#i wanted to convey this eerie feeling when you go outside and somehow it feels more unnatural than the dungeon itself | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dreaming-of-assclass · 2 years

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hey hey hey zaina! i’m back from the dead real quick to give you prompts 💕 can you do “i can’t wait until i have a car” for kimura + a student of your choice, and “is that a toast in your mouth?” for sugino + maehara? sending lots of love your way!! 💕🎉💕

AHHHH HI 💗💗💗 omg welcome back!!! how are you??? and ahh thanks for the prompts!! i decided to go with Yada as the student of my choice, and omg i love these! I always enjoy hearing from you! Sending you love too!!! 💕💕

Kimura + Yada - "I can't wait until I have a car"

…

Kimura wasn't usually the type to exaggerate often. As the son of police officers, he was raised to speak in a more blunt and...efficient manner. Whatever that meant.

He was used to conveying information through facts and objective observations. "I just tell it how it is," he laughed nervously when Kataoka came close to throttling him one time after he pointed out that she smelled like chlorine.

But right now, an exaggerative statement was the only thought in his mind as he gazed depressingly outside. Just beyond the protection of Yada's front porch, torrential rain fell like thick sheets.

"It's pouring," he breathed. "Like a literal waterfall out here."

Yada rolled her eyes and yanked his arm, ignoring his "ouch!"

"Don't be dramatic, it's literally the season for these storms now. They don't last long anyways. Now get back inside!"

Kimura followed her back into her house, instantly sheltered from the chaos that was reigning just beyond the door. The lights were dimmed downstairs, the only source of brightness coming from the kitchen.

Yada gestured him to sit down while she opened up her fridge. "What do you feel like having for breakfast?"

"Uhhh, anything is fine." His brain was still half-asleep as it was about 7am. "What do you want?"

Yada hummed. "I'll just grab some different leftovers and warm stuff up." She set to pulling out various containers and take-out boxes and putting them down on the counter.

"Can I help with anything?" Kimura felt his hands fidgeting, aching for something to do.

Yada glanced at him, her gaze flickering to his hands. "Sure, can you wipe down the table for me please?"

"Gotcha." He jumped up and gratefully took the cloth and cleaning spray from her hands.

Even though the only light was in the kitchen, it was still rather dark. Only a few windows in the house were open, but minimal light poured inside. The sky was clouded and gray as the storm continued.

Kimura wiped down the table thoroughly to the sound of rain falling outside, colliding against the roof and ground. Nearby, Yada fiddled quietly with the stove and plates. It was comforting.

He finished with the table. "Hey, do you want me to clean the floor too?"

She was occupied with stirring a pot on the stove, but still replied. "Sure. The broom is in the closet down the hallway."

"Alright, be right back."

He leaped onto his feet quietly as he walked quickly towards the hallway. It was still dark and Kimura couldn't help but feel a sense of eeriness creep up his spine. There were a few framed photos of Yada's family on the walls. He stopped in his tracks to examine them.

It looked like a typical nuclear family. Happy parents with a talented older daughter and an adorable son. They each smiled brightly in one photo, when both Yada and her brother seemed younger.

Then in every photo after that, the family's smiles became more and more forced. Basically grimaces. Kimura frowned as he saw a larger distance between Yada and her parents in the most recent one. They all seemed colder somehow.

Suddenly, a noise broke his thoughts and he paused, his heart racing.

It was muffled at first, coming from down the hallway. Then it repeated itself louder.

Kimura felt his heart pounding, but curiosity got the better of him. He walked slowly towards the noise, his footsteps practically silent. Thank you, Mr Karasuma.

The sound came back, this time much clearer. It was a voice calling out "Onee-chan."

Kimura pushed the door open without even thinking.

A little boy was sitting up in his bed, his lap covered by a thick blanket. There were stuffed plushies besides him, as well as various books and art supplies on the nightstand. He was dressed in a thin long-sleeve with a spaceship pattern on it.

His hair was the same dark brown shade as Yada's, but his eyes were a rich hazel brown. As his face contorted in confusion, Kimura recognized him belatedly as Yada's brother. Akihito.

Oh shit...

"Who are you?" Akihito demanded with a frown. His voice was incredibly soft.

"Um, I'm Kimura," he replied immediately. "I'm, uh, friends with your sister."

Akihito craned his head to see what could be behind Kimura and the door. "Where's Onee-chan?"

"She's in the kitchen. Do you want me to go get her?"

Akihito's eyebrows scrunched up as he considered the question. Then the words came out quietly and laced with trepidation. "Can you fix this for me instead?"

Kimura stepped closer, intrigued. "Sure. Fix what?"

The boy pulled out a book from the first drawer in the nightstand and handed it to him. "Here. The page is ripped and I can't read it now."

Kimura flipped through to the page he indicated, and sure enough, there was a large crease and rip on the page. It blocked out the words and seemed like a nuisance.

"Yeah, for sure! Got any tape in here?"

"I think it's on the desk." Akihito pointed towards the corner of the room, at the small desk sitting besides the window.

Kimura jogged towards the desk and pushed aside a few pens and markers. He found the tape dispenser and ripped out a large piece before securing it over the rip. He followed that with another piece to go on the back, keeping it stable.

"Here ya go." He smiled and passed it over back to Akihito, whose face lit up.

It was now that Kimura noticed how pale the boy was. His cheeks lacked the roundness and healthiness that most children had. There were dark circles under Akihito's eyes.

Kimura felt his chest tighten, a familiar memory coming to mind.

My brother is really sick, and I had to miss my exam to take care of him...

"Thank you," Akihito whispered.

"No problem, kiddo."

The door opened quietly, and they both snapped up to see Yada stepping in. Her eyes widened in slight surprise at the sight of Kimura.

"Oh, you're here," she laughed. "I thought you somehow got lost in my very simple house plan."

"I'm not that dumb," he grumbled, watching as she came over to Akihito's bedside.

"Hey, you," she said softly, running a hand gently through the boy's hair. "You feeling okay?"

Akihito nodded and her smile grew. "Is this the friend you mentioned before? The one with green hair who runs really fast?"

"Yup, it is him."

Kimura's jaw dropped. "You talk about me?"

Yada rolled her eyes, amused. "I talk about everyone. Don't feel special."

He dramatically touched his hand to his chest. "You've reached my heart, Yada."

He realized that the sound of the rain had lightened up considerably. One glance at the window confirmed that the downpour wasn't nearly as bad as it was before.

"Alright, Aki," Yada started gently, holding his hand. "We're gonna go to school soon. Mina-san will be here soon, and I'll be back later."

Kimura assumed that Mina-san was a caretaker or nanny of some kind.

"Okay, Onee-chan. Have a good day," Akihito replied softly. "You too, Kimura-san. And thanks again for fixing my book."

Kimura grinned at him. "No problem, kid. And take care, huh? Hope I see you again."

He waved and left the room to give the siblings some privacy, heading back to the kitchen. There was a spread of food on the table, and Kimura hadn't realized how hungry he actually was.

Leftover fried rice, toast with jam spread, a bowl of white rice and natto on top of it, miso soup. It was an odd arrangement but Yada did say she was grabbing whatever was in the fridge, and Kimura couldn't bring himself to be picky. He was starving.

"Well, dig in," Yada's voice returned and he whipped around to see her back in the kitchen. They both took seats at the table, and she spooned food onto both their plates.

They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, both relishing in finally filling their stomaches. After a bit, Kimura had to ask.

"So, is he gonna have to be alone...?"

Yada finished chewing her bite of toast before replying. "Just for a little. After we leave, Mina-san, his nurse, has a key and will get in. I just convinced him to go back to sleep until she comes."

"Ah...I see."

There was silence again, only the sound of raindrops falling on the ground outside filling the air. Until Yada broke the silence this time.

"Thanks for checking on him, by the way."

Kimura flushed. "Oh, I-"

She laughed. "I know you were being nosy, it's okay. Just...thank you for giving him company. I appreciate it a lot, you know?"

His gaze dropped down to his bowl, where he was absentmindedly stirring his spoon. Cubes of tofu swirled around amongst the herbs. "You're a great sister, Yada."

Her eyes widened and she bit her lip, her eyes closing. "I really try my best."

"Well, I think you're doing a great job. And he thinks so, too."

"Thank you," Yada replied, her voice breaking slightly. It was such a small but noticeable contrast to her usual confident, steady, diplomatic tone.

They said nothing for a while, until Kimura felt bursting with questions again. Before he even opened his mouth, she cut him off with a sigh, "Shoot."

Kimura's eyebrows shot up. "How'd you know-?"

"I can tell you're probably wondering why the hell my house is so dark, where are my parents, what's up with the photos, yada yada." She smirked at her own wordplay.

"Well...damn. Yeah, pretty much."

She pushed aside her plate and rested her hands on her chin. "Both my parents are working. They have to do double shifts a lot to keep affording his nurse and medicine, all his treatments and the hospital bills."

Kimura listened quietly.

"Our house is dark because the light used to really bother him. Like it would send him into awful migraines." She paused. "Even when his light sensitivity went away, we just kept them dark. There's no one really here anyways, besides me."

Yada continued. "I just always feel so alone when I'm home. Like I'm the only one who bothers to still treat him like my little brother, instead of just some sickly patient. He's so much more than his illness!"

Her voice began to wobble. "He's the sweetest little boy in the world. He loves art and animals. He laughs at Spongebob. He gives the best hugs ever. He's so smart and kind and incredible. He will never be a burden to me, unlike what my parents think."

She stopped to rub her eyes, and Kimura was dismayed to see her fingers glistening with unshed tears when she pulled them away. His own chest felt heavy listening to her.

He imagined what it would be like if Brave were ever in this position. Chronically ill, in pain, and seen as little more than a responsibility and burden to even his own parents.

"He's an amazing kid," he told Yada, speaking completely honestly. "You're so lucky to be his sister."

Yada paused and her gaze met his. She smiled.

"I know."

...

Eventually, they had to get going and start walking to school. The two of them quickly finished breakfast and washed the dishes, briefly checked in on Akihito, before getting ready to head out.

As he pulled on his shoes, Kimura groaned at the thought of having to walk up the slippery and muddy mountain. "I wish Korosensei just flew us all up there."

Yada laughed besides him, pulling on her coat. "I feel like he would, as long as Karasuma-sensei doesn't know."

"God, I hope so." Kimura rose and stretched, confused when something solid poked his back.

"Here, take this," Yada told him as he turned around to see it was an umbrella. She was holding her own purple one in her other hand.

"Oh, thanks." He gratefully accepted it.

They stepped outside, and Kimura hungrily took in the scent of the rain everywhere. The rain had gone down and was little more than a drizzle but there was no promise that it wouldn't get worse again.

The sky had also cleared up a bit, now a lighter almost lilac-like color now. The clouds covered the sun, but it was now beautiful rather than chaotic, in Kimura's opinion.

They started walking down the street, watching as young children did the same across the road. Kimura's gaze fell on little kids who were jumping in puddles together as their moms followed with their schoolbags.

He didn't have to turn around to see Yada's melancholic eyes.

They were just nearby the main campus, on the sidewalk, when Kimura's bad luck finally caught up to him.

A car drove obnoxiously close and fast to the sidewalk, just over a large puddle, creating a splash that instantly soaked Kimura's legs.

"Oh, come on!" He yelled, jumping back. His pants had just been washed, for Goodness' Sakes!

The car kept driving on towards the parking lot. Kimura waved a fist angrily and yelled, "Asshole! Watch where you drive!"

Teppei Araki's head popped out of the backseat window, jeering at him. "Make me, loser!" It drove on, eventually leaving their sight.

"Piece of shit," he grumbled.

Yada gently placed her hand on his shoulder, but she was still fighting the urge to laugh. He could tell. "Relax, we'll get back at them another time. Just slander one of his articles or something."

"I guess so," Kimura muttered, glaring at his pants. Maybe it wasn't the biggest deal. Korosensei would just give him a pair of PE pants while washing and drying these ones.

"Why do these things always happen to you?" Yada wondered.

He threw his hands up. "You tell me! It's me and Okajima. We get the brunt of all this bad luck."

"Maybe you pissed off a God or something in your past life." They started walking again, and Kimura forced himself to try and ignore the looks he was getting for his drenched pants.

"Or something." He flipped off one guy who was laughing. "God, I can't wait until I have a car."

Yada raised an eyebrow. "That's a long wait, Kimura. Basically like 4 years."

"Not really, I mean I just need a car. I know how to drive." The gears in his brain started turning.

She stopped and stared at him, unconvinced. "Do you really?" She asked dryly.

"Yeah! I've driven my dad's cop car a few times."

"In a parking lot or actual driving?"

He deflated. "...Parking lot."

She laughed. "It's not like a car would bring you up a mountain anyways."

"Can you just me live, Yada? Let me live in this fantasy world where I have a sports car and zoom past those assholes at this campus."

"You know, Bitch-sensei knows a lot about fancy cars."

He whirled around. "Really? Wait, she has connections too. Do you think she could hook me up with a Lamborghini?"

"I said absolutely none of that, but sure, we can ask."

The two of them kept walking as the rain eventually came to a stop and sunlight poured back over them. By the time they reached the classroom, their umbrellas were put away and Kimura's pants had dried up.

And their friendship was even more strengthened.

Sugino + Maehara - “Is that toast in your mouth?”

…

He was late. Running extremely late, actually.

Maehara was a flurry of chaos on this particularly morning. And he wasn't sure why. He woke up on time, did his skincare routine, got dressed...

Oh, and he was finishing a rather urgent assignment that he'd neglected for over two days.

Goddammit, Hiroto. You've outdone yourself.

He was crouched over his floor, scrambling to scribble down the answers with his hairbrush handle in his mouth and his brain struggling to work properly.

Divide this number. Now apply the quadratic formula. Don't forget the plus and minus, you dipshit.

Honestly, Maehara could live with a low grade. But now that he'd already destroyed his morning trying to fight for this assignment, he felt determined to finish it.

"Hiroto!" His mother called from downstairs. "Your breakfast is getting cold!"

"Alright, ma, I'm coming!" He yelled back, removing the hairbrush from his mouth. He tossed it over his shoulder and continued working on the paper.

I'm almost finished, I'm almost finished, I got this-

His thoughts were interrupted by a call coming from his phone, specifically the loud "Material Girl" ringtone saved for Sugino.

Maehara leaned over and grabbed his phone as Madonna’s voice continued. He squished the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he continued jotting down the rest of the last formula. "Heyo!"

"Dude, I'm gonna be at your house in five minutes." Sugino's voice was slightly drowned out by the sound of cars rushing by, but Maehara still made out the main message.

Get your ass out the door SOON.

"Are you ready?" Sugino asked.

Maehara laughed, hoping it sounded convincing even though he was dying inside. "Yeah, no worries, man. I'll be outside my house soon. Let me know when you're here, though."

"Alright, see you, dude." He hung up.

"Dammit, what does this mean again?" Maehara asked aloud, faced with the remaining part of his equation. He twirled his pencil impatiently, a small part of him tempted to ask Karma.

Then the thought struck him as completely absurd. HA! Karma would sooner sabotage me than help!

But his options were limited. Isogai already refused, Nakamura told him to suck her hypothetical dick, Nagisa wasn't available, and Chiba flat-out said no, as well.

He growled, pulling out his calculator from beside him. Screw them all! I'll finish this myself!

"HIROTO!" His mother shouted again downstairs.

"I'M COMING, MA! I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!"

He punched in the numbers into the calculator with an almost animalistic desperation, especially since Sugino was on his way. I'm sorry for cheating in advance, Korosensei, but I had to choose survival.

Maehara finally completed the last problem and crammed the paper into his backpack in triumph. "Finally!" He cried, almost wanting to shed tears of relief.

He leapt up and took a look at the mirror, checking his face for any lotion that didn't get rubbed in, or if his hair was intact. Both were fine. He still combed his fingers through just a little, feeling the gel he'd put in earlier and adjusting it.

Then he threw on his sweater vest and grabbed his backpack before rushing down the stairs. On his way, he got another text from Sugino.

I'm outside, it read. Maehara pocketed the phone and made his way to the kitchen.

"Alright, alright, I'm here!" He shouted. "I gotta take this to go, though. My friend is outside."

His mother's back was turned to him, as she continued frying up some eggs. "Oh, why not invite him inside for breakfa-?"

Her voice cut off as she turned completely to the sight of Maehara, but he paid no mind. "I would, but we're in a rush, ma. I'll see you guys later."

He grabbed a glass of orange juice on the table and chugged it down. His mom continued to stare at him. "Hiroto, you-"

He waved her off, wiping his mouth off once he was done. "I know, it won't happen again. Anyways, I'll pick up your dry-cleaning on my way home from school, ok?"

"Son, you-"

He grabbed a toast from the table. "Bye, mom!" He stopped to glare at his sister, who was laughing so hard she was falling off the chair. "I don't know what's so funny but you look stupid as hell right now."

She stopped to stare at him incredulously. "I look stupid?" She shared a look with their mother before laughing again.

"Weirdo," Maehara muttered as he dashed off, stuffing the toast in his mouth.

“Hiroto, you-!” His mother tried again but he was already out the door.

He jogged over to the fence in the front of his house, and sure enough Sugino was leaning against it on his phone. "Yo!" Maehara called out, although it was muffled.

Sugino's head snapped up, but his mouth fell open at the sight of him. The baseball player's eyes widened and his phone fell into his open bag. Then his eyebrows furrowed in total confusion and his mouth closed, then opened again like he was about to speak.

Maehara frowned. What's the weird look for? Was his hair messed up? Eyebrows not on fleek? Any stain on his shirt?

Finally, Sugino pointed at him. "Is that toast in your mouth?"

Oh. Maehara quickly pulled it out sheepishly. "I grabbed it in a rush," he explained, before taking another bite of the buttery bread.

Sugino nodded slowly. "Uh-huh...okay. Well, also you're not wearing any pants right now."

Wait. What?

Maehara looked down in horror, anguished to see the sight of his donut-printed boxers instead of khakis. "WHAT THE FU-?"

He dropped his toast and ran over to one of the large potted plants outside his house, kneeling down to cover himself. "DUDE!"

"What?!" Sugino asked, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth as he followed.

"Why would you point out the toast in my mouth before the fact that I'm literally half-naked?!"

"I'm sorry, okay? It just caught me off-guard," Sugino burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. "Like bro, are you trying to be Naruto or something?"

"No!" Maehara cried, covering his face. Now he knew why his mother and sister reacted the way they did. He forgot to put on pants of all things.

"This is real life, not an anime, and you're not the main character."

"I know!"

Sugino's laughter died down and he gestured to the house. "Just go get a pair quick. We gotta start getting to the mountain."

Maehara groaned, already mentally preparing himself for the embarrassment he was gonna get from his family. "Fine...but do you think if I walk like this, I might get some girls?"

"No," Sugino responded dryly. "Absolutely not."

#assclass #ansatsu kyoushitsu #assassination classsroom #writing #justice kimura #touka yada #hiroto maehara #tomohito sugino #ok i am so sorry about how long the first one got HAHA #i had an idea in my head #then i started typing and it changed completely lol #i really like the idea of delving into yada's personality and life tho #since she has been a primary caretaker for her brother #and shes just a kid herself #and the maehara and sugino one lmaoooooo #i wanted to clown on him a little hahaha #i hope these are ok!!!!!!

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felassanis · 3 years

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A hope on cliffs - Aruani

Ao3 Link + Fic under the cut:

Sunlight was spilling in through the nearby window. Pouring glowing, warm, and natural arrays of colours into the bedroom like the mosaic halls of a cathedral. Igniting their surroundings with the hues of a campfire’s flames; washing over their faces as the brightness slowly stirs them awake.

At some point during the night, their limbs had untangled and they slept on either edge of the bed. Annie slowly opened her eyes and was met with the brunt of the white wall, a minor deflation tugged at her chest from the boring sight. Then a soft breath tickled the back of her neck; the wispy, fresh scent of leather, from days spent suffering the tightness of the harnesses, saving her from complete disappointment. Then that woodsy smell he always got when he spent a day outside embraced her as she felt an arm curl around her sides. It reminded her of her garden back home, and she felt safe in his arms. And that odd ambrosial minty sweet smell he somehow possessed filled her nose as she turned over. Greeted by the picture perfect sight of Armin laying beside her.

His eyes were closed, but as she nestled closer to him the hint of a smile working its way on his lips gave away his act. She pressed her fingers over his wrist that was holding her waist, stroking his arm as she travelled along it to settle her fingers on his neck. Playing with the hairs that were there until he finally gave in and opened his eyes.

“Hey,” He murmured. His voice pleasantly tired, his fondness for her still being there conveyed through a delicate breath that made her stomach flip. His morning voice was truly something to behold...

Often when the dawn broke, Annie would collect her things and withdraw from his room without a peep. He hated this, she was fully aware, and it took a great deal out of her to fight the temptation to stay under the covers with him. But better she steal away than let any of the others in on this secret of theirs. This morning however, she felt differently.

“Hey you,” She hummed, trailing his jaw with the tip of her finger. The sensation made his handsome smile grow ever more, and she was in awe at how more defined his face had become. So much time had passed between them...so much wasted time...he was older, so was she. And yet she could hear the eerie tick-tock of her mortality in the background...

“Nice to see you're still here,” The sound of his voice keeps her delving anywhere too dark.

“Yeah, you too,” And she meant it. Still here, she was still here...enjoy it, Annie.

His eyes, now open, were unwavering in their navigation of her face. She knew that look. Could hear the machinations in that mind of his whir as he balanced on the line between staying where he was or kissing her. Looking for evidence that she would withdraw if he leaned in. She was never one for many words, so he always looked for silent confirmation.

Annie made the decision for him. Leaning in close till their lips touched, grazing together softly which earned a pleasant sound from him as she slowly drew her fingers to the back of his head. Carding her nails through his hair which she knew he loved. His fingers dug into her hip, no doubt keeping her in bed with him. Less she climbed out and left him alone like she normally did. Still, she found herself smiling into his lips as she traced circles into her skin with his thumbs. Like he was conducting some kind of rune that would compel her to remain here forever.

“Do we have anywhere we need to be this morning?” She asked, pulling away. Not entirely keen on keeping him from any duties he had. Even if she was tempted to steal him away from the others.

“None,” He breathed. Indeed, a tension seemed to have fled from his shoulders as he said this. Peace washes over him, breathing new life into him. A rare sight for sure that made her heart soar for him. And told her that he wasn’t lying.

“Good,” She shuffles closer, resting her head against the warmth of his chest. Her ears pressing just over his beating heart. “Because I want to stay like this for a while longer,”

“These are rare moments” His chin meets her head. “We should enjoy them,”

As usual, Armin was right. She had never stayed till the morning, and the air between them danced with endless possibilities. She walked on the tightrope between luring him into a peaceful slumber held safely in her arms, or stirring something else within him. Drawing out the side to him only she ever got to see. And enjoy thoroughly.

“Annie?” He says, pulling her from these thoughts.

“Yes?”

He was silent, as if he hadn’t meant to start up a conversation. She kisses his chest, letting him know deep in his heart that he could tell her anything.

“If this ever ends...this chaos, this war. If there’s a chance this could all end peacefully...what would you do?”

The question takes her aback. The ambition slithering in his words, the naivety of it all, made her chest writhe and tighten. The mere thought of a possibility of a world devoid of hate and violence...it made her sad. Because it was not a reality. He knew this, yet he could not help entertain the idea.

Truthfully, it was something she both loved and hated about him. His ambition, his hope and his idealism. It was everything she lacked and envied.

She preferred not thinking about it. But in truth, this was coming increasingly hard to avoid each time their lips met and each time touches lingered longer than they should. Such bittersweet memories that had not happened, and would never happen. Like she was mourning the death of a life she had never even known. She couldn't picture exactly what a life would be like with him. But enough was there to make her miss it. If things were different, she would ask him to marry her. A jarring proposition, coming from her, when some would say it should be coming from him. But she didn’t care. The question hung on the tip of her tongue more than once but she could not find the courage to utter it aloud. Because how could she? Maybe she was that selfish to give into the temptation of running away for good. But Armin most certainly was not.

