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mystxmomo · 3 years

Text

Title: infinitum ad absurdum

Fandom: Identity V

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/?

Description:

At some point, the unconventional became conventional, and odd became the normality.

None of them are quite sure when that switch happened, exactly.

Link: Ao3

“I really don’t see how you can stand talking to him right now.”

“I think it’s sort of like.. Whatever you have goin’ on with Jack. Y’know? A lil’ outside his control.”

“Okay, no, fuck you. We don’t even compare to what they’re doing.”

“Eh.”

Luca absentmindedly watches Naib and Norton bicker in what he thinks is supposed to be a friendly exchange, but sounds way too heated for him to understand as one. Helena and Tracy are attempting to explain to him how this game went. Something like;

“So, we’ve still got four ciphers remaining, yes? Two people chaired. And Naib he- he pulls off one of his best moves yet. I swear, he bounces straight from one chair to another!”

But if he’s being entirely honest, Luca is putting more focus quietly memorizing the patterns in the tablecloth instead of paying attention.

(Frustrating, he thinks, when he realizes his brain isn’t going to be working with him today. Very Frustrating. Did he forget to get a lot of sleep last night? He feels well rested...)

The next group that enters seem to have had better luck than the first one. Three of them pull into the room, nursing only a few bruises and scrapes. The mood amongst them is far brighter, Demi with an arm around Margaretha’s shoulder, and wide grin on Kevin’s face.

“Drinks are on me tonight,” Kevin says, collapsing into the chair closest to the fire place.

“I think you mean on me,” Demi corrects, hands propped on her hips. Her bemused look is in passing, however, and she turns to face their group with her own plastered grin, “You should have seen what Mike pulled off. When I tell you that he really pissed off ‘ol Smiley today!”

“Oh, yes, I believe it,” Helena turns her head, as though she wouldn’t have heard him first thing, “Where is he, anyway? Did Smiley actually get him today?”

“Mike? Of course not. He rushed out the gates mumblin’ to himself about something or another. Said he had this new idea that he wanted to try out,” She passes a knowing glance to Norton, “Might want to avoid him for a while.”

(Mentally, Luca runs through the checklist in his head. When was the last time he ate a full meal..? He’d been snacking on the remains of their breakfast, but it hadn’t exactly been much.. Maybe he needs water? Water.. Hm..

Mindlessly, he stands up from his chair, and begins making the walk to the kitchen. He is somewhat relieved, to leave the noise behind.)

“Fantastic,” Norton tilts his head back, probably considering what prank he’ll become the target of next, “Thanks for the warning.”

The kitchen smells deeply of herbs and spices, of the fire burning in an old brick oven and baking bread. It’s hard to make a kitchen feel uncomfortable, Luca thinks. There’s something inherently homely, familiar about it, and no amount of cracks in the tile nor creak to the cabinet will change that.

It would seem that the person that had been working in the kitchen is Andrew, because when Luca walks in he’s covered in flour, carefully attempting to pull a tray out of the oven. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s walked in, which is odd, because Luca has never exactly been quiet.

"I didn't know you baked," Luca mentions, offhanded, leaning against the fridge as he does.

Andrew fumbles, dropping the pan near immediately, and Luca is close enough to jolt forward to catch it. He doesn’t manage to save all the bread on it, two loafs rolling off, but feels fortunate that his gloves are as thick as they are. Thick enough to cover sharp tremors and scars, and apparently stave away the burn of a still hot pan.

“Ah,” Andrew says, eyes wide, “I’m sorry- I didn’t know you were there,” He stutters over himself, pulls away as Luca places the tray off to the side.

“No issue,” Luca says, quickly, upbeat, needs to grab onto the fridge to properly steady himself, “Lucky catch, though.”

He dusts it off, shrugs a bit as he grabs the second loaf and places it off to the side. It’s been a while since he’s had fresh bread, he realizes. Most of the food that gets served at the table seems old. Not inedible, per-say. But old enough that Edgar had turned up his nose at it the first day he’d been here.

(Still some of the best food Luca has had in years, if he were to be honest.)

They're quiet.

Andrew... he's an anxious man. His entire existence seems shrouded in sorrow. He holds himself low, tries to duck himself out of sight. He doesn’t have much reach behind his voice, always speaks like he’s having a conversation with himself rather than others. He’s always sort of struck Luca as a very lonely man. It’s never something Andrew has mentioned outright, of course. He just looks upon their group with a sort of envy when he thinks no one is looking. Shys away when he knows people are. He talks to himself when he thinks no one is looking and doesn’t seem to realize when they are. Noisy, in a quiet way.

“Sorry,” Luca says, because he’s not really sure what else to say, “For startlin’ you. Don’t mind me, just coming in here to find something better to eat than left over breakfast.”

Andrew nods, moves to get out of his way. Then, realization washing over his expression, “Ah! Wait, You can have one, if you’d like,” He gestures down to the bread, still hot from the oven, “It just finished up. But- Oh, I suppose you’d know that, huh..”

They don’t talk much.

It’s not that Luca doesn’t like Andrew or anything. Luca can’t help but feel that he’s sort of two seconds from giving the guy an anxiety attack just by being around him. Luca also happens to be the noisy sort. He’s not unaware of this. He kind of, see’s the way Andrew side eyes him when they’re teamed together, pointedly avoids his gaze and presence. He hasn’t done anything to him, but it’s not really his place to question whether or not someone wants him around.

Still. Andrew seems to settle into his presence as he takes the time to meticulously move each loaf off the pan to cool properly, giving him the occasional side eye. Luca is sort of impressed by it. Doesn’t think he’d have the patience to cook properly, nor the time.

“It’s relaxing,” Andrew says, suddenly, still not looking straight at him, “Baking, I mean.”

“..Huh?”

“You mentioned earlier. That you didn’t know I baked. So. Yeah.”

Given that this is the most conversation he’s had with Andrew in the few months or so that they’ve been here, he’s not exactly sure where it’s coming from or why. He decides, cautiously, to take the man’s sudden and apparent chattiness as permission rather than an oddity, he asks the first thing that comes to mind.

“... Are you the one that cooks breakfast?”

Andrew shakes his head, “I don’t get up early enough for that,” He admits, “I’m not sure who does.”

“Oh. Okay, thats good. Our breakfasts kinda suck.”

Silence. Andrew stares at the bread.

Nevermind, then.

Sighing, Luca takes one of the loafs he’s been offered. One with a little burn on the end of it, “Nice talking with you,” He says, “Thanks for the bread.”

“You know. For what it’s worth, Luca,” Andrew starts, and he says it quickly, like he’s forcing it out of his mouth, “I think this house is evil.”

Luca stalls in his step. He hesitates for a moment, considers, “Wait, what?”

“Ah- Sorry,” Andrew says, eyes wide, shot with a sudden and rather familiar panic, “I didn’t mean to eve’s drop. It’s just- I was in the kitchen. You’re right there, and it's hard to not hear you talking to Norton earlier-”

“Andrew, I don’t really care,” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck. Because, well, he doesn’t. They had, afterall, been talking in a very public place, “You think the house is evil?”

“Ah..” Andrew blinks, backs in on himself, “Sorry. Now that I’ve said it out loud, it is somewhat ridiculous,” His cheeks, Luca notes, are progressively getting brighter, and he’s gripping the edge of his shirt hard enough that his knuckles are turning white.

Luca props his hands on his hips, “I don’t think it’s ridiculous. It’s a theory, isn’t it?”

Andrew says nothing. His brows furrow together.

“I- You don’t want to hear what I have to say,” He’s frowning now, sharp, glaring at the ground instead of Luca, “Don’t.. Don’t mess with me, Balsa.”

Luca takes a long breath in. Right. Andrew was sort of like this.

“I’m not messing with you, Andrew. I want to know what your thoughts are. I mean- It’s better to get more opinions on the matter, you know? Collect more data?”

Andrew hesitates. Nods. Looks to the doorway of the kitchen, where the rest of their groups chattering drifts in through the cracks.

“...Can we go somewhere more private?”

Andrew is not a materialistic man.

This is something he could have guessed, but it's different, walking into his room and seeing it in person. It's in a sorry state. He has the same wardrobe all of them have been given, the crocketty old bed, a personal kettle, and a chipped porcelain tea set carefully set up on his desk. And... that's about it. He's drawn the curtains, and given that the outside of the manor already seems to be in an eternal state of overcast it leaves the room feeling rather dark.

Luca has never been the best with handling silence. He runs his mouth too much for that. But talking too much only seem’s to make Andrew more uncomfortable. So. They stand in in the same awkward silence they’d walked here in, the one they’re always in, Luca shuffling his feet, and Andrew pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“...Would you like tea?” Andrew asks, not looking at him, gesturing to the fireplace.

Fuck it. Tea With Andrew Kreiss. Not the direction he expected his day to go, but if he’s here, “... What kind do you have?”

The answer to that, as Luca discovers, is strictly balck tea. Apparently it’s the only kind sitting around the manor. Not his preferred taste, but he is not a picky man these days. Andrew takes the time to dig out his match box and light the small burner the teapot hangs above, fingers trembling against each strike. Luca is polite enough not to mention it.

“I didn’t take you as a tea drinker,” Luca admits, taking a seat on the edge of Andrew’s bed without really asking if it’s okay. But Andrew is blocking access to the only chair in the room, and he doesn’t even glance in Luca’s direction. So he thinks it’s fine.

“My mother was fond of it,” Andrew answers, blankly, “More fond of white tea, but black was always cheaper.”

And then silence again. Andrew, it seems, is not going to elaborate on that point.

“Ah,” Luca says, too late not to be somewhat awkward.

...

So this was going great.

Luca fidgets, uncomfortable, “So. You were saying downstairs?”

Andrew blinks. Like he honestly hadn’t expected Luca to just jump right into it. But the way the tension melts from his shoulders tells Luca that he’s probably thankful for the offered conversational topic? If Luca is being honest, it’s really hard to tell with Andrew.

