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quillandink333 · 3 years

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Scarlet Carnations ~ Part IV

BotW Link X Zelda ~ Detective AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 5.1k

WARNINGS: death, murder, loss, trauma, blood and gore, terrorism, organized crime, self-harm

Summary: Inspector Zelda Hyrule, assisted by the faithful Constable Link Fyori, is infamous for cracking the most confounding of cases in a town dominated by crime. Her latest assignment is to solve the murder of her own godmother, Impa Sheikah, the late CEO of Sheikah Tech. Incorporated, while staying under the radar of the dreaded Yiga organization.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII • Epilogue • Masterlist

It was nine o’clock in the morning, two days after I’d made my arrest, and Paya’s trial was in its opening stages. I was watching from the gallery. Normally, as the one running the investigations, I would be the first witness to take the stand, but today, for whatever reason, the lead prosecutor, Urbosa Sigatur, planned to summon me second after Auntie Purah. Urbosa was far from a stranger to me, however. She and I had collaborated on several cases in the past, and she shared with me many of my own ideals. She’d once even known my mother before her untimely demise. And so I decided not to question her judgment, however unconventional it may have seemed.

The prosecution’s opening statement had been based on the fact that the stolen Sheikah Slate, along with a bloodstained bullet, had been found in the defendant’s room, which, until recently, hadn’t been searched as it had been deemed irrelevant to the case. With these conclusive pieces of evidence, she’d stated, the defendant had been charged with both the theft of the Slate and the murder of its owner, Impa Sheikah.

The stolen object was the most central piece of evidence in the prosecution’s case. It had once been a target of my own immense interest, even before its theft. But that had all changed following its recovery. The riddle, though having been solved by means of professional reprogramming, still made little sense to me if any. “Carnation” was its answer, according to Auntie Purah herself. Much to my dismay, the secrets that the riddle had supposedly kept hidden had turned out to be nothing but my own fantasy. Every last piece of data that had once been stored in the Slate had been deleted, meaning the possibility of proving a motive for its theft was next to nonexistent. The only thing left in its memory was a diary entry, written by Auntie Impa the day before her murder. This in itself, however, held the potential to serve as a lead to her killer’s identity, at the very least.

The diary entry, as projected onto the courtroom wall by the Slate, went,

“Today was the first day of Zelda’s holiday visit. It is hard to believe that the last long term visit she paid us was already over a year ago. We have all missed her dearly. She seems as interested in my sister’s work as ever. It brought me joy to see the two of them bonding over their shared passion once again.

“However I must admit, I would still love for her to also spend some quality time with Paya some day soon. I sensed some resentment coming from her directed at my dear granddaughter. Perhaps it is something to do with that boy. Either way, it seems their relationship has hardly changed since she left the nest.

“I cannot say for certain whether anyone will ever be able to read this, but I have faith that Purah will figure it out. I am no good with machines like these, but I believe in her. At any rate, I hope she is the one who gets to read this message, but in the event that it happens to fall into the wrong hands, I will sign off here.”

With this, the prosecution’s argument, though a bit scattered across several different points, seemed sturdy enough so far. That Auntie Impa had seemingly known that her life would be taken the following night after writing her final message, combined with the fact that she’d received no threats from the outside world up until then, was one of the strongest pieces of evidence in our arsenal.

Paya’s defence lawyer, one Revali Twii, had made several attempts to dismantle her argument by claiming she had no possible way of knowing whether or not the victim had received a threat from outside the estate by phone. These attacks were easily deflected. As a foreigner to this city, Mr. Twii had been unaware that, thanks to the Sheikahs’ company, household phones here were all equipped with recording devices. Naturally, Ms. Sigatur had already listened to each recorded call since a month before the murder and had detected no discernible threat in any of them.

And yet in spite of all that, the argument shifted heavily in favour of the defence when it then carried out his cross examination. With how confidently Urbosa had stated her case, I never could’ve imagined how easy it would be for the opposing side to shatter it into countless, tiny pieces.

Mr. Twii’s primary line of questioning was a solid one, to say the least. He concurred with my deduction as presented by Ms. Sigatur that the parlour indeed was not the true scene of the crime. However, he claimed that the real crime scene could not possibly have been the defendant’s bedroom either. His basis for this was the gunshot. Paya’s room was in the same hallway that the sleeping quarters of the current witness, Auntie Purah, as well as myself, were in. Mr. Twii had her testify about the sound of the gunshot that she’d heard. In addition to the fact that it hadn’t seemed loud enough to have come from the very next room over, she’d only heard it once: from the parlour.

No doubt he intended to question me about the same thing when the time came for me to take the stand. I’d been itching to speak my mind and set things straight so badly that I’d had to cross my legs just to keep myself from getting up too soon by the time court was finally adjourned for a half-hour recess.

Now the prosecutor and I were together in a private room reserved for witness prepping. Normally I did just fine testifying on my own, but in this trial, everything was at stake, and I couldn’t seem to stop my heart from racing no matter what I tried. Thankfully I had Urbosa here, and simply talking with her had done much to calm my nerves already.

“You’re originally from out of town too, aren’t you?” I noted, thinking back on her performance.

“That I may be, but unlike that lawyer, I’ve spent enough time here to know of the perils this city is facing, and who’s been holding it together in spite of all that.”

“Right.” My lips rested against the curve of my index as my leg bounced restlessly underneath the table. “That schmuck really doesn’t have a clue, does he?”

“No, not likely. Though he’s quite the formidable opponent, I must say.” She leaned back in her chair, looking pensive, but not the least bit agitated. “My case took quite the beating out there.”

My heart rate was starting to pick up again. “You don’t think you’ll...lose...do you?”

“Who, me? Lose?” She let out a hearty bout of chuckles. “Young lady, are you quite sure you know who you’re speaking to?” I returned her laughter halfheartedly, unable to shake the foreboding feeling lying at the pit of my stomach. Urbosa cleared her throat, preserving her calm smile. “All jokes aside, I wouldn’t worry even if we do end up losing this one. The true criminal is still out there somewhere, and there is no such thing as a perfect crime.”

“I suppose...” Perfect crimes may not have existed, but neither did perfect investigations. If they ruled Paya out as a suspect, then only one other, “safe” option would remain.

“Alright, out with it. What’s on your mind?” Her hand had landed on my shoulder as she’d reached across the desk, over my half empty glass of water. “And why are you so set on getting Paya convicted, if I might ask? Sibling rivalry is one thing, but this is...”

I avoided her perceptive gaze, staring intently at the latch on my bag. What could I possibly tell her? “It’s just,” I stalled, eventually settling for a vague, “I’m running out of time.”

After a long pause, she leaned back, letting go of my arm. “I see. Well, whatever it is, know that I’ll be on your side no matter what, little bird.”

Oh, if only she’d known.

“So to sum up, you were outstandingly negligent in your investigation of the defendant’s bedroom.”

My jaw unhinged at what I’d just heard come out of the attorney’s mouth. I’d just finished giving him an explanation of my findings in as much detail as I could, during which time he’d been surprisingly polite, until now.

“You likely saw the Slate along with the bullet and made your arrest right then and there. You didn’t even stop to consider the possibility that you hadn’t found all there’d been to find in that room, did you?” I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off again. “In fact, I’m willing to bet you didn’t even attempt to look for the murder weapon.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” I retaliated with chest puffed up, “but my team and I searched the property from top to bottom, repeatedly, for two whole weeks, and—”

“Yes, I am well aware. However, you failed to complete a thorough search of this so-called ‘true crime scene’ before you arrested Ms. Sheikah. Do you deny it?”

I was floundering for words. Why bother questioning me if he merely intended to cut me off and answer his own questions? “I-I...”

“Objection.”

All eyes fell upon the prosecution. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“The defence is harassing the witness, Your Honour.”

The judge gave a slow, considerate nod of his head. “Objection sustained.”

Twii gave Urbosa a subtle but unmistakable side-eye. I thanked her silently. “Speaking of the murder weapon,” he continued in his signature, holier-than-thou tone, “I have here Exhibit F: a list of traits possessed by the elusive firearm responsible for the victim’s life.”

This wasn’t good. The list in question had been compiled by the prosecution based on traits of the fatal wound revealed by the autopsy, as well as other traits shared by the two bullets that were found at the estate. It contained information like its .38 caliber and that it had likely been fired twice at point blank, to name a few examples.

“My question for you, witness, is the following. What did you find during your ‘investigation’ regarding the weapon?”

This was fine, I kept telling myself. He still had yet to present the most fatal piece of evidence in the record. “As I’ve said before, none of our searches turned up any sign of it, other than what’s listed on that piece of paper you’re holding.”

“Is that so?” The sarcasm rooted in his voice had me sweating bullets. “In that case, Ms. Hyrule, I’d like to turn your attention to this passage here at the bottom.”

That was “Inspector Hyrule” to him, but of course, he couldn’t care less for such trifling things as common decency.

But when I read over the passage at which he was pointing, my throat closed up.

“Allow me to read it aloud for the court.” He snobbishly cleared his throat. “And I quote, ‘The murder weapon and the circumstances surrounding it strongly suggest an Octoric M&P revolver,’ end quote. I’d also like to add that this particular model is favoured by the district bureau of police, who issue them out to many of their detectives for self-defence.”

I gritted my teeth, annunciating each word as I spat, “Get to the point.”

The smarmy bastard was hardly even phased by my unmasked hostility. “Now, now, Ms. Hyrule, you’ve no reason to worry,” he waved off. “After all, I have no intention of accusing you.”

When he spoke that last word, my heart stopped, and deep down, I knew it was over.

“Firstly I wish for you to clarify a few things for me, as you were one of the first to discover the scene of the murder when it happened.”

I gave a slow, strenuous nod, losing strength in my knees by the second, but standing my ground all the same. “Go on.”

“The defendant showed no sign of having a gun on or anywhere near her person when you arrived, correct?”

“Correct,” I lied.

“Good. Now that we’ve established that the defendant was unarmed, I’d like to present another piece of evidence.” He laid out flat a second sheet of paper on the stand in front of me. “Exhibit H. This is part of a record kept by the precinct where the witness is currently employed, alongside the rest of her team. It details a list of the firearms given out to detectives each day, as well as the time when each one was issued and when it was returned to custody at the end of its designated officer’s shift.”

And there it was. I’d known all along that it had only been a matter of time until he’d bring out this piece of evidence, but, evidently, I’d failed to prepare myself mentally for this. Perhaps a part of me had hoped not to be on the stand when it happened. All I could do now was hold my peace and pray that it wouldn’t get worse from here.

“This page corresponds with the day before the murder. Now, Ms. Hyrule,” he addressed, summoning a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, “I’m sure you’ll recognize this badge number here. Would you please read it aloud for me?”

I swallowed my nerves and did as he’d requested. “FB7732Z438LL.”

“Thank you.” He flashed me that shit-eating grin of his. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the number belonging to one Constable Link Fyori, the witness’ very own investigative partner.” A few whispers drifted through the gallery following that announcement. “One who reads this will also notice that, after his revolver was issued out to him the morning before the murder, it was never returned to the precinct’s custody thereafter. In fact, it is still missing to this day.”

With this, the whispers grew in number, creating a din of distrust that had the attorney smirking from ear to ear.

“Objection.”

The whispering dissipated. Twii’s shoulders sagged as he hypocritically shot Urbosa a look that said, “What now?”

“Mr. Twii, how is this relevant? Unless you have definitive proof linking Constable Fyori to the crime, I see no point in bringing it up.”

The judge gave a pound of his gavel with a bone-chilling shake of his head. “Overruled. The court will allow the defence to continue, provided that it has good reason.”

My mouth fell open, and so had Urbosa’s.

“Thank you, Your Honour. I was just getting to that, my good prosecutor.” Now even she seemed on edge. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut through with a knife. “I may not have proof as things stand currently. However, that is about to change. You see, I have reason to believe that our witness here is covering for someone.”

The courtroom broke out into an even louder din of murmurs, as if I couldn’t clearly hear each backhanded remark the members of the gallery were making at my expense.

The pounding of the judge’s gavel echoed throughout the room, and the whispering ceased once again.

“You must be mistaken.” I stood as tall as I could with how close my legs were to giving up on me. “I happen to be one of the most trusted detectives in the force. Why do you think I was put in charge of this case despite being one of the first on the scene?”

“Ah, but that, dear witness, was your superiors’ fatal mistake.”

Damn that solicitor. “What do you mean?”

“Although my client has elected not to testify to the court, she has let me in on a certain piece of information—one that I believe will make the jaws of everyone here drop to the floor.”

Surely not. Surely even she wouldn’t dare stoop so low.

“Inspector...” The attorney looked me dead in the eyes. The air was suffocating. “What do you have in your briefcase?”

Everyone was staring at me and murmuring amongst themselves, more raucously than ever before, like I was the one on trial.

“N-No, it’s—it’s not what it seems,” I wavered. Then mustering my shattered courage, “You!” I pointed my finger at Twii. “Prove to me that the defendant wasn’t lying. I demand to see proof!”

But my demands were met with silence. Even Urbosa was looking at me with cold contempt and disappointment.

“Bailiff.”

An officer appeared from the sidelines. He seized my bag.

“Wait, stop!”

I tried to wrest it from his grasp, but he was too strong. I watched helplessly as he opened it up, reaching in and revealing the murder weapon for all to see.

“No...!”

“Bailiff, what is the number engraved on that weapon?”

He seemed to recite the number in slow motion, twisting the knife with every digit. “FB7732Z438LL.”

“No, please!” I screamed. “It wasn’t him, he’s been framed! Please, Your Honour, you have to believe me!”

Amidst the roar of the crowd, I saw the conclusive shake of the judge’s head. With a pound of his gavel, he said, “I hereby order the immediate detainment of Link Fyori under the charge of first degree murder.”

I met eyes with my partner but half a second before I saw him be dragged out of his seat with brute force.

“No!”

“As for this witness, she shall receive her sentence after being questioned by the police for the concealing of evidence, contempt of court, and perjury.”

I cried out when an overwhelming pain shot through my arm. My family watched from the gallery in either horror or disgust, or a mixture of both perhaps. I tried with all my might just to get the bailiff to stop hurting me, but it was futile.

“Your Honour, just a moment please.”

With the judge’s approval, the man’s grip on my arm lightened up. The one who’d spoken had been none other than that wretched defence attorney.

“Inspector, if you don’t mind, I have one more question to ask you.”

I held my breath, bracing myself. Though there wasn’t much he could say at this point that could possibly make the situation worse.

“Why?” he finally asked. “Why did you feel the need to conceal such a critical piece of evidence?”

My entire face boiled over with heat. I looked around, taking in the courtroom’s atmosphere, and my whole being was filled to the brim with indescribable anger and shame. Barely able to swallow the charged whimper lodged at the cusp of my throat, I choked out the words, “No comment.”

The trial had ended while I’d still been in the middle of interrogation by my own peers. I was lucky enough to get off with a fine, but it was because of that hour-and-a-half-long lecture that I only found out about Paya’s “not guilty” verdict after the entire courtroom had been cleared out. This was no surprise to me, of course, but still a disappointment, to put it lightly. What was a surprise was that no one, not Paya, nor Auntie Purah, nor even Urbosa, had bothered to wait for me.

That was fine. They could think whatever they wanted of me. I’d simply have to redeem myself by proving Link’s innocence in his trial.

It was to this end that I made my way to the district’s Centre of Detention.

When Link appeared behind the iron bars of the visitors’ room, he was already sporting a worn and faded prisoner’s uniform, surely having just undergone an interrogation of his own. Though, from the looks of him, his had been considerably more thorough than mine.

I cleared my throat. “Hello, Link.”

“Hello,” he replied.

Deathly silence filled the air. The harsh ticking of the clock on the wall behind me was slowly starting to crawl under my skin.

“They, uhm...didn’t go easy on you, eh?”

He shook his head, eyes wandering without aim.

Why did it have to be so hard to talk to him sometimes? He’d never been so unapproachable back in our days as teenagers. Though now, I supposed, recent events were only making things even more difficult for me than usual.

“Look...” I took a deep breath, shifting in my seat. “I’m sorry. Alright? I couldn’t cover for you forever. They were bound to find out eventually. Please, don’t be upset.”

“What? Zelda...” His demeanour morphed from listless to urgent, almost apologetic, as he struggled to find his voice. “Why would I be upset with you? I never asked you to cover for me in the first place.”

“I know.” Now it was I who couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eyes. “I just knew that you couldn’t have possibly... I mean, you would never—”

“I didn’t.”

He’d caught me with my mouth hanging open, when he’d cut me off.

“I didn’t kill her. I promise you.”

Of course he hadn’t. It was obvious, even though the revolver had borne no fingerprints and, with the gloves that he always wore, he wouldn’t have left any. What motive could he have had? He was an amnesiac, and even if he hadn’t been, he still wouldn’t have had a reason to kill my godmother.

I took out my pen and notebook, the only things left in my case that hadn’t been confiscated. “Tell me what you know, Link. Everything.”

A beat. Then he straightened his posture and began to explain his side of the story. As it turned out, my intuition had been spot on. This whole mess was the design of the Yiga organization. Link told me about his encounter with them before the murder. They had blackmailed him into surrendering his revolver to them, after which he would never see it again.

Though, even without a hint of deceit in his tone or manner, I had questions about the means by which the Yiga had blackmailed him. He had virtually nothing to lose. Didn’t he?

In any case, I honestly had considered showing him the gun that I’d found on the scene that night, but somehow I’d had the distinct impression that he’d known nothing about it, despite the very object in question belonging to him. I’d thought perhaps someone from the organization had switched out his weapon for another without his noticing. It was no secret that even the police bureau was infested with their ilk. In the end, I hadn’t been far off the mark.