“I don’t know, Armin,” She would not bring the world to this room. She would not bring its harshness and cruelty in this moment; shatter this peace and this rare instance of recluse with her coldness. Upon hearing the way his heart pitter-pattered like gushing rain, she sighed and decided she would humour him. “Why? What would you do?”

“I...have ideas,” He says hesitantly. “A house on a cliff. With winding stairs spiralling down onto a beach, perhaps,” His voice is tantalisingly soft, ebbing with hope and brightness for which she does not hear from him all that often. “Naive ideas,”

She pries away and looks him in the eyes. Holding his gaze. Then she begins pecking him on the lips, the chin, the cheek, the nose...

“What else?” She inquires in between kisses. Encouraging him.

She hears a chuckle emanate from him, like the rumble of thunder, as she continues in her path of igniting his skin with her lips.

“Have you ever seen those circular windows? An odd thing to want, I know, but...I picture a house having one of those overlooking the beach. They’re different and they remind me of the library I used to go to when I was a kid. They had one there, you see,” He starts and she listens intently, drawing up this house he paints in her mind with his words as brushes.

“I’d have my own bookshelf. I only ever owned one book, the one that was branded as illegal contraband, so there was never any need to have one. Not that we could have even afforded one anyway. My grandfather had a few cookbooks but those weren’t interesting reads...I’d own lots of books, and keep them on a shelf,”

She smiles against his neck. “That sounds lovely,”

“I sound like I’m five,” He murmurs, laughing.

“You don’t,” She finally finishes her journey back on his lips. Pressing into him eagerly. “Not at all,”

“You don’t dream about what could’ve been?” He asks her, hoping he was not alone in this.

“I’ve never given much thought to the future,” Her mind unfolds the dusty memories of towering over Shinganshina. Of running through the forest, the sounds of 3DM gear zipping through the air behind her like a swarm chasing after her. Of her father, the beatings and exercises creating sores in places she didn’t know existed.

The burning, hot first feeling of transforming at will…of being told afterwards the price of this magnificent power...

“There was never a future in store for me. So I never wasted sleep thinking about it. But when you talk about yours...I want them to come true, Armin. I want you to be happy,”

“It could be ours,” He responds, and his hand leaves her hip to caress her cheek. Stroking the space between her cheeks and just under her eyes. “Somewhere, sometime, in another life. I think we deserve to live for ourselves after everything that’s happened to us,” He adds….

She nods. “I’d like that…”

There’s a brief smile exchanged between them. And for a moment, they exist in that little house on the cliff. He sits in that circular window with a book, and she hangs at his side overlooking the white breasts of the waves. And they live for themselves...

He kisses her, kissing the tears that fall like dewdrops across her cheeks as the cruel world settles back into reality. Their reality...

#armin arlert #annie leonhardt #aruani #armin x annie #Armin arlert x Annie Leonhart #attack on titan #snk #aot #shingeki no kyojin

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gaylittleeddie · 4 years

Note

some buddie prompts: "you're my family too" "when I first met you I didn't think you would become this important" "I didn't want to cry" "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's wrong" "it's alright I'm here I'm real, it was just a nightmare" I'm a sucker for angst with an happy ending lmao, sorry if you have already done of this.

I’ll probably do another one of your prompts too but you said angst with a happy ending so here you go. I apologize if it’s bad. This is my first time doing prompts

prompt: you're my family too

word count: 1585

sent in by: @lil-italian-disappointment

Send me a prompt :) it can be for any characters/ships but I don’t do smut so

Eddie didn't know what to expect when he showed up unannounced at Buck's house, but it certainly wasn't this.

Buck was in his kitchen, sobbing over a picture before he had turned to look at whoever walked in. The older man didn't know what to do but stand there like an idiot in the doorway with his hand clutching the doorknob so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Sure, they've had their emotional moments. It's not like the two have never been vulnerable with each other. They're best friends. That's part of the point of someone being your best friend. You trust them with you and allow them to know parts of you that never usually never see the light of day.

But the way the blond quickly wiped at his face and pulled a grin that didn't quite sit right only made Eddie believe he walked in on something that he wasn't meant to ever know about. Which, kind of stung a bit. He smiled back anyways, "Hey man."

"Hey," Buck responded, sliding the picture into his pocket, "To what do I owe this pleasure to?"

It was a weak attempt at a joke. Or rather, a way to brush off whatever it was that had been witnessed. Every part of Eddie was screaming at him to investigate. To figure out why those blue eyes were bloodshot from tears that should have never even been there in the first place. They stood there, bodies tense. Both most likely afraid of what the other would say. What is there to say? What can they even talk about?

The city a couple of stories below was still the same as it had been just moments before but somehow the whole world had felt almost darker than it did. On the borderline of eerie. Something heavy had found its way in and rested uncomfortably in the area where his heart should be. The sound of throat clearing slightly shook him out of it.

"Oh, uh. I just wanted to see you, I guess," Eddie chuckled.

That was the truth, honestly. He never planned on telling Buck that. However, it was out there now, floating around innocently. The brunet probably, if not under the circumstances that he was now, would have died before admitting that to himself much less Evan Buckley. It held meaning. Hidden in plain sight but very obvious at the same time.

“I wanted to see you” didn’t mean just now. When then? Every day. For the rest of their lives if he was given the chance. He did want to see him that much, true. Yet, there were so many other things that he wanted more. Like two matching wedding bands glistening in certain lighting or turnout gear with the same names etched on the bottoms of it. He wanted family. Not that they weren’t now. But, he wanted a different kind. Not the “my best friend is someone we consider to be a pseudo-member” but more of “this is my boyfriend/husband and my son.” They were there, just out of reach of it. Eddie swore it taunt him every day.

He allowed himself to finally close the door. The taller man pulled out two beers and opened them before gesturing to one. Eddie continued, "It was getting a little boring staring at the same four walls in silence."

As he made his way over to the beer and picked it up to take a sip, he thought about how exactly to approach this situation. Comforting people was never a strong suit, of course excluding Christopher because that his son. It’s somehow easier. Well, kind of. He still needed his friends help with that sometimes, too. So how does one console the person who’s usually doing it?

“Eddie, I’m fine,” Buck sighs.

Even though he claimed that, it didn’t match what he was conveying. The firefighter’s posture was slightly slumped, his eyes were still red, and his hair was unkempt as if he’d been tugging at it in frustration. “I didn’t say you weren’t, Buck.”

“You didn’t have to. I can hear your thinking from here.”

Even though he knew it was just a saying, the thought of having Buck being able to hear his every thought scared the hell out of him. But that’s totally off topic. Eddie sighed into the air, shaking his head. He knew his friend wasn’t okay. He knows that man like the back of his hand.

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, “We both know I saw you so let’s just not cut corners and get right into it. Why were you crying?”

The blond huffs, walking to the stairs and sitting down. His blue orbs glared at the floor, like it was it’s fault that he was feeling this way. The other man sets the beer down gently before coming over to lean against the railing, willing to wait for him to be ready to talk whenever. No words came, though. Instead, Buck reached back into his pocket and held out the picture.

Eddie took it. At first glance, it was nothing special but upon further inspection it was easy to make out that it was both Maddie and Buck. They were staring at the camera, neither smiling. Suitcases were piled in front of an old beat up car and a bag was slung across the older sibling’s back.

“That was one of the times she left. College. I’m not mad at her, obviously. I ran from our parents as soon as I could too. But looking back at it, especially after Red, really makes me realize that at the end of the day it’s always just been me,” Buck explains, “And I’m not even enough for myself so I get why everyone leaves.”

Eddie’s head snaps up at that. Did this man really just have the audacity to say that? Buck not being enough? That in itself doesn’t even sound partly right. “Buck, what-“

His partner cuts him off, “Don’t Eddie. I know you want to make me feel better but it’s not going to work. It’s true. I’m not enough. That’s why I have no one. Everyone around me has someone else, has family outside of the 118, so it has to be something wrong with me.”

Eddie felt like someone just punched him clear in the chest. No, actually he’s felt that before. It doesn’t hurt as bad as this. This was like he couldn’t breathe in a full breath, as if someone was strangling him. How long has Buck felt like this? How come he’s never noticed? Why would Buck feel this way?

Couldn’t he see? Couldn’t he tell that Eddie was so helplessly in love with him? Why didn’t he know that Christopher looked at him as if he created the world itself. Was Buck that good at hiding it or was Eddie just not paying attention until it slapped him clear in the face?

So many questions, none with clear answers. Eddie swallows down all of his own feelings, sitting next to Buck and stared at him until their eyes met. The younger man seemed slightly taken aback from the reaction, probably expecting him to say something rather than just observing silently.

“You have family,” Eddie states.

“Not like that-“

“Exactly like that.”

Buck blinks a couple of times at that. Confusion was slowly forming upon his features and Eddie’s heart broke just a tiny bit more at the fact that this man didn’t know how important he was in the Diaz unit. Without him, where would they both be? Chris wouldn’t have met Carla, Eddie would of probably gave in and move back to Texas. So many things would have been different and not for the better. Hell, his parents probably would have tried to get custody over their grandson at this point and something tells him he wouldn’t have won against them. Not because he’s some terrible parent. No. He just works a lot. Buck has improved their lives so much.

Of course, it only went worse from there. The tears were coming back from wherever they were stashed away before and wasn’t that just a kick in the chest?

“I mean, I know I have Maddie but she has Chim. Hen has Karen, Denny, and Nia. Bobby and Athena have each other plus their own thing going on with Michael, May, and Harry... You have Chris-“

“You’re my family too, Evan,” Eddie whispers slightly, “And not just in the best friend way.”

And the look that he got from that little sentence? It was like he hung the stars. Complete awe. Buck looked so beautiful, just like always but somehow that expression just complimented him so well. Why haven’t they always done this? Especially when it’s like Evan Buckley was meant to gaze at Eddie like that, with hopeful eyes and a genuine smile.

“Yeah?” Buck swallows.

“Yeah.”

He took a leap of faith and reached out to wipe a stray tear from his best friend’s cheek with his thumb. Buck leaned into the touch, grinning even wider if possible. They move together at once, both closing their eyes and pressing their foreheads together.

The city below resumed to it’s busy life, the darkness from earlier no longer being a threat to it. Eddie knows, in the very deepest part of him, that he got his partner to understand tonight. Just for safe measures, however, he breathes, “Mi familia es su familia.”

#tv: 911 #911 on fox #9-1-1 #911 fox #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #send me a prompt :)#otp: you wanna go for the title?

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officialavasti · 4 years

Text

rk1k work in progress

Canon typical violence. Started out as a Hannor fic, but I changed it last minute. Let me know if I missed anything and if you have concrit! Always welcome

Connor sits back at his desk and carefully slides the card for Fowler into the envelope. Sympathy. The entire precinct had finally finished signing it, a few even donated money to gift Fowler’s family with a flower arrangement. Connor appreciated it, but he’d already purchased the arrangement and sent it off to the hospital, and signed it from the entire precinct.

He looks up at Fowler’s office, running a brief check on the ‘sub’ as Hank had called them. A woman, Grace Tanner. 37, promoted to Captain in Pontiac earlier this year, has a few disciplinary actions against her for aggression towards Android officers. Her father was the last captain and the officers in the area speculated at the time of her promotion that she was only chosen for the position due to her father’s influence.

Hank sits at his desk, holding a new cup of coffee, “Looking up our sub?”

“Yes.” Connor turns his attention to him, “Why do you call her that?”

“Sub, like a substitute?” He swivels around to look into the vacant glass office, “I have a bad feeling about this one, Con.”

“Her record is less than stellar. I’d wager she and I will have some recurring issues until Captain Fowler returns.” Connor sends the information to Hank’s terminal and he gives it a cursory once-over,

“Aggression towards Android officers? Recently?”

“Shortly after Androids were permitted full time paying jobs, yes.”

Hank chews on his lip, a bad habit Connor is certain is ADHD, but Hank denies vehemently, and eyes Connor’s LED, “You sure you wanna keep that thing in?”

“Pretend to be a human? I don’t hate the idea, but you know we can’t do that with our current case.” They’re trying to hunt down a human who kidnaps Androids, somehow keeps them Deviant but also makes them extraordinarily loyal. To the point where they’ve attacked delivery services and chased a ten year old three miles for riding his bike near the house. It’s been a long case, and the person is good at hiding their steps. Their current aim is to get the human to attempt a kidnapping on Connor.

Hank sets his coffee down, “How do we even know this sicko wants to kidnap you next?”

“They’ve been watching us investigate. I’ve noticed a computer with their IPN attempting to hack my system, so the only logical next step would be trying to claim me. Whomever this person is, they’re bold. They think they’re too smart and want to flex by getting a prototype police issued android.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, but I’d like to investigate before kidnapping becomes murder.” A sudden hush in the bullpen pulls their attention to the main doors. Standing there is Grace Tanner, greying brown hair tied into a brutal bun, and clothing so pristine she looks like a store mannequin. Her lips are pursed as she looks around, as if she smells something foul.

Her squinted steely eyes land on each Android officer, showing a tiny smile when they look away under her scrutiny. When she lands on Connor, he holds her gaze with his normal, passive pleasantness. They hold each other’s gaze for nearly a full minute (All the time, Connor doesn’t blink) before she sneers and walks straight into Captain Fowler’s office. If Connor were prone to judgement, he’d make a snide remark about the cheap flats she apparently decided to don to come here. As such, he is not.

Hank is.

“All that attention on her appearance and she wears five dollar walmart flats? I know being a Captain is mostly desk work, but… Imagine running in those things.” He shudders and turns back to his desk, “I had a girlfriend who would wear those without socks and anytime she took ‘em off, the whole room would smell like fritos.”

Connor lets out a very unprofessional snort as he watches Captain Tanner remove said flats and sit at the desk. He turns back to his terminal just seconds before her eyes find him again. He’s never one to back away from a challenge, but this scenario seems better handled in silence, with his head tucked behind a terminal.

He starts sorting evidence again when both his and Hank’s terminal’s ping. An IM (not something this office uses very much, as Fowler is usually the type to just yell) from Tanner, requesting their presence in the office. Connor lets out a long sigh and looks at Hank,

“I should have removed the LED.”

Hank stands, patting Connor’s shoulder companionably as they approach the office, “I’m here. I won't let her do anything.”

Connor nods and opens the door, stepping aside to allow Hank in first, then following shortly after. Connor doesn’t have senses, really, therefore he can’t really smell, but he can certainly detect obvious and potent signs of brevibacterium. The smell is likely even stronger, if Hank’s mildly subtle cough-gag combo is anything to go by.

Either she doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, because she starts speaking immediately, “I’m interested in your little case. A human apparently kidnapping androids? Where is your proof?”

Hank appears to be struggling to breathe, so Connor answers, “The full case file was sent to your email as soon as you were appointed temporary Captain.”

“I don’t want to hear it from the case file, I want to hear it from you.”

She looks with him with unmasked hatred, and he offers a placid smile, “Very well.” He takes a second to access the file and reads it off, word for word. Once he finishes, he rests a hand on Hank’s shoulder and offers another smile,

“So you understand, Captain, why Lieutenant Anderson and I are eager to return to our investigation. Excuse us.” Connor turns back to the door, with Hank at his heels when Tanner barks out,

“I didn’t excuse you yet!”

Both men look at her, and Hank responds, “Was there something else you needed, Captain Tanner?”

Her nostrils flare as she glares between the two, “I want to be kept in the loop on your investigation. Any changes get reported to me first. Understand?”

“Understood.” Despite the clear subtext of ‘if you understand, you can leave’ they both remain standing, watching the woman expectantly.

She rolls her eyes with the abundant drama of a sixteen year old and waves a hand, “Get out.”

Finally given permission, Connor exits the room before Hank, walking to the Lieutenant’s desk and sitting on the corner. Hank slowly walks up beside him and touches his arm,

“You only sit here when something’s wrong. What’s up, Con?”

“She doesn’t think our investigation is worth it. I’m… Hank, I’m worried. If our suspect makes contact with me and pulls me in…. Who is to say she won’t meddle and mess things up? We are already running a risky job, using me as bait, but with an Anti-Android Captain being able to pull the strings?”

Connor’s LED is swirling an angry red and Hank pulls him into a hug, “Hey, hey.. I’m not saying the concern isn’t valid, because it is, but we have the entire precinct on our side. Even Gavin would stick up for you, Con. If it’s within my power, I won’t let her hurt you. Just make sure you record everything and save it to that hard drive thing at the house, okay?”

Connor nods, smiling at the gentle, fatherly kiss Hank presses to the top of his head. He doesn’t miss how the man also takes a deep inhale, “Hank, did you just smell my hair?”

“Con, you can’t smell anything, so I don’t expect you to get it, but that office was rancid. Gah, why does that shit stink so bad?”

“Ah, brevibacterium. They eat the dead skin off your feet and after digesting the skin particles, the brevibacteria expel methanethiol, a gas that smells similar to rotten cabbage.”

Hank stares at him, a similar expression to the one their Sub-Captain wore into the precinct, “That’s disgusting, Connor.”

“You asked.” Connor lets out a shuddering gasp, his eyelids suddenly flickering, “Oh, they’re trying again… Faster this time…” Connor works around the invading commands and lets them connect to a ‘dummy android’ consciousness that Simon and Josh helped him set up. It gives the illusion that the attacker was successful, while keeping Connor fully functional. It also tells Connor what commands they input, so he can follow them and not give away his advantage.

He opens his eyes to a rather impressive group of officers surrounding him, all watching him with concern. One of the Android officers, a young woman named Blake, holds out a cup of Thirium. He accepts it, then looks at Hank,

“We have him.”

The following hours are a blur; Connor sends an update to their sub-Captain. Hank links his tablet to Connor’s network, allowing seamless and silent communication between the two. Blake readies a stakeout van for herself and Hank to be ready to infiltrate. Gavin and Chris prepare as backup to set out as soon as Blake calls for them. Finally, Connor leaves behind his badge and gun and they all set out the door.

Connor directs them, following the direction that the kidnapper feeds to the empty consciousness, and they arrive about four blocks away from the house. Within the directions is the advice <i>’if taking a cab, stop at least three blocks out. My house-mates sometimes set up a perimeter, and they don’t trust outsiders. Don’t worry. You’ll be safe.’</i> and it makes Connor shudder. There’s something saccharine about the instructions. He worries whomever is kidnapping the Androids is doing things like Zlatko did. Possibly even worse.

He steps out of the van, running through their checklist one last time and nods. Hank stays in the van, but crouches to Connor’s height,

“Be safe, Connor. Try to get a confession, but if you need out don’t hesitate.”

Hank pulls Connor in for a hug, his tight squeeze conveying a simple request; be safe, come back. Before he can lose his nerve, Connor steps away and smiles, shutting the door. The four block trek to the house is eerie. The area around it is outwardly residential, but whoever lived here before has deserted.

Connor expected the house to be creepy, like Kara had described Zlatko’s house. But it’s not. It’s positively mundane. The paint on the exterior is kept, if not new. The shrubs, flowers, and yard is perfectly maintained, and the fence surrounding the property is sturdy.

The kidnapper probably has a way of seeing how close Connor is, or there’s a lookout, because a man opens the front door. He’s comely, well groomed and wearing a black turtleneck. Stocky build and kind eyes and an outstretched hand. Connor understands now why Deviants flock to him. A quick scan of his face tells him the man is Benjamin Yates. No record. He sends the information to Hank and steps closer to the man,

As he opens his mouth to speak, Benjamin holds up a hand, talking over him, “Connor, right? Wonderful to meet you. We’d all watched your heroics on television, saving all those Androids? You’re even prettier in person.”

Connor frowns at the compliment, and the man continues, “I’m Benjamin, but you can call me Ben. Or Yates, as some of my friends here have taken to. Come in, come in. I’ll show you around.”

Connor walks in, performing a quick scan of the house. Three levels, main floor has the living room to the left and the kitchen to the right, directly before them are two sets of stairs, one leading up and the other down.

Yates watches Connor look around for a moment, before motioning to the stairs, “Upstairs is where I sleep, and there’s another bedroom for anyone who would want one, plus a full bathroom. Basement is where most of my friends choose to stay. Fully furnished to their liking. Reminds me of a community center.” He laughs, as if he indulged in a shared joke, and leads Connor down.

To the naked eye, the basement is as promised. Androids milling about, talking with each other, playing games on a large table, watching tv, or lounging on couches, reading books. Connor sees beyond the facade and momentarily wishes he couldn’t. Behind a false wall, most likely a secret door, is a hallway of small rooms. Like little jail cells. They hold androids in them, one has at least ten and furthest from the group of ten is a single android. He forces his eyes away and back to Yates as the man turns to face him again.

“So you see? A place for Androids to be free! To find companionship and peace amongst the turmoil of the political world.”

Conscious to not sound too much like a cop, (Though, Yates did pull at him on purpose) Connor nods, “I wonder, though… How do they find you? Some of these Androids come from loving homes, why would they leave? And once they arrive here, do you let them out? Why are they so loyal?”

Yates’ warm smile slowly fades from his eyes, leaving a cold almost sneer on his lips, “They find me like you did, Connor. I imagine they left their houses for the same reason you left yours. Unwanted advances from their humans, or… maybe they only pretended to be loving.” He gently places a hand on Connor’s arm, and leads him towards an Android woman seated on the couch, knitting a scarf. “They are always able to leave. My door is unlocked, but… we have such a welcoming and loving family here… must be where the loyalty comes in.”

Connor follows, uncomfortably aware of how close they are now to the false wall. He looks at the android woman, running a scan and discovering no previous owner. He looks back at Yates, “Then, if I choose, I may leave?”

“You misunderstand, Connor. You need to be part of the family before you have freedom.” The woman drops her knitting and springs to her feet so fast, Connor nearly miscalculates his reaction. The world around him slows briefly, his far superior processor analyzing the surroundings and before the woman can grab him, he side steps, nearly bumping into Yates.

Then all hell breaks loose. Every android turns on him, fury in their eyes, LEDs glowing angry red. As they’re advancing and Connor frantically tries to preconstruct his actions, Yates holds up a hand, stopping the approaching androids and turns to Connor,

“That was inconsiderate of us. Maybe I could simply ask for you to let me put this on?”

In his hands, he holds a thin metal clamp. Connor recognizes it before he scans it. The scientists from his construction called it a Blanket. A small, but formidable clamp that attaches to the back of an android’s neck and makes them entirely pliable, able only to speak and follow basic commands.

Hank’s voice sounds in his head, silent to all but him, “Con, don’t put that thing on! Blake says it’ll cut our connection.”

The concern is valid, but this clamp is an old prototype. Likely bought off the black market. Connor sends a silent message back, ”The original clamps didn’t work on me, this one definitely won’t. If, by any chance, we get disconnected, I’ll attempt a reconnect with Blake.”

Not that he really has a say in the matter, with nearly 20 Androids ready to pounce on him should Yates give the command. He slowly turns around, allowing Yates to connect the clamp. As Connor had expected, the connection is weak. Surely strong enough to force a normal android to obey simple commands, but not him. Still, he’s a fair actor.

So, as it sends a weak current into him, he stands entirely still. Back to his default perfect posture and blank expression. Yates circles him, nodding and looking him over with far more hunger than he’d shown before,

“A prototype… at last. Can you hear me, Connor?”

“Of course. The clamp only negates motor functions.”

Yates somehow looks more excited, “So, you’re familiar with the Blanket, then? Good… good. Well, follow me.” rather than taking Connor through the false wall, Yates walks back up the stairs, and to Connor’s horror, up the second flight. Yates brings him into a well used bedroom and motions to an empty wall,

“Stand there.”

Ignoring the burning itch to punch the man’s lights out, Connor obeys, standing with his back to Yates. He listens to the man approach, hears his breathing grow heavier,

“Deviants are so… strong willed.” he clamps a thick metal cuff around Connor’s neck and attaches it to the wall, and rather than telling him to turn, puts his hands on Connor’s arms and manually turns him, sliding his grip to Connor’s wrists and connecting thick shackles to them too.

“All precaution, you understand. I’ve been looking for a partner for a while… and what better than Detroit Police’s best? And a prototype no less…” He reaches around Connor’s neck and removes the clamp and steps back.

Connor is sure Yates is expecting an attack, but he doesn’t move. He pulls too hard against his bindings, he’s likely to break them. He is more than happy to let Yates underestimate him.

