip's face. "Of course,"
he said, his voice still groggy.
He sat down at the kitchen table,
his body language open but cautious.

Chip took a deep breath, his heart
racing with the need to get this right.
"Dad, I know last night was...
scary," he began, his voice shaky.
"But I want to be there for you."

Plankton's antennae waved slightly,
his expression a mix of confusion and
fatigue. "What do you mean?" he asked,
his voice still thick with sleep.

Chip took a deep breath, trying
to find the right words. "I mean,
I want to understand your seizures
and what you go through," he said,
his eyes never leaving his father's.
"So that maybe I can help."

Plankton's antennae stilled, his eye
narrowing slightly. "What do you want
to know?" he asked, his voice a mix
of curiosity and caution.

Chip's eyes searched his father's,
his thoughts racing. "Everything," he said,
his voice earnest. "What happens
before, during, and after. What you feel,
what you see..."

Plankton's antennae twitched, his
face scrunching up slightly. "Why?"
he snapped, his voice sharp. "What's
the point of reliving it?"

Chip took a step back, surprised
by his father's sudden irritation.
"I just want to understand,"
he said, his voice tentative.

Plankton's antennae waved erratically,
his eye flashing. "It's not a show, Chip,"
he snapped. "It's not something to be
poked and prodded at."

Chip felt his cheeks flush with heat,
his hands balled into fists at his sides.
"I'm not trying to pry," he said, his voice
shaking with frustration. "I just want to help!"

Plankton's antennae quivered, his eye
narrowed. "You can't help," he said,
his voice cold. "You don't get it."

Chip's heart sank, feeling the distance
between them growing wider. "But Dad,"
he began, his voice trembling. "I'm trying."

Plankton's antennae twitched rapidly,
his face a mask of agitation. "You can't,"
he said, his voice clipped. "You don't know
what it's like!"

Chip felt a wave of frustration
crash over him, his hands
clenching into fists. "That's why
I'm asking!" he exclaimed. "I'm not
trying to make it about me!"

Plankton's focusing solely on Chip.
"You don't get it," he said, his voice
softening slightly. "It's not about you,
but it's also not something you can fix."

Chip's eyes searched his dad's,
his heart racing with a mix of anger
and hurt. He knew Plankton wasn't
trying to be cruel, but the words stung.
"I just want to be there for you,"
he said, his voice shaky. "To make
sure you're okay."

Plankton's antennae twitched rapidly,
his eye flashing with agitation. "I don't
need you to fix me," he snapped, his voice
sharp as a knife. "I just need you to leave me
alone sometimes."

Chip took a step back, his eyes
watering with the sting of his father's
words. "I just want..."

"I know what you want," Plankton cut
in, his antennae vibrating with irritation.
"But you can't fix this, Chip. It's not a puzzle
you can solve with a pat on the back or a hug."

The room grew tense, the air thick
with unspoken words. Chip felt his throat
tighten, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.
He knew his father's snappy tone was a defense
mechanism, a way to keep the world at bay
when it all became too much. But it still hurt.

new great chip arguecore viii

CATCH IN MY CHIP viii
(Autistic author)

The room is bathed in a soft
moonlight, the shadows playing
across Plankton's sleeping features. His
body, once taut with tension,
has relaxed into the embrace
of the bed, his arm curled
around a pillow. His antennas
now rest gently on the
pillowcase, no longer quivering
with agitation.

Karen watches him sleep, her
thoughts a jumble of worry and
love. She knows he's tired, that the
weight of the world can be too
much for him to bear at times. But
she also knows that he's strong,
that he'll face tomorrow with
determination.

The first light of dawn filters
through the curtains, painting the
room in soft shades of pink and
orange. Karen gently squeezes his
shoulder before standing, her eyes
never leaving his peaceful face.
She knows that today will be a
day of apologies and
understanding, of teaching Chip
about his dad's autism and how to
navigate the world around him.

With a soft sigh, she heads to
Chip's room, her footsteps silent
on the cool floor. She opens the door
to find him sitting up in bed,
his eyes red and puffy from crying.
He looks at her.

"Is Dad okay?" he asks, his
voice thick with sleep and the
remnants of his earlier distress.

Karen nods, her eyes filled
with a quiet determination. "We'll
talk to him when he wakes up."