“Ah, yes,” Andrew pulls himself away from the kettle he’d still been fussing with, apparently deciding that the flame under it was good enough, "Do you happen to know what a Leviathan is, Balsa?"

"Can’t say I do," Luca admits, “Is that what you think this is?”

"Well- No, not exactly. It’s more.. The principle. I think. You see, it’s this Old Testimate- Hm. Actually. Let me,'' Andrew stumbles over himself, both metaphorically and literally in this case, and Luca shifts out of the way to let Andrew get to his nightstand without getting hit. He spends a moment shifting about his drawers. Pulls out a few pieces of paper (Music sheets, carefully folded, Luca notes), a rosary. Then, a Bible, worn with time, and begins flipping through the pages, “Do you know any biblical passages?”

“Not a lot,” He admits taking an uninvited seat at the edge of his bed, “My parents weren’t exactly what you’d consider ‘God Fearing.’” He places heavy air quotations around the words, the same kind he gives his title.

Andrew's gaze turns up to him, “There’s.. no reason to fear god.”

“Er. Right.”

Religion is important to Andrew

Luca knows this not because he's been told this, specifically. But it's not hard to tell. He has one of those littles crosses on his neck, well worn with age and use. Marks that linger as proof of time spent with it at his fingers, be it for comfort or prayer. He ducks his head down before every meal and whispers to himself amongst the chaos, and sometimes Luca can hear it laced with guilt and uncertainty. Begging for some kind of redemption from something he truly believes is out there.

He’d tried to bring it up once or twice.

(“So you’re a holy man?” He’d asked completely casually, as he’d reached past him to grab the slab of butter.

Andrew’s eyes had widened, surprised at being addressed so suddenly. He seems to consider it, frowning, “Certainly not. I am afraid there is nothing holy about me.”

Odd answer, he’d thought at the time. Stated with such melancholy and certainty that he had no choice but to accept it. Hadn’t really questioned it since, either.)

Still.. It has Luca feeling a little out of his element, so instead he turns his attention to snoop at the papers on his desk instead. It’s not that he means to pry, but curiosity has always been one of his vices. Even in the low light, he’s able to recognize the bars and music notes scattered neatly across the page. His brow cocks.

".. You play?" He asks because his solution to an awkward silence has always been to fill it. He’s never seen Andrew with an instrument before.

"Unfortunately not," Andrew shakes his head, quickly, narrows his gaze harder at the pages, "I.. I can’t even read these, if I’m being honest. However, I find them around the house sometimes. Music wasn't nearly as accessible, in the life I lived, you see. I just.. don't take it for granted. Feels weird to leave them lying around to be destroyed.”

Luca nods along to the explanation. Andrew, he decides, is really fucking weird, and Luca is decidedly out of topics to bring up.

Andrew reads, shakily, “His teeth are terrible round about. His scales are his pride, shut up together as with a close seal. One is so near to another, that no air can come between them. They are joined one to another, they stick together, that they cannot be sundered. By his neesings a light doth shine, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning. Out of his mouth go burning lamps, and sparks of fire leap out. Out of his nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a seething pot or caldron. His breath kindleth coals, and a flame goeth out of his mouth. In his neck remaineth strength, and sorrow is turned into joy before him.”

Andrew reads with far more confidence than he speaks with.

The sort of confidence a man faced with tribulation bares to his foe. Luca is sort of having trouble paying attention to exactly what he’s reading. But he doesn't have trouble understanding Andrew's emotion behind it. He stands up straighter, speaks louder with each new line. There is no characteristic shake to his voice, nor tremble to his hand.

He continues.

“The flakes of his flesh are joined together: they are firm in themselves; they cannot be moved. His heart is as firm as a stone; yea, as hard as a piece of the nether millstone. When he raiseth up himself, the mighty are afraid: by reason of breakings they purify themselves. The sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold: the spear, the dart, nor the habergeon. He esteemeth iron as straw, and brass as rotten wood. The arrow cannot make him flee: slingstones are turned with him into stubble. Darts are counted as stubble: he laugheth at the shaking of a spear. Sharp stones are under him: he spreadeth sharp pointed things upon the mire. He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment. He maketh a path to shine after him; one would think the deep to be hoary. Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear. He beholdeth all high things: he is a king over all the children of pride.”

And then he stops.

The silence, this time, is full.

Andrew gazes up at him, expectant, the confidence from before washing away from his face. Luca realizes he’s waiting for a reaction. But all Luca can do is sit there, hands folded together, "I’m sorry,” Luca feels like he has to apologize, because. Well, “I.. might be little more lost than before.”

“...” Andrew’s shoulders fall, as he closes his bible. He puts consideration, deep consideration, as to what he’s going to say next, “A lot of people think that what is biblical is what is kind. However, the bible is filled with both beast and atrocity far greater than we can wrap our heads around. I think- I think people are comforted, by the idea that religion is suppose to be something strictly kind. But the world isn’t kind.”

Andrew walks over to push open the curtain, peering out at the yard beneath them. Luca, momentarily, eyes the small jar of purple wildflowers he’s hidden behind it, “This place isn’t very kind.”

“It’s not,” Luca agree’s. Andrew continues, like he hadn’t even begun to add his input.

“But it’s more than just unkind. It’s fantastic,” Andrew sighs.

“Fantastic?”

“Unbelievable. Implausible. And I suppose. What I was trying to get at with this is.. Sometimes. Most of the time, things that are biblical are very rarely kind, and hardly comforting. That which is biblical tends to be cold, and consuming, and judge. And I think whatever is happening here is..” He hesitates.

“Y’know. Biblical?” It's an assumption, but it seems to be the right one. Because Andrew’s brows furrow, and he stares absentmindedly at the page of his bible as though it’s going to reveal some sort of answer to him.

"I think. Whatever is going on here is beyond us,” He tells him, eventually, and with a sigh, “Outside of our control, as many things are. And if it is biblical... It is old testament, and it is angry.”

“...And if it’s not biblical?”

The kettle between them screams. Andrew reaches over to take it without looking at it.

“Then it is simply cruelty without purpose. And.. The world has enough of that, wouldn't you say?"

#Luca Balsa #andrew kreiss #IDV #infinitum ad absurdum

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1-0-1-9archived · 3 years

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@softmalldrifting responded to this post with:

🎁!

85. Finesse - Bruno Mars

Lucas hasn’t been... quite as stiff, these days, when he’s dropped by the old guest house.

At first, due to ease of familiarity. Poppin’ on by to ask a question or bring something over for the old man (still fuck that guy) or playing Nice Little Errand Boy for Mama no longer saw him inexplicably kicked outta his own zone in favor of checkin’ in on a stranger on the land he’s spent nearly all his goddamn time on since he was an ankle-biter. ‘Stead... Jennifer had become more like the particularly nearby neighbor that somehow, the house hadn’t ever actually had before. ‘Visiting’ when she weren’t the one hangin’ around in the main house instead of her own accord had become... pretty authentic routine. Something he’d still puff and roll his eyes up into nothing at when shipped out - but painless, apart from the obligation and the feelin’ stiffly puppeted along with like by machines. Nothin’ to bristle at.

...Yeah, that was at first, though. Nowadays...?

Well.

...You know, he started gettin’ curious as to whether or not he’d... need to be sent over, each day! When Old Fucker Jack or Mama ever called him over, he’d felt a pull-taut-and-tense in his shoulders as he looked up or crossed over where normally he’d outright have desperately fuckin’ swallowed a seething growl - straight-up, like a mean dog, to get the bitterness (no you don’t GET my time it’s MY time do your OWN shit -- !) steamed outta his system. If he did need to go check in on Jennifer, wherever she mighta been at the moment... the tension held and did one a’ those funny things where it cooled and warmed, at the same time. With a blink and a look over his shoulder, he’d just... step on off - steps automatic and just-too-tappin’, but not forced by levers. At first, he hadn’t quite been able to tell that the thing pulling him along was... well, shoot, still something that was basically curiosity.

Again, that was another at first.

‘Cause now?

...Well, it’s hard for him to fuckin’ ignore that there’s something that makes him curious. About what exactly, he ain’t too sure, but it’s that kind of thing that makes him... not like to go find Jennifer - whatever he feels about it, it’s more tentative than that - but damn if he doesn’t get drawn into doing it...!

When she is in the guest house... she’s been gettin’ more and more knocks that see him standing there, glancing off to some window or another unfocusedly, hoarsely mumblin’ something that don’t include a preface of ‘Dad said’ or ‘Mama had me come by’. ‘Stead, it’s been... maybe with a swallow here or there, ‘ -- Think I mighta left some old Halloween stuff in here. Need it for something’ or ‘my sister put twenty bucks on which one a’ us can find this old box first. Mighta stashed it in the attic’.

None a’ those have been true. ...Very true, anyhow, ‘cause, like -- he certainly has still searched old storage shelves and cabinets that’ve seen better days, knowin’ a lot of stuff may well have old crap in it that he might want. If she’s been nearby, huh -- he’s here and now... managed to shove a laugh out of himself, knowin’ where she was without lookin’, murmuring husky about ‘ -- this old... fuckin’ picture -- church. Betcha Mom and Dad won’t mind by now if I burn the thing,’ or letting his face... mime lighting up while wantin’ to do it for real before a sound like a far-distant blackbird gave way to ‘ -- hot damn, some a’ these trinkets gonna be good for some arts ‘n crafts...!’ Pretendin’ to talk to himself while knowing he weren’t, ‘least on his own end.

...Sneakin’ in excuses to find things to say on... his own level, by the by, weren’t the only benefit of his... fudgin’ excuses to drop by. Poke around.

The other was... hell, again, it was curiosity. And it wasn’t ‘his own’ stuff he... had an excuse to scope out when he hung around. Not only familiar stuff.

