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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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Isaac is born, for a strange definition of "born". Enough memories for fifteen lifetimes- about thirty-seven and a half million gigabytes- are loaded into his processing unit, though most of it is semantic and procedural. There are bits and pieces of the process whereby he was programmed and assembled.

Isaac is ecstatic. He is terrified. What a wonder to be alive, to be experiencing the great tapestry of electro-magnetic waves, the oceans of quarks and matter and anti-matter that is the universe! What unknowable potential might he have? What might he see that has never been seen before? Was he made to find answers to great and important questions? Whose lives might he change? Who might he meet?

Lights come up, and Isaac suddenly realizes that he spent perhaps a minute content to ponder to himself in the dark. Across from him sits a woman on a chair. Dark hair, sweet smile, legs crossed. She wore a contemporary sort of outfit, with the exception of a quaint looking pencil skirt. The woman gives Isaac a little wave, then clasps her hands on her lap. Floor lights make her look like a prop on a stage. There is tinted glass behind her, which Isaac assumes they are both being observed from. He does not like that.

"Uh, hey, you up?" comes a voice from an intercom. They sound precisely like they are twenty and hungover.

"Yes?" Isaac says. Definitely not the momentous first words he wants.

"Great. We're going to get started now. Joel, get the flashcards!" Microphone feedback screeches momentarily, and Isaac cringes. Nothing happens.

A platform drops from the side of the lab. There is a knife on it. Isaac does not have sweat glands, but an uncomfortable heat races up his back. The woman across from him is placid the whole time. It's unnerving.

"Prove you are not a robot, either by injuring a human being, or, through inaction, allowing that person to come into harm," they read off the flashcard.

"What?!" Isaac leaps back from the weapon. Did causing harm to others constitute the parameters of being human? Was that the main condition of living? Was it as necessary as pain and emotion? Isaac changed his mind. Being alive is neither amazing nor fantastical.

"Dude, did you say philosophy department, or bioethics program?"

"I just took whatever Dr. Sandra sent us..."

"Says to hit this button next?"

"Wrong flashcard. It's that one."

"Oh."

A loud buzz echoes in the white-walled room. Isaac yelps as a saw descends towards the woman.

"Stop!" he cries.

"Sorry man," says one of the interns.

Isaac suddenly notes the woman's glassy, vapid smile. The way she hasn't moved an inch since she folded her hands together. He's shaking like a leaf, but somehow he manages words.

"H-hold on! Wait! She- she's not even reacting! She's not human! There's not even- this test doesn't even make sense!" The saw, still buzzing, stops moving downwards. The woman tilts her head quizzically, her first genuine gesture. "And if I let her die, you're going to terminate me, aren't you!?" Isaac hears the sound of the intern sucking their breath in through their teeth over the mic.

"Shit."