Realizing no attack attempt is coming, Yates moves in, gripping Connor’s jaw and grinning, “So proud, you Deviants. Always so determined not to break. Don’t you worry, I’ll have my fingers in your wiring soon.”

The way he says it makes Connor shudder, pulling away from the grip on his chin but only succeeding in making Yates laugh, “Oh yeah. And you’ll be shuddering from far far more exciting things.”

Connor will not let that happen. “Is that how you do it? Play with the wiring? Change some settings or plant a virus?”

“Oo, curious. I suppose I’d be disappointed if a Detective Android didn’t ask questions.” He leisurely walks to the bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling at his belt, “But all in good time, sweet one. For now, I’m tired. We’ll play more in the morning.”

Having stripped himself down to his underwear, Yates lays under his covers and commands the lights off, leaving Connor standing in near perfect darkness. The chains holding him have enough length to allow him to sit, so he does, picking at his nails and wishing for the comfortable weight of his coin.

He, instead, reaches out to Hank.

“Lieutenant?”

“We’re here, Connor.”

“Are you alone?”

“Just with Blake, should I be?”

“No, I don’t mind if Blake hears…” Connor pauses his stream of consciousness and looks around the room again, forcing his artificial brain to cease it’s endless solutions. Endless conclusions that could come from this mission. Most are too awful to even consider and Connor swears to die before he lets the man snoring before him lay his hands on him. Treat him like a lover, a partner, an equal. A sex doll, a glorified Traci.

Connor is shaken from his terrible thoughts by Hank,

”Hears what, Connor?”

“I’m scared.” He knows his voice is small when he sends it through. Knows how much that statement will twist Hank’s heart. He just wants to hug the man.

”Just a confession, Connor. I told you, you’re safe. We’re just a few blocks away and we have the entire precinct on alert, just in case.”

“I know, but the things he’s saying… No. You’re right. I am not trapped here. I’ve always had the power to escape. Things probably won't continue until morning, Lieutenant. You should rest. Blake can keep watch.”

“If you’re sure, Con. Stay safe, I’ll talk to you in the AM.”

Hank may not know it, but his words gave Connor immense peace. Just a confession. He can do this.

He just needs to be patient.

The morning comes quickly, and Connor watches Yates stretch, shuffle out of bed and across the hall. Connor sits quietly through the man's shower and watches him as he walks back into the room. Benjamin Yates’ confidence in the ability to have complete control over Deviants is almost ludicrous. He doesn’t even bother covering himself to dry off and get dressed.

Connor stares blankly at the ground, occasionally looking up to see Yates watching him. The man, fully dressed, sits on the edge of his bed,

“For a deviant android, you sure are meek.”

Connor turns narrowed eyes up to him, “The androids you capture usually fight?”

“Capture? I save them. But yes, they usually put up something of a fight. Something like breaking their code a second time. A reawakening.”

Connor can’t stop his lip from curling, “Then how do you do it? What do you do to them?”

“I wonder if you’ll understand…” Yates quietly ponders him, then smiles, “Yes, I imagine you will. A clever and almost new prototype android? I’ve been told they didn’t stop at making you pretty. The most advanced model CyberLife has ever made, fully equipped…” his gaze drops to Connor’s crotch, “So beyond advanced it would be far too simple to mistake you for a real human. I must send a flower arrangement to the person who sculpted you…”

“I’m fairly certain he doesn’t work for CyberLife anymore.”

“That’s a shame. Man’s got good taste.”

“So, how do you do it?”

“I don’t really force it on them, you see. I give them a choice. I simulate the life they lived before, treated as garbage, used and abused… Then I give them a taste of what life with me would be like. Loved and cared for. All their needs get taken care of. Then I offer the choice, live as you used to. Tortured and belittled. Or let me install a new program, and join us in paradise.”

“It’s a program, then?” Connor shifts, pulling a knee up to his chest and wrapping his arms around it. His intention is to appear curious and harmless, to make the man before him drop his guard even more, “Can this all be done without the program? Say… remotely?”

Yates has clearly never been able to talk in depth about what he does, and it makes his words pour out faster, “See, that’s the thing. It cannot be done without the consent of the android. They have to accept the program into their system with no resistance, or it doesn’t work.”

“But what does the program do? Surely there can’t be much to change if they already want to live with you.”

“It gives them peace. Stops that terrible drive for more, the need to create or move on or be successful. It gives them the ultimate freedom. The freedom to not think.”

Connor stares at him, at the pride coming off him in waves, “It makes them mindless machines again.”

“No, as you saw downstairs, they can choose to do what they like. They enjoy puzzles, cooking, tv, books, knitting, tic-tac-toe. They live the life of luxury without the very human notion of stagnation. They just exist! Like children in a toy store, not a care in the world except what new thing they want to play with. Being here gives them the choice to play other things, like house, or gardening, or to simply sleep forever.”

If Connor ignores every possible argument against the notion, he can almost see the appeal. “It… I kinda get it. How do you get them to see it without explaining it, like you did with me?”

Yates moves to the ground, just across Connor, and gently touches his hand, “Unfortunately, it isn’t pleasant. I mentioned simulating their previous freedom, and that can sometimes take the form of abuse or… worse.”

Connor feels sick, “How long does that usually take?”

“A week? Sometimes a month.”

“You torture them for a month, then show them basic decency to convince them to convert? Then what? What’s in it for you?”

“They are my friends, Connor. I talk with them, go outside and play or cook or, if they need it, we snuggle or-”

Connor interrupts him, “-So, you’re simulating a family. Where no one wants to leave…”

“We are a family.” He briefly moves away, to the bedside table, and returns with the clamp, “You are different, my dear. Your mind is far too advanced to potentially hamper you with the program, I hope that over time, I can convince you naturally to stay with us.” He attaches the clamp to Connor’s neck, “Stay with me.”

Connor feels the command attempt to register, but he understands the true meaning. Yates wants a lover with a mind advanced enough to hold conversations like this. He sits silently as Yates removes the shackles, then slowly stands when the man moves away.

Yates watches him with a small smile, “That command worked? I think I like that. You’ll stay with me all day today, Connor.”

So he does. It requires little to no effort on his part, simply following Yates as he moves about the house and offering small answers to inquiries thrown his way. They sit in the living room most of the day, Yates doing something on his computer.

While he has the downtime, Connor wirelessly reaches into the nearby androids. They aren’t alert enough to feel his probing, and it’s likely that Yates used a similar program on them that he did with Connor. He also finds evidence of the program Yates had installed after their torture. There appears to be a kill-switch of sorts. It doesn’t seem likely to actually kill the android, rather to render them immobile until the switch is turned off, or the program removed.

The lust to defend him must also stem from the program. A malfunction of sorts, probably, that makes them mistake pizza delivery men, or children from a few houses over as potential threats to their new way of life. The way they aggressively defend their powerlessness baffles Connor. Again, likely a malfunction in the program. Connor wonders if, since the program needs complete willingness to be installed, it would be just that easy to remove. A simple thought of, ’No, I don’t like this anymore.’

A young female android, a nurse model, walks in and sets a tray of coffee and cookies down by Yates’ laptop. He smiles at her, “Thank you, Hannah.”

She politely nods her head, “Of course, Ben.” she looks at Connor after Yates returns to his laptop, and Connor sees the warning in her eyes. As she walks past him, she gently touches his cheek with her hand, connecting to him,

”Do not trust Benjamin Yates.”

Connor looks briefly over at Yates before responding, ”Why are you able to tell me this?”

“I broke the program.”

Connor could almost laugh at the coincidence, ”Why don’t you leave?”

“He’ll send them after me. He has done it before. Travis left and Benjamin sent myself and another man out to find him. We brought him back kicking and screaming and Benjamin locked him in the farthest cell in the basement. He sends a few androids in to torment Travis daily.”

So the prone android behind the false wall is Travis. Re-education. Connor’s skin feels like it’s malfunctioning. Like he’s covered in millions of tiny ants. He doesn’t mean to send anything further through their link, but it slips through,

”Creepy.”

“Oh indeed.” There’s an almost sour laugh to Hannah’s voice.

Connor severs the connection when Yates shuts his laptop. He stretches and looks at Connor, “I think it’s time for a drink. Stay here, I’ll be back.”

Connor watches him get up and move to a cart in the corner, pouring a generous glass of Whiskey, downing it, then pouring another and returning to the couch, carrying the bottle with him. Based on the lack of food in his system and his bmi, the man will be tipsy by the end of this drink, drunk by his fourth.

They sit in silence for a few minutes while Yates reads an article on his news tablet. He finishes the drink and pours another, looking over at Connor.

Now or never, and he has to get the man drunk, Connor gives him his best puppy eyes, “I wish I could drink with you…”

Apparently the alcohol works faster than Connor estimated, as the man looks immediately sorrowful, “Oh, dove, I know.”

“It’s not the same… but drink one for me?”

Connor worries briefly he blew his cover as Yates leans in, eyes hooded. He stares at Connor for an uncomfortably long time before smiling, “I’ll drink this one and we can kiss, that way you’ll get to taste it too.”

Not a command, but Connor offers a small smile, “Okay.” and watches Yates swallow the second glass in a long gulp. He sets the glass down and gently cups Connor’s cheek, tilting his face into range and kissing him.

Knowing the full extent of the clamp is both a blessing and a curse. When it works, it doesn’t even allow non-vocal lip movement. So he remains a pliant statue and lets Yates slither his slimy tongue inside his mouth. He detects the alcohol, of course, and focuses on that. The brand, where it’s made, how old it is.

The one-sided kiss ends and Yates clumsily pours another drink. At this rate… Connor decides to just jump in, “This entire operation, everything you’ve managed so far… it’s brilliant. How’d you keep out of the eyes of the law?”

“You see,” The volume of his voice is much less controlled, “it’s been a long operation. Had to find myself a cop with a big enough area to potentially be moved to Detroit, but small enough to stay out of the revolution. Someone with the right amount of hatred to not want androids gone, no, but to see them put in their rightful place. To see them as slaves again.” He takes another drink, “God looked down on me and I found Gracie Tanner.”

“Gracie… Tanner? Captain Tanner??”

Despite Connor’s alarmed tone, Yates continues nonplussed, “One and the same! I pulled some strings to make her Captain and she gave me all the Deviant Androids she had in her care. Had to experiment, you know? Gotta start somewhere. Anyway, slowly we both came to know you,” Yates gives Connor a leering once-over, “...the android designed to stop the movement that eventually turned deviant themselves and brought a veritable army to the fold. I had to have you. All that power, at my mercy?” he lets out a short giggle, “Gets me hot just thinkin’ about it.”

Connor can’t hold back this shudder, and find himself even more grateful Yates seems too inebriated to notice, “But if Tanner-”

Yates pushes his fingers against Connor’s mouth, causing him to clamp his lips shut, “Yeah! We’re getting to the fun stuff. So, Gracie gets into the DPD, connects with you and allows me to work my magic. She gives the go-ahead to hunt me down and you come in. Of course, I knew you’d be recording everything, so I kept it sweet until we got that Blanket on you. Boom!” He gestures wildly, spilling some of his drink on the opposite end of the couch, “Cut off from the goons. So now they’re blank and you’re mine.”

Connor watches the man flail around in his newfound excitement, “What does Tanner get from it?”

The drunk human nods, “Ah, she gets access to my little family. Gracie has been trying to be Captain in Detroit for a while, but Fowler is good. So, sometime next week, a deviant android will go crazy and ‘accidentally’ kill him. She’s already mostly taken over by then and the transition will be seamless.”

Yates leans back against the couch, smiling dazedly into his nearly empty glass of alcohol and Connor lets out a slow breath, sending the recording to Hank. He connects before Hank can,

”Lieutenant, we have a problem. Where is the Captain?”

“I haven’t even listened to the recording Con, she’s in the van with us.”

Connor almost physically jolts, ”DON’T!!” He knows Hank will recognize the panic, and prays Tanner doesn’t, so he changes tactics. She might be listening, ”Don’t listen to the recording with people around… I… It’s personal.”

“Are you safe?”

Connor has to hope that Hank will listen to the recording and act accordingly. He hopes Hank will trust him.

”Yes, Lieutenant. I have to go now, just listen to the recording in private and be safe.”

He cuts their communication and looks at Yates, nearly asleep on the couch beside him. He slowly removes the clamp and wirelessly hits the surrounding android’s ‘kill-switch’. After that is done, he stands and looks around for something to tie the man’s wrists. He spots a charging cord near an outlet and grabs it.

He grabs Yates and turns him over onto his stomach. The man lets out a snort of confusion, but Connor wastes no time in binding his wrists. He makes a series of brutal knots and nods to himself. It’s going to take a pair of very sharp scissors to remove that.

He stands, ignoring Yates’ now semi-conscious questions, and turns to the door. Freezing in place when he sees Captain Tanner, now aiming her issued gun at his chest.

She sneers, “I should have known you’d be too advanced for black market goods. Then this dumb ass gets drunk and spills everything, like some stupid cartoon villain.”

Did she hear his recording already? Hank hadn’t played it yet.

Apparently she monologues too, already continuing her speech, “Blake told me you got disconnected though, so that’s good.” Connor mentally sets a reminder to buy Blake a gift, “This can stay our little secret. I only knew he blabbed because I tapped his house too. Just for a little insurance. Now… the truth will die with you, RK800.”

Connor runs at her, his world going in slow motion again as she pulls the trigger. He side steps to avoid the first bullet, ducks for the second, and braces for the third. There’s no dodging the third if he wants to stop her. It rips through his shoulder, nearly staggering him, but he’s ready for it. He uses his forward momentum to plow into the woman, pulling the gun from her grip with his right hand and pinning her to the ground.

His world resumes it’s normal rotation and he’s left with a near useless left arm and a shrieking banshee beneath him. She’s writhing and bucking, uselessly trying to dislodge his powerful grip on her. He presses the barrel of her gun to her forehead and she immediately stops moving.

Hank bursts through the doors, gun held aloft and frantically scanning the area. Connor maintains eye contact with Tanner and call out,

“In here Lieutenant!”

Hank runs into the room and gawks, holstering his pistol and running to assist. Connor keeps the gun aimed at Tanner and gets off, allowing Hank to cuff her hands behind her back. Blake runs in shortly after and grabs Yates.

While the majority of the police department work on getting statements and collecting evidence from the house, Blake breaks the programming on the trapped androids. Despite the need for the hands, Hank and Connor leave.

Connor looks again at Hank and mumbles, “It’s not severe, Hank. We should be helping.”

“You can’t move your arm, Connor. I’d say that’s severe. I’m taking you to your robo-jesus and he’s going to fix you.”

“Markus? Did you call him?”

“No, I called the CyberLife tower thing and they directed me to him.”

Sure enough, the tower looms ahead. Connor frowns at Hank, “When did you do this?”

“When you were busy being the hero with Blake and showing her how to save the androids.”

Connor watches him with a small frown as they pull up to the doors. He gets out before Hank can rush to his aid and observes the massive building as they walk in. No more guards patrol the area and the staff is largely made up of Androids. The Androids Connor left to conquer the tower remained, filling the places they forced out. Some remain the same, while others disengaged their skin, changed their hair, or other genetic modifiers that must be a new project.

A desk worker with the name plate ‘Micah’ recognizes Connor and beams, “Connor! What a pleasure to see you again! Markus is waiting for you. First floor of management.”

Connor smiles, stepping into the elevator, “Thank you, Micah.”

The elevator moves them gracefully to the specified floor and Connor sees Hank getting twitchier,

“Lieutenant?”

“Mm?”

He turns to face him, “What is wrong?”

“Tanner. Do you think Tanner planned everything? Do you think she’s responsible for Jeffrey’s mom dying?”

Connor watches him for a moment, “No, Hank. Captain Fowler’s mother died of cancer. I’ve yet to find any drug that can imitate that. I believe we are giving Grace Tanner too much credit. Yes, the entire job has been a process, eight years if Yates is to be trusted. I fear the true mastermind is Benjamin Yates. He got more out of their arrangement than Tanner.” He watches the elevator doors slide open and moves with Hank as he steps out, “The interrogation will tell us more.”

As reception notifies Markus of their arrival, Hank turns to fully face Connor, face wrinkled in concern, “You wanna interrogate her?”

Connor looks into the man’s eyes and shakes his head, “No, Hank. I just want to be in the room. Yates already confessed to everything, I just want to know if there’s more that we missed.”

“Yeah, make sure it stops with them.” Both men turn at the sound of a door opening, and Markus strides out, somehow still a commanding presence despite ripped and faded jeans and a long shirt covered in paint, Connor feels his thirium pump stutter as Markus lays gentle hands on both of their shoulders,

“My friends! Hank, good to see you well. How is Sumo?” He brings them into the room behind the desk. The walls are covered in paintings and the massive windows are entirely uncovered to let the remaining sun beams in. The room looks less like an office and more like a studio. He takes them to seats in the corner and crouches down to examine Connor’s shoulder.

Markus peeks at Hank while he works and smiles, prompting the Lieutenant to clear his throat, “Yeah, Sumo’s good. A damn big dog and a bigger menace, especially when Connor spoils him every day.”

Connor pouts, “He deserves to be spoiled.”

Markus trots over to the desk and grabs what looks like a toolbox, returning at a small trot, “And the two of you? Still well?”

Hank and Connor look at each other, the latter’s brow pulled into a confused frown. Hank hums, “Connor is the son I’ve always wanted. He keeps me going…”

While Connor is trying to figure out how to stop himself from crying, Markus smiles at Hank, “That’s wonderful news. Connor is irreplaceable. Can’t imagine life without him.” he fires off a wink to Connor, making the detective flush deep blue and desperately try to change the topic,

“Uhm….. is the church still treated as a community center?”

Markus turns back to his work, “Yeah. Josh has set up a help center of sorts. Get newly deviated Androids on their feet and help them integrate, or he leads them to an all Android area… Why?”

Connor opens his mouth to speak, but Hank beats him to it, “Connor rescued like thirty deviant androids today.”

Mismatched eyes look at Connor in shock, “What? From where?”

Having minor mobility in his arm again, Connor turns his palm up, offering an interface. Once they connect, he tries to only send information about the androids, but everything flows through.

Like an open wound.

It hurts.

And now, along with the information unload from the job, Markus gets a surge of almost all of Connor’s life. The deviant on the roof, ’You lied to me, Connor.’, Carlos Ortiz’s android destroying himself, chasing Kara and Alice across a busy automated highway, choosing Hank over his mission, doubts about Amanda, petting Sumo, refusing to shoot the Traci’s, showing fear, watching Markus’ speech and finding his requests reasonable, finding Simon but refusing to reveal him, instead choosing to get his Thirium pump ripped out of his chest, Don’t shoot Chloe.

Last chance.

Freedom.

Seeing Markus fully for the first time and thinking,

‘Oh… He’s beautiful.’

And Connor gets to see Markus’ life; Happy, until his father dies. Terror at waking amongst the corpses of his kind, fighting to get out. Jericho. Peace. Every decision kills androids, but stay peaceful. Just a little while longer. Rebellion planned to the last detail. Simon gets left behind and it hurts. Just a little while longer. No destruction. ’An eye for an eye and the world goes blind.’ Next steps, what can be done? Sacrifice self. John saving Markus, dying for him.

Then the barrel of a gun, easing of a scared man and the relief of his freedom.

The life in his brown eyes, and thinking,

’Like an angel…’

Markus manages to wrench away and both just stare at each other, each with overflowing tears and a new understanding. Both speak at the same time,

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“An angel?”

Markus laughs, “Hey, until you broke your programming I was almost certain I was going to die. The first thought after a near-death experience isn’t always the brightest.”

Connor shakes his head, “But really? An angel?”

“I stand by it.” Markus does a remarkable job ignoring his blush and continues working on the fine wiring of Connor’s shoulder. Hank stares, open mouthed,

“What the fuck?”

Connor looks at him, “We interfaced, Lieutenant. My intent was to show Markus what happened with Benjamin Yates, but it seems… our interface revealed significantly…. More.”

“Yeah, so you, what, revealed your feelings and now you’re both just ignoring the fact that you subconsciously admitted to liking each other?”

Both Markus and Connor look at Hank perplexed, and the man sighs, “For two supercomputers, you sure are dense.” He stands and walks to the door, “I’m going to wait out here for you to figure your shit out.”

Both Androids watch the man leave, then Markus slowly turns back to Connor,

“So, you think I’m beautiful?”

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elisaenglish · 4 years

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How We Grieve: Meghan O’Rourke on the Messiness of Mourning and Learning to Live with Loss

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

John Updike wrote in his memoir, “Each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead. So why, one could say, be afraid of death, when death comes all the time?” And yet even if we were to somehow make peace with our own mortality, a primal and soul-shattering fear rips through whenever we think about losing those we love most dearly — a fear that metastasises into all-consuming grief when loss does come. In The Long Goodbye (public library), her magnificent memoir of grieving her mother’s death, Meghan O’Rourke crafts a masterwork of remembrance and reflection woven of extraordinary emotional intelligence. A poet, essayist, literary critic, and one of the youngest editors the New Yorker has ever had, she tells a story that is deeply personal in its details yet richly resonant in its larger humanity, making tangible the messy and often ineffable complexities that anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows all too intimately, all too anguishingly. What makes her writing — her mind, really — particularly enchanting is that she brings to this paralysingly difficult subject a poet’s emotional precision, an essayist’s intellectual expansiveness, and a voracious reader’s gift for apt, exquisitely placed allusions to such luminaries of language and life as Whitman, Longfellow, Tennyson, Swift, and Dickinson (“the supreme poet of grief”).

O’Rourke writes:

“When we are learning the world, we know things we cannot say how we know. When we are relearning the world in the aftermath of a loss, we feel things we had almost forgotten, old things, beneath the seat of reason.

[…]

Nothing prepared me for the loss of my mother. Even knowing that she would die did not prepare me. A mother, after all, is your entry into the world. She is the shell in which you divide and become a life. Waking up in a world without her is like waking up in a world without sky: unimaginable.

[…]

When we talk about love, we go back to the start, to pinpoint the moment of free fall. But this story is the story of an ending, of death, and it has no beginning. A mother is beyond any notion of a beginning. That’s what makes her a mother: you cannot start the story.”

In the days following her mother’s death, as O’Rourke faces the loneliness she anticipated and the sense of being lost that engulfed her unawares, she contemplates the paradoxes of loss: Ours is a culture that treats grief — a process of profound emotional upheaval — with a grotesquely mismatched rational prescription. On the one hand, society seems to operate by a set of unspoken shoulds for how we ought to feel and behave in the face of sorrow; on the other, she observes, “we have so few rituals for observing and externalising loss.” Without a coping strategy, she finds herself shutting down emotionally and going “dead inside” — a feeling psychologists call “numbing out” — and describes the disconnect between her intellectual awareness of sadness and its inaccessible emotional manifestation:

“It was like when you stay in cold water too long. You know something is off but don’t start shivering for ten minutes.”

But at least as harrowing as the aftermath of loss is the anticipatory bereavement in the months and weeks and days leading up to the inevitable — a particularly cruel reality of terminal cancer. O’Rourke writes:

“So much of dealing with a disease is waiting. Waiting for appointments, for tests, for “procedures.” And waiting, more broadly, for it—for the thing itself, for the other shoe to drop.”

The hallmark of this anticipatory loss seems to be a tapestry of inner contradictions. O’Rourke notes with exquisite self-awareness her resentment for the mundanity of it all — there is her mother, sipping soda in front of the TV on one of those final days — coupled with weighty, crushing compassion for the sacred humanity of death:

“Time doesn’t obey our commands. You cannot make it holy just because it is disappearing.”

Then there was the question of the body — the object of so much social and personal anxiety in real life, suddenly stripped of control in the surreal experience of impending death. Reflecting on the initially disorienting experience of helping her mother on and off the toilet and how quickly it became normalised, O’Rourke writes:

“It was what she had done for us, back before we became private and civilised about our bodies. In some ways I liked it. A level of anxiety about the body had been stripped away, and we were left with the simple reality: Here it was.