It was... hers.

And he didn’t fuckin’ know why he was so curious about any of it; it was just stuff. Still, he’d pop by and she’d be wearin’ another sleek gown that wrapped around her in a way more tricky and clever than a lady’s friggin’ Sunday dress or fresh-outta-school girl’s date-night dress, lookin’ at least a foot taller than she always ever did in a way he couldn’t even chalk up to heels, and like he’d already slipped into the habit of doing, he’d stare and try to size up what the fuck it was that even when she was in motion...

...she looked that kinda way. The way she did when he first popped by to ‘greet’ her solo. Like she was posed for a magazine cover. ‘Glamorous’ wasn’t really a word he’d ever had enough excuse to use to summon it easily to mind. He might walk around and hear music, even, that seemed grander than it should - shaped and colored in a way that fit odd in the setting, meant for low-fi ol’ acoustic boozy country intonation and guitar or fuzzy ragtime that felt 'elevator-y’ to Lucas or hollow-jug and brown-glass-tinted jazz from the folks’ records.

It all kinda fit the way she did - and now, he wonders if that mighta what put him off before. That too-big-for-here-ness; that too-shiny-for-here-ness. He still don’t get it, but ‘least he’s taken it as... what it is, now. Ruled out that it’s meant to impose.

As for what ‘what it is’ even means, though, well...!

He’s alluded to how he feels about the point of comparison. Seems an easy and sensible spot to... bring it into play, now - use it as the first card he can grab

Especially ‘cause he’s feeling a little extra... inspirited today!

He’s chucklin’, lightly, as he ambles up in slow, turning steps - cowboy-like - outta the entry hall and into the kitchen area, eyes trained on the beetle on his hand he ever-so-casually waltzed on inside with, turnin’ his wrist to keep it in sight with its course.

-- Cuts himself off and clears a place in that chuckling with a sharp ‘n rough clear of a quick-sealed throat. Croaks:

“ -- So, uh -- ...what -- ! ”

-- A cough, this time, still short and curt - the beetle-arm moves to guard his face in a jerk shit don’t launch the li’l guy off...!

...One. Two. Beats of settling...!

...Draw of a lazy smile - theeere we go... - as he lowers his arm. Lowers his eyes, too, in turn, back to the beetle again, which has, for the moment, stopped.

“ ...Hsssso how did it first feel, anyway, ” he says - still in a croak, at first, if prolonged. Airin’ out more and more, ‘til he follows up with clarification just about trailed half along breath along, full a’ sand and sawdust. “ -- Stayin’ -- with a bunch a’ hicks -- ...! ”

He’s long since dropped the blocker filterin’ his language, and pff, hell, he ain’t even noticed it.

He still grins, easy, with a small lift in his brow of approval as the beetle starts to stick-flail its li’l legs into movin’ it again. Begins another turrrrrn of his hand...!

#> me: /rolls #> me: OH GOOD THIS SEEMS LIKE AN EASY PROMPT WITH WHICH TO TROT OUT THE NEXT PHASE #LET'S PLAY | IC #DRAW THE JOKER | Asks Answered!#LADY 'N THE TRAMP OF SMALL-TOWN LIFE | Jennifer Pennyfortune (softmalldrifting)#AIN'T A KILLER | Unmolded

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jdaviswords · 4 years

Text

Along the Way

Hey now before I begin

I would like to confess

that this is the first time

I've stepped up to the mic

in this fashion

Ya see

I usually sit down and write casually

but recently I've been getting this nagging

tellin me I should put that aside

and release what's inside me

Or how bout we start with my identity

a white male skinny in his mid twenties

cleanly shaven face but typically rock

a beard funny

I mention it now I'm feelin kinda funny

I gotta buddy named Muddy

sike nah that's a different study

Down in the haven

shout out LHU

if it wasnt for y'all

I'd be a different dood

sometimes I get in this mood

where I can't help be crude

I picture her nude

cocked back smilin like she know it good

Ha...

I guess when I rhyme I get this attitude

just like all who graced this place

before me

I'm talkin Eminem, Biggie, immortal technique

if I could reach half the prophecy

as these old G's

I'd be like a genie in a bottle

you'd barely see me

Up so high defying gravity

I look down from the clouds

and there are ants you see

shimmering along antsy

I couldn't help but fancy

what it'd be like to be them

in a rainstorm

like...how big those water droplets would be

shiiiit

Anyway

I tend to get caught up

like a smoke grenade

that don't make sense

but that's okay

cause anytime I can convey

the profoundness of happiness

I'll obey

and if it means that

these words are all I'd have to slay

imagine how many animals could be saved

day by day

I got it mixed like a salad

ignoring phone calls like Ricky Fallon

who the fucks Ricky Fallon?

who knows...but I found him

On a mountain smoking cactus

he said imagine what itd be like

if everyone weren't so passive

imagine if the masses heads

weren't fed so much gasses

their minds could cleanse

wed be born again

I said...

as if we wouldn't destroy again

I think humanity

soiled it's privilege

the truest casualty

how beautiful we'd be

if we weren't so inherently ugly

cuffed together by a greed

imbedded deeply enough

to restrict your dreams

and silence your screams

AHHH

I'm sorry

I tend to get a bit cynically

when I release what's inside of me

financial burdens

stomach churnin

forever learnin

that some bridges still belong burnin

but resentment ain't easy to live with

like a misprint on a birth certificate

I wonder how I sprouted from them

them so high

them so drunk

both casually sippin

an apple from an orange

or a grape from a pear

I'm from a different vine

that I'm aware

suffocatingly aware

that sometimes I'll hide in the shadows

tho I should be laying in the meadow's

fully bare

perhaps a meteor would fly by

and I could catch it's glare

instead of behind this screen

where I often stare

If you would play with my hair

or scratch my back

I'd give you this heart

that's barely intact

taped together

a couple staples

clack clack clack

it's always under construction

or whatever...

somethin

I lost my train of thought

as a car drove past bumpin

William Bludgeon

who's William Bludgeon?

another version of me

coming up from the dungeon

He's always under there mumblin

stumblin over repression

battling depression

attesting aggression

oh did I mention

he likes to eat bamboo

and has a monkey named Kelvin

I once began delvin

into his closet one day

when out came a kangaroo

wearing a fucking toupee

i think this was an acid flashback

so that's what I'd say

and so then he slapped me

and went about his way

my oh my I'm a bit of a crazed

individual labeled as a liberal

though I sit in the aisle

you can't classify me I am unusual

Actually I'm quite typical

gifted this privilege

of a chalky skin tone

meanwhile blacks are taking

knees and elbows

getting slaughtered by those

wearing the blueish clothes

and everybody fucking knows

except we do nothing

besides sharing a fucking post

that apparently somehow shows

your awareness of the troubles

that plaque these bones

of all our skeletons

our whispered groans

I don't fucking know

Along the way

that's the way she goes

I need to know though

what will it take before

a change will show

I need to know though

what will it take before

a change will show

Along the way

that's the way she goes

I need to know though

what will it take before

a change will show

I need to know though

what will it take before

a change will show

I mustnt complicate

what it is I set out to demonstrate

I'm a kindish dood

with a massive plate

of stuff that ain't so great

but have found a way

to still see sunshine

in the pourin rain

I'm a conspirator by day

and a lover by night

I'll admit my mind

gets the best of me sometimes

creating scenarios

I find myself down Alice's rabbit hole

with the Cheshire cat

and that tweaky rabbit guy

Along the road that

looks like a xylophone

I begin dissecting the vary

essence of what it means

to be alive

and I find that caterpillar

puffing hookah

and the road continues to unwind

I swear I've lost my mind

or it's in the driver's seat

and I'm just along for the ride

And then snap back to reality

no slim shady

not to diss him

I am simply not worthy

of a rap God

who's done this

at this point for centuries

why anyone steps to his plate

I'll never understand fully

unless the goal is to look foolish

then the master genie

shall grant that wish

I used to jump his music as a kid

never understood it til

I grew up and revisited

behind the curtain

without you

my anger would continue consumin

something bout your music

made sense and my hatred started soothin

it's like you were saying everything

I wanted to say but I know I shouldn't

or maybe it's that I couldn't

#words #writing #poetry #life #writers on tumblr #poet #poets on tumblr #late night writing #late night thoughts #thoughts #i actually reached the tumblr character limit #wow #rhyme #rhyme poetry

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kibanafuji · 4 years

Note

tell us a little about your childhood! after all, everyone wants to know the success story of galar’s toughest trainer!! :0

EVENT: ask 182.

“heh! well, wouldn’t be that ‘ard to find info on it, but what better hearin’ it from the ponyta’s mouth, right?”

[182] cracks her knuckles and gives her arms a stretch.

“so, picture me, a twee 8 year old, tryin’ to cope with th’ fact that my poor big brother was gone. i was right sad. and right determined, too! he was going to enter the gym challenge, and i was determined to make it so!”

“now, 'course, you may be wonderin’ 'ow that would work, and if you are, i’d call you dumb. obviously, i knew what to do. just 'ad to walk up to the 'eadmaster of our school– he was gonna endorse rai and that– and throw the biggest strop i’d ever thrown in my life, prove myself in battle, and then make 'im let me go instead of rai! and that i did. blew 'im away, even! but, 'course, i was too young to legally enter– ’s why he was hesitant about it– but i’d already thought of that too. was never my intent to enter the challenge as ME, after all.

i studied and studied and studied all of rai’s notes, watched recordings of 'is practise battles, everythin’ i could get my 'ands on– my imitation of 'is battle style by the time i went to go convince the 'eadmaster was damn near perfect! an’ since we were both kids, disguisin’ myself as 'im was pretty simple– all i 'ad to do was keep quiet and tuck my hair up in my cap. worked out perfect, no one questioned 'ow quiet i was 'cos of that red bloke an’ his whole 'silent champion’ thing. just looked like i idolized 'im or summat.

