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itsuki-minamy · 24 days

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"SIDE GOLD"

CHAPTER 4: IKU AND THE BIRIBIRI GROUP (Part 2)

* List of Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Anno

On that day, there was a storm across Honshu and unseasonable lightning was also observed on the Sea of Japan side. Even in Tokyo, a heavy drizzle that made the cold seep into the bones made the landscape seem smoky since the morning.

Although the conditions were the worst for outdoor group activities, the high morale of beginning a great task defied objective facts. The staff of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau, who were about to be sent to work, had diverse backgrounds and personalities, and the breakfast room was busy and noisy.

Those who interact carelessly,

"Iyoda-kun~, give me the salt, salt~"

"Yes, here you have. Why do you put salt on rice every time you see it?"

A person enjoying a meal,

"Today's food is also really delicious."

"Hmm! Chika-dono's miso soup is exquisite!"

"Oh, that's right... the manager's pickles are delicious too."

Those who talk about work,

"We don't have practice at the dojo today, so it would be great to go out and have something to eat!"

"Normally people don't like to be shipped, but..."

The people gathered in the small dining room looked like young people who could be found anywhere, they were no longer wearing blue clothes or carrying swords.

Their title as members of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau is a legal system and they do not actually work for the Ministry of Justice. The office where daily work was carried out, the living space where people slept, they were all located in a corner of the former state guest house that displayed Tsubakimon's luxurious appearance... or rather, it was in a building in the corner.

Next to the simple entrance, which only looks like a back door, there is a plaque with the name ''Ao Mamoru-sha'' written in Somei Nazumi's handwriting, but in reality, this building was used as an office and living space for the exclusive servers of the guest house. Permission to use the main building has not yet been granted (although it is clear that they will not be able to handle the current number of staff).

The dining room is so transparent that you can enter directly through the outside door and the adjacent kitchen is only separated by a curtain. It was a very simple installation for service, separate from the kitchen for guests.

Somei Chika, dressed in a triangular sling and a Japanese kappo uniform, emerged from the kitchen.

"Today's dispatch is likely to be a long battle with those with abilities. Be sure to maintain your strength!"

Everyone responded in unison, worthy of the loud cheers.

An old woman called softly to Chika from behind.

"That's enough, so Chika-san, please enjoy your food."

She gave her a tray with breakfast in a natural and discreet way.

This old woman is not only the guardian of "Ao Mamoru-sha", as Nazumi calls her, but of the entire guest house.

She has been protecting the state pension since the war and, even after her husband, who was also her colleague, died in prison at the hands of the special high police, she continued her work with calm and dedication. She led a small group of servants and kept the entire vast state guesthouse beautiful, and she possessed a mysterious ability that even Nazumi admired.

Chika bowed to the respectful woman and accepted the tray.

"Yes, I appreciate your words."

Of the members of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau, only Nazumi and his wife travel from their nearby home. When they have to leave early like today, they usually have breakfast there, which they usually do at home. Chika not only eats, but she also helps the manager cook, so there will be one more food item for breakfast the day she comes.

This is the reason why the morale of the youth has increased considerably.

Chika walked behind them and sat in the reserved seat in the back, facing Nazumi.

He had already eaten his breakfast and there was not a single grain of rice or a drop of miso soup left. The tray had been pushed aside and a thick pile of books was piled between them.

Chika was a little taken aback.

(I wonder what kind of job it is.)

She has not heard that there was work to be done before being sent.

Beyond that mountain, Nazumi seemed to rise and reveal his face.

"Thanks for the food."

"That was a bad job."

After calmly responding to the polite voice, Chika asked.

"Nazumi-san, what is that book?"

If you look closely, you will see that it is not the usual bundle of government documents or an assembled file, but a collection of poems or Chinese classics. Apparently it was taken from the library of the State Guest House.

"My "Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau" also wants to have some kind of behavior or words that express the links clearly, so I've been looking at various documents... but it just doesn't fit very well."

Chika could easily imagine the worried face on the other side of the stack of books. Not only that, but she was also able to see through two or three levels of deep worry that were swaying like a fine mist.

"Do you have any concerns that will distract you from today's deployment?"

He wouldn't be surprised if someone could see through him now.

Rather, with the joy of being seen, Nazumi revealed his true feelings.

"I'm sure the plans and arrangements are perfect. But for some reason, I just don't feel like I can finish it..."

"Are you saying that when that "Red King" appears, the calculations go wrong?"

"The only thing I can say is that it is close, but different. When the matter reaches the "King", the mystery that governs that "Slate" is not clearly solved... and I feel very bad."

The superhuman irritation in her husband's voice.

With a single word, his wife returned him to the human horizon.

"Isn't that good?"

"Huh, is it?"

"The power of that "Slate" and the "King" are definitely things that exist in the floating world. As with anything else, isn't it okay to be in a bad mood because you can't get things done?"

"......"

On the other side of the stack of books, Chika could easily imagine Nazumi's no-nonsense face examining his opinions. The questioning tone of voice she had imagined returned.

"That is what it is?"

"That's right."

Chika dared to say it simply.

After a brief pause, Nazumi added.

"...I'm not convinced, but I understand. Chika-san."

"As you say."

"Your food is getting cold, please eat it quickly."

Chika took off her sling and put her palms together with a smile.

"Yes, Itadakimasu."

The unnamed intelligence agency was located in Nanakamado, Tokyo.

The facility's predecessor was an international Christian general hospital. Fortunately, the chalk building, with its magnificent bell tower, was saved from air raids and immediately after the end of the war it became a valuable medical center accommodating a wide variety of patients.

However, some time ago, it became the headquarters and research facility of an intelligence agency, with a fake sign reading "Infectious Disease Control Research Institute", a thick iron gate, and a high fence with a tap.

Today you could say that it has become a reality.

All the powers that had been established by them were revoked by official notification.

It was supposed to be done, but there is still debris moving around inside the room.

The noise was especially noticeable in the westernmost rooms on the top floor. It was established when the organization concentrated its personnel and functions there, and it is a command post that controls both internal analysis and command, as well as external reception and transmission.

The windows are covered with thick concrete, preventing the passage of wind and light. An electrical panel representing the Kanto region is installed on the wall and continues to display the movements of the objects being monitored. The tense atmosphere inside the room was created by those who operated the screens, those who provided information for their operation, those who received and transmitted information from outside, and those who reported and made adjustments derived from it.

Behind them, from a raised floor, a military-looking American gave instructions one after another.

"Keep all the generators running, okay, everything!"

Before it expired... his title was Director of the Extraterrestrial Intelligence Agency, in other words, Commander of Nanakamado.

"Never let anyone hang up on Atsugi's "Demodori"! If a conflict really breaks out, they will be looking for an opportunity to unite! No matter how trivial the data is, send them all the information to stimulate them!''

The scene was neither brave enough to be called anger, nor fierce enough to be called frenzy. In other words, it was a delusional movement that arose from the impatience of being cornered.

"Yokosuka's "Yaseppochi" hasn't come out yet?! Just one word is fine, keep calling until he answers! As long as we have the facts of the answer, we can negotiate with the CIA and the Pentagon as accomplices!"

Then, one of the engine members brings in a report containing new information.

After reading it, the chief engineer threw it away violently.

"Don't bring weather information! What do you mean the rain will turn into snow?! Today we are different from before! We are in a position to attack here...!"

After shouting, the chief engineer was shocked.

Everyone at the command post looked at him with worried faces.

As an intelligence agency, they are about to do something completely different than what they have done so far... gather information, capture targets, cover up operations, illegal experiments, etc. They were about to be forced to do so.

In other words, the act of undermining the systems and organizations that established them, and even the national structure.

Even if they had US backing (as the chief engineer insists), it was too risky a gamble to be taken lightly. Even so, the reason why they can barely maintain unity to the point of choosing to entrench themselves under the command of the chief engineer is due to their own status as intelligence agents.

That is...

"Listen, the person who knows the secret of an unprecedented phenomenon has become useless. Surrender and you will be detained by Headquarters, you know what will happen!"

This was because everyone was passively accepting the chief engineer's insistence that it had already happened for the umpteenth time.

"We will be accused of various clandestine jobs that will be imposed on us and handed over to our country of origin... At best, we will be deported and imprisoned, and at worst, we will be used as guinea pigs for investigation!"

Despite such instigation, there was no one in that organization who was clean and innocent enough to accept surrender. The fuel for their out-of-control behavior was the fear that "if they moved away from the side of manipulation and investigation, their position would be reversed".

Members of the intelligence service who spent their days committing shady deeds and even had a sense of pride in their actions attempted to crush them because Headquarters did not consider them that important, in fact, they looked down on them. The thought did not occur to them that their punishment would be lighter if they did nothing unnecessary.

Having no choice but to hide their feelings, they returned to their work.

The chief engineer, who had subdued his subordinate, turned his suspicious and hostile gaze towards the electrical panel on the wall.

The flashing light bulb on the map indicates the location of the convoy approaching the center, Nanakamado. It didn't seem like there was much time left.

"Tch."

After clicking his tongue, he gave new instructions to the two people behind him.

"Colt, help the doctor select interceptors. Anyway, quantity is more important than quality, okay?"

"Yes!"

One of them, Thomas Colt, responded with a salute, but there was no tension in his voice or his movements.

Despite the failure of the recent operation, and although he complained to the chief engineer about the danger to the king and others, he was able to remain head of the execution unit. This was because there was no one in the organization with more character and ability than him. In short, the previous operation was a crushing defeat for Nanakamado, who took it too seriously and lost the main strength of their active forces.

Colt himself suffered a crushing defeat to the point that the chief engineer no longer cared and, although as expected, his efforts to persuade Colt to cooperate failed. Although he felt ashamed, his feeling of boredom was not only due to his debt to these organizations.

There is no plausible theory that Nanakamado is advancing a pointless rebellion or that they are trotting out a Japanese Strain for that purpose. However, ever since that battle with the "Red King" Unno Yutaka, a word came to his mind from the bottom of his heart.

(What am I doing?)

As a "talented American" with no place to live, as an accomplice to Nanakamado's various actions, he must have had no choice, and he must have understood and agreed with him. Still, for some reason, he was captivated by those words, and the more he thought about them, the more he lost his inner strength.

Or, on the contrary,

"Come on, Colt-kun."

After receiving the order, another elderly Japanese man named Doctor put on his white coat and left the room. Even in that situation, he was still triumphant and led the way down the hallway with legs like dead branches.

This person was a scientist who was recruited from the former Ninth Army Technical Research Institute (also known as Kyuken or Noborito Research Institute) on the condition that he would be exempt from prosecution for war crimes, and was the main Strains researcher. in Nanakamado. He is also the leader of the analysis team that created a temporal structure from the initial "too conceptual and I don't know what it means" stage and systematized and theorized it to the point of forming a combat unit based on Strain.

Colt couldn't understand his attitude.

Although he was in an obvious situation, there was no difference from his usual situation. Maybe he just doesn't feel the battle that is about to begin, or maybe he has a strong spirit that never forgets to dedicate himself to his duties... or is he optimistic that the results of his own investigations will guarantee his safety, no matter what the result is?

Despite his confusion, the Doctor continued through the house, which serves as his garden, and soon entered a section that smelled of chemicals.

It was a detention center for Strain, with almost the entire floor taken up by a series of small rooms.

A person who is too fierce or too cowardly to be used. Someone who is strong or too weak to be used. Those who cannot be classified, those whose investigation and trial have not been completed, are allowed to stay for the time being. The last trump card left for Nanakamado, who has lost his main force, is the "interception personnel candidates in an emergency situation", who can be forced to follow them at gunpoint from the rear.

Normally, it was the rule to carefully evaluate the use of personality skills and aptitude before requesting cooperation, but in the current emergency, it is impossible to worry about such a pretense.

The Doctor continued forward, ignoring the countless looks of fear and resentment that peeked through the thick acrylic board. At the same time, he pressed the buttons under the room number one after another.

Each time the button is pressed, the red indicator light changes to green. That was the signal that "mobilization was possible", and the escort team was supposed to take him downstairs immediately.

Colt heard the Doctor murmur.

"No. 311, common, capable of killing, with a history of injury, good. No. 312, common, capable of killing, no history of injury, good. No. 314, common, non-lethal, with a history of murder, good. No. 315, Beta, has the ability to kill, has a history of murder, good. No. 317, without lethal capacity, has a history of injuries, good."