The whole time he spoke, he had his head lowered, hair falling in front of his eyes, as if something were holding them back from meeting mine. Then he muttered, “When I had my encounter with the organization, I...remembered.”

His limited annunciation meant I had to take a moment to decipher the syllables of the last word he’d uttered. Then they sank in. “Wait. What? You mean you...” It felt beyond strange to even speak the words after so long. “You got your memory back?”

He lowered his head further. Was that a nod?

My mind went back to what he’d said to me on that one occasion in the office, not long after this whole mess had first begun. “Link, you...” My hands curled into themselves around the strap of my satchel. “All this time...why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” he pleaded. “It would’ve been a hindrance to the investigation.” I hated to admit it, but he was right. Dropping that bomb on me would only have thrown my conscience deeper into its already tangled web of turmoil.

Amidst all the questions swirling in my mind, one suddenly appeared, eclipsing all the rest. “Why did you disappear back then?”

At this, he finally looked up and met my gaze. But when he did, his eyes were wide, almost trembling. His look seemed to cast the whole room into a great, looming darkness.

“Oh, it’s...it’s okay if you’d prefer not to talk about—”

“No,” he exclaimed. “I must.” But the way his shoulders came up to meet his ears and how rapidly his chest rose and fell told me it wasn’t going to be an easy story to tell. “It was the Yi—” He choked on his words. “The...organization.”

There it was again. The name of the group I’d been chasing without rest ever since their appearance eighteen years prior. “I knew it...” I mumbled without thinking.

He steeled himself, then continued. “That day, my father was picking me and my sister up after school. Normally we would’ve ridden home with him in his automobile, but that morning, he and I had planned to surprise Aryll by getting...I think it was ice cream, on our way back. Anyway, we decided to walk home that day. But...” His face darkened yet again. “But then...”

Pressing him for more details would have been beyond cruel. I could only imagine the horrors that those blackguards had put him and his family through. “How many of them were there?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that they had us outnumbered.” I nodded along, without thinking, as he continued his tale. “They were all armed with what looked like military grade shotguns, and they wore those masks with the inverted Sheikah family crest... I’ve always known that I’d seen that image somewhere before.”

No one knew why the organization had chosen this symbol for themselves, though I personally suspected it to be a show of opposition.

“Anyway, after they sh...shot father,” he struggled, a hand coming up to his now quavering lips, “they must’ve felt threatened by Aryll and me, because the next thing they did was...shoot her, too.” The way his tone had started to oscillate and how his face had drained itself of colour made my stomach churn. His anguish was so clear, it was devastating. “One of them had said something to the ends of, ‘We can’t have you scamps telling on us.’ But before they could...’shut me up’ as well, I fled.” Another pause. He kept on breathing. “I was too terrified to notice which way I was going. The whole time I ran, they kept firing at me. They were too reckless to aim properly, though, mind.”

“Well...that’s lucky, at least,” I tried. This was met with a sigh of reluctant agreement. “Still, how did you make it out of that with your life?”

“They stopped chasing me when I made it out of the back alleys and into the open,” he explained. “I suppose they couldn’t risk revealing themselves.”

Now it all made sense. Seven years ago, when he’d vanished without a trace, it was as though he’d never even existed in the first place. No one could get in contact with him or his family, and yet, no one batted an eye about it. It had seemed I’d been the only one who’d thought of it as anything less than perfectly normal. Just like when my mother had lost her life.

“We never had the chance to get ice cream that day.” He looked all but ready to burst into tears with that sentence. That was the moment I realized, no matter how drastically the last seven years of hell had changed him, there was still a fragment of that playful, hollow-legged sixteen-year-old left deep in his dark, forgotten core. If there was a way to bring that bright-eyed child back out into the light, I would find it, even if it spelled my demise.

Even so, there was one thing left that had yet to be explained. “What about your amnesia?”

“Ah...” His brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t know what caused that, to be honest with you.” He seemed to be racking his mind, but to no avail. “By the time those thugs finally gave up, I didn’t recognize my surroundings. I remember trying to find my way home, but I suppose I just ended up getting myself even more lost from there.” It was no wonder. The street names in this town were of little help in navigation, and it wasn’t hard to understand why he might have been apprehensive to ask for directions in such a bustling and hostile environment, especially after what he’d just been subjected to. “So I fell asleep in the streets that night,” he concluded with a shivering exhale. “The next morning, I woke up without the slightest notion of who I was.”

My heart took a plunge at the thought of his young self curled up in some alleyway, like a baby bird who’d fallen from the nest. “It must have been some sort of mental defence mechanism,” I conjectured. “That’s the only explanation I can come up with.” He slowly nodded his agreement. “After that, then, I suppose the rest is history.”

“Indeed...”

The visitors’ room fell into a deep, reflective silence, one nothing like that which had had me gasping for air moments ago. I watched the weary feelings of dread swim in his once bright blue eyes, tearing him apart.

He’d spent five whole years in that cold, cramped ward without even a name by which to call himself. And now we were back where we’d started. He may have regained his memories in the end, but at what cost?

I no longer felt the need to hunt down those who had wronged me. Now, my only desire was to slip between the bars that stood between the two of us and whisk him away to a far off land, where no one would ever hurt us again. But I pushed the impossible daydream aside. Even if escape were an option, we’d only be running straight out into range of Yiga fire.

“After your trial tomorrow...well, at the very least, I’ll lose my badge,” I smiled waywardly. Then, letting it fade and rolling my shoulders back, “Until then, I swear, I’ll do everything within my power to prove your innocence. Then we can go out for ice cream together.”

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears when he looked up at me then. Now that I thought about it, this seemed like the first time I’d ever seen him come close to crying, even in the time before the incident. Of course, he’d seen me in tears countless times back then. I wondered if he remembered them.

“Zelda...?” My name had started to leave his lips with conviction, but weakened on its way out. “There’s...something else I should tell you.”

“Anything.”

Just then, I caught him straightening out the cuff of his black-barred sleeve, concealing the fair skin of his wrist, out of the corner of my eye. “Never mind.” He again cast his gaze downwards, muttering an inaudible, “It’s nothing,” under his breath.

#is it obvious yet how much I love Ace Attorney?#my writing #fanfic #botw #zelink #botw zelink #zelink botw #link x zelda #zelda x link #botw link x zelda #botw zelda x link #zelink fanfic #zelink fic #zelink ff #zelda pov #detective au

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celticfeather · 4 years

Link

Akatsuki Fanfic: Campfires

FF Ao3 Tumblr

1. Dawn

2. Cannibals

3. The Lineage of Izanami

4. Slaughter’s Court

Chapter four is done just a week after three! Woo, let me know your thoughts.

Chapter 4: Slaughter’s Court, see 1. Dawn

-Uchiha Itachi-

Ironic, that he had been interested by an actress. It was an art he sympathized with; his whole life was an act. As he lay in her bed that morning, his fingers in her black hair, a peculiar thought struck him.

What if he just stayed.

Hato was exciting and kind, the sex was good, and maybe someday he would love her, or someone like her. He wasn't undeserving of love. He killed his clan, at least sixty individuals himself, but not because he wanted to. Itachi thought he deserved love.

Kisame would understand if he at one point explained wanting to stay. He would keep quiet in front of Pain and Madara. Or not, and Itachi could fake his death. Or not, and he could kill Kisame.

He dispelled the fantasy. He couldn't actually flee the Akatsuki. Madara would kill him, and if Itachi died prematurely, Sasuke could not redeem the clan's sins and abolish the cycle of hatred. It was Itachi's duty to be raise himself like a sow for slaughter, and he had accepted his fate the moment he raised a sword to his family.

Hato slept on and he did not wish to disturb her. Itachi rose, quietly put on his pants, and stole through the living room and into their courtyard. He didn't want to run into any family members while looking for a bathroom, he didn't think they even had bathrooms here, so once outside, he watchfully pissed on a tree. He remembered passing a water pump the night before which had showed signs of regular use. Finding it, he pumped the handle to coax a silvery vein of chilled water, which pooled between his spaded fingers, and trickled cold as a winter stone down his throat. With his wet hands he rinsed his sweat-salted face and hair, and the water on his lips tasted like birch smoke, horse grease, and Hato.

When he stepped to open the sliding door, he sensed another human presence had moved inside. He supposed he had been lucky to not confront a family member for this long. But Itachi feared no strict parents, and decided to go in anyway. A man painted a landscape with a slender brush at the table. Fair chance he was her father.

The older man lifted his eyes from the paper in a motion intended to induce intimidation. "Did you have fun with Hato last night?"

Itachi said nothing. The man's tone, well rehearsed, changed then.

"I know you," he said.

Yes, Itachi thought. I know you too.

"Uchiha Itachi."

"Taika Hiroki."

"I spent six years dismantling the trade of poppy milk in this village. I suppose you're here to kill me."

"Yes."

"Well," the old man smiled and rose from the chair. "I guess we better get started."

He pulled a ceremonial katana from the wall and in a fluid motion swung it to cleave between Itachi's neck and shoulder. His wise eyes stared only at the Uchiha's feet.

Itachi was half dressed, wore no shoes, carried no gear or weapons. He would not beat this man to death with his bare hands while half naked in his own home. Sliding on the wood, he came back in the bedroom and saw Hato had dressed and was tying her hair. She smiled when she saw him.

Itachi seized his belongings and slung on his clouded robe without a word. A katana in the doorframe announced the elder Taika's arrival.

Hato stood. "Papa, stop!"

"He's Rika's assassin, Hato!"

Itachi did not want to watch her face. He ran back into the house, out into the courtyard, where Taika followed him. The patriarch slashed his blade, Itachi blocked it with a kunai, and a clear sparking ching! awoke the household.

Itachi threw a kunai behind him, and for an instinctive second Taika reacted to this strangeness by looking at Itachi's eyes. The fight ended then. His genjutsu could drop an untrained civilian unconscious with eye-contact. It was as simple as altering the chakra flow to the hypothalamus. As the father's knees buckled, Itachi caught a thought directed at him.

Put the wounds in the front, may She not think, I died running.

Taika Hiroki slumped to the grass of their garden. Itachi had struck him unconscious with a gaze, but the rest would have to be done physically. He picked up the old man and drew a fatal slash through his jugular.

He heard a creak. He swung his head towards the noise, and Hato flinched. She stared with wide eyes from a doorway, and she gingerly held the discarded kunai. He wished that she would just run away.

He stood over the corpse. "My name is Uchiha Itachi, Scourge of the Leaf, and I was contracted to kill your father."

"Did you plan to use me the whole time?"

"No. You were the kindest anyone has been to me in years, Hato."

Her gaze was not sorrowful. It was not hate. It was an ice-cold shocked fear of the betrayed that knew it stared a devil in the face, and that no measure of piety could save it.

Itachi knew he was beyond forgiveness, apology, and redemption. But he faced Hato, looked her in the eyes, and for three vulnerable seconds, he bowed low.

When she stabbed the kunai towards his head, he flickered away to the roof that ringed the courtyard. From the vantage he observed the priestess drop the clattering knife in the blood, fall to her knees, and weep at her father's corpse.

He heard the ceramic roof tiles clatter next to him. The four fire-breathing chunin from the play had arrived. Standing in a square around him, they parsed clumsy signs and raised trembling fingers to their lips. Itachi clutched his kunai. In that moment, the entire military might of Honomura was extinguished. From the corner of his eye, in the viscous creek of red which tumbled down the curved tiles, the final synapses of a dying white hand twitched their last.

From his position on the house's eaves, Itachi felt eyes on him from the street, and he knew who it was. Itachi alighted beside his partner, who grinned his monstrous teeth at a job completed. They turned their backs, their red clouded robes rippled, and they left the village quicker than most people could see. The wind snapped cold on Itachi's arms: they were cloaked to the elbow in blood.

He contemplated his actions as he plunged through the trees. Not once had Itachi questioned the order once the attack began. He had decided it necessary and functioned on the assumption that Taika must be killed. A holdover from his Anbu days, he thought.

He followed orders in the Anbu to serve his village. He killed the Uchiha to save the world. But this, why did he kill this man? Why kill his harmless guards? Itachi thought his grasp on the concept of morality was cracking, and soon enough, he would kill anyone with ease. He realized he was underway to becoming like the true killers of the Akatsuki. Not zealous and purposed like Hidan, but something worse: cold, bored, and unflinching, like Kakuzu, Sasori, and Kisame.

Itachi had slept with this girl, and not ten hours later he had unflinchingly destroyed her life. The Scourge of the Leaf was no longer convinced of the pure selflessness of his martyrdom.

He considered the mathematics. Employed like this, over five years he may kill two hundred innocents so he could stay alive long enough for Sasuke to kill him. But the Uchiha's honor was a poisonous, racial, militant, radicalism which he hated. His family's hubris was the only worthwhile thing about them he had killed. The world was not better off if Sasuke rekindled the cursed Uchiha honor. And if that rekindling was not necessary, Itachi did not need to raise himself as a black sow for Sasuke to slaughter. He, Kisame, the Akatsuki, would make the world worse, and perhaps the noblest course of action was to remove these evils from the equation directly.

He thought about Shisui. He would be approaching his late friend's age soon. Shisui had failed to think of a way outside the ethical predicament of his being alive, and solved it in the most desperate way he knew.

The wind shrieked cold on his bloody arms. The dead Taika smiled from his memory. 'Well, let's get started then.'

- Hoshigaki Kisame-

They had lit no fire. Itachi said it was not safe. It was notable to Kisame, that the only ninja in the Akatsuki who could drop an enemy by looking at them, was insistent about remaining unseen.

Kisame had stolen supplies from the festival on their flight from the village. Some food and drink, but most importantly cloth and paper, which were highly life-improving materials for camping. Deep in the mountain crests some twenty kilometers from the village, Itachi had professed he must wash himself, and had stopped the pair for the night at a creek.

They settled down to rest around their nonexistent fire and organized their new and old belongings. Kisame cut the stolen white cloth into a long strip for Samehada, and with the scraps Itachi made bandage sized strips. The young man looked deep in melancholy thought as he worked, and at a particular moment, sighed frustrated.

"Aw," Kisame teased. "Itachi is having girl problems."

"Kisame, I ruined her life."

"Sorry," Kisame retracted. "Do you want more food, sake, or what?"

"None of these things would make me feel better."

Kisame poured a small serving of sake into the abstemious Itachi's bamboo. "Then let's talk."

"Do you ever contemplate the point of people like us existing, if we only make the world worse?"

Kisame knew many killers. He knew enthusiastic killers, indifferent killers, and regretful killers. Itachi may have had the highest body count of any man his age. But Kisame was sure of this: one did not kill as prolifically as Itachi and have the regretful personality. When killing became his profession, a man calloused his heart, or cracked like an egg.

"You killed your mom, your dad, your brothers, and this assassination mission bothers you?"

A sudden determination seized Itachi. "I didn't kill my brother. No, I killed everyone but him."

Itachi had a living brother? Interest caught his tone. "Why did you spare him?"

"Why raise a sow." Venom dripped the parricide's voice.

Kisame hesitated. He thought about when Deidara named them all cannibals the other night, and what those ancient clans did with eyeballs. Would he harvest the eyes from the child he let live? Kisame received convoluted signals from Itachi. Uchiha Itachi was either the most evil man he'd ever met, or he had no place in the Akatsuki at all.

Kisame's instincts were fine, and he trusted his suspicion. "What if I told you, I don't believe you killed your clan."

"You'd be wrong. I killed eighty people that night."

"I'm not sure you're evil," Kisame ventured, calm but solid. "I'm not sure you're one of us."

Their eyes met and Itachi sighed like a teacher.

Kisame heard a rustling then, of someone running exhausted and clumsily through the leaves, and he rose to fight. Itachi's worthy paranoia had not concealed them. A slender blue hand braced itself against a tree, and the arrived woman clutched at a bundle at her breast. Her familiar black eyes flashed to meet Kisame from the shadows, and her panting lips smiled weakly.

"Kisame… I hoped to the gods it was you."

He looked to Itachi, to make sure what he saw was real. The fire ninja stood tense and confused, ready to reach for a knife or a bandage, but he waited for Kisame to show him which. Akaei was always a fine sensor, she could sense chakra in the air as good sharks blood in the water, and she had tracked him to these borderlands.

He strode to embrace his exhausted niece, to hug her, gods, she had gotten so tall, she was taller than Itachi. Akaei was warm in his arms; she escaped whatever of Mei's prison camps they had her in, and found one of the only surviving members of their family. She looked up at him urgently, someone else's blood had dried on her lilac cheeks. Then she looked down, and like a tender secret, bared to him the bundle she shielded at her breast.

"Kisa, they're after me. I… he's..."

He looked down. He did not know how she had come by the baby, but Akaei chose to protect it, and that was all the license he needed. It had its mother's cheek markings, Hoshigaki markings, and pride for his withered clan bloomed in his chest. Akaei found the right uncle: he'd kill her pursuers. He'd shred them to greasy ribbons and if there was anything left he would toss the bleeding fatty hunks to his sharks. Finally someone he could relish killing. He swung Samehada off his back and stared daggers into the dark.

Tsseer!

Akaei yelped then, and staggered forward, blood spraying from her lips. A windmill shuriken quivered between her shoulder blades as she landed on the ground with splayed limbs. The baby screamed as it fell from her arms. Kisame looked at Itachi.