'course, i was quick to prove to 'em that pretty soon, red would be the one idolizin’ ME– swept down galar’s gyms left and right! me and leon 'ad the whole region’s eyes watchin’ us– i made it clear we were rivals, after all. didn’t need to tell 'im or anyone else in words, i just battled 'im every time i saw 'im!

… unfortunately, though, i just couldn’t beat the guy. no matter what i did. put up a good fight, though, you better believe that! i nearly 'ad im time and time again! after one of my earlier losses, actually, i… slipped up a tad. was real sad about it, see, and discouraged. thought i wasn’t gonna make rai proud, thought i was gonna tarnish 'is name, so i just sort of… sat down on the ground and started cryin’.

he’s a good guy, leon. came over, tried to comfort me– even used one of 'is revives on haribo so she could come over an’ try t'cheer me up, but… wasn’t really payin’ attention to leon. just ended up ventin’ to haribo once she was up and at 'em again. ended up mumblin’ 'bout my big brother, and that was 'round the point he started askin’ questions. see, it ain’t like your voice 'as anythin’ to do with your gender, what tipped 'im off that somethin’ might be goin’ on was me referrin’ to 'im by name– woulda sounded like i was speakin’ in third person for no reason, after all.

i told 'im the deal. the whole deal. what i was doin’, who i really was and that. 'ad no choice, really– it’d be more sus if i tried to ignore 'im. mighta thought i 'ad nothing to do with the real raihan at all. anyways, he and sonia promised they’d keep my secret. ended up bein’ bessies from then on!

anyways, like i was sayin’, by the time we’d gotten to the semifinals, leon was well aware i was imitatin’ rai– borrowed 'is name, battlin’ style, all that. and we both made it to the last round, obviously– and then we battled, and…

it was a tough one. most of it, it was anyone’s game, but right towards the end… i knew i’d lost. wasn’t any turnabout in store for me, i plain and simple wasn’t gonna win. and i got real damn sad. 'cos… i wanted to make rai proud, and do good by 'im, and become the champion usin’ his techniques. but i was about to lose my chance. if i couldn’t beat leon right then, i thought i’d probably never be able to beat 'im.

but…

… leon’s really a nice lad. always 'as been. he coulda won right then an’ there, my last pokemon was 'ardly standin’ anymore, but he recalled 'is pokemon and told me we were gonna 'ave a do-over.

obviously we weren’t supposed to be doin’ what we were doin’, but seein’ as both of us agreed on that, and that the finals couldn’t 'appen until one of us won, there wasn’t much anyone could do to stop us. wasn’t any rules against it.

we both 'ealed up our pokemon, and went back out– but see, leon didn’t just say we should 'ave a do-over. he told me… i should try battlin’ as me– as ■■■– rather than as raihan. that he wanted to see what it was like.

if i lost, i’d be out of the running anyway, and if i won, well, i think anyone can agree i’d more than proven myself worthy of participatin’ even though i was technically too young. so when we went back out, i didn’t just battle usin’ my own strategies. i took my bat and my pitcher’s mitt, the ones rai gave me on my birthday, and i took my cap off just long enough to let my 'air down. and i told that whole stadium– the whole world, even!– who i really was!

and then. and then! i won! i beat leon! i beat leon, and then i beat everyone in the finals, and then i beat the champion! and you know what? i think i never should 'ave tried imitatin’ his battling style. sorta had to pretend to be 'im, but that doesn’t mean i couldn’t battle my own way. … well, i guess i also could’ve just waited 'til i was old enough and then i wouldn’t have needed to imitate 'im at all, but i couldn’t wait two years for that. he was goin’ to become champion the same year he turned 10, and i wanted to make sure a’ that. was just a kid then, me, can’t blame me for bein’ so 'asty.

… oh, and… for the record, i don’t think there was anything wrong with rai’s technique, his strategy or anything. no, i know it for sure. the only problem was that… it wasn’t HIM using his own techniques. it was ME, focusin’ too 'ard on tryin’ to be perfectly, exactly like him all the time that 'eld me back, made me weaker– i was still strong, but not strong enough to beat leon. not when he’d been true to 'imself and didn’t need to focus on bein’ someone he wasn’t.”

#anon #﹙ASKS.﹚#﹙182.﹚

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futchloser-moved · 5 years

Text

hewwo i turned the inaugural death of mister seven into one big block of text!!! why??? I DONT FUCKING KNOW but i did!!!