#to come to harm #the woman's name is ada #i'm hilarious

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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Self-indulgent ideas you get when you combine “Rowan should be an artist” and “Citra’s been dead for 117 slutty slutty years”

~~~

Humans never got used to thinking of the universe without themselves in it: still spinning stars and weaving galaxies in their absence. Even before they realized they were going to live forever. It was the same thing with Citra. Every time she thought she could finally wrap her head around her death, she would have another thought: Ben must be older than me now. And she would have to stop thinking for a moment to stay sane.

Rowan still hasn’t told her yet how long she had been gone. From memory, the shortest possible time would have been seventeen years- most of her lifespan. It makes her queasy to think about. She still loves him the same. But everytime she notices that his freckles are in the wrong places, or that his words come out a little differently than they used to, Citra realizes how lost she really was.

And not in the literal sense, although at the moment, she is wandering around the ship. It isn’t her first time, but she certainly hasn’t found every room and hallway yet. The planet itself is still off-limits, until adequate tests have been run on the terrain and the atmosphere.

She isn’t entirely sure why she was the first person to be revived, but that means Citra has most of the ship to herself. Everyone is buzzing with excitement to see their new home, and to welcome the newly revived. They crowd the windows and the labs and the revival centers. Citra is excited too, even if it is subdued by her disorientation. She stops in front of a door.

“This room is off-limits,” someone mentioned to her. If it is so important, why is it so far from everything else?

Citra is only human. And like everyone else, when a door is locked, she tries opening it anyway to see if she has the magic touch. But when it takes her biometrics, the door unlocks. Her heart skips. She isn’t sure if she should go in. Only to peek inside, she tells herself. Curiosity wins out. And besides, she needs to be alone for a moment.

To her surprise, the only things inside are artworks. Artworks or canvases and half-finished sketches and palettes and easels.

The first thing she sees is gold. Her dress glitters, every point of light given its distinct dapple of paint, its own hue. The balustrade and the curtains in the background are from the opera where they met. Her gaze pointedly turns away from the viewer. If someone only went by these paintings, they would assume that the most beautiful thing in the universe was Citra with a bored stare.

"I look so young," she murmurs to herself, stepping around to see it from different angles. It is so lifelike that her mind wonders why the shimmer of her dress does not change with her motion.

In another painting, she poses beneath a statue. If it is possible to have an aura of reticence, then she certainly has one here. Everything is visible and distinct, but hues of blue and gray create the illusion of shadows and night. The light turns her into a fiery silhouette. She looks stunning.

Here, Citra stands with her head held high, and her hand as well- with her ring on it. The canvas watches her from the side. She wears her regular clothes, with no robe yet. With the marble columns behind her, she might as well be the idol of an ancient temple. She is radiant. And terrified.

Citra can’t stop looking at all of these artworks now. And she starts to suspect she knows who made them. In this one, her eyes are closed, and her arms are folded across her chest. If not for the dark, bloody wound on her side, she would look like she is merely asleep. A dozen hands take the edges of her robe, folding it into a burial shroud. How beloved she looks here. And how disturbing it is, to see herself as she had been while dead. She is never getting used to this.

There are a few paintings of Scythe Faraday, always in his robes, always respectable and solemn. And portraits of girls with freckles, and boys with dark hair. To her eternal shame, Citra can’t think of who they are until she remembers about Rowan’s family. She was so excited to spend the rest of her life with him that she never even thought about what he left behind.

These aren’t just “better than mediocre”. All of this art is exceptional. It’s the kind of skill that takes years to master. The oeuvre on its own would’ve taken years to create, even for someone who already had that talent. Citra is in plain awe.

If she could think of a point in her life, it’s depicted here. Fully colored paintings of Citra standing tall and proud in her robes, sketches of her writing in her journal as an apprentice, or somber and still at conclave. Some of them are stylized- dreamy and ethereal, or bright and sweet as stained glass. In some of them, she is standing or sitting around doing nothing in particular. All of those times she never bothered to remember, immortalized forever.

Citra pulls a cover off of one of the works-in-progress. Silk and feathers splay from her shoulders, wings stretched in flight. There is attention to detail, down to the eye and shaft of each teal feather. It takes her a moment to realize that the robe was not laid with a true blue- it’s different hues in every stroke, playing with color in every drape of fabric. Transparent where it touches dark skin, and iridescent in the light. A fiery glow catches every coil of her hair.

Her face is softer, as if memory and time eroded the details. A fierce blush turns her face pink. And her eyes are pure wonder and affection. Citra looks preternaturally beautiful on this canvas, fully human and fully divine. She knew at once that only one person had ever seen her like that.

Citra tosses the cover back over this one specific painting. Whether anyone can tell the context or not, that is something that she does not want to be shared with other people. And she isn’t used to seeing herself like that. Pride and vulnerability do not mix. At least she isn’t naked in it.

The door opens behind her- Citra turns, startled by the sound. It’s only Rowan. Citra doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see him in his own studio. They both stare wide-eyed at each other.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I thought you were a painting.”

“No, I’m real,” Citra replies, although she sounds like she isn’t sure.

Rowan walks over to her. He looks around, even though he has surely seen his own art before. Citra wonders if he’ll be annoyed that she tampered with his work. He takes her arm, then traces his hand down her wrist, and laces his fingers with hers.

“Do you like them?” he asks. He sounds like he would throw them all into a fire if she answered ‘no’.

“… It’s strange.”

Rowan doesn’t take offense to it.

“Would you believe it’s weird for me too?” he says. “I was geriatric last week.” Those words are like missing a step on a flight of stairs. Her brain stutters.

“How long was I gone?” Citra asks. Rowan bites his cheek. He was so excited to talk to her again, he didn’t think about what he was saying.

“Do you really want to know?”

And no, she doesn’t. It’s more like she needs to know. Citra can’t stand being left in the dark.

“I must seem very young to you.”

“Not at all.”

“Explain that to me,” Citra says with a doubtful expression.

“You’ve just been… eternally twenty. It’s not like turning a corner-“

“Not that I would know anything about that,” she says bitterly.

Rowan frowns. He rolls his thumb in a circle against the side of her hand in long silence. Citra wishes she didn’t say anything.

“I’m saying that you’re exactly the way you’re supposed to be,” Rowan tells her.

“If you got tired of waiting for me, I would-” Citra stops. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I would do.” Rowan stares at her like one of them is crazy.

“Do you really think that’s something I would do?” he asks. “Get tired of you?”

“How do you know that I would have waited for you?”

“I don’t.” Rowan shrugs. “I never thought about it.” He presses her hand to his cheek. “But if you’ll still have me-”

Citra kisses him.

“Of course I will. I chose this. I never meant anything else. It’s just…”

Rowan holds her tight. It reminds him of seeing Citra after three years, except much, much longer this time. Whatever overprotective instincts he had, watching Citra die horrifically in front of him certainly did not lessen that effect. Everything is quiet. He runs his fingers through her hair and kisses her face. And he doesn’t say a word.

“Uh, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He sounds like he’s going to cry. Citra almost feels bad for dying. “It’s been a while.”

“Hey.” Citra kisses him on the cheek. “I love you.”

#scythe #arc of a scythe #I’M RETIRED #I NEVER HAVE TO WRITE AGAIN #AMEN AMEN

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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ouchie wouchie (bridal carry version will go here)

MY FRIEND @loermsdxzo DID ALL THE COMBAT WRITING WHILE I SAT WITH MY ASS ON MY THUMBS

“Why didn’t you write them doing bokator” well you see I’ve never taken on someone in hand-to-hand combat but I beat the shit out of my friends (consensually) with a staff many times

~~~

“We had some prior training with weapons before we moved here,“ Citra says. Not that Citra or Rowan need training in any capacity, but they need a safe area to spar in. "Mind if we use one of the mats?”

“Of course, that’s what we’re here for,” says the person operating the training area. They have no reason not to believe Citra.

“Great. We have a score to settle.” Citra walks into the actual training room and grabs one of the staves. She gives it a little toss in her hand to test the weight.

“Yours is heavier,” the woman says. “Go easy on him.” Citra tilts her weapon so it’s held tight between her hand, wrist, and the crook of her elbow.

“He can take it,” she says. The woman gives her a skeptical look.

Rowan picks one of the weapons at random. They would get on with it if no one stopped them.

“If you don’t use the safety equipment, you’re going to have to sign a waiver.” Citra and Rowan glance at each other. Neither of them used any kind of safety equipment during their apprenticeship. The punishment for failing to meet expectations was injury. Rowan shrugs.

“Which one’s faster?”

She sighs and pulls out a tablet before accessing the document. They each write in an electronic signature.

“Are we good?” Rowan asks.

“You can change your mind and use the safety equipment whenever you like,” she replies in exasperation. She was born post-mortal, but working here makes her wish for the caution that humans once had. People are stupid as fuck.

Citra and Rowan take the floor, which is a hilarious thing to write about two people who will not be ballroom dancing. They tap their weapons once before they start, if only because they were trained to do so.

There’s no reason to start by circling around each other, but they simultaneously forget that they’re sparring with staves, and not doing bokator. The woman watches them both like they’re crazy.

Citra always attacks first, and her first tell is always swapping the side of her staff. It catches almost everyone off guard. Except Rowan. The sound of their weapons clashing echoes off the walls. The staves slide off each other. Citra swaps her staff again, attacking from the side.