And Kisame realized that Akaei had never existed in this forest at all. Akaei had worms in her eyes and roaches in her heart, with bloodmist for a funeral shroud. His niece had been dead ten years. And he wondered how Itachi could know what she looked like.

"Not so evil, am I?"

Kisame's mind reeled. He wasn't sure what he felt; if a killer like him deserved to feel betrayed.

Itachi smiled like a knife. His teeth shone sharp and white like a small predator, a weasel, who killed hares three times his weight. His incarnadine eyes glowed bright as blood. He must be drunk, or drugged, or crazed from the stress.

A trickle of something rare and unwelcome entered Kisame's heart. His hand grazed Samehada's hilt in warning. "Watch yourself."

Itachi laughed. "Bring out Samehada! We'll make the world a better place and kill each other!"

"Itachi."

Two kunai pierced the nearest tree trunk at the level of Kisame's thyroid. He must have remained disoriented from the genjutsu, because the noise cleared his head like a bell. Itachi's voice was cold enough to crack stone:

"Fight. Or I'll kill you with a thought."

Kisame swung Samehada to smash it across Itachi's midsection, and the blue scales shredded lichen from the tree, and bark and fungus flew off in a cloud of spores. Itachi had dodged the showful strike lithely, easily, but it wasn't enough. Just being in the air near Samehada had the desired effect. And if Kisame would not swallow Itachi whole, he would carve him slice by slice. He did not know what Itachi wanted, but Kisame was determined not to fall prey to it.

Approaching glints. Kisame retracted his blade mid strike to block Itachi's steel. It was necessity: Itachi did not miss with a knife unless he wanted to, and he no longer knew what Itachi wanted.

Kisame struck at him, and Itachi dodged each swipe, but never by far enough. He would notice the chakra drain soon. The younger ninja would try to jump in with a kunai, but his reach with a knife was one tenth of Samehada's, and Itachi's strikes tested he was unable to draw a hit and escape the broadsword unscathed. His knives streaked by, but Kisame knew he only carried about twelve. Itachi could only get close enough to strike Kisame from one predictable angle.

Kisame felt Itachi phase behind him, and he jabbed the sword under his arm to land a strike on something solid but yielding. He spun to look at what he hit. Itachi clutched at his stomach— the scales had shredded his shirt and bled his skin underneath. His other hand grasped for support at the tree like Akaei's had, and his sharp shadow-hooded eyes evoked a bloodthirsty hawk. Then he fell to his knees.

Masterful though he used it, Itachi's small body held an unimpressive amount of chakra. His already low stamina was expended and eaten. Kisame stood above Itachi like an executioner with Samehada raised. The fire ninja braced himself on hands and knees, looking a lot like the coughing boy on the sand. But his hawk eyes threatened murder.

"Do it," Itachi said.

"No."

"Can't kill a partner?" Itachi dared.

"I can. I have."

"Plunge it!" Itachi demanded.

Fine, boy. Kisame stamped down his spine with the full weight of the erect sword's tip. The Fire ninja's limbs buckled, his chest plunged on to the earth, the breath crushed from his body, and his legs shook against the ground on impact.

"And this time, I won't kill my partner." Kisame finished his previous sentence. He lifted the sword from Itachi's back.

Itachi turned himself over and coughed blood. His black eyes looked wrathfully at Kisame. And Kisame thought, even now, Itachi could maim him with those eyes. But easy as it would have been, Kisame noticed the whole fight, the most effective weapon in his arsenal went unused.

"Why not," Itachi demanded.

"Because, you might be the only friend I've ever had."

Itachi's arms splayed out to his side in defeat. "Damn me."

Itachi lay wounded. But he made no motion to move or bandage himself. Kisame did not intend to help him unless he asked. He waited for Itachi to explain, to apologize. Not for fighting him. But for genjutsuing him and stabbing his long-dead niece through the heart. For using him like a tool. For trying to commit suicide. But half an hour passed in silence, Itachi stared and bled, and nothing was said.

"I'll get you into the tree."

"I don't want to sleep in the tree."

"Too bad."

Kisame leant Itachi against a sturdy fork some seven meters up. He slumped. He would fall when his eyes closed, if not before. Taking the cloth intended for Samehada, he tied a white belt around Itachi's waist and the tree limb. He stared down at the fire ninja.

Itachi's silence continued and he did not meet Kisame's eyes. Be it defiant, depressed, or ashamed, Kisame considered it incredibly rude. The silence awarded Kisame the last word like he was beneath arguing with or explaining to. And right now, if not an explanation, Kisame required acknowledgement. He leaned in close enough for his huge serrated teeth to flash inches from Itachi's soft face. Even Itachi was not unaffected, and at last his black eyes lifted to meet his.

"You've got problems, Itachi. With the world, with yourself. But killing yourself, killing me, isn't gonna fix them."

Author's Note,

Again, this is a pretty M story in terms of violence and themes, and the strongest of it is yet to come.

Wooo thanks for reading. This story will be ambitious in length and we're still only in the exhibition. Let me know your thoughts.

Kelto

#campfires #chapter 4 #kisaita #itachi #kisame #fanfiction #celticfeather #keltodier #thanks for reading!!!#akatsuki #akatsuki fic

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xhxhxhx · 5 years

Text

Herman Khan, The Emerging Japanese Superstate (1970):

[The] Japanese are something between the West, with its general Faustian attitudes and concept of "dominion over land and animal," and China, India, and many primitive cultures, which usually try to fit man into the environment in a natural, noncoercive, and nondisturbing manner. The Japanese are somewhat willing to make changes in the environment and to assert their will and fulfill their objectives, but they tend to do so less grossly, less starkly, and with greater moderation, care, and even love for the environment than is characteristic of the root-and- branch restructuring common in Western tradition.

Alex Kerr, Dogs and Demons (2001):

Writers on Japan today mostly concern themselves with its banks and export manufacturing. But in the greater scheme of things, for a wealthy nation does it really matter so much if its GNP drops a few percentage points or the banks falter for a few years? The Tang dynasty poet Du Fu wrote, “Though the nation perishes, the mountains and rivers remain.” Long before Japan had banks, there existed a green archipelago of a thousand islands, where clear mountain springs tumbled over mossy stones and waves crashed along coves and peninsulas lined with fantastic rocks. Such were the themes treasured in haiku, bonsai and flower arrangements, screen paintings, tea ceremony, and Zen – that is, everything that defined Japan's traditional culture. Reverence for the land lies at the very core of Shintoism, the native religion, which holds that Japan's mountains, rivers, and trees are sacred, the dwelling place of gods. So in taking stock of where Japan is today, it is good to set economics aside for a moment and take a look at the land itself.

When we do, we see this: Japan has become arguably the world's ugliest country. To readers who know Japan from tourist brochures that feature Kyoto's temples and Mount Fuji, that may seem a surprising, even preposterous assertion. But those who live or travel here see the reality: the native forest cover has been clear-cut and replaced by industrial cedar, rivers are dammed and the seashore lined with cement, hills have been leveled to provide gravel fill for bays and harbors, mountains are honeycombed with destructive and useless roads, and rural villages have been submerged in a sea of industrial waste.

Similar observations can be made about many other modern nations, of course. But what is happening in Japan far surpasses anything attempted in the rest of the world. We are seeing something genuinely different here. The nation prospers, but the mountains and rivers are in mortal danger, and in their fate lies a story-one that heretofore has been almost entirely passed over by the foreign media.

H. P. Lovecraft, describing a creepy New England hamlet doomed to be the setting for one of his horror stories, would say, “On viewing such a scene, who can resist an unutterable thrill of ghastliness?” For a modern traveler seeking something of that Lovecraftian thrill, nothing would do better than a trip to Japan's countryside.

During the past fifty-five years of its great economic growth, Japan has drastically altered its natural environment in ways that are almost unimaginable to someone who has not traveled here. In the spring of 1996, the Japan Society invited Robert MacNeil, the retired co-anchor of The MacNeil/Lehrer News-Hour, for a month's stay in Japan. Later, in a speech presented at the Japan Society in New York, MacNeil said that he was “confused” about what he saw, “dismayed by the unrelieved banality of the [800-kilometer] stretch from Hiroshima to Tokyo, the formless, brutal, utilitarian jumble, unplanned, with tunnels easier on the eyes.”

Across the nation, men and women are at work reshaping the landscape. Work crews transform tiny streams just a meter across into deep chutes slicing through slabs of concrete ten meters wide and more. Builders of small mountain roads dynamite entire hillsides. Civil engineers channel rivers into U-shaped concrete casings that do away not only with the rivers' banks but with their beds. The River Bureau has dammed or diverted all but three of Japan's 113 major rivers. The contrast with other advanced industrial nations is stark. Aware of the high environmental cost, the United States has decided in principle not to build any more dams, and has even started removing many that the Army Corps of Engineers constructed years ago. Since 1990 more than 70 major dams have fallen across America, and dozens more are scheduled to be dismantled. Meanwhile, Japan's Construction Ministry plans to add 500 new dams to the more than 2,800 that have already been built.

To see at close hand how the construction frenzy affects one small mountain village, let us take a short journey to Iya Valley, a picturesque fastness of canyons and peaks in the center of the southern island of Shikoku. When I bought an old thatch-roofed farmhouse in Iya in 1971, people considered this region so remote that they called it the Tibet of Japan. Villagers subsisted on crops such as buckwheat and tobacco, as well as forestry.

Over the next twenty-five years, young people fled Iya for the prosperous cities, and local agriculture collapsed. With its dramatic landscape and a romantic history going back to the civil wars of the twelfth century, Iya had a golden opportunity to revive its local economy with tourism and resorts in the 1980s. Yet in a pattern that repeats itself in countless regions across Japan, Iya failed to develop this potential. The reason was that the village suddenly found itself awash with cash: money that flowed from building dams and roads, paid for by a national policy to prop up rural economies by subsidizing civil-engineering works. Beginning in the 1960s, a tidal wave of construction money crashed over Iya, sweeping away every other industry. By 1997, my neighbors had all become construction workers.

Most foreigners and even many Japanese harbor a pleasing fantasy of life in the Japanese village. While driving past quaint farmhouses or perusing lovely photographs of rice paddies, it's tempting to imagine what bucolic country life must be: oneness with the seasons, the yearly round of planting and harvesting, and so forth. However, when you actually live in the countryside you soon learn that the uniform of the Japanese farmer is no longer a straw raincoat and a hoe but a hard hat and a cement shovel. In 1972, for example, my neighbor Mrs. Оto farmed tea, potatoes, corn, cucumbers, and mulberry for silkworms. In 2000, her fields lie fallow as she dons her hard hat every day to commute by van to construction sites, where her job is to scrape aluminum molds for concrete used to build retaining walls. In Iya Valley, it makes no sense to ask someone, “What line of work are you in?” Everyone lives off doboku, “construction.”

More than 90 percent of all the money flowing into Iya now comes from road- and dam-building projects funded by the Construction, Transport, and Agriculture ministries. This means that no environmental initiative can possibly make headway, for Iya has become addicted to dams and roads. Stop building them, and Mrs. Оtо and most of the other villagers are out of work. Without the daily pouring of concrete, the village dies.

The most remarkable paradox is that Iya doesn't need these roads and dams; it builds them only because it must spend the construction subsidies or lose the money. After decades of building to no particular purpose, the legacy is visible everywhere, with hardly a single hillside standing free of giant slabs of cement built to prevent “landslide damage,” even though many of these are located miles from any human habitation. Forestry roads honeycomb the mountains, though the forestry industry collapsed thirty years ago. Concrete embankments line Iya River and most of its tributaries, whose beds run dry a large part of the year because of the numerous dams siphoning water to electric power plants. The future? Although traffic is so sparse in Iya that in some places spiderwebs grow across the roads, the prefectural government devoted the 1990s to blasting a highway right through the cliffs lining the upper half of the valley, concreting over the few scenic corners that are left.

If this is what happened to the “Tibet of Japan,” one can well imagine the fate that has befallen more accessible rural areas. To support the construction industry, the government annually pours hundreds of billions of dollars into civil-engineering projects-dams, seashore- and river-erosion control, flood control, road building, and the like. Dozens of government agencies owe their existence solely to thinking up new ways of sculpting the earth. Planned spending on public works for the decade 1995-2005 will come to an astronomical ¥630 trillion (about $6.2 trillion), three to four times more than what the United States, with twenty times the land area and more than double the population, will spend on public construction in the same period. In this respect, Japan has become a huge social-welfare state, channeling hundreds of billions of dollars through public works to low-skilled workers every year.

It is not only the rivers and valleys that have suffered. The seaside reveals the greatest tragedy: by 1993, 55 percent of the entire coast of Japan had been lined with cement slabs and giant concrete tetrapods. An article in a December 1994 issue of the popular weekly Shukan Post illustrated a ravaged coastline in Okinawa, commenting, “The seashore has hardened into concrete, and the scenery of unending gray tetrapods piled on top of one another is what you can see everywhere in Japan. It has changed into something irritating and ordinary. When you look at this seashore, you can't tell whether it is the coast of Shonan, the coast of Chiba, or the coast of Okinawa.”

Tetrapods may be an unfamiliar word to readers who have not visited Japan and seen them lined up by the hundreds along bays and beaches. They look like oversize jacks with four concrete legs, some weighing as much as fifty tons. Tetrapods, which are supposed to retard beach erosion, are big business. So profitable are they to bureaucrats that three different ministries – of Transport, of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries, and of Construction – annually spend ¥500 billion each, sprinkling tetrapods along the coast, like three giants throwing jacks, with the shore as their playing board. These projects are mostly unnecessary or worse than unnecessary. It turns out that wave action on tetrapods wears the sand away faster and causes greater erosion than would be the case if the beaches had been left alone.

It took some decades for this lesson to sink in, but in the 1980s American states, beginning with Maine, began one by one to prohibit the hard stabilization of the shoreline; in 1988, South Carolina mandated not only a halt to new construction but removal of all existing armoring within forty years. In Japan, however, armoring of the seacoasts is increasing. It's a dynamic we shall observe in many different fields: destructive policies put in motion in the 1950s and 1960s are like unstoppable tanks, moving forward regardless of expense, damage, or need. By the end of the century, the 55 percent of shoreline that had been encased in concrete had risen to 60 percent or more. That means hundreds of miles more of shoreline destroyed. Nobody in their right mind can honestly believe that Japan's seacoasts began eroding so fast and so suddenly that the government needed to cement over 60 percent of them. Obviously, something has gone wrong.

#I don't know whether this is still true of Japan #but you still see those tetrapods and concrete embankments everywhere #they haven't gone away

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olympivnshq · 5 years

Text

congratulations izabella ! deliberating on EURYDICE was really intense for us because we got two applications that were equally beautiful. what stood out for us was how much of an individual you made this character in a way that made us believe she is the tragic protagonist of her own story. your passionate advocation for that came through in every section in your application, and while it was a tough decision, we know we ultimately made the right one. we’re happy to welcome you with your first faceclaim choice: BENSU SORAL.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ OOC INFO.

Hi there! I’m Izabella, I’m 22 years old and I currently live in CST. I’m super excited to apply, especially since I’m such a fan of greek mythology. I’m also a gif maker in my free time for the rpc!

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ DEITY — GENDER. AGE RANGE.

Eurydice, Female, (23-27)

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ MORTAL NAME. JOB/OCCUPATION. BOROUGH/NEIGHBORHOOD.

Adara Phillips, Cabaret Dancer & Waitress, Greenpoint

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ AESTHETICS.

i. The pale orange sky of a 5am morning ii. Flowers growing back as thorns iii. Ripped fishnets paired with boots iv.The lonely howl of wind through an empty apartment v. A single spark of hope vi. Smudged eyeliner vii. Standing in a crowd of strangers viii. Cracks on the ceiling ix. An old leather jacket, well worn x. The smell of hot coffee xi. Cherry lips, a smart mouth xii. A canary in a golden cage xiii. Guarded walls xiv. Winter snowfall on the city xv. The hazy lights of a club

☆ﾟ*・ PLAYLIST.

E U R Y D I C E; A playlist (listen here)

ft. H.E.R, Frank Ocean, Billie Eilish, & more

i. Sweet, sweet fate I had about all that can take You’re my living in the breath that I make Is it yours? I wonder

ii. Shower your affection, let it rain on me Don’t leave me on this white cliff Let it slide down to the, slide down to the sea

iii. Oh, Father tell me, do we get what we deserve? Whoa, we get what we deserve Way down we go

iv. It’s seeming more and more Like all we ever do is see how far it bends Before it breaks in half and then We bend it back again

v. I’d be the dreadful need in the devotee That made him turn around And I’d be the immediate forgiveness In Eurydice Imagine being loved by me!

vi. But nothing is better sometimes Once we’ve both said our goodbyes Let’s just let it go

vii. And we were grown on the same round little blue dot Although the answers will take their time and the spinning won’t stop So could it be that the nightmare is upon us And heavy hearts can’t decide when they’ve had enough

viii. Two drifters off to see the world There’s such a crazy world to see We’re all chasin’ after all the same Chasing after our rainbow’s end

☆ﾟ*・ HOW WOULD YOU PLAY THEM?

( y o u t h )

Disillusionment. Adara is no stranger to the darkness the world has to offer, too many times has it plagued her path. Born into a poor family, each breathe was a struggle. There was never enough food on the table, never time for love to blossom when her parents were forced to work graveyard shifts. In a house that threatened to fall apart, Adara began to understand just who she could rely on: herself. Still, little inklings of childhood dreams would float into her mind. Was there a life out there waiting for her, warmth and yearning pushing her to try and find it. So she did- at the naive age of eighteen, she packed a bag of her belongings and disappeared into the world. The greyhound bus took her from her empty South Carolina town into the heart of New York City. For the first time in forever, she could taste a possibility on her tongue: the kind of future where she didn’t have to live day by day.