below VV

Your name is CROWBAR. You remember the first time you ever got offed like it was yesterday. But then, you tend to remember damn near everything like it was yesterday. And when a fella whets his bill on time travel as much as you, yesterday's when damn near everything literally took place. But that's beside the point. The POINT is, a guy like you's gotta remember things. No room for error when you're in charge of a bunch of maroons like these. Maroon's your favorite color, in case it wasn't obvious by the rugged hue of your jaunty tricorned HAT. But like you say all the time, lugs this dumb give the color a bad name. Yeah, that line never did get a laugh. Not even ONCE. Never did claim comedy was your bag, though. Your bag's a whole 'nother can of worms entirely. And those worms swear on their ugly mothers' graves that you're a hard-nosed, square-shouldered, spare-the-lip and shoot-from-the-hip gang boss. Or third in command, to be precise. But who's counting? The answer, of course is, you are. YOU'RE counting. It's your JOB to count. As number three of the the outfit (i.e. number seven, lest we get confused) it's ALSO your job to do what Number Two says. (He don't got a number in actuality. Cueball-head wouldn't wear a hat in the damn presence of royalty, the cocky bastard.) Number Two naturally gets his orders from Number One, who's a man of few words in your experience. The top dog used to give you lip all the time, which is really saying something for a man whose head is a gruesome, lipless skull. Those were the old days, though. Now Number Two serves as his mouth. And what a mouth it is. The man's got a hell of a trap for a guy sportin' a spherical head with no features whatsoever. Hey, look. You just follow orders, no matter what kind of freak show comprises the particular cabal of superiors barkin' em at ya. They call Number Two the Doc. And the Doc made it clear he wants you to round up the boys for a meeting in his study. In your humble opinion, the hatless wonder's a true man of mystery. And guessin' his designs is about as fruitless as a plundered gift basket. But if you had to bet, you'd bet dollars to crullers* there's a heist afoot. *Crullers instead of donuts 'cause when it comes to the Doc's schemes, there's ALWAYS a twist. First step along the way is Number Two. No, not by rank, ya clueless boob. By HAT, of course. This guy's infinitely less clever than the Doc. In fact, it ain't out of line to characterize him as a little slow upstairs. AND downstairs. "Infinitely" in this case ain't hyperbolic. [#2 - DOZE. Doze has the ability to slow down time within radius localized to himself, and himself alone.] You don't DO hyperbole. It's on a list of stuff you don't do. The list is literally kept in your breast pocket to show at clowns who don't take you serious now and then. You tell him to come with you, gotta meet Doc in the study. Oh great. He predictably replies with the arduous low-pitched beginning of some long-ass drawn-out remark. You don't have time for this. You leave the room to round up more men. The end of this sentence ain't seein' the light of day anytime soon. Who's next? Ah, excellent. Someone else is approaching. Saves you the trouble of rootin' them out. Aaand yeah, it's you. Just what you needed. TIME SHENANIGANS. Looks like past-you or future-you or whoever is leading Sawbuck somewhere. You know what? Whatever, man. [#7 - CROWBAR. In charge, mostly. Wields a crowbar.] [#10 - SAWBUCK. Don't worry about it. You'll get to him later.] You're not even going to ask. It NEVER pays to indulge in time shenanigans. That's what you say. No one listens, though. Other-you's got a question, though. You say shoot. He's wondering if Doze in there has finished his sentence yet. You say not even close, my friend. He's only just begun lettin' words spill out of his dumb, sluggish maw. He says God fucking dammit. You say you feel his pain, brother. You and he soldier on in your respective directions. You give the the door a firm rap or two with your trusty crowbar and let yourself into the OH GOOD GOD. You avert your eyes and clear your throat. You try to visualize something else. A suit you need to remember to bring by for tailoring. The lukewarm cup of joe you didn't finish this morning, sitting on your desk. And... nope. The damage is done. You can't unsee it. Listen, you ain't no Puritan Pete! [#4 - CLOVER. Is extremely lucky.] What two consenting adult men get up to behind closed doors is their own damn business. You just wish Clover wouldn't do his frisky little dance numbers behind SO MANY of the closed doors in this mansion. Part of you wonders what charm the little guy was soliciting Itchy with. Horseshoes? Balloons? No wait. You don't care. Train of thought cancelled. (They're all wrong for balloons, anyway. Trust you. It wouldn't work out.) You tell the men to quit the ahem, fancy footwork. There's business with the Doc. Sure boss, after you! squeaks the lucky runt. Luck's always on his side, you should mention. Little bastard's as lucky as one gets, and sure seem he's one to get lucky a lot, if you catch your drift. Itchy, as usual, makes it his business to be a rash on your backside. The attitude on this guy. Says he's in no particular hurry. Will be along as soon as he's done with this... What is that? 10,000 pieces? Come on, guy. You say with the giddyup he's got, that puzzle should take him just shy of no time flat, and he KNOWS it. [#1 - ITCHY. Is extremely fast.] He's real fast, see? Itchy says he ain't in a hurryin' mood. Wants to relax, take his sweeeeeet time with it. Is he kidding you? This jabroni's barely even trying. No. It doesn't go there. NO. You say the horse butt goes BEHIND the animal, not like, hovering in front of its face, you stupid piece of shit. The guy keeps at it anyway. You know what. Let the baby have his bottle. You're out of here.You enter the boutique of the gang's in-house tailor. Any mug in the biz you're in knows a good tailor's a must. The name's Stitch, and the man's a miracle worker with a needle and thread. Looks to be patching up a head wound on some dope's recent injury. You say what happened here? No unauthorized shenanigans, you hope. [#9 - STITCH. A damn good tailor.] He asks, are any shenanigans authorized? You say hell no. He gives you a curt nod. Always refreshing to be in the company of men who don't cotton to nonsense. He says don't worry about it, he'll be along once he finishes up here. Good enough for you. You leave without a word. Here's where Die holes up. Seems he ain't into company at the moment. For half a second, you contemplate respecting the guy's privacy. You spend the other half of the second kicking down his door. Just what in the fresh gobsmacking fuck is going on in here, is the out-loud thing you wonder. What's he doing cooped up with all the live poultry? Die doesn't say a word. Deer in headlights with this guy, when you catch him in the act. There's ALWAYS an act to catch him in, and he never don't get caught. Man's like a deer stuck in the high-beams of a parked ass car. You say nevermind, forget you asked. He starts up with his mumblin' suddenly. Oh, now he's got somethin' to say? What's that pal? Can't hear a word you're sayin'. You said speak up. Look, put the chicken down. You said put it down. That's it, you've had it. You're sick of this shit. How 'bout a taste of the mean end of your crowbar. Both ends are the mean end. He pulls his little doll on you. You gasp. You're not much for sarcasm, but yeah, the gasp was sarcastic. Couldn't help it. It's a mighty potent juju he's got there for sure, but functionally it won't mean squat to you if he sticks your pin in there. He'll jump to a different timeline where you're dead. You'll still be here, though. With one less idiot to corral. [#6 - DIE. Plays with dolls.] Still, won't do you to watch him disappear. Doc wants a word with ALL the idiots. You gesture at Clover. Tell him to make Die listen to reason. Atta boy, Clov-HEY! Cut it out. Both feet on the floor, you mean it. Christ almighty. Smutty little munchkin doesn't know when to quit. You hear a ruckus from the game room. Sounds like the moron motherlode's in there. Yep. It's pinhead playdirt. You tip your cap to Fin and Trace. Couple of peas in a pod, those two. Just a pair of blokes sharing in a bout of what is surely the Game of Lords, a rousing and gentlemanly match of TABLE STICKBALL. And back there, another couple playing a game of... Oh now what the fuck. Is that Itchy!? You could have sworn he was deliberately being a punk and takin' forever with the horse puzzle. Itchy says oh, that old thing? Finished with it AGES ago and sauntered over here for a friendly game of cards with his good friend... ...wait, what was your name again? This guy, he says. The huge asshole with the 14 on his dumb-looking hat. [#14 - QUARTERS. Flips a coin. Looks badass while doing it.] Quarters lets out a deep sigh. Itchy keeps running his trap. Try to keep with the times, OLD MAN. Old man, you say? Technically you're younger than he is. They all are, in fact. He says come again? He didn't follow that. He was busy plucking another hapless pigeon. Itchy slides all the chips to his side of the table. Booyeah, motherfuckers. Booyeah. Die mumbles did he say chicken? You say huh? Die mumbles nothin'. He just thought he heard him say somethin' about chickens is all. All you's listen up. There's a meeting in the study. You say everyone come this way or you'll give 'em what for. (Will you quit clickin' those little buckled shoes together for a Midnight City minute? You say you're flattered but this ain't the time or place!) (Besides, you aren't down with moons. That's not how you roll.) Yeah, yeah. Look, you know it's bad form to leave a game of table stickball before the empty sockets have swallowed all the roundcircles, but this here's a red-letter meeting with doctor white-words. They need to follow you, see? That's what you two are best at, following, ain'tcha? [#3 - TRACE. Can follow peoples' past trails.] [#5 - FIN. Can follow peoples' future trails.] Fin, you can see where anyone's headed in the near future, yeah? You're just askin', because you'll eat your stylish three point hat if every lug in this room isn't headed right out the door in the VERY near future. Isn't that right, Fin? In your haste, your freight train of chartreuse goons almost railroads one of the bigger stiffs rounding the corner. The stiff says hey chief. Where's the fire? You tell him you didn't think you were walking that fast, to be honest. He says no, he was literally asking where the fire was. So he can put it out. See? [#11 - MATCHSTICKS. Concerned with fire safety. It's everyone's business.] Back of the line, you say. We all got an appointment with the Doc. Yeah, you know the guy was aimin' for a chuckle outta you. Like you said. Comedy's not your bag. It's no one's bag, really. When you belong to the Felt, you're either as serious as a heart attack, or as dumb as a brain hemorrhage. Or the medically spectacular situation where those two problems coincide. Son of a!!! You tell Sawbuck he can stay in the front of the line with you. No chance in hell this butterball can squeeze by all these green bozos. [#10 - SAWBUCK. Again, don't worry about it. You'll hit him up later.] Last thing you need is another mansion clog. You take a detour to hit the lounge. If your instincts are right, this is where you'll find you know who. For some reason, you can never bring yourself to say her name. Two simple syllables. You're told the word means a child's plaything in the winter, like some kinda frost puppet. Fitting that the sound of it sends a chill down your spine. The boys hesitate to speak of her, just like they hold their fire whenever she fades from black. She's here, just like you thought. Creatures of habit, dames. Not that you have much experience with dames, mind you. You only ever met the one. [#8 - SNOWMAN. If Snowman is killed, the universe is destroyed.] So uh, hey. Yeah, uh. You tell the dame there's this meeting you see. You know. With the Doc? And... yeah. You mumble a few other things, but you don't know why you're even troubling yourself. That spooky broad doesn't give a flying god damn about what you got to say. You lead your posse into the clock room. Well, A clock room. There are a lot of clocks in the mansion. A few too many if you ask you. There's a tarp over there in the corner, covering something up. Something BIG. Some of the boys don't remember ever seein' no tarp there before. Strikes you as a funny observation coming from them, seeing as you can't even figure how they remember to dress themselves half the time. You say never your damn mind, a mouth like that could only conceivably serve as a gateway to the utterly worthless. Look at this mess. Do you really even need to tell these mooks why whatever it is they're doing in here is dumb as all getout? Oh well, at least there are only two of them this time. [#13 - BISCUITS. Thinks his oven allows him to time travel.] Biscuits says the rest of us are in the oven. You say did you ASK what's in the fucking oven? You say the next time you ask for a peek in his damn oven it'll be on the account of your prior instruction to bake a god damn cake. Sawbuck says ooh. Cake. No, you gluttonous fool! [#10 - SAWBUCK. Jumps to a random point in time when injured.] You said don't open that oven! Never gonna see the Doc at this rate. And by this rate, you mean going back in time due to perfectly avoidable reasons. You keep pressing on like the true professional you are. This way, lunkhead. Yes sir, he waddles. Ah, rats. Someone else is approaching. You got a feeling you know who it is. Aaand yeah. It's you again. Just what you needed, and were inexorably bound to receive due to the laws of causality. Looks like past-you or future-you or whoever is rounding up the troops. You know what? Whatever, man. He's not even going to ask. And neither are you, 'cause you didn't before, and ain't really feelin' any chattier this time around. This buffoon is still in the middle of his endless friggin' sentence. Unbelievable, the kind of horseshit this line of work entails. You consider how you might speed up his bird brained response. Not that it matters, since this guy never made a remark in his life which didn't function as a powerful sedative. You think about walloping Sawbuck again, to skip to another time. Maybe one good drub'll do ya. No, too risky. Might shoot back a million years in the past. Need to take matters into your own hands, or better yet, hands belonging to some grunt you get paid to boss around. [#15 - CANS. Has the ability to clock a guy into next week.] Oh yeah. As in, you forgot what a racket this two ton galoot made when he makes an entrance. That's what you meant when you said oh yeah. As in, oh yeah, you just remembered that. Anyway, you tell Cans to give the slowpoke a lift and break a leg this-a-way. He says huh? You say grab Doze and follow me. Muscle. You swear to god. If it isn't tweedle-dipshit and tweedle-dumbass again. Why are you not surprised? The reason you aren't surprised is because you knew they would be here, and you sought them out deliberately. You don't say that out loud though, for the same reason you don't ask them to do your taxes. Eggs and Biscuits ask what you're doing here, boss. Just completing the circle of stupidity, you say. You hide under the tarp and swear these two walking jokes to absolute secrecy while this whole mess plays itself out again. Not a peep outta them, or you'll be making breakfast, see? And you don't mean pouring yourself a bowl of Froot Loops, get your drift? They don't get your drift, but time's up. Other-you and the peanut gallery's gonna waltz in any minute. Any minute later... About damned time. Like pulling teeth, herding these fuckups. How long did that even take? Not counting negative time, you mean. "Nineteen pages, it would seem." What? That many? "Yes." Seems like a lot. "Well, there are nearly that many members to gather." "I'd characterize the final tally as predictable, in hindsight." The Doc sure can be a smartass. You keep that thought to yourself. "Not that the omniscient has much use for hindsight. Not even those of us deemed smartasses by our subordinates." You don't got a clue how he does that. And if you're honest with yourself, and him too, you don't much care. "Please see me in my study at once." You heard the man. Let's mosey. They didn't hear a thing, but they follow you anyway. Welcome, minions. Ages ago, beyond a span of time that is impossible to measure in any empirical sense, our master set in motion a critical chain of events. He summoned you all one by one. And in return, you have vowed to serve him for the rest of his interminable life, just as I have sworn to do for the remainder of mine. Yes, you may resemble a flock of unremarkable, unintelligent cretins. But as the servants of a very important man, you, by extension, are also very important. If all thoughts but one escape the cottony substance wadded up inside your heads, let this one be the one you keep. Your mission, which I am about to describe, is but another link in this critical chain. It is far from the last, and even further from the first. There have been many crucial links over the epochs to which I myself have been privy and complicit. I will describe to you in a plurality of detail. Listen carefully. Cripes. Baldy McSoftBody here sure enjoys the sound of his own voice. You wonder if he'll get to the point soon. "I am a patient man, Mr. Seven. It is a quality that has served me well in preparing for the arrival of our master." You wonder how he DOES that. You ain't even talkin' out loud here. This is just a bit of hard boiled, no-nonsense narrative introspection. You're pretty sure it ain't even real in any meaningful respect. "No-nonsense? You flatter yourself. May I continue?" Yeah, yeah. The Doc dives cueball-first through some mad ramble on a fairytale about some giant space frog. You're on pins and needles as you check your watch. You know it ain't lost on a smart cookie like him that checkin' your watch in a room full of clocks is extra passive-aggressive. Yada yada, then he says there's some planet that grew in its belly called Alternicon or what have you. Run by a race of savages it would seem. Long story short, the Doc here fucked with 'em for about a billion damn years and they all died off as a result. Heh. Classic Scratch. Ah, got it. The town they built is Midnight City. It's just a bomb's lob away from the gang's mansion. GREAT place for crimes. Almost like it was put there just so's a load of goons like you could have your run of the place. In fact, you're pretty sure that's why the boss set up shop on this one-town rock, just outside city limits. You know what they say about location. Well, they don't say nothin' special about it. They just say the word two more times, and that pretty much gets the point across. "Cool story." After a few more minutes and a few more barbs exchanged through a conversational medium you still can't quite wrap your head around, Doc wraps up the history lesson. Cripes. Not to second guess the head honcho, but delegating his orders to this bloviating creep is a helluva test to a faithful third officer's loyalty. He's got a folder and says let's get down to business. Let's get down to business. As you can see, I've got a folder. It contains your mission. You will review it carefully. By which I mean, one of you, this organization's faithful third officer. He will lead a team on this mission. No kidding. You take the folder and check it out. Says you're supposed to... Huh. You're supposed to- You're supposed to retrieve a package from an anonymous recipient. I cannot divulge the identity of this man. If you are able to bring the package to me, I will give you further instructions. You are to pick up the package from a courier in the city. He is to rendezvous with you at the supplied address, at a precise time. You are not to be late, and never open the package. Do you all understand what I have said? You scope the crowd. They're bored out of their melons. And, nope. Nobody understands. Except for you. It's your job to understand. CHOOSE YOUR TEAM, CROWBAR. He tells you to pick a team for the job and be on your way. Seems like this pack of lugs has worn out its welcome in his office. Which is an ironic attitude to have for a guy who makes his bones holding men hostage to hours-long anecdotes, but whatever. The team's an easy call. You'll go with the solid colors today. A pickup is light work. You don't see the need to pack any muscle on this trip. Hard to imagine securing a box from a chess guy could ever get too hot to handle. And in any case, the Doc being omniscient surely would let you know in advance if it was gonna go down like that, right? "Any man with my foresight, who had your best interests in mind, would do exactly as you say. Absolutely." Yeah, see? Gotta love the Doc. But then again, it's like you've always said. For a filthy liar, the Doc sure is good at stickin' to the truth. You remember his genteel assurance like a knife stuck in your mind. Hell, maybe that's roughly akin to the way the guy speaks, since he ain't got a mouth to make sound with. You remember piling into this hot car with your six solids and cruising through the desert like it happened last week. Hell, when you wet your whistle on time travel as much as you, maybe it even did. And the first time you got offed? You remember that like it was yesterday. Less than yesterday, even, because that's what you do. Remember things. You remember the first time you laid eyes on the Midnight City skyline. You remember your first kiss. And you remember that fateful night plain as day. The night you met a man named Spades Slick.