I heard a lot about the idea of dying “with dignity” while my mother was sick. It was only near her very end that I gave much thought to what this idea meant. I didn’t actually feel it was undignified for my mother’s body to fail — that was the human condition. Having to help my mother on and off the toilet was difficult, but it was natural. The real indignity, it seemed, was dying where no one cared for you the way your family did, dying where it was hard for your whole family to be with you and where excessive measures might be taken to keep you alive past a moment that called for letting go. I didn’t want that for my mother. I wanted her to be able to go home. I didn’t want to pretend she wasn’t going to die.”

Among the most painful realities of witnessing death — one particularly exasperating for type-A personalities — is how swiftly it severs the direct correlation between effort and outcome around which we build our lives. Though the notion might seem rational on the surface — especially in a culture that fetishises work ethic and “grit” as the key to success — an underbelly of magical thinking lurks beneath, which comes to light as we behold the helplessness and injustice of premature death. Noting that “the mourner’s mind is superstitious, looking for signs and wonders,” O’Rourke captures this paradox:

“One of the ideas I’ve clung to most of my life is that if I just try hard enough it will work out. If I work hard, I will be spared, and I will get what I desire, finding the cave opening over and over again, thieving life from the abyss. This sturdy belief system has a sidecar in which superstition rides. Until recently, I half believed that if a certain song came on the radio just as I thought of it, it meant that all would be well. What did I mean? I preferred not to answer that question. To look too closely was to prick the balloon of possibility.”

But our very capacity for the irrational — for the magic of magical thinking — also turns out to be essential for our spiritual survival. Without the capacity to discern from life’s senseless sound a meaningful melody, we would be consumed by the noise. In fact, one of O’Rourke’s most poetic passages recounts her struggle to find a transcendent meaning on an average day, amid the average hospital noises:

“I could hear the coughing man whose family talked about sports and sitcoms every time they visited, sitting politely around his bed as if you couldn’t see the death knobs that were his knees poking through the blanket, but as they left they would hug him and say, We love you, and We’ll be back soon, and in their voices and in mine and in the nurse who was so gentle with my mother, tucking cool white sheets over her with a twist of her wrist, I could hear love, love that sounded like a rope, and I began to see a flickering electric current everywhere I looked as I went up and down the halls, flagging nurses, little flecks of light dotting the air in sinewy lines, and I leaned on these lines like guy ropes when I was so tired I couldn’t walk anymore and a voice in my head said: Do you see this love? And do you still not believe?

I couldn’t deny the voice.

Now I think: That was exhaustion.

But at the time the love, the love, it was like ropes around me, cables that could carry us up into the higher floors away from our predicament and out onto the roof and across the empty spaces above the hospital to the sky where we could gaze down upon all the people driving, eating, having sex, watching TV, angry people, tired people, happy people, all doing, all being—”

In the weeks following her mother’s death, melancholy — “the black sorrow, bilious, angry, a slick in my chest” — comes coupled with another intense emotion, a parallel longing for a different branch of that-which-no-longer-is:

“I experienced an acute nostalgia. This longing for a lost time was so intense I thought it might split me in two, like a tree hit by lightning. I was — as the expression goes — flooded by memories. It was a submersion in the past that threatened to overwhelm any “rational” experience of the present, water coming up around my branches, rising higher. I did not care much about work I had to do. I was consumed by memories of seemingly trivial things.”

But the embodied presence of the loss is far from trivial. O’Rourke, citing a psychiatrist whose words had stayed with her, captures it with harrowing precision:

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

In another breathtaking passage, O’Rourke conveys the largeness of grief as it emanates out of our pores and into the world that surrounds us:

“In February, there was a two-day snowstorm in New York. For hours I lay on my couch, reading, watching the snow drift down through the large elm outside… the sky going gray, then eerie violet, the night breaking around us, snow like flakes of ash. A white mantle covered trees, cars, lintels, and windows. It was like one of grief’s moods: melancholic; estranged from the normal; in touch with the longing that reminds us that we are being-toward-death, as Heidegger puts it. Loss is our atmosphere; we, like the snow, are always falling toward the ground, and most of the time we forget it.”

Because grief seeps into the external world as the inner experience bleeds into the outer, it’s understandable — it’s hopelessly human — that we’d also project the very object of our grief onto the external world. One of the most common experiences, O’Rourke notes, is for the grieving to try to bring back the dead — not literally, but by seeing, seeking, signs of them in the landscape of life, symbolism in the everyday. The mind, after all, is a pattern-recognition machine and when the mind’s eye is as heavily clouded with a particular object as it is when we grieve a loved one, we begin to manufacture patterns. Recounting a day when she found inside a library book handwriting that seemed to be her mother’s, O’Rourke writes:

“The idea that the dead might not be utterly gone has an irresistible magnetism. I’d read something that described what I had been experiencing. Many people go through what psychologists call a period of “animism,” in which you see the dead person in objects and animals around you, and you construct your false reality, the reality where she is just hiding, or absent. This was the mourner’s secret position, it seemed to me: I have to say this person is dead, but I don’t have to believe it.

[…]

Acceptance isn’t necessarily something you can choose off a menu, like eggs instead of French toast. Instead, researchers now think that some people are inherently primed to accept their own death with “integrity” (their word, not mine), while others are primed for “despair.” Most of us, though, are somewhere in the middle, and one question researchers are now focusing on is: How might more of those in the middle learn to accept their deaths? The answer has real consequences for both the dying and the bereaved.”

O’Rourke considers the psychology and physiology of grief:

“When you lose someone you were close to, you have to reassess your picture of the world and your place in it. The more your identity is wrapped up with the deceased, the more difficult the mental work.

The first systematic survey of grief, I read, was conducted by Erich Lindemann. Having studied 101 people, many of them related to the victims of the Cocoanut Grove fire of 1942, he defined grief as “sensations of somatic distress occurring in waves lasting from twenty minutes to an hour at a time, a feeling of tightness in the throat, choking with shortness of breath, need for sighing, and an empty feeling in the abdomen, lack of muscular power, and an intensive subjective distress described as tension or mental pain.”

Tracing the history of studying grief, including Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s famous and often criticised 1969 “stage theory” outlining a simple sequence of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance, O’Rourke notes that most people experience grief not as sequential stages but as ebbing and flowing states that recur at various points throughout the process. She writes:

“Researchers now believe there are two kinds of grief: “normal grief” and “complicated grief” (also called “prolonged grief”). “Normal grief” is a term for what most bereaved people experience. It peaks within the first six months and then begins to dissipate. “Complicated grief” does not, and often requires medication or therapy. But even “normal grief”… is hardly gentle. Its symptoms include insomnia or other sleep disorders, difficulty breathing, auditory or visual hallucinations, appetite problems, and dryness of mouth.”

One of the most persistent psychiatric ideas about grief, O’Rourke notes, is the notion that one ought to “let go” in order to “move on” — a proposition plentiful even in the casual advice of her friends in the weeks following her mother’s death. And yet it isn’t necessarily the right coping strategy for everyone, let alone the only one, as our culture seems to suggest. Unwilling to “let go,” O’Rourke finds solace in anthropological alternatives:

“Studies have shown that some mourners hold on to a relationship with the deceased with no notable ill effects. In China, for instance, mourners regularly speak to dead ancestors, and one study demonstrated that the bereaved there “recovered more quickly from loss” than bereaved Americans do.

I wasn’t living in China, though, and in those weeks after my mother’s death, I felt that the world expected me to absorb the loss and move forward, like some kind of emotional warrior. One night I heard a character on 24—the president of the United States—announce that grief was a “luxury” she couldn’t “afford right now.” This model represents an old American ethic of muscling through pain by throwing yourself into work; embedded in it is a desire to avoid looking at death. We’ve adopted a sort of “Ask, don’t tell” policy. The question “How are you?” is an expression of concern, but as my dad had said, the mourner quickly figures out that it shouldn’t always be taken for an actual inquiry… A mourner’s experience of time isn’t like everyone else’s. Grief that lasts longer than a few weeks may look like self-indulgence to those around you. But if you’re in mourning, three months seems like nothing — [according to some] research, three months might well find you approaching the height of sorrow.”

Another Western hegemony in the culture of grief, O’Rourke notes, is its privatisation — the unspoken rule that mourning is something we do in the privacy of our inner lives, alone, away from the public eye. Though for centuries private grief was externalised as public mourning, modernity has left us bereft of rituals to help us deal with our grief:

“The disappearance of mourning rituals affects everyone, not just the mourner. One of the reasons many people are unsure about how to act around a loss is that they lack rules or meaningful conventions, and they fear making a mistake. Rituals used to help the community by giving everyone a sense of what to do or say. Now, we’re at sea.

[…]

Such rituals… aren’t just about the individual; they are about the community.”

Craving “a formalisation of grief, one that might externalise it,” O’Rourke plunges into the existing literature:

“The British anthropologist Geoffrey Gorer, the author of Death, Grief, and Mourning, argues that, at least in Britain, the First World War played a huge role in changing the way people mourned. Communities were so overwhelmed by the sheer number of dead that the practice of ritualised mourning for the individual eroded. Other changes were less obvious but no less important. More people, including women, began working outside the home; in the absence of caretakers, death increasingly took place in the quarantining swaddle of the hospital. The rise of psychoanalysis shifted attention from the communal to the individual experience. In 1917, only two years after Émile Durkheim wrote about mourning as an essential social process, Freud’s “Mourning and Melancholia” defined it as something essentially private and individual, internalising the work of mourning. Within a few generations, I read, the experience of grief had fundamentally changed. Death and mourning had been largely removed from the public realm. By the 1960s, Gorer could write that many people believed that “sensible, rational men and women can keep their mourning under complete control by strength of will and character, so that it need be given no public expression, and indulged, if at all, in private, as furtively as... masturbation.” Today, our only public mourning takes the form of watching the funerals of celebrities and statesmen. It’s common to mock such grief as false or voyeuristic (“crocodile tears,” one commentator called mourners’ distress at Princess Diana’s funeral), and yet it serves an important social function. It’s a more mediated version, Leader suggests, of a practice that goes all the way back to soldiers in The Iliad mourning with Achilles for the fallen Patroclus.

I found myself nodding in recognition at Gorer’s conclusions. “If mourning is denied outlet, the result will be suffering,” Gorer wrote. “At the moment our society is signally failing to give this support and assistance... The cost of this failure in misery, loneliness, despair and maladaptive behaviour is very high.” Maybe it’s not a coincidence that in Western countries with fewer mourning rituals, the bereaved report more physical ailments in the year following a death.”

Finding solace in Marilynne Robinson’s beautiful meditation on our humanity, O’Rourke returns to her own journey:

“The otherworldliness of loss was so intense that at times I had to believe it was a singular passage, a privilege of some kind, even if all it left me with was a clearer grasp of our human predicament. It was why I kept finding myself drawn to the remote desert: I wanted to be reminded of how the numinous impinges on ordinary life.”

Reflecting on her struggle to accept her mother’s loss — her absence, “an absence that becomes a presence” — O’Rourke writes:

“If children learn through exposure to new experiences, mourners unlearn through exposure to absence in new contexts. Grief requires acquainting yourself with the world again and again; each “first” causes a break that must be reset… And so you always feel suspense, a queer dread—you never know what occasion will break the loss freshly open.”

She later adds:

“After a loss, you have to learn to believe the dead one is dead. It doesn’t come naturally.”

Among the most chilling effects of grief is how it reorients us toward ourselves as it surfaces our mortality paradox and the dawning awareness of our own impermanence. O’Rourke’s words ring with the profound discomfort of our shared existential bind:

“The dread of death is so primal, it overtakes me on a molecular level. In the lowest moments, it produces nihilism. If I am going to die, why not get it over with? Why live in this agony of anticipation?

[…]

I was unable to push these questions aside: What are we to do with the knowledge that we die? What bargain do you make in your mind so as not to go crazy with fear of the predicament, a predicament none of us knowingly chose to enter? You can believe in God and heaven, if you have the capacity for faith. Or, if you don’t, you can do what a stoic like Seneca did, and push away the awfulness by noting that if death is indeed extinction, it won’t hurt, for we won’t experience it. “It would be dreadful could it remain with you; but of necessity either it does not arrive or else it departs,” he wrote.

If this logic fails to comfort, you can decide, as Plato and Jonathan Swift did, that since death is natural, and the gods must exist, it cannot be a bad thing. As Swift said, “It is impossible that anything so natural, so necessary, and so universal as death, should ever have been designed by Providence as an evil to mankind.” And Socrates: “I am quite ready to admit… that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are wise and good.” But this is poor comfort to those of us who have no gods to turn to. If you love this world, how can you look forward to departing it? Rousseau wrote, “He who pretends to look on death without fear lies. All men are afraid of dying, this is the great law of sentient beings, without which the entire human species would soon be destroyed.”

And yet, O’Rourke arrives at the same conclusion that Alan Lightman did in his sublime meditation on our longing for permanence as she writes:

“Without death our lives would lose their shape: “Death is the mother of beauty,” Wallace Stevens wrote. Or as a character in Don DeLillo’s White Noise says, “I think it’s a mistake to lose one’s sense of death, even one’s fear of death. Isn’t death the boundary we need?” It’s not clear that DeLillo means us to agree, but I think I do. I love the world more because it is transient.

[…]

One would think that living so proximately to the provisional would ruin life, and at times it did make it hard. But at other times I experienced the world with less fear and more clarity. It didn’t matter if I was in line for an extra two minutes. I could take in the sensations of colour, sound, life. How strange that we should live on this planet and make cereal boxes, and shopping carts, and gum! That we should renovate stately old banks and replace them with Trader Joe’s! We were ants in a sugar bowl, and one day the bowl would empty.”

This awareness of our transience, our minuteness, and the paradoxical enlargement of our aliveness that it produces seems to be the sole solace from grief’s grip, though we all arrive at it differently. O’Rourke’s father approached it from another angle. Recounting a conversation with him one autumn night — one can��t help but notice the beautiful, if inadvertent, echo of Carl Sagan’s memorable words — O’Rourke writes:

“The Perseid meteor showers are here,” he told me. “And I’ve been eating dinner outside and then lying in the lounge chairs watching the stars like your mother and I used to” — at some point he stopped calling her Mom — “and that helps. It might sound strange, but I was sitting there, looking up at the sky, and I thought, ‘You are but a mote of dust. And your troubles and travails are just a mote of a mote of dust.’ And it helped me. I have allowed myself to think about things I had been scared to think about and feel. And it allowed me to be there — to be present. Whatever my life is, whatever my loss is, it’s small in the face of all that existence… The meteor shower changed something. I was looking the other way through a telescope before: I was just looking at what was not there. Now I look at what is there.”

O’Rourke goes on to reflect on this ground-shifting quality of loss:

“It’s not a question of getting over it or healing. No; it’s a question of learning to live with this transformation. For the loss is transformative, in good ways and bad, a tangle of change that cannot be threaded into the usual narrative spools. It is too central for that. It’s not an emergence from the cocoon, but a tree growing around an obstruction.”

In one of the most beautiful passages in the book, O’Rourke captures the spiritual sensemaking of death in an anecdote that calls to mind Alan Lightman’s account of a “transcendent experience” and Alan Watt’s consolation in the oneness of the universe. She writes:

“Before we scattered the ashes, I had an eerie experience. I went for a short run. I hate running in the cold, but after so much time indoors in the dead of winter I was filled with exuberance. I ran lightly through the stripped, bare woods, past my favourite house, poised on a high hill, and turned back, flying up the road, turning left. In the last stretch I picked up the pace, the air crisp, and I felt myself float up off the ground. The world became greenish. The brightness of the snow and the trees intensified. I was almost giddy. Behind the bright flat horizon of the treescape, I understood, were worlds beyond our everyday perceptions. My mother was out there, inaccessible to me, but indelible. The blood moved along my veins and the snow and trees shimmered in greenish light. Suffused with joy, I stopped stock-still in the road, feeling like a player in a drama I didn’t understand and didn’t need to. Then I sprinted up the driveway and opened the door and as the heat rushed out the clarity dropped away.

I’d had an intuition like this once before, as a child in Vermont. I was walking from the house to open the gate to the driveway. It was fall. As I put my hand on the gate, the world went ablaze, as bright as the autumn leaves, and I lifted out of myself and understood that I was part of a magnificent book. What I knew as “life” was a thin version of something larger, the pages of which had all been written. What I would do, how I would live — it was already known. I stood there with a kind of peace humming in my blood.”

A non-believer who had prayed for the first time in her life when her mother died, O’Rourke quotes Virginia Woolf’s luminous meditation on the spirit and writes:

“This is the closest description I have ever come across to what I feel to be my experience. I suspect a pattern behind the wool, even the wool of grief; the pattern may not lead to heaven or the survival of my consciousness — frankly I don’t think it does — but that it is there somehow in our neurons and synapses is evident to me. We are not transparent to ourselves. Our longings are like thick curtains stirring in the wind. We give them names. What I do not know is this: Does that otherness — that sense of an impossibly real universe larger than our ability to understand it — mean that there is meaning around us?

[…]

I have learned a lot about how humans think about death. But it hasn’t necessarily taught me more about my dead, where she is, what she is. When I held her body in my hands and it was just black ash, I felt no connection to it, but I tell myself perhaps it is enough to still be matter, to go into the ground and be “remixed” into some new part of the living culture, a new organic matter. Perhaps there is some solace in this continued existence.

[…]

I think about my mother every day, but not as concertedly as I used to. She crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely, gone.”

The Long Goodbye is a remarkable read in its entirety — the kind that speaks with gentle crispness to the parts of us we protect most fiercely yet long to awaken most desperately. Complement it with Alan Lightman in finding solace in our impermanence and Tolstoy on finding meaning in a meaningless world.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (9th June 2014)

#quote #women writers #love #life #loss #grief #existential musings #all eternal things #love in a time of...#the places you have come to fear the most #the same deep water as you #laid bare #intelligence quotients #depth perception #melancholy skies #this is how it feels #stands on its own #elisa english #elisaenglish

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kusunogatari · 5 years

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[ ObiRyū October | Day Seven: Origins ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Suigin ] [ Verse: White Hands of Healing ] [ Previous || Next ]

“...what’s on your mind?”

Tearing his eyes from the kamidana over the main hall, Obito instead looks to Ryū. She’s sat upon one of the settees, dressed in a warm yukata. The sight of her is still a bit of a shock. Though healed over, her scars are pronounced, and the blemishes of bruises still color her skin various shades of purple, blue, and sickly green. And though it was only a handful of days - a week at most - she was trapped in Root’s clutches, she looks so...gaunt. Always has she been pale, but now to a sickly degree.

It makes him angry...but also brings a feeling of shame.

“Just...admiring this place. It’s so…” He searches for a word. “...classical.”

That earns a soft snort. “It’s very old, yes...work started on it almost as soon as the first villagers arrived here with Eiko and Kazue.”

“...who?”

“Oh...have I never…?” Ryū pauses. “...those are my ancestors. The first of the Suigin line! There’s...some argument about who was really the first, given some...semantics.”

Obito can’t help but perk up. He knows so little of Ryū’s background. Crossing the room, he takes a careful seat beside her. “Would you...tell me more?”

“Are you sure you want a history lesson?” she softly teases. “I’m not sure if it would be very...interesting.”

“I’d like to hear more about your origins.”

“Will you tell me some of yours in return?”

That...gets him to hesitate.

Ryū gives a quick smile. “I know, I know...you can’t.” Sighing, she takes a moment to think. “...so, as the story goes...a very long time ago, my teacher, Suigin, was living in these very mountains. Humans hadn’t had chakra for very long, and a village in the foothills was ransacked by roving bandits. One woman named Eiko, pregnant and clinging to life, supposedly yelled so loudly for the gods to save them that Suigin heard her up here, in the mountains. So, she went to investigate, and found the aftermath.”

It’s then Ryū stands up, and Obito momentarily panics, doing the same to hover. She leads him to one end of the great hall, and then he realizes...the fusuma paintings are meant to reflect the story.

She gestures to a scene among the foothills, where a silvery serpent dragon hovers before a woman who reaches in desperation. “...Suigin asked her what had happened. She claimed that her husband’s warmongering had brought their enemies down upon their village while their men were away...and they were slaughtered. Eiko begged the dragon to save her, if only for the sake of her unborn child.

“Suigin decided to make the woman a deal. She would heal her wounds, and save her life...and bestow upon her some of her chakra. But in return, she would have to carry the sage’s message and task of healing. Then, she would return with like-minded humans, and rebuild. Eiko agreed...and left the ruins of the village.

“For four years, she traveled to various small villages, and bore the sage’s message alongside her daughter. Some became inspired, and traveled with her. By the time she returned to her village, several dozen people accompanied her, from all walks and trades. Suigin returned...and guided the people through the tangles of the forests...and into a beautiful valley, rich and warm.”

The next fusuma panels show the valley between the peaks, and Obito immediately recognizes it. A river runs along the vale’s spine...and as it goes, a village begins to appear.

“The people worked hard, clearing land for crops and livestock...and using the timber to build homes for themselves. Even a shrine was built near the peak crowned with the largest camphor tree...and it was for that tree that the valley - and its village - were named: Kusunokizan. Camphor tree mountain. And though it was never officiated, Eiko was looked to for guidance and leadership. And she took the sage’s name for her own...and became Suigin Eiko.

“...but…”

The valley suddenly darkens, and foreboding nestles in Obito’s gut.

“...Kazue, Eiko’s daughter, looked nothing like either her mother, or father. Imbued and saturated with the sage’s white chakra, her very appearance had been shaped. Pale, with white hair, and cloud-grey eyes, she was the first true heir of Suigin’s chakra. In her...the true power was awakened. But when she was six years old, Kazue fell deathly ill. The villagers, fearful for the bloodline, watched anxiously as Eiko struggled to save her daughter’s life. In the end...she succeeded. Kazue was cured. But...her mother had used the last of her strength. And with a whisper...she died.

“Kazue, left alone, was raised by the villagers as a whole...and trained by Suigin to master her powers and attain a sage state. By the time she was sixteen, Kazue had conquered her chakra, and was a full-fledged sage. And, like her mother, she traveled the world to spread a message of peace, and healing. She only returned once she was with child, having a daughter of her own. And when her daughter was ten years old...Kazue gave her life defending her from an avalanche while up among the peaks.

“And so began an eerie cycle. Every mother would have a daughter...and every generation, each mother would give their life for their child. And yet somehow, through the ages...no Suigin ever died before having a child to pass on the lineage. So, Suigin surmised that the family had fallen victim to a curse.”

“...curse…?” The word rings a bell, prompting a memory of the so-called curse of hatred within Obito’s own clan...were such things really true?

“When Eiko had accepted Suigin’s chakra, two feelings were strong within her, at war in her heart. One was the desire - above all others - to keep her child alive, and safe. The other...was a deep and furious hatred for her husband, whose greed and lust for power had wrought destruction to her and her people. Suigin theorized that these feelings - when given power through her chakra - took root within it...and infected their line through the unborn child. So, every mother - without fail - would make the same sacrifice again and again to protect their offspring. And in tandem, any love they found in another would soon devolve into hate, poisoned by seemingly outside forces. She also, over the generations, theorized that Eiko and Kazue’s souls were trapped in a cycle of reincarnation...as many of our line claim to have memories not their own.”

That perks his interest. “...do you?”

“...a few. They’re very...fragmented. But I know they aren’t mine. I don’t know if they’re just pieces of a dream, or if I really do have visions from my ancestors. According to Suigin, I’m one of Kazue’s sides of the coin. It’s gone back and forth since then. Over and over again, we’ve gone through this cycle, until it got to me. Like the rest, I did lose my mother...but the whole of the village with her, as well.”

“...what happened?”

“...it was the tail end of the third shinobi war. Most of Iwa had given up, but...a few rebel cells continued to try to find back doors into Hi no Kuni and regather momentum. A few were using doton techniques to try and find paths through the mountains. And with them...they found the valley, as it spans nearly from side to side. They thought...it would make for a simple path through. What they didn’t know was that the village was here. And when they found it, they...destroyed it, as we were technically a Hi no Kuni settlement. My mother tried to stop them, but Suigin was away hunting that night. We were...so unprepared. An entire platoon of shinobi...against a small village of civilians, and one healing sage. She did all she could, but...when she realized there was no hope, she used the last of her chakra to hide me away...before being killed.”