It wasn’t like that.

( n e w y o r k ‘ s l i g h t s)

She’d gone from place to place, landing in a rundown apartment that was far from being a home. The cracks on the ceilings mirrored that of the girl, each one growing more severe with every encounter. What money she had she hid under her mattress, the dollars beginning to dwindle under New York’s gaze. In an act of desperation, Adara found herself in an interview for a cabaret bar. The flier’s bold letters made a claim: be a star, shine like a dream. That was all she really wanted, a chance. So she took it head-on, promises coming back to tie a rope around her neck. Instead of a glimmering stage, she was tossed into the works as a waitress and dead beat dancer. The crowd was reminiscent of sharks in bloody waters- the disgusting comments made them high, all at the expense of Adara. And kindness? It was as prevalent as water in a drought.

Dreams withered away and the knife twisted in further.

( t h e h e a r t a c h e)

What little solace she had was in a neighbor. He’d introduced himself with a soft smile, eyes that shone like brilliant emeralds. It was hard not to lay all her hope into him, when every other hour spent was under the shadow of skyscrapers. Falling in love was something Adara had never done before, and it terrified her. We’ll run away from here, we’ll find something better. They were promises again, made under linen covers and the stars. Yet once she was ready to give herself away completely, heart in the palm of her hands, he left without a sound. No note, no word, nothing but the wind blowing through an empty apartment. It was a lesson learned- trust no one but yourself.

( t h e d e b t )

Money was what made the world around, and she never seemed to be able to get enough of it. Each dollar made was stuffed away, rent looming overhead, demanding to be paid. The first of the month would arrive with a fury, and Adara would struggle to make the payment. She’d fall short another hundred, and her debt would begin to rise. The threat of eviction notices began to pile up at her door, and she’d plead with the landlord to give her another chance… however the question remains, how many chances does she have left?

( e u r y d i c e & a d a r a )

What I wanted to do was have Adara’s life mirror that of Eurydice’s. I think that the original version is someone that was plagued in her own fate, a tragic hero that despite her hope, was taken apart by the world. She was known for being resilient and putting her faith in others, only to be betrayed. Such was the case when it came to Adara chasing her dreams and the man she was willing to fall in love with. I think a common thing between each character is their transition from innocent hopeful to a realist. Both approach life as a pragmatist, after understanding that in order to survive, they cannot hold onto things like hope… however being human, this is something that they desperately want in their life (despite not being willing to admit it). A sense of warmth, someone to hold. Adara, like Eurydice, carries the heavy burden of being alone and it’s an extremely tiring thing. They each trudge on because they have to, but if given a better option, both can be swayed into falling for a trap. For Eurydice, this is the encounter with Hades or even marrying Orpheus. For Adara, this was the lure of the big city and promise.

All of these factors determine how I would portray the character if given the chance, both Adara and her mythic counterpart: as someone whose weathered, someone who finds complications in giving away her heart too easy because of fear, someone who understands that the world can sometimes be a machine that takes people and spits them out… and someone who desperately wants this to not be true.

Personality traits

+ Resilient +Independent +Complex +Fiery

+/- Cunning

-Desperate -Unhappy -Disenchanted -Guarded

*please include both how’d you play their “mortal” version, as well as their original, unadulterated selves.

answer these questions: 1. are they more likely to stand with the pantheon or against it? ( if you are choosing a god they may endeavor to dismantle it for whatever reason )

I think that Eurydice would potentially stand against the Pantheon, after all, she sees the gods and goddesses as beings who have everything. It’s their job to help take care of the mortals, but she herself has been left to the devices of the world. It gives her little to believe in, and if it’s beneficial to stand against the pantheon and serves her, then she would do it. 2. what is their stand on mortals?

Mortals are unkind. Mortals have been put through hell and back, Eurydice included. However if they can tap into their human nature, maybe just maybe, the world can begin to bloom again.

☆ﾟ*・ SAMPLE PARA (OPTIONAL)

A mosaic of pink and orange painted the sky, dawn falling on the city that never slept. For a moment, she could hold onto a sense of calm. No streetcar horns, no sound of the train rumbling past her apartment, no neighbors airing out their Saturday morning grievances. Peace. If only. It’d been another late-night shift at the bar, a job that left little to be desired considering the clientele. Come on sugar, how about you ditch the drinks? When she’d been younger, she always dreamed of becoming something great- one of those actors that shined under the spotlight. Maybe a dancer at the ballet. Unfortunately, life had cast aside dreams in favor of reality. There was no room for fantasies when she needed to survive. So, another grimy eight hour was another table set with dinner.

Cigarette extinguished into the ashtray, her eyes looked across the street at a familiar bedroom. The light was on, he was probably headed to work again. They’d met on the NQ train, each encounter furthering the blush that threatened to creep in her cheeks. But it was always the same. The minute life offered a warm bed and a hand to hold, a sense of doubt nudged her heart aside. There was no room for love, not for a woman who didn’t have the luxury of falling. Another person was a liability, and wouldn’t they only hurt her and disappoint her like the rest? Adara’s gaze lingered for a moment, the myriad of what-ifs swimming in her mind before she cast them aside. Life didn’t work that way. Life wasn’t kind.

☆ﾟ*・ ANYTHING ELSE?

here is adara’s muse tag

#semi appless rp #lsrpg #literate rp #mature rp #bensu soral #ohq:accepted

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bygosscarmine · 5 years

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W: Worlds Apart - Volume 2: Worlds Away

Kang Chul X Oh Yeon Joo - Fix-It Fic (T)

With the instability of their time together growing more and more obvious, Chul is even more sure of his plan--but even saying what it is might separate them. Can they manage to balance enjoying each others’ company without invoking a plot-twist ending?

Chapter 60 - And Little Domestic Joys (945 words)

Yeon Joo found herself standing in the hallway of her hospital. Apparently she hadn't been gone long, because as Supervisor Park came around a corner and saw her, he just made a disgusted face, still holding recent webcomic developments against her. She looked down to check and found that her finger was still slowly trickling blood across the tiny channels in her skin. She continued walking to the desk, and got a bandage for the cut. Her pretty and unprofessional dress got some looks, but she didn't explain and no one asked.

She found herself returning to her work, but wondering where her wedding band from Chul was. In W? Or here? She might need to start carrying it on her person for any further trips.

When she popped back into Chul's kitchen, instead of entering her office again, she tried not to be happy, but she just felt relieved.

Chul spun, startled, and she smiled sheepishly.

"There's only one way we can fix this," he said, still sounding raw.

His hands were clenched as if he had to clutch something.

"Yes?"

"Let's try to finish this first," he said. "I have a feeling we need to get in some quality time together before we try it."

Yeon Joo looked at him, prepared to argue that he shouldn't leave her hanging. But she saw the grief and fear in his face, the way he was fighting to stay calm.

Instead she said, "Where did you put that book, then?"

He relaxed just a fraction, as this hint forced him to smile. Then the water in the pot boiled over and they scrambled to get the pasta in as well as the pot turned down. And it became easier to breathe, for just a moment, because there was more immediate work to do. Neither of them was sure if Yeon Joo might go at any moment, but unless they did something too crazy, it probably wouldn't. So they glanced at each other but did not kiss--smiled at each other, but did not say anything romantic. When the pasta was done and on the plates, though, and they sat down, the heaviness fell again.

So Yeon Joo asked, "Is my ring still here in this house?"

"You mean the ring you never wore? The one that's in a box in a drawer where I had to put it the day I gave it to you?"

"A lot was happening that day," Yeon Joo mused, unwilling to let her guilt show.

Chul smiled, and quickly got up to get it. When he came back though, he didn't hand anything to her. When she raised an eyebrow, he said, "We don't want to do anything too interesting before you're ready to go."

And now the awareness of the ringbox she thought was in his pocket was in the air alongside the worry of accidentally sending her away, and the threat of the nameless killer appearing at any moment. It didn't exactly balance out, but when the food tasted good, they could enjoy it. When Chul said, "Oh, the sun is setting soon," they went to stand on his narrow balcony. When he folded her in his arms from behind, Yeon Joo leaned back into his chest and lifted her hands to clasp them to her. His chin rested on her right shoulder and they watched the sun set. It seemed an incredibly short sunset, even while staying still and silent drew out time in a long epilogue.

When the sun was invisible, the colors still vivid in the sky, Chul let her go and ran his hands through her hair gently. Then he carefully, awkwardly twisted a tie around her hair.

"That's two things," he said. "No, three. What should four be?"

She laughed, and turned in his arms, so he kissed her forehead.

"What were some of the other things?" she asked. "I don't remember."

"Let's give up on the trips to grocery stores for now," he said. "There's no snow, either. What secret sugary fantasies do you have?"

"Take me dancing at the Blue House. You're a celebrity, right? There's sure to be a party you can take me to there."

"That's true," he said, tilting his head as if trying to remember when the next political gala was.

They ended up instead finding a blanket and spare security guard to watch a movie on the couch. The security guard had to be found mostly because Chul had no television, for some unwritten reason that was probably just aesthetic-driven, and they had to request a projector and screen to play one from his laptop.

While the security guard was accomplishing this task in an unreasonable time-frame by sheer force of Chul's personality, Yeon Joo made a fruit plate, careful of her fingers this time. They sat eating slices of apples and pears while watching a movie that was not as important as her knee against his thigh when she got comfortable, his arm across the back of the couch just brushing her shoulder.

When the movie was over, Yeon Joo stretched, and said she was tired. She went up to her room, ignoring Chul's attempt at eye-contact, and changed. After a moment the sounds of the security guards coming in to dismantle the projection equipment came and went. Then she heard footfalls on the open stairs up to the loft-level, and Chul rapped a knuckle on her door.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Can I come in?"

"I don't think I should let you," she said, ruefully.

There was a pause. "Then I won't push," he said. "Good night."

"Good night."

She did not sleep well.

#W Two Worlds #fanfiction #fic #kdrama #W Worlds Apart #Oh Yeon Joo x Kang Chul

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granpafrisbee · 6 years

Text

One Night

A Kastle Fanfiction by granpawesley

Word count: 8077

Part 1

This has been stirring around in my brain since I finished the punisher, I hope you enjoy.

Group ends at seven, and after helping put up every chair, finishing off the coffee, and shyly denying an invitation to join Curtis and his brother for thanksgiving, Frank is standing outside the church with only one place to go. He feels his trigger fingers start to twitch in anticipation. He’s not so sure what a good idea it is for him, right after dismantling barriers he’s had set up for decades in a church basement, to go to the one person who sees through it all with one look. He is sure, however, that he can’t not see her anymore. He can’t pull the shit that he pulled last time, disappearing for months on end. As hard as it is for him to understand this, she wanted him to be in her life. If there was one thing Frank had learned, it was that you can’t always choose when you leave someone, so if you’ve got the choice, sometimes you gotta stay. There was a time when she had extended him that privilege. A time where she stayed, against any sane person’s proper judgement, so he figures he owes her that, as long as it’s what she wants. He also has to take into terms that it’s what he wants too. Accepting that now, in this second, third, or fourth life, there are people who he could not live without, was harder than it seemed.

He thinks about all of that deep shit on a loop as he buys some flowers from a streetside vendor, and as he continues the walk to her apartment. He also plays out the varying scenarios of how this reunion could possible enact.

There was the very real chance that she wouldn’t even be home. Although she’s never mentioned as much, she could have a big ol’ family that was all sitting round a table splitting a wishbone and playing a boardgame. Or she could be with her friends, at that dive bar they talked about during the trial. Or the three of them could all be in her apartment feasting away and the second she opened the door Murdock would toss a metal fucking pipe at his head and knock Frank out clean.

Alternatively she could answer the door and just slam it in his face. She had more than enough reasons to. Varying from using her as bait, smashing her car in two, the destruction of her previous job at a law firm, all the way to inspiring a kid to try and blow her and many others up. If she had any sense she’d plug him the second she saw him.

But then something in the back of his mind starts to flare up. Something with Karen’s voice reminds him that she told him point blank that she wanted to see him again at the waterfront. That she wanted him to have an after. The voice brings back the way their breaths had mingled in the elevator, the feeling of her forehead against his. The way she had told him to go on, because somehow she knew he wouldn’t have been strong enough to leave that moment. It’s that voice that has propelled him all they way to her apartment’s front door, but it’s seemingly not strong enough to will him to step forward. Not to mention his fantasies are spoiled by the fact that her apartment has an intercom that requires being buzzed in from the inside. Frank is surprised how such a little increase in security reassures him so much. His trigger finger is twitching uncontrollably at his side. He sees 3B and the button next to it and he realizes how fucking batshit and cowardly he’s being. He’s been to war. He’s fought scum, and he’s fought enhanced. He’s knocked on death’s door so many times they’re practically neighbors. He shouldn’t be so goddamn terrified to ring Karen Page’s buzzer. But he is.

He finally summons enough courage and presses the button, slowly, letting the buzz drag out. He waits for a response. He waits for a minute, then two, and then five. Finger shaking he works up the courage to hit the button again. Same response, or lack of response really. So she’s not home, or doesn’t want to see him. That’s fine, it’s fine. It’s happened before. It’s not the first time he’s tried to see her and backed out for a number of reasons. Maybe it won’t be the last. He walks down the steps and puts his hood back up when he hears a small gasp.

“Frank?”

He turns his head to his left and there she is. A dark coat with a high collar covers half of her face. Her hair is up and her nose is red from the cold. He hadn’t noticed it had started to snow, but the evidence was littered in her hair and on her shoulders. Even some snowflakes had made it to her eyelashes.

He can see her mouth moving but he hears nothing.

“What?” He breathes.

“I said, do you want to come up?” She tilts her head toward her building impatiently and he nods, quickly following behind her as she unlocks the front door. They both silently step into the hallway and turn towards the elevator. He can see her bite her lip before she finally presses the button.

Once they’re inside the elevator the air seems to disappear around them altogether. He can’t decide whether or not to say anything until he make eye contact with her and she motions towards a camera in the corner of the elevator. He nods, smiles slightly, and looks at the ground. Always looking out for him.

A short ride later they’re walking single file up to her door and as she fumbles with her keys he sees her hands are shaking. He instantly wants to grab and hold them, yet simultaneously he feels the urge to run away out of her life forever. But she manages to unlock the door before he can decide what the right move is, so he follows her in.

The door hasn’t been closed for more than a second before she drops her purse, her arms are around his neck, and her head is buried into his shoulder. It was just as fast as the last time she’d hugged him, only a few weeks before. She somehow manages to be gentle so that none of his injuries flare up in discomfort, yet firm enough for his mind to become cloudy with all the touch.

It takes him a few seconds to hug her back, but she doesn’t falter or let go. And once he does have his arms around her, he doesn’t know that he’ll ever let go. One of her hands is on his neck, twisting in his hair, the other balled up with a fistfull of his jacket in it.

It’s her who lets go, finally, and as she pulls away he sees through his own tearful eyes that hers are watering as well. She slips out of his grasp and turns away from him, giving them both a moment to wipe any evidence of tears.

“Gotta say ma’am,” His eyes narrow in a way that is challenging and sarcastic and so him, “You sure scared me with that silent treatment on the way up here.” She chuckles lightly, “Wasn’t sure until you dropped the purse whether or not I was gonna end up with another bullet hole.”

She smiles and starts pulling off her coat, “Yeah well you still shouldn’t be. I got myself an early Christmas present.” Her coat slips off her shoulders and reveals a shoulder holster containing her very own .380 pressed against a maroon dress. As she turns to hang it on a rack Frank has to bite his lip to keep the smile off his face. “So.” She faces him, hands pressed to her thighs and unfaltering smile on full display, “What do you need?”

“Oh… I uh… I don’t need anything Karen.” His finger flutters when he finally spits it out. “I just thought maybe we could… talk? Unless of course you got plans.”

She smirks at this and his heart skips a beat, “I don’t know Frank I’m pretty busy.” He immediately nods and starts to turn towards the door. “But I guess I could push suffer through writer’s block while drinking a bottle of whiskey alone off a little...”

“Hey hey don’t kick out the whiskey out on a count of me.” He puts his hands up like he did walking into her apartment all those months ago. But this time, he’s got a smile on his face.

“You okay with cheap shit?” She questions while walking towards a closed door.

“I’m not picky.”

“Good. I’ll be back in a second.” She says and disappears behind the door, which, he deiced, is safe to assume holds her bedroom.

He takes this opportunity to remove his jacket and look around her place a little more. Unlike last time, there are boxes stacked up around the place and the shelves containing all of her books are empty. He makes a mental note to ask about it later.

Once she’s returned he can see her face is slightly wet. Like she’s splashed water on it. She also seems to have taken off the her heels and the black tights she’d been wearing under her dress. Maria used to always say suiting up to be a woman in this city was a lot like suiting up for war, one uncomfortable layer of armor over another. Karen walks into the kitchen and gets the bottle of whiskey she had promised. She uncaps it swiftly, opening and pouring them each a glass like she had done this a million times before. They stay like this, opposite each other with her kitchen island stood between them. The white roses he had bought laid down in front of them. Finally, she sets her now empty glass down and says, “You look good.”