#took me around 4 hours #the felt #homestuck #intermission #the intermission #the inaugural death of mister seven #Tired Text Posts

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234am · 6 years

Text

beacause mod - meeting Cid pt2

More changing characterization. The mod erases Cid’s trademark $%@*!s, thus cleaning up his swearing, and makes him call Shera names more often. It also makes her use red flag language to make her look more like a victim of abuse.

And randomly swaps !’s and ...’s, drastically changing the pacing of dialogue in really awkward places.

Still wondering why no one gets mad at the Controller for initiation launch sequence, or why Shera didn’t go up in flames ANYWAY because the rocket DID launch.

PS1 script here: http://letao.is-a-geek.net/ff7script/part12.html

On going back to Cid's house. Shera: ...Cloud? Did the captain say anything?

Cloud: Not really.

Shera: Oh?

Cid: Hey, Shera! What're ya, blind? Why not use some initiative and bring our guests some tea? Half-wit!

Shera: I... I'm sorry.

Cloud: Really, don't mind us.

Cid: Quit mumblin'! Sit yer ass in the chair and drink your goddamn tea! Arggggh! DAMN, I'm pissed! Shera. I'll be in the backyard tunin' up the Tiny Bronco. Tea for the guests... Get it done!

Aerith: Sheesh... Talk about bad manners!

Cloud: Sorry, it's our fault.

Shera: No, no. It's always like this.

Red XIII: That's terrible.

Shera: No... I'm clumsy. I was the one who... destroyed his dream.

Cloud: What happened?

Flashback. Cid: Hey, get your ass in gear! You work like a snail. The moon'd look the other way, waitin' around for you.

Shera: I'm... I'm sorry.

Cid: How much longer ya gonna be checkin' those damn oxygen tanks? Shera, bein' cautious is all well and good, but it's pointless to go on checkin' 'em. They wouldn't rupture even if hell froze over!

Shera: But...

Cid: No buts!! You're not stupid, so be more efficient!

Shera: I'm sorry.

Engineer 1: Captain! Our dreams are finally coming true!

Engineer 2: We're so proud to be part of the launch of Shin-Ra 26.

Engineer 3: Preparations are complete... All that's left is lift-off!

Cid: Yeah, I'll see ya later!

Engineers: All right, Captain... Fly our dreams into space!

Cid: Thanks, guys!

Engineers: Safe journey!

Cid: Gauges... clear. Shin-Ra 26, ready for lift-off.

Controller: Engine pressure rising. Shin-Ra 26, three minutes to lift-off. Beginning countdown.

Cid: Finally. W-what the...? What happened!?

Controller: Captain Cid, we have an emergency situation... A mechanic is still in the engine section of the rocket!

Cid: What did you just say!? Which one of those idiots is it!?

Controller: I don't know. Activating the intercom to the engine section.

Cid: Goddammit!! Who the hell's still in there!?

Shera: Captain, it's me, Shera. Don't worry about me. Go ahead with the launch.

Cid: Shera!? Whaddya still doin' in there!?

Shera: I was concerned. The results from the oxygen tank test still weren't satisfactory.

Cid: You fool! When this thing takes off, it's gonna be so hot in there, there ain't gonna be shit left of ya! You're gonna be burned to a crisp! You're gonna die! Get it!?

Shera: It's ok. As long as this is fixed, the launch will be a success. I'm almost done.

Cid: Almost done!? You're gonna die!

Controller: Cid, the countdown's starting any second... There's not enough time! I'm starting the engine!

Cid: H-hey! Wait! Shera's still in there!

Controller: What should we do, Cid? If we abort now, it'll be six months before another launch.

Cid: Shit! Shera, you goddamn fool! You wanna make me a murderer?

Shera: Captain!

Cid: Is that you, Shera!?

Shera: I've checked up to Tank 7. Once I complete Tank 8, we'll be in the clear.

Cid: Shera! Hurry up! You're gonna die!

Controller: Ignition in 30 seconds. Beginning countdown. Cid! Forget about her! We won't make it in time!

Cid: What... What am I... What am I supposed to do?

Controller: Engine ignition in 30 seconds. Internal temperature rising.

Cid: Oh man. The moon... Outer space... My dreams...

Controller: Igniting engine!

Cid: You meddlin'...!!

Cutscene of the failed rocket launch.

#cid highwind #final fantasy vii

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johnnyvincent · 6 years

Text

Millstone - luminescence

contains: more drug use

lu·mi·nes·cence

lo͞oməˈnesəns

Light produced by chemical, electrical, or physiological means

Noun

---

19 days before

December 13, 2007

Thursday

---

Even though the intervention had pretty much seemed to be a success, and he said he’d get clean—promised, actually, when Russell stuck out his pinky and then all the other guys decided that was a good idea—we didn’t really see him any more often. Well, at least I didn’t. The other guys said they saw him a lot more often, around the dorm, in class, stuff like that. I only saw him during lunch and in the dorm; same as before. He never said much to me during either of these times, but I shrugged it off, figurin’ it was just part of his withdrawal. If he needed me to stay away for a little, I’d do it for him.

Thursday of the same week that I’d made him go through that intervention, we were all sitting in the cafeteria on account of it raining outside. Mostly we just ate apples and bananas; Thursdays are when Edna serves her “famous” haggis, which is basically just boiled guts, stuffed with other shit that no man should ever be forced to eat. Bullworth ain’t too good if you’re a vegetarian, or if you like not starving.

All of us were there—save for Russell since he graduated and all—talkin’ about nothing important. Girls, who was a dick and who wasn’t, homework we needed to copy off each other or steal from nerds. Honest, it felt like old times. Normal, even.

“I may not get the best grades, but like, I can intimidate anyone for homework and stuff,” Wade commented, gettin’ this look in his eyes that anyone but me would’ve brushed off. I could tell it bugged him, all the grade stuff. He didn’t like being “stupid”.

“I don’t know why we even have to learn this junk,” I answered him, propping up an elbow and lookin’ straight at my best bud, “we’re never gonna need to know fractions again.”

It came as a real surprise when Wade only gave me this look that I can’t exactly explain. Like he was… well, not mad, I guess, but not happy with me either. It only lasted a second anyway, so I wasn’t really able to give it a full analyzation, since he looked away from me to look at his phone. It had vibrated on the table, scooting a couple inches left and makin’ everybody’s serving of haggis jiggle a little bit.

