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wardencommanderrodimiss · 5 years

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Chapter 15: more information, and finally, some answers -- but of course more questions.

And surprise! Another chapter! I’m super excited for this one, and even more for what’s next up.

[Beginning] [Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

Wednesday morning sees Apollo wonder if he got stuck in some sort of time sink in his way to work, if he dove through a liminal space and lost a few hours, because there’s no regular, non-fae, mundane reason that Phoenix should be in the office before him.

He has papers spread out over the coffee table, next to a formidable-looking legal text, and is sitting cross-legged on the couch hunched like a gargoyle. “Morning, Apollo,” he says, tapping his pen again a legal pad until it flings forth from his fingers and arcs up into the air to fall somewhere near the piano.

Something shuffles on the other couch, out of Apollo’s sight, and Vera pops up over the back of it. “Hi, Mr Justice.”

She still looks human. She looked human on Sunday, too, when Apollo went to see her and Trucy; he has wondered since the hospital visit when, or if, something will break like Kristoph broke.

“Hey, Vera.” He sets his bag down near the door. “What’s going on here?”

“Inheritance law fuckery,” Phoenix says. “I figured I’d spare you the early start on it.” He yawns and reaches for a mug perched precariously on the corner of the table. It takes all of Apollo’s self-restraint to lunge forward for fear of him knocking it over. “This does mean there’s some tea in the kitchen that hasn’t gone totally cold.”

“I didn’t know you drank tea.” It sounds tempting, though; he and Clay ran out of coffee yesterday and haven’t gotten their shit together for it.

“Not every habit I’ve picked up from people I hang out with is bad,” Phoenix says. “Just about eighty-five percent of them.”

Vera slumps back into the couch. “I don’t think you’re inspiring confidence in our client,” Apollo says.

Phoenix grins sheepishly. It’s an expression that still surprises Apollo, that vulnerability and acquiescence of wrongdoing, even if it must be calculated that he chooses to let it show at all. “Sorry.”

“You did warn me that this isn’t your expertise,” Vera says softly. “It’s okay. It’s better than being alone.”

Phoenix’s face falls. He looks back to his hand, expecting the pen to still be there, and finding nothing. “Oh, Apollo, if there is something you want to do later, I’ve got some folders on my desk I need run over to the Prosecutors Office.”

“Yeah,” Apollo says. “Sure.” It’s still a little cold – not that Phoenix is wearing a scarf inside today, but Apollo feels it biting into his nose and fingers. If he can get some tea and reheat it, that would—

He stops dead.

“Mr Wright,” he says. “This office doesn’t have a kitchen.”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. It disappears beneath the hem of his beanie. “Sure it does,” he says. “Only just when you want it to.”

“You’re shitting me.”

He waves a hand. He’s found another pen somewhere. “Go look. You’ll find it.”

And in the next room, on the wall that doesn’t have a desk, there is a door that Apollo has never seen. It’s the wall across from his desk, that he has stared at often enough with no idea what to do and the window behind him, and he knows he should have seen it. Cautiously pushing it open, he steps into a narrow kitchen with no room for two people to stand side-by-side between the counters, with two stovetop burners, no oven, a fridge, and numerous cabinets. A teapot and several mugs are laid out on the counter. The teapot, white with black and gold detailing of some sort of hounds or wolves, looks like it cost real money, which means that it was probably a gift that Phoenix took up drinking tea in order to use. The mugs are a mismatch of kitschy souvenir mugs from cities across Europe, another with a cracked handle and the logo for one Ivy University, three hand-painted probably by Trucy and showing a clear progression of skill, and two with weirdly detailed images of cats on them. Someone’s reject mugs handed over? Apollo takes the one with the calico on it, feeling like those two might be the ones with the least meaning behind them (or conversely, the most, but probably a stupid inside-jokey meaning), and pours himself some tea with the distinct feeling that in picking up the pot, he has taken his life into his hands.

The tea is still warm when he takes it back out to the main room. Phoenix smirks. He hasn’t stopped being unbearably smug, apparently; just maybe has less to be smug at Apollo over. “I see you found the kitchen,” he says.

“Anything else I should know about this place?” Apollo assesses his options and decides he would rather sit next to Vera. She unsprawls herself and presses close to the arm of the couch. “Any ghosts or anything?”

“I guess you’re a bit behind the curve since I haven’t been around much,” Phoenix says, “but she’s not really a ghost, technically. ‘Ghost’ implies she died here instead of choosing to ascend into an incorporeal… blanketing life-force blessing who is… still sapient and has opinions about my lack of organizational skills and also everything else.” He straightens his back out and winces. “I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

“I was only about half-serious,” Apollo says. “I mean, I thought this place was weird, but--”

The lights flicker.

“Oh.”

Phoenix laughs. It stops just short of mocking, but it’s close. “Her name is Mia,” he says. “She was murdered almost a decade ago now – at the end, I’m sure she could’ve lashed back one last time, knocked her killer dead instantly with a curse, but she just – went the other way – ascended, kind of? Stuck around to help me bring him and more to justice, legally. Life and death, she went for the blessing instead. She’d given enough of herself away to the office before, anyway.”

Vera wraps her arms around her knees. “Is that… something anyone can do?” she asks. “To… to learn to stay? Instead of dying, could…?”

No trace of the laugh is left in Phoenix’s face. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry.” They must be all thinking about her father. “Sell your soul and maybe you won’t go if you get murdered before your time, but that’s inadvisable for about a thousand reasons.” He shakes his head. “Otherwise – otherwise Mia’s unique. She’s the strongest fae I’ve ever known – she could have been Queen of the Winter Court if she had wanted. The ones on the throne, now, they’re powerful, but��” He shakes his head again and leaves it hanging, his eyes dark and downcast. “Not like her.”

Apollo doesn’t want to breathe -- wants to ask so many questions and is sure if he moves he makes Phoenix realize that Apollo has learned more of his personal life and relationships to the fae this week than in the past six months. This must be Phoenix’s mentor, fae royalty, and now Apollo knows what happened to her.

Mia Fey.

He always thought that name was bold when he read the trial records.

“Did you love her?” Vera asks.

Phoenix smacks his head back into the couch. “How do I keep getting to this kind of thing?” he asks the ceiling. The lights hum a little louder. “You can’t ask me that in front of her!” His exasperation tilts upward at the end, seems blended with some amusement. “Yeah,” he adds. “Of course I did. And she saved my life when we first met, and keeps saving it.” He sits forward again, rolling his eyes as he does so, but then resting his arms on his knees he stares very seriously between Apollo and Vera. “Whatever your misfortune or your curses, this office, Mia’s blessing here, is about the safest damn place in the world.”

Vera nods, her thumbnail halfway to her lips, and then she hurriedly brings it down. Does she know about the curse? Have they mentioned it in front of her? Has Phoenix told her – does she know of more than the nail polish poison? Does this reassurance, actually for her benefit, seem strangely out of nowhere?