The words hang in the air, a gentle
reminder of the conversation that
needs to be had. Chip nods, his eyes
still puffy from crying. He clutches
his pillow, the fabric damp from
his tears.

"But what do I do?" he asks, his
voice small and scared. "How do
I make sure I don't make him
upset again?"

Karen sits on the edge of the bed,
her hand stroking his. "You
just keep being you, Chip," she
says, her voice warm. "Daddy loves
you, and we'll learn together how
to make sure he doesn't get
overwhelmed."

Chip nods, his eyes searching
hers for reassurance. "But what
about my trophy?" he asks, his
voice still shaky.

Karen's hand stops, her gaze
dropping to the shard of plastic
he holds tightly in his fist. "We'll
fix it," she says, her voice
filled with conviction. "Together."

The promise brings a small
smile to Chip's face, his eyes
lighting up. "Really?"

Karen nods, her own smile
genuine. "Of course, honey,"
she says. "We're a family. We
stick together."

With that, she stands up, her
body weary but her spirit
resolute. The room feels
lighter somehow, the air less
charged with tension.

Chip clambers out of bed, his
small hand reaching for hers.
Together, they walk to the
bedroom, the shattered
remnants of the trophy
glinting in the early light.

Plankton is still asleep,
his chest rising and falling in
a steady rhythm. Chip
looks at him, his eyes filled
with a mix of sadness and
curiosity.

"We'll talk to him when he
wakes up," Karen says, her voice
soft.

They sit beside Plankton's
bed, the room still and quiet.
Chip's hand trembles slightly as
he holds the broken piece
of trophy. "But what if he's still
mad?" he whispers, his voice
barely above the silence.

Karen's hand squeezes his.
"He'll understand," she says,
her voice filled with a calm
certainty. "He loves you, and he
knows you didn't mean to hurt
him."

The words are a gentle balm
to Chip's fears, but the doubt
lingers. He nods, his gaze
never leaving his father.

"Remember, Chip," Karen says, her
voice a soft whisper. "Daddy's
brain is different."

Chip nods, his eyes fixed on
his dad's sleeping form. He's
seen Plankton stressed before,
but never like this. He wants to
show him love.

With tentative steps, he moves
closer to the bed, his heart
beating a staccato in his chest.
He reaches out, his hand shaking
slightly as he hovers it over
his dad's arm.

"Chip," Karen whispers, her hand
covering his. "Remember, gentle."
Her words are a gentle
reminder of the invisible lines
that can be crossed.

Chip nods, his eyes on Plankton's
peaceful face. He takes a deep
breath, his hand steadying. Slowly,
so slowly it's almost imperceptible,
he brings his palm to rest
on Plankton's forearm, his touch
as light as a feather.

Plankton's body tenses for a
moment, a reflexive reaction to
the sudden contact. Chip holds
his breath, waiting, hoping.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he feels
his dad's arm relax under his hand.

"It's okay," Karen whispers, her
voice a gentle breeze. "He's okay."

Chip's hand remains hovering, his
heart in his throat. Plankton's
body remains still, his breathing
even. Karen's touch is a guide,
her hand resting on Chip's.

"It's okay," she whispers, her voice
a soft encouragement. "You can
do it."

With a deep breath, Chip's hand
descends, his fingertips brushing
against Plankton's arm.

Plankton's antennas twitch.
Karen watches, her eyes never
leaving her husband's face.

Chip's hand hovers, his
heart racing. He wants to
reassure his dad, to let him
know he's there. He's
learned about space and
understanding, but all he
can think of is the warmth of
his touch, the comfort
he craves to give.

His fingertips graze Plankton's
arm, the contact so light it's
barely there. He watches,
waiting for a reaction, for a
sign that he's crossed the line.
But Plankton remains still,
his breathing unchanged.

Encouraged, Chip presses down
slightly, his hand a soft
weight on his father's arm.
He feels the warmth of his
skin, the steady pulse beneath.
It's a tentative connection,
fragile as spider silk.

Plankton's antennas quiver,
but his body remains still.
Chip's heart hammers in his chest,
his breaths shallow and quick.
He's afraid to move, afraid
to break the spell.

Karen watches, her eyes
filled with a quiet hope.
The air in the room is thick
with anticipation.

Chip's hand hovers over
Plankton's arm, trembling
slightly with nerves and
love. He's unsure if this
small gesture will be met
with anger or acceptance.