Ethan was saying something to him but Wade didn’t even notice. He was that absorbed by his dumb phone. I thought for a split second that he was gonna tell us all it was Lainey, finally giving him some sort of contact since Halloween, but instead he just stood up. “Gotta go, guys,” he mumbled, looking at everybody minus me. “See ya later.”

He strode off, typing something in his phone and then shoving it back into his back pocket as if it didn’t even really matter to him. Guess it wasn’t Lainey—he probably would’ve called in that case, or at least had started crying or some other inappropriate emotional response like that. He was just like that. His hand trembled as he put the phone away.

That caught my attention, but only mine. None of the other guys had even noticed it, they just waved to him and kept on talking about how much nerds and homework sucked. But I kept staring after him, even after I couldn’t see him no more. His hand had been shaking.

Wade had a real steady hand. He’d kill me for saying this, but it was why he was so damn good at sewing, or pretty much anything that needed precision. I remember Mr. Tyler, the Home Ec teacher, thought Wade shold make somethin’ to enter in a contest. But Wade said no; he was to embarrassed about it. Said sewing and knitting were girl hobbies. He wasn’t no girl.

I got up too, mumblin’ some lame excuse about having to go see a teacher. It was half-assed and the guys didn’t believe me for one damn second, but none of them argued with me about it and that was what really mattered. I headed off after Wade, following where I figured he’d gone—out the front door—and looked around, shivering in the cool December rain.

It was real lucky for me that he had bright red hair, ‘cause that was the only thing that gave me any sort of real indication as to where he was and where he was going. He was headed towards the library, somethin’ weird for him. Feeling like one of those ninjas Ethan was constantly obsessing over, I followed after him.

I was maybe twenty yards behind him, not that it mattered. I coulda been walking right alongside him, talking his ear off about anything, and chances are he wouldn’t have even noticed. He was too focused on his phone.

He took a left into the library area, getting more than enough odd, judging looks from the nerds, but they backed off once he shot them angry glares, instead taking a lot more interest than normal in the concrete and their umbrellas. Wade kept on, heading to the wall off to the side, hopping over it, and strolling through an old door that had a keypad that had stopped working about a year ago.

I had to wait a little before hopping over the wall myself, knowing that if I did it too soon after him he’d hear me and then the whole thing would’ve been blown.

I fell when I jumped over, landing harshly on my ass and getting it all muddied as if I’d just crapped myself, smacking my knee on the wall real hard. I kept in the cuss, even though it hurt like a bitch, and kept going after him.

The whole situation was getting real creepy. Just the entire fact that he was taking a stroll through the forgotten grasslands of the school in the middle of a storm. In the distance I heard the bell ring, meaning I was late for afternoon classes. I figured this was more important, though.

We walked all the way to the old observatory. Supposedly they were fixing it up after the “potatoing of ‘07” as Wade called it, but they had paused the reconstruction a little before school started. All the machines and junk were still there.

It felt like slow motion, as I watched Wade walk up to the same kid with the mohawk and piercings I’d seen before. Wade handed him a wad of cash bigger than I’d ever seen him with, and in return Mohawk kid gave him a plastic bag. From the distance I was at, plus my shitty eyesight my asshole dad gave me, it looked like blue candy. I knew it wasn’t.

Mohawk boy strolled off, clearly pleased with the cash he’d scored, and Wade hung back. I watched as he shoved his hand in the bag, yanked out a pill, and started to put it in his mouth, getting ready to dry swallow it.

“You gotta be fuckin’ joking, man.”

I’d stepped out from behind my rock on autopilot, staring at him dead on. There was a huge distance between the two of us.

He pulled his hand away from his mouth, holding it shut real tight. He just stared back at me, trying to look tough. I could tell he just didn’t know what to say to me.

“You promised,” I snarled, not stepping any closer to him. “You promised Russell. You promised all of us.”

Still, Wade just kept his fucking mouth shut like some little kid. It was becoming way too often of a thing, me confronting and him clamming up like a baby. Just crossed his arms. He looked at the football field for a second, opened his mouth, and then shut it again.

“So nothing worked?” I asked, my voice sounding weird, even foreign to me. “Not me begging? Not your sister crying? Not the guys begging? Would you have stopped if Lainey asked you to stop?” I said her name with venom. She caused all of this.

It pissed him off, but it didn’t get the reaction that it used to get from him. He’d gone numb, even to her name. I should’ve… I should’ve realized what that meant.

“All this,” I hissed, my breaths getting shorter and shorter as less oxygen reached my lungs, “all of this, over a fucking girl, Wade. Over a goddamn girl you dated for two fucking months, man.”

My voice raised a bit at the end when I said that, and I could feel myself getting lightheaded. Dark spots appeared in my vision. My teeth clenched so tight it hurt. I was beyond pissed.

But Wade still stayed calm, and our roles were reversed. I was the one seconds from tearing something apart, he was the one keeping his head. It was as if nothing was affecting him. He just shrugged, shoving the ziplock bag into his back pocket.

“You never could save me,” he said simply, turning and walking in the direction of the football field.

I saw red when he said that, I swear. I ain’t one to lose my shit, but when he said that, I almost tackled him into the ground right then and there. I wanted to, I really did. Years of friendship were the only thing that kept my feet stamped where I was standing. Imagine, a guy ready to maim his best friend. It ain’t right. I won’t ever say it’s right.

“And I don’t even wanna fuckin’ try, you fucking asshole!” I screamed after him, turning ‘round and storming off in the direction I’d come from, mud splashing underneath my shoes.

I was the fucking asshole.

#millstone #fanfic #mine

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josai · 7 years

Text

we’ll take the best parts of ourselves and make them gold

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 of 6 | a collaboration with @frenchibi

Tooru has a dream.

It’s been with him for as long as he can remember, really - the beginnings of it aren’t clear in his mind, hazy like so many childhood memories become with time, but he knows the thought it was born from, because it’s a thought that governs most of his choices.

He remembers running through fields of gold, remembers laughter and stories, shared and discarded in equal parts in days that seemed endless, in limitless hope and wide-eyed wonder, in excitement and opportunities.

He remembers wooden swords and shields, carved carefully by a man he loved like his own father - gifts that fueled dreams.

But most of all, he remembers warmth - and a face, clear as day, to go with the feeling of a hand holding his. A face, a grin, toothy and wide, freckles like stars.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a knight!”

He remembers listening, with bated breath, to this boy’s stories of grand adventure, and to his promises. We’ll go there, together!

It’s a dream, yes, but it’s also a decision, when they beg their parents for permission to leave.

It’s a long ride away, and the choice of a lifetime. It means never look back, it means know who you are and remember where you came from.

It means goodbye, maybe forever, to the rolling hills they called home.

“I just wish you’d let me keep you a little while longer,” is what his mother says. There’s sadness in her eyes, but hope in her voice. Tooru will learn, later, that she always knew she would have to let go. That her son would always strive for greater things, bigger things, larger than her life could provide.

When his journey begins, Tooru isn’t afraid. He’s got a hand clasping his and a dream in his heart, and enough determination to carry him there.

He knows it won’t be easy - but he’s never alone.

The days are long and grueling.

Tooru strains muscles that he never even knew that he had, learning how to fight; how to handle a sword, shield, and a spear. They’re fitted in armour, taught how to walk as knights, talk as knights, how to hold a line-

It’s hard work, but if this is what it takes for them to accomplish their dreams, Tooru is more than willing to make the sacrifice.

“Faster!” The commander calls yet again.

Tooru grits his teeth, pushing himself up off the ground, tightening his hold on his sword.

It still feels weird in his hand.

Awkward, heavy.

Not right.

That’ll go away, he’s sure - it must - but he has to focus on keeping it straight, on tightening his wrist. Swinging from all sorts of angles, not just from his shoulder, where his swing is strongest.

He’s not as quick as the others, not as strong as Hajime-

But he can’t think of that, not now. He might not be gifted, but Tooru is, if nothing else, a damn hard worker.

He focuses on the boy standing in front of him, his training partner. He’s a shorter, stocky kid. Doesn’t have much reach, but makes up for that with power- but he’s slow, and his movements are all incredibly textbook.

Tooru inhales.

He can do this.

The other boy moves as soon as their commander calls to start, lunging for Tooru and swinging his sword. Tooru hears it as it slices through the air next to him, sending a chill up his spine; they’re training, but the weapons are real. The fighting is real, the blood spilled is real-

Tooru parries at his next swing, feeling the pressure as he blocks, stepping back and out of it, creating more space between them.

Tooru’s taller, faster, he can use this to his advantage-

Another swing and Tooru just manages to dodge, turning his body and lunging forward, knocking his opponent down this time with a strong blow. This time he’s the one who hits the dirt, sputtering a bit while Tooru moves back to guard, glancing to see Hajime nodding at him approvingly from the grounds next to him.

“A good knight needs to know not only how to fight with a sword, but understand the craftsmanship that goes into the making of each and every blade..” The blacksmith picks up the blade, red-hot from the fire and plunges it headlong into a vat of oil, steam hissing as it rises.

The entire group of recruits watches, curious (and a little tired- they don’t get days off training very often, instead being gathered up to trek around the castle grounds, through town, or wherever their commander deems fit - but when it happens is always after a brutal week of training sessions, such as this one). Tooru’s feet still ache from the week they spent travelling through the forest, learning to hunt and survive on their own, so he leans against Hajime as they watch the demonstration.

Hajime is giving the blacksmith his rapt attention, bless his heart. Tooru chuckles under his breath when he looks over to see Hajime looking closely at the series of runes being carved on the hilt of a greataxe.

“Hey,” Tooru whispers, nudging Hajime with his elbow. When Hajime looks over, Tooru nods at the axe that the blacksmith is currently detailing. “That one, there? It says whisper.”

“Huh?” Hajime blinks, confused. “Whisper? Why would you want your axe to say that?”