“We should probably get back to work,” Phoenix says quietly, tapping his pen to the legal text, and the look at the man behind the cards is gone.

Apollo stays with them, because he has nothing else to do, and even if he’s personally inheriting nothing but abandonment issues and anxiety, it’s still good to know. Early in the afternoon, Vera begins spacing out and Phoenix is doodling in the margins of his legal pad. Apollo thinks it might be a good time to go.

“I didn’t know you are an artist,” Vera says.

Apollo, in the back, at Phoenix’s desk – still surprisingly bare, if only because he’s migrated to the couch – only catches part of his response, “on the side,” and when he reenters they’re talking about museums and classical art and Apollo definitely checks out. “1202!” Phoenix yells after him, in the middle of the same breath as something about the Renaissance.

Lawyer, artist on the side, turned piano-poker player, legal reformist on the side, seems pretty damn weird to Apollo, but they’re all also squatting in the office of “immeasurably powerful fae being on the side, lawyer full time”, so what does he know?

Room 1202 at the Prosecutors Office is the second prosecutor’s office Apollo has ever seen, but because the first was Klavier’s, he has no idea if this one is typical of their decor, or equally pretentious in the opposite way of Klavier. The couch and curtains are the same shade of – maroon? Burgundy? Apollo doesn’t know what he would call this color. On a small table sits a chess set, red and blue, and the shelf beneath the huge window is a bookshelf with a tea set and some kind of figurine resting on top of it.

The prosecutor at the desk has graying hair and a suit that matches his decor. He looks up over his glasses at Apollo and sits back, and he doesn’t actually look any older than Phoenix. Maybe even younger, but that could be Phoenix’s unkempt aura of existence. “Mr Justice,” he says, standing and starting to move around the desk. “I was told to expect you to come by. My name is Miles Edgeworth.”

“Nice to meet you.” Apollo shakes his hand and turns over the folders. “I have no idea what this is from Mr Wright, exactly. He didn’t say if I was allowed to look.”

Edgeworth flips the first open, scans it, and lazily tosses it onto his desk without a second glance. “Like a lot of the things Wright ferries my way, or has Trucy do, there might be something in there, but mostly, it is an excuse.”

Apollo shifts in place and fidgets with his bracelet. “For…?”

“Today? An introduction between us, I imagine.”

“Does he do anything without an ulterior motive?” Apollo asks, directed somewhere toward the wall, but Edgeworth snorts and shakes his head.

“He learned too well from his mentor and her cohorts.”

Apollo takes a step back away from the terrible, cutting blade of his words. “Forgive me,” Edgeworth says, his eyes and palms turning up, some sort of pleading with nothing or with Phoenix or with the fae. “That is neither here nor there. What I wanted was to speak with you about last week’s trial and your impressions of the system, having stood in the courtroom yourself; I was unable to attend to witness myself.”

It takes effort to stop himself from just weighing himself back and forth, foot to foot, burning off nervous energy in place. He feels like he did early in his career with Kristoph, still terrified of his boss but for mundane career-anxiety reasons. “I’d be glad to, but uh, since you’re a prosecutor, wouldn’t you rather get Prosecutor Gavin’s thoughts—?”

Edgeworth makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. Apollo regrets everything he has said so far this conversation. “I am equally interested in the perspective of both benches, but yes, I would perhaps like to hear from Gavin if he would deign to show himself in front of me.” He frowns deeply, squinting not really at Apollo, and then he cranes his neck over Apollo’s shoulder. “I asked him to deliver something to me in person today, so if I seem distracted at any point, I might be trying to make sure that I can corner him.”

“He hasn’t come into work?” Apollo asks.

“No, he has – I’ve seen those ostentatious vehicles of his.” Edgeworth folds his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers and shaking his head. “And he responds to email – but simply, no one has seen him around when I’ve asked.”

Apollo knows which office is his; he can stop on the way down. Is this some sort of machination on Phoenix’s part, too? “Oh.”

Edgeworth waves him over to the couch, returns to his desk, and begins what feels a little more like an interrogation or a trial than a conversation. He shouldn’t have expected otherwise – he knows the name Edgeworth as a famous (and infamous) prosecutor, and already he can see the hints to that reputation. He doesn’t ever ask more about Vera the changeling when Apollo brings it up, makes some quiet dismissive noise when Apollo mentions curses – and that, finally, seems like something he can push back on. He doesn’t know what Edgeworth is looking for from him, a fight or information or one in the form of the other, but he can try a new tactic.

“You don’t think that sort of thing is important to know?” Apollo asks.

“To what end?” Edgeworth asks. “For your own purposes, to secure your own belief in someone’s guilt, or lack thereof? What will you do with it – lobby an accusation that is subjective through your very own eyes and hope that someone believes you – that the prosecution will take pity on you?” He leans forward, intimidating even with the desk and the floor between them. “Will you take photographs through the center of a magatama – can you? – or just hold it to the eye of every detective on the scene, hoping to get corroboration to put before a judge and jury? Presume I trust you, because Wright picked you as his successor – faith and trust between the prosecution and defense can go a long ways, but if you have only that and wisps of magic, you still will not reach the truth.” His eyes, as they have all conversation, flicker from Apollo to the door and back again.

“And furthermore, for the matter of a jury trial, I can only see, going forward, that penalties should be made in cases of wanton claims about curses and magic, as you made.”

“But—”

He holds up a finger. “Consider this, Mr Justice: yes, the purpose of the Jurist System is for common sense to fill in the gaps where a clever killer has escaped with critical evidence. There is, however, a difference between that and a verdict based in impulse because accusations of magic have been bandied about. Consider a clever and unscrupulous attorney, or prosecutor, swaying a jury with passionate and baseless conviction that this witness is one of the Gentry – or even that the one behind the other bench is, and as such their evidence cannot be trusted. How will we ever untangle the truth amidst that slew of hearsay?”

Numbly, Apollo nods. Edgeworth sighs heavily and rests his forehead on his hand. “The psychology behind how a jury might respond to further cases such as this one, with claims of magic, is a headache in clear need of further research before we push the Jurist System toward the mainstream. We desperately need reform to prevent more Kristoph Gavins and so much other corruption like his, but…” Finally, he seems to be at a loss for words. “Wright was – is – a competent attorney, but it was fortunate for us all that the judge most often saddled with him is remarkably unfazed by talk of the Gentry. Going forward, with you and Wright and his methods and the possibility of uniquely made-up juries, I worry what could be unleashed, if the defense make claim to Wright’s Sight but lacks his integrity, or if the prosecution is not the rarest trustworthy witch who can confirm what was Seen.”

“I don’t think Prosecutor Gavin is a witch, actually,” Apollo says, knowing as soon as the first word leaves his mouth that he sounds like an idiot, and continuing on anyway.

He doesn’t even know if Edgeworth would consider Klavier trustworthy.