He raises an eyebrow in response and she corrects herself, “I mean you look better, than I would’ve expected, after… everything.” He nods, and looks down. He wonders how much of everything she truly knows. He knows better than anyone that no government cover up could keep Karen Page at bay. “I came to the hospital.” This surprises him and he slowly raises his eyes to meet with her own. “They wouldn’t let me see you, or really they just kept saying you weren’t there. That you were ‘at large’. But I saw Madani. She filled me in on everything I was missing… I’m sorry. About Billy.” She finishes her ramble and he looks down at his glass, his finger circling the edge.

“Guess you got your next headline, huh?”

“Not really. Boss’s giving me the next month off because of ‘mass trauma’. He seems to think that getting blown up twice in one day might affect my job performance.” She’s trying to make a joke, and as much as he wants to help her relieve the brick wall of tension they’ve built up between them, he can’t smile. Instead he goes for a genuine sentiment and makes eye contact with her again.

“Karen, I’m sorry. I-”

“Please Frank, that wasn’t your fault.” She interrupts him so quickly it was like she knew what he was going to say. She’s the one who breaks eye contact this time as she moves to put the flowers he brought in a vase. “These are nice. Thank you.”

“Karen. I’m sorry for more than just that.” Her backs to him but he can see her stop.

She dips her head down and nearly whispers, “You don’t have to be-”

“Yes. I do.”

So she replaces the flowers for the whiskey bottle and extends her hand towards the couch. It’s his turn to down the whiskey before he sits down next to her on the couch, a good cushion’s distance between them. A few seconds of looming silence hangs between them before he can even muster up the strength to say something. He rakes his hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious of its unruliness, and sighs, “So, were you coming back from drinks with your old pals?”

She copies him and runs her hand through her own locks as she shakes her head. “No, I um... The shooting range has a thanksgiving special.” He looks at her with his eyebrows drawn together with concern, but then she smiles and suddenly they’re both laughing in some shared pitifulness.

“What about them though?” He says after their snickers cease.

“About who?”

“Uh tweedle dee and tweedle dum. Your former employers.” Something dark falls over her face now and he regrets asking her about them.

“Well, um. Foggy has boatloads of family in queens, so he’s there for the week. And Matt is.. Well… Haven’t you you read your vigilante newsletter?” She smiles in her sarcasm but he can tell it’s hollow.

“I haven’t seen Red since that night on the roof.”

Something more than sadness comes over her after he says that, and again he’s regretting opening his mouth, but still isn’t sure of what he said.

“So you knew too? Good, good.” He realizes then that her ‘vigilante newsletter’ quip had been a test.

“Ran into the devil plenty before you three burst into my hospital room. Recognized his voice and catholic guilt pretty soon after that.”

She’s nodding, but she’s definitely pissed, “Yeah you’d think I’d have thought of that, but nope! It took him shoving the mask in my face before I finally made the connection. God. Still makes me feel like an idiot, and he’s been dead for months.”

Frank leans back in understanding at this. She turns to him and her voice gets soft again, “You didn’t know... Yeah. How could you? Another cover up. A building fell down on him after he saved New York from an ancient evil society originating from a secret mystical location in China.” Frank’s mouth slacks in response to this. “That was my reaction as well.”

“Jesus Red,” is all he says.

“Indeed.” She takes it upon herself to refill their glasses now, and then they both drink in silence again before he finally speaks.

“Were you two together? When it happened?” He asks, trying to keep any possible subtext below the surface.

She exhales briefly and then responds, “No. Hadn’t been since, uh, since the case.”

He nods, unsure of what to say next. “Thought I told you to hold on to that.”

She shoots him a look, “Frank you may be able to read me like a book, but that doesn’t mean you know everything.” She turns away from him again, slowly taking a sip like she was trying to procrastinate what she was going to say next, “ Matt and I probably loved each other, but we were both lying to the other about so much, who knows if any of that love was actually grounded in something... real. We wanted bits and pieces of the other, so we that's all we ever shared of ourselves. Bits and pieces. Not to mention your whole monologue about how that person is supposed to tear you apart, it only works if you do the same to them. And I wasn’t that person for him. And although he did hurt me plenty, I don’t think he was that person for me.” She lets out the breath she had been holding in nice and slow, and a tear runs down her cheek.

Someone else might’ve heard what she just said and only seen the contempt she holds for Murdock, but Frank, Frank can see she misses him, regardless of everything else.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He states dryly, but genuinely. She looks at him and the tears in her eyes break his heart.

“Thanks. Thank you.” She looks at her watch and raises her eyebrows at the time. “Holy shit it’s almost nine. Have you eaten?”

He shakes his head no.

“Care for a thai thanksgiving meal?” She’s rising now, looking for her phone.

He rises too, a little slower, “I don’t know ma’am. I’ve probably overstayed my welcome already.”

“Doesn’t the host usually decide that? Plus how can you dip on me now? We’ve still got half a bottle to go.” She smiles, genuinely, at him and he matches it right back. “Any requests?” She asks, reaching for her phone.

“Surprise me.”

She nods and dials.

As soon as she hangs up he hands her a glass, now refilled, and holds up his own glass to make a toast. She grins, takes it from him, ignores the flash of lightning that shoots up her arm when their fingers touch, and lines it up with his to cheers.

“To Murdock,” he says, “Hope he found that god he liked so much.”

She shakes her head but smiles as they clink their glasses. They sip again in silence. She takes this moment to let down her hair, and as it twists out of the bun and onto her shoulders she manages to stand in front of a light and it hits just perfectly that she manages to look like the fucking madonna. Maybe Red is right about god after all.

She joins him on the couch again, slightly closer than before, and he has a better view of the cuts on her forehead and cheek. They’ve healed well but are still apparent. He’s surprised she didn’t try to cover them with makeup.

She must notice him looking at them because she tucks her hair behind her ear and says, “Nothing like some new scars to really toughen up an image, hmm?”

“You uh… Don’t cover them up?”

“No. Someone hurt me and I don’t… I don’t want to be ashamed of that. I have survived a lot things that many people haven’t. Not too mention it’s not the first time this spot has been scraped up.” She says as she rubs her left temple.

“The night in the woods.” He whispers.

“You remember?”

“Unfortunately I remember just about everything about that night.”

“Me too.”

There’s silence for a few seconds and then they say at the same time, “Frank I-” and “There’s a lot-”

This prompts in another segment of tension fueled silence.

She breaks it, “I would hope you know this by now, but,” She sighs, “there’s only one way you could ever be dead to me, alright?”

“Karen, that’s not-”

“I know what you do, probably better than anyone else. And somehow that doesn’t seem to dampen how much…” He can’t breathe until she finishes this sentence, “How much you mean to me. I know you’re more than The Punisher. Okay?”

“Okay.” He has a strong sense of deja vu rush over him in that moment.

They both exhale and look away from each other, searching for something else to hold onto rather than the true meaning behind her declaration. It’s when his eyes scour of a stack of books when he sees a something else.

He stands up and retrieves it, recognizing the thin book instantly. Everything about it the exact same as when he saw it last. He opens it, wondering if it will have the same inscription as the one he was so familiar with. It doesn’t. Instead it reads in faded cursive, Merry Christmas little KareBear, hope this book makes you smile for a long time to come! - Grandma. He doesn’t notice Karen approach behind him, but soon they’re both looking at the worn children’s book.

“My Grandma gave it to me when I was five. It’s the book I learned how to read with. I read it so many times, especially to my brother, sometimes I still hear ‘One batch, two batch, penny and dime’ in my dreams.”

He’s speechless, and, although it’s not too difficult for him to be so, he really feels as though someone just stuck his head in a blender. He’s practically frozen, even worries his heart will stop beating.

She puts her hand on where his holds the book and his heartbeat increases rapidly, suddenly reassuring him that he hasn’t turned to stone, “I saw it. When I was at your house. In Lisa’s room.”

Speech and breathing return as he sets it back down into the stack. The motion feels almost therapeutic. “Lisa’s favorite too. Sometimes when I…” He hesitates but remembers what she said earlier, “Before I pull the trigger, I’d say it. ‘One batch, two batch, penny and dime.’” He repeats, worried that when he looks back at her she’d have some look of disgust mixed with fear that often follows when he speaks to other humans. But she doesn’t. She’s got the same look that she had in the hospital, when he had shared about Frank Jr. and the piano. He sits back down on the couch and refills his glass, letting the relief of being able to remember, but not break, wash over him. She follows his lead and does the same, again, sitting slightly closer to him on the couch.

“I can’t say that I knew you have a brother.” He says, “Although I can’t say that I know anything about your family.”

“Yeah, well it seems that only one of us did intrusive research on the other’s past hmm?”

She’s a pro at changing the subject, but he doesn’t push, “You saying you read my file Page?”

“File? Files. Anything that wasn’t confidential.”

“So the transition into investigative journalism, wasn’t too much of a jump, huh?”

She looks at the ground and smiles slightly, “No. I, uh, guess not.”

“S’that why you work there now? Is it just natural for someone with your caliber of the nosy gene?”

She doesn’t laugh at that like he’d intended, her face relaxed but hard, “No um… When you were arrested and I did all that research that led me to your house and then your identity was released all the papers, the police, no one talked about what had happened with your family. No one. Or your time in the military. And of course you’re not the only person that that’s happened to but I guess… that was too important for me to let it happen again. So now I work to make sure that the truth… the truth always comes out, one way or another. Really I should be thanking you, I guess.”

They could take turns thanking each other all night. Back and forth for hours, after all the shit they’ve been through.

He’s starting to feel the alcohol a little more, just barely rising up the his horizon, making him feel the tiniest of bits bolder.

“Karen I-”

The buzzer interrupts him and he’s immediately reaching for the gun he’s got tucked into his waistband. She places her hand on his arm, and like a drug her touch instantly calms him, reassures him.

“Five bucks says it’s just dinner and not a dangerous criminal.”

She gets up to go to her intercom and before she can say anything he mutters, “Could be both.”

She asks who it is and they say it’s Thai Palace and she buzzes them up. Soon enough there’s a knock at her door and she walks to go answer it. He clears his throat and she responds to him by removing her gun from the hanging holster and shooting him a look. He can’t see her answer the door, but after a five second interaction she walks to the kitchen and begins unloading the bag, safe. Safe as she can be with him.

“You owe me five bucks.” She says as she unwraps the plastic cutlery.

“Put it on my tab.” He smirks.

They spend the next hour sharing pad thai and casually catching up. She tells him about “The Hand” and he tells her about group.

“Wow. Frank, that’s… That’s really great. I’m so happy for you.”

“Yeah. Curtis does a good job, he… he’s really helping people.” He takes a sip of beer, (the whiskey was now empty so they switched over.)

“So um… Are you a free man now? Madani didn’t reveal that part of your status to me.”

“You’re looking at Pete Castiglione. Frank Castle is officially dead.” She scrunches up her face as he reveals his new name and he raises an eyebrow, “What? Poor word choice?” He asks.

“No. No, I’m not that fragile.” She takes a big gulp of beer, “I, uh had a high school boyfriend named Pete. Real dick too. Day after we slept together for the first time he was found making out with Cindy Cooper in the mall parking lot.”

“Well, shit Page. You’ve got some sorta shitty luck with men.”

“You’re telling me.” She sighs and holds his eye contact for a second too long. “Want a refresher?” She gets up and grabs two more beers out of the fridge.

“That’s the third thing, you know.” He’s feeling a little bold.

“Third what?”

“That is the third piece of personal history you’ve ever shared with me.”

She freezes, unsure of what to say next, and then goes to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of scotch.

“You trying to get me drunk Page?”

“Not you.” She mutters as she pours the brown liquid into her glass.

He takes the bottle from her, “You know… on off nights at the beginning of a tour, someone in the unit would get alcohol somehow, and we’d play a game to get to know each other. You get asked a question, and you either answer it or you drink.”

“Frank I don’t think-”

“Hey. You know so much shit about me, you owe me a chance to catch up.”

She hesitates, and he can see her weighing the options in her head, probably making some sorta pros and cons list. Finally she nods.

He rises from their seats at the table and moves back toward the couch, bottle in hand. She sits down next to him, the cushion’s full distance returned.

“You can… you can ask first,” Her voice is quiet, and he wonders if this was a bad idea.

“Alright. The brother, he your only sibling?”

She looks at the glass in her hand, and again he can see a debate going on in her head. Then she brings it up to her lips and says, “Yeah. Kevin.” She drinks regardless of her answer and he decides not to scold her on breaking the rules. “What about you? Any siblings?”

He exhales and leans forward hoping to engage her a little more, “What you didn’t find that out in my files?”

She shakes her head, “Didn’t go back further than the military.”

He nods and chews on his lip, “Nah, only child. But a few came close.”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, “Nuh uh, not your turn to ask.” This results in an eye roll from her. “Where’s Kevin on this most familial of holidays?”

Because she already downed the contents of her drink, she takes the bottle from his hand and takes a solid gulp. He almost protests but again decides not to.

“Who came close?”

He can feel his trigger finger start to tremor again. “Billy. Billy Russo.”

“Ah yes, the man whose face has been permanently etched into the central park carousel.” She’s getting drunk, he can tell, but that doesn’t stop him from shooting a look over her way that could freeze over hell. “Sorry.” She whispers, only just realizing how insensitive her words were.

“He took that photo, you know.” She leans forward and tilts her head, “The one you so professionally stole from my house. With the wife and kids on the horses. He was Frank Jr.’s godfather.” His voice is getting harsher and his fingers are shaking so bad that he almost knocks over the bottle before he can get a grip on it.

She puts her hand over his on the bottle. “Frank. I’m sorry.” He looks down at their fingers and she slowly removes her hand from his.

He takes a big gulp of scotch and the familiar burn seeps down his throat.

“Kevin, my brother. He died when he was sixteen. It was a car crash and I was driving. I was home from college for thanksgiving and he had gone to some party and gotten too drunk, so I went and picked him up and, ever the older sister, lectured his ear off until… until a big truck came out of nowhere and he was gone. In a second. And the last thing I ever said to him was some shit about being more responsible.” She’s not crying, and it surprises him, because there’s so much emotion in her voice.

“Karen. I’m sorry.” He copies her previous statement but it’s meant just as genuinely. He had never known what had happened in Karen’s past, but he knew it couldn’t have been pretty. He always saw her as the light. A fire walking around in a pencil skirt, illuminating everything she touches. Now he understands why he sees her avoid looking in mirrors, why she deflects personal questions like a pro.

She takes the bottle back, has a swig and says, “Dropped out of college, packed up my shit, and did small jobs until I ended up in New York. Never been back to Vermont since.”

“Karen, I… God that night in the woods. When I wrecked your car… I didn’t… Jesus Christ.”

“No Frank don’t worry about it. It’s behind me.” She nods at him and he nods back. “It’s your turn to ask.”

“I uh… I think you won an extra turn.” He grunts.

“Hmm… Okay. How many time have you walked up to my door and then left, like you almost did today?”

“You uh… you really wanna know?” She nods, and he begins, “In those… those months before, I uh… god the nights when I couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t too hard for me to find myself around your neck of the woods. I never went up to the door, but uh… I’d be lying if I said that one night was the last time I’d looked down on you from a rooftop. Had to make sure you were staying safe. And that makes precisely one of us.” He quotes her, hoping it will make her smile.

She surprises him then. She’s moved close, and the air hangs as heavy as it did back in that hotel elevator, although this time, there’s no smell of blood, no explosion ringing in their ears, no mob of cops waiting outside to put a bullet in him. She slowly lifts her fingers and traces a bruise along his cheekbone. Heat rushes to his face and he wonders how many people would pay to see The Punisher blush like this. He can barely tell if her eyes are watering or just unbelievably starry. And there’s a moment, similar to one they had in the elevator, where he thinks about how easy it would be to lean in, to disappear into her, to open to floodgates, and finally let someone in.

But like moments so often do, it passes.

He stands up so quickly she nearly falls off the couch. He’s pacing around the room and running his fingers through his hair muttering to himself and she’s standing up to trying to find out what’s changed.

“Frank?” She pleads, “Frank, what is it? What happened?”

He stops. Turns and there are tears in his eyes. His voice is a low grumble.

“You gotta get away from me Karen.” She’s rolling her eyes and sighing but he doesn’t stop there, “I’m no good. You gotta get out. I’m a ruiner. People around me, they drop. No one survives me. You once said that I never lie to you. Well that’s bullshit. And you know it. I lie and I wreck and I kill and I punish.”

“Oh come one Frank don’t do this. We’re past this.” She moves towards him, but he’s shaking his head and backing up.

“We aren’t past shit. We’re two people who got too tangled up, and now one of us has fix it. Because I’m not taking you down with me Karen.”

“Down Frank? What are you talking about? I’m not-”

“Now you listen to me Karen. My family, my wife and kids, they’re gone and now I’ve made some sort of peace with that. But Billy, Schoonover, Madani, Curtis, David. I’ve fucked up their lives so much that over half of that list has tried to kill me more times than I can count on one hand. If I hadn’t done what I did who knows what Lewis would be doing. You said it yourself, two guys who don’t like the world and make their own rules. I did that. I made that okay. I’ve killed so many people that the fucking shittiest scum on this earth quiver when they hear my name. I.. I… You should know what a shitstorm I am better than all of them. I’ve done a real doozy with your life ma’am. Destroyed your practice, almost killed the man you loved, hit you with a car, used you as bait, gotten you blown up, shot up, hell I even sent some shots at your head the first time I ever met you. I hurt people Karen. I hurt you.” He’s panting, raving after this monologue of his in a dark corner of her apartment, shaking uncontrollably with his fists balled up so tight it looks like he could split his knuckles himself.

But she’s still, stood tall, in the light (as always), and she recalls his words calmly, “The people who can really hurt you are the ones close enough to do it.” The words, his words, repeated back to him cause his heart to slow, but they scare him more than a loaded gun to the temple. “You said that,” her voice is rising, getting more daring.