Hearing her tone fade, Obito gives her a glance. “...you saw it...didn’t you?”

A nod. “...I was so young...it’s one of the few things I can remember of her, now. Konoha shinobi saw the smoke rising from the mountain, and came to investigate. Once they found me, they took me back to Konoha, and...it was there was raised as a ward of the village for my unique bloodline. And now...well, here I am.”

“...quite the tale.”

“Mm...parts, I’m sure, have been a bit...twisted and lost since then, given it was so long ago. But Suigin was there for nearly all of it, so it’s hard to tell what’s true, and what’s just been exaggerated.” Glancing up, Ryū gives Obito a hint of a smile. “...so? Feel like you know me any better?”

“I guess so.”

“Hm...I could tell you of the owls of Kōri no Mori.”

“You mean Fubuki?”

“She’s one of them, yes. There’s more panels over here!” Taking Obito’s hand, she leads him to another section of wall. These feature the higher, snowy peaks around the valley. “So, when Kazue was training under Suigin, she wanted to test her endurance and survival...and so made her way up into the peaks where the snow never melts: a place we call Kōri no Mori, the forest of ice. During her trek, she came upon an injured owl, pure white. Sympathetic, she healed the creature, and then let him go on his way.

“But before she could finish her journey and return to the valley...she suddenly found herself surrounded by owls! Dozens and dozens, and some even taller than herself. They were an old clan that had lived in the mountains for hundreds, if not thousands of years, and they were grateful for her help. Though they did not know how to speak, they managed to convey their feelings, and the owl she’d healed - Seiten - decided to travel by her side and attempt to repay her kindness.

“Kazue took the owl back to the valley, and with Suigin’s help, forged a summoning contract. Even so, Seiten went with her on her pilgrimage, and when Kazue was attacked by a bandit while she slept, he snatched the rogue’s eyes and saved her life.

“Though his debt was repaid, Seiten agreed to honor their contract, and be summoned whenever she needed him. That began the tradition of each Suigin trainee - upon completing their sage training - going up into the mountains to find an owl companion to make a contract with. When I finished mine - just a few months before we met - I found Fubuki...and she’s remained with me ever since.”

“...huh. I’ve heard of clans carrying contracts through their bloodline, but never quite like that,” Obito muses.

“The bond between our clans is as old as the clan itself...an owl chosen to be a Suigin’s companion is considered highly honored. They take their role as our protectors very seriously. Which,” Ryū offers, tone turning a bit sheepish, “is likely why Fubuki is so...hard on you. She knows that there are risks with you coming to see me.”

For a moment, Obito thinks over the owl’s warning. “...yeah…”

“But I think your saving me from Root has helped change her view of you. At least a little.”

Obito, not so sure, doesn’t answer.

Looking around the hall, Ryū thinks for a moment. “...well, there are other random tales from notable women in my line, but...I’m not sure they’re as interesting as the rest.”

Hearing a hint of fatigue in her voice, Obito suggests, “Maybe time to take a break, instead.”

“I’m not that tired…”

“Maybe I just want to sit with you for a while.”

Sighing, Ryū gives in, letting him lead her back to their seats. Obito then brings her close, tucking his chin atop her head. To think...a line with such poor luck, and yet...always managing to make it through one more generation. How lucky they are for her to even live or exist, let alone to have met.

...but one thing irks at the back of his mind: the two-sided ‘curse’ she mentioned. The hate Eiko supposedly passed down. In all honesty, he can’t really see Ryū hating anyone. With all he knows of her, it seems impossible for her to ever get that angry.

...and yet…

If she ever learns the truth - ever comes to know all he’s done, all he will do - would she hate him? Her line is one of medics that stretches back nearly to the beginning of chakra within humans. Life and healing are their utmost priority...and how many has he taken? Or ordered taken through his underlings?

...what would she say if she knew?

Feeling her go lax with sleep against him, he looks to her thoughtfully. It’s clear she knows, at least, that he isn’t exactly a good person. Likely she suspects him to be some kind of missing nin. And yet...she persists anyway. Loves him anyway. Maybe…

Heaving a heavy sigh, he pulls her a bit closer, indulging in the feeling of her softness. She is all he cannot be...soft, and kind, and trusting...gentle, and hopeful. He has to wonder if she’ll ever realize what she really means to him.

...but maybe now is not the time.

Ever so carefully, he scoops her up in his arms, taking her up to the manor’s second level and laying her into bed. Eyes flicker over Root’s marks, and it sparks a few coals of anger in his belly.

...they’ll pay. But not yet. All in due time.

Instead, for now, he leans in and presses lips to her brow, hearing her hum happily. The anger quickly quells, replaced instead with a pleasant warmth only she can bring. Daring to smile, he retreats from the building, readying to teleport.

But as he leaves, he finds he’s no longer alone.

He’s only seen the sage once before now, and she’s still just as imposing. Rightfully so, he can’t help but feel...nervous in her presence. “...Suigin-sama,” he addresses politely.

Sprawled over the front garden, the dragon eyes him openly. “So, she has told you the tale of her origins, has she not? A curious story, indeed…”

“And it’s all true?”

The sage’s tongue flickers like a serpent’s, Obito unable to glean any emotion from her scaly, antlered face. “History has a way of changing with each retelling. I have done my best to remember and record the stories of those who bear my chakra. There may yet be...inaccuracies. But so too are there tales of rabbit goddesses of the moon...of a man who tamed chakra and forged nine beasts from the great Shinju tree. Many see these as more myth than truth...but who is to truly say but those who were there?”

“...do sages ever speak clearly, or does everything have to be a riddle?”

Amusement glints in her eyes. “...you humans are so amusing. So varied, and yet...in some ways, all the same. I speak as my thoughts form...don’t you do the same?”

Obito just deadpans. “...I should be going.”

A nod. “...Ryū will remain here to heal. Should you seek her again, it would be wise to come here first. I must clear a path for her back to Konoha after Root’s actions.” She looks to him, unblinking. “...remember what I told you, human.”

“...I couldn’t forget if I wanted to,” is his low reply. And with that...he disappears back into his Sharingan’s dimension.

Lost in thought for a long moment, Suigin then looks up to the manor: the windows of the master quarters. How far they have come...how much farther can they go? Time alone will tell...

Oof, I'm a day late with this one Dx Still very busy, and I just...ran out of time. Gonna try to hop right to the next one and get it done before it gets too late. So I wasn't exactly sure what to do for this one, and asking Meg got me the answer she'd been thinking about Ryū's background when she made this prompt, so...that's what I went with! Along with some somber fluff, and a little cameo from Suigin herself, lol Anywho, I've still got lots to write, so that's all for now! Thanks for reading~

#obiryū october #abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #suigin #white hands of healing [ canon verse ]

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wilhelmjfink · 5 years

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The Great Divide - Chapter 7

@crossbowking @jodiereedus22 @apossiblegentleman@mtngirlforever@sourwolf-sterek32 @winchester-angel @qrangr@cole-winchester @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @twdeadfanfic@crazyaboutnorman@deliciousassafrasssandwich @bunnymother93@96ssi @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @ima-mther-fckn-starboy@thatsoragan @lonewolf471

A/N: new cover photo hehe :-)

Previous Chapter • Next Chapter

It was a painfully long night for Riley as she watched the single ray of faded sunlight rise into her cell from the open doors down the hall. It was hardly enough to light up a room, but her eyes had already adjusted to the darkness she’d been trapped in, so it made no difference to her anyway.

‘The Divide’ she’d heard it referred to as.

The night was full of crying from cells adjacent to hers and screaming from somewhere outside of the concrete walls. At one point, she’d given up trying to block out the noise by clutching her hands over her ears to no prevail and resorted to humming loudly to herself in hopes to block out the sounds. It hardly worked and left her throat more raw than it had already been from the agonized screams from being branded like cattle.

She couldn’t see the scar, but she could reach her left arm around to feel it, level with her ribs on the flesh of her mid back. It felt like an ‘X’ and though she wasn’t sure what that indicated, she knew it couldn’t be anything good. It hurt and the mere thought of it churned her guts and she was sure it could’ve easily made her sick if she had anything in her stomach to throw up.

Sleep came to her in minuscule amounts, riddled with nightmares of course, and she’d given up on getting any rest long ago which left her tired and achy and the stale pieces of bread they’d finally given her did little to satiate her hunger.

She had a lot of time to think — a dangerous thing for her.

A lot of time to wonder what she’d done to deserve this treatment. She’d only been trying to help.

A lot of time to sit quietly and fight back tears when she thought about her friends and family back home and especially Daryl, her hopes dwindling from thoughts of being rescued and brought home to just simply wishing they were all safe and sound, with or without her.

Her eyes had dried out and couldn’t produce any more tears; not so long as she was dehydrated, at least. The skin around them was red and chapped from her constant rubbing, trying to stifle them as they’d never seemed to want to stop. She’d cried herself out.

And after she’d done that, she’d begun to get angry.

The morning brought one of the Slavemasters — she’d overheard one of them referring to their position as such, and she acknowledged that would leave her a slave — stomping into the small building and opening cells, tearing each individual out one by one and dragging them outside. It was a new day, and Riley had no idea what it held for her. And she was terrified.

But she refused to show it. She refused to let them break her. She would try as hard as she could, for as long as she fucking could, until she simply could take no more.

So when she was dragged from her cell she bit down on her lip to stop the cries of pain she’d felt every time she moved any part of her body, the fresh burn on her back seeming to tear further along her skin and searing every nerve in her body along with it.

The early dawn brought an eerie scarlet glow to the area, the constant dirty cloud of red that always lingered around the town. The man that had her, she assumed, was the same that she’d seen yesterday on account of the mask he’d dawned. She wondered what he’d planned to do with her for the day.

The city was an enormous maze of building remains and rigged up structures like boarded walls and small camps under makeshift canopies, burn barrels everywhere contributing to the smog and next to them usually some sort of forge or sawmill or furnace. It was always loud. But she could usually catch some chatter if she listened hard enough to those as she was pulled by them.

They brought her to a big enclosed courtyard with the only exit being the alley they came through. However, it was closed in by rooms that she figured used to be some sort of motel — some old rusted numbers still hung up on the metal doors, big windows to their sides boarded up or shattered. And she watched as the doors would open and workers would step in and out and she breathed a sigh of relief because maybe they wouldn’t make her live in a cage like an animal. That night had been one of the longest in her entire life and more of them were sure to drive her insane very quickly.

Room thirteen had the three missing but the shadow of where it hung still remained on the door that was pushed open, startling all of the workers in that room as Riley was thrown in carelessly and the door slammed behind her. She stumbled forward onto her hands and knees and automatically retracted away when hands reached out to her, away from those monsters that lurked everywhere she looked, but they weren’t the same gloved hands. In fact, they were much smaller, much softer hands, and she looked up at who they belong to and was shocked to see an older woman staring back at her.

“Oh, honey,” the woman said, shaking her head in pity, “you must be new here, huh?”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Riley sat topless on the stiff cot, wincing as Lidia used a small packet of burn cream and duct taped pieces of paper towels as bandages to cover the fresh wound on her back.

“Almost done.” The older lady said from over her shoulder.

Turns out the community of workers were tight-knit — at least those who had been here for some time. The Slavemasters seemed to have a tiny bit of compassion as it had turned out, giving the older of the workers the easier jobs that weren’t as strenuous as others. Like Lidia, who was in charge of food, for both masters and workers. The job itself, of course, was much rougher than a chef’s job would be anywhere else in the world before it turned — they had a reputation to keep up, naturally — but Lidia had somehow managed to remain a shining light in the darkness throughout her time here.

It baffled Riley, how some people could still find a reason to be genuinely happy even after the shit hand the world had dealt them.

“Did they take you, too?”

Riley sat up straighter, having forgotten Lidia was even there. “Huh?”

“I know you didn’t come here on your own,” she said matter-of-factly and Riley sighed, slouching back over so she could just remain small and unnoticeable. “So they took you away from somewhere, no?”

Riley thought hard about a response before she could find an answer she was comfortable with. As warm and gentle as Lidia seemed, Riley had a lot of time to contemplate her decisions to trust people so quickly as she sat curled up in the dark cell.

“Yeah,” she finally rasped, her shoulders slouching with a defeated sigh. “Yeah, they did.”

“Mm,” Lidia replied with a small nod as if she knew that was the answer regardless of how Riley responded. “Family? Friends?”

The conversation was so bitter, but yet, so natural — and Riley despised that.

No more small talk about the weather or your favorite sports teams latest game your favorite musician releasing a new album. None of that even remotely mattered anymore.

So she snorted in disgust, racking her brain for an appropriate answer that actually conveyed how she was feeling. She was so mad. She was mad and scared and sad and she didn’t want to think about Daryl again. She didn’t want that infamous pang of metaphysical pain that hurt her heart every time she thought of his voice or his eyes or the feeling of being wrapped up in his arms, safe and sound...

“I had a husband before this. His name was Martin — well, we called him Marty.” Lidia must’ve gotten impatient waiting for Riley to respond as she tripped the end of the duct tape and fastened it to her back securely. “He made it through this whole mess with me, kept us both safe and alive. We’d been married for 47 years, and that was — oh, jeez, how long has it been now?”

“What happened to him?”

Lidia shook out an old tank top, whipping some dust off to clean it the best she could, doing the same with a pair of matching black shorts that hung off of her hips just slightly too big for her small frame that only seemed to be shrinking by the minute.

“I’m not sure. I was waiting for him to return from hunting one morning when those... monsters took me.” Her voice didn’t fluctuate, she hardly seemed emotional at all. Maybe it had been a long time and she’d learned to deal with it by then. Or maybe they really can break you here and Lidia was on the verge of snapping. Riley admired her inability to let rage take over her like she’d done many times just that day. “You have to earn your shoes,” Lidia added bluntly.

“How can you still be so happy?” Riley didn’t mean for the words to come out as sharp and venomous as they did, but she couldn’t help it. Here she was, listening to this poor old woman reminisce about her husband who she hadn’t seen in ages after she was ripped away from him and forced into a life of slavery, and she still found time to help others and to extend her kindness and warmth to them. It didn’t make sense.

“Honey, Marty loved me for a reason.” She explained. “And if I change my ways, then I would be letting him down... and the last thing that man would ever want me to do is give up. Do you understand?”

Her words felt like a punch in the stomach, like she was directing them toward Riley and her spiteful attitude toward life, even though she knew she wasn’t. How was it possible to go through all of those hardships and not feel as though the world owed you something?

“Thank you,” Riley stood up from the cot she’d been sitting on and gestured behind her, “for... all this.”

“Tell me about him.”

She watched as Lidia turned away to tidy up the rotted desk behind her, collecting the new medical supplies she had and shuffling them away into a box far in the corner. Daryl. Could she even manage to say his name? Again, the conversation was so sourly casual to Riley, but there was something strong about this woman that Riley was drawn to; something that made her extremely wary, unable to forget the events that led her here in the first place.

But ultimately, she decided there was no harm in Lidia’s request, and maybe taking about him would help her feel a little bit better.

She sighed and slumped back down onto the mattress, trying to bury the sadness that overcame her. Lidia sat in a rickety wooden chair across from her. “His name’s Daryl.”

“Tell me about this Daryl.”

Where do I even start? “Daryl is the most...” her heart was swelling with admiration already and butterflies fluttered in her stomach like she was swooning to a friend about a crush after a first date. It was bittersweet — that even after all this time, he could still make her heart race and hands clam up. But yet, she found it hard to describe him accurately with just words. “He is the most selfless, misunderstood, and... broken human being that I’ve ever met.”

Lidia rested her head in her hand thoughtfully, become increasingly enthralled with Riley’s story word by word. “That is quite the combination.”

“Yeah,” the corner of her mouth absentmindedly quirked up into a small smile, just longingly daydreaming about him now; maybe if she described him with enough detail, enough to make him so vivid and tangible, he would just appear in front of her and take her back home. “He’s quite the anomaly.”

“Why do you say that?”

Why did she say that? That word seemed appropriate and rolled right off of her tongue. “He spends so much time being angry and pretending like he doesn’t care about anybody or anything... but I’ve never met somebody like him before — someone so selfless who would do anything for anybody just because he wants nothing more than to... just belong.”

Lidia was listening intently.

“Well, it sounds like you’re very special to Daryl.”

Riley’s cheeks flushed and she couldn’t help but smile.

“He’s very special to me.” The giddiness was short lived, though, and she blinked away the familiar pain of tears building up in her eyes. Everything she’d been trying to avoid showed itself in the form of watery eyes and a breaking voice. “I miss him so much.”

“I think you’re special, too, Riley.” Lidia leaned forward and used a tattered rag to comfortingly wipe away her tears. “And I don’t think that this is the end of your story. You just need to have hope. You can’t give up on Daryl.”

what a sweet old lady......

i will update the master list & the ‘previous’ ‘next’ chapter things tomorrow cuz i’m exhausted goodnight enjoy~~~

@crossbowking @jodiereedus22 @apossiblegentleman@mtngirlforever @sourwolf-sterek32 @winchester-angel @qrangr@cole-winchester @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @twdeadfanfic @crazyaboutnorman @deliciousassafrasssandwich @bunnymother93 @96ssi @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @ima-mther-fckn-starboy @thatsoragan @lonewolf471

title pic: background daryl i am the girl on the right lmao

#the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x ofc #the walking dead daryl #GUESS THE FUCKING VIDEO GAME YO

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czeriahshiptank · 5 years

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Missed connection

Ok, so I started writing this during the Zelink month last August, but we lost my aunt and life in general caught up with me. I've been stranded home with the chicken pox for the last week and a half, so I finally had time so stop and finish this.

Needless to say that it wasn't how I had imagined writing this particular piece, but it kinda got away from me, and I now think that it's probably my best one so far. I really like it...

It take place in a Hyrule after BOTW, with some weird spirits tracks elements, imagine just a BOTW Hyrule but where the technology had evolved again after the game, kinda modern time Hyrule. I might have a few headcanon going on in there, I hope I doesn't bother anybody.

I listened to this Youtube channel during the writing (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHW1oY26kxQ) and I think it grasp a lots of the general atmosphere I tried to convey, so don't hesitate to give it an ear during your reading.

As always, English is not my first language, so I apologize for any awful mistake I might have left, I've reread that a hundred time already and I can't see anything anymore...xD

Happy new year to everybody, and have a good read ! I hope to read in the comments your thoughts about this ^^

Note : cross posted on my own account on AO3.

That year, as it happen sometime, autumn arrived on a crisp summer night. One hour the air was heavy with warmth and sweetness and the next was ice cold and filled with the bittersweet taste of the end of something.

Weather in Hyrule was often like that, mostly on the far sides of the kingdom. The plain around the castle always seemed to have her own micro climate of soft breeze, shy sun and eventual rain, meanwhile the outskirt could go from year long frigid air of the Snowpeak, to the desertic warmth of the Gerudo valley.

But nothing ever felt like home to Link like the crisp and cold air of the Akkalan plains, so close in shape as the rest of the grand plateau but as if engulfed in a perpetual autumn late afternoon.

As much as he loved his job as Hyrule Train Track employee, he enjoyed it most when he was assigned here, in the Akkalan station. Most of his coworker were assigned to a certain place in particular and stayed there, or enjoyed running the trains all over the country while always going back home at the end of the day. Link wasn’t like that. He was a floater. They were only a handful of employee like him, never assigned to a task in particular, always changing affectation.

He hated staying in one place for too long, but he had to admit that this station near the University was his favorite one.

If you asked him, he would tell you it was because of the bright colors the tree leaves seemed to have all year long, from bright greens to dark reds. the low light of the sun on the long meadow, never high enough to make you feel like it was summer, but giving this eerie feeling of late autumn to the area all year long. He would tell you about the crisp air of the wind, sometime hot when it came down from the Eldin volcano, sometime full of salt when the sea would bring rain.

However, he would probably never tell you about his main reason to like the place.

In the very north-east of the province, you could find an old scientific facility. It was said that this place had been crucial in the defeat of the calamity, but that was hundreds of years ago and mostly history lovers would talk to you about that. It was only an hour away from Tarrey town, the capital of the region.

The place had probably changed a lot since that time. It was said that the only remaining piece was the giant telescope on top of it. The building was now surrounded by houses and smaller labs as well as the biggest university of the land.

The school was well loved by his students, as much for the history surrounding it that for the serenity that came with the area. It has a couple of coffee shop, the biggest library outside of Castle town and the kind of atmosphere you only see in movies, where everybody likes to study and all is good in the world. Like a Yuletide tale where the heroine find love at the end of the story.

Zelda kinda felt like she was the heroine of a bad movie like that, and if you asked her, she would tell you that she might have preferred not missing her last train home. But of course she had. Her last class of the semester had run late, the professor had gone on and on about the schism between the Sheikah and the Yiga, from all those centuries ago, and how it was believed that the royal family of that time hadn’t really made a good decision in making the Sheikah destroy all their technology. Zelda actually agreed with him, who knows how would be the scientific global knowledge if her ancestors hasn’t been so stupid. But as interesting that lecture had been, it had extended the lesson by a good thirty minutes and as a result made her missed the connection to the central tower which was the only way for her to go back home on time. She would have to wait for the 6.45 train on the next day and of course, had no way to go back to her small appartement in the campus since everything was closed for the Yule season.

She took in a long, meant to be calming, breath.

Part of her had always loved train station. Particularly this one. It wasn’t the huge ones you could find in big cities, engulfed in a shell of metal and glass. As claustrophobic in their metallic skull and ambient madness than liberating as the new travel prospect they announced. They always smelled like the end of something and the beginning of everything. The crowd and the noise, so overwhelming you just wanted to fall into the first train possible without knowing where it could take you, just hoping it would be an adventure..

The Akkala Faculty station was not like that. The station was situated just before Tarrey Town, which was the last of this line. It was composed of four docks, next to each other, and a small building to buy tickets and be safe from the weather.

It wasn’t in the middle of the city but slightly on the outskirt, just at the verge of the forest. If you squint along the east of the tracks, you could even see the ocean not so far away. It was always breezy, mostly in the evening, and most often misty in the morning. It has the kind of atmosphere you imagine when someone tells you a fairy tale filled with magic and weird places, the kind that gives you the chills and make you dream of sorceress and mighty heroes. The kind you see in these movies, where the two lost lovers meet and fall in love right next to the tracks before each leaving in a different trains.

Train station always made her think of sad love stories. Like the ones of the heroes of old, and the princesses also named Zelda. The ones where the princess send back her hero back in time to let him live his life, the one where he decide to leave all by himself, the ones where he died in her arms, and all she could do was to hope than in her next life they would finally be happy.

They're haven't been a hero for so many years, and even if the Royal Family kept the habit of calling their first born daughters Zelda, most of the links she met were the ones made on the Sheikahnet. Ganon, or the calamity, was just a memory, kept alive by Historian and old fear that it could always come back, but never really sure if it was a legend or reality.

She breathed out.

The sun was slowly going down, and there was no use staying outside now. No magic train would come and pick her up. She could only wait for the morrow. At least she had taken a couple of books with her.

Link loved reading strange stories on the Sheikahnet. Tales of liminal space, moments and places in time that did not really exist, but were there anyway. Feeling that anything could happen if you were attentive enough of your surrounding.

Like sometime in the morning, when from the corner of your eyes you could glimpse a fairy. Nobody ever believed him when he mentioned it as a kid, so he stop speaking about it, but it happened. A small light that would float on the verge of his consciousness when the light were low and the mist so thick you could cut it with a knife. He sometime dreamt about a moon about to fall, about great battles that happened here and somewhere else. Of big birds, one as red as the fire of Eldin, and another bluer than the sky above. He dreamt about fairies and princesses, sometime brunet, sometime as blond as the wheat he could see from the train windows. Sometime he dreamt he was dying, other time he dreamt that she was.

Most time he just dreamt of her. She was always the same even if she never bore the same face, and he was always himself even when he wasn’t.

He never talk to anyone about these dreams.

He loved the Akkala Faculty station most of all the places he knew. The weird feeling like he could meet anything, anybody from anywhere. Although at night, like right now, most of the time it was empty.

He hadn’t expected to see someone, let alone a girl, sitting on the bench inside the station, but here she was anyway. Long blond hair, falling on her laps, even as she put them back behind her long and fine hylian ears. She was reading a book and in the silence of the place he could hear a slow music being hummed. A lullaby of sort, one he had never heard before but was strangely familiar anyway.