Edgeworth’s frown lessens, his brow slightly uncreasing. “Wright told me as much, eventually, but I admit I was thinking of a different prosecutor, my mentee.”

“Wait,” Apollo says, screaming again inside his skull because this next statement is actually going to be just as stupid, “you think Mr Wright’s an idiot for hanging out with the Fair Folk, but you mentored a witch?”

“Did I say he was an idiot?” Edgeworth looks, and sounds, puzzled, like he really isn’t sure if that was the phrasing he used.

“No, but I got that kind of, uh, vibe.”

“Hm.” Edgeworth considers it for another few seconds. “You are right, of course, he is; but the circumstances in our cases are very different, and my taking on a mentoring role toward a younger prosecutor was and is independent of him being a witch.” He folds his arms on the desk, quietly tapping a pen in one hand. “The most prominent difference is that I have not and refuse to give in and casually allow this office to become something like a coven, as Wright has your office.”

Apollo cannot lodge an objection to that. “I think I must cut us short here,” Edgeworth says, and Apollo tries not to jump up too quickly in relief. “I have to make more consideration of what we’ve spoken of, and see what Wright has thrown at me this time.”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, as well,” Apollo says. Edgeworth is right – it is a headache.

His mouth twitches. Apollo hasn’t actually seen him smile. “You aren’t the one running this reform, Mr Justice, so you need lend a little less consideration – but I am glad to learn that you won’t just sit back and let the wind carry you where it may. That you know how you wish to fight, too.”

With nothing to say to that, Apollo nods, turning it into a little bit of a bow of his head, and hurries for the door, finding sitting in the open doorway on the floor, a small stack of papers. He picks it up, glances it over, and finds his eyes are immediately drawn to the signature at the bottom, in purple pen, initials unmistakeable. “Um, Prosecutor Edgeworth?” he asks, turning back around, everything but his mouth and feet frozen. “I think – I think Prosecutor Gavin came by.”

Edgeworth curses, too much of a hushed hiss for Apollo to determine what exactly the words are, and he hurries around his desk to snatch the pages from Apollo’s hands. “Yes, he – yes, that is exactly what I asked him to—” He crumples the edges a little with the tightening of his fists, a harsh scowl tearing across his features. “I have been watching the door, all this time – you didn’t see these on your way in?” Apollo shakes his head. “Gavin, I swear – the man is a goddamned ghost, somehow, when he wants to be.”

“If you wanted me to meet Prosecutor Edgeworth for whatever reason, you could have just introduced us,” Apollo says.

“I wanted you to drop off those papers, Apollo.” Phoenix looks up at him like he’s looking up from checking the new hand he’s been dealt, utterly and frustratingly emotionless. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The second one is a red lie. It circles him – for someone else, he has no tells at all. “Bullshit you don’t,” Apollo says. He has the distinct feeling that he has had this conversation before. Twice before? Every conversation he has had with Phoenix is this one? “Or are you fishing for information on Prosecutor Gavin and hoped I would learn or say something?”

“And how is Prosecutor Gavin?” Phoenix’s lazy eyelid has returned. Apollo doesn’t miss it. Apollo wants to punch it away. It isn’t right that his boss should have such a punchable face.

Apollo crosses his arms. “No,” he says. “I’m not doing this. Ask after him yourself.”

“I have.” Whenever Apollo’s voice gets louder, Phoenix drops his lower, like if he can balance Apollo, Vera out in the front room won’t hear them. “And Ema’s only heard from him in email – Edgeworth too – nobody’s goddamn seen him, so yeah, maybe I did just hope that you could draw him out.”

“And what do you care?”

Phoenix scowls up at him, sticking a pencil to mark his place in the heavy leather-bound book with handwritten script he is paging through, and slamming it shut harder than necessary. “Where should I start?” he asks, voice with all of the bitterness but none of the sarcasm that Apollo is used to. “Maybe I spent seven years with Kristoph Gavin as my closest ‘friend’” – he makes quotes in the air with his fingers, too – “and learned not only how he thinks, but how you come to start think after being around him for a lengthy personal relationship. And maybe I spent those seven years also listening to all of his belittling, dismissive remarks about his little brother.” He smacks his palm on the desk like it is the defense’s bench and then he looks surprised, as though the muscle memory of being in court should have atrophied years ago. “And maybe I’ve seen prosecutors before have their foundations upended, to end with a spiral off a cliff, and maybe” – his voice drops further to a hiss – “I would prefer not to let Kristoph get the last goddamn laugh over any of us who have survived him this far.”

He falls back in his seat, spinning it halfway away from Apollo, and closes his eyes. “Or maybe I’m just morbidly curious how it ends this time. Your pick.”

Two steps forward – Iris and Mia, pieces of a history before Apollo, the man before disbarment – and then three more back. His internal counter of “Days Since I Last Hated Phoenix Wright” resets.

“I think less people would try to kill you if you didn’t pretend to be heartless,” Apollo says. He turns on his heel and heads for the sound of Vera humming along to the radio.

“Magatama’s in the bottom desk drawer if you want to go back sometime,” Phoenix calls after him.

Clay’s advice for no response to his texts was to wait a day and then send some casual, irreverent remark, maybe about something going on at the office, as a bump to the previous message. That, unlike most of Clay’s advice, had actually seemed reasonable to Apollo.

Ran by the prosecutor office today, maybe you saw me talking to Edgeworth I knocked on your door afterward to say hi, guess you weren’t in then

On Thursday, it seems to Apollo that Vera has officially-unofficially been adopted into the agency, because there’s some easels, canvasses, and paints that were not there when he left the prior afternoon. She has dismissed both the paints and her sketchbook for a plain pencil and the edges of a Wonder Bar flyer.

“You’re in early,” Apollo says.

She doesn’t jolt quite as much as she has when he’s surprised her other times. Maybe she’s learning to be a little more at ease in the world. “It’s lonely at my house,” she says. “I’m not lonely when I’m alone here.”

Mia. Apollo nods. “I feel that, too.”

Phoenix wanders in before noon, after the two of them thoroughly investigate the mysterious kitchen. Vera is trying to make a house of cards on an already-precarious end table, and Apollo is looking over the books on the shelves, hoping to find one that can teach him something new without being criminally boring. “Nothing?” he asks Vera, pointing to a canvas.

She shrugs. He is almost to the back room when she says, “Um, Mr Wright?”

He stops dead.

“How do you draw something that isn’t real?”

“Huh?” Apollo asks. Phoenix turns back around, heading for the couch and not looking confused, and Apollo has no idea why they both understand that very weird question.

“How have you done it in the past?” Phoenix asks. Vera has abandoned the cards and is flipping through the legal pad that Phoenix was doodling on yesterday. “I know your first, er, paintings—”

“Forgeries,” she says softly. “Call them what they are. It’s okay.”

“—your first forgeries were identical copies of things, but then – like the diary page – that was still you making something new, something that wasn’t real.”