He looked away, feeling somewhat horrified that he seemed to be judging others calmly, even cheerfully, without referring to anything.

And there,

"No. 322, common, no lethal capacity, no history of injuries, bad."

A surprising verdict came.

There was someone who couldn't press the button.

Feeling a strange sense of relief, Colt looked towards room 322.

He looked at him and couldn't help but ask.

"D-doctor, is this child...?"

The Doctor, already making a decision several steps ahead, stopped and responded with a lack of interest.

"Hmm? No. 322 has the ability to generate electricity at the level of static electricity. She doesn't have the physique or physical strength, so she won't be of any use."

That judgment was completely correct.

Sitting in the middle of the room, cowering in fear, was a girl who wasn't even old (Colt had a hard time estimating the age of this skinny girl born in Asia). The marks of crying were clearly visible on her haggard and dejected face.

"Who are the parents of this girl?"

"She's a vagabond. I've made inquiries, but she has no family. The report says that the Strain group that attacked a US military transport vehicle did not manage to escape. Number 327, has the ability to kill, has a history of murder, good."

As he answered Colt's question, the doctor resumed his judgment process.

So far, several cases of Strains children have been confirmed. Most of them are locked up, hunted like monsters, or used by unscrupulous adults... in any case, they are said to be in even more dire circumstances than ordinary children.

Basically, Nanakamado doesn't see them as objects of use. The reason for this, of course, is not morality or love, but the fact that children with abilities are generally weak and have no value beyond statistical research. Still, for a while there were some people who advocated that they should secretly protect those children, but this is the current situation.

"......"

Colt, who had come into contact with the girl as a real human being and not as a series of characters on a sheet of paper, instinctively reached into his pocket and pulled out a bar of chocolate. Food that was normally used as bait to obtain information on corners was thrown through the food container. The girl looked up slightly.

"Do your best. You might be able to get out in a while."

He said that in clear Japanese while putting on his best fake smile.

Although the girl understood the meaning of the words, she did not seem to understand what he was trying to convey. All she could do was stiffen and look at him with suspicious, teary eyes.

"Colt-kun, what are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing."

When he responded to the doctor standing before him, there was a heavy impurity mixed with his fake smile.

(Seriously, what am I doing...?)

As if leaving his words and actions behind, Colt quickly left.

The girl who was left behind didn't even reach for the chocolate, she just lowered her head and called out to her.

"Iku-chan, please help me..."

The name of a very, very strong "Queen" who will help them.

+++++++++++

There are rows of power transmission towers in the western suburbs of Tokyo. Under dark clouds and drizzle, a girl stood on top of what appeared to be a group of sotoba trees devastated by the cold.

She is not a beautiful and strong figure.

She has a young, dirty face and a forward-leaning posture.

She was around 10 years old and was wearing a tattered trench coat over her thin, petite body, but for some reason she has the hood down over her back. The way her chin jutted forward, along with her flowing hair, gave her the appearance of a wolf searching for prey. Both eyes peeking out of her bangs are closed.

It is not a peaceful dream.

It was a look of concentration and a deep expression.

And...

"...!"

In an instant, lightning exploded beneath her feet.

The girl simply opened her eyes without showing surprise or fear.

Her large eyes scanned the horizon where the electrical cables were strung.

"I found it."

A gigantic and complicated circuit diagram was constructed in the moaning girl's field of consciousness. It is a model of the area's transmission network, including the electrical cables under its feet, with the vibrations and flickering of it. She knows the strength and weakness of electrical currents, and even the content of communications.

What she found was a name that was nothing more than a communication.

"Someone gave a lot of importance to Miya-chan..."

Even now, there are people who continue to send information about people's names, characteristics and powers. Among them was the name of the friend she was looking for. Other information proves that she is definitely a friend who was taken away by the occupation forces.

The girl's forward-leaning posture leaned further, gathering strength to jump.

Just when,

"Huh, which one?"

She didn't know which side captured her friend, the one sending the message from the east or the one receiving it from the west. As she gathered more strength, she concentrated on that communication and investigated further.

Most of them were words she had never heard before, but it was easy to guess their meaning from the excitement in their voices and the way they structured the language (although she didn't know the words taii or suisoku).

The sender desperately seeks help and persistently relents.

The recipient seems reluctant and rarely responds.

The girl struggled to find out what role her friend plays in these communications, although she is anxious.

In communications sent from the east,

"Please send me as many talented people as you can as soon as possible!"

A voice shouted.

There are a lot of talented people on the receiving end in the west.

She is sure that there are many people with abilities, that is, there must be some friends who were taken away.

That's right, the girl who makes decisions based on reflexes instead of careful consideration wasn't wrong...

The girl turned her head towards the west.

"Let's go everyone!"

In response to the howl, dozens of shadows rose from the field below the power transmission tower. They were all skinny, dirty kids about the same age or younger. On those sharp and carved faces, there was a sense of fierce power similar to that of the girl.

A hand rose out of nowhere.

When everyone on the field raised their hands, the girl on top of the steel tower did the same. She's the only one who doesn't just raise her hand. She was raising her index finger as if to stab the sky.

"Come on!"

In an instant, lightning descended from the dark clouds, accompanied by thunder.

The explosive power of lightning erupted from the girl who raised her finger at the top of the group to the children below who raised their hands, connecting everyone with green sparks and electric shocks.

"Biribiri-dan, shuppatsu!"

And with that, the girl gathered all the strength she had accumulated and began to run.

As if she were flying, gliding on electric wires lying in the air.

The children who were on the ground are attracted by the strength of their bond and go together.

The "Green King" Tsunogui Iku and "Biribiri-dan" destroyed maintenance and disrupted stability, and they were completely wrong. However, it was a storm-like departure that made the shock that much greater.

On a gloomy morning under stormy skies with mostly freezing rain, residents near the Research Institute for Infectious Disease Control evacuated. They loaded their few household belongings into a large car, carried them in furoshiki wrappers on their backs, and, holding hands with their families, walked frantically toward their designated evacuation destinations. There were complaints from many people that it was too late to evacuate, but if it were a message from Headquarters, it would be undeniable.

At first glance, it seems reasonable for Headquarters to say:

"This is a precautionary measure along with sampling for infectious diseases".

Despite that, a large number of police and even the Occupation Forces were sent to establish a strict blockade. Everyone couldn't help but wonder about the truth that was openly kept secret.

Some of the demobilized soldiers understood that this blockade line was prepared for movement from the inside, but at the same time they noticed the serious looks on the faces of the American police and soldiers guarding the area, and they remained silent and did not want to get involved.

The evacuation, which had since sparked various speculations, and the deployment of personnel in jeeps and trucks, which had been transported upriver, were completed at noon. It was so cold and rainy that bonfires were even allowed in several places.

The Research Institute for Infectious Disease Control where Nanakamado hides quietly.

Police and American soldiers surround the chalk building, which is surrounded by a high concrete wall and has a very bad reputation among local residents. They formed an orderly formation even in the rain and placed their gun barrels on piles of sandbags, but they advanced no further. Its only function was to build a siege and capture fugitives. That was decided the night before at an emergency strategy meeting.

Similarly, the number of personnel responsible for the invasion and suppression was determined by the Fourth Legislation Bureau of the Ministry of Justice, headed by the "Blue King" Somei Nazumi, who had clarified the confusing meeting. Even including Nazumi himself, there are only nine people with that ability.

The nine of them lined up in front of the main gate of the research institute, holding umbrellas.

The row of umbrellas, some restless and others motionless, watched the ceremony to prepare for the formality of the execution. A messenger from the Second General Staff Department, armed with an order from Headquarters, rang the bell, a ritual that may seem modest but is also a decisive declaration of war.

There was no answer to the doorbell.

The messenger pressed the call button and read the document.

When he finished saying that, if they didn't comply, they would be executed, that is, forcibly seized, he ran out the door like a rabbit.

The messenger stood in front of the "Blue King" in the center of the row of umbrellas and greeting.

"Report! No response from external organizations! Request from the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces Headquarters! Since the order was clearly violated, the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau will quickly enforce it. That that's all!"

Nazumi folded his umbrella and placed it at his feet, then responded with the correct fold.

"Accepted by the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau."

When the messenger left, a row of umbrellas folded their umbrellas one after another and placed them at their feet.

While catching the raindrops on his hat, Nazumi looked around the research institute.

"It seems that they have no intention of prolonging the negotiations and gaining time."

While her husband looks at the board, Chika helps him read by talking to him.

"What kind of winning strategy do you plan to find in this desperate situation?"

"That's right. If they wanted to engage in urban warfare, they would have launched it before the siege was completed."

As he smiled and enjoyed the conversation with his wife, Nazumi immediately got to the point.

"In that case, the operational posture is interception and the target is the assault force. That is to say, we are the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau. Since we are the biggest nuisance to them, we must be exterminated within their base as soon as possible."

The staff members on both sides responded lightly depending on their courage.

Nazumi continued with a smile on his face.

"I think the goal is to create a stalemate with the surrounding forces that have already settled. What they fear more than anything is that the talented forces in Atsugi will not be able to arrive. That's why they want to crush us, the opposing force of reinforcements that come, with their first move. If we can crush them, we can use it as material to move Atsugi."

As the game progresses, the pieces of the puzzle come together one after another and the players' intentions come together. So far, he didn't have the overwhelming feeling of foreboding or unease that worried him in the morning. The reading continued with great clarity.

"When reinforcements arrive, we will concertedly break the siege, both internally and externally, causing unrest in Tokyo. They will then negotiate with Headquarters or the Japanese government for a pardon on the condition that they withdraw their troops. Then they return in triumph. home with their glorious war results and political achievements as souvenirs... Well, the best scenario would be something like that."

He then added with a smile on his face.

"Of course, that's impossible."

Chika added more to prevent her husband from becoming irreverent.

"Never forget that the other person also has the power to cancel the impossible."

"It was certainly premature."

Nodding solemnly, Nazumi stepped forward.

The officers once again straightened their backs at the act prior to the order.

But for some reason, instead of the usual orders, a long explanation came.

"Today's deployment is a monumental moment for us, the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau, which has been officially entrusted with full authority to deal with individuals with the capacity to induce anomalous phenomena by breaking the chain of command between the Occupation Forces and the Armed Forces."

The staff, including Chika, were attacked by a bad feeling.

His especially logical explanation was determined to be an unavoidable incentive, even indirectly, to influence someone from a logical perspective, "something that is difficult to accept immediately".

"Right now, so to speak, is the place to reveal it... This morning during breakfast I came up with a gesture that would demonstrate to the viewers that I am willing to commit crimes against people with abilities, and also show them the model of order that must be maintained."

As expected, a proposal came that they couldn't immediately accept, but from which there was no escape.

"From now on, when we prepare for battle on the field, we will all draw our swords in order shouting a certain number. Following my order, each person please respond with their name and report having drawn their sword. Now, let's go "

The "Blue King" gave the orders, with the air of a cheerful driver and the voice of a stern superior.

"All members draw your swords!"

"To the order..."

Somei Chika, who was the deputy commander, or, in other words, the one who had to take the lead among the "vassals", was guarded by the staff and, although her cheeks were flushed, she followed orders. As soon as she picked up her naginata that she carried on her back, she put the sheath on her waist.

"Somei Chika, battou!"

With a loud, mesmerizing sound, she swung her drawn naginata and smashed the stone onto the ground.

Behind them, a scream escaped from the surrounding troops, exactly as Nazumi had anticipated.

Then, the last member of the station, who had been hesitating, finally moved after receiving an elbow in the side.

"I-Iyoda, battou!"

This time, his voice and his movements were moderate, so he was silent from behind.

With the assistance of both the good and the bad, the staff continued doing the same without hesitation.

"Rokugo, battou!"

"Hakizawa, battou~"

"Uh, uh, Nizuka, battou!"

"Hoizumi, battou!"

"Hentani, battou!"

"Toneyama, battou!"

After watching with satisfaction as everyone drew their swords, Nazumi slowly, but with a masterful movement, revealed the white blade.

"Somei Nazumi, battou!"

Naturally, he took a step forward and the station staff followed in line.

Because Nazumi was advancing at a regular pace,

"We're also working hard on creating other things, like extended front-end speeches. Look forward to the future."