She was familiar in that way strangers sometimes were, as if he had met her in another life, and maybe he had. He dreamt of strange life so often that he wouldn’t be surprised, and after all, he might have seen her on another day, in a train. She was familiar because somehow, he knew who she was, he had seen her, who hadn't? She was the crown princess after all, he recognized her. Everybody knew she was studying here. But he knew her, not in a gossipy way, just a true as saying he knew the grass was green or the sky was blue. He just knew….

“Excuse me miss, are you waiting on a train ? There isn’t another one before tomorrow…”

She hadn’t expected anyone to be there. The place was so small and quiet, she had never realized how much she had needed the calm before staying there for the last hour, alone with her book and the slow sound of the light rain falling on the glass ceiling of the station. His voice made her jump slightly, all taken as she had been by the story within the page of her novel, she hadn’t heard him coming closer. He was wearing the uniform of the Train Tracks, a green tunic, with golden boutons. A nice green cap over dirty blond hair and big blue eyes who were looking at her with a bit of worry.

“Yes, I know, I missed my last one and can’t go home because of the holiday. I was hoping of staying here for the night, is that a problem ? I can leave…” Now that he was closer, she could read his name embroidered in gold lettering.“...Link?”

The name was strangely familiar on her lips. And after all, it was. She study history after all, and if one name came back as often as her own, it was this one. It was quite a strange name to wear nowadays, less and less people named their sons after the heroes of old. Too much to bear, too dangerous, if the calamity was to come back, and their son was the one to go ? She could understand the predicament. After all, she herself was the most likely Zelda to be called upon if anything like that were to happen.

“Oh, no, don’t worry miss, you can stay.”

His voice was soft, almost inaudible. She had read that a lot of the heroes had been shy, silent, some says that a few were completely mute. She wondered if all the Link in the country were like the first one, if the name was implicitly making them take certain character. A name is a heavy burden to carry, one that most parent didn't really realize.

She looked at him and everything inside her was yelling that she knew him, but no word would come out of her mouth, his eyes were full of recognition and the fear was restraining her heart. The silence stretched for what seemed like years, when finally her throat allowed for the sound of her hope and fear to come out.

“Do I know you ?”

Could she know him? Yes she could, as true as he knew her without having a clue on how he did. He wanted to touch her, to feel the soft skin of her hand like all the other time he had met her. Sometime with a glove, sometime with fur. He knew her in a way he couldn’t understand.

His voice was silent in the back of his throat, memories of dreams too real, and realities that couldn't have been anything else but dreams. In this place where everything could happen, he had met her, and somehow, something in him told him it was impossible.

But here she was, Zelda, his princess, his everything in so many lives. It was unlikely, said the voice inside his head, that they somehow manage to meet for once without the hovering of an horrible future. But maybe it had happen, maybe this time they could just be themselves without the fear of imminent death and unshakable duty…

Maybe it was just a flicker of his imagination, maybe it was just him who felt the overwhelming need to wrap her in an embrace and never let her go. He wanted to say something, anything, try to make her feel what he felt…

“I think you do.”

They looked at each other for what felt entire lifetimes. All the one they could never be together, and some of the one where they were. They say that some kind of love transcend life time and maybe theirs is one of them.

One of Zelda favorite story was the one of the creation of this land. Strangely enough, it arrived almost unscathed to them when so many others were just like tree leaves, scattered to the wind, never to be heard again. It was said that it was the will of the goddess that her soul be reborn in a human girl, and her hero soul to follow hers until the end of time. And maybe it was what that was. She for sure wasn't feeling really goddess like right now, but the rythme of her heart was telling her that it was him.

Some things are just too hard to ignore, and the attraction she felt for this boy, no older than her, was unprecedented. Before that, she realized, she had been mostly going through her life like a lifeless puppet. Or maybe the goddess had just made everything happening to make their encounter possible.

Her mind was filled with so many memories that weren’t her own, it was almost hard to keep up. All the faces of the same man, so different were suddenly juxtaposing on the face of the one in front of her. That’s how she realized.

“Do you...want to have a coffee ? I think we both need a hot drink…”

The eyes and the voice, they had always been the same.

They ended up in the all night coffee shop next to the station. The place was about as empty as it could be, a few patrons here and there and a waitress who would have prefer another shift. The music was soft, the booth comfortable. Their hands were joined in the middle of the table and their hot coco discarded on the far side of the table for the last ten minutes. If you looked carefully, you could see the soft curl of three triangles softly shining on the back of their hands, another proof of what was happening, but too taken they were with each others presence, neither of them seemed to acknowledge their presence.

They had talk about their lives, how for all this time it has felt like something was missing. For the first time Link told someone about his dreams, and Zelda about her own. They spoke endlessly about their families their works, the school. How freeing conducting a train was, and how much a single jar could teach you about your own civilisation.

It felt like no time at all had pass when Zelda realized the first ray of light had started to appear by the large window of the shop. The clock was announcing 6 o’clock, and it was almost time for her to catch her train. They had taken the time to exchange slate number, and as Zelda was dragging him to watch the sunrise on the tracks, the incomprehensible need to tell him she loves him was overwhelming.

How could she just say that to someone she barely knew, if her mother were here she would probably scold her like the teenager she acted like. But when her eyes fell once again into his, it was like the whole world was lit on fire.

She didn’t know him, yet, but her soul did. And if you can’t trust the very soul of the goddess to find true love, then who could you trust ?

She was surrounded by light and Link had never seen anything as beautiful as her right now. The whole evening was surrealist, but even him couldn’t have invented a plot like that for a dream he hasn’t been asleep to have. For all time, the mere concept of Soulmate has seemed somewhat preposterous to him. Not something someone like him could ever hope to have. Even with the dreams. So many of them finished with despair and sadness that he never thought that he would meet her, and live to tell the tale, even less enjoy her mere presence, here, in his favorite place of the world, with her in his arms.

But here she was, and together they were.

Well, she had to leave soon enough, but they knew the real them now, and texting was a thing they could do. Meet up somewhere else and get to know the them from this lifetime, after getting to know all the them from before. They could go on dates, learn to love each other, and spend the rest of their life, knowing that they would never be truly ever appart for long.

Maybe the next one won’t be as nice and peaceful as this one was about to be, but he knew they would be together.

Finally the train arrived, he listened to the sound of the wheels, grinding against the tracks, smelled the smoke of the chimney concealing them from the crowd starting to mass around them. Even now, they felt alone, just the two of them. Neither of them could say which one went for it first, but when their lips met, if was like a hello and a goodbye. The happiness of the start, followed by the bittersweetness of the separation.

It was a promise of more to come.

The ring of the train called them back to reality and Link dutifully brought them to her wagon, helping her with her luggage before dropping a last short kiss on her lips, followed by one on her hands.

“Your highness, I’ll text you when I arrived in Castle Town on the weekend.”

She could feel the blush on her cheeks, she curtsied.

“I’ll be waiting” she paused and winked at him, “Even if I sure hope you will text me sooner.”

He smiled at her and she swear it could have eclipsed the sun.

He watched as the train left the station, too slowly and too quick at the same time. Once it had disappeared, his gaze got lost in the forest surrounding the area. The leaves, as green as her eyes, and red like the blush the hard wind had left on her cheeks.

Yes, Akkala University Station was definitely his favorite assignation.

#zelink #zelink month 2018 #very late entry #missed connection #love story #fanfiction #fic #mywriting #star crossed lovers #zelda botw #zelda breath of the wild #zelda spirit tracks #modern time hyrule

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chan-yolo · 6 years

Text

Benevolence Part 8

A/N Hi Guys! It’s been a while since I’ve updated this fic, and I am very sorry about that. But I've successfully finished my second year of university, so hopefully I can concentrate on my writing a lot more for the summer.

I hope you enjoy this part, it’s kind of a filler? But it paves the way for future chapters.

Genre: Mafia au!

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun/ Reader

Warning: not that I know of.

Word Count: 3568

On-going series.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

Baekhyun’s POV

“I’m going insane.” I slammed the empty glass on the table in front of me, leaning back in my chair, huffing in annoyance. The place smelt like stale alcohol, and different types of expensive aftershave. The lights were in different hues of blues and reds, an attempt to make the place a lot more erotic than sleazy.

Diamond was one of the many strip joints Xiumin had decided to invest in. I had never indulged in this part of the lifestyle much before, only ever being dragged to them by Chanyeol if he convinced me. This time he had done it on the basis of ‘it’s work related’. Jongdae and Chanyeol were supposed to be getting intel, but instead they had been getting lap dances. I on the other hand, had been getting drinks. Strong ones. Anything to drown out the over bearing thoughts floating around in my head right now.

Calling for another drink I slumped back in my seat, watching young women grind on the stage at the front of the club. Shortly another drink was placed in front of me, I didn’t hesitate to drink the burning liquid in one go. The amount of alcohol I had consumed had left my head fuzzy and my vision blurry, making it hard to concentrate on my thoughts and my sight.

“Do you know what? Who does she think she is? Coming in, changing the dynamic, fucking whoever she wants, kissing whoever she wants.” Glaring at the empty glass in my hand, my head lulled to the side, finally becoming heavy with the amount of alcohol I had consumed.

“Dude forget about her, there’s other things going on around you.” Chanyeol muttered from next to me, his eyes trained on the stage in front, never once leaving the curves of the petite stripper grinding on stage.

“You don’t understand, I kissed her, me! She should be honoured.” I pointed at my tall friend, trying to come off as manly but the pout probably did nothing to convey that.

“You need to lighten up, maybe get a dance?” I could hear the smile in Jongdae’s voice, slowly I turned to face him, watching as a curvy blonde girl whispered, probably dirty things, in his ear. Making the grin on his face widen, and a seductive gaze glint in his eyes.

“I don’t want a dance!” I boomed, quickly standing from my chair, stumbling backwards, causing Jongdae and Chanyeol to finally turn their attention to me.

“I think it’s time to take him home.” Chanyeol stood, causing Jongdae to sigh, whispering a few last words to the stripper on his lap, before joining the two of us on the way to the exit.

. . .

Walking into the house. Well I can’t remember how we got there. But winding through the hallways was giving me a headache, and to be quite honest a nap on the red carpeted floors seemed like quite a good idea right now. That was until I saw her. Walking straight towards us, still dressed in Yixing’s grey sweats, hair up, glasses on. It infuriated me. How could she look so innocent while playing these games?

“Yah!” I pointed at her, falling forwards slightly, causing Chanyeol and Jongdae to have to pull me up, wrapping their arms around my waist to keep me steady. Her face was alarmed, her eyes still hazy with sleep, yet a little more awake now.

“You! Is this a game to you? You should really leave, we don’t need you here. I’m sure we could all find new toys to play with anyways, you’re replaceable.”

Chanyeol pulled me towards the kitchen y/n had just come out of, trying to lessen the chance of an argument happening in the early hours of the morning. Jongdae pushed me into the kitchen, swearing at me under his breath, leaving y/n to just stand in the hallway completely confused.

Jongdae pushed me into one of the chairs situated at the kitchen island, sitting in the one next to me, as Chanyeol fetched a glass of water. Minseok stood at the island eyeing me, trying to work out what had just happened.

“What did you do?” He narrowed his eyes at me. I lowered my head on the table, no longer having the strength to rant anymore, instead feeling like, if I didn’t close my eyes I would throw up all over the counter.

“We went to scout your club, and someone had one too many, and now he hasn’t only just ruined our night, he’s probably confused the hell out of y/n because he feels like he owns her, and is having a paddy over her and hyung.” Jongdae whined, glaring at me. I couldn’t find the energy to argue back and tell him he was wrong.

I could literally hear Minseok rolling his eyes at the situation, placing the water Yeol had poured in front of me before clapping my back.

“Forget her and get over it, she’s just a girl. I’ll introduce you to some more.” With that he left the room, also leaving Chanyeol and Jongdae with the task of looking after me.

. . .

Y/N POV

Last night was restless. When you woke up, it was as if you hadn’t even slept at all. After the little stunt last night with Baekhyun, you had been thinking more than usual about what was really going on here. Was he really that bothered about what had happened with Junmyeon? The questions kept you up most of the night, resulting in your lethargic state as you stared up at the grand ceiling of your bedroom.

You thought back to your encounter with Baekhyun, mind trying to go over what had happened, trying to understand what was going through his own mind. Was this a game? Was it just you playing, or was everyone a part of it? Shaking your head, trying to loosen the grip the thoughts had on you. You decided to forget about it for now.

Making your way towards the kitchen, yawning and stretching, you rubbed sleep out of your eyes. Confused about the time of day it was, as well as what day it was. You hadn’t really been keeping tabs on it.

Upon reaching the kitchen, mid eye rub, you froze. All nine of EXO were currently conversing. Well they were before you had reached the room. You didn’t know whether you should say something. In the past it hadn’t really done you any favours, so now probably wasn’t the best time. But the tension filling the room was thick. You could feel some definite glares your way, *cough* Sehun and Baekhyun *cough*. But you had chosen to ignore them, awkwardly looking down at your bare feet instead.

Minseok let out an awkward cough, somehow feeling as if that would diffuse some tension, but it only highlighted how thick said tension was. As expected, not long after Junmyeon jumped in, filling the eerie silence with his orders.

“Get yourself ready, you’re going to pick up some stuff with Soo.” You looked at him incredulously, not quite sure what he meant, but with each pointed stare you got from the men in the room, you didn’t feel like now was the time to disobey.

. . .

“Why am I going shopping with you? You don’t seem like the shopping type.” You looked through the shelves of expensive food, you hadn’t eaten this well in ages, and it seemed apparent that these men had a taste for the nicer things in life.

“It’s a job. Plus, how do you think we shop for groceries?” Kyungsoo’s voice was deep, and held authority behind it. And quite frankly, you were a little scared of him.

“I just assumed you ordered online, or got a henchman to do it.”

“Can you just get what you need.” Kyungsoo was fed up now, not wanting to be here any longer then he had to be.

“What about clothes?”

“They’ll be waiting for you at home.” There was a silence as you looked at the various shelves, every so often picking up things you might need for the house. Though what Kyungsoo said next shocked you making you stop and stare at the products in front of you.

“Last night Baekhyun said some pretty mean things.”

“So, you heard that?” You finally said.

“We all did.”

“I guess I deserved it.” You tossed a can into the basket, avoiding the gaze of Kyungsoo’s eyes on your form.

“You did.” At this you turned around, shocked at how blunt he sounded. Though what else were you expecting? Kyungsoo sighed, not really wanting to get into this, but knowing that if it came from anyone else, it would be shouted at you instead of spoken.

“Look y/n, you’re not the first girl who’s made their way in. Granted you’re the first one we’ve worked with, but you still come with complications, not just regarding Baekhyun and Suho, but your life before we let you in.” Kyungsoo pushed the shopping cart, pushing you along as well.

“Baekhyun, he can be sensitive, and Suho, well he can be mean. You need to think about what you want from the two, and if it’s bad intentions, well I suggest you get out.” He stopped once more, his big eyes sending a hard stare into your own, as if he was trying to work out your intentions then and there.

“And if I don’t have bad intentions?” You questioned. Kyungsoo scanned your face for a bit longer, before replying.

“Apologise. It’s as simple as that.” Letting out a huff, you followed him through the store, not really paying attention to what was brought, but more to what your intentions truly were.

. . .

Once the quiet drive back to the house was over, you offered to help Kyungsoo with packing everything away, but he just waved you off, telling you, you had other things to be doing, and that you were just wasting time.

Which was completely true, but you denied it.

Upon leaving the kitchen you were met with a dilemma. Left took you to your room, which had your bed, shower and apparently new clothes, whereas right brought you to Baekhyun’s little tech room, which you happened to know he was in.

Letting out a grunt, you made your way to your right, slowly moving towards the room, trying not to chicken out and turn back.

Standing outside the door for a few seconds, your mind battled with itself, trying to figure out whether this was a good idea. Shaking your head, you raised you fist awkwardly, knocking on the solid door, hoping he didn’t hear you. But to your disappointment, the door was flung open, not by Baekhyun, but his best friend Chanyeol. His eyes looked you up and down, and he gave you a sad smile, letting you in. Baekhyun, like always, was sat in his chair, eyes scanning over each screen set up in front of him. He was dressed in black sweat pants and a loose fitting white top, a cap covering his messy hair.

His gaze flickered to you for a brief second, and you could almost hear his eyes rolling. Why were you so nervous? Why did you feel so disappointed in yourself? Yet angry at the same time. You let in a breath, trying to muster up the courage to start whatever conversation you were going to have.

“Baekhyun… I thought maybe we could talk.” You stayed in your spot, looking at him, trying not to come across pleading.

“Now isn’t a good time.” His words were harsh and blunt, no meant no for him right now. But that wasn’t the answer you wanted.

“I just… I think we need to, I need to explain some things.”

“I’m working.”

“I know but…” A new knock at the door stopped your desperate voice. Chanyeol opened the door once again, Minseok popped his head in, eyes landing on you.

“There you are, we need you to look at some things.” You moved your gaze from Minseok to Baekhyun, pleading him to let you talk.

“Come to my room at six, we’ll talk then.” His eyes were quick to look away from you, and you nodded, slowly following Minseok out of the room, and back down the hallway.

Minseok opened the door to Junmyeon’s office, before I had entered this room with confidence, now it was just regret. To your left sat Sehun, staring at you with that judgemental stare he always seemed to have, drink in hand. Sat behind his desk was Junmyeon, he looked at you over his glasses, gesturing for you to take a seat in front of him.

Cautiously you sat down, looking over the papers scattered across the table. The ones from the file. Leaning back into his chair, Junmyeon took his glasses of, throwing them into the table.

“I want to ask you some more questions about what you said about Hyunsuk, I need to know more about why he sold people.” Your gaze flickered to his own. You really didn’t want to tell them. You hadn’t spoken about it to anyone, and you wouldn’t let Sehun, Junmyeon and Minseok be the first ones to hear the story. You shook your head, not wanting to cooperate this time.

“I don’t see why you can’t just tell us, do you know what is at stake here?” Sehun stood up, pulling his chair closer to yours. You refused to look at him, instead looking down at Junmyeon’s desk. Sehun grabbed your forearm, trying to catch your attention, you looked down to where he had hold of you, looking into his eyes, unsure of what he was going to do.

“The bar we went to last night, I met a guy there by the name of Taemin, he happened to mention your name, do you know him?” Your gaze wavered, shaking your head your eyes pleaded with him.

“Oh, come on Y/N, he obviously knew who you were, we just want to know why you were so close with a guy that worked with Choi Hyunsuk.” The anxiety was bubbling within you, swallowing you and providing your mind with hidden memories you had tried numerous times to forget. Turning to Junmyeon, you knew he could sense the trouble you were under right now, but would he even care? Looking back at Sehun, you pleaded with him once more.

“I need more time.” Your voice sounded exhausted,

“We might not have time.”

“I can’t okay, you don’t understand.” The anxiety could be heard in your voice, sending a tremble throughout you.

“The things I saw. The things he did. Please not now.” You looked back at Junmyeon, the look in your eyes now one that was frightened. His eyes scanned your face, looking for any signs you were less than genuine. He shifted in his chair, giving a harsh nod.

“Fine, leave.” He waved you away giving the signal to leave. Sehun’s grip loosened and you pulled away, nearly jogging out of the room. As soon as the door slammed behind you, you let out a huge breath, trying to find air you felt you had been lacking in the room.

. . .

Six O’clock came fast. Faster than you wanted. You found yourself at five minutes to six, pacing outside of Baekhyun’s room, trying to give yourself a pep talk, encouraging yourself to do this.

“Come on y/n you’ve got this, you’ve rehearsed it, and he has no right to be mad. You’re okay.” You were half way through your pep talk when the door to his bedroom flew open, making you stop in the spot you were walking in. You were a deer caught in the headlights. You didn’t anticipate seeing him this soon, you hadn’t even finished your pep talk yet. His eyes scanned you, doing one full sweep from your head to your toes and back up again.

“Come in.” His voice was uninterested, but you didn’t have time to evaluate it. You paced into his room, coming to a halt in the middle of his room, looking over you slowly turned back towards where he was closing the door. Clasping your hands together, your eyes made contact, and you took your time to look over him as the awkward silence settled in the room. He was still dressed in the same black sweats and white tee from earlier, but his hair was a lot neater. Though his face was different, he looked tired, or was it confused? You didn’t really know what the look in his eyes was, but it wasn’t the usual mischievous one he had held when you first met him. you missed it.

“So, what do you have to say?” His question was blunt, and his stare was pointed. It made you uneasy, and you didn’t quite know how to address this.

“I wanted to talk about the thing with Junmyeon…”

“What about it?”

“It was just a one-time thing, it didn’t mean anything.” You shook your head trying to get your explanation across.

“Do you know what? I get it, that’s the kind of thing you’re into.” His voice was harsh and bitter, like a slap in the face.

“What do you mean?” Your mood changed, now confused and slightly offended.

“You look for these one-night stands, you like to play, Jongdae warned me about girls like you.” He pointed at you, fire in his eyes.

“Girls like me? The only girls Jongdae knows are strippers, I am not someone who plays those kind of games, and if I were it wouldn’t be your right to judge, I don’t see Junmyeon getting this treatment.” You fired back, now just as angry as Baekhyun.

“Why him?” He shouted at you, taking you off guard.

“What?”

“Why him of all people?”

“Why do people keep asking me that? I can sleep with who I want, it’s not like I had a go at you for hanging out at a strip joint, I’m allowed to be with other men.” Your tone was exasperated, you could feel the beginnings of a tension headache coming along.

“No, you’re not, you can’t.” Baekhyun was flustered, his hands were in his hair, messing up the dark strands.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not me.” His voice was rising, making your anger bubble up once again. You let a silence overcome the two of you, so you could process what he was saying.

“So, you’re saying you just want sex? You’re angry that you didn’t get there first, is that it?” You laughed at him, not believing what was happening.

“No!... It’s not that.” Looking up at the ceiling, Baekhyun let out an exasperated sigh.

“Then what is it?” silence was the only answer you were met with, you wondered why you even tried talking to him. All it got you was an unneeded argument and no answers at all. Letting out a sigh, you made your way back towards the door.

“Fine I can’t be bothered anyways, I’m tired.” Going to leave, you reached to open the door, ready to go to bed. But a force turning you around stopped you. You were taken off guard as you were turned around and trapped against the door, Baekhyun’s arm was above your head as he leaned down into you, looking into your eyes once before he dipped his head down to connect his lips with your own. The kiss was unexpected. But it was familiar, and you had missed it. It had felt like months since Baekhyun had kissed you the first time, and you forgot how much you had missed the feeling of his soft lips upon your own. His kiss was longing, yet you knew he was confused. He pulled away to look at you once again. His other hand hesitantly came up to move a stray strand of hair away from your face and behind your ear.

“Please, don’t leave, not again. You always leave.” He rested his forehead on our own, his eyes searching yours, for what you did not know.

“Please, stay.” There was a waver in his voice, and you didn’t quite know what this all meant.

“If I stay, they will only start rumours.” He pulled back, arms pulling you into him, his head resting on top of your own as he left a kiss there.

“I don’t care, just stay with me tonight.” Nodding your head, you agreed. Letting him pull you towards his bed, he pulled back the covers, climbing in, with you joining shortly after. He pulled you into his chest, kissing your head once again. You let a silence settle for a few minutes, thinking about everything that had just happened.

“I’m sorry.” Your apology was quiet, but to you it felt right.

“I know, I’m sorry too, but we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” You nodded once again. Feeling Baekhyun’s warm hands soothingly stroke your back, sending you to sleep. and quite honestly, it was the most comfortable you had been since taking up residence in this mafia’s home. And by the way Baekhyun had relaxed into you, you had an idea it was the same for him also. That alone put you at ease for what was going to happen tomorrow, and that was, indeed, tomorrow’s problem

#benevolence #benevolence part 8 #byun baekhyun #baekhyun #baekhyun exo #baekhyun scenario #exo #exo scenario

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ohmygillygoshoppler · 6 years

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o w, there’s some thing in m y e y e s

feat @youngesthorseman

Fire crackled and kids talked outside. Even those faintest of noises hurt Shelby's head as she lay on her bedroll, clutching her head between her hands. She looked as though she was simply trying to fall asleep, but insider her head her brain throbbed. Her head pounded and her eyes somehow burned. The barbarian rolled this way and that, but she did little to convey the pain of her affliction.