“But it was always obvious how to make those real.” Vera’s eyes are fixed on the page and a little scribble of a woman with smudged graphite hair and red pen eyes, as many of them as a spider. “I was told exactly what to do. I had the torn edge to match my new page to, and the text to put on it, and the handwriting to put it in, and the type of paper. But I don’t know how to make something new.”

Phoenix digs his phone from his pocket and starts typing. “I’m not ignoring you,” he says. “I just need to, before I forget, tell a friend of mine that I need to introduce him to you.” Apparently satisfied with whatever message he sent, he tosses his phone toward a shelf. It bounces off and cracks to the floor. “Anyway. The advice that’s maybe shitty I can offer you is to find what’s real in it. Like… paint me how you feel today.” He gestures toward a canvas. “Not how your face would look if you were showing those emotions, not what’s making you feel them, but how it feels. That’s real, but it’s not you replicating anything.”

Seeming to decide against doing whatever he meant to, he returns to the couch and sits on the arm of it. “My friend’s a children’s book author-illustrator – he’s human, but his mentor was one of the fae.” The glance he casts about the office doesn’t land in any one place. “I don’t think I have any of her books here, but I’ll bring them in. After her death, he and I talked a lot about what he’d learned from her, because my experience with the fae and art had been my friends getting obsessed with kids’ action shows and needing the concept of ‘fiction’ and ‘acting’ explained about a dozen times.” There’s that fond exasperation again. “She said that her books were always grounded in something real. They had to have that heart of truth, and the rest she could build.”

Vera lets the pencil fall from her fingers and cranes her head back to look at her paint brushes. “Is this a common thing?” she asks. “The fae, drawn to art?”

“Culturally, it’s not their thing,” Phoenix says. “They themselves don’t have much of a tradition of storytelling or paintings that are much more than… apparently accurate versions of history. It’s something about how they consider themselves bound to the truth, even if they’re twisted about it. They’re a little weird about music, too, but I do know that they’re drawn to human artists over this same thing – that they don’t get it, but we do, so they like artists as…”

“Court jesters?” Apollo offers.

Phoenix snorts. Vera has stood and gone to consider her paints, and he slides off the arm of the couch and sprawls across it on his back. “Something like it. But it is interesting to consider, in terms of you, Vera – you’re a changeling. They swapped you for a human baby of artistic parents, who was more or less destined to grow up to be an artist – and there’s a woman I know, human, a musician, and she’s the other side of that coin. So from my nearly-anecdotal sample size” – Ema would not approve – “it’s future artists and musicians who… get… taken…”

He sits bolt upright, his eyes flashing blue. “Oh, son of a bitch!”

At his outburst, Vera squeaks and stumbles into the piano, knocking some some brushes and a palette down to the floor. He looks at Apollo, eyes pale and vacant, jaw twitching but still hanging open. “I do know what the hell he is!”

And Apollo, halfway to Phoenix’s desk to grab the magatama, is sure that they’ve realized the same thing.

#fic: the seelie of kurain #roddy fanfics #next: THE BOY IS BACK. and probably having a mental breakdown. mood but also like. bad.

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ravenstyx · 7 years

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Heartbreak Grows in the Garden Chapter 2: Between a crucifix and the Hollywood sign, we decided to get hurt. Now there’s a few things we have to burn. Set our hearts ablaze

Rated: MA for Sex. Drugs. Alcohol. Violence.

Summary: She’s a stunner and a taker, she’s amused; she’s a faker and you like it that way. (This is the story of all the hearts Cana has left in pieces. Multiple parings. Modern AU)

Also found HERE

Her name sounded like a waterfall and her hair was first bleached and then dyed to resemble one, too. The colour wasn’t complete, white mixed in with the ocean blue; water tumbled over rocks the way the tresses of her hair cascaded over her shoulders.

She’d met Juvia at the bar downstairs two nights before and all of the things Cana knew about her could be counted on one hand. 1) Juvia wore a cross and not just for pleasure or style. She believed. Honest to goodness. 2) She also claimed she hated it but couldn’t take it off. 3) Juvia loved a boy and lost that love because she loved too much. 4) Juvia had never just laid out on some shitty bed in some shitty motel room with two others, drunk as fuck while a party they were supposed to be attending raged in the room next door. Tonight she did. Tonight, she kissed a man that had, at one point, been only her best friend. Now, his cock was out and between her breasts and Cana knew she was using it as a perverse source of comfort. That was fine. If she needed a dick on her while Cana worked between her legs, then that’s what the lady would get.

Nails painted black dug into Cana's leather gloves, legs sheathed in fishnet stockings wrapped around her shoulders. The man got off Juvia’s chest and got behind Cana. She watched Juvia’s face to see if she was jealous. No. Not then. Maybe never, not for this. Juvia didn’t love this man. He spread Cana wide and inched in and he wasn’t as thick as Elfman or as attentive, really. Now that Cana had an impartial lover, she clearly saw the difference and was so, so glad for it. Elfman was long gone and here was something she didn't know. Someone she didn't care about and they didn't care about her.

He went in deep and bottomed out and it hurt more than it felt good but Cana moaned anyway, just to hear something other than her thoughts. Juvia moaned, too, and switched from holding Cana’s hands to her hair and shoved her face in closer between her legs. Cana focused more on this girl, this girl that had stumbled out of her church glassy eyed three days before Cana ever met her, this girl that used to wear dresses buttoned to her throat but now settled for things she spilled out of, this girl that used to have hair the colour of gingersnaps to go with her eyes as blue as the ocean, this girl that still had a cute spattering of freckles that covered her cheeks and her nose, this girl that had never fucked a woman but told Cana upfront that that’s exactly what she wanted.

Juvia was a special girl.

She twitched against Cana’s tongue and then she was coming and the man behind Cana was fucking her harder and Cana couldn’t feel a goddamn thing. Not pain anymore, not pleasure. All she could think was Juvia is a special girl. Juvia is a special girl.

She was a special girl. Not a nobody. A real girl.

Juvia pushed Cana away so Cana never had to run. “Fuck me, Gajeel.” That was his name. Gajeel. Days ago, he’d been the shadow to Juvia’s sun, but now she slummed in the dark with him and Cana could relate. He pulled out of Cana and Cana moved back completely, giving him space. She went for her water bottle on the counter and was glad for the way vodka burned her throat almost raw. She drank again and again to the sounds of Juvia’s high-pitched moans.

It was there, with her water bottle against her lips, that she heard a very loud and very distinct sound from the room next door. Voices, commanding entry.

She pursed her lips and capped the vodka. Gajeel still pounded into Juvia and didn’t show any signs of slowing. Cana adjusted the skater dress she wore and got on her combats. Her leather jacket came next. She looked toward the door and thought no, thanks, when feet pounded up the stairs. The balcony it was, then.

She had her keys out and the balcony door open when they started hammering on the front door. Gajeel stopped mid-thrust to look over his shoulder and Juvia was still oblivious.

"Open up!"