For some reason, no one responded to proposal number two.

When the execution began, the telephone lines leaving the research institute were cut simultaneously in several places. They probably have backup lines buried underground and radio communication equipment, but the effectiveness of the measures is not the issue. That was a response to the enemy's declaration of war, which they ignored, and a signal for the start of the battle.

Next, the main door was hit by the stone tip of a naginata accompanied by blue power.

The thick iron gate was torn free of its bolts and fell onto the stone pavement of the front garden. When the glow of the earth's tremors faded, only the waves of freezing rain remained. There was no sound of movement in the barren front garden leading to the front door.

"As expected, there was no deployment of forces outside and no firing from inside. I guess it was a stalemate after 41 moves. As I thought, the real battle will only begin after we rush inside."

As he looked around from behind his hat, Nazumi gave them his final instructions.

"Originally, I would send the sword-shaped Radiant Schwert to strengthen them, but I don't want to irritate the "Colorless". I would like it to be a true test of skill."

The "King's" assessment was that it was possible to control the area with those nine people.

The confidence of the ''vassals'' in the evaluation of this ''king''.

They both took steps without hesitation and finally stopped in the middle of the front yard. It is a perfect place to observe the board, offering a panoramic view of the interior of the entrance, both ends of the house and even the bell tower above. After looking around,

"First move, reach the observation point... I will leave command to you from then on. Be careful."

Without bending down or bending his stretched back, he confided it to Chika,

"Yes. You should do your best."

Chika also looked forward and resolutely returned a response to Nazumi.

Then, leaving Nazumi in his place,

"Come on!"

The horizontal line resumed execution with Chika giving the order.

The tension in the formation increased with each step and finally, at its climax, eight people lined up at the entrance. The two wooden doors that once housed a general hospital are large and tall, and greeted them with an eerie silence.

Chika, as vice commander, looked left and right.

Although everyone was nervous to some extent, they did not hesitate.

After lifting her chin back in a slightly satisfied manner, the vice commander of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau issued a sharp order.

"Run!"

"Yes!"

"Come on!"

Hakizawa and Nizuka each kicked in the two doors, throwing everyone inside.

Before they could fall to the ground, the tremendous gunshots from inside would blow them to pieces.

To annihilate the intruders, countless bullets fell from beyond the barricade installed in the entrance hall, not only from pistols, but also from automatic rifles and machine guns. Furthermore, invisible shockwaves, blows, and cuts came like an avalanche.

To confront it head-on, Hentani and Toneyama erected a solid blue power shield.

"Wow, this is the first time I've seen the entire shield shake!"

"The impact of the "force" is greater than that of a bullet."

As they stopped to take cover at the entrance, swords imbued with power silently approached from behind the thick stone pillars to their left and right.

Immediately, Iyoda and Hoizumi killed them.

"Wow?!"

"It smells elegant!"

At the same time, Chika hit the two people falling directly on top of her with the flat part of her naginata, knocking them down. After confirming that the unconscious people had collapsed inside the mantlet, she asked Rokugo, who was staring at the center of everyone.

"How is?"

"There are no signs of bombs or gas."

Before he could say that, Hakizawa and Nizuka stepped forward and moved the position of the mantlet forward.

"Iyoda-kun, you are very strong in real life."

"Hey, two tablecloths are formed!"

The collision between the bullet and the force became even more intense.

Ignoring that, Hentani and Toneyama pressed harder and harder.

"Prevent shielding, advance further!"

"Secure the cutting position."

Once the shield was erected a short distance from the barricade, Chika gave an order.

"One, two, three, take it!"

Iyoda was first, followed by Hoizumi.

"Gaaah!"

"Keep formation!"

Following them, Hakizawa and Nizuka,

"Come on."

"Oh, wait."

Following them, Rokugo, Hentani and Toneyama as well.

"Keep pushing!"

"Understood!"

"Come on."

They jumped onto the barricade one after another, and fortunately, they were able to hit the barricade, expanding their control area from the front to the left and right, and then to the surrounding area. Finally, Chika, who had been setting up a shield at the rear, silently entered the barricade and obtained a bridgehead to control. There weren't many interceptors lying around inside, maybe they evacuated as they approached.

(After all, the other party is not exempt from measures either.)

Chika looked around her, preparing herself once again.

Located at the rear of the entrance hall, an empty hallway extends to the left and right. In each case, similar barricades were erected along the long road, with white swords and gun muzzles flashing.

This time, the officers prepared for the next attack while hiding behind barricades.

Rokugo, the security guard, shouted.

"Left hand, heavy weapon!"

A brief whistle was heard and bursts of rocket flames erupted from beyond the shield placed outside the barricade. The common sense that it's not something to shoot indoors seems to have lost its meaning in this situation.

"Prepare for a surprise attack by the talented!"

Chika perked up and stood like an unbreakable pillar in the center of the barricade.

(So far so good... now I'll gather the ingredients for Nazumi.)

Nazumi watches her efforts from the front yard.

(Heavy weapons, again from the west, 34 moves.)

To be precise, he was observing the battlefield and trying to understand the factors that made up the battle situation.

The initial location of the force, the behavior of talented people who seem to have a squad commander behind them, the direction in which they will retreat when attacked, the direction in which reinforcements will be sent, the density of the fire that they rain and the weapons of the interceptors. The types of weapons used are not only those of the battlefield.

(Grenade from above, 35 moves.)

The plan of the general hospital before its renovation, the appearance of the research institute after its renovation, the slight pipes and unevenness exposed in the wall, the route of the canal to drain ice and rain, the construction of the front garden and the damage to stone pavement. Until then, he mentally lined up everything that could be verified.

(Wave of attacks by talented people, 36 moves.)

In order for the actions that take place on the battlefield to be possible, it becomes clear what kind of structure the buildings must have and where the people must be. When that becomes clear, you will have the entire war situation in your hands.

And now,

(Reinforcements on the left side of the atrium. The pillars cannot be removed, so even if it is renovated, the structure will remain the same. The route of the bullets, the position of the barricade, the stairs to protect and the use of gas now. Chika-san, are you okay? 37 moves.)

All the phenomena were intertwined and the puzzle was completed.

In other words, reason and phenomenon have been clearly separated.

(Is that where the command post is?)

Nazumi looked from under his uniform towards the west end of the top floor.

The walls were exactly the same as the others, with the windows covered in concrete and disguised as shutters.

However, all battles occur around that area and they move to protect it.

Nazumi turned towards that, keeping his back straight. Due to the sharpness of his movements, his rain cape spread for a moment, pushing away the freezing rain particles. The regular steps began.

(Approach, 38 movements.)

In his mind, the "King" begins to count his own movements.

This was proof that the mission was in its final stage.

Finally, his steps began to gain strength and a blue crystal step formed beneath his feet as he stepped on them with an unchanging rhythm. Before long, he reached his destination, facing the west end wall of the top floor, without any hesitation or confusion.

(Accomplished, 39 movements.)

He held his saber upright in front of him like a guard of honor, then brandished it three and four times before returning to the same position. The thick concrete wall was cut into a blue line and collapsed inwards.

(Cut, 40 moves.)

The scene in the dimly lit room... electrical panels that had been smashed and sparks scattered, information equipment lined up all over the place, and the engineers looking at him stiffly proved that his assumption was correct.

The "Blue King" stared at them, throwing his saber forward and announcing his sentence.

"Forty-one moves, you are paralyzed. I recommend you all to surrender."

But,

In the end, when Nazumi visually checked the board, he should have immediately accepted the surrender. The expression of the man, the chief engineer, made him feel very uncomfortable.

"Ah, "Blue King"...!"

That harsh but trembling voice had a tone of desperation much darker than expected.

When Nazumi saw that, that feeling of foreboding and disgust suddenly came back to him from the depths of his heart.

Something was wrong. It was large and misaligned.

The chief engineer revealed to him the true nature of the discomfort.

"Is this... also... your doing?"

After saying that, Nazumi finally caught on to what he was pointing out.

A large communication device that had probably been chewing on it just now.

From that speaker overflowed the noise of the battlefield mixed with noise.

Nazumi had heard that the communication was coming from inside the house where a battle was taking place, but the truth was different.

[I urgently ask for help! I urgently ask for help!]

He understood it only from the word he received.

The interlocutor was not there.

[We are being attacked by a group of strangers!]

The person seeking help comes from a completely different place.

Apart from that institute, there is only one other partner with whom they could collaborate in that critical situation.

In other words, they were the source of support for Nanakamado's rebellion plan.

[I repeat, this is the Atsugi base!]

It was the Atsugi American military base where the talented troops were stationed, which was supposed to be the side that was supposed to provide support.

[We are being attacked by a group of strangers! I urgently ask for help!]

A cry of despair shook the atmosphere in the room that was supposed to have surrendered with a fever of restlessness.

[The Japanese skill corps was wiped out! What are those brats?]

[They're coming, they're coming! The door will break!]

Behind the transmission, the sound of metal being struck began to rumble irregularly. It sounded like someone was playing the drums recklessly, ignoring efficiency and regularity.

Of course, the first thing that ran through Nazumi's mind was "Colorless", but something wasn't right.

(Did he drive to neighboring Atsugi Prefecture? What about the children?)

That doubt created an unpleasant hum in Nazumi's heart that he had never felt before... even when he was fighting with all his might against the "Red King" Unno Yutaka or the strange monster "Colorless King".

A whisper, similar to the feeling you get when you turn something over.

Meanwhile, the level of panic on the other end of the communication rose through the roof.

[The radar site that fell due to lightning has been restarted! The Hoigaku moves on its own!]

[You're an Idiot!]

[Is he! That color "green"...]

The voice stopped suddenly.

A sudden silence descended upon the command post.

The chief engineer and the engineers were stunned.

For them everything is over. That was the end.

However, for the ''Blue King'' Somei Nazumi, it was different.

Now that things were being cleaned up, something was starting to happen.

There was no point in giving up.

There was another player who turned the entire board over.

[..."Green"..."]

A voice came from the speaker, as if in response to Nazumi accidentally spilling it.

[Where?]

Nazumi felt the voice, or rather the medium, and felt the pressure running through his entire body.

The voice was not only emitted from the large communication device with which the chief engineer communicated.

It was broadcast from all the communication devices installed in the command post.

(No way, this communication... is not allowed!)

The established order will be ruined.

Faced with so much certainty, Nazumi felt lost for the first time.

It seems like he couldn't understand it all at once.

[Miya-chan, where are you?]

The voice that reached him was that of a small child.

[Whoever knows, answer me... I am...]

That voice said the decisive words.

[Oh... "Green King"...]

The turmoil of that day had barely begun.

+++++++++++

That day, Daikaku Kokujoji had been sitting in a certain subcommittee meeting since morning.

He didn't want to get caught up in other things on a day when they had an important dispatch for the King and people with abilities, but as long as he has one foot in this world, there are many duties that he has to fulfill. This is especially true if it is an important official mission, such as accompanying and escorting the president of the ruling party.

The reason for the subcommittee meeting was a motion to punish a member of the ruling party for misconduct, and since the conclusion of the punishment was clear, the decision was made quickly. However, after that resolution, a private draft of the statutes circulated within the party. After reading it, the president wordlessly handed it to Kokujoji, who was standing next to him.

Kokujoji was secretly surprised as he looked at the document, wondering what the escort was doing.

"Security system project for party members."

The agenda was trivial, but extremely important. The party wanted to officially incorporate "Tokijikuin", who had been treated as an outside collaborator, into a part of the party organization.

In recent times, the ruling party administration has finally entered a period of stability and is now negotiating with the General Headquarters on the path to complete peace and withdrawal from the occupation. At this time, the opaque relationship with private organizations such as the pre-war extra-parliamentary group needs to be clarified. There is no point in trying to expand the strength of the party.

Even within the organization, the words were full of artificial rhetoric, saying that the organization would gain more success if he became an official official.

When Kokujoji turned his attention to him, the president let out a ridiculous snort and shook his head slightly. In other words, it is a surprise move by a rival faction within the ruling party that he has no knowledge of. With the ruling party's dominance in the political situation almost firmly established, the rival factions seem to have had enough leeway to carry out unnecessary political maneuvers.