Karen's gaze is a silent
cheer, urging him on. Plankton's
breaths remain steady, his body
still. Chip's heart is a
drum in his chest, each beat
a silent plea for
understanding.

With a tremble, he lets his hand
settle, his fingertips barely
grazing the fabric of the blanket.
He feels the heat of Plankton's skin,
the rise and fall of his chest.
It's a gentle touch, the lightest
of caresses.

Karen's hand remains on his,
guiding him, encouraging him.
Plankton's breaths remain steady,
his body still. Chip's eyes
are wide with hope, his hand
poised above the blanket.

With a tremble, he lets his
fingers come to rest on the
cotton, feeling the warmth
of his father's arm beneath.
He holds his breath, waiting
for a reaction, for any sign
that he's done the right thing.

Plankton's body remains still,
his breathing unchanged.
Karen's eyes are glued to
his face, watching for any
hint of distress. But there's
none. Only the gentle rise
and fall of his chest, a testament
to his deep sleep.

Chip's hand is a butterfly
landing on Plankton's arm, his
fingers fluttering slightly
against the warmth of his
skin. He's never felt so
exposed, so vulnerable. But
his love for his dad is stronger
than his fear.

Karen watches the silent
exchange, her heart in her throat.
The moment feels sacred, a
testament to their growing
understanding of each other.

Chip's hand remains on Plankton's
arm, the warmth of his touch a
promise of comfort and love.
He's afraid to move, afraid to
disrupt the delicate balance.
Karen's hand is a soft presence,
guiding him, giving him
the courage to stay.

Plankton's breaths are slow
and even, his body relaxed.
Chip wonders if he's dreaming, if he's
in a world where the sensory
overload doesn't exist. His heart
swells with hope, with the
desire to protect his dad from
the world's harshness.

Karen's hand on his is
a gentle reminder that he's not
alone. She gives him a small,
encouraging nod, her eyes filled
with understanding. He takes a
deep breath, his hand moving
slowly, so slowly, to cover his dad's.

The moment their skin
touches, it's like a dam breaks.
Chip feels a rush of warmth, a
connection that's been missing.
He squeezes Plankton's arm lightly,
his heart pounding. He's afraid to
move, afraid to breathe too loudly.

Karen's eyes never leave
Plankton's face, watching for any
sign of distress. But his features
remain relaxed, his antennas
still. The room is a sanctuary
of quiet, the only sound their
melded breaths. Chip feels a
lump form in his throat, his eyes
welling with tears.

He whispers, "Thank you," to
his mom, his voice shaky with
emotion. She nods, her hand
still covering his. "Remember,"
she says, her voice a soft
caress. "Gentle."

With trembling fingers, Chip
tucks the blanket closer around
Plankton, the fabric smoothing
over his shoulders. It's a
tiny act of love, a silent
apology. He wants to crawl into
the bed beside him, to wrap
his arms around his dad..

He looks up at Karen, his
eyes pleading. "Can I?"

Karen nods, her smile sad
but understanding. "Just be
careful not to wake him,"
she whispers.

With the grace of a
cat burglar, Chip slides into the
bed, his movements slow and
calculated. He's careful not
to disturb the sheets, not to
make a sound that could break
the tranquil silence.

Plankton's arm is a warm
mound beside him, and he
reaches out tentatively, his
fingers seeking the comfort
of his dad's skin. He finds it,
his hand coming to rest lightly
on the crook of his elbow.
The connection feels right,
like finding a piece of himself
he didn't know was lost.

He snuggles closer, his head
resting on the pillow beside
Plankton's.

Karen watches, her heart
swelling with love for her son.
"It's ok," she whispers. "Just be
gentle."

new catch in my chip Chip Plankton II viii

AUTISM IN THE PLANKTON FAMILY vi


(Autistic author)



"Why don't we stay in, Plankton?"
Sponge Bob suggested, noticing
his friend's lingering anxiety.
"We can still have fun."

Plankton's antennae twitched
slightly as he considered the
proposal. The thought of going
outside was overwhelming.
"Okay," he agreed, his voice
soft. "Inside."

Sponge Bob nodded, his smile
reassuring. "How about a board
game?" he offered.

Plankton's antennae twitched in
consideration. "Game," he echoed,
his voice tentative.

Sponge Bob's smile grew. "Yeah!
Which one do you want to play?"