“I’m a madman Karen… I’m crazy.”

“Fuck that.” She says and he whips his head up to look at her. “Fuck. That. You think you’re a shit magnet? You think you’re the one who’s fucked up? Well you, Frank Castle, have met your match. I ever tell you how I came to work at Nelson and Murdock?” She waits for him to respond and he shakes his head no, “Well it was beautiful Wednesday morning when I woke up from a drug induced sleep to dead co-worker and a bloody knife in my hand. I was framed, arrested, and then come Nelson and Murdock, to save me from myself. I was working for a company that was covering the construction after the incident, when I smelled some bullshit, and dug too deep. You think ‘Blacksmith’ was the first person who tried to kill me? Picture me asleep in a holding cell when a paid off guard wraps a sheet around my neck and tries to strangle me until I poked his eye out. And then when I was released, the second I went home someone was waiting in my apartment with a knife that had my name on it. Yeah that guy made a nice dent in the wall with my head until my future boyfriend or boss or whatever showed up and tossed him through a window.”

As he listens he can feel his jaw twitching, his hands shaking. His anger is so rampant within him he’s worried that his blind rage will shut down his hearing and he won’t be able to give her what she so definitely needs, to be heard. But surprisingly fury is not the only thing he can feel as she reveals it all to him. He feels her pain, he feels the sheets around his neck as the guard strangles her. He feels her exhaustion, he knows her sadness. Her loss. He wants to go to her, but somehow he knows she’s far from done.

“You think you’re the only one who’s had someone they loved killed because of something you’ve done? The man who had my job before me was named Ben Urich, he was a friend and he was strangled because of something I dragged him into. Specifically, he was strangled by big bad kingpin; Wilson Fisk, or someone employed by him, as Fisk was the owner of the company I worked for and the piece of shit Ben was helping me investigate.” She pauses then, deciding whether or not to push it more, deciding whether or not to say it. But she’s got to. So for the first time ever she says out loud, “Fisk. was the employer of James Wesley. James Wesley, who drugged me, kidnapped me, held me in an empty warehouse and threatened everyone I love until I shot him seven times with the same goddamn gun he threatened me with. And I’d love to tell you that he was the first person I killed, but you once told me that you heard it. You heard them before they killed your family. Well I heard that truck. And I killed my little brother. So don’t you dare try to sink lower than me. Because if you’re a monster… than… than so am I.”

It’s her turn now to heave and reel over her own words. She collapses to her knees on the ground into of fit of shaking and tears. And even his mass o f injuries can’t stop him from diving to her, holding her in his arms while she cries. Nothing else could be this important. No revenge, no fight. Nothing. He had no idea. No idea. God how selfish could he be? Talking about his war, his tragedies, talking about the injustices in his life, when she was a walking, talking, hell survivor. And even more, she has been keeping it all inside. He could tell. He could see by the way it had poured out of her that she had never said it all out loud before. Never before let the cracks show.

After a few minutes of him protectively rubbing circles on her back and shushing her she sits up and says, “Why are you here Frank? And be honest. Please.” Tears stain her face. His arms are still wrapped around her.

“You… You said you wanted me to have an after. This.. This was starting to feel like one.” He’s shaking his head and she wipes her tears. “But.. But then you talk about all the hurt, the hurt that others have done onto you. When I hear... “ He cups his hands on her face and wipes away some of her tears. “I hear what they did to you, to others, and shit, that same fire in me that took out the irish, the cartel, and the dogs, and the fucking CIA, it wants to burn down this whole city.” He drops his hands and stands up, backing away slowly. “See that’s my problem Karen. This fight… this fight will never be over for me. I’m never gonna be able to have the picket fence again. And I’m never gonna be able to just sit back while these assholes hurt the people that I lo-” He stops himself and looks at the ceiling.

She stands back up and slowly walks towards him. He’s still trying to look away from her, but she sets her hand on his arm the way she did in the elevator. “Hey… Hey, look at me.” He does. “I can’t say that I’m always going to be okay with what you do. But I sure as hell know that I’m never going to be okay without you. Now I don’t know what this is, or will be. But I know, that I need it. And I know as hard as the world keeps be trying to prevent it, we’re both still alive. And I know it must be hard for you to see this. But I’m alive because of you. You have saved my life, time and time again.” She moves her hands to his chest. “You have taken bullets for me. You’ve protected me against explosions, against drug dealing colonels, and against my own self. And don’t pull that bullshit that they wouldn’t have been shooting at me if you were just gone. Okay? Because if there’s one thing the class has learned tonight it’s that I am more than capable to walk into the middle of a firefight all by myself. And I don’t think that fight in me is ever going away either. So quit being so fucking selfish, okay?” He nods and she lets out a deep exhale. She moves her hands up his neck and into his hair. Her left hand gently grazes over his the result of Billy’s bullet. He leans into her touch. “Now,” she sighs, “I’m going to go shower because I don’t know if you noticed but when we hit the ground all of the scotch poured on me.” He hadn’t but now not only can he smell it but the bottle has rolled onto his feet. He starts to apologize but she stops him and says, “I would really like it if you were here when I got out, because, as of…” She glances down at her watch, “Twenty-seven minutes ago it’s the anniversary of my brother’s death and I don’t really want to be alone. So please… Stay.” He nods and she lets go of him, slowly heading towards her bedroom.

It’s silent in the apartment until he hears the shower switch on. Deafeningly. He thinks about everything that has changed in the past few hours. He thinks about how he came up to this building thinking she was some kinda angel, but now he knows better. Now he knows that she’s no angel. She’s better. She’s human. She’s real and despite… despite the cascading river of new information he’s received in just a few hours he aches for more of her. He wonders if he should’ve said he met Fisk in prison. Should’ve mentioned they almost ripped each other to shreds when Fisk locked him up with an entire cell block. He wonders if he should’ve mentioned the only reason he was holding her right then, was because Fisk let him out. A part of him has a feeling that he’ll have the opportunity to tell her another time. Her omissions tonight had been for her own good. She needed that. She needed to tell someone, and it probably shouldn’t have been him. Probably should’ve been Nelson, or a shrink. Someone who doesn’t know how it feels to believe that by taking someone’s life you’re doing the right thing, but still be eaten up inside. Someone who doesn’t know the sound of an AK-47 firing better than any song. Someone who isn’t so used to the smell of blood that air without it, is almost harder to breathe. He thinks about this as he cleans up the bottle, and then their leftover dinners. But then he thinks how much better that it’s him. Him who understands all this, rather than Red. Who is or was so wrapped up in his own shitty conscious that he couldn’t even fathom the pretty assistant doing a deadly sin. Frank knows what it feels like to be woken up by a familiar gunshot replay in a dream. He knows what it’s like to look in the mirror after making sure that person never would again. He can’t judge her. He is her.

Soon the water shuts off and he can hear footsteps all around her room.

“Frank?” He hears her softly call.

“Yeah?” It’s gruffer than he means it to come out but with his voice it always is.

She steps out, hair still dripping, in a t-shirt and sweatpants. “I uh… I think we could both use some sleep.” He nods and begins to take his jacket off the hook. “No.” He stops, “I was hoping you would sleep here. With me. If you’re alright with that.”

He keeps the jacket in his hand and says, “Ma’am, I’m not sure you’re sober mind would approve of this idea-”’

“I’m not drunk Frank. I’m lonely. And although the gun under my pillow is a better conversation holder, I’d really appreciate it if you would stay with me.” He hesitates before she says, “Stay… Please.” Suddenly any thoughts of running off are abandoned as she quotes his words from so long ago.

He nods, drops his jacket, and before he knows she’s help him remove his shoes. and he’s lying on top of her comforter.

The sound of her fan circling above them, and their contrasting breaths are the only audible sounds for minutes. He doesn’t know how long. They both are on their backs staring upwards. He can tell she isn’t asleep from her breathing. It’s irregular and anxious, while his irregular and pained. He barely hears himself say, “It’s my turn.”

She shifts onto her side slowly, she’s probably still a little sore, and murmurs, “What?”

“The game, when we… uh.. when we left off it was my turn.” He turns to face her then, lying on his left side, even more slowly, feeling lucky he’s on the right side of her bed, as his right arm is still pretty fucked.

“Shoot,” She whispers, the light from a window reflecting in her eyes, and he worries for a second that he might drown.

He concludes now that he must to think of a question to ask. He finds this difficult. And it’s less of a question of what did he want to know and more that of what didn’t he want to know. But it’s been a long night. So he simply inquires, “You moving?” Tilting his head toward some of the boxes in the corner of the room.

She sighs. It’s long and tired but there’s no animosity in it, no annoyance, or resentment. “Turns out getting death threats, is very concerning to the apartment board, so they’ve asked me to move.”

He begins to get offended, to tell her that’s bullshit and that she should fight it, but she soothes him by laying her hand on top of hers and saying, “It’s alright. I’ve learned not to get connected to apartments. I’ve been here for three and a half years and this next spot will be my fourth place.”

“You got something lined up?” He questions.

“No, I’ve been so busy with what happened and the paper, I haven’t had much time. I’ll probably stick all my books in storage and live in a hotel for a bit, or Foggy’s couch, just until I find some place.”

He doesn’t like the idea of all her books sitting in a dark room alone almost as much as he despises the idea of her doing that.

He intertwines his fingers with hers, “When do you gotta be out?”

“Monday.” her index finger is rubbing circle on his broken knuckles.

“Hmm,” He hums.

“Hmm,” She hums. He stops making eye contact then.

“I gotta place, in the kitchen, with some money David... owed me, that’s got two bedrooms. One’s got your name on it if you want it… Until you find a spot of your own.” He tries to ignore the speed his heart is beating at as he returns his gaze to her eyes.

She’s smiling, just a little. He can’t see her lips but her eyes are a dead give away to the emotions she’s feeling at all times. “Yeah, that would really help me out. I could help with the rent too.. Depending how long it takes…”

He shifts on to his back now, smiling and still holding her hand, “Nah, just as long as you lend me a book now and then,” Her exhale is silent agreement to that deal.

“Thank you, Frank.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

She wakes up in the morning after sleeping better since… since she can’t remember when. He’s not there, but in lieu of his presence, on the nightstand appears a vase of the flowers he got her and five dollars. A note attached to the vase says an address and apartment number. She almost misses it, but when she sets the note down on the back she sees a word and her heart nearly jumps from her chest.

After

#Kastle #kastle fanfiction #the punisher #Karen Page #frank castle #frank x karen #frank castle x karen page #the punisher fanfic #one night #billy russo #david lieberman #dinah madani #Daredevil #marvel fanfiction #foggy nelson #matt murdock #slow burn

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fortdevereaux · 7 years

Note

Vague Prompts, the usual ship, duh: 3: Remorse, 4: Nostalgic, 28: Laughter, 41: Rain

I knew Anna would kill me if I only wrote angst for her so I wrote both angst and fluff for the remorse prompt. (Don’t say I never did anything for you, Parrot.)

Remorse [Angst]

“Do you ever feel bad? About…anything?”

There was a pause. Luisa kept her gaze forward. She knew the answer she was going to get, and she knew that she needed to hear it - she just didn’t think she could look at her while she gave it.

“No.”

There was no hesitation in her voice.

“At all? About any of it?” she pressed, finally turning her head to look at the woman next to her.

Rose kept her gaze on the waves crashing before them.

“No,” Rose repeated.

“How can you love me and feel that way? How can you love me and not feel bad about anything you’ve done?” Luisa asked, leaving the unspoken ‘to me’ lingering in the air.

Rose sighed slightly. “Because I do.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“I don’t know how that’s possible,” Luisa said, shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

Rose turned to her, her blue eyes calculating. “I regret…” she began, but trailed off.

“What?” Luisa pushed.

“I regret that you were hurt.”

Luisa stared at her. “That’s not good enough, Rose.”

Rose crossed her arms and looked away, casting her gaze to the horizon.

“I regret that I hurt you.”

Luisa closed her eyes. She knew that was all she would ever get.

Remorse [Fluff]

“You could at least show some remorse.”

“Yeah, I don’t do that.”

“Rose!”

“Luisa!”

Luisa put her hands on her hips and stared down at the other woman who looked back at her. She was wholly unrepentant.

“Did you have to eat it all?” she asked.

“I didn’t have to, per se,” Rose said, her eyes twinkling.

Luisa snatched the bag off of the couch, and rummaged through it. It was full of empty wrappers.

“You even ate the candy corn?!” Luisa asked. “You don’t even like candy corn!”

“What can I say - it was surprisingly tasty plastic,” the other woman said with a shrug.

“Okay well you get to explain this to her,” Luisa sighed. “I’m not dealing with it.”

“Why?”

“Because she is very much your child when she thinks she’s been wronged,” she replied.

“No, I mean, ‘Why? I didn’t eat her candy,’“ Rose said with an unapologetic grin.

Nostalgia

Sometimes Luisa gets wistful. She starts into long-winded reminiscences of the good old days, before the big reveal, before the funerals and the cops, before Rose became more than the unattainable woman who’d stolen her heart, before she became the woman who killed her father.

She supposes it’s telling that the good old days just involved a little adultery.

When it happens Rose wants to tell her what the good old days were really like. She wants to remind her that there never really was a ‘before’ to her, that she spent half of her life in shadow, the other half plastering a smile to her face that was never real unless it was directed at Luisa, spreading her legs for a man to further a plan that she wasn’t sure she cared succeeded anymore.

When Emilio was alive, Rose was trapped. When he was dead, she was free. There was no way around that.

But there were some things Luisa just didn’t need to hear.

So she let her spin her tales of passion and forbidden love, let her build a grand, romantic love story where the two of them were the heroes, she let her live her fantasy - she had already taken enough, she wouldn’t take this too.

Laughter

Luisa wound her way through the crowds of people rushing across the lobby of the Marbella, scanning for a somewhat familiar head of blonde hair. She didn’t think she would ever consider Eileen truly familiar.

As she made her way into the restaurant, doing her best to avoid the employees rushing past her as they prepped for the storm headed right for them, she found her leaning against an open patio door looking out onto the sand.

Running a hand softly down the other woman’s back as she moved to stand beside her she asked, “what are you doing out here?”

“Nothing,” came the reply, but with one look at her face Luisa knew she was lying. That sparkle in her eye always gave her away.

“Rose…” she muttered and the other woman smacked her leg and raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. Eileen, what are you doing?” she asked.

With a smirk, the blonde gestured out onto the sand. It didn’t take Luisa long to find what had drawn Rose’s attention: Rafael was out on the beach attempting to help the staff dismantle one of the umbrellas - and he was doing it spectacularly badly.

She nudged Rose’s shoulder with her own. “You be nice.”

“I am being nice. I’m not out there openly mocking him, am I?” she replied.

Luisa shook her head and turned her attention back to her brother. The umbrella was now twisted at an odd angle and Rafael was bent awkwardly trying to pull it from its holster - and failing miserably. She felt Rose’s shoulders shaking slightly next to her and hissed, “Stop it.”

Rose just shook her head as she bit her lip against her laughter.

Out on the beach, the wind caught the umbrella and began to carry it down the beach; Rafael, in his haste to catch it before it hit the water, tore after it only to trip and land face first in the sand. That was too much for Rose and she burst out laughing.

Luisa covered her own mouth quickly to hide her smile.

Rafael stumbled to his feet only to immediately fall down again, and Luisa thought Rose was going to collapse she was laughing so hard. As much as she didn’t want to laugh at her brother, Rose’s laughter filled her with a thrilling warmth and she couldn’t help herself. Together they laughed until Rose had tears streaming down her face as she tried to catch her breath.

With a sigh, Luisa wrapped her arms around Rose from behind and pressed herself against her, feeling the rumble of her laughter against her cheek.

“I like it when you laugh,” she murmured. “Even if it’s at my brother’s expense.”

“I will happily laugh at him any chance I get.”

Luisa rolled her eyes.

Rain

Luisa looked up, startled as thunder crashed above her and the sky broke open, rain coming down in sheets. She smiled, dropped her book to the bed, and pushed the blankets off so she could stand and move to the door.

Their bungalow stretched out into the water so she had an uninterrupted view of the rain pounding into the surf. She pushed the sliding door to the patio open and breathed deeply. There was nothing like a beach storm, it made her feel like she was back home. Sometimes she missed Miami. She missed her brother, she missed the food, she missed knowing where every small street would take her. But…

Twisting to look at the sleeping form in the bed behind her, she smiled softly. Some things were worth it.

#awaybacktothen #rose x luisa #rose solano #luisa alver #roisa #prompts #fic #my fic #long post

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lath4n · 7 years

Text

Shok - September 2017

Not many new additions, but this is the entirety of Shok as it stands in August 2017.

Show

By Lathan Sullivan

Money. Money. Money. It amazed me how money controlled the world. Money was always ripping apart and dismantling my family. My Mom, Michelle, was a bookkeeper for a local electrician, and she made $23,000 a year after taxes. My father worked for a construction company, with horrible hours and even worse pay. My brother Ben, who was 19, worked at a golf course as a groundskeeper. My parents let him keep half of his paycheck, and the other half went to "supporting the family." Ben always talked about wanting to go to college, but his grades were never good enough, and our family couldn't afford it. Our house in Lincoln, Nebraska was suited for a few college students, not a growing family. I was 17, and didn’t have a job. My parents always told me to put school first, and try to earn scholarships for college, instead of focusing my time on a job. Often, I could hear my parents arguing about money through the vents in my room. Every part of my life was affected by my family’s financial issues. We bought off brand food, sometimes from the store that sold expired food for cheap. I wore clothes from goodwill, and if I was lucky, my cousins would send me their old hand me downs. At school, people looked at me as just another poor kid. No one respected me. No girls even came close to acknowledging I even existed. I found myself daydreaming of winning the lottery, and driving fancy cars by them while they stared, mouths wide open.