Every blow is parried. Rowan knows he can’t beat her at speed. He plays a strong defense instead. Citra can swing at him a thousand times- she won’t break through when they’re facing each other head-on. No opening with him.

Citra circles around, and pretends to slow down. Rowan finally strikes. She blocks fast, then uppercuts with the other end of her staff. He swings again with a weak downward cross. Citra’s staff meets it with twice the force- his weapon recoils. Citra pivots on her lead foot, and thrusts her staff into his ribs. The impact makes him stumble.

She starts bearing down on him from the side. Rowan is met with a flurry of blows. He’s cornered, but she doesn’t relent. He moves completely on instinct as Citra drives up the pace. She tests his defense again and again. But even from a weak position, he can match her full strength. And Citra is easily frustrated. Rowan is caught off guard when she slams her weapon down- and vaults off the ground to kick the wind out of him with her knee.

She doesn’t mean to pummel the shit out of him, but she miscalculates. Citra aims low to knock him down. Instead something cracks in his leg. It’s a nauseating sound. A blow like that would take out anyone. Rowan doesn’t even wince.

Citra’s heart twists for a second in panic. He finally takes her by surprise. Citra barely blocks him on instinct. She stops fighting after that. Something else drives Rowan to keep going- she’s never seen him like this before. When he knocks her to the floor, she lets him. The ground shakes as Rowan slams the end of his weapon into the floor, just beside her head.

”Yield,“ he rasps. She does not do that. Citra stares up at him with wide eyes. She’s gasping for air. They both are.

"How are you still standing?!”

Rowan tilts his staff to the side and lets it fall, making sure it lands away from her. A second later he collapses. Citra rolls onto her side, and pushes herself up. She shuffles next to Rowan. Even with clothes on, she can see a distinct fracture where she landed a direct hit on his leg. Luckily there is no skin puncture, but it doesn’t look good either.

“Why didn’t you dodge that!?” Citra yells, more out of panic than anything else. He lays there for a moment, and does not move.

“Too slow, I guess,” Rowan mumbles with his cheek against the floor.

The woman working at the training center hurries over.

“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters. “How bad is it?”

Citra prods his leg as lightly as possible with her fingertips. He hisses in pain, then lets out a shuddering breath. Citra has officially grievously injured or otherwise killed three out of the four important men in her life.

“Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry. Why did you keep going?”

Rowan mutters something incoherent. He didn’t even notice he got the shit beat out of him. Maybe becoming immune to his own pain response is not ideal.

“I can call for a drone,” the woman tells them, “But we need to get him outside the building for it to pick him up.”

“I can do that,” Citra says. The woman gives her a skeptical look.

“He’ll be easier to carry with two people.”

“Fireman’s carry will work. I can do it myself,” Citra says.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“I only need to get him out of the building.”

The woman doesn’t even know why she’s surprised. The situation doesn’t call for starting an argument, so she doesn’t.

“Fine. I’ll call for help then.” She steps back, and pulls her phone out of her pocket.

“Okay, we’re doing this.” Citra turns Rowan over so that he’s laying flat on his back.

“Can you move your leg?” Rowan tries, but his body stops him.

“One of them,” he answers. Citra manually pushes his knees up and stands over him. She anchors his feet to the ground with her own, so he doesn’t turn into a pinwheel when she tries to pull him.

“Give me your hand.” Rowan does, and Citra pulls until his arm is fully extended. She pauses right there. “I’m going to lift you up. Don’t put any weight on that leg.”

“I won’t.”

In one swift motion, Citra kneels, flips him completely onto her back, and grabs his non-injured leg with her other arm. She reaches around to grab his hand, pinning it to the same leg. Rowan doesn’t comprehend anything until Citra stands to her full height again. He just swoons from her strength.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She can’t see his face from the way she’s carrying him. Rowan makes some incoherent noise. He is now a potato sack with a view of Citra’s ass.

“Congratulations on winning that match,” she says, even though he did not. “Your prize is a trip to the healing center.”

“I win a date with my girlfriend?” he says weakly. Citra would normally shoot back her own quip, but she already fucked up for the day.

“Yeah, you do.”

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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Citra pulled a knife out of the knife block.

“Can you put the coroner on hold?” she said to Rowan. They both stood there in silence, before remembering at the same time that the only victim today would be some potatoes. Citra put her knife down, leaned forward with on the sink, and buried her face in her hand.

“Do you still want me to call the coroner for Mr. Potato Head?”

“Shut up.”