“Is that the fucking cops?”

“You got it, hoss.” Cana shouldn’t have taken the time to confirm his question; the seconds she wasted meant that their door was burst open. Men in black police uniforms and helmets rushed in. They weren’t just regular cops; they were part of a raid unit. Two of them backed out with a battering ram and more filled their space, guns drawn.

“What the fuck?” Gajeel wondered but Cana already knew.

“Drugs are next door, boys. You got the wrong room.”

Cana’s blasé attitude was wasted on them. "Put your hands on top of your head and get on the floor.” They sounded serious.

Cana tried again. "Did you not hear me? We got nothing in here."

"On the ground, hands on your head!"

Gajeel complied, though his dick was out, Juvia, too. Cana inched toward the bannister and two guns pointed her way. “Seriously. We’re not selling anything. We’re not even using. We’re just drinking and having a good time,” she said defensively.

The team lead nodded at one of his officers and they detached. Cana saw his intention immediately and scurried for the railing. She wasn’t nearly fast enough, too uncoordinated, maybe, or maybe she wanted to get arrested.

This wasn’t the first time she’d had her cheek pressed into the ground, not even by a cop. She went with resignation after that.

The cell reserved for intoxicated persons in Magnolia's only jail was small and dingy and reeked not only of freshly poured concrete but chemicals, too, used to cover up the scent of piss and vomit.

Juvia sat on the bench across from Cana, staring up at the ceiling, palms skyward, tears streaming down her face. Cana watched with detachment that bordered anger. "Why are you crying?"

Juvia blinked. "We're in jail." Obviously, her tone said.

"We're in the drunk tank," Cana snapped.

"And our girl Cana here knows there's a difference."

Cana kept her eyes trained on Juvia while Juvia eyed the officer with eyes as wide as medallions. Oh, yes, Juvia was a good girl. Cana didn't know what to feel looking at her now. She'd known that the fishnets and the nail polish and the blue lipstick and hair dye had been a front but here was proof in living colour. Juvia was just a girl in Cana's fucked up ride.

"I'm not drunk anymore," Cana said to the wall. She could tell he was trying to catch her eye but she refused to look his way. Would not, not for anything.

"Cana..."

"You didn't find any dope on us, did you?"

"Your friend had some."

"He wasn't my friend, just some dick I found." Literally. Juvia winced. Cana kept going. "Neither of us even knew he had it and we're sober now."

"I can't let you drive like this."

"I'll take a cab," she responded. "And get my bike tomorrow." No more cruiser rides. If she showed up at Fairy Hills in another she'd lose her spot.

The silence was long and tense. Almost familiar, though, for Cana, who had what felt like a lifetime of experience with long, drawn out silences. "I'll call you a cab," he said eventually. "Wait here." His boots sounded over the concrete floor and a door at the end of the hall banged open and closed.

Juvia asked, "Do you know him?”

“Well enough.”

“Because this happens to you a lot?"

Cana responded with the silent treatment. Juvia's tears came with more frequency. She had the decency to cry silently for ten whole minutes until the cop returned with his keys freed from his belt. He opened the door and said, "Cab's out front.”

Cana got to her feet and didn't wobble despite still being in the thick of a drunk. She was a professional. Magnolia's jail was familiar enough that she navigated all on her own and her favourite police officer didn't try to lead her out.

"Stay out of trouble, ladies," he said at her back and Cana gave him the finger. He sighed, she sighed, and Juvia sniffled.

The yellow cab sat beneath the streetlight. Rain misted through the headlights. Cana grabbed for the front door, Juvia for the back but Cana held her door closed, preventing her from getting in.

"What are you doing?" Juvia looked so, so ingénue.

Cana looked at her long and hard. "Get a different cab."

"What?"

"Go home, Juvia. Without me. Go to confession, tell your man you're sorry for being so pathetic and start over again; better this time." She could do it, Cana knew she could.

“Cana—”

“I’m serious and not at all sorry.”

"But—"

"This isn't what you're looking for."

"Cana—"

Cana pulled open the door and got in.

"Cana! Please—"

Cana slammed the door in her face and addressed the cabdriver—a middle aged man with more grey than brown in his hair. "Coffin Ridge."

The cabby said, "He said you'd try to get back to that dump bar. I was paid to take you home, missy."

Cana didn't know what was worse, being so predictable or having him take care of her like an invalid. She fished through her wallet for a hundred-dollar bill. It was going to go toward a new exhaust but she figured this was more important. "Coffin Ridge."

The cabby took the tip like she thought and after getting dropped off, Cana drove her bike home just to spite him.

#cana alberona #juvia lockser #gajeel redfox #my wriring #whoa off the deep end #cana may be my spirit animal

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theforgottengn · 7 years

Text

And Hope To Die

Characters: Quebec, Romeo, Mike, Lima, Oscar, November, Smith

Word Count: 2,654

Trigger Warning: Slight Swearing.

A/N: I finally figured out something to write for November and her boys! (This takes place before they get Charlie on the team.) I wanted to put the whole memory planting and activating stuff in this one to show you how that works but I couldn’t decide who to focus on for it so I didn’t do that. Also this is heavily Robec and Mima centric.

Summary: November Company gets called on a mission to track down a spy believed to be a double agent. Promises aren’t made. Arguments are had. Shots are fired in more ways than one. Fists fly. Coffee is chugged. Rubber is burnt. What more could go wrong? Click the read more if you want…

XXXXX

They exchanged the exact same conversation before every mission. Something that had started as a light-hearted joke years ago had become a staple in their lives. Neither thought that it would balloon into something so important and yet the three simple words had grown with them as they aged and matured. It had become something so much more than mouth movements and vocal sounds combining to create words. A ritual of sorts they needed to do every time they left the base or when they made a promise to one another. Today, Romeo started their mutual habit this time when he tapped Quebec on the shoulder as the team went to their briefing.

But before Quebec could turn around to talk to him Romeo snuck to his side; and they walked in perfect step with each other.

“Let’s finish this one quickly, yeah? Promise you’ll come back in one piece?”

“A promise is a promise; no matter how small.”

“Horton Hears a Who after all this time? Are you bloody serious, Q?”

Quebec shrugged; his quotes couldn’t always be winners. But the Horton quote was more than that. It was the only thing he would say when Romeo started the conversation. From the very first time the two of them exchanged the promise he half-quoted the movie. And that very first time it was in fact a small promise. One that Quebec had ended up breaking later that same day. He was only a kid after all and he was learning how to fight. Getting badly hurt was pretty much inevitable. He remembered that day as clearly as the sun that shone in the bright blue sky above their heads. The white coats weren’t allowed to touch their memories from training anyway. And even though memory wipes were a semi-constant thing movie quotes had been drilled into his head, from repeated watches and from reciting, and so they stayed.

He actually changed the quote ever so slightly but he wasn’t going to tell Romeo that.

“Cross your heart?”