It was November 6th. I was awoken by Ben climbing out of his bed. Being such a light sleeper, it was a common occurrence. I looked at our small desk we shared, and saw yesterday's Algebra II homework, looking untouched. I sighed, and waited for the sound of Ben turning on the shower. When I heard the water running, I got out of bed, and did a quick workout. I had always been a very skinny kid, and was embarrassed of my body. I did 20 push-ups, in sets of 5. I was breathing heavily when I realized that the house was quiet, and Ben had finished his shower. I grabbed my clothes, my ragged Carolina Panthers shirt and a pair of jeans that didn't look too dirty. I passed Ben in the hallway, and he said "There's no soap left, so have fun cleaning your skinny ass with shampoo!" Followed by a snicker. I ignored him, and took my soap-less shower in peace. After a breakfast of Cheerios (dry, I didn't like milk). I got in Ben's 1999 Oldsmobile Alero, and he drove me to school.

I attended Lincoln North high school. The school was not far from my neighborhood, and was populated by mostly lower income families, and a few extremely rich families, who lived in the elite "Thorns" part of Northern Lincoln.15 or 16 of them in my class of 300, we simply called them "Thornies" when they weren't around, out of jealousy. It was a colder than usual day, and my T-shirt didn't do a very good job of stopping the wind when I walked through the front door. My best friend, Nate, was waiting for me in the commons area. "Panthers eh? Betcha can't even name their quarterback" he said with a smile, approaching me. I didn't have a clue. I had never been a big sports fan. "Whoever it is, I bet he makes better jokes than you!" I said, a little annoyed. Nate had a girlfriend named Megan, and she was standing by him, giving me a glare. Megan's dad was a lawyer, and he taught her that being snobby to everyone was one way to make yourself better than them. Or at least it seemed like it to me. Well she wasn't a Thornie, most people viewed her as one. I didn't even want to deal with her so I said my farewell and headed off to class.

My first class of the day was always Architecture, and while I loved the subject, I hated the people in the class. The love of my life (or so I thought) Katy Rose sat two rows in front of me, and she was all I could think about. Her dark brown hair and eyes, her gorgeous smile, all of it made me go crazy. Today was no different. When I walked in the classroom, Katy was chatting it up with one of the most popular Thornies, Stephen Westwood. He was wearing brand new Christian Louboutin shoes, worn by multiple celebrities. I despised everything about him. His clothes, his perfectly styled hair, his ice white smile, and most of all, his wealth. Katy's perfect laugh was the first thing I heard when I walked in, and a wave of sadness hit me when I sat in my seat. I grabbed my folder from the back, opened it, and started work. The class was on the "Building your dream house" project, and I loved it. "My house" was a modern styled house, with a pool, countless rooms, and even a basketball court. The class flew by, and so did the next, and the next. When the bell sounded to end the school day, I hurried out the main doors, and saw Ben's car in one of the closest parking spots. He drove me home, and I watched TV until my parents both came home.

My parents car pooled to their separate places of work every day, so when their car pulled up, there was no guessing who it was. But something was wrong this time. I heard 6 loud, honks ring out from the car. I looked up from the TV, alarmed. I opened the front door, and my mom was right there. "YOUR DAD, GET SOMEONE. OH MY GOD. CALL 911." She screamed, mixed with sobs. My heart race instantly seemed to increase to 200 beats per minute. I jumped down all 3 steps of my porch, in my socks, almost spraining my ankle. I ran over to the driver's side of my parent's car and saw my dad. He was motionless. A small amount of thick, white, spittle was coming out of the right side of his mouth. My mouth dropped open. I didn't know what to do. I put my hand on his neck, trying to feel for a pulse. I couldn't tell if his heart was beating or not, my hand was trembling too much. I heard my mom crying, now on the phone with the 911 operator. I started pounding on my dad's chest. "PLEASE. DAD! PLEASE" exploded out of my throat. It didn't seem like my own voice. My mom pulled me away from the car, and I started running.

I didn't know why I was running. But I was sprinting, still bawling, tears blurring my vision. I heard my mom call out my name, but I didn't even think of turning back. I ran until I couldn't run anymore. I sprawled out in a random driveway, and my world went dark.

I was numb. It was like someone had turned down my senses, like some setting in my brain had been altered. The bright, synthetic lights and white walls told me that I was in a hospital. Then I realized that I was in a hospital bed. I flew out of bed, a wild look in my eyes. I didn't notice that my mom was in the room. She stood up and grabbed me, and hugged me warmly. She started crying. "Honey, your dad... He didn't make it. It was a stroke. I should've realized it... I'm sorry baby..." She said, with a sniffle. I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything. I already knew that he would be gone. The numbness just increased. I felt like I was in some fantasy world, some white walled planet, and this was just part of a play. I heard the door to the hospital room open, and turned around, startled. It was Ben. His eyes were a deep, crimson red. He didn't even make eye contact with me. He just walked to the corner of the room and sat down, gazing at the floor. "Babies, we will get through this. We are strong." My mom said, without much conviction. "I need to get air" I exclaimed, walking out of the room hurriedly. I heard my mom protest behind me, but the words didn't even register in my brain. I found my way to the outside of the hospital, and sat down on a bench.

I heard my name. I saw a familiar looking car parked in the parking lot, a 2006 blue Honda Civic. It was Nate. He opened his car door to get out, but I ran over to his car. There was a tension between us. "Get in. Let's go." I said, solemnly. "Dude.. I-I-I don't even know what to say." Nate muttered. "Shut the fuck up. Take me to your house." I said, with ice in my voice. Nate started his car, backed out of his parking spot, and drove me home. The drive was silent the entire way. When we got to Nate's house, his parents were waiting in their driveway. Their tears, along with words of condolence bounced off of me. Nothing could change the fact that my father was dead. I made my way to the guest bedroom, and fell asleep. I was awoken by Nate's parents checking up on me multiple times. I heard his mom explaining the situation to my mom. I knew that she couldn't force me to come home.

The next few weeks were the toughest weeks of my life. I went back to my house a few days later. My mother and Ben barely talked. They both got work off, and I didn't go to school. My days were spent drowsing off in bed all day, and eating my meals by myself on the small desk in my room. I didn't want to talk to anyone. People sent me text messages, telling me how sorry they were. My house got phone calls seemingly hundreds of times a day. My aunt came down from Omaha, and took care of my mother, and all of us.

I started back school on November 27th. Ben drove to me to the building, the only audible sound throughout the ride was the car's rattling engine and squeaky brakes. I walked into the building, and the second after the door closed behind me, every single person in the commons stared at me. I hated it. I walked into the boys bathroom, and locked myself in the stall. I didn't feel sad, I felt angry. I punched the stall door 4 times, letting out more and more anger with each blow. My hand was throbbing with pain, but it didn't bother me. The bell rang, and I walked out of the bathroom, hiding my hand in my sweatshirt pocket. When I got to architecture class, it was the same story. Every person, including Katy and Stephen, stared me. I put my head down and waited for the teacher to start class. No longer were we on our dream house project, we were learning how to effectively build a retaining wall around a property. The class was dull, and I barely paid any attention. After the class, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and it was Katy. "Hey, I know we don't really talk much, but I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss, and if you ever wanted to talk, I would be glad to." She said. She seemed sincere. Being so close to her beautiful self, I couldn't contain my emotions. I started crying, but managed a "thank you" while I walked away briskly. I was so embarrassed. "What girl wants a guy who is poor, dresses badly, and is a cry baby?" I thought to myself. I went back to the same bathroom, and punched the stall door again. My knuckles started to swell, but I didn't care. I hated myself. I hated my life. I walked out of the bathroom, through the commons, and out the front door, slamming the door behind me.

All of the cars in the parking lot should have been empty, but one single car, a blacked out, low riding Nissan 370Z was running. I blew it off as merely a visitor, or maybe a student leaving early for the day, but the car wasn't doing anything. It was just in park, a low, sporty sounding rumble coming from the engine. Meanwhile, I hadn't decided what to do yet. My heart was beating fast, and I almost started to panic when the car suddenly turned off. An attractive, blonde girl got out of the vehicle. She looked to be about my age, or a few years older. She looked at me straight in the eyes, and motioned for me to come to her. I quickly walked over, not knowing what to expect. "Are you Jason?" She asked in a hushed voice. "No…?" I said, very confused. "Oh shit.. Well you better get in the car so we can talk about this." The girl muttered. I walked around to the other side of the car, and thought about running. Being too intrigued to escape, I opened the door, and sat down.

"My name is Savannah. Don't be alarmed, if you're cool, this is all going to work out." She said. I just looked at her, wanting to know what on earth was going on. "I'm new to this school, and I was supposed to meet a dude named Jason here." She explained. "What? ...Are you some sort of drug dealer?" I asked. "Not quite. Let's go for a drive okay? I assume you just skipped school? It'll be best for you anyway." She said. I nodded, and put on my seatbelt.

She drove like a maniac. Her car must have had some sorts of modifications, because it accelerated extremely fast. She was constantly asking me questions on the drive, like it was some sort of test. I told her about my dad, and she said she had read about it in the paper. She must have had a lot of money, because her jewelry and clothes were all top of the line brands. She said that she was 19, the same age as Ben.

The drive was about 15 minutes. We finally parked, in the parking lot of an old printing press building in downtown Lincoln. Faded words were painted on the side of the building, but I couldn't distinguish what they said. There was one other car in the parking lot, a silver Range Rover with tinted windows and rims. Savannah turned her car off. "I don't know why I'm showing you this, kid. But you seem alright, and maybe you could be part of my operation. So just keep your mouth shut, and follow me." She explained. My heart raced. I wondered what she meant by her "operation." I had never done drugs, or had anything to do with them. They were too expensive, and too risky to use in my small house. I got out of the car, and followed her to a small side door at the bottom of the large printing press building. Instead of using a key to open the door, she pressed a small button, which made a ringing noise. Nothing happened at first, but suddenly the door unlocked, with a loud click. She opened the door for me, and we walked in.

The building was completely empty. A few indistinguishable machines sat idle in the corners of the room, with a layer of dust covering them. I could see all the way up to the roof, the building only had the base floor. Savannah, knowing exactly what she was doing, walked to the very opposite side of the room, and sat down next to a typewriter. She hit 4 different numbers, and a portion of the floor slid back, revealing a staircase. I was absolutely appalled. "Cmon!" Savannah said with a grin. "Down to the office." I walked down the stairs, just one set, illuminated by lights planted in the wall. Savannah typed in another four digit code into a keypad at the bottom of the stairs, and I heard the floor slide back into place. At the same time, the door at the bottom of the stairs opened, revealing what seemed to be a large office like area. There was a large desk with multiple chairs, and smaller desks with computers on them. A large storage area was also set aside, lined with unmarked boxes.

"Savannah, who the hell is this?" Said a deep, gruff voice behind me. I turned around, and saw an extremely muscular man, who looked to be about 50 or 60, staring at me. He had tattoos covering his body. He reminded me of bikers that I would see in my neighborhood often. "This is ___, he is cool. That Jason dude you told me about never showed, instead this guy came out. He's cool, don't worry. I thought maybe he could be a partner." Savannah explained, looking a little embarrassed. "You brought a random kid to the center of our operation?! What the hell are you thinking Savannah?" the man said, angrily. He looked at me dead in the eyes, and said "tell me about yourself."

"My name is ___ ___. I am 17 years old. I go to Lincoln North. My father recently passed away. I had a panic attack and walked out of school, and that's when I saw savannah. She thought I was Jason, or whoever, but after she found out that I'm not, she took me here. I won't tell anyone, I swear. I don't know anything about drugs, just let me go. I'm totally chill" I explained, frantically. I thought the man was going to kill me at any second.

"Alright kid." The man said, seemingly satisfied with my monologue. "My name is Chris. You can call me C. Yes, we are involved with drugs. But it's not what you would think. We have 6 employees. Savannah here, is third in command." he said.

"Okay... But what exactly do you do, if it's not what I think?" I asked, intrigued.

"We sell a new type of drug called Shok. It's a pill. We get it from a supplier in Russia, believe it or not. Shok isn't like most normal drugs. It isn't dangerous. It's just a clean, good high. But it's expensive. So our clients aren't average, everyday bums like you, no offense. We .. Uh.. Look for.. Higher income, clients, if you will." C explained.

I was interested. I had never heard of the drug Shok before. Kids at Lincoln north did their share of marijuana, and occasionally harder drugs, but never this.

I still didn't get it. "Why do you have this entire building to sell drugs out of? And six employees? Isn't that overkill?" I asked .

"Not too fast kid. You'll find out eventually. For now, that's all you need to know." C said, sternly. "Fair enough, but why were you at my high school? We are mostly poor kids.. None of us could afford your drug. And who is this Jason person?" I asked. "We have a few people at your school who buy our product in mass volume, and they have the money to do so." C said. "Wait.. So like thornies?!" I exclaimed.

Savannah and C both looked at me like I was an idiot. "Thornies? What the hell are those?!" Savannah asked, laughing.

I was embarrassed. I forgot that outsiders obviously don't know the slang words that the students use.

"Um, thornies, kids who live in thorns, the rich neighborhood by the school? You sell to a few of them?" I said, looking at the ground

"Right kid. Every school has rich kids, and there's always a few rich kids who like drugs. We know most of these kids by name. They take the product and either use it, or sell to other people. It's pretty simple actually." C said.

I was amazed. There was a secret drug trade going on in Lincoln, and at my school, and I was standing in the headquarters. But my look of amazement must have reminded C that he didn't even know me, and that I could still cost him everything if I were go to the cops.

"Well kid, now you know too much. So you're either in, or you're out, if you get my drift.” C said with a chuckle.

I thought he was kidding, but my glance at savannah told me otherwise. "My dad is dead. My family needs money. I'll do whatever you need me to." I burst out.

C looked proud. "Okay. Me and Savannah will talk it over. Savannah, take him back to school. We don't want any attention on him if he's going to be an employee of ours, do we?" C said. "Yes sir. I'll see you later then." Savannah said, respectfully. "Let's go kid." She said to me.

She repeated the same process to exit the "office", enter the code, climb the stairs, and enter another code on the typewriter to close the staircase.

On the drive home, Savannah seemed excited for me. "You probably have a lot of questions, but don't worry. You will get answers. I will be in touch with you. And don't skip school anymore!" She said, with a wink. We pulled up to the front doors of the school. "Wait, _NAME__, have this." Savannah said. She handed me a small stack of money. I had no clue how much it was, but my face light up. "Thank you, I won't let you down." I said. I shut the car door, and she drove off. By this time, I had missed most of my classes. I walked back inside, and went to the central office. I told the principal that I had gone outside, because I was being bullied. Obviously having a soft spot for me after the death of my father, he was fine with it. "Come to me first next time, ___NAME___. Don't just walk outside. Hope things get better." He said, patting me on the back. I went to my last class of the day, English, with a smile on my face. During class I asked to go to the bathroom, and counted how much money Savannah had given me. It was $750. "YES!" I yelled, thinking about how insane and lucky my day had been.

When the final bell rang, and I found Ben's car, I was still all smiles. "Get your first kiss, loser?" Ben said, mockingly. "Sure, go with that." I joked, making sure my money was secure in my pocket. On the drive home, my mind was racing. Who is Jason? Which Thornies buy the drugs from C? Am I actually going to work for them? I was excited, and nervous.

Ben had brought home some macaroni from the clubhouse at the golf course, so we heated that up for dinner. My mom came home late, putting in extra hours. She had dark bags under her eyes, seemingly never disappearing after my father's death. I immediately wanted to give all the money to her, but I couldn't. After doing some homework and watching TV, I went to bed. I felt hopeful for what was to come.

The handle of the knife felt so smooth in my hand, like

polished marble. It’s blade was long and shiny, reflecting the sunlight. I looked up, but there was no sun. I was in a white room, and the only sound was a slow, methodical dripping noise. I looked down. I was covered in blood. I was confused. I wasn’t hurt. But then I noticed, the figure slumped against one of the walls. A trail of dark red blood connected the two of us. I looked in it’s eyes. It was my father. My heart stopped. The dripping got louder, and louder. The knife fell out of my hand, hitting the ground with a clatter. I seemed to have fallen on to the floor. Blood started dripping from the ceiling, right onto my nose. I could smell its metallic scent. My eyes rolled back in my head. Everything went black.

I woke up, my pajamas soaked in sweat. My heart was racing. Nightmares had plagued me since my father died, but nothing like this. Then I felt it, something dripping onto my face. I looked up, and saw a damp spot in the ceiling. Our house was always leaky, and it had been raining earlier in the night. “So much for sleeping” i thought to myself. Ignoring the slowly leaking roof, I got out of bed, and went downstairs, careful not to wake Ben. I crashed on the couch, and as I was about to drift off, my phone buzzed. I almost ignored it, but then I remembered Savannah. I looked at my phone

Tuesday, November 28, 3:07 AM

New text message:

Nate: Megan finally agreed ;) told u bro

I rolled my eyes, putting my phone on the ground in disgust. Not only did I not care about Nate and his girlfriend’s endeavours, it was three in the morning, not time to discuss it. After staring at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity, I finally fell asleep.