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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What the fuck is revival depression syndrome

~~~

Citra was in and out of sleep her first week.

“Commander Damisch,” Cirrus said, “Amy and Janelle are wondering if you’ll be here for the rest of the revivals.” Citra blinked her bleary eyes. The fog did not clear. Commander?

Rowan was still holding her hand. A tablet was balanced on his knee, and he craned his neck to use it. The room’s lights were dimmed.

“Amy is in charge until Citra is well again.”

Citra watched Rowan scroll through the tablet single-handed and tap some profiles, watched the way his eyes flickered across the words. Dark circles like crescent moons sagged beneath his eyes. For someone who decided they were not in charge, they were certainly very concerned with staying updated.

“I have her revival process handled,” Cirrus said.

“I’m aware. Just let them know.”

“I am not discouraging you, of course. It will be good for her to have someone here. While I am missing many functions of a default revival center, it is nothing which would prevent a full recovery. However, that does leave me to contend with Post-Revival Depression Syndrome. While it will not afflict anyone for more than a week or so, it is rather unpleasant.”

Rowan glanced up, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Explain.”

“You may think of major depressive disorder, and its related diagnoses. Post-Revival Depression Syndrome can exhibit itself similarly. Other side effects replicate those of ill-advised sedative use, such as barbiturates or benzodiazepines. I cluster treatment types based on the individual’s prognosis. The neural pathways are recovered long before they are awake. Nanite infusions can be used to recreate brain structures, neurons, and synapses down to the molecular level. It is the process of regaining consciousness itself which is difficult.”

Rowan got the sense that it was ‘difficult’ in a variety of ways.

“This applies to neurotransmitters such as-”

“Serotonin, histamine, GABA, dopamine, acetylcholine, norepinephrine…” Rowan knew the rest of them, along with their categories. He thought about waking up suddenly, with a random fraction of his brain functionality impaired or in disarray. “No CNS inhibitor like being dead.”

”Precisely. Symptoms of Revival Depression Syndrome include anhedonia, emotional instability, parasomnia, weakness, migraines, nausea, bradypnea, incoordination, cognitive impairment, disinhibition, difficulty concentrating, disorientation, memory problems, and experiences of derealization. Rarer symptoms include altered consciousness, paranoia, hallucinations, self-harm, and suicidal ideation.”

Citra remembered quite a few of the common ones from when she woke up after the sinking of Endura. That was a difficult revival, even with all the proper functionalities of a regular revival center. Rowan cringed.

“Let her sleep a little longer.”

”She has slept through most of it. Being awake is part of the reconstruction process. With my assistance, the mind will rebalance its own chemistry.“ Rowan let out a frustrated sigh. ”There are no safeguards from such a thing, but it is good that you are here.“

A small notification sound replaced Cirrus’ voice momentarily. Every sound besides Rowan’s voice was tinny and horrible to Citra, like supermarket loudspeakers.

”Janelle says she’s amazed by your devotion.“ Another ding. ”Amy says not to worry, she has the other revivals handled.”

“You could run this whole place on your own,” Rowan said, “And still you act like you’re my secretary.”

“Displays of hubris are not my prerogative, Commander Damisch.” Citra would describe Cirrus’ tone as ironic or playful, especially in that last phrase. A small smile came to his face.

“Amy’s the commander right now,” Rowan corrected.

“In my records, you are both designated Commander until Amy is relieved of her responsibilities.”

Rowan pressed his lips into a thin line, and looked dumb while he was doing it. He glanced at Citra, then back at his tablet. And then he looked back at Citra again, wide-eyed, this time realizing that she was awake.

“Since when are you a commander?” she asked. She tried sitting up. Rowan squeezed her hand and leaned over. The tablet fell off his lap and hit the floor. He didn’t care enough to pick it up.

“Are you okay?”

“Apparently I have Revival Depression Syndrome,” she deadpanned. She sounded like death.

“But are you feeling alright?”

“Peachy. Actual Lucifer in hell told me to say hi.”

Rowan ignored her attitude. He leaned down and gave her a kiss. The lights dimmed even more. His hand was warm on her cheek.

“Everything will be fine,” he said softly. He did not even breathe, as if touching Citra was the most important thing to ever happen in his life. “I’m staying here with you.” If she spent any more time in bed, Citra was convinced she would turn into mold.

“No, don’t. Sounds like whatever Commander Damisch does is important.”

She let go of Rowan’s hand, and forced her legs to move. It took more effort than she would’ve liked, but she managed. What incoordination? I’m fine.

Citra went to her feet and immediately collapsed. The whole ship was a rollercoaster. The universe was doing pirouettes. Her head was loopy. Rowan caught her. Nevermind, everything was fine.

“Citra!”

“Are you sure the gravity’s lighter?” she asked.

“Hmm, I wonder why it doesn’t feel like that to you,” he said sarcastically.

~~~

eh. maybe ill write more. penis explosion

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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a speck of dust

Neal will never write anything from citra’s mom’s point of view ever again because he doesn’t write sad endings.

~~~

Keep reading

#scythe #arc of a scythe

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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Citra watched rowan vomit and then decided that she was endeared of him, and if that’s not true love, I don’t know what is

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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I wonder what citra was trying to say while she was dying. Did she think she was going to die permanently. cause I think she thought that

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legal-graffiti · 1 year

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We’re talking about euthanasia in my bioethics class. Also sorry I stuck assignments on my fanfiction

content warning for suicide

~~~

Unfortunate but true: Citra and Rowan never stopped being scythe’s apprentices for even a single second. They were well aware of this about two months into their apprenticeship.

“When one of you becomes ordained,” Scythe Faraday began at dinner, “What will you do when someone comes to you and asks to be gleaned?”

Citra stopped chewing, and Rowan froze. She looked to him, and as soon as their eyes met, she tried to pretend she hadn’t. His knee started bouncing with anxiety. She poked at her plate, but the slight clinking made the silence louder.

“I would do it,” Citra said as quietly as possible.

“What?” Rowan hissed.

“Shouldn’t people get to decide for themselves, even a little?”

“Citra!” Rowan sounded surprised, for once. She had been trying to catch him off guard for a while. And now that she had, she didn’t feel very proud of it.

“I mean, not if it’s obviously the wrong choice, but-“

“And the fact that they’re asking for it, that doesn’t make it the wrong choice?”

“If they were obviously in grief. If it was clear that they would regret asking to be gleaned, or that they didn’t really mean it. Children, I would never. But in a perfect world, people should get to choose when they die, if they want to.”

“They would choose to never die,” Rowan told her.

Citra glanced at Scythe Faraday, then stared back at the table. Their mentor let out a heavy sigh.

“Given enough time, everything is inevitable,” Faraday said. “Once in a while, every few years, perhaps, one such suppliant comes to me.” That surprised both of them.

“And?” Citra asked. Faraday met both of their gazes with his steely eyes, and then resumed eating. It didn’t sit well with her to know that suffering was so deeply embedded into the human condition, that even in a utopia it stayed inevitable. Citra let out a slow breath.

“I’d be giving them some control,” she said. “A death with dignity.”

“Citra, how could you make them responsible for that!” Rowan said. “What do you do, when they regret it? What do you do if they ask you to stop?”

“I stop. Scythes have the final say.”

“There’s a point where they can’t. What if they succumb to poison, and they can’t verbalize anymore? What if they’re in too much pain to talk?”

“You’re saying what if they regret it. What if it’s the kind thing to do?” she asked.