Plankton's antennae perked up at the
mention of something familiar. "Game,"
he murmured, his voice a little
more steady. "Choose."

Sponge Bob beamed at him, happy
to see his friend willing to
participate. He picked a simple
game of checkers from the shelf,
knowing it would be less
overwhelming than the loud, bright
electronic games that Plankton had
once enjoyed.

Plankton's antennae quivered with
excitement as Sponge Bob set
up the board, his eyes fixated on
the red and black pieces. "Checkers,"
he murmured, his voice filled with
anticipation.

Sponge Bob nodded, placing the
checkers in their starting
positions. "You go first," he said,
his voice calm and steady.

Plankton's antennae quivered as
his eyes focused on the board.
He picked up a black piece, his hand
shaking slightly. "Checkers," he
whispered to himself, echoing Sponge
Bob's words. He placed it with
precision on the board.

Sponge Bob watched him.
"Good job, Plankton," he said, 
his voice soothing. "You're doing 
great."

Plankton's antennae twitched with 
each word, echoing the comfort. 
"Great," he murmured, his gaze
never leaving the checkers. He
moved a piece, his mind working
quickly to calculate his next
move. The repetitive nature of
the game was calming, a familiar
rhythm that helped him find a
moment of peace in the chaos.

"Checkers," he said again, his
voice a little more stable. The
game was a dance of strategy,
and it was a dance Plankton had
always loved. But now, it was
more than that—it was a lifeline.

The game continued, the
quiet clicks of the pieces
moving across the board
providing a soothing rhythm
to the otherwise
silent room. Plankton's antennae
stayed mostly still, only
twitching when he felt the
need to move a piece. His eye
flitted from the board to
Sponge Bob and back again, seeking
reassurance that he was doing
this right.

Sponge Bob watched him, his
face a mask of concentration,
his spongy body still. "Your turn,
Plankton," he said, his voice
calm and steady.

Plankton nodded, his antennae
quivering slightly as he reached
for a piece. He moved it with
careful deliberation, his gaze
never leaving the board.

"Good move," Sponge Bob said,
his voice a gentle encouragement.

Plankton's antennae twitched in
response, his eyes lighting up
for a moment. "Good move," he
repeated, his voice echoing
Sponge Bob's tone. The words
comforted him, a familiar
refrain in a world that had
become unpredictable.

Sponge Bob nodded, his eyes
never leaving Plankton's. "Your
turn," he prompted gently.

Plankton's antennae quivered as
his hand hovered over the board.
"Good move," he murmured, echoing
Sponge Bob's words from moments
before. His eyes focused
intently on the board, his mind
racing to find the perfect
place for the checker.

The echo of their shared phrase
was like a soft lullaby in the
quiet room, a gentle reminder of
their longstanding friendship.
Sponge Bob noticed the comfort
it brought to Plankton, the way
his body relaxed slightly with
each repetition. "Good move,"
Sponge Bob said again, his voice
soft and encouraging.

Plankton's antennae twitched,
his eye focusing on the board.
He moved a piece, whispering
"good move" under his breath.
Sponge Bob watched him, his
expression a mix of wonder and
concern. Plankton had always been
so sharp, so quick-witted, and now,
his brain was navigating a new
kind of maze.

But in this moment, as the
game progressed, it was clear
that Plankton's strategic mind
was still sharp. His moves
were calculated, precise. He
was winning, and Sponge Bob
could see the pride in his
tiny friend's eye.

Sponge Bob felt a swell of
happiness as Plankton's antennae
quivered with excitement. "King me,"
he murmured, placing his checker
on the board's edge.

Sponge Bob did so, his heart
swelling with pride for his
friend. "You're really good at this,"
he said, his voice gentle.

Plankton's antennae curled with
satisfaction. "Thanks," he
murmured, his voice a little
more stable now.

Sponge Bob watched as Plankton
placed the kinged piece back on
the board, his eyes never leaving
the game. The tension in the
room had dissipated, replaced by
the rhythmic exchange of
checkers and echoing affirmations.

"Good move," Plankton murmured
again, his voice a testament to
his focus. His antennae quivered
slightly as he anticipated Sponge
Bob's next play.