“Cross my heart,” Quebec said with a small nod as he ran a finger over his chest in an X motion. But before he could return the question to Romeo their conversation was interrupted. Not five seconds ago, or so it seemed, the others were with them and talking amongst themselves. Now the rest of the team had gotten pretty far ahead of them in a few minutes. November understood the importance of their ritual of sorts but she was not having it today. She stood with a hand on her hip and an annoyed look on her face. Mike cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled.

“Y’all coming or what?”

They jogged over to catch up with the others as they all filed into the White Room. Smith was waiting from them with a look of exasperation on her face. It was already obvious that they would be short on time for this mission so they hurried. But they didn’t get to finish so they just had to hope that everything would turn out okay.

XXXXX

“Alright team let’s get down to brass tacks.”

Smith stood at the front of the room behind a white desk. She wore a navy blue suit, with a black top, and black heels. The heels gave her a bit of added height but she still stood quite shorter than the spies in her care. A whiteboard hung on the wall directly behind her, a projector sat in the corner to her left, and a small stack of dossiers lay on the desk. Each of the six spies sat at a long black oak table and grabbed the dossiers as their handler handed one to them.

After passing out the dossiers Smith went back to the front of the room and taped a picture to the whiteboard. Then she wrote a name with dry erase marker underneath the picture in thick, blocky, handwriting. Making bullet points she jotted down a few key facts about the intended target. When she was done she turned back to the group.

“This is your target.”

The picture was of a white man with blonde hair. He looked to be about in his mid forties. Wearing a black suit in the photo it looked to be one taken for a company ID card. He had this look in his eyes that they couldn’t quite place. It was either apathy or boredom or sadness something else entirely.

“He looks like he’s been rode hard and put up wet.”

“Mike look at him,” Romeo retorted. “And I mean really look, mate. He’s obviously pretty bloody angry at someone. Most likely his boss who made him come into work early to get his photo taken.”

“We all go a little mad sometimes,” Quebec quoted to no response.

“Yer all wrong. He looks like death on a prin stick.”

“Bubba, please. He’s not sick,” Mike said loudly as he leaned over the edge of the table to talk to Lima who sat at the very far end. The two of them had got in a fight not to long before they were called over. Lima had made fun of Mike’s teeth or the way his ears stuck out a little bit and neither man had calmed down on the jog. And the way Mike was talking it looked like they might fight all over again.

“The man looks like he was just told that Chevrolet stopped making trucks. His dog probably died. Or his momma. Have a little respect for the dead, will you?”

“According to his dossier he works for the DGSE. Why do we need to go after him?” November asked loudly; bringing her teammates’ minds back to the briefing. Times like these she really loved the way HERACLES made them travel to their missions. There was no fighting or arguing of any kind. Her question quickly shut them up and allowed their handler to answer.

“We have reason to believe Alexandre Rousseau, Le L’araignee Loup to his colleagues, has changed sides and has become a double agent. But the DGSE and the CIA couldn’t bring him in. Any agents that got close to him either died or mysteriously disappeared. Now he’s in deep cover; hiding out who knows where but…”

“We’re going to France?” Oscar half asked, half yelled in excitement.

“No. Greece. Where he was seen last.”

XXXXX

Hours later, after landing and being activated, they met up at the chosen rendezvous. Daily Dose a, small and charming, coffee shop that sat in the heart of Kalamata, Greece. It was the middle of the day so Psaron Street was practically empty. Normal people would be at work, school, or home and most likely eating lunch. The small, 20 square foot, shop barely had room for the six of them. It didn’t matter much since they weren’t staying that long. November walked up to the counter and ordered for everyone.

“One large caramel macchiato, one lemon poppy seed scone, one large black coffee, one large hot cocoa, a bottle of water, and… Greg? What do you want?” she asked turning to Romeo.

“Is that why you’re calling yourself Greg?” Quebec cut in before Ro could answer. False identities were a staple of their job as spies but Greg was such a lame name. Then again Mike was going by Fred, Lima was Lee, November was Em, Oscar was Devin and he was Jack. And they had to stick the codenames regardless of how much he hated his. Quebec wanted to go by Luke or Hal or something but their handler wouldn’t let him pick his alias.

At least it wasn’t Greg.

False identities were also the reason they all wore undercover outfits. November wore a black, spaghetti-strapped crop top, a red leather jacket, light washed jeans and black Chucks. She also wore a black baseball cap backwards on her head, lipstick, eye makeup, and nail polish that complimented her outfit. Mike wore a black shirt, an unbuttoned red flannel shirt, a brown leather jacket, medium washed jeans, and tan combat boots. Romeo wore black pants, a white v-neck, a navy blue trench coat, brown Tom Fords, and a watch on his left hand. Oscar wore an olive bomber jacket with black sleeve ends, which was adorned with a few of his favorite pins, a navy dress shirt, dark washed jeans with the bottoms turned up, and brown laced dress boots. Lima wore a navy beanie, white tennis shoes, a dark gray dress shirt, a white t-shirt underneath, a dark washed jean jacket, black jeans, and gray street sneakers. Quebec wore a navy t-shirt with the Back to the Future logo, but it read I drive at 88 mph just in case instead of the movie title, with the DeLorean underneath. He also wore a pair of jeans, a white hoodie that zipped up sideways, blue jeans, and black tennis shoes.

For all intents and purposes the group looked like a bunch of tourists completely unprepared for the country’s heat.

“That’s his name ya idjit.”

Rolling his eyes Quebec turned on Mike; “They have about sixty-three kinds of coffee here with about forty-two different things to put it in and you just get a regular coffee?!”

November shot Mike a sharp look and he crossed his arms; grumbling but said nothing. None of them had any time to argue. Time was of the essence and they needed to leave. But they also needed to eat. Wasting time with stupid arguments was a complete waste of the little bit of time they had.

“A hazelnut iced coffee, love,” Romeo said when he could finally get a word in.

“Name?” the barista asked when he confirmed that he got the full order.

“Em,” the team leader said with a smile.

As the barista made their orders the group stood around making small talk. When he finished he passed the drinks over the counter. November handed the drinks to their respective recipients but left hers. Reaching into the front pocket of her duffle she pulled out a small, square-shaped, gray wallet. She paid a couple bucks over the actual cost and the barista looked at her with a confused look.

“We don’t accept… Oh,” he said with realization. “You must be Americans. Are you here on holiday?”

“Oh no. We’re here for work,” she responded with a smile.

Walking out of the coffee shop with their drinks in hand the group passed their getaway car and continued walking down the street. They passed a many homeless people sitting on the sidewalk. Many were in tattered clothes and shivering despite the heat. An old man was playing a baglamas, singing a song, and had a small, black, felt hat at his feet. The country was still sliding into a depression despite Tsipras’ attempts to fix it and his recent claims of an up-swing.

As the group walked they began to discuss the mission.