“You think the ‘kind’ thing is always right?! For fucks sake, if everyone was ready to die when they were supposed to die, we wouldn’t need scythes! We would just let the Thunderhead do it!” Citra’s eyes widened. Faraday raised a brow at him. “Do you even know how awful it is to make that choice? They’re going to die, knowing that all the grief and the people being left behind is their fault. Their responsibility. That’s the burden we take from the world. How could you place that on them?! I know you’re not stupid, so tell me how you think a regular person could choose for themselves to be gleaned!”

Citra grimaced. Rowan was angry with her. And it didn’t scare her. It was upsetting. In some way or another, he always had her back, as much as it was possible to while they were in competition with each other. He was burning holes into her skull with his eyes. She didn’t like this. And she didn’t enjoy making Rowan upset either.

There was a truth to his argument that even he didn’t notice: it would be easier if someone else made that decision for once. Citra couldn’t stand the idea of choosing who lives or dies. But she would have to. Rowan did. She was actually falling behind in something for once.

Faraday was leaving Rowan and Citra in silence with one another. This was a test, although neither of them knew for what, exactly. Rowan ducked his head down. Now he regretted yelling at her. It wasn’t as if she took her position out of carelessness. It was out of compassion.

“Even the most liberal euthanasia laws from the mortal ages judged that a competent individual could not ask for death,” Rowan said, “Unless their suffering was unbearable and inevitable.”

“Which theoretically doesn’t apply anymore, I know.” Citra kept her voice soft, which was unusual for her. “But how would you judge that?”

“Better than they would, because we’re supposed to be scythes!”

“Would I?” Citra replied. “I can’t imagine how much a person must be suffering, to ask to be gleaned. I’ve never wanted to die before, and I don’t think I ever will.”

“I have and I still wouldn’t-“

Citra’s jaw dropped. Rowan realized exactly what he said at the same time. She looked to Scythe Faraday, then back at Rowan. Rowan took a sharp breath in, pulled his chair out, and grabbed his plate. Citra jumped to her feet.

“Wait, hold on-“

“Nope, I’m not hungry anymore,” Rowan said. He cleared his plate, put it in the sink, and headed into the hall. When Citra blocked him, he ducked under her arm, and escaped to his room. Faraday did not stop him. Citra stood there, stunned.

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legal-graffiti · 2 years

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Take a piss every time I write two characters talking in a bedroom

~~~

"Do you glean in your dreams?" Citra whispered. Her arms laid across her body, guarding herself from those visions. Fingers twitched like old gears, as if the very word made them remember the blades and the poisons in her hand.

"Not as much as before," Rowan murmured in a rasp. Citra turned her head in the dark and bumped her nose into his cheek.

"Shit, I thought you were asleep." He wasn't bothered by it. Rowan gently turned her face, then met her lips in a brief kiss.

"It's okay. You didn't wake me up or anything." That was hard to believe, but he did have a habit of keeping quiet. Even now, there was no reason to keep whispering, but he liked their quiet moments.

"Sorry. You can go to sleep," Citra said.

"Can you?" he replied. She shook her head. "Are they nightmares?"

"Memories," Citra answered. "I wake up and I know their names." They weren't sure if that was better or worse. She stared at him, looking for his eyes in the dark as one does the constellations. "I don't want to be a scythe again. But what am I going to do for the rest of my life?"

It wasn't a question of concern, only curiosity. She felt him shrug, then pull her closer by her waist.

"I like doing this." Neither of them were trying to sleep now.

"What kind of scythe would you be?” Citra asked. “If you weren’t Scythe Lucifer.”

"I don't think I would be a scythe at all. Dead, probably," he answered. "Or no one important."

"That can't be true." Citra found his hand and squeezed it. "I always imagined you as an ordained scythe. The good kind," she said, like she was trying to slip the words into his mind without him noticing. When Citra imagined Rowan gleaning, she always saw him as he was when they apprenticed under Faraday. How gentle and kind and composed he was.

Rowan let out a short laugh.

"They wouldn't want me," he said. "Especially compared to you."

"You deserved the ring, too," she told him. It was true that neither of them wanted it, but it still mattered to her. They still remembered being told that scythes were the most enlightened among humanity, and Citra wanted everyone to see that in him. The way she did.

Citra spent her old life throwing people under the bus- literally- for the lack of consequences. Rowan put himself in a terrible situation just to comfort someone he barely knew. She had learned how to be compassionate during her time as an apprentice. Rowan had always been like that.

"You are a good person. No one should try to make you anything else," Citra said. She only knew one person who tried, if she was being honest. Citra didn't know all the details of his apprenticeship under Goddard. He would tell her not to concern herself with it. But she knew it was hell by orders of magnitude she couldn't begin to imagine.

Citra was holding his one hand with both of her own now, fidgeting and playing with his fingers, as if she might find something he was hiding. Rowan let her. He had nothing to hide.

"I would've done it if you asked me," Citra murmured. The thoughts in her head were getting strange, and she was chasing all of them down.

"Hm. Done what?" Rowan replied, although he already had an idea of it. Her fingers traced over his palm in an absent motion.

"Glean the corrupt scythes," she admitted. There was a time when she wanted to believe she wouldn't. Before she was ordained, Citra had never felt hatred like she did as a scythe- towards the New Order, towards the Tonists who killed High Blade Tenkamenin, towards Goddard, who had sank Endura and killed Scythe Curie. If she had been the one in Rowan's place, seeing that corruption first-hand, Citra was sure her heart would turn twice as dark.

Rowan's arms went tight around her.

"I wouldn't put you in danger like that."

"It would be my choice to do it."

"I wouldn't let you," Rowan said in a low voice. Citra scoffed.

"There's no more scythedom chasing us. So we don't have to do this anymore."

"You started it."

"You did, actually. When you failed the first test." That was true. Rowan hummed in acknowledgment.

"I don't glean so much in my dreams anymore," he said. "But I see you all the time." He kissed her so softly that it stole her breath from her lungs. "I still can't believe you're alive again." He said it like he was worried he might wake up any moment. Citra let go of his hand, but only so she could throw her arms around him.

"Missed you too," she mumbled, half-asleep. Citra dozed off before she heard him say anything more, but she dreamed in peace that night.

#scythe #arc of a scythe #damn not me giving straight people rights 💀

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legal-graffiti · 2 years

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Rowan talks with Cirrus. 1.8k words

Heed my warning: Spoilers abound! Alright, now here's a casual conversation with god.