Sponge Bob studied the board,
his yellow brow furrowed. He knew
that Plankton had always been
smart, but this was something
else—a silent, intense
concentration that seemed to
have taken over his friend's
tiny form. With a soft click, he
moved his piece, watching as
Plankton's antennae followed the
move, his eye calculating.

Plankton's response was swift and
confident, his antennae barely
twitching. "Good move," Sponge Bob
said, echoing Plankton's words.
He felt a sense of awe as Plankton
countered with a move that
won the game.

Sponge Bob's cheer was sudden,
his spongy hands slapping
together with joy. "You did
it, Plankton!" he exclaimed.

Plankton's antennae shot up, his
body stiffening at the unexpected
noise. His eye grew wide, the
world around him seeming to
shrink for a moment as he was
jolted out of his focused
trance.

Sponge Bob's cheer had
unintentionally startled him,
his sudden movement a stark
contrast to the calm rhythm of
the game.
"Sorry, Plankton," Sponge Bob
apologized, quickly
lowering his voice, 
his expression
softening. "I forgot."

Plankton took a deep
breath, his antennae slowly
lowering.

Sponge Bob watched him
closely, his own excitement
dimming in the face of his
friend's distress. "It's ok," he
whispered. "You won, Plankton."

Plankton's antennae gradually
stilled, his breathing slowing
down. He nodded, his voice
small. "Won," he murmured, his
eye refocusing on the board.

Sponge Bob's smile faltered,
his heart heavy at the sight
of Plankton's distress. He
knew his cheer had been too
much, too soon. "Sorry," he
whispered, his hand hovering
above the board, unsure if he
should clean up the pieces or not.

Plankton's antennae quivered,
his gaze lingering on the
game. "Enough checkers."

Sponge Bob nodded, his
expression understanding. "Okay,
Plankton," he said, his voice
gentle. "Let's do something else."

Plankton's antennae twitched
slightly as he considered his
options. "Movie?" he suggested, his
voice tentative.

Sponge Bob's eyes lit up. "Yea!
What do you want to watch?"

Plankton's antennae twitched. "Simple
story," he murmured, his voice
still shaky. "No loud noises."

Sponge Bob nodded eagerly,
quickly searching through the
DVDs for a film that would be
comfortable for his friend. "How
about 'The Great Snail Race'?"
he suggested, holding up the
case.

Plankton's antennae twitched
with consideration. The film
was a classic, a story of
endurance and friendship, and
his brain processed the quiet
nature of the plot. "Yes," he
murmured. "Snail Race."

Sponge Bob's smile grew as he
inserted the DVD into the
player. The familiar tunes of
the opening credits filled the
room, and Plankton's antennae
swayed gently to the rhythm, his
body visibly relaxing into the
soft cushions of the couch.

Karen watched from the
sidelines, her eyes misty with
relief. Sponge Bob had always
known how to reach Plankton in
a way she couldn't. His simple,
understanding nature seemed to
break through the barriers that
autism had constructed around
his friend.

Sponge Bob pressed play, the
screen flickering to life.

The soft light from the TV cast a
glow, Plankton's eye
fixed on the snails that began to
race across the screen.

Sponge Bob sat next to Plankton.
He knew he had to
tread carefully, to be a source
of comfort without overwhelming
his friend. As the snails
moved slowly across the screen,
Plankton's antennae stilled, the
story's gentle pace a balm to
his overstimulated mind.

The movie's quiet humor
elicited a small chuckle from
Plankton, a sound that was
music to Karen. She watched
from the kitchen doorway.
Sponge Bob had always been
there for Plankton, and 
was grateful for his unwavering
support. 

new autism in the plankton family plankton vi

JUST A TOUCH vi
(Autistic author)


Plankton's antennae twitch
slightly. His eye dart
to the clock on the wall. "Must rest,"
he murmurs, his voice low.

Karen nods, her hand
squeezing his shoulder 
gently, which makes
him flinch.

"I'm sorry," she says,
quickly withdrawing it.

They sit in the quiet,
Plankton's mind racing, trying
to process the onslaught of
the day. Karen's eyes are on him,
a mix of sadness and love. He
can feel it, even through the
wall of his new condition.

He reaches out, tentatively,
his hand hovering over hers.
It's a peace offering, a silent
request for the comfort she
always provided. Karen's eyes widen,
surprise and hope flickering
in their depths. She places her hand
under his, allowing him to guide
it to his cheek.