“According to what we know Rousseau might still be in the area. He was last seen at the Sfera Club a couple times only a few weeks ago. If he’s here then he’s probably staying somewhere near the nightclub. Somewhere where he could easily pay cash and not get second looks.”

“The only place that might fit his MO is Galaxy. A cheap, 2-star hotel, which will probably accept cash from anyone without double checking. And it’s only a five minute walk from the Sfera,” Romeo answered.

“He was also seen driving a jalopy. Bastard probably thought it was good cover; reckon he’s still lugging it around?”

“He could be, Fred, he could be. I say we change into uniforms and then head down there.”

“Em,” Lima said; an anxious look on his face. “You said it yourself; he was spotted weeks ago. He’s probably not even in Greece anymore.”

“Stop worrying, Lee, and let’s get going.”

XXXXX

Once they all changed the group met back up at the car, a silver Honda Odyssey, and piled in. Mike expertly pulled them out of his professional parallel parking job and then slammed his foot on the gas. Lima, who always had to call shotgun so he could try to quell Mike’s recklessness, gripped the grab-handle above his door and began yelling at the Getaway. The four who sat in the back tried their best to ignore the argument that was brewing and focus on the mission.

“One of these days you’re gonnae get us killed, Mike!”

“I haven’t done it yet, have I?” Mike replied with a smirk.

“Jist coz you hae a death wish doesn’t mean you hae tae drag us alang your reckless path. Dae you e’en know th’ chances of us dyin’ oan this mission?”

“No. I don’t. But lemme guess, Bubba, You’re gon’ tell me, ain’t cha?” Mike said very condescendingly as he gripped the steering wheel and pushed on the gas.

The speedometer made its way to 90mph when the street signs clearly read 80 kmh. Since they were in Greece, and not somewhere that used miles, Lima had to quickly do the mental math. After a few minutes he gave up since conversions weren’t something he was good at. Watching the speedometer Lima’s face got redder and his lips pursed together. Times like these, when Mike was acting more reckless than usual to stubbornly prove a point, he couldn’t comprehend why he even cared about the crazy son of a bitch.

“Ye feckin’ divit! People’s li’es ur at stake haur an’ ye want tae act loch yoo’re gonnae die the-day? Whit is wrang wi’ ye?”

Mike laughed at how thick Lima’s accent had gotten in such a short amount of time.

“I done told you a million times I can’t understand you when you’re mad. Surprised I can the rest of the time.”

Lima’s expression turned to shock and then back to anger again as he turned away to stare out the window. Stopping at a red light Mike turned to look at Lima. He understood where the worry came from and he knew he shouldn’t do and say such dumb stuff all the time. But it was hard for him to control his recklessness and it’s not like anyone else helped much in that regard. All the doctors and psychologists they were forced to see during training never helped any of them. The only person who ever tried to help him stop was Lima and all he ever did was laugh in his face.

Just like how he laughed in death’s face.

Reaching out a hand Mike was about to lay it on Lima’s shoulder but then he saw the light turn green. Turning his body back to the steering wheel Mike eased the car out of the stop. And instead of gunning down the road like the madman that he was at times he drove the exact speed limit. Seeing Oscar reach over to tap Lima on the shoulder made Mike relax a bit. Oscar was sure to calm him down and get the man to stop worrying for a little while. He sighed and wiggled his shoulders; took a gloved hand off the wheel and cracked his knuckles against his knee.

“Simplest breathing exercise, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You have to sit up as straight as you can. Now, close your eyes, and just breathe through your nose. In for eight and out for ten. Then in for four and out for six. Keep going and increasing by two until you feel better. You can listen to my calming mix if you want.”

Lima took the ear buds and began breathing like Oscar instructed. November shot Mike an angry look through the rearview mirror as the group drove on in silence. When Lima finished and re-opened his eyes Mike had parked the car in the hotel’s lot.

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forthegothicheroine · 7 years

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Kamigami No Asobi recap, episode 1: Ticking Clock to Ragnarok

What’s more capital-R Romantic than a plucky maiden being romanced by otherworldly deities of questionable morality and common sense? That’s my logic for recapping this anime on my blog, anyway. We’re going to watch an extremely overworked Japanese high school girl deal with romantic entanglements involving gods from several different pantheons, but first let’s establish a few things.

I read a lot about Greek mythology as a teenager, but my friends who are actual classics students probably know these stories better than I do. I know a little about Norse mythology, mostly stories that show up in operas or children’s books. I know a smattering about Egyptian mythology, mostly about Isis (who does not appear in this show.) I know almost nothing about Japanese mythology, so episodes focusing on that pantheon will have me dashing to wikipedia.

Also, there will be a few regular features in these recaps.

Ragnarok Clock: How close, as of this episode, are we to ragnarok? This will be illustrated with that doomsday clock from Watchmen, altered appropriately.

(The snake is Jormungandr.)

Where is Odin? Odin and Ra are the big, glaring omissions in this cast. I don’t pretend to be able to fathom Ra’s actions, but I will take a guess each episode at what Odin is doing while his family is having high school anime drama.

Team ___: Look, it’s a reverse harem anime, I’m going to pick teams. These teams will change with my whims. Tough.

Does Thoth push Yui up against a wall? Trust me, it’s going to be a thing.

Now, on with the show!

Aaannndd...it’s ragnarok time! That was fast! Beautiful men in silly outfits are ripping apart the sky as the world ends around them and a girl begs them not to fight. We don’t yet know who any of these people are, but there’s a nubile blonde man flexing so hard his shirt and pants pop off! If that doesn’t say classical mythology to you, I don’t know what does. Our heroine is not particularly phased by this flexing, as she would really rather the world not end.

FLASHBACK! Or, since this is the rest of the series, maybe I should have labeled that opening scene FLASHFORWARD? I don’t know.

It’s time to formally meet Yui, a young purple-haired shrine maiden who will be our protagonist. If I can be serious for a moment, I really think the fact that she’s a shrine maiden is what holds this show together. The gods are important to her everyday life; sure, she’d be surprised to meet them in the flesh, but it wouldn’t existentially destroy everything she thought she knew about the world.

Yui is endearing in the way reverse harem protagonists often are: she’s a sweet girl who is nowhere NEAR prepared for the amount of bullshit that’s about to be dumped on her lap. We feel for her because really, no high school student should have to deal with this.

She’s busy practicing her swordsmanship for an upcoming ceremony, which makes her late for school. (Again, I empathize with her here- that sounds way better than school.) At school, everyone is talking about their futures, which is immaterial because RAGNAROK IS COMING! REPENT! Ahem. Yui cries without understanding why, though I believe it’s because she’s realized she’s the protagonist and shit is about to get wacky for the rest of her life.

Yui barely has time to get home and reflect on not knowing what she wants to do with her life when the plot attacks! Color turns negative, a mysterious voice calls her name, and the shed out back starts to glow! The source of the glow appears to be a magical sword, but there should be a caution label on it, since touching it may lead to you being struck by lightening and transported to Narnia.

Which is exactly what happens to poor Yui.