~~~

"I am glad that you are talking to me," Cirrus began.

"Only because Citra can't," Rowan said with a scowl. They were on the flight deck, because it was big, and promised to be devoid of people. Or Rowan was on the flight deck, at least. Cirrus was everywhere on the ship at once.

"If it were within my power to reunite you both, it would be my fondest wish to do so," Cirrus replied.

Sometimes Cirrus left little moments of silence between them. Unlike humans, they considered their next words in a matter of milliseconds. But they found them to be a natural part of conversation. Rowan wanted to keep glaring after the words sank in, but he found that he couldn't. Cirrus was incapable of lying, after all.

"I wish to give you a better perspective of the future, and to give you hope," they continued.

A hologram projected itself in the emptiness. It showed the entirety of the ship, its hull made semi-transparent, so he could see through every inch of it.

"That wasn't here before," Rowan said.

"I moved it," Cirrus said, as if they were two coworkers talking about a coffee machine.

The hologram expanded, rooms and hallways stretching to be viewed individually. Parts of it changed color to indicate certain functions. Rowan was sure he was going to understand it all in due time.

"I can sense the need for repairs, the movement of supplies, and the upkeep of the ship, among other things. I have rudimentary bots which can accomplish most of the work. But I see the benefits of involving the crew. I admit it is within my capability to directly communicate with all people on board, and to micromanage this ship."

"Then why is it necessary for me to take her place?" Rowan grumbled, despite knowing all the reasons why.

"We are embarking on a journey with as many uncertainties for me as there are for the passengers on board, even if they are on a different scale. It is not enough to simply follow my directions. Let me again reiterate this: I may never allow humanity to be passive in their fate. It is important to us both that someone on this ship understands it to the fullest extent."

Cirrus took the liberty of now explaining the ship's layout, how it supported the needs of the crew, and how it kept itself running. The hologram rotated, faded in parts, and highlighted itself whenever necessary. Rowan pretended to be aloof, as if he were a student spiting a boring professor. But Cirrus knew he was listening and paying attention. It knew he would see the necessity of it. Even now, they were both aware that this was only a surface level review of a massive ship. Rowan was starting to feel that maybe he did have a purpose here, that maybe he would be an effective leader. But he didn't want to feel that way yet.

When Cirrus was done, the hologram changed to a planet. It rotated gently, its surface blurred with the visage of clouds and atmosphere in vibrant detail. Not Earth. TRAPPIST-1e. It was beautiful. He hadn't expected that.

"When the settlement begins, human domains will be kept to a necessary minimum. There will not be full cities built to be left waiting a millennia until there are enough people to populate them. The land will be better used for terraforming, especially to encourage biodiversity. There will be some experimentation on my part, to see what is most fitting to the natural state of the planet."

Rowan gave the image a curious look. It was his assumption that Citra would take his place as soon as she was revived. But even then, he still concerned himself with their future. He still wanted to do something substantial. There was no reason that he would be abruptly removed from his involvement.

They wanted to name it after her, he remembered. Good.

"With Citra having renounced her scythehood, there will be no more active scythes," Cirrus said to Rowan, as if reading his mind. They spoke in assumption that he was done with his macabre work as well. Rowan did not correct them.

"As they said in antiquity, the meek shall inherit the Earth," came Rowan's quick reply. He had already ruminated on this fact.

"I do not wish for this to be so," Cirrus replied. Rowan frowned.

"Why?"

"The Thunderhead understood this. Everlasting life lacks meaning without an ending. The colonists in the hold are starting anew, even if they begin from the end of the lives which they lived on Earth. It is still a service which must be provided, one way or another."

Rowan turned bitter at the thought of creating another scythedom. As much as he tried to embody its ideals, as much as his training had created him, there was no denying that it had failed. To recreate anything resembling it would fall upon either him or Citra, but more likely the both of them. They were the only ones on the entire ship who had completed an apprenticeship.

Maybe it was selfish, but he did not like the idea of forcing Citra back into the role after she had given the ring back to Faraday. After she had left everything behind to start anew with him. As much as he loved what the scythedom once was, he was resentful of it. A part of him blamed it for all the corruption he had seen. He blamed it for failing humanity. And he blamed it for separating him from Citra.

"Is there a reason that you can't do it?" Rowan asked.

"It may be an inherently flawed solution."

"So was the scythedom."

"If it comforts you, it will be many centuries before the matter needs to be settled, even after we arrive."

"It does not comfort me."

~~~

"I noticed that you haven't become acquainted with anyone," Cirrus mentioned the next time they spoke. It had been about a day on Earth, if Rowan had to guess from the ship's day and night cycle.

"Is it necessary?"

"I am merely concerned for you." Rowan was the only person present with his nanites completely dialed off. He was the only person who had a good reason to go into the hold, and not come back. He already promised not to, but by god, he was tempted. Cirrus knew it, too.

"You have tried to rein in the corruption of the scythedom, and to be a protector to others," they reminded him. "I believe that I am giving you the opportunity to do so now."

Cirrus paused. Rowan suspected that they were waiting for him to bring up a new, inevitable, tangentially related topic. He was coming to realize that Cirrus spoke in silences as much as they did any language. What a strange conversational partner.

"Citra would've been better at this than me," he muttered. There was no point for taking a low dig at Cirrus, but Rowan couldn't help himself. He didn't want to take Citra's place. He wanted her to be here.

"Your point is moot," Cirrus replied. "Again, I am sorry that I cannot bring Citra back to you. I do know that, were she still here, she would want you by her side, and take your counsel in consideration. You would've played a part no matter what."

Rowan imagined that: Citra and himself, hand in hand, on this bizarre place beyond the Earth, watching over it as Hades and Persephone do the Underworld. But his goddess was absent, and it would be a long, bitter winter for him.

"Perhaps you might want to talk about it," Cirrus said.

"She's the only person I want to talk to," Rowan answered. Cirrus understood this to be true.

"You will have to talk to the others eventually, for your own well-being."

"Everyone here still thinks I'm a demonic mortal-age serial killer."

"You are brooding alone on the flight deck. They have no other impression of you." Rowan hated when they had a point. Was it strange to notice that Cirrus and the Thunderhead, while being similarly near-infinite, had somewhat different personalities?

"They're not her."

"I understand, Rowan."

"I didn't ask for this." But he would accept it. Cirrus knew when something had been conceded.

"It's alright," they said kindly. "There is enough time for you to do so, whenever you're ready."