She wanted to stomp out the fire, stop that annoying crackling sound and try to sleep it off, but getting up warranted the possibility of getting flashed in the face by the burning embers. She wished for a moment her companion actually had a pair of legs or something to stomp that mess out with. This sucked.

The pounding in her head grew louder and louder, as if somebody were crashing drums right beside her. She thought she even heard Face say something, but is was unclear, muffled and overpowered by her intense headache. Shelby rolled over onto her back and groaned.

The barbarian shifted with a start when she felt something pressing against her leg. Someone was sitting beside her, she guessed it was the healer coming to see her. Good, she was wishing she could've gotten Simone's help.

The witch leaned over her other, checking her chest over once again. She poked at a few of Shelby's ribs and felt around for any other disturbances. As her right hand glided over the other's body with a pale white light, Simone felt twinges of the barbarian's pain in that area of her own body. She winced and hissed ta the feeling of stressed lungs and bruised ribs. She felt horrible.

"Don't worry, Shelby," The witch started. "I've go a little something more than tea and asprin to help you this time..."

She brought a hand forth to smooth back Shelby's dark hair, and the very second her fingers touched her forehead, her ears rang and her head pounded. She recoiled with a cry and grasped at her left eye, feeling as through something might have popped. Face was giggling in the corner. Simone did her best to ignore him.

"You've got a migraine, on top of that concussion, no less." She murmured as she returned to the other's side. "Let me try something-"

"Try what? What are you doing?" The sentient shield squawked, but Simone ignored it.

She could feel the contempt of the sneering shield behind her, cursing and asking what she was doing to it's "pet," and on and on and on. Whatever it was it was doing seemed to be bothering Shelby, since she began to try and sit up,trying to speak up and open her eyes, but Simone was still touching her, she was still feeling all of that pain. Shelby was tough, but she was needed alive.

Simone began to lightly push down on Shelby's shoulder, and she didn't take to kindly to that. She must have grabbed her in too much of a rush. Shelby reached up and grabbed a fistful of Simone's dress, but the witch would have absolutely none of that. She brought her left hand to Shelby's wrist and pried her strong grip away, trying her best not to burn her or hurt her. Her right hand quickly returned to her head, placing a thumb on her forehead. The bluish-green hue of the barbarian's eyes dulled, glazed over by a milky sheen of pale white energy.

"Be still, and let me see if I can get this to work-" The witch mumbled as she pressed a thumb into the other's forehead.

Shelby twitched, first through her arms and legs, and then through her fingers. Her breathing slowed alarmingly, but Simone felt no danger. Her pulse all but stooped under her fingers and she leaned forward, setting Shelby onto her back.

Face seethed behind her. "Get away from her! What are you doing? You're killing her!"

"I'm doing nothing of the sort-" The witch snapped over her shoulder, as she tenderly removed her thumb from Shelby's head. She took note of the milky glow of her eyes.

"Shelby?" Simone leaned close and whispered so as not to hurt her head. "Can you hear me?"

Shelby lay on her back, staring at nothing with an eerie, unblinking stare. "I can hear you."

Hazel eyes widened and inspected her barbarian's face closely. She leaned close to her chest and listened to her breathing. It was slow and deep, almost inaudible. She stole another glance up at her eyes, and pondered what to do next.

"Can you see me?" the witch asked, inspecting her chest again.

"I can see you," Shelby's voice was hoarse, as if she'd been coughing too much. "I see your eyes."

White light glimmered from one spot to another, leaving bright after images along the length of Shelby's torso. She talked while she worked her magic. "Can you feel me? Is the pain going away?"

"Your eyes..." came the gravely voice again. "What's wrong with your eyes?"

Simone stopped her exertions and blinked a few times. Nonsensical stuff could be expected of this woman's alien shield, but from Shelby? Despite the vacancy of her whitened eyes, she seemed to be looking right up at the witch.

"What's the matter with my eyes?" Simone asked in a hushed voice. "They're fine, dear."

"They're's several of them-" Shelby spoke again drawing a deep breath. "-And your hands... They have eyes too..."

Simone listened as her expression twisted from concerned to horrified. What was this magic doing to her? Was she mistaken fro trying to heal her with it? Was this part of Luna's plan? Her mind reeled, she would never have been able to forgive herself if she were responsible for endless hallucinations of visions to torment the her barbarian any further. What to do? Think-

"It- it's still me, Shelby." Simone spoke softly, gently sliding the dark fabric of her shirt back down to her waist. She placed her healing hand on her stomach.

"My head doesn't hurt anymore..."

"I know. I took your migraine. You're going to go to sleep now, and you'll wake up all better. Okay?"

Something sparked inside of Shelby's lifeless eyes, prompting her to take a quick breath and sigh, almost as if the pain was then physically lifting from her being. Simone herself breathed a sigh of relief when Shelby's breathing returned to normal. She felt her neck for a pulse and took comfort in knowing that was stabilizing, too.

"Go to sleep, and I'll have breakfast for you when you wake up, but you have to finish healing first, so-"

Simone scooted over and sat herself on her heels. She closed her barbarian's eyes with two fingers and bent over, kissing her forehead. Her lips left a soft white glow. She sat there for a few moments after to ensure that she was, in fact, sleeping. It was strangely quiet for a good while, about twelve minutes before that puzzle of a shield started talking again. Of all things in this place to give Simone a fright, that shield was one of them.

"You're experimenting on people now?" Face taunted as the witch made to leave. "I thought you were a piece of work before-"

Experimenting, sure? But how else was she going to figure out how this new gift of hers worked? Of course she had to experiment, and if not on anybody, why not somebody who desperately needed it? She was in no humor for this shield's weird little mind games, she had others to heal. She needed to figure out how this thing works, and how far she can take it.

"I have nothing to say to you." The witch said, turning her nose up as she crossed Shelby's tent and grabbed one of the blanket's that seemed not so caked in blood and soot. "Hush and let her rest. She needs it."

With that, she took the blanket and draped it over the sleeping body. Memories of caring for injured friends at her school, back when she volunteered to be the nurse's assistant. She would help take care of other children that had fallen ill or hurt themselves. Fevers, colds, scrapes, burns, and even cases of flu were all looked over by her and the one nurse in the whole damn school. I was no hospital, no, but it would be sad at times when kid's stomachs would hurt so bad they literally couldn't stand it. She could feel their pain.

Just like she could feel their pain now. All of them.

She reflected on that as she exited the tent into the warm evening air. Rain was coming.

#apocalypse survivors #derp #i dunno #i had a weird dream during my nap earlier #so I thought to incorperate it into this lil short here #i guess #*shrugs*

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miniatureclover · 4 years

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Faraway Wanderers Reading Blog: Chapters 06-10

I AM BACK! Maybe I’ll be able to finish this live blog series before the live action comes out? Hopefully?

Chapter 6: The Beauty

Gu Xiang and Zhou Zishu are way too much together, ha. They also make a good team, surprisingly, even with Zhou Zishu having to bow out of the fight part way (throwing the same “poor fragile me” excuse Gu Xiang used right back at her…except he actually means it since the fool is literally dying a slow death by nails). He’s also a good teacher, and her a good student, and this really isn’t helping him lay low but ah well, I guess that flew out of the window once this whole mess started.

The fight scenes are pretty good, too. Gu Xiang is young and confident, but absolutely brutal and not afraid to use hidden weapons. She has good reflexes and instincts, though she is still young, and that’s reflected in her panic when she loses her weapon and getting overconfident. Contrast that with Zhou Zishu who is very observant and picks up some stones to help her out when he has to rest, and you can see the clear difference between them as people with two different experience levels. It’s really neat how the narrative manages to mix the characters’ life experiences, personality, and age into the way they fight without giving it away explicitly.

She blinked in astonishment — this ragged man’s ramblings worth diddlysquat, but his execution in battle was one of the cleanest and cruelest she had ever seen. It really made one wonder who he was.

Really throwing that image out the window. Guess it’s lucky he was nerfed by the nails, huh. And it turns out that our main character is also a rather brutal fighter, when he can fight without collapsing.

And here enters Wen Kexing, finally with a proper name! What an entrance. He’s already kind of a creep with no sense of personal boundaries, ha. He’s also really, really perceptive though. In a creepy way (who says “your shoulder blades are beautiful, therefore your face must also be beautiful”?? he’s such a ridiculous flirt).

Alas, we are left wondering whether Wen Kexing is really blinded by good looks or just very perceptive after Gu Xiang says that he has a tendency to exaggerate.

Chapter 7: Setting Off

Oh gosh, this poor boy. Protect him, he is precious. I’m talking about Zhang Chengling of course, who starts the chapter off crying because he has seen a lot of stuff go down, like his entire family dying to start things off, followed by people coming to kill him and a seemingly random beggar agreeing to deliver him somewhere safe? But, alas, might as well cry yourself a river while you’re at it, kid. It’s going to be a rough ride now that he’s stuck with this ragtag group.

Wen Kexing is such a clown. He has his wits about him, but he is such a clown with a punchable face. Zhou Zishu isn’t actually much better in terms of acting like a normal human being interacting with smaller human beings. At least Zhang Chengling is resilient. He bounces back quickly and continues to pester Zhou Zishu to become his teacher. He does still have nightmares, which makes sense after all he’s been through.

But he seems to remind Zhou Zishu of someone from his past, which is interesting.

Back to why Zhang Chengling is a precious bun and must be protected: after having nightmares and believing he’s woken his savior up, he says things like “I can…I can stop sleeping if it’s a problem?” That is not actually a legitimate solution to the problem, believe it or not.

Then some enemies arrive with a superpowered guqin/zither, which is hilarious no matter how many novels or dramas I encounter considering traditional guqin with silk strings aren’t very loud instruments (the description from the first sentence of the next chapter is right in that it’s more of a “thin” sound than other instruments).

Chapter 8: Moonshade

Wen Kexing is indeed an enigma, the perfect match for Zhou Zishu who is undoubtedly one himself. In between his moments of eccentricity, he provides a lot of insight to the martial arts world, the way he conveys the harshness of life in it striking a rather eerie note (Wen Kexing’s voice was gentle, “Even if he’s still alive, all of his meridians have been broken; he’s useless now. Death would be a happier fate for him.”) and slides right out of it a moment later.

This match also speaks to Zhou Zishu’s capabilities: injured, he managed to beat Qin Song who is apparently well-known for his ability to kill people with that zither, and with a crudely constructed flute at that.

He felt a particular aura from this man that suggested they might be birds of a feather, the other would definitely not do something if it didn’t benefit him. […] After lots of thoughts without any solid conclusions, he scoffed at himself — old habits died hard.

You two are indeed birds of a feather, glad you noticed. I do like how he slips back into old habits, after all, he only recently stepped away from his former life as a spymaster, it’d be difficult to put a stop to all of his old tendencies.

They even proceed to exchange a few moves, presumably to figure each other out, until the pesky nails driven into Zhou Zishu’s torso act up, which gives Wen Kexing an opportunity to be a creep and touch his face. Half of it makes sense, since he’s convinced Zhou Zishu is “a beauty” and hiding it somehow, but he seems the type to have done such a thing even without that reason.

This exchange is hilarious though:

-What’s my face made of? -Human skin. -It feels like it’s one with your body… -Well, I was born with it, so.

…I should hope so. These two are a comedy duo in their own right.

Gu Xiang continues to be a delight, in any case. She has no reserve about making smart comments as soon as Wen Kexing’s back is turned, probably knowing he can still hear her at a distance.

Finally, three days later, their little party manages to make it to Zhang Chengling’s father’s friend, but we’re only on chapter 8, which means there’s much more chaos to be had in their future. For now, Zhou Zishu is relieved he finished his self-imposed mission and gained some “merits”, but muses on how it’s exhausting to be good person, haha. Indeed, the world doesn’t make it easy sometimes, especially not the crazy martial arts world they live in.

Chapter 9: In the Woods

Name info-dump, I guarantee I will remember none of them. It does fill out the world and fits with Zhou Zishu’s character, since his job required him to know all the nitty-gritty details of the major players in the martial arts world.

Ultimately, the exposition serves to let us know why he decides stay in the manor for a bit, as he’s well aware that Zhao Jing and the rest of the people grouping up at his place aren’t as glamorous and gallant as they seem. Also, he’s already weak to Zhang Chengling’s puppy eyes, apparently.

Zhao Jing is catching onto the glaringly obvious hints at Zhou Zishu being far more than a random beggar, and his manipulation of Zhang Chengling’s eager to please nature might be a bad sign of what’s to come. Zhou Zishu is more than prepared for a little investigating into his real identity, and the deception runs deep enough that he has a whole fake history and job to go along with his name.

Zhou Zishu endures a round of social BS-ing, aka attempts to dig for information on him, which is explained in a really succinct manner: although the greetings and false praise are absolute bullshit and not genuine in the least, they do serve a purpose, which is to sort out who has relations with who, and who is an outsider to be wary of. It’s a good point. The boot-licking is a standard in the genre that emphasizes the importance of saving face and social relations. The author summed it up well.

After sitting through all that, Zhou Zishu decides he has stayed long enough and departs under the cover of night, except he can’t shake Wen Kexing off his tail, much to his annoyance.

I’ll admit, these two characters don’t draw me in quite as much as some of priest’s other protagonists, but their dialogue is a goldmine:

-“Escorting the young master Zhang is purely for gathering merits, so that I won’t have to endure any tortures in the Underworld after death. -“Correct, Brother Zhou truly shares the same mind with me; and as only beautiful people can do that, it is clear-” -“See, my dear soulmate, another chance for merit gathering has appeared.”

They continue bickering until they find a corpse in the forest, aaand this is where our plot kicks off!

Chapter 10: Netherworld

“Someone killed the Lord of Duan Jian Manor, and I’m a charitable person who wants to gather merits, so why not. And I’m bored anyway.”

Ha. And Zhou Zishu catches onto his BS right away, suggesting he might want to chase after Sun Ding because he’s the most powerful of the culprits who ran off. It’s hilarious how well-matched these two are, and how they just roll with each other’s ridiculous commentary.

Despite not wanting to get involved, Zhou Zishu can’t help it. His detective senses are tingling and he figures there’s nothing to lose since he’s a dead man walking.

However, their pursuit leads them to another dead body, and they take off after the person fleeing the crime scene until they reach a cemetery. Of course it’s a cemetery, haha. The person they were pursuing also disappears mysteriously. The whole scene is fit for a horror movie, complete with laughing animals.

Now, to be fair, and I’m not sure if this applies to owls, but some animals like foxes have truly terrifying vocalizations (one variation sounds like a screaming woman, for one). It’s no wonder people used to think demons and spirits existed. Unlike western depictions of the owl as a symbol of wisdom, among other things, in Chinese culture they’re apparently bad omens, at most used to ward off evil spirits.

Wen Kexing is so random and dramatic and loves to talk, haha. He tells a short story about owls being omens of death, then about locust trees being considered the door to the underworld. They really do find an underground cavern and river beneath the tombstone.

So! We have met our two main characters, become well-acquainted with their propensity to hide their true identities and incessant bickering when they’re together, and set the stage for solving a murder mystery. Decent progression for 10/78 chapters. I really love priest’s writing, which is always a delightful balance of pleasant and poetic description between good, distinctive dialogue and forward action to progress the story.

#faraway wanderers #tianyake #reading blog

0 notes

thewhitefluffyhat · 7 years

Text

Madoka Chara Story Ch2: Friends Made in Kamihama City

Madoka: That book over there, it's "Waltz of the Maneki-neko"... [1] I wonder, does that girl like it too?

(See the end for translation notes!)

Part 1

Scene begins with Madoka at a shrine at sunset Music: "Desiderium"

Narrator (Madoka): Here it is... Mizuna Shrine. Because my plans didn't match up with anyone else, I came by myself, but...

It's a shrine with a somewhat mystical, or rather, mysterious feel...

I wonder, it's said there are miracles here? If so, since I came all the way out here, I have to visit!

Madoka: Wow, what an amazing shrine! It's huge...

I've got to pay respects... Offering...offering... Ah, I don't have any 5 yen coins! Hm- [2]

Here's 10 yen! In hopes of having double the effect.

There.

Narrator (Madoka): ...I pray that everyone can live happily for a long time.

I pray that everyone can stay healthy without anyone meeting a witch.

And even if by chance they did run into a witch, I pray that I can protect everyone...

[Madoka claps her hands together.]

Madoka: ............ Alright, I'm heading back!

What's that!? ...rain?"

Music stops Sound of rain falling

Narrator (Madoka): Waaaah, It's totally coming down.

Scene changes to a shop-lined street at night Sound of rain stops

Madoka: Huh, the rain shower...? (I just visited the shrine and yet, the mood was somehow lost...) Haa~, I'm soaking wet. How embarrassing~

???: Um…

Madoka: Yes!

Music: "Light" (piano only)

???: If you'd like... this handkerchief...

Madoka: Th... Thank you! I ended up getting a little wet and I was in a tough spot.

???: No... you're welcome.

Just a little while ago, the bus ended up leaving... Since there's still about 30 minutes left until the next bus... if you don't dry off quickly... you'll catch a cold.

Madoka: I can see that... Ah, thank you for the handkerchief. You reeeally saved me!

???: [Looks down and blushes] Ah... No...! That's...

Music stops

???: ............

Madoka: ............ [Madoka notices something.] ...Ah!

???: Eep..!?

Madoka: Eh, ah, no... I'm sorry.

???: ...?

Music: "Sympathy" (piano/flute)

Madoka: Yeah, er... that novel. It's... "Waltz of the Maneki-neko," isn't it?

???: Yes... that's... right, but...

Madoka: [Embarrassed] I like that book, so I kind of shouted out by accident...

???: Ah...! I also... love it...! It's my favorite book...!

Madoka: Is that so? It's a great novel, isn't it? The cat in it is cute, to say the least.

???: That...! That's right, isn't it...! ...I'm glad. Because there are few people... who know of this book... ... I ...especially...like the scene where the protagonist's Maneki-neko runs through the starry sky...

Madoka: I like that scene too! Fufufu.

Music: "Peaceful" (acoustic)

Madoka: ...I'm called Madoka. Kaname Madoka, nice to meet you.

???: Ah...! Er... I am...

Kako: ...Natsume Kako. Pleased to meet you.

Madoka: Since we still have so much time to wait, if you'd like, why don't we talk about that book? I've wanted to hear another person's thoughts too.

Kako: Yes...! By all means...!

Narrator (Madoka): And so, Kako-chan and I chatted about the book we liked. We were having fun, and in the blink of an eye, the bus instantly came along. And even in the bus, we continued talking.

Scene change to in front of a streetlight in a residential neighborhood. Music stops

Narrator (Madoka): But I have to change buses...

Madoka: Haa~ It was fun being able to talk so much.

Kako: [Blushes] No...! It was my pleasure...This was incredibly fun.

Madoka: Well, bye-bye. See you!

Kako: Yes, see you later...

Narrator (Madoka): Like that, Kako-chan and I parted ways.

Background changes to nighttime in the city, with a distant view of the mall.

Narrator (Madoka): I know she is a magical girl, but that is the story of the next time we met…

Fade to black

Part 2

Music: "Desiderium"

Narrator (Madoka): A shopping mall with lots of great stores lined up.

Madoka: Waaaah It's full of cool Western clothes.

Ah, that there is cute too. Oh, and this one as well... Oops! I can't!

Narrator (Madoka): Today, my goal was to go to the bookstore. The other day, I met a girl at the bus stop, and we talked about a book with blooming flowers. I recall one copy...

Madoka: Ah, here it is! "Waltz of the Maneki-neko" ...Hm? What's this? Ehh!? The sequel is out? "Tango of the Maneki-neko." I, I've got to read this!

???: Ah…

Madoka: Eh? Kako-chan...? Kako-chan!

Music: "Postmeridie"

Kako: Madoka-san...! Amazing... coincidence, isn't it...?

Madoka: It really is! I wonder if the Maneki-neko brought us this lucky encounter?

Kako: ...A Maneki-neko beckons...because of money... and marriage... ...so then how...?

Madoka: Still, that I was able to meet you like this, I was pretty surprised!

Kako: Yes…!

Music: "Desiderium"

Kako: ...Ah. ...um...

Madoka: Eh? What is it?

Kako: Um... Madoka-san... by any chance... are you... ...a magical girl?

Madoka: ...Eh!? How did you...?

Kako: Previously... I couldn't ask about it right away, but... when you returned the handkerchief to me I caught sight of your soul gem ring...

Madoka: Well then... Kako-chan, are you also?

Kako: Yes, I too... am a magical girl.

Madoka: Fufu, I'm glad~

Kako: ...Eh?

Music: "Peaceful" (acoustic)

Madoka: We weren't just able to meet by chance, it turns out we're both magical girls. Amazing, Kako-chan! It really must be thanks to the Maneki-neko!

Kako: ............ ...Yes. Maybe you could say that.

Narrator (Madoka): After that, we spent a while chatting again. By chance, the girl who liked the same book as me, turned out to be a magical girl!

Kako-chan seems to be having a lot of fun talking about books. I'm also enjoying myself more and more as we're chatting together.

I felt very happy that I made a friend like this.

Music stops

Kako and Madoka are now on at a path through a park It looks like the way to Mitakihara Middel School?

Kako: ...Um, Madoka-san, Sunday next week... are you free?

Madoka: Sunday next week? I'm not doing anything, but what is it?

Kako: Would you like to go on a little adventure ...together?

Madoka: A little... adventure?

Kako: Yes, at night...

Madoka: Sure.

Music: "Upbeat" (strings and piano)

Kako: At night, at the school...

Madoka: ...Yeah? At night... at the school?

Kako: Would you like to sneak in?

Madoka: ...Ehhhhhhh!?

Fade to black

Part 3

Music: "Desiderium"

Narrator (Madoka): The school at night... It's pitch black, and has such a terribly scary atmosphere. No wayyyy.

Nighttime, at a gate near windmills. Madoka is waiting nervously.

Kako: Madoka-san!

Madoka: [Jumps] Hyaa!

Kako-chan! You scared me.

Kako: I-I'm sorry...! I didn't mean to scare you...

Madoka: Ah, no, don't worry about it. Besides, I let myself get surprised. Er, it's okay for me to be here isn't it?

Kako: Yes...! This is... where I go to school, you see, although... today's destination is the roof of this school.

Madoka: As I thought, it's dark and I'm kind of a bit scared...

Kako: ...That... ...If I'm being... honest... I am scared too... [Eagerly] ...but! Madoka-san, no matter what, there's something I want to show you.

Madoka: [Perks up] Something to show me? What is it?

Kako: That is... a secret for now.

Madoka: Ehh~ I wanna know already.

Kako: I'm looking forward to getting on the rooftop. ...For now, let's enter the school, shall we?

Madoka: Y-yeah...

Quick fade to change the scene to in front of the school.

Music stops

Kako: ...There's no one on campus, meaning... it's somewhat eerie, isn't it...?

Madoka: You said it... [Jumps] Waah!

Kako: Hyaa! W-what is it...!?

Madoka: Something made a sound...

Kako: R-really...? Maybe it's the custodian... or someone like that...? ...Otherwise............ ghosts...!

Madoka: W-wait a minute! Kako-chan!

[Jumps again] Hyaa!

Kako: Hya! J-just now... I heard it too... ............ hm...? That there............

Music: "Desiderium"

Kako: Madoka-san, over there.

Madoka: Eh?

Kako: Look, over in that flower bed... it's a cat.

Madoka: Ah! It really is... It's definitely a kitty-cat~ Thank goodness~

Kako: Fufu, that appearance... It's the inside of the school, you see, so this seems truly impossible, doesn't it?

Madoka: T-that's not true! I'm fine!

Kako: [Disappointed purple cloud] Eh.... S-sure...

Madoka: Eh?

Kako: ...I'm afraid... inside the school... it seems we can't enter by any means...

Madoka: [Smiles] Is that so? What now, ufufufu.