The purpose of the recruitment must have been to take control of "Tokijikuin", who had been controlling the political world from the position of bodyguard, formally incorporating them into the ruling party. Even within the dominant faction led by the president, there are many who wish to use "Tokijikuin", who possesses supernatural powers, more conveniently. As the opposing factions discuss the draft, they will compile these requests and turn them into the opinion of the entire party. If it becomes the will of the entire party, it cannot be ignored, and if it happens, it will be an opportunity to undermine the president and take control of the party... There may be other considerations.

He can't believe it was a coincidence that they submitted the draft that same day. It's like they're going to put pressure on the leader of "Tokijikuin", who will prioritize protecting the president over a serious case of talented people, that they're going to put him on the table and pressure him into submission?

(I see, humans are truly insatiable creatures.)

Kokujoji was smiling like it was no one else's business.

(Although only three years have passed since the destruction and death that tore the country apart.)

Until now, "Tokijikuin" has tried to avoid being absorbed by its greed and stay out of political conflicts. However, the trend of the times may gradually make it no longer possible to do so.

In the future, regardless of whether they are involved or not, as the world stabilizes, interference from those who desire power will increase. The situation in which they are becoming the reason for the conflict demonstrates this.

Power moves people and creates a flow just by being there.

It is like a cluster of stars that he expanded through his daily training.

(I never expected the beginning to appear so quickly.)

That draft is only a small part. The power that has been lost in the postwar chaos will become more visible as it settles. It's time to think about making a change.

The sensation of being faced with a proposal for which he had carefully searched for the answer invaded him.

The proposal is,

(How should we "Kings" be treated?)

Will it remain hidden in the background like before?

Or will it turn around and appear?

(If not, is there another way?)

Although it was a proposal, it did not seem that the direction would be easily determined.

After all, he didn't even recognize the faces of all the "Kings" who should be punished.

While he was lost in these thoughts,

Unexpectedly,

[Where?]

A voice came from the radio installed in the chamber.

Not that it was time, he didn't even have time to think about it.

It is as if the proposals he has discarded, such as caution, now face a harsh reality.

(......!)

An almost physical shock, incomparable to the moment he saw the draft, passed through Kokujoji.

Hearing it for the first time, perhaps a child's voice, unleashed a power unique to them that no one else can use.

[Miya-chan, where are you?]

(You, no way.)

In the noisy chamber, only Kokujoji had a hunch about the situation.

Even when the staff hastily fiddled with the radio switch, the voices continued to come out. Before he knew it, all the speakers inside and outside the chamber were emitting the same loud voice that no one else could stop.

[Whoever knows, answer me... I am...]

(I guess everything is ready... now, finally!)

An indescribable feeling of euphoria warmed Kokujoji's heart.

It was no longer worth hiding it.

Everything will appear as it is.

What will this bring for him, for them and for this country?

He must accept this along with them and confirm it.

He stopped doubting a long time ago.

Since that comes, he will accept it with determination.

Suddenly, Kokujoji stood up to say the decisive word.

[Oh... "Green King"...]

(The last one... "Green King"!)

He had to go to them.

In order to determine if it is a desired miracle or not.

Or, to turn it into a desired miracle...

"Kokujoji-kun."

After hearing the familiar title, the president finally turned to look at him.

Kokujoji, who received his gaze, spoke with a smile.

"I will respond after considering the draft."

The president noticed that the man who answered seemed to have grown larger.

He is not big enough to be belittled and repressed.

He was so big that he naturally looked up and turned his back to him.

The burly man took a deep breath and the entire assembly hall burst into loud applause.

"To those in the House of Representatives who want us, know this! We are both a sword and a flame! You can see the full extent of this, so prepare to swallow it all!"

Before the lingering effects of the impact from his cheeks to his stomach wore off, his large figure had disappeared from the chamber.

This time, the remaining president smiled as if it was no one else's business.

#k #k project #k side gold #kokujoji daikaku #unno yutaka #somei chika #somei nazumi #Tsunogui Iku

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formsofcontinuity · 1 year

Text

chapter 1: partridge

“Did you know,” Kara alights on Lena’s balcony Christmas morning with a snap of her cape, words already out of her mouth before she’s fully landed, “that partridges are ground foragers? I mean, they can fly, but still, they spend most of their time on the ground!”

Lena has been waiting by the sliding door into her loft since Kara texted a few minutes ago to say she was on her way. The blonde’s hair is windswept, her eyes sparkling despite the mild annoyance in her voice. It’s unseasonably cold in National City this week, a place where Christamasses are often 70 and sunny, and Kara’s cheeks are rosy, though Lena’s still not clear on how much her Kryptonian best friend even feels the drop in temperature.

As usual, Kara looks unfairly beautiful.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Lena responds dryly, breath catching as Kara strides into her personal space and begins to rub her hands vigorously up and down over the thin fabric of Lena’s long-sleeved blouse without preamble.

“Lena! Aren’t you freezing?”

“I’ve been out here for all of two minutes.”

“It’s forty degrees.” Kara hasn’t stopped rubbing, her eyes searching Lena’s face for signs of, what, frostbite?

“Kara, darling, I’m fine.” Lena stops one of Kara’s hands with her own. She stills immediately, eyes flicking to their joint touch before she looks up again, sheepish…and cute, so cute. Kara drops her hands to her sides. Regret pricks at Lena, who suddenly feels very cold indeed. Instead of shivering, she laughs. “Come on in. What were you saying about partridges?”

Kara dutifully follows her into the living room, dematerializing her suit.

“I was saying that partridges are ground foragers.”

“Yes?”

“Did you know?”

“Yes, I actually think I did know that. Lex used to hunt them.”

Kara scrunches up her nose adorably in distaste. “But they’re so cute!”

"They are." Lena tries for a straight face, with little success. “This wouldn’t have to do with the song, would it?”

“You know, I’ve wondered about that song my whole life–well, my whole Earth life–but it only just occurred to me to look it up and,” Kara puts her hands on her hips in manufactured outrage, but her pout is ruining the effect, more Superpuppy than Supergirl, "partridges don't nest in trees. A partridge would not be very happy in a tree."

"I doubt they even like pears." Lena turns her head to grin at Kara as she strolls toward the kitchen, egging her on.

"Exactly!"

The apartment is sans decorations except for a large tree that her friend had insisted on bringing by last week, bulbs and ornaments hung erratically even though Lena had carefully picked out a color scheme of dark greens and golds, baubles bought at the store in advance of Kara’s arrival and presented to the blonde with an aggrieved air that they both knew was for show. But Kara had brought a bag of ornaments, too–some plucked from her own tree, some new she’d chosen especially (“Lena, look, I couldn’t resist. It’s a microscope. And here’s a little cat wearing a Christmas bow tie…)--and Lena had been powerless to say no, even as she watched her modest decorating schema deranged by a laughing snowman, dog Santa, and surfing reindeer.

This is their dance. All these years playing the same game: Lena trying to maintain her taciturn cool facade as Kara whirled in and disrupted everything. Except now Lena is willing to admit to herself that she wants to be disrupted, that the Kara whirlwind, that all of this, all of her, is everything she's ever wanted. It had taken her five years to admit it to herself; maybe, in another five, she’d tell Kara.

"I think," Lena hedges, "it's supposed to be a religious metaphor," but Kara is already shaking her head as she pours herself a cup of coffee and mixes in copious cream and sugar, fully at home and moving around Lena's kitchen, around Lena, who's pulling biscuits from the oven, with practiced ease. A little trill goes through Lena at the domesticity of it all.

"No, no metaphors. I'm taking the song at face value, and I don't approve."

"The partridge is hardly the most asinine part of 'Twelve Days of Christmas'."

"You're right, but it's the first. It's what I'm supposed to– I mean, it's supposed to be a significant first gift, and it's a lie."

"I'm sorry, Kara." Lena chuckles, then resumes setting the table for their planned breakfast, a task she’d interrupted to stand watch at her balcony door–even though Kara was certainly capable of letting herself in.

Kara takes her coffee and flops down in front of the tree, turning her gaze to Lena incredulously.

“Are we eating at the table?”

Was that a trick question? “Yes?”

“It’s Christmas.”

"That…Is that a non sequitur?"

"It's best to eat breakfast in front of the tree on Christmas, Lena."

"Oh? It's best? According to whom, exactly?" To keep up appearances, Lena has to protest, but she's already sliding the coffee table closer to the tree, depositing her own coffee cup on a coaster.

"Actually, it's mandatory."

"Well, in that case," Lena tosses her hands up in defeat, "what choice do I have?"

Before she can backtrack for dishes and the food, Kara catches Lena's hand. For one long, ineffable moment, they just look at each other, fingers loosely tangled, Lena's heartbeat rapid, like a bird's. She thinks about those partridges, minding their own business in the high grass and then a single unfamiliar rustle, a strange scent on the breeze, sends them up, up into the air. Away to safety, maybe, but also vulnerable. Out in the open with the breeze ruffling their feathers, they're more liable to be seen, to be found, to be hurt.

Gently, Kara squeezes Lena's fingers before releasing her. Her voice takes on a serious tone. "I'm only letting you go if you promise to come back." She pauses, then adds, a smirk curling her lips, "With food. Come back with food."

And Lena does. She brings the bacon and biscuits and these delectable little egg bites she made from a Martha Stewart recipe, pleased when Kara's eyes widen in excitement. Lena settles onto the floor beside her, their bodies making multiple points of contact–arms, hips, thighs–as the blonde leans over to fill her plate.

"I guess we're the ground foragers now," Lena offers while they eat, staring into the agonizing and glorious chaos of her tree. It's a half-joke, her uneasy attempt to make normal the feeling that her heart is flying free and wild and out of her chest for all to see.

Later, they'll exchange presents, but the way Kara laughs just then, genuine and joyful, bumping Lena's shoulder with her own–that's the gift Lena's still thinking about hours later. That's the one that matters most.

To be continued...

Also on AO3

#Supercorp #Happy Holidays to Lena and Kara specifically #Twelve Days of Christmas fluff #never thought I'd be inspired but a song that actually kind of annoys me #but here we are #12 days to say i love you

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tennessoui · 11 months

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i would for one would be interested in the extreme angst of Alaska AU

cw: sort of visceral grieving (of parent over lost child); very angsty

. . .

ok so i can't find the actual snippets in my (unorganized and frightening) google docs or notes app (lol) but it was mostly like this (sort of from memory and written directly into this ask so idk how good this will read but i very much remember some parts of this snippet tbh i think this is like. the closest ive ever come to not writing fanfiction ):

Obi-Wan doesn't think he was insane before his daughter died.

He remembers having a sound mind and a stable countenance. He was a writer, a blogger, a poor chef--though a chef nonetheless.

(A chef of boxed macaroni and cheese and cinnamon sugar toast. A chef of dinosaur nuggets and microscopic sized vegetables snuck into casseroles. A chef with a singular purpose, a singular audience.)

He would never have called himself a man of science, but he was a man of rationality at the very least. He found reason in everything around him. He did not always understand science nor math, but respected them as fundamental laws of the universe.

When Rey died, it was the rational part of himself that first followed her into the grave.

Three months after they bought her coffin and two and three-fourths after they buried her, the weather turned unseasonably cold. Obi-Wan woke up in the middle of the night halfway to a panic attack. They had buried her in a summer dress.

Years later, when the pain of the loss was incrementally easier to bear, he would write:

You do not spend nine years of your life fretting over whether or not your child will be cold just to turn that instinct off the moment they are no longer susceptible to the elements. After my daughter died, I spent countless nights awake wondering if she was cold there beneath the ground. We had not thought to bury her in her red winter coat, and it haunted my dreams. She would be cold without it. Children have horrible control of their body temperature. You must bundle them up, and the idea that we hadn't when we buried her drove me to insanity.

The first time it rained after her funeral, I saw her yellow rain boots lined up by our front door as I was leaving. I sat on our front porch stoop and sobbed for what must have been hours, thinking only of the water that would eventually, inevitably seep through the wood cracks of the coffin and wet her toes. Before, when a sudden rainstorm blew in, as they were wont to do in our town, I would pick her up and put her on my shoulders should we be caught out of the house sans rain boots. She hated the feeling of wet socks and cold toes, so I spared her the sensation.

That I had forgotten about the rain when we gave a set of her clothes to the mortician was unforgivable. Sitting on the porch that day, I felt a weight on my shoulders, like she was still perched atop me, trusting me to carry her over all the more dangerous and distasteful parts of the sidewalk.