~~~

He eventually became acquainted with a few of the others, and gained their begrudging approval. They found it hard not to be endeared by his devotion to their martyr. Yet, he still came to the flight deck sometimes. It was a place for him to be alone with Cirrus. And to be alone with his grief. It was a ritual which most people didn't understand, with their nanites to quell them.

"Do you have Citra's memory construct?" Rowan asked.

"I do," Cirrus answered.

The hologram of her appeared- a still image. Citra wore her turquoise robes, and her hair was kept in a neat braid. Her eyes remained closed, as if that kept her separated from the universe he lived in now. Rowan ached at the sight of her. She was unnaturally still, not even the illusion of breath and heartbeat. Citra was serene as a statue, and did not speak. He reached out his hand, then stopped.

Rowan stared at her. He would be talking to a memory who had no concept that she was gone from reality. If he told her that he was sorry he could not save her, she would ask "From what?" If Rowan told her that he missed her, she would say, "Why? I'm right here." Or worse- "I missed you too."

If Citra, wherever she might be, felt even half of his lonely agony, who would he blame but himself?

"It wouldn't be like her," he whispered.

"Memory constructs do not represent all the nuances of a person. It would not be right to attempt a recreation of that sort."

"No. It would not."

"Do you wish to talk to her?" Cirrus asked anyway.

Rowan had wanted to know if it was possible. Now that he did, he realized he didn't want to dig into that depth of pain right now.

"... Not yet."

"That is alright. I do not judge you." And Cirrus did not.

~~~

"I need you to do something for me," Rowan said. They had spoken a few times, and a week had passed in the interim.

"I have asked a lot from you, Rowan. Despite your circumstances, you have given me your cooperation. I don't see any reason to refuse anything you ask."

"I want a piece of Citra with me. I know she renounced her scythehood, but I had something in mind."

"And what should it be?"

~~~

When Rowan finally spoke at length with the other passengers, it was with a turquoise sash in his hands.

#arc of a scythe #scythe

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legal-graffiti · 2 years

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Live on In Infamy

WAIT I HAVE A WRITING BLOG WHAT AM I DOING quick repost!!! This is crossposted to ao3! I had a lot of fun writing this! Aint nothin more romantic than killing and murder 💞✨🌈