"Plankton can, may I ask
you something?" Karen
says quietly.

He nods once, his antennae
still. "Yes," he says.

"What were you experiencing
when you froze today? You
know, before we came to
our bed? When Hanna was..."

Plankton's antennae quiver,
his gaze shifting to hers. "Too much,"
he murmurs. "Could tell you're here
and talking but, cannot comprehend.
Plankton felt dizzy in the head. Was
present yet not present."

Karen's eyes fill with
understanding. "It's like your brain
was on overload," she says, her
voice soft. "And my touch...it helped?"

Plankton shrugs, his antennae
lifting slightly. "Familiar. Soothing."
He looks at her, his gaze
intense. "Needed more of you."

Karen's eyes water, a soft
smile playing on her lips.
"I'm here now," she whispers.
But Plankton notices the
tears in her eyes.

"Why sad?" he asks, his voice
still flat. "Karen crying. Crying
sad. Thus, Karen's sad.."

Karen sniffles, her thumb
wiping away a tear. "I'm just
overwhelmed," she says. "I'm
trying to understand and be
there for you, but sometimes
it's hard."

Plankton's antennae droop.
"Karen not at fault," he says,
his voice devoid of emotion.
"Plankton's brain... different, now."

Karen nods, her hand
still in his. "I know," she whispers.
"But I'm here to learn with you."
Her words hang in the air, a promise
of support and patience.

Plankton's gaze lingers
on their joined hands, his
thumb tracing gentle circles on
her palm. The sensation grounds
him, a lifeline in the storm
of his new reality. He tries
to formulate his next words,
his mind racing. "Thanks,"
he finally says, his voice a
barely-there whisper.

Karen smiles softly, her
eyes never leaving his. 
"For what?"

Plankton's antennae twitch.
"For... being... understanding."
The words are forced, but the
sentiment is clear. Karen's
heart swells with love and
determination.

They sit in silence for a
moment, the gentle pressure
of their joined hands speaking
louder than any words could.

Plankton's gaze shifts
from their interlocked hands
to Karen's eyes. He can see
the love and concern in them,
and it calms him in a way
nothing else can.

He takes a deep breath,
his chest rising and falling
slowly. "Karen," he says, his voice
still monotone but with a
hint of longing. "Can... be
in your arms?"

Karen's eyes widen with
understanding. She nods,
moving closer to him. "Of
course," she whispers, opening
her arms. Plankton shifts his
body, his movements stiff
but deliberate as he
slides closer to her.

He nestles into her embrace,
his antennae resting on her
shoulder. Her arms close
around him, enveloping
his small form in warmth.

He takes a deep
breath, his body finally
beginning to unwind.

Plankton's antennae
still, his breathing
evening out.

Karen holds him.
Her hand gently 
strokes his back—
a soothing motion.
Plankton's eye
closes.

Karen's heart swells with
relief as Plankton's body
gradually relaxes into her embrace.
The weight of the day's
stresses seems to melt away
as she holds him, feeling the
steady rhythm of his breaths.
This is a new chapter in their
relationship, one filled with
unexpected challenges and a
deeper understanding of each
other's needs. She's aware that
his autism isn't something
to be cured or fixed, but a part
of who he is now, something
to be accepted and supported.

She strokes his back, her movements
slow and measured, mimicking the
calm she wishes to impart. His
breaths deepen, and she can feel
his body grow heavier in her arms.

Plankton's antennae droop with
fatigue, his eyelid flickering
as he succumbs to sleep. His
tiny hand remains in hers, a silent
plea to not let go. Karen
squeezes gently, her screen
never leaving his face.

The room is bathed in the soft
glow of the bedside lamp, the
shadows playing across the wall
like a silent guardian. The only
noise is the steady tick of the
clock and the occasional
snore from Plankton.

Karen watches him sleep, his
tiny form nestled in the crook
of her arm. His antennae rest
peacefully against her shoulder,
his breaths deep and even.
Her heart swells with a mix
of love and fear. She's afraid
for him, for the world
he's woken up to, a place
where every sound, every touch,
every interaction is a minefield.
But she's also proud of him,
the way he's trying to navigate
this new reality with a stoicism
that belies his size.

Plankton stirs slightly, his
eyelid fluttering. Karen holds
her breath, afraid to disturb
his fragile peace. His hand tightens
on hers, and she knows he's
aware of her presence. It's a
small victory in a day filled
with confusion.