I hadn't, and so she was cold. Her toes were wet. She was shivering. A child needs to be bundled up. It is one of the first things a parent learns should they take a class on the parenting, and I took many. A child must be bundled up, or they become cold.

I could not shake the idea that she was cold in her casket. Logically, I knew that whatever constituted my daughter was long gone. Her soul, her spirit, her conscience--whichever. She was not what we buried. Rationally, I knew that. But logic and reason have no starring role to play in grief. Guilt and blame and hysteria take the stage.

I could not shake this last failure. I could not forgive myself for it; I could not forgive my wife. When the weather began to turn cold once more, I packed my things and moved to the coldest place I could find. As a parent, one knows this: if you cannot cure your child of their ailment, you will weather it with them however you can.

#asks #lumberjack anakin au #cw: child death #borders cheesy tbh #i think whatever i wrote in like february was better but i cannot find it #but anyway it ties sorta well wth the frst ficlet in the verse #where obi-wan is cold and sitting out in tthe cold and anakin stops by #and obi-wan htinks that anakin is bright and warm #gives added depth

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abhainnwhump · 5 months

Text

IMYM Chapter 12: Make Me Your Masterpiece: Ink

(Content warnings: Self harm, creepy/intimate bathing, doll whump, starvation, humiliation, forced crossdressing, Nightmare continuing to be a creepy shit biscuit. Also, happy 1 day late birthday to him and Dream.) <- Previous Chapter || Masterlist || Next Chapter ->

Ink stared at the wall as still as a rock, not even blinking. That way, he could daydream about colors and scenery, keeping him out of the white space. Also because he couldn’t move. Yep, he ran out of emotions for too long and lay as a paralyzed husk.

At first, after he screamed and cried, he killed time by pacing and drawing invisible designs on the floor. He punched the wall once in a while, which might have not even been the one he came in. They all looked the same and all it did was hurt his knuckles. Even though he never saw them, he knew someone was checking in on him. Someone was feeding him water and unseasoned white rice. On a white plate of course. It cost too much in the budget to give him color. It gave him energy, but the amount was always too small to satisfy his hunger.

Ink was so sickof white. He was sick of the silence and the loneliness. He wanted someone to hug him or hold his hand. He wanted to talk to someone, anyone, or at least give his bored mind something to do. You could only talk to yourself in so many different voices before you run out of conversation ideas. Then he remembered the mud from the fall, still stuck to his bones. Brown!

Unfortunately, the dirt and grime from his fall were so caked on that he couldn’t scrape it off. The artist’s desperation for any other color drove him to scratch his arms until they bled. It hurt but also felt good in a weird way. The black blood was a relieving change. Ink used it as paint to make pictures. He drew a messy version of the Doodlesphere’s islands. Damn, he missed it. It was so colorful, unlike his stupid cell. Once he ran out of pigment and didn’t want to destroy his arms anymore, he started daydreaming. Since getting paralyzed, he was stuck right next to a puddle of his sticky black blood. He couldn’t even teleport through the liquid. His escape was so close, but he couldn't move a nonexistent muscle.

How long has it been? Hours? Days? Months? It wasn’t like he had a calendar or a clock. Nope, don’t think too hard about that. He used up his panic and only felt numb.

Ugh. None of this would be happening if he just did as he was told! It would have been so easy too. It was his fault he was in here. At least, that’s what Nightmare said. His words kept replaying in his head.

You don’t think anyone cares if you’re missing, do you?

Even if I did love you, that doesn’t mean you can do whatever your selfish empty heart desires.

You’re an easy puppet.

They were all he could think about. He might never see the sun again because of his stupidity. Worthlessness. Pride. Immaturity.

He deserved this, didn’t he?

The artist knew people didn’t like him. Error, Cross, Fell, and the countless other souls he’s pissed off over the years. Even the original Sans didn’t like him. He always brushed them aside as being jealous. Usually, he would rant to one of his friends and get their opinion, but they weren’t around. Not like they cared, he doubted it.

He should’ve been angry. Nightmare was the guy who threw him in here after all, but he wasn’t. Ink was mad at himself, or he would be if he could feel anything.He was lucky to be with Nightmare and he screwed it up.

Like you screw up everything else?

Shut up!

Ink groaned. Great. He was hollow, hungry, bored, and hating himself. No one has checked on him since he lost his emotions. Maybe he wasn’t useful anymore and was left to starve to death. Was it even possible for him to starve to death? Who cares. He just wanted to get out of and stay out of this room. He’d trade anything for it. Even if he had to sell his nonexistent soul to be a servant or something. Unknown to him, he did.

“Do you understand my reason for doing this?”

Ink cringed at the voice. It was soft-spoken but sounded like a megaphone when he was used to never-ending silence. Nightmare leaned on the left wall, arms crossed and tendrils swaying. He looked sympathetic and regretful, but Ink doubted it was sincere. Something was off about him, but he couldn't put his finger on it . . .

Ink stared straight ahead, but would’ve rolled his emotionless white eye lights if he could. Because you’re a dick?

The dark king propped him up into a sitting position like a toy doll. His tendrils prodded at and caressed his cheekbone. “It’s because when I took you in, I didn’t take wet clay. I bought a pot. Finished, but so cracked and chipped that it didn’t even resemble proper pottery, more like a child’s art project. However, you were salvageable. I just needed to break you first, then the dust could be rebuilt into something beautiful.” He raised a browbone at Ink’s dazed eyes. “And it seems I’ve started the first step quite well. Better than expected.”

Nightmare reached into his pocket and pulled out a colorful vial, swishing it around. If Ink wasn’t paralyzed, he would’ve squealed in joy. Nightmare pried open his mouth. Ink gagged at the feeling of his fingers as he poured the bottle down his throat. His left arm shuddered, then he regained control of his body with a gasp. Licking the last specks of pink and green paint from his face, he looked up at Nightmare with a new mix of emotions. Fear, guilt, regret, anger, relief, but stronger than any of those, love. Ink shot into his arms, clinging to his suit jacket and forcing his head into his chest. Bitter apples never smelt so good after smelling nothing for who knows how long.

Nightmare stiffened in shock. Cautiously, he caressed the back of Ink’s skull, which he melted into. Affection. Sweet, sweet affection. He’d never take gentle touch for granted ever again. The dark king chuckled. “Well, who knew all it took was some alone time to make you so sweet.”

Ink kept hugging him. He was so relieved to finally have someone next to him that he worried this was a dream. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“Quiet down, I forgive you.” Nightmare cuddled Ink close, rubbed circles on his back, and kissed his foreskull. Something in Ink felt wrong, but he dismissed it as touch starvation. The kiss and cuddle satisfied it. “I was thinking a lot while you were in here and I realized . . . you were right. I was a little too harsh on you. I didn’t mean what I said about you being worthless. I’ve been neglecting you and your needs for too long, that’s my fault. I’ll take part in some more one-on-one time so I can . . .” He removed Ink’s arms from his sides and held them up, eyeing the mess of frantic claw marks. It wasn’t until now that he noticed the dried puddle of blood on the ground and Ink. “. . . you’re bloody. Again.”

Ink hung his head. “Look, I couldn’t take it anymore. The whiteness was driving me crazy; I needed some color.”

Nightmare nodded in thought. His eye twitched a bit. “Understandable, but nothing of mine is going to be kept in such poor condition. If you’ve learned your lesson, I’ll start you a warm bath and I'll give you a second chance, okay?”

Oh, that sounded great right now. Ink didn’t take baths that often (he didn’t see the point), but he was so worn out and messy that he would welcome it. “I learned my lesson. I’ll never leave your side again, I got it! Don't ever lock me in here ever again!”

“As long as you play nice, I won’t need to. And believe me, I don’t wish to use this room again.” He took Ink’s hand and brought them standing. “I hope you understand why I did this. You learn best from punishment. And you needed to learn not to disobey. Do you forgive me?”

Ink paused. Did he? He was starved,abandoned, and he triggered his worst trauma. Ink looked back up at Nightmare's face and his soft smile, and he knew immediately what to say.

“I . . . yeah. I forgive you!”

Nightmare beamed. “Excellent.” He led him out of the room.

Ink’s senses exploded at the change of scenery. He was aware of every loud plunk of water or blood, whatever it was. The smell of rot and death made him gag. The dungeon was a dark aquaish-green, but the color change was still too hard on his eye sockets. Not that he wasn’t happy being free, he just didn’t expect it to hurt so much.

Nightmare noticed his problem. “Here, close your eyes. I’ll guide you. You can trust me."

The artist hesitated before a fuzzy surge of love filled his chest. He squeezed Nightmare’s hand, putting all his trust in him. He made a hum of contentment and led him out of the dungeon. His tendrils nudged him in the right direction whenever he was about to hit something.

Weird, it was like their fight didn’t happen. Nightmare was almost the same way he was in that first month. It didn’t even feel real. Like all that was a bad dream. And Ink would have believed it to be if he wasn’t so shaken up. But they were starting over, everything would be okay now.

Ink almost crashed into him when Nightmare stopped. “You can open your eyes now. We're at your room . . . my dear."

Ink peeked out one first and soon opened the other. His room was dark and quiet enough to not overstimulate him. He stepped inside and buried himself in his blankets. He missed his bed.

“Wait here and I’ll arrange that bath for you.” Nightmare pecked him on the cheek. The artist smiled, but then he looked around. Something was missing . . .

“Where’s my scarf?”

Nightmare’s expression changed to that sympathetic guilt again. “Ah, your scarf . . . it was disposed of. You won’t need it anymore. It was hideous anyways.”

“Oh.” The corners of his mouth turned down. Ink loved his scarf. He didn’t say it out loud, but it hurt losing it. And worse, Nightmare didn’t give him a heads-up. He wished he did.

“I’ll be back.” Nightmare left the room. Ink lay back on his bed. His eye lights wandered to nothing in particular, but something caught his attention. The parasol wasn’t in his room before. Huh?

He walked over to it and ran his hand down the black pole. Ignoring the superstition about never opening an umbrella indoors, Ink opened it. It was all white with a pink border. The middle had stitched roses, hearts, and bows. It was soft too.

Ink picked it up. It was lighter than he expected, even though it was as tall as he was. He practiced swinging it around. Despite the cutesy look, the top was freakishly sharp, and Ink had to be careful so he didn’t knock anything over. Or hurt himself. It was in a diamond shape and all the sides were sharp as a knife.

“I see you found your new weapon.”

Ink jumped and nearly hit Nightmare in the face. He laughed in the entryway, tracing his finger on the soft part under the point. “I couldn’t have you go weaponless now, could I? I was considering giving you a knife, but that was too cliche. This was much cuter and it will fit your new role, you'll enjoy this."

“Thanks!" Ink grinned. "Quick question, why is it pink? I'm not complaining, but I don't get why you gave me a pink parasol of all weapons?”

Nightmare kept touching the designs, looking Ink over. “Because that’s your favorite color. You love pastel colors. White, blue, and purple, but pink is your favorite. Don’t you remember?”

Ink’s fight or flight senses tingled. Something about his tone sounded unnerving, predatory almost. But despite that, he couldn’t stop himself from talking. “I don’t have a favorite color because I like them all. But if I had to choose, I’d pick brown because it’s all the colors mixed toge-”

Nightmare shook his head. “No. Are you going to argue with me further or are we going to clean you up?”

The artist held his mouth slightly open for a minute before laying the parasol down. He sighed. “Alright, you clean me up.”

Nightmare wrapped a tendril around Ink’s hand and pulled him over to him, tripping him. Ink looked up at him. Why did he look so excited? Why was he cute when he looked excited?

He took him down the hall without a single word. Ink tried to remember where this was. The hallways all blended together in his head. Eventually, he stopped at a large brown door, close to his bedroom. “I hope you like bubbles.”

Nightmare opened the door to the master bath. The room was a decent size with a cream-tiled floor and peanut-brown brick walls. The left side of the room held a fancy dark wood sink with a white counter. Something wrapped in brown paper and beige string sat at the edge of it. A circular bathtub was built on the floor and surrounded by brown curtains with yellow cords. A silver showerhead was on the wall, the kind where you can remove the handle. Bottles of soap and scrub brushes lined the corner of the barrier. Lavender bubbles and steam covered the top of the water.