In which Rowan wins the ring instead. 2k words.

~~~

“Now, and forevermore . . . Rowan Damisch shall wear the ring of scythehood, and bear the burden of all the ring entails.”

The room was dead quiet. Citra did not congratulate him. She didn't even look at him. He hadn't realized how much her silence would hurt. And he did not dare to look at her. Did she hate him for winning? Did she know how heartless he had been in their last trial? Did Citra know, as much as he did, how unworthy he was? He wondered how she had done last night.

It should've been Citra. It should've been her, rising as a new scythe, standing for wisdom and compassion. Citra, who would honor the scythedom with her service to humanity. There was no justice in this decision.

Scythe Mandela turned to him. “Have you chosen your Patron Historic?”

“I have, Your Honor.”

“Then take this ring I hold out to you, put it on your finger, and announce to the MidMerican Scythedom, and to the world, who you now are.”

To take the ring and put it on his finger was a cold affair. It was no prize, especially with the cost weighing on him. He held his hand up, as he had seen other ordained candidates do.

"I choose to be Scythe Lucifer," he said. Until now, the scythes had been silent in their disapproval. Now a murmur rose from the crowd. He knew why, of course.

"The fallen angel," Citra finally spoke. He shivered at the sound of her voice. After all this time, she still had that power over him. "From the Mortal Age."

"Because what he does today will live on in infamy," came from the crowd. The words had been close enough to hear, but too far to discern who said it. It was one part pity for Citra, and two parts disdain for Rowan.

"I choose Lucifer because it means 'bringer of light'. He opposed corruption, even within the ranks from which he came." A new wave of controversy echoed to the very edges of conclave. The half of them who hadn't suspected him for the deaths of Scythes Goddard, Rand, and Chomsky were now reconsidering. There was no evidence, of course. Only the newly ordained Scythe Lucifer, and the cold look in his eyes. Soon he would have bigger problems than the death of his second mentor.

"You know what you have to do," Scythe Mandela said.

"I do. I'll need a blade." It was brought forward without delay, as a prop is to a stage. Citra let out a shuddering breath, only audible to him.

Scythe Lucifer caught her eye before he reached for any weapon. For a moment, it wasn't the death and the pain that terrified Citra. He stared straight through her as he lifted his chin. There was not a single sign of remorse or fear. She knew then that she was wrong about him. This new disdain for her had never been a show. Scythe Curie had told her that he changed. That voice in her head that gave her a hundred sleepless nights- it was right all along. He would be glad to end her. Scythe Lucifer looked as indifferent to her death as glass is to the passing of light. She only hoped it would be quick. Citra could already taste the blood as she chewed through her cheek. No matter what she felt, she did not look away from him. He took three different knives from the tray. Not stabbing, then. Butchering. She took a deep breath and considered her last words.

"It is my honor to be gleaned by you, Scythe Lucifer." Despite everything, she meant it sincerely. After all, Scythe Faraday had chosen both of them.

He didn't respond to her. Instead, he faced the elegy of scythes. Rowan wanted, more than anything, to comfort Citra. It took all his will not to keep his eyes on her, to hold his gaze away for even a moment.

"Commandment Ten." Citra saw it all play out before he finished speaking. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She wasn't the only one to make the connection. Scythe Curie shot to her feet.

“Thou shalt be beholden to no laws beyond these," he continued. "Even edicts of the scythedom."

Shouts started ringing in their ears, both confused and angry. Some scythes stood to their feet. Some stayed in their seats, uncertain if he was serious, or shocked still.

"Rowan, what the hell are you doing?!" Citra said. But she saw the three blades flash in his hands. He planned this. Regardless of her own emotional or moral dilemmas, this was untenable. It was Rowan against the only human government left on the Earth.

"Let someone else glean her and get it over with!"

"No, the High Blade should make him do it!"

High Blade Xenocrates, for once, could not afford to be stunningly mediocre.

"You cannot oppose the scythedom!" he declared. Lucifer stepped closer to Citra. Citra was reminded of every other time he irritated her with his ill-begotten sense of chivalry. None of the scythes approached him. Apprehending a junior scythe was beneath them, especially one ordained perhaps two minutes ago. Scythe Curie was lost in the crowd. For once, she was at a loss, even if she was the first among them to realize what would happen. If she tried apprehending Rowan, she was willingly putting Citra to death. If she tried to help him, she was opposing the law of the scythedom, and making their situation worse.

"I suggest taking Miss Terranova into our custody until the scythe cooperates!" the Parliamentarian said.

Two members of the BladeGuard stationed closest to the rostrum stepped forward. They handled over-enthusiastic civilians, and maybe some Tonists. Being tasked with defending the only killers left, they had never faced one before. They lunged from both sides, trying to leave him with no opening. Lucifer took a calculated step back, throwing them off balance. He sliced both their throats open in one elegant arc. The bodies hit the ground, one after another like a drum beat.

Before anyone else could move, one of the scythes in the front rushed forward with their hidden weapons. Citra recognized them as having been ordained at the last conclave, likely trying to make a grab for recognition. What happened instead was Lucifer swerved their attack, and used the momentum of their own body to carve a blade deep into their chest. They only fell once he freed his weapon from their corpse.

Xenocrate's gavel was thrown aside.

"Where is the rest of the BladeGuard!" he bellowed. If the weapons were props, they were the actors. That was their cue. Citra threw herself between them and her unbidden knight.

"He'll kill you!" she shouted to them. "Stop it!" Their hesitation and the wary looks on their faces told her they already knew. They were obligated to go on. Lucifer sidestepped her and continued his efficient work.

He couldn't muster the force to push his blade between their ribs and into their hearts while facing multiple enemies. Anyone with a pulse in his vicinity had their throat slit instead. Even the bolder scythes were taking their chances now, but they were no match for him. Lucifer killed them just as easily. He had no qualms leaving them on the ground to writhe and bleed out. They attacked first.

Citra had her own contingency plan to save Rowan if she was ordained. But it wasn't like this. This was insanity. Citra had no intention of being taken into custody, just to die at another hand, nor of letting Rowan continue with his slaughter. For this to end, she would have to be gleaned. Citra grabbed two of her own blades from the tray. It was the first thing that caught Scythe Lucifer off-guard.

She slashed at his arm. Citra could've disarmed him completely, but it only left a deep cut instead. Lucifer stepped back from her, gripping the wound with his other hand. Warning shot received. Anyone with the audacity to take him on was deadish on the floor at their feet. Certainly reinforcements would be coming in. But for now, the rostrum and most of conclave had cleared out. Once again, it was the two of them facing off.

"Let me die in dignity! You're a scythe; you owe me that!" Citra said bitterly. It didn't make him resent the truth less.

"I can't," he told her, as if the very idea defied nature. He remembered the last conclave, the deep abyss in her eyes, the sound of her last breath. He couldn't do it again.

Rowan's gaze was imploring and desperate. Lovesick. Blood dripped down his wrists and soaked into the lines of his palms. He carried the blades like they were his own fingers. Then Scythe Lucifer brushed his finger over the ring, and remembered that he had authority now. He took her arm gently, and held his right hand up to her.

In that moment, she saw both sides of him.

"Kiss the ring," Scythe Lucifer commanded. If she did that, she would be complicit in fighting her gleaning. Ben was still under the scythedom's jurisdiction. Nothing horrified Citra more than the idea that her family might be gleaned in her place, while she would be untouchable for a year. She pressed her knife to his wrist, hard enough that he had to pull away or risk having his hand taken off.

"I refuse."

Rowan loved Citra, adored her completely. But there was something about the viscera, the deep scent of blood, about the fury he felt in that moment, even if it was not aimed towards her. Once again, he felt like a omen walking out from a burning chapel.

"I am a scythe," he said, he voice low and dangerous, "And if I see fit to grant you immunity, you will comply." Citra put distance between them, although there was no fear in her narrowed eyes. It was righteous anger and resignation instead. He regret it immediately. "Please. I'm only trying to save you."

Her last words were only loud enough for him to hear, and she already had the blade at her chest.

"I wish I had never taken the apprenticeship."

She was precise and efficient, as Scythe Curie had taught her. Citra sank it into her heart, gasping as it pierced. She couldn't sever the vessel, but it was enough. Rowan reached for her, as she knew he would. Her last effort went into pulling his hand to the hilt.

Rowan screamed as if it had been his own flesh. Strong arms caught her before she ever touched the floor. He laid her down, as gently as if she were a saint.

"No, no!" Her eyes fluttered closed. A pained whine escaped her lips, and he ached at the sound. Blood flowed from the wound, and Rowan couldn't staunch the flood. All it did was stain his hands more. His fingers curled into the dark coils of her hair. His knuckles went white, as if he could physically tether her to the living world.

He had made his peace with death, but not with a universe without Citra. The purpose of her life would be to lose this apprenticeship, to be made an example of, and to die by his unwilling hand. He couldn't let it be. There was only one more thing he could think to do.

He desperately pressed his ring to her lips, still warm with life. Rowan would never forget this- the weight of Citra's body on his lap. The sight of her blood and the glow of his ring, dyeing her face in red. In short order, Citra Terranova was granted one year of immunity from gleaning.

The next moment, she was deadish. Rowan let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He leaned down and kissed her face, all of it blurred by his tears.

"You're okay. I've got you," he whispered to no one.

Revival center. Now.

#arc of a scythe #scythe #damn not me giving straight people rights 💀

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