The next few days all passed by, boring and uneventful. I started to think that meeting Savannah and taking the trip to the headquarters had never happened, that it was some silly daydream I had created. The only thing that told me it was real was the money, 750 dollars I was deathly scared to spend. At school, the constant stares turned into glances, and the glances slowly faded. “Everything gets boring, even feeling sorry for people.” Ben told me, when I mentioned it to him. I knew he was right, but I didn’t mind. On that Friday, December 1st, the school was abuzz with talk of a giant party being thrown that night, hosted by none other than Stephen Westwood. His parents were out of town on a business meeting, and he was home alone in his mansion in the Thorns. I never went to any parties, so the thought of attending didn’t spark any interest in me. Nate and I had plans to see a movie with Megan and one of her friends (hopefully less snobbier than her). At lunch, I sat down at my usual lunch table, and waited for Nate. Five minutes passed, then ten, and I was finished with my food and ready to leave when he finally sat down next to me. A wild grin was on his face, and before I could even ask, he blurted out “Dude, Megan and I got invited to the party tonight...we are going to go!” I looked at him blankly. “I hope you’re kidding.” I said disapprovingly. “No man, turns out that Megan’s friend, the one that was going to hang out with us tonight? She knows Stephen and he invited her, and she asked him if we could come too!” he said, excited smile never leaving his face. I was pissed off. Nate and I always talked about how stupid partying was, and made fun of people who bragged about it. But now, when he was invited, he pretended like it was the biggest deal in the world. “Alright dude. Have fun, I guess we can hang out tomorrow or something, if you aren’t too hungover.” I mumbled. The look of disgust on my face must have been pretty obvious, because Nate looked taken aback. “Jealous bro? I bet it sucks to never get invited to stuff, loser.” he said, icily. The look in his eyes had changed to something cold, something I didn’t see a lot. I got up from the table, returned my tray, and went to my next class.

Since the passing of my father, the school made me meet with the counselor, twice every week, towards the end of the day. During my final class of the day, the phone rang in my class, and my teacher looked at me. I got up and walked out of the classroom, without saying a word. The counselor’s office was across the other side of the school, so I had a long walk. Passing through the senior hallway, I heard my name. I turned around, and saw a girl. It was Savannah. She had dyed her hair black, with smoldering purple eye makeup, and dark lipstick. She was wearing a black dress, with gold and black platform shoes. “What the… how did you even get in here?” I asked, bewildered. “Easier than you think, kid. Tell your brother that you don’t need a ride home today from school. I’ll see you in the parking lot at 3:30.” she said with a wink. Before I could reply, she turned around and walked down the hallway. The sound of her expensive shoes hitting the white tile floor echoed against the walls. I kept walking to the counselor's office, feeling dazed. Remembering at the last second, I pulled out my phone and texted Ben, telling him that I was going to ride with Nate. I smiled, and walked into the office. The counselor, Mr. Quigley, was a large, old man, who had the spirit of a kindly old grandfather. He wore wide rimmed glasses, and laughed with his belly. His blackboard was blank, except for a childish drawing of himself with the word “Quiggles”. I sat down, and let the questions begin. I explained that no, I wasn’t depressed, and no, I didn’t have thoughts of hurting myself, or anyone else. That seemed to do the trick, and he started telling me a story about his granddaughter, who was a piano prodigy. Eventually the final bell rang, and I said a fake “thank you”, smiled, and walked out of his office.

Savannah’s Nissan was parked in the back of the parking lot, and techno music was blasting from the speakers, so loud I could hear it halfway to her car. I opened the door, and sat down in the low seat, practically on the ground. “You know, for a criminal, you don’t really do a good job of not trying to get caught.” I said, with a smirk. Her unusual style, her flashy car, and good looks attracted a lot of attention. “You know, for someone who wears those jeans, you sure have a big mouth!” she exclaimed, winking. My face felt like it was turning purple. “Anyway, kid, C and I talked, and tonight is going to be your first job.” Savannah explained. “Okay... what do I need to do?” I asked anxiously. “I assume you are going to Stephen Westwood’s party tonight, and we need you to introduce him and his friends to our product. Think of it as giving free samples.” she said. “Um, I wasn’t invited to his party.” I muttered. “Oh don’t worry kid, you can just show up. But you’re going to have to wear something different than that, obviously.” she giggled. “I have a dress shirt, that I wear for family holidays?” I offered. Savannah grabbed her sunglasses from the console of her car. “Let’s go shopping really quick.” she said, putting them on. She put her car in drive, and zoomed out of the parking lot.

No words were exchanged on the way to our destination. Savannah’s iPhone was plugged into her stereo, and up-tempo dubstep music filled my ears. Her car must have had subwoofers in it, because the whole car shook and vibrated. It was another short, high speed drive, which seemed to be the theme with Savannah. We were at Meyer’s, a department store specializing in luxury clothes. “Savannah, I don’t have money for any clothes, I hope you realize that…” I said. She just smiled at me, and got out of the car. “Stay here kid. What size of shirt and pants do you wear?” she asked. I told her, and she slammed the door, and walked inside. I rolled my eyes. I was starting to develop a little crush on her. I sighed, knowing that nothing would ever come from it. I was too quiet for any girls to like me, my clothes weren’t good enough, and I was broke. I stared out the window, wondering why Savannah even trusted me in the first place. After about twenty minutes, Savannah returned to the car, a large bag in hand. “We’re going to go to my house to get things sorted out before the party.” Savannah said, putting the bag in the back seat and hopping in the car. “You have your own house?” I asked, eyebrow raised. “Yeah, um, I’m comfortable.” she said, with a half smile. She started up the car, and drove away.

Savannah’s house was in South Lincoln, in a wealthy neighborhood that I didn’t recognize. It was a huge, older styled house, landscaped to perfection. She parked her car in the three car garage that was attached to the house. The other two spots were empty. We went inside, and Savannah showed me to a bathroom, where I could change into my new clothes. The shirt was a white v-neck, by a brand I had never heard of before, with a pair of jeans. There was a pair of shoes in the bag too, black high tops with gold trim. After putting the clothes on, I looked in the mirror, and let out a laugh. I looked completely different. Savannah was standing outside the bathroom, with a bottle cologne and hair gel in her hands. “It’s a makeover!” she declared with a giggle. She ran the gel through my hair, styling it up. “You look cute.” she said, while spraying the cologne on me. “Thanks..I guess?” I muttered, trying not to blush. I followed Savannah into her kitchen, which had granite countertops and top of the line appliances. I sat down at the table, which had magazines covering it. “Sorry about the mess, can I get you anything to drink?” Savannah asked, opening her fridge. The fridge was stocked with different types of pressed juice drinks, none which looked appealing to me. Before I had time to reply, her phone rang. She walked out of the room, leaving me by myself. I didn’t understand Savannah. She was 19, had crazy tastes, and seemed to have unlimited money. I wondered what made her get into the drug trade, and why she even did it. There was a lot more I wanted to know about her.

Savannah’s phone call was quick, and she came back into the kitchen within a few minutes. She sat down across from me, and gave me the game plan.

“Okay kid, here’s how tonight is gonna work. You will get to the party right when it starts, so everyone is mostly sober. Get friendly with Stephen and his close friends, then give them the product. After that’s done, leave, and give me a call.” she explained. “Okay, sounds good.” I said confidently. Savannah walked to a cupboard, and came back with a small metal box. She opened it, and it was full of semi-large, oval white pills. “Here’s the stuff. Make sure you don’t mistake it for breath mints.” she said, with her signature wink.

“Oh, and as far as ...compensation goes, how does another 750 sound?” Savannah asked. “That sounds perfect!” I blurted out, breaking into a smile.

“Good. Well we better get going, Thorns is all the way across town.” Savannah said. I grabbed my old clothes, and got in her car. My heart was racing, excited for the night. After a long, dubstep music filled drive, we finally got to Thorns. The houses were enormous, even bigger than Savannah’s. We turned onto a short road, with a cul de sac at the end. The cul de sac was lined with cars, all of them expensive. I saw Megan’s red Infiniti, and knew that her and Nate were already there. “Good luck kid, call me when you’re done.” Savannah said. I got out of the car, and she drove off. I felt a little nervous. I could hear music coming from the house, and people’s voices. My life had taken such a dramatic turn in the last month, it was almost unbelieveable. I would’ve never guessed that I would be at one of the hottest parties in Lincoln, handing out drugs, wearing expensive clothes, just one month ago. I walked up to the front door, and knocked, three times.

It was Stephen himself who answered the door. “Sup.” he said, giving me an approving look. I nodded, and he let me in. His house was beautiful. Straight out of the pages of a home design magazine, everything was done to perfection. The house was open concept, and everything seemed to connect with each other. A table with glasses of different alcoholic beverages was in the kitchen, and that’s where I saw Nate. I started to walk over to him, but I had second thoughts. Something about him in that moment disgusted me. There was an open couch in the living room, and I sat down. There were speakers in the ceilings, so music seemed to come from the entire house. I saw Stephen head downstairs, so I decided to follow him. The stairs were white marble, and they must have cost a fortune. The basement was just as impressive as the top floor, with a movie theatre, fully equipped bar, and mini gym. An Xbox was hooked up to the movie theater, and a few guys were having a tournament, playing a racing game. Stephen sat down on a chair by the pool table, watching a game that was in progress. I knew that this was my chance. I wanted to get this over with. I didn’t feel comfortable at this party, and I was nervous that someone would recognize me. “Hey Stephen, I have something for you.” I said, walking up to him. “Yeah bro, what’s up?” he asked, looking up at me. “I have some samples of a new drug, I think you should try it.” I said, not knowing how to explain myself. “Okay, what kind?” he asked, like it was no big deal. “It’s a new drug, it’s called Shok. It's a pill, and it’s supposed to get you really high.” I explained. “Uhh, alright, I guess I’ll take it.” Stephen declared. I took the container out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Thanks bro.” he said. I nodded, and walked away. My job was done, and I wanted to get out of this house. I walked back up the stairs, and as I was about to leave, I heard my name. I turned around, and was almost in shock. It was Katy, looking absolutely stunning.

“Hey Katy.” I said, trying not to fall apart. “I like your new look! And the hair!” she exclaimed, a bright smile on her face. “Thank you, you look good too.” I murmured, looking at the floor. Her name was called in the background, and she glanced away. “Well, I’ll catch you around.” she said with a smile. She walked away, and my head was spinning. I headed out the front door, and walked away from the house. Savannah was parked down the street, with her usual music playing. I opened the door, and climbed in. “How’d it go?” she asked. “Fine, I guess. I gave him the stuff, and got out of there.” I said. Savannah just nodded, and started driving. I pulled out my phone, and my stomach did a flip.

New text message:

Nate: what the hell is your deal bro? First u bash me for going to stephens party, then u show up? And nice hair and clothes lol, who did you borrow those from? I know ever since ur dad died youve been messed up… but this needs to stop. Btw… youll never get katy lmao. Cya

A sensation of pure rage filled my entire being. Even though Nate was my best friend, I wondered if my friendship with him was even worth it. Savannah seemed to sense the change in my mood. “Are you okay? Is something bothering you?” she asked, turning the music down. “Just drama with my best friend... Don’t worry about it.” I muttered. Out of nowhere, Savannah gently and affectionately grabbed my left hand. “You know, I am here for you, if you ever want to talk. You could give me a call!” she exclaimed, with a grin. I didn’t know what to say. I had not had a girlfriend before, and Savannah’s beautiful, greenish gray eyes looking deep into mine and her soft hand on mine made my entire body shiver. All of my emotions suddenly welled up inside me, and tears started streaming down my face. Savannah, looking genuinely concerned, pulled into a random side street and parked the car.

“Okay seriously, ____, what is going on? This is making me depressed!!” Savannah declared, with a sad look in her eyes. Being an emotional person, I often wanted to share my feelings with people, but never had the opportunity to. Extremely embarrassed, I tried to stop crying as quickly as possible. “Just... a lot of stuff has been going on. I guess I’m just stressed.” I said flatly. “Ugh, well I want you to be happy, and I need you to be happy if we are going to work successfully together. I promise you, I will help improve your life, babe.” Savannah said flirtatiously. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Did Savannah actually like me? Then it hit me, Savannah was absolutely perfect. I didn’t know it was possible to develop this much of a crush on someone in such a short period of time. “Thank you Savannah, I truly appreciate it.” I said, smiling. She just flashed a grin, another Savannah trademark, started up the car, and we were back on our way.

When we arrived at my house, Savannah pulled out the $750 from a Louis Vuitton bag in the back seat of her car. “Good job tonight, even if you don’t think it was much, it’s a start!” she proclaimed. Before I could respond, she handed me my payment, and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks.” was all I could respond with. “I’ll be in touch, goodnight ___.” she said, with a wink. I got out of her car, money in hand, and she sped off, music already blasting from her speakers.

I went straight up to my room, another insane night behind me. Ben was already deep into slumber. I changed out of my new exotic clothes, hiding them under my bed. I put my money that I had earned that night with my first $750, also in a small box under my bed. I was a little intrigued that my mom had not called me asking where I was, after all, it was almost 1 A.M. The text from Nate was still on the home screen of my phone. I decided to ignore it. I went and brushed my teeth, and hopped into bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up the next morning, Ben was already at work. I walked into the bathroom to start my shower, and smiled. My hair was still holding some of its new style from the night before. After a quick shower, I threw on a pair of old gym shorts and a University of Nebraska football shirt that was way too big for me. I went downstairs, and saw my mom sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. I knew something fishy was up. “___, we need to have a discussion.” she said, monotonously. “Okay..” I said, taking a seat at the table. “Honey, I really don’t want to ask this of you, but I think you are going to need to look for a job. After your dad passing, I have been struggling to keep things going with just my own money and Ben’s help.” she explained, with a depressed look on her face. I know she probably felt terrible asking me to chip in. “Okay I guess I can look for one, no problem.” I muttered, not with much enthusiasm. “Thank you, do you need me to drive you around to submit some applications?” she asked, ignoring my gloom. “Nah, I’ll apply online or get someone to pick me up.” I said. I got up from the table and walked back up to the bedroom. Laying in my bed, staring at my ceiling, I started to think. In such a short amount of time, I had already made $1,500 dollars from basically doing nothing for Savannah. No job accessible by someone my age could ever pay that much. I decided I would have to fake getting a job somewhere, and use the money earned by working for Savannah to help my family. At the same time, a feeling of anxiety overcame me. What if the business with Savannah didn’t work out? After all, I was no tough drug dealer. And what was the whole Shok thing going to do to my personal life? Nate and I were not on good terms, and my feelings towards Katy were being replaced by my developing crush on Savannah. Just as my thoughts were about to get even deeper, my phone buzzed. It was Savannah.

New text message:

Savannah: hey, you busy today? I thought I would take u to meet the rest of the employees, lol. Let me know!

My heart did a little twirl.

Sounds good, pick me up whenever! :)

I got up excitedly, and rushed downstairs. My mom was still sitting, cup of coffee in hand. “I got someone to pick me up to go job hunting, she will be here soon.” I said. “She? Who is this person?” my mom said with a devilish grin. I rolled my eyes, although it was nice to see my mom smile. “Don’t worry about it.” I muttered, blushing. I hung out on the front porch for about ten minutes. Eventually, I saw Savannah’s car cruising down the street. It looked so out of place, mixed in with the old, low end cars of my neighborhood. I hopped in her car, and the first thing I noticed was her extreme clothing choice for the day. She was wearing a leopard print long sleeve shirt, and black leggings. Three gold Cartier bracelets were dangling from her wrist, and enormous Versace sunglasses almost seemed to cover up her entire face. “Hey dude, ready to go?” she asked, with a smile. “Uh, should I go change?” I asked, suddenly embarrassed at the outfit I was wearing. “Psh, you know I got you covered.” she said with a giggle. She motioned to a suit bag in the back seat of her car, hanging up on the hook. The word “Armani” was emblazoned on it. “Good lord… you-” “Don’t worry about it.” Savannah interrupted, with a wink. The drive to the Shok HQ was not very talkative, with droning electronic music deafening me the whole time. We pulled into the parking lot of the old building. Along with C’s Range Rover, four other cars were in the parking lot. There was a Mercedes SL, an Infiniti coupe, a new Jeep Grand Cherokee, and a BMW 3 series. All of the vehicles were completely blacked out, like Savannah’s. “Okay, let’s do this ____.” Savannah said confidently. I grabbed my new suit, and we walked up to the entrance. “I don’t know if you remember from the first time we came here, but this button is how you enter the HQ. It’s fingerprint activated, so we will have to get you registered into the system.” Savannah explained. “Okay, cool.” I said. Savannah pressed the button, and the door instantly unlocked. We walked in, and she gestured to a large machine in the corner of the room. “You can go get changed over there. I’ll wait here. Don’t be nervous!” she exclaimed, looking hopeful. I nodded, and went to go get changed. The suit fit me perfectly, somehow. There was no tie, so I left the collar unbuttoned. A pair of black dress shoes were included at the bottom of the bag. I tossed my other clothes into the bag, and returned to Savannah. “Awh! You look so professional and stuff!” she blurted with a giggle. I just sighed, and replied with a simple “Thanks.” We walked over to the same typewriter as before, and Savannah entered the four digit code again. “The code for this is 1017, don’t ask me why.” she explained. After she punched it in the floor started sliding back. We went down the stairs, to the next layer of security, the keypad. “This one is 1003 for the code.” she said. I nodded. She typed it in and the ceiling above us slid back into place. The door opened, and I was met with five pairs of eyes, staring at me icily, at the large table in the office. My heart rate skyrocketed.

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