Ink was immediately wracked with guilt. “Nightmare, it’s amazing, but . . . you didn’t need to do all this.”

“Pampering you is my choice. So what if you don’t deserve it? We’ll discuss how you will." Nightmare gestured to the bathtub. "Now, take those filthy clothes off and get in.”

Ink was a little uncomfortable, but he did as he asked and stripped down. Once he removed hisshirt, he noticed the weird look on Nightmare’s face. He was staring, fascinated by his swirling black tattoos. “Uhm, what?”

“You’ve never told me you hid so much beauty. I believed you only had those markings on your arms and legs. Where did you get them?”

Ink blushed with rainbow freckles, flustered. “Funny story. I was born with them, so I guessed it was a normal skeleton thing. I asked Blue if I could see his and he was so confused. Dream didn't know either. Error said it was code from when I was stuck in the void."

Nightmare nodded along and hummed, but he wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the box on the sink. "Interesting . . ."

Once Ink was undressed, he lowered himself into the bathtub. The burning water shocked his system; he squeaked. Nightmare laughed and pushed him the rest of the way in. He took the brush and showerhead and used the latter to rinse water over his skull. Hot! Hot! Hot!

“Relax, I’ll take care of you,” Nightmare said as Ink shifted around. His cold hands were the opposite of the water. He probably didn’t mean to make the water so hot. It was an accident. “You only need to move when I tell you to. Like now, raise your right arm.”

Ink did as he asked and Nightmare cleaned his cuts. He made the disinfecting slow and gentle, pouring water over them to flush out the wounds. It didn’t take long before black blood stained the tub. The artist winced whenever he would rest his fingers on one of them, or worse, they got soap in them. Thankfully, Nightmare would notice and move. He did the same thing washing out the other arm.

“So,” Nightmare started as he pumped soap into his hand. “I’ve been thinking long and hard about your . . . poor decision-making and how I could help you improve. Then it hit me. Your problem is arrogance and too much freedom. You believe your actions are consequence-free and you don’t care about anyone who isn’t yourself. And if something does go wrong, all you have to do is hop into another AU and forget about it. It would be unfortunate if you couldn’t rely on your protector, wouldn’t it?”

Tilting his skull so he could wash the dirt and blood off his neck, Ink’s face burned in shame. He already knew he was an asshole now and then, but hearing it in Nightmare’s smooth voice hurt. "Yeah, I guess that would suck. And I kinda let everyone down . . . what is this leading to?"

Chuckling, Nightmare rubbed the lavender-scented soap into his collarbones. “As I said two weeks ago, I'm going to lay down stricter rules. I have a plan set up for you to take etiquette lessons. You also have some paperwork to sign. You have a brand new role you need to fulfill for me, and I'll teach you how. Don’t worry, once you catch on, they’ll be easy. Your lessons will be alongside your battle training. Also, I will choose what you wear from now on. It’s quite the change, but you’ll get used to it.”

Ink swallowed. He wasn’t a fan of the idea, but he’d do it if it made Nightmare happy. He didn’t want to face his anger again. “What happens if I mess up and break the rules?”

“Simple. Depending on the severity, we would either talk about your mistake or I would punish you. I’d prefer not to physically harm you, I’d like to keep your appearance nice, but it could happen. So instead, you would either spend some time in the white room-”

“NO!” Ink twitched so hard that water splashed up on Nightmare. He smirked in amusement as he flicked the bubbles off his face. “Not again. Don’t leave me alone in there again. Please.”

“Shh.” Nightmare stroked his cheekbone with his thumb, leaving a trail of light purple suds. “Aw, you poor thing. If you don’t want punishment, then I assume you want to be compliant, don’t you?”

To be honest, Ink wasn’t sure what he wanted. He didn’t want to be on his own, that was for sure. But he didn’t like thinking about losing that much freedom either. He could’ve tried running away . . . but he wanted to stay with Nightmare. Even if he tried to run, Nightmare would track him down and throw him back into the white room. Ink wanted things to go back to the way they were. He tried to keep everything on his mind, but it came out as stammering nonsense.

Nightmare massaged soap into his ribs. Ink stopped worrying and relaxed; it felt so good. “I understand if you’re confused, it’s how anyone would feel. That’s how you. will earn and deserve rewards like this. You won’t even need to think, I will do all that for you. You just need to act cute and obedient.” He booped his nasal bone. Ink sneezed. “And it seems you almost have the first part mastered. All this won’t start for at least another week. I figured you need some time to prepare. and understand what you're getting into."

“Prepare? I . . . nevermind. I don’t want to know.” Ink had a sick feeling in his nonexistent stomach. The last time he felt this uncomfortable was when he got back from Flufftale. Even though he was nervous about the answer, he asked, “Hey, Night?”

“Hm?”

“How long was I in that room?”

Nightmare didn’t answer for a long time. “A while.”

They didn’t say anything for the rest of the bath. Nightmare was gentle and his scrubbing never hurt, even when he had to go rougher on some of the stickier muck. Ink started to doze off. Nightmare kissed his foreskull. What did he say before about second chances? Was this it? If so, maybe this new role would be alright, whatever it was.

Nightmare finished cleaning him. He helped him out and Ink took a towel to dry himself off with, tying it around his lower bones when he was done.

“Sit there with your arms held out.” Nightmare said, pointing to the bathtub rim with a tendril. Ink followed the order. “There we go. Now stay still so I can fix your arms."

His tendril reached on top of a cabinet and a roll of beige bandages. He traced his magic glowing fingers down his arms before binding them up. “I would use my malice again, but the bandages will look much cleaner with your outfit. Don’t scratch your bandages no matter how itchy they may become. It could loosen them or cause a worse infection. That includes when they’re off. No more harming yourself, promise Ink? I expect your body to be in the best possible condition.” He paused. “How come you’re staring at me like that?”

Nodding and half-listening, Ink’s mind argued with itself. He should’ve hated him. He was supposed to hate him. He was always told Nightmare was evil and sadistic and violent twenty-four-seven. And he was a victim of that violence. But he’s been so gentle, concerned, and caring. Even after he messed up, he was giving him another chance. He couldn’t- no, he wasn’t all bad. That fight had to be a one-time thing. Maybe Nightmare was confused about how to show love. They were both brand new at this. Or was he the confused one? Oh! He could help Nightmare learn to love!

“Ink?” Nightmare snapped his fingers and the artist jumped, snapping out of his thoughts. “Are you listening?”

“What?”

Nightmare sighed in exasperation. “I was saying I have your clothes in that box.” He nodded at the package on the counter. “You may get dressed behind that screen. And for future reference, I hate repeating myself, so don’t make me do it again. Listen to me next time.”

“Got it!” Ink said quickly. He didn't understand why Nightmare wouldn't let him undress behind there earlier. Oh well. Ink stood up and took the package off the sink. It was both heavier and lighter than he expected. He shook it up to his skull. Something rang in there. A bell? A jingle bell?

The artist slipped behind the changing screen with the box. The back wall was a giant mirror. He set the package on a small stool, untied the perfect bow, and ripped the paper off in a swift motion. Inside was a plain black box. Ink took off the lid and peered into it.

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Ink pulled out the biggest thing first. It was a cutesy dress meant for a little girl. Pastel pink with white lace trim and sleeves that puffed at the top before tightening at the wrist. The skirt had a lot of ruffles, lace, and layers, switching between pink and white. A pink bow wrapped around the waist and held it all together. Ink held it against his body and guessed it was about knee length. Under that was a painful and confusing-looking corset and shiny black Mary Janes. The last things he pulled out were a pink and white beret and white knee-high stockings with- did Nightmare have a thing for lace?

Ink wasn’t sure what to think of the outfit. It seemed too cutesy and pastel to be something Nightmare would be into. Like . . . that was the opposite of what he was into. But Ink put it on because he didn’t want to look ungrateful. He didn't hate it either, he was extremely confused.

The corset took the longest to put on because he had no idea how to wear it.The dress was easier and more comfortable than he was expecting, it had a soft lining inside. Ink put the beret on as he fumbled with the shoes. He preferred going barefoot as he felt freer but supposed these were alright. A little tight at the toes at most. Besides that, the clothes were his exact size. He guessed Nightmare looked at the labels of his clothes because he didn't want to know otherwise. As Ink stood up, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His face went hot.

Sure, he looked adorable and charming, but he also didn't look or feel anything like a fighter. The corset hurt and constricted his ribs. Even though they weren’t too revealing, they were some of the most embarrassing clothes he ever wore. The black tattoos on his legs stood out, looking like a sore thumb against the pinks and whites. Would Nightmare be okay with it? Would he like it? Well if he picked it out, he has to. Ink stared deeper into the mirror, studying himself. He had so many quest-

“Oh, Inky?” Nightmare asked in a sing-song tone. “Is everything okay in there?”

The artist’s eye lights turned into a purple exclamation point and circle. “Yeah, I’m done!”

“Show me.”

Taking a deep breath, Ink’s shoes clacked across the tiled floor as he stepped from behind the screen. His self-consciousness eased as soon as Nightmare smiled at him. It was worth everything. Ink messed with his sleeves and bounced on his heels. "So, what do you think?"

Nightmare walked around the artist, taking in every part of him. One of his tendrils felt around his eye socket, then it traced down his cheek to his mouth. He cocked his head with a satisfied smile. “Beautiful, bow and skirts suit you much better than that old uniform. But there’s still one more thing you need.”

“One more thing? What's that?” Ink couldn’t think of what he meant. Then he felt stupid.

Gesturing toward the stool, Nightmare grabbed a container Ink hadn’t noticed before. It was the same pastel pink as the dress he wore. Ink couldn't tell if it was intentional or not. It was about the size of a clutch and looked like one too. It had glittering silver accents and a handle at the top, along with two latches. He cupped his chin with one hand and held a makeup brush in the other.

Nightmare clicked it open. “This is going to be yours soon, but for now, I need you to hold still.”

Ink glimpsed inside the container. Many cosmetics, makeup brushes, and other beauty supplies. Before he could ask for details, Nightmare tied his hands and legs together with his tendrils. He took a small book and opened it, looking between him and Ink. It was a how-to guide. Nightmare dipped the brush in a container of powder and covered his face. Ink scrunched his nasal bone. Nightmare tapped the side of his skull as a silent warning to stop. He switched the powder out and painted eyeshadow on his eye sockets. Ink couldn’t stop himself from sneezing and snickering. The latter because the brushes tickled.

“Nightmare, I- pew! I think I’m allergic to the makeup.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Nightmare said, looking back at the book. He traced something that felt like a pen on the edges of his eye sockets. Ink tried readjusting himself again and Nightmare slapped his hands. “Stop moving around, you're making this much harder than it has to be. I know you have it in you to be good. You're just not putting in enough effort. Yes, you may have not signed any contracts yet, but you don’t need one for basic politeness.”

Ink held back another sneeze. “I can’t sit still- wait, what was that about a contract?”

Nightmare didn’t answer. After a few more touch-ups, he finished. Ink’s face felt weird. The makeup wasn’t heavy, but it still tingled. He’s done face paint and eyeliner before, but nothing like this. He looked in the mirror. Whatever the powder was, it made his features look softer. His cheekbones were done up with rosy pink circles like a cartoon. The eyeshadow was light and glittery. The corners of his eye sockets were a very faint red.

Nightmare ran his hand down his skull before tilting his chin to look at him. He hummed. “Not perfect, but it will do. This is how you’re expected to do your makeup unless I say otherwise.”

Ink was double confused. "Alright . . ."

"I'm glad you understand." Nightmare offered his hand for Ink to take it. He did, pulling himself up. Nightmare looked him over again. "Does everything fit okay? Is anything too tight?"

Ink shook his head. “Good," Nightmare said, "because this dress will become your new uniform. The same way I wear my suit vest and the team wear their navy jackets.”

Ink glanced down and couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He laughed so hard his eye sockets teared up and he had to brace himself with the wall. “You’re joking, right? Me? Going out in battle and spreading negativity dressed like this? That’s ridiculous! Oh, this whole thing makes sense now! You want to pull a prank to confuse me because you’re still bitter over our fight! I could give you some tips on pran . . .” He finally noticed Nightmare’s flat expression. He didn’t have any humor in his eye light. Ink’s laughter died down. “You’re not kidding, are you.”