Tooru shrugs, chuckling under his breath. “Maybe you wanna be quiet like a whisper? Stealthy?”

He gets a laugh from Hajime, which he covers up quickly by turning it into a cough when the blacksmith looks up. Once his attention is elsewhere, Hajime says, “If you’re gonna be stealthy I don’t think an axe is the right choice. How do you know that anyway?”

“The library,” Tooru responds, “There’s a whole book on the rune alphabet… and there are other books with passages that use just the runes so it made sense for me to start by reading that book…”

Hajime looks over with a frown. “When did you have time to do all of that reading?”

Tooru looks away guiltily. “Well you know, sometimes we’re dismissed early, and everyone heads to sleep right away, so the library is so empty-”

“Tooru…”

“None of the teachers seem to care, anyway, as long as I bring my own candle - found that one out the hard way - and put away anything I take out… and if I read in the library then I won’t accidentally wake anyone up-”

“Idiot,” Hajime scoffs, knocking him with his elbow. “Don’t stay up too late, okay? We should rest during our break today, sound good?” The blacksmith dismisses them with a wave of his hands. “You can tell me more about these runes while we have some lunch.”

Tooru brightens, nodding his head excitedly. “I’d love to!”

Swords continue to feel weird in Tooru’s hands. He gets used to them, sure - he has to, he’s going to be a knight for god’s sake - but it doesn’t feel quite… right. Natural.

The first time he puts his hands on a bow, however? It’s completely different.

The delicately crafted wooden longbow is heavy, but balanced. He moves it from hand to hand, testing the weight, getting used to the feel.

It’s good.

“The longbow takes great strength to draw, and precision to aim and shoot your arrows smoothly. When shot correctly, it can pierce right through a knight’s armor - it takes time and great dedication to learn this skill, but it’s extremely advantageous in battle,” the commander explains, walking along the line of recruits, many of whom are struggling to hold their bows correctly. He fixes their posture, adjusts their hold-

Walks up behind Tooru, noting his position, and nodding his head approvingly.

“Notch your arrow,” he calls, and Tooru picks up one of the arrows from his quiver. He notches it as instructed, adjusting his bow, closing his eyes and inhaling.

He’s surprised to find that he’s not even nervous.

“Draw back your bow.” His commander’s voice feels far away as he focuses in on the target nailed to a tree at the other side of the field.

Tooru pulls back the string of his bow, feeling it tremble in his arms. It resists as he pulls, but he doesn’t let that stop them - right until it’s drawn all the way back.

He can feel his thumb twitching, he can feel his muscles burning from the effort of holding it up, but it’s good, it fits-

He hardly hears the commander’s order to fire as he releases his bow, listening to the arrow shoot through the air, sailing across the field. Where many of his fellow recruits wind up with arrows stuck in the grass at different points on the field, Tooru looks up to find his arrow embedded deep in the trunk of a tree, just a short distance below his target.

He grins, more than ready to spend the rest of the afternoon practicing how to shoot.

Sleep becomes difficult. It’s strange, really, because he feels more exhausted than he’s ever been in his life, yet once he’s able to collapse back in the barracks his mind races as if on overdrive. He’s thinking of all the things his commanding officers have told him - all the maneuvers, all the tactics, the plans… not to mention the worrying.

Tooru flips over on his bed, trying to cuddle up to his pillow and push away all these thoughts. He needs to sleep, he knows it- there’s no way his body can handle a full day of training tomorrow if he doesn’t get a proper night’s sleep. He kicks one leg out from under his blanket to get a little fresh air and cool off his body, sighing in frustration as this really doesn’t seem to be working-

“Hey.” A grumble from Tooru’s right has him flipping over, propping his weight up on an elbow to peer at the bed next to him… Hajime’s bed.

“Hajime?” Tooru whispers, not wanting to wake up any of the others - not that he could, they sleep like rocks - “Why are you awake? You should be sleeping-”

“I could say the same for you,” Hajime interrupts him gruffly. Ah. Right. “I can practically hear your thoughts from here. Stop worrying.”

Tooru huffs, dropping back against his bed and burying his face into the pillow. “‘m not overthinking-”

“Can’t hear you when you’re mumblin’ into the pillow,” Hajime says, leaning across the space between their beds to nudge Tooru on the shoulder. “Speak properly.”

Tooru turns his head to look properly at Hajime, his eyes adjusting enough in the dark to see his figure. He looks comfortable, sprawled out on his bed. He probably wants to sleep.

Tooru sighs.

“Sorry,” he says instead, knowing that lying about this will get him nowhere. Hajime is too damn perceptive. “Can’t seem to turn my brain off.”

There’s a grunt from one of the beds on the other side of the barracks, and both boys pause to see if whoever it is is going to wake up. It’s followed shortly by a snore, though - so they’re safe.

“I know,” Hajime replies, letting out a soft breath. He does know, and that’s the hard part. There’s not much he can do to stop the tidal wave of thoughts in Tooru’s brain and they both know it. But- “Wanna talk about it? It’s not that late yet.”

Tooru peers over at Hajime, trying to read his expression in the dark. “It’s okay, you need your rest-”

“And so do you. Ten minutes, alright? Fresh air. Then we can come back and sleep even better than before.” Hajime’s not waiting for a response, already sliding out of bed, stepping into his boots and reaching for his coat hanging beside his bed.

Tooru breathes in, and follows.

He really does sleep better after, too.

The throne room is even larger once you’re standing in the center of it, instead of off to the side. It also feels, to Tooru, like it’s growing in size with every pair of eyes that is resting on them now.

They came here only twice before - it’s a ceremonial hall, after all. The entrance ceremony is conducted here, as well as a lesson in etiquette - and this, right now. The highest privilege for a student at the Academy: ten years of training, to be chosen and appointed.

Tooru wants nothing more than to glance over to his right, to share this feeling, but he keeps his head down.

We’ve made it.

“What do you fight for?”

The prince’s voice rings clear into the silence, authoritative even through the clear youthful tone.

“Honour and Duty,” they recite, “to our land and to the Crown.”

Tooru can practically feel Hajime vibrating with excitement, and knows he is faring no better, barely concealing his elation. This is it. This is what they’ve been waiting for, what they’ve been working for, all this time.

Together.

“And what is it you vow to do?”

They raise their heads, as is the custom, to face the man they are pledging their allegiance to.

“To serve and protect, our duty and privilege.”

The prince nods, rising from his throne and motioning for them to do the same.

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says, “and Oikawa Tooru - you are hereby appointed to the Royal Guard.”

The first weeks are everything Tooru has been dreaming of - and at the same time, they’re nothing like he’d ever imagined.

Of course the fantasies they’d had as children, of fame and glory, of epic battles and endless fortune, were wiped out as soon as they started training - but still, the job does entail some of the glamour and splendour Tooru had imagined. They are direct escorts to the prince, so they go where he goes, study chambers, courtrooms, garden parties and all - but it also means following the prince’s every whim, and, most of all, a large amount of standing and waiting in silence.

Tooru knows he should be thankful for the peace and prosperity that their country is living in, shouldn’t wish for the heat of battle, the swish of blades outside of the training grounds - thankfully this is a place they frequent, as the prince seems very keen on learning everything there is to know about swordsmanship - but some small part of him, the remnants of the starry-eyed boy that no hardships could eradicate, still does.

Hajime can sense it, Tooru is sure - he’s always been able to feel his unease, sometimes even before Tooru notices it himself. He makes sure to reassure him as best he can - always catches his eye when Tooru seeks him out, always reaches out first when they have a moment to themselves, always makes a point of asking about how Tooru feels.

In that respect, it’s like nothing has changed - Hajime carries him, reliable as ever, and Tooru thanks him in grateful smiles, in shared glances and jokes, leaning into familiarity.

There is a reason, Tooru thinks, why nothing has managed to separate them. There are days when he wishes he had a name for it, wishes he could voice it and get rid of that last bit of uncertainty - but he decides against it, every time.

Hajime is here - there’s nothing more he could ask for.

“Where are you going?”

Tooru stops in his tracks, realizing that Hajime is no longer beside him. It’s not like they never part ways, but… usually when the night guards take their shift, the two of them head to dinner together and then back to their quarters - there’s rarely a need for them to go anywhere else. This is the life they’ve worked for, after all.

Hajime is quiet for a moment, long enough to cement Tooru’s unease.

“...are you okay?”

He takes two steps back, back to where Hajime is standing in the middle of the hall, eyes on the floor.

“Iwa-chan?”

“...I can’t go back yet,” Hajime says.

By all accounts, it makes no sense.

“What do you mean?”

Tooru doesn’t like the trepidation rising inside his chest. Hajime isn’t looking at him. Something’s very wrong.

“I’m… the Prince has asked for me.”

Tooru blinks.

“Oh. Well, we should head back then-”

“No.”

Hajime looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “No, Oikawa, it’s… he’s asked for me.”

Tooru frowns, not understanding - they’re a pair, after all, trained together, raised together, appointed together, why would the Prince-

And then it sinks in, and it’s like someone poured a bucket of cold water over his face.

“...oh.”

It’s like all of his words are gone, then, sucked away with the last bit of oxygen.

Tooru knows the Prince often requests maids to keep him company, to amuse him, to entertain - and he’s heard talk of him taking stable boys too, on occasion. Sometimes there will be concubines, exotic dancers or company that can be bought for a price higher than the wages he and Hajime earn in a month.

But he’s never asked for a knight - at least not to Tooru’s knowledge.

Hajime still isn’t looking at him.

“...go ahead without me,” he says, but he makes no move to turn around.

It’s like Tooru’s thoughts are stuck in quicksand, everything feels sluggish and surreal. He doesn’t dare think of what this means, can’t seem to think anything other than oh, oh, please tell me you’re lying.

Because if the Prince is asking for Hajime, then-

It means that everything Tooru feels has to cease to exist.