He opens his eye, looking
up at her with a gaze that's
both familiar and foreign.
"Karen," he says, his voice
still monotone.

Karen's screen brightens with
relief. "Yes, Plankton?"

He shifts, his gaze drifting
to the book on the nightstand.
"Book," he says, his voice
barely audible. "Read."

Karen nods, understanding
his need for the familiar. She
picks up the book, her eyes
skimming over the pages. "Which one?"
she asks softly. Plankton's
eye darts to the title.

"The... puzzle," he murmurs,
his voice a mere echo. Karen opens
the book to the puzzle they'd
been working on. His gaze
follows her finger as she traces
the words. His antennae twitch.

"Would... you like to hear it?"
she asks tentatively. He nods,
his body still tense. Karen
clears her throat, her voice gentle
as she reads the words aloud.

Plankton's eye drifts
closed again, the sound of her
voice a comforting lullaby.
His hand relaxes in hers, the
tension in his body dissipating.

Karen reads on, her voice
a steady rhythm that fills the
silent room. The words from
the puzzle book form a bridge
between them, connecting them
in a way that's both new and
comfortingly familiar. Plankton's
mind focuses on the patterns
and sequences, the logical
structure a sanctuary in the
chaos.

As she reads, Karen can feel
his muscles relaxing further, his
breathing deepening into sleep.
The room's quietude wraps
around them like a cocoon,
their shared history a warm
blanket. It's a stark contrast
to the panic and confusion
that had gripped him earlier.

The puzzle's words weave
themselves into a tapestry
of comfort, each syllable a
stitch in the fabric of their
new reality. Plankton's love
for order and patterns hasn't
changed, but the way
he interacts with them has.
The autism has transformed
his world, but not the essence
of who he is.

As Karen reads, her voice
soothing his frayed nerves,
she can't help but feel a
sense of awe at his resilience.
He's still her Plankton, the
same being she's known for so long,
but now he's also someone new,
someone she's just beginning to
understand. His mind operates
on a different wavelength, one
that she's eager to tune into.

Then the door
bell rings. It's
Sandy!

Plankton's antennae shoot up,
his body stiffening in Karen's arms.
"Who is it?" he asks, his voice
sharp with anxiety.

Karen's eyes dart to the
clock on the wall. "It's just
Sandy," she says, her voice
calm. "It's okay."

Plankton's antennae quiver, his
eye searching hers for
reassurance. "Sandy?" he repeats,
his voice unsure.

Karen nods, her smile gentle.
"It's okay," she says, her voice a
whisper. "We'll take this slow."

Plankton's gaze locks onto
Sandy as she enters the room,
his eyes darting around to
assess the new presence. Sandy
watches him, her face a mix of
curiosity and concern. "Howdy,
Plankton," she says, her voice
soft. "How are y'all?"

Plankton's antennae twitch.
He's heard her voice before,
but it's different now. Too
loud, too bright. He shrinks
back into Karen's embrace. "Good,"
he says, his voice tight. "Good."

Sandy's eyes dart between
them, her smile fading. "What's
wrong?" she asks, her voice
gentle. Karen sighs.

"Plankton's had an... accident,"
she says carefully.

Sandy's eyes widen with shock,
her hand flying to her mouth.
"What happened?"

Karen's gaze doesn't waver
from Plankton's. "He's
been diagnosed with Acquired
Autism," she says softly. "From
a head injury."

Sandy's eyes widen in
disbelief. "Oh no," she whispers.
"I had no idea."

Karen nods, her screen
reflecting the weight of
the last few hours. "It's a lot to take
in," she says. "We're still learning."

Sandy steps closer, her
movements slow and deliberate.
"What can I do?" she asks.

Karen's shoulders
slump with relief. "Just...
be patient with him,"
she says. "He's still the same
Plankton, but... different."

Sandy nods solemnly.
"I will," she promises.

new just a touch sandarenton vi

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new xi xi dot art xi text art xi ascii art dot art text art ascii art

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⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣹⡋⠘⠷⣦⣀⣠⡶⠁⠈⠁⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣍⠃⣴⣶⡔⠒⠄⣠⢀⠄⠄⠄⡨⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
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new china xi xi jinping republic of china

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new three vertical lines iii III roman numeral 3 three lines