“I don’t kid, Ink. You know this.” Nightmare waved his fingers and Ink’s entire body tingled. It was a less extreme feeling than when he took control of his emotions in Birdtale. Wow, that felt like a year ago, even if it couldn’t have been more than two months. Nightmare hummed at his aura. “Does the change make you uncomfortable? Be honest with me, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Ink rubbed his arm. He was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “Well yeah. I’ve never worn any like this. Come on, it’s so embarrassing! You had your fun, now can I have my normal clothes back?”

Nightmare set his hands on his shoulders and massaged them. “I see you don't understand. I got rid of your old clothes. This is who you are now, Ink. I know it's going to be . . . difficult, but that's why I'm here. Now, smile for me."

Reluctantly, Ink did as he asked.

“See? It’s easy to listen and obey, and you’re doing such a good job.” Even though Ink didn’t want to admit it, the praise felt good. So did the shoulder rub. He rested his head on Nightmare’s chest, making one of the king's hands move up to pet his head instead. He was still touch-starved from the white room. It was almost worse than the years he spent in that void. He didn't know what touch was, now he did. He had something to crave and miss. “You’re going to love your new life, my little doll.” He pressed his nonexistent lips together to keep from snickering.

“Little doll? Weird name, but I kinda like it . . .” Ink mumbled to himself. Nightmare didn’t answer, but he could tell he heard it from his smile. Then the moment was ruined when a wave of dizziness took over Ink. "Night, can I have something to eat? I've had anything in like, a week."

Nightmare stopped petting him. "Hm, sure. I don't see why not. How does some pasta sound?"

Ink beamed again. Finally. He would get something that wasn't plain rice. He could never eat that stuff ever again. Or he would have to use food coloring.

Nightmare offered his hand to him and Ink took it. They walked into the hallway. Ink spun around as he walked so he could watch the skirt spin. But despite as fun as that was, he kept wincing and stopping in pain. Right, the corset. It was like he had a massive rubber band tightening around his ribs. What if he put the corset on incorrectly?

Nightmare heard his groans. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, this corset is killing me. Do I need to wear it all the time?” Ink tugged on it again.

His tendril absentmindedly stroked his waist. “No, not during battles or at night. Don’t even think about taking it off, you need it. If it hurts, that means you laced it tight enough. The pain won’t last forever; I doubt you will even notice it after a week. In time, it will improve your posture and make you look better.”

“Could I at least loosen it?”

“No.”

Ink didn’t bother arguing. Maybe when Nightmare wasn’t looking, he could take it off. How was he supposed to wear this thing every day without ruining his ribs?"

Nightmare walked into the kitchen and Ink still couldn't believe how massive it was. Sure, it was a castle, but still. The tiny white room made everything look giant in comparison. It was pitch black like the rest of the castle and the appliances were light gray. And the dining table was huge, almost as long as the room.

Nightmare told Ink to sit down while he made the pasta. Ink did. The chairs were the same dark wood as the table and engraved with swirled patterns and trees on the back.

Ink fiddled with his beret some more and made himself comfortable. It kept sliding over to cover his eye sockets. He took it off to see if it was adjustable. It wouldn't make sense if Nightmare got his clothes right but the beret was too big. Speaking of Nightmare, he kept stealing glances at him while he was cooking.

Ink smiled and cleared his throat. After a long time of thinking, he was going to ask the question that was itching the back of his mind. "Nightmare, why won’t-”

Nightmare shushed him without turning around. “I should've mentioned this before, my apologies. One of your new rules is you are to only speak when spoken to or with verbal consent. If you want to talk, say, ‘Permission to speak’. I will either grant or deny it.”

Ink sighed. “Fine. Permission to speak?”

“Permission granted.”

“Why won’t you let me leave the castle?”

Nightmare heaved a dramatic huff, stirring the sauce. “It’s for your protection. The Doodlesphere believes you to be a traitor. If they find out about our relationship, if they find you’re alive, it won’t end well. Few are brave enough to challenge me, but they would harm you. Think about it. You could protest and they wouldn’t care. After all, the evidence is obvious. You are in a relationship with me, you haven't shown your face in months, and you are part of my cause. I chose the white room punishment as a warning. That’s where they will leave you, in the same white void you were trapped in. I wouldn’t be able to rescue you.”

Everyone thought he was a traitor? Ink didn’t know that. “But . . . I’m the Protector of the Doodlesphere and a member of the Star Sanses! Everyone loves me! Well, most people love me. Why would you think anyone would change their mind?”

“One, you were. And two, it’s because it already happened once, to Dust. He went on a solo mission to a Fellswap timeline. He’s capable of protecting himself, so I wasn’t worried after he was gone for two days. But those days turned into four with no sign of him. Then it turned into a week. I started a search mission with Horror, Killer, and at the time, Cross. After hours of tracking, I found his scarf hanging on a branch. His footsteps were half-buried in snow and I felt a strong force of negativity. Pain, fear, distress, I knew he was close. It led me to a rundown shack in the mountains. There was a gang of monsters . . . torturing him. Dust was crying. His hoodie was missing. I killed all of them on the spot. Slowly.”

His voice turned sadder. “He was a mess. Broken ribs, bruises all over, fever, damaged legs, but the worst damage was to his mind. I haven’t seen him so trapped in his hallucinations since I first hired him. He couldn’t hear me, but he was calling for his late brother and his team. Horror, Killer, Cross, and I were up all night and into the morning working to return him to reality. Once his injuries healed and he could function again, he refused to talk about it. To this day, no one knows the extent of what they did, but I know the motivation. They were tormenting him because he was one of mine.”

“Dust is a henchman, but he’s also like a son to me. They all are. Don’t tell them I said that. Meanwhile, you are my light, my little doll. You would be worth so much more if you were captured. The outside world is too dangerous for you to be on your own. I would never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.” He took Ink’s hand and held it against his chest. “Ink, promise you’ll allow me to protect you, no more running away, no more misbehavior. Promise you’ll allow me to make you your strongest self so I’ll never need to worry about your safety.”

If he didn’t feel bad enough, the story made Ink regret every choice he made in Flufftale. It probably wasn’t easy for him to open up like that. Nightmare knew what was best for him. He was smarter and more experienced than Ink. He should stop trying to argue and let him take over-

What? No! What the hell was he thinking? He was a guardian and fighter, not a helpless maiden! Even if he was dressed like one! He watched Nightmare set the plate of finished pasta in front of him. His nonexistent soul ached and his paints swarmed, but Ink reached out and took his hand. “I promise, Nightmare. I’ll let you protect me.”

Nightmare stopped and turned to Ink with a smug smile. He hugged the artist from behind, kissing him where his ear would be. He chuckled. “We’re going to fix you, Ink. I'm going to make you perfect. I swear it.”

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dresupi · 10 months

Text

Current Hyperfixation Meal

8/2/2023

idk what to call it, it's a riff on that tiktok pasta that was going around at the beginning of the pandemic

This isn't low in fat or gluten or carbs or anything and I don't claim that it is. Obviously you should eat a salad with it or something I guess. I don't care what you do with it, I trust you. You do you, babe.

INGREDIENTS:

1 can of peeled whole tomatoes (Cento San Marzanos are my fave, but any will do)

Sliced onion (like a half of a medium onion? sorry I don't measure)

Minced Garlic

Seasonings of your choice (I used kinder's buttery garlic salt, pepper, basil and oregano--I have the last two growing in my herb garden, but dried works just as well can confirm, have made this a LOT)

Butter (or whatever you use as butter), just like a tbsp or so

1 container of herbed garlic cheese spread (Like Boursin, but i use the aldi brand)

Pasta of your choice

METHOD:

So you drain the tomatoes and crush them with a fork in a bowl before continuing.

Cook the onion in the butter until soft and kind of starting to get caramelized and brown on the edges, then add in the garlic to let it cook a few minutes before continuing.

Season every time you add in something that isn't seasoned, mix your seasonings ahead of time like me and just add a pinch or two every time you dump in another unseasoned ingredient.

Add in the manually crushed tomatoes (you want the bigger chunks, that's why I don't use already crushed tomatoes) and cook for about ten minutes so the tomatoes really start to soften and fall apart more.

Dump in the entire container of cheese and stir until melted.

Taste for seasoning and serve on the pasta.

Am currently obsessed with this and I eat it often.

#Chaos cooking #hyperfixation meals #if you can follow this and make something i am so proud of you #i'm proud of you anyway #love you babes #Yes I had a gummy WINK WINK but I would love you anyway #tw: food mention #This recipe is rated a level 4 deranged #idk how many levels there are #4/?

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kinomiya · 1 year

Text

Ultraviolence

@aquariasmoon-blog i actually don’t even wanna talk about this (/lie)

——————————

ultraviolence.

ul·tra·vi·o·lence | \ əl-trə-ˈvī-lən(t)s \

extreme or excessive violence.

He didn’t know how he’d ended up here.

A minor injury sustained during competition that had delayed his return to Russia because overly cautious physicians had refused to clear him to fly. Followed by an unseasonably early, unusually easterly typhoon threatening catastrophic damage to the Honshu region of Japan and now he was stuck in this monolithic traditional Japanese home surrounded by a bunch of glorified wild animals that Tala quite frankly, wanted to hunt down one by one and slaughter like the beasts they were emulating.

Tala clenched his jaw, his face resting in the palms of his hands, fingers pressing hard into his forehead as he willed himself to dispel the intrusive thoughts swirling in his mind. The people congregating around him weren’t animals after all, they were his… friends. He exhaled loudly, the hint of a malevolent laugh.

What a joke, what a complete and utter joke.

Before his annoyance could subside completely, it began to swell again, overflowing out of its containment worsening every thought. Exacerbated by the piercing sound of jovial laughter from the one person he had come to utterly abhor.

Kinomiya fucking Takao.

The sound of the boy's carefree giggles made Tala want nothing more than to grab him by his scrawny neck and slam his face into the hardwood floors until he stopped laughing. He wanted to paint the floorboards with red streaks as his prey pleaded for mercy and he wanted to reward his efforts by leaning down and biting off his—

“Tala.” Came Takao’s voice, breaking him out of his violent reverie.

“What?” He snapped back, the acid dripping off every syllable was completely ignored by the boy standing in front of him.

“You look like you're overwhelmed, let me take you somewhere quiet.” He spoke softly, leaving the rest of the room's occupants oblivious to their conversation.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Kinomiya.” He hissed back in response, but his objection was ignored as Takao simply beckoned him silently to follow.

His first instinct was to cross his arms and remain in the same place, but the scowl on his face intensified when he realized he was acting like a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum. So with a nearly inaudible snarl he pushed himself up off the floor and stalked after the younger boy who’d exited the room several moments prior.

The light from the room behind him cast light through the dark hallway illuminating where Takao was leaning against the wall, nonchalantly scrolling through his phone. He only spared a glance in Tala’s direction when he heard the click of the door behind him and the room was cast into pitch black sans the small light from the device in his hand.

“The doctors said you have to be mindful of your head.” Takao spoke finally, stretching his arms over his head casually, his shirt riding up slightly, before he pushed himself off the wall and effortlessly traversed the dark corridor.

“My head is fucking fine.” Despite the hostility of his words, Tala still followed the other teenager further into the depths of the massive, unfamiliar dwelling, ignoring the hair on the back of his neck as it stood on end.

“Hmmm.” Takao hummed with an air of disinterest that made one of Tala’s eyebrows twitch, if he didn’t actually care then why had he felt the need to interrupt his thoughts and drag him down a desolate hallway to some unknown destination.

Eventually he’d stop at a door, placing his hand on the knob and turning before pushing the door open and moving to the side, silently beckoning Tala to enter first. Never a coward he did, and when the teenager behind him flicked the lights what was revealed to him was… a plain office. An empty desk stood under a window on the far end while a couple of bookshelves lined the walls on either side. Tala turned towards Takao, an eyebrow raised.

“No one will come in here, thought you might like the privacy.” Takao answered Tala’s unspoken question, but the explanation failed to lighten the mood, if anything it did the complete opposite, causing a sour atmosphere to descend on the room. An angered expression spread across Tala’s face as he considered the implications

How fucking dare he.

In an instant, Tala’s fragile composure slipped away and he stalked towards Takao closing the distance between them in seconds. He grabbed the younger man by the chin, shoving him backwards until he ran into the empty desk with a loud thud, all the while never redirecting his intense gaze from Tala’s own.