Okay, it isn’t actually Narnia. (Although maybe it is? Lion Jesus and the Greek gods seem to cohabitate there peacefully, so I guess it’s in the same spirit?) Anyway, it’s a big fancy mansion/university with tweeting birds and glorious architecture, and Yui awakens there on the floor. The magic sword has shrunk to a convenient pendent, there for when she finally awakens as a magical girl. Presumably.

Yui takes this all in stride, calmly wondering if she’s travelled in time. Hey, it could happen. The whole place is eerily empty except for one tall drink of goth...

Hades! He’s my personal pick for most attractive of the gods, although you can’t convince me that Hades, a man who lives underground and never comes out, would take such good care of his flowing locks. He laments that Yui is so unfortunate as to have been caught up in this cruel game, because kidnapping girls is only okay when he’s the one doing it.

Actually, I’m not sure if Persephone exists in the world of this show or not, but more on that later. The arrival of Hades is heralded by blooming poppies.

Yui is quite rightly stunned by his mopey good looks, but Hades warns her not to come near him for it will only bring her misery. She is admirably unimpressed by this statement, but gets distracted by a cute rabbit. (A girl after my own heart.) The rabbit leads her to a classroom with a lilac-haired pretty boy whose arrival is heralded by blooming irises. He is...

...Tsukito, god of the moon! The lilac ponytail may seem a bit much now, but trust me, once you’ve met the rest of the gods he will look positively conservative. He’s more reasonable and easier to talk to than Hades, but also doesn’t know what’s going on. But there’s no time to get acquainted, because our conversation is interrupted by...

...Takeru, god of the sea! It may not look that bad in this picture, but holy frick does this hair piss me off when it’s onscreen. He looks like green Naruto! I am automatically set against him, and it will take a good deal to win me over with this handicap. His special flower is...um...I don’t know, I’ve seen these flowers before but I have no idea of their name. They’re blue with white stripes. Anyway, he’s our token tsundere, so that’s another strike against him.

Thoroughly annoyed by this asshole, Yui continues exploring and discovers, once and for all, that she’s in a giant building on a magical world with floating islands and flying horses. All of this is a lot to take in at once, so she runs down the stairs and immediately bumps into...

...Loki. Let me get this out of the way, since it’s what I’ll be thinking the whole show long: WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIS HAIR? The black nail polish is a respectable tradition (I’m wearing it right now), but that hair is inexcusable. That hair is a blight upon the concept of divinity. That hair is one of Loki’s monstrous children, right alongside Hel. In fact, Hel is probably glad she got the skull face instead of that hair.

That said, hair that bad is totally in-character. He gets pink and white chrysanthemums for his introductory flower.

Loki is interested in two things- invading Yui’s personal space and tracking down his blonde friend. These two things will continue to be his main interests throughout the show.

Loki doesn’t find said blonde yet, but Yui does. He’s a regular Disney prince, chilling out with friendly woodland animals attracted by his purity of heart. He is, of course...

...Balder! Balder is very cute, even though he looks exactly like Legolas. Looking like Legolas isn’t a bad thing, anyway. He gets a bunch of introductory lillies, and is the only person so far who is actually nice to Yui. Unfortunately, he has incurable clumsiness, the weakness usually given to female love interests. Fortunately, he cannot be hurt by any of his many trips and falls, because everything in the world made a vow not to hurt him.

Almost everything. Tick tock goes the ragnarok clock...

This clumsiness results in him falling on top of Yui and knocking them both into a bed of flowers. Unlike if this had happened with literally any of the other characters, I genuinely believe Balder did not do that on purpose. They tell each other that they have beautiful eyes and it’s all very romantic because Balder is actually capable of being attracted to a person without becoming correspondingly hostile. (Take note, half the rest of the cast.)

One of the people who should take note is Loki, who runs onto the scene to fly into a jealous rage over Balder touching anyone else. We’ll get into the Balder/Yui/Loki dynamic in future episodes- it’s more complicated than a simple love triangle- but here we see Loki having a snit, one of the show’s major themes. It’s hard to be very scared of his snits, though, since he has mostly short hair with two long bits on the side and a skinny braid in the back. Seriously, what is with his hair?

But we’ve got bigger gods to worry about! That voice and accompanying color-negative are back, and she has to track their source. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the man you’ve all been waiting to see. Possessor of the best hair on the show (in that it’s both flattering and character-appropriate), the king of heaven himself, it’s time to meet...

...Zeus! Now I know what you’re afraid of, because I was afraid of it too. Don’t worry- Zeus has no predatory intentions towards Yui aside from kidnapping her. He’s much more interested in using her presense to torment the other gods while he sits back and cackles.

While she comes to know and befriend most of the other gods and call them -san, Zeus stays -sama throughout the show. You’d BETTER call Zeus -sama. He is not a love interest, and so gets no flowers.

And he has a horrible terrifying child form he sometimes turns into for no reason. I will not inflict it upon you, because unlike Zeus, I am merciful. Seriously, it’s like a horrible creepy doll with reflective gold eyes. Brrrr.

Zeus’ ostensible purpose in kidnapping a bunch of gods and a teenage girl and forcing them all to go to high school for his amusement is that the gods are growing too remote from their worshippers, and need to personally experience and learn about humanity. This doesn’t sound like the kind of thing Zeus would give a shit about, so I assume the real purpose was something like “Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if I forced Hades to go through puberty again?” Yui is there to help make the gods into better people. I guess it’s kind of like the plot of Small Gods, but with less turtles.

Yui is still not terribly pleased about having been kidnapped, and accuses Zeus of being tyrannical. Which...yes. Yes he is. Tyrant is a Greek word. If Zeus decides you’re going to be in a reverse-harem anime, there’s really not much you can do about it. As Yui storms out we get a quick glimpse of our other resident hot dad Thoth, but he’s still in shadows both literally and figuratively.

As she collapses on the ground outside in fear, Yui is approached by another blonde- a friendly, preppy, incessantly cheerful lad who is introduced with a burst of sunflowers. Surprise surprise, he’s...

...Apollo! (The show calls him Apollon, but I refuse.) Apollo is going to annoy me in future episodes by giving everyone irritating nicknames, but he doesn’t do anything annoying in this episode so I’ll go easy on him. Unlike all the other gods, he’s delighted to be here, trusting that his father knows best. (Whether he actually does or not remains to be seen.) Apollo goes into full gallant flirt mode, sparkling at Yui as he kisses her hand and pulling her in for a full-on kiss.

Zero to I’m-your-boyfriend-now, that’s our Apollo.

With the episode over, it’s time to check in!

Ragnarok Clock

Where is Odin? During this episode, Odin is wandering the halls and enjoying the peace and quiet that comes from Loki and Thor not being there.

Team ___: Team Balder. Birds flock around him to sing!

Does Thoth push Yui up against a wall? No. Takeru pushes her up against a desk, though.

#kamigami no asobi

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