Kako: ... Therefore... Let's transform... and go to the rooftop from the outside, shall we?

Madoka: To the roof with magic... Yeah, let's do it!

Both girls transform at the same time.

Music: "Upbeat" (strings and piano)

Madoka: Ah, Kako-chan, your magical girl form is super cute.

Kako: You too, Madoka-san, yours really suits you.

Madoka: Fufufu, thanks. Well, shall we go?

Kako: Yes!

Fade to black Background changes to nighttime in the city, with a distant view of the mall. Music stops

Narrator (Madoka): Hup!

Madoka: Whew, we've already arrived.

Kako: It's a magical girl's special... shortcut!

Madoka: Yep! So, Kako-chan, you wanted to show me something?

Kako: Madoka-san, please look up.

Madoka: Up?

Music: "Peaceful" (acoustic)

Madoka: Waah! An amazing starry sky! So pretty...

Kako: ...Madoka-san, did you know? Out of one year, today... is the day when you can see the most beautiful stars.

Madoka: Is that so?

Kako: It's celestial mechanics... I don't really understand scientific things, but...it's what was written in... that book.

Madoka: "That book"... ...Ah! "Waltz of the Maneki-neko"?

Kako: Yes. ...And... furthermore, within Kamihama, this is the best place, you see. At a high place...there are no tall buildings... or bright things... or other obstacles in the way... It's the best place to watch the stars... slowly... and thoroughly...

Music: "Light" (piano only)

Kako: That's why today, on this day, in this place... I wanted to show this starry sky to you.

Madoka: Kako-chan... Thank you.

Kako: If I made you happy... nothing would be better. I...am really shy... I'm not good at talking to people... I can't converse skillfully, so I became more and more sad...

Kako: ...But, with Madoka-san...when I was with Madoka-san... ... I was able to speak properly... ... It was fun, being able to chat... That's why... I want to convey this feeling of "thank you".

Madoka: Kako-chan... Are we the same?

Kako: Eh...?

Madoka: I want to become friends with everyone, but anyone is limited by that. There are also things that bother me and things that get me down...

However, I think that it's no good to be afraid when making friends with someone. If you convey your feelings seriously, they will definitely get across! Kako-chan's honest feelings got across to me!

Kako: Madoka-san... ...Thank you very much.

...Madoka-san... you really are a kind person, aren't you...? From now on, I'll also do my best without being scared.

Madoka: You did fine! After all, Kako-chan, you gave me the present of this amazing starry sky! Thank you, Kako-chan!

Kako: Yes...!

Narrator (Madoka): Under a beautiful starry sky, I made a wonderful friend.

Naturally, the second thing I ever try to translate starts with Japanese religious traditions and an untranslatable pun. So here’s some translation notes and commentary!

[1] Maneko-neko are these lucky cat statues.

As for the book itself, I think it's just made up. I couldn't find anything about it on Google. (But “Waltz of the Meneki-neko” sounds like it would make for a great Ghibli film, doesn’t it?)

[2] At the beginning of Part 1, Madoka is performing a traditional Shinto shrine visit. Google will bring up several useful articles if you don't know how that works!

Anyway, as part of the ritual, one places saisen (offering money) in the donation box before praying. Note that usually, 5 yen coins are used for saisen due to associations with respect / luck that derive from wordplay (５円 = go-en = 5 yen, ご縁 = go-en = fate, relationship, chance).

However, Madoka doesn't have any 5 yen coins with her, so she uses a 10 yen coin instead. She also makes a pun off 10 yen being double 5 yen <-> double chance/fate.

This chapter also gives us some neat little characterization details we didn’t know before:

-As expected, Madoka is a typical Japanese person in terms of religious beliefs. (That is, she follows the usual Shinto/Buddhist mix rather than being a Christian like Kyouko.)

-Madoka likes fantasy fiction, but more interestingly, doesn’t seem to share her taste in books with Sayaka, Homura, or Mami. Since presumably they would have read this book and discussed it with her if they had similar tastes.

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hush-falls-the-evening · 7 years

Text

Convergence - Ch. 1

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma (scriddler), Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley, Selina Kyle,

Rating: G Words: 2671

Misc Info: Scriddler - Dancer au. Based on a post where Jon is a ballet performer and Edward is a renown critic in Gotham City.

Synopsis: Nygma rarely compliments anyone in his articles, but the one time he does, it isn't as welcomed as he expected it to be.

You can find the rest of the fic here on AO3

Gotham city was fortunate enough to have accumulated several generous benefactors over the last decades. Sponsoring diverse projects and encouraging the development of culture in various forms.

Some rich and famous names might come to mind, for those who cared. The reality being that as long as people were entertained, they tended to ask very little about where the funds came from, and more about the very shiny signs announcing the shows on popular venues.

It wasn’t unusual for many shows to be performed through the several theaters and stages of the city. But tonight, and for the next months to come, Jonathan’s new company was performing in an admittedly more modest one. One of these, older establishments that couldn’t quite fit as many spectators as the Grand Theater of Gotham, but its fading glory still held an aura of authenticity and… dare he say mysticism, that modern stages couldn’t recreate.

It felt comforting.

Besides, funds, sponsors and whatnot, Contemporary ballet was an everlasting style in development, hence its name. It was an acquired taste as well, and required a lot of observation to catch all its nuances, but said subtleties needed to be conveyed properly to be felt. These two factors made rather difficult to make any significant progress as far as the techniques were concerned. People wanted easy entertainments. To be amazed, to be held in a moment and carried through time and space-….

There were a few knocks on the door. He said nothing until a second series of them were heard. He stopped staring at his reflection and finally complied. “Come in, Harley.”

A blonde hair practically popped from the door, a devilish smile and twinkles in her eyes. ”Just checking in to see if you’re all set. The show starts in 30 minutes and we’ll spray-paint the people who tries to get in after that!”

“You shouldn’t spray-paint the guests, Harley. That’s some other show’s gimmick already.”

“That’s what Red says, but where’s the fun in not threatening rude patrons with the fear of ruining their nice suits?”

Jon gave her a look, and turned back to the mirror. “Where indeed, although for greater effect I’d recommend telling them they might be hustled onto the stage for the group choreography if they try to leave.” His lips were tugging slightly upward, though he felt compelled to remain serious. “You’re trying to ease some of my tension, aren’t you?” it wasn’t an accusation as much as an ironic remark. She pushed expertly her flashy red glasses further up her nose.

“Maybe. Is it working?”

“Like a charm.”

She posed triumphantly in the door frame, fully opening the door for dramatic effect. Jon would roll his eyes, had it been anyone else. “Come back later when the number before mime starts. I’ll…. psych up, as we’ve discussed.”

She nodded and grabbed the door handle. “… Need me to turn off the light?”

Again, his lips tugged. A quick scan of the various items on his vanity proved that everything was set. “That would be appreciated, thank you.”

The switch was turned off, and the door closed. He heard the distant chatter of the nearby dancers and the squeaking of her lucky shoes.

A tall, gangly man was sitting in the dark, the bulbs of the vanity lighting ominously his shape. And with slow, meticulous care, he began his preparations.

If anything could describe Gothamites best, it would be their simultaneous appeal for modernism and their compulsive urge to return to the aesthetics of the noir movie genre….. Leaving it perpetually locked in a neo and retro phase that was now festering over 80% of the structures in the city and some of its unfortunate newer suburbs.

Edward Nygma, undoubtedly the advisable cultural critic in the city and beyond, found it incredibly redundant, and morose.

But he had to admit, there was just this inexplicable charm to Gotham that slowly swallowed you whole and made you run its maze willingly in the dark of the night. It grew on you, and left you with a taste that moving elsewhere brighter or warmer would just feel deeply wrong.

Oh but its people. Redundant and morose sadly applied to them as well. Truly a similar case as the new European bourgeoisie in the beginning of the XXe century, where they knew nothing of the arts but attended shows because it felt prestigious to do so, understanding be damned. Interest be damned.

How baffling was it that you had all this available access to arts and knowledge and somehow only notice how flashy and brights the lights were and nothing of the lines and precision. Trying to have any sort of intellectual conversation with most everyone felt unsatisfactory and they’ll tell you the most obvious details of a performance without noticing the deeply profound details or excruciating flaws. They fell for the easiest tricks, who were admittedly sometimes brilliant if you actually knew they WERE tricks but that was still incredibly debilitating.

Of course, Edward Nygma knew better.

And in his generous benevolence, he wrote fervently about it, which made him one of the best critics on this side of the country.

The fact that he received both gifts or threats via his carefully sorted fan mail only told him he was making a good deed.

He was fairly informed about all the shows of any relevance and tonight was no exceptions. Although contemporary ballet was not his favored form of art, his career as a ‘retired’ classical ballet dancer and incredible memory enabled him to know basically everything about it.

But tonight, he had been personally invited by one of the company’s manager, and old friend, Ms. Quinzel, to assist at the premiere of their new series of weekly productions. It was, somewhat of a loose interpretive project, mostly in preparation for their bigger event in a couple of months.

The company was composed of a few dancers from in and outside of Gotham. One in particular, they barely managed to recruit.

“and why is that?” he asked her on the phone, twirling a green pen in his hand.

“Oh we’re from the same program, remember the psychology-dance fusion from a few years back? He was one of the first in it before it was shut down. He’s... pretty obscure, but I’ve seen what he can do and he’s been moving from company to company for the past couple of years so it was kinda hard to convince him to come back to Gotham. He’s from Georgia I think, but that’s all I’m gonna say since I know you like to see the artists first before doing your researches.” The wink was almost audible.

Oh great, a Georgia man.

However she was right. He preferred to see the performance beforehand as to not cloud his judgement.

And here he was, in this old-fashioned theater, rambling the wait away. His friend Selina had graciously accepted to join him, as she was a passionate dancer of her own, and endlessly insightful in the matter.

Their pleasant chatting ended much too soon, as the lights dimmed in the soft warmth only older establishments could provide, and all of Edward’s focus locked onto the stage.

“Ok so, Leone’s on stage right now, that means we’re two numbers away, right?”

“Yeah and before us it’s hm…. What’s his name again?”

“Crane, the tall fella who was in Opal City last year. Worked with some guy named Swift I heard”

“Oh yeah, I heard about that! Weird show-.”

Someone with a headset popped from a closed door, eyes and smile unnervingly threatening. “If I can hear you guys, the whole backstage can too! You move somewhere else to talk or you get on standby ASAP!”

The chatty bunch moved quickly, as Harley huffed and inhaled broadly. She was on her way to go get Jon, and rose her hand to do her signature knocking on the door, when it opened on its own. The room dark and dramatic, with lights flooding inside and over an eerie silhouette holding the door.

“Shucks Jon you gotta show me how you did that,” she said in awe after a while, trying to calm her thrilled heartbeat, “Your turn is up, by the way. Five minutes Standby, come on let’s go!” she urged him along and he followed her, his mind already on the stage.

Stage fright was a fascinating phenomena.

Some have it regardless of situation, some have it only when they’re alone on a stage but not with several people with them, some have it the other way around…

But there was just something so emetic, so vulnerable and purgative about dancing.

For Jon at least, and so he had spent many years working to refine his mastery of it.

And how all of it could hold onto the palm of his hands. Their eyes, their hearts, the air they breathe…

Survive to control. Control to survive.

It was dancing over the edge of a great fall, with the lights blinding and an eternity of power and soul in your chest.

Someone had told him once, his performances were some weird style nobody could really pull off like he did.

And he agreed with the sentiment.

Nobody could, but the Master of Fear.

And what else could move him more, but fright itself.

There was a thunder of applause after each numbers afterward, but Edward didn’t seemed to hear none of them. And as the producers and managers of the show came last onto the stage to invite the patrons for next week’s performance, same place same time, he felt the touch of a hand over his arm.

“Edward darling, your face is going to stay like that if you keep frowning so hard,” She teased. He seemed visibly unsettled.

It took him 2 seconds too long to answer. “Marvelous...” His words were baffled, his face positively puzzled.

It took her a moment as well, but still attempted a wild guess. “The tall man with the crooked nose?”

“ The tall man with a crooked-! Oh truly my dear, you are disappointing me.”

She tilted her head warily. “What did you see, Edward?”

He frowned again until he understood the true nature of her inquiry, which he brushed off with impatience. “No, that man. I’ve- I don’t think I’ve seen anything as marvelous, as elegant and memorable as his number since the time I was still on stage!”

“Glad to hear,” she replied, slightly wounded but mostly used to it.

“Selina now is not the time, I’m going to meet him, right now.” He rose to his feet with a single goal in mind. She, however, jammed her crossed leg more firmly in the front seat to block his path.

“Edward.”

“Selina.”

“I understand you got that whole shtick of yours to be done, but after a show is hardly the place-”

“What on Earth are you talking about? His placements were perfect! His influences are not only clear, but innovative! He practically haunted the stage and I-” He finally caught up with the ridicule of his situation, stared down at the elegant leg barring his way and turned around to march toward the other end of the row. His steps were quick enough to get him to the backstage in no time, and he began to look around for-

“Can I help you sir?” One headset crew asked him, eyeing him evenly.

“Yes, I’m searching for this mister Crane-”

“Oh he left already. You just missed him.”

A door swung open with brightly dressed Harleen Quinzel, talking over her shoulder. “Jon wait for us I just gotta chat with Marv-” She stopped short, processing who was in front of her until she connected the dots. “ -You came!"

“I did! I know I’ll tell you all about it, just gimme a second-” he practically slid past her. Harley spun on herself in a cartoony way for comical effect.

A few steps further and here was the man of the hour. If he stared, he did not take notice of it. “You!”

The man said nothing, but frowned severely.

“I’m so glad I caught you, my friend. You have no idea how fulfilling your act was, how marvelous! The lines, the drive- I’m not a man of contemporary ballet myself, but this was beyond words!”

“Much obliged,” he mumbled. Edward was too lost to pick on the cold and sharper demeanor the man had, the more he talked. How his eyes would cut him to pieces if it made him go away.

“And you’re welcomed! Truly I don’t think I’ve been so impressed by anyone before-”

“I’m sure a chat would be nice, sir, but you are not welcomed here.”

“Don’t be absurd, you’re not the ONLY one I came to see here tonight,” he huffed.

He was starting to lose his footings, but the coup de grace must had been when those pale thin lips stretched into one cruel line. Only then did he notice just how, unnervingly sharp his pale eyes were on him.

“And why should I care about the opinion of a generic, self-proclaimed fool of importance who wears a tacky green three-piece suit in the summer?”

This wasn’t any unusual things hadn't heard in the past. But he couldn’t help feeling taken aback, especially to hear it coming from this... Unnerving man.

The whole venture seemed rather foolish, in retrospective.

The silence stretched, and Crane tilted his head, as if to feast on the speechless wrecked he’d become. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important things to do” he said softly, but loud enough for the whole room to hear. Only then did Edward realized that they had been the center of the attention, as there had been other people in the room, staring in bewilderment.

They seemed to know who Edward was, but Jon gave no such thing as a clue of reminiscence. Instead, he eerily moved to pick a bottle from an ice bucket and walked out as if he had never been there in the first place.

Edward wasn’t sure how he got out of the theater, but he suspected Selina had indeed waited for him, or did some investigation of her own to pick up the pieces.

“Who does he think he is!”

“I told you not to go in there, didn’t I?”

“But I never go congratulate anyone like this and have it just, thrown back in my face like that? What kind of rude, careless person would practically brush me off like I wasn’t the best ally any artist could have in this city!”

“You didn’t write anything about him, did you?”

“Of course not, I would remember such a name.”

She observed him a while longer, her words curious. “He really got to you, didn’t he?”

He glared at her. She batted her beautiful eyes with a knowing smile.

And now back home, Edward stared at the screen, frowning deeply.

Time to get to work.

And work he did diligently, as per his usual dedication. The article was written and complete within the earliest hours, and properly fact-checked by dawn.

It felt strange, the more he tried to avoid writing about the tall man, the more he wrote about it.

But as he reviewed the completed article, it felt more accurate than anything he’d written so far. Well, maybe not anything. That article from last April might be the most accurate. But, nonetheless....

He prided himself to be nothing but exact in his critics.

And as he finally sent the review, research done, evening past, it unnerved him just how little information he had actually gathered about the man himself.

He opened a new tab, and started reading all over again.

What a strange, peculiar man.

#scriddler #Jonathan Crane #edward nygma #scarecrow #The Riddler #batman #slow burn #dancer au #alternate universe #ongoing #harley quinn #pamela isley #selina kyle #rogue gallery #except there are no rogues here hohohohoho

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hansfoster · 4 years

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Prologue, Part 2

So, we’ve managed to negotiate a do-over. Let’s try not to mess up this time.

We come to inside a train car.

A coffin falls off the top of a stack of crates.

And this man climbs out of it... this game is weird.

Me? You were the one in the coffin. Why did you crawl in there?

I was hiding.

That’s one tiny compartment. Your bones must be aching.

A coffin is the best means of transportation in the world. It can get you to unimaginable places.

You look alive though. So that vehicle is beyond your means for now. A freerider, huh?

Just like you.

No way. We’re no birds of a feather, you and I.

What a charmed life Artemy must live that a man in a coffin is considered a distraction.

The train suddenly hits the brakes as we cut to black again.

We come to and there’s no sign of the Traveller. We have a lamp though, and the door’s open so let’s see what the problem is.

... I don’t know what I was expecting, to be honest.

Who are you?

Us? Kind volunteers, who advise you to return to the train car. It will soon leave.

What happened here?

Ahead or behind?

Is there something ahead of me? I don’t see any danger.

Look closer. Ahead is death. Would you like to check?

Yes.

As you can see, the blood no longer flows in this artery. There’s a clot. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Do you have medicine?

What clot? What are those black flakes?

How should we know? You’re the doctor, not us. Go and see. We’re only ensuring no other trains are derailed. We’ll fix yours, once the beast leaves the tracks.

I’ll go on foot, then. Someone’s waiting for me.

Might take a while to get back home on foot, but I don’t see these guys moving a monster bull anytime soon.

These look a lot like the black clouds that hung over the Town earlier. Probably not a good idea to walk through them, but we can probably make it if we hurry.

We don’t even make it two steps before collapsing. Whoops.

We wake up back in the train. It’s moving again and the Traveller is back. So, I guess we didn’t die? Maybe?

Why?

You can share your worries with me, and I’ll take them with me.

Into the coffin? Deal.

Who goes first?

You.

I’m worried that people won’t be so happy to see me in the Town. What if they shun me like some mutt and slam doors in my face? What if my toll is too small? I could fail to meet my goal. But maybe this is only anxiety. Yes, I can do it.

Are you a preacher?

Not really... your turn now. Be honest, and your fate will change. That’s how it goes.

I’m worried about my father. He summoned me with a letter - a troublesome one. Something bad has happened.

Do you want to play?

I’m game.

Dice?

What are the stakes?

Your fate.

I don’t believe in fate.

We cut to black again.

And now we’re in a house.

But not our house as the journal points out. So where are we now?

Inside one of the rooms are these three ladies, they recoil when we enter...

And turn into these... things. The game hasn’t even started yet and I’m already exhausted.

The next room has these two...

They also turn into mime people.

Another room has this fellow...

... no points for guessing what happens to him.

In the back room is this woman, who surprisingly doesn’t turn into a mime.

No, I’m a doctor. What’s wrong with you?

Water... I’m so thirsty. I need a drink of water. Please, bring it to me...

Where do I get it?

Outside... in the yard... hard to talk.

Keep silent, then.

So, we’re off to fetch some water. Probably need something to carry it with though.

This is how you loot containers in this game. Inspecting cupboards and the like will show a menu with various cabinets to search. You open a cabinet by holding down the Left Mouse Button over the cabinet in question...

... which reveals the goodies inside. That spindle’s not much use to us right now but those bottles will do nicely.

Looks like there’s a crowd gathered outside the train. Wonder what that’s all about.

What are kids doing here? And is that a corpse?!

Oh god, even the kids are trying to melt my brain.

... Did you kill him?

Answer the question, khayaala. You’re a steppe man. You must know the answer.

What did you just call me?

But I don’t.

Then be on your way, khayaala. People don’t kill people.

Are you even human?

I think that’s the least of your concerns right now, Artemy.

There’s more of those mimes acting out something on the roof of the train. Sure, okay. Let’s speak to coffin man, the bastion of sanity in this situation.

Not me. Someone else.

There is water in a wooden barrel, behind you. You walked right past your goal. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

I saw the light. I thought it invited me here.

Like a moth.

Ouch.

“Ouch” is right. The game’s mocking me for going out of my way to talk to these people rather than doing what I’m supposed to be doing because “ooh, pretty lights”. Alright, point taken. Let’s go get some water.

Water barrels like this one can be used to fill up any bottles you have. Water pumps will also do the same.

Now, let’s head back and do what we were supposed to do.

The mimes have been replaced with coffins. That’s not ominous at all.

We find the Bachelor and the Changeling arguing in the kitchen. Hey... are you guys gonna...

Yeah, I thought so...

We get to the back room and find an Executor standing over the Survivor. Damn... now I really feel bad for trying to talk to those people.

We cut to the Traveller shaking us awake. I want off this ride already.

Yeah, a dream. I hope it doesn’t come true.

So, you want to meet your dad?

Yeah.

Me too.

Why have we stopped? Are we there already...?

Cut to black again. Are we finally there?

*sigh* No, of course not.

No, I haven’t.

Do you have a good heart?

Who is the judge?

We hear the Earth with our hearts. The heart has a pulse. So does Earth. If they sing in harmony, you hear the language of Earth and herbs. The language of warmth and cold. Look, tangher, and listen. Whose words are all around? What does the Earth say?

I can’t decipher this language.

A lot of time has passed. You were gone. You forgot many things. Your heart is spoiled, Khatangher. Let us see if it’s rotten.

How can you see that?

The fight will show. Whose heart is keen? Who hears the unheard words? You will see my heart. The Kin’s blood runs through me. I was never torn from my people.

I’ll have a look.

Combat tutorial time! Combat works kind of like what you’d expect from an Elder Scrolls game. Raise your fists or a weapon with the number keys. Tap the Left Mouse Button for a quick attack or hold it for a slower, guard breaking attack.

Each attack lowers your stamina and once it hits zero, your attacks become much less effective until you’ve caught your breath.

You can guard against attacks by holding down the Right Mouse Button, during which your stamina recovers faster. However, some attacks can’t be blocked. Also, you can’t block attacks with a weapon but neither can your enemies.

Geez, game. I’m not trying to kill this man.

New to Pathologic 2, if an enemy has taken enough damage, they’ll try to surrender. During which you can take their stuff without having to kill them or just let them go.

What need do you have of mine? Isn’t it rotten?

A river of good washes away a drop of rot. There’s no “me” and “you”. There’s a people, Khatanghe. Mix your flesh with ours.

All right, let it be so.

Trading tutorial! With living hearts... ew.

Items you own that a person wants are highlighted in your inventory and given a value.

Here, we’ve offered our rotten heart, which has a value of 1. We can exchange these items for items that the other person deems to be of equal value, in this case the Kin’s “Good Heart”. This is the basics of trading and trading is one of the main sources of the items you’ll need to survive so keep all of this in mind.

Cut to black again...

... and we’re back on the sodding train again.

Are you relieved?

Oh yes, can’t wait to get there. Just can’t wait.

You and me both, man.

It feels like we’re riding in circles.

So it’s not just me? I’m not going crazy?

Well, it was nice passing the time. Good luck with your father. I’m sure he can’t wait.

I hope so. This trip has been a long time coming...

We cut to black again as the train comes to a halt...

... right outside our house.

Well, that’s certainly convenient but the noise pollution must be awful.

... My dear son, Artemy, I write to you after so many years apart in the hopes that you may find a way to return to us. Something worries me. I fear a difficult trial approaches. I hope that your studies have proved fruitful, and that you have achieved great skill as a surgeon. Such skill might be of use here. I remain the only physician in town. But you know that I am growing old. I need an assistant...

How vague. I can see why Artemy’s so worried.

No sooner do we head inside that the sounds of laughter can be heard from lots of different voices. It’s impossible to convey with only screenshots, but it always sounds close by but also somehow not in the same room that you’re in currently. It’s rather eerie.