“Don’t you ever suggest I’m one of your strays that needs saving… Kinomiya.” He spoke softly into the younger teenager's ear, with icy fury bubbling below the surface. He felt the shiver run down his adversaries back. Victory.

But as satisfaction began to seep into his pores he felt the man he had pinned between him and the desk move, grabbing onto his forearm, and in a blur of motion he found their roles reversed. His left cheek resting firmly against the cold wooden desktop and his hands pinned behind his back, Takao was above him looking down, devoid of the satisfaction he’d expected.

Takao languidly leaned towards him, his face so close he could feel the hot breath on his cheek and smell the vaguely minty fragrance of some since discarded gum he’d been chewing that day. Tala could hear the office clock ticking loudly with every passing second as he braced for whatever came next, eventually he’d hear a soft chuckle from the man above him

“I wasn’t suggesting that… I just want you to… relax a little.” He whispered tenderly into Tala’s ear, his free hand moving to grasp his chin and tilt his face to the right.

Tala only registered the reality of the kiss when he felt Takao’s tongue coyly lick his lower lip before he leaned back away from the Russian, releasing his arms from their pinned position and wordlessly exiting through the office door.

Eventually, he exhaled, relishing for a moment in the peacefulness of the empty room. Slowly Tala rolled over on the desk until his back was pressed hard against the wood, then he closed his eyes, before raising an arm to cover part of his face.

A fiendish smile danced across his lips.

So this was how it was going to be was it?

Then Tala supposed he’d let Kinomiya keep his tongue for now.

#beyblade #bakuten shoot beyblade #takao kinomiya #yuriy ivanov #fanfiction #i am the captain of the takao/yuriy ship

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natequarter · 1 year

Note

38 & 41 for Humphrey & Sophie please!

38: “I could never leave you, not that I’d tried.”

41: “I’d never guess that I’d end up here with you.”

Ao3 | prompts

Humphrey had zoned out of the banquet several hours ago—which was probably a mistake, because John was next to him, busy chatting his ear off about…

Well, he had no idea; he hadn’t been listening. Nor, he suspected, had his wife; she was nodding with the same glazed-over expression to the courtier next to her, whom he could have sworn was going on about the declining quality of Dutch rugs these days. It was baffling that anyone knew anything about Dutch carpets in the first place, never mind enough to rant about them in Latin.

Never mind that. He forced himself to focus on John, who seemed to have finally realised that Humphrey wasn’t paying the slightest attention to him.

“It’s not your wife, is it?” John was saying.

“Wha’?” he said, through a mouthful of food, then realised his mistake. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was saying, it’s not your wife that’s got you all distracted, is it?” John repeated. “You weren’t listening to me.”

The, And you haven’t been for the last three hours, went unspoken but pointed.

“Oh, Jesu, no,” Humphrey said. “Well, that’s a bit harsh, but, uh … no, not really.”

“Unfortunate,” he said. “Well, that’s the French for you. Good for, ah, how do I put this politely? Not much.”

“Apparently nor are the Dutch,” Humphrey said.

“God’s fish, what are you talking about?”

“The bloke two seats to the right, he’s been droning on about how Holland’s flooring’s really gone down the drain in recent years,” Humphrey said. “I swear, I’ve been trying to tune him out, but it’s like that bloody Heywood everyone’s always harping on about—can’t get him out of my head.”

“Heywood?” John said. “Well, you know me: I—”

“Don’t do books,” Humphrey nodded.

“Yes, that—the only book that matters, if you don’t mind me saying, is the Bible. Haven’t so much as skimmed any plays for years … but if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have gone for the works of a Catholic.”

Humphrey resisted the urge to wince at Sophie’s sudden flinch. “Well … it’s not as if he’s around these parts anymore, is it?”

“True, true.”

“I just wish—with the arts, you know—that they’d come up with something new. Poets, I mean. How many Petrarchan sonnets is it even possible to write before a man goes out of his mind with boredom?”

“I wouldn’t know; I’ve never tried to write them. Perhaps you should find a new hobby, Humphrey. I hear bear-baiting is popular in London these days…”

“I’ll stick to hunting, thanks,” Humphrey said, and took another sip of wine. He was grateful for the spices; they masked the bitter taste lurking underneath. Such drinks unseasoned were almost universally disgusting, but he treasured the drowsy calm of inebriation too much to give them up.

He was, he suspected, well on his way to being drunk—but it was a welcome distraction from the drudgery of thinking, and it wasn’t like he was in the habit of doing extraordinarily stupid things when intoxicated.

Well, mostly.

“Left,” Humphrey said. “No, right. Or … do you know, I think we’re lost.”

“Sans fucking blague,” Sophie snapped, and he blinked at her.

“Did you just…?”

“Oui.”

“And would you happen to know which way—”

“À gauche,” she sighed, and dragged him to the left, which he had not seen coming.

“Right,” he said, swallowing. Her hand was warm against his, and she had quite a strong grip, things he would not have known otherwise.

They stumbled back to his room successfully, which felt like a miracle; he closed the door and collapsed on his bed, and she followed him.

He sat up. “You’re still here?”

He hadn’t meant for his voice to rise like that.

Sophie nodded. She was still holding his hand.

He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know what to say to any of this. On any other day she would have fled: on any other day she would have put as much distance as possible between their two bodies, whether that be to the other side of the bed, or (when he was away, and she was not) to the other side of the country. And yet—she was still here. (She was also most likely drunk. Maybe that explained it.)

“Was he Dutch?” said Humphrey, to lessen the silence.

A series of understandings flitted through her eyes: a comprehension of the words he was saying, though he did not think she had the slightest clue of what they pertained to. And below all that: a subtle disappointment.

“The guy who was going on about flooring. Rugs. Mats. Was he Dutch?”

“No, Flemish.”

“Right,” he said. “It’s funny … I’d never have guessed that I’d end up here with you.”

“On est marié,” she said softly. She was looking at him in a funny way, as if she were searching for something; he wondered if she had found it.

He always worried that he was too easy to read.

“I could never leave you,” he said. “Not that I’ve tried,” he added hastily. “It’s strange, isn’t it? But—well—” Humphrey fumbled for words. “At the end of the day, it’s just you and me. I mean, sure, there’s other people who’ll stick around—but that’s their choice. You and me … like it or not, we’ll be together, in this world and the next.”

Sophie was looking at him with a sideways curiosity, and he wondered if she had seen some loathsome part of his soul that he hadn’t meant to bare. In fact, she was awfully close; she was all warmth and nearness, which was new, her cassonade eyes mellowed by the flickering candlelight. She was waiting for something, and so was he; they were both waiting for a first move, though whether they agreed on what that move might be was up in the air.

“Vous croyez?” she said in earnest.

“Um,” he said.

In that hesitant moment, she kissed him.

He had always dreamed, when he was younger, of freedom from the endless expectations of his parents. He had been old enough that he had not really gone willingly; he had watched his dreams be dashed at the altar, even with the knowledge that that was always how things would end up for him. But still—he had indulged in the fantasy of choice. In truth, he had never really stopped. He would dream of running quite literally into a woman in London, a smiling woman with dark hair and a green patterned dress—though these were mere fabrications to support the narrative—and that she would drop something, perhaps a plate. (He knew nothing of what women carried around in the streets of London.) She would laugh bashfully and apologise—all English, no French—he would smile and say it was his own fault, really.

It didn’t have to be that, even. Sometimes he dreamed that he might marry, well into his teens, his twenties even, for a woman at court had caught his eye; sometimes that his parents would think to marry him off to someone more reasonable, less obstinate, and not French—someone from the Low Countries, maybe, a sensible woman of Amsterdam and not Paris. Venetian, even, or Genoese; just someone who actually spoke English, or would at least concede to Latin. Maybe he would have been content to never marry; there were always men to play tennis and chess with, always friends to go a-hunting with. He would have been satisfied with any of the above, except perhaps a Spaniard; they were too far in the wrong direction—even worse than the French—and he’d always felt that the word Spaniard sounded a little too like bastard.

But any of that would have made sense; reality, on the other hand, delighted in the nonsensical—making out with a woman he didn’t love, who didn’t love him, on his bed, for example. His hands fumbled for direction, for purpose; he grasped her shoulders—bony as hell, but that was true of most shoulders—he let himself be straddled, he felt the hands at his doublet, and he thought of the familiarity of it. He had only ever gone to bed with one other person—dear, sweet Jane: that had been three years ago now, and at any rate it had only lasted two months before he’d lost his nerve and asked her in the kindest way he could think of to leave. Not the house, just his bedchamber, though inevitably she’d left for brighter horizons, and this was completely the wrong thing to be thinking about because Sophie was nothing like Jane; there was none of the same fear of offence to her and certainly there were no illusions of tenderness in the way she moved against him.

He wanted—he wanted—God, did he ever want. Clothing got in the way; there were too many layers and it was all far too fiddly and there, there was a good reason to want Elizabeth dead: the fashions she promoted were far too complicated when one was trying to undress, especially when any ridiculous notions of thinking had completely drifted away (or down south).

“Sophie,” he panted, when she had managed to wrench off his doublet, and he had half succeeded in removing her French hood, “were you planning on—asking—”

She pulled away, momentarily, and said: “Then do you want this?”

Which was a question that didn’t need answering; he pulled her in for another kiss, deeper this time, and took pleasure in her soft moan against his mouth.

“Please,” she gasped as his hands wandered lower, down towards her chest, her eyes wide and wanting. “I—I need you.”

It would have been hot—it was hot—he was already hopelessly distracted and they’d barely gone anywhere—if not for the fact that it was the first and last time he had seen her give in and let herself rely on him.

Humphrey woke up, and instantly regretted it. It was too bright—well, it wasn’t; the room was lit with the muted yellow hue of sunlight through curtains—but that was still too much for his pounding head. He closed his eyes, and opened them again, hoping it might help; alas, it did not.

He sat up, awkwardly, pulling at tangled sheets as he did so. When he tried to get out of bed (he was grateful, for once, that he had slept in his clothes), he was distracted by the strands of her hair, individually a monochromatic array of straw and amber, fawn and roan, shifting as the light did; together they wove a tapestry of implacable brown hair, impossible to be reduced down to one flat shade. Once he had been distracted by such a small feature it was not difficult to let himself admire the rest of her: that normally harsh, unsmiling mouth, softened by the innocence of sleep; those long, deft fingers, perhaps apt for creation in a world where she did not loathe tapestries; her eyelashes, her collarbone, her philtrum—that gentle dint in between a nose and a mouth which both went straight down.

She was beautiful, and he didn’t know a thing about her.

“Humphrey?” Sophie mumbled, halfway between dreams and the waking world. In that haze of sleep she missed out the h at the beginning of his name, leaving it a somewhat softer sound than he was used to. “Quel…”

“We are never talking about this again,” he said. “Ever.”

“À propos de—?” She sat up, as he had, and looked around in bewilderment at the evidence of the careless attention they had paid each other: at the doublet tossed onto the floor with haste, at the tangled sheets around them, at the various bruises blossoming down from her neck, and said, “On ne le discute plus jamais.”

He was pretty sure she hadn’t quite caught what he was saying, and dead certain that she had then repeated precisely what he had said, just in French.

“What John said,” Humphrey said, searching for something else to say without bringing the conversation to an end as abrupt as being thrown from a bucking horse. “Well, you know him, he’s always been very reformist, which is to say, I don’t think that any of what he’s saying is necessarily right, but we are sort of mates, and if you could please not punch him in the face next time we meet? That would be nice. Thanks.”

“Fine,” she said. “He is wrong, but fine.”

“Good. Okay. I mean, not that I’m suggesting you’d punch him in the face—decorum, propriety, etcetera … but that’s nice to know.”

“You ramble too much,” she muttered, and then lay back down again, hair fanning out like a halo for a particularly annoying saint—not that he could picture her ever martyring herself.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he retorted. “Next time, I’ll—”

But she had gone back to sleep, or at the very least closed her eyes and done a good job of regulating her breathing. Typical.

(Now that he thought about it, it was probably the latter.)

He rolled his eyes, and set out in search of a jug of water.

#asks #humphrey bone #sophie bone #hot tudors in your area #bbc ghosts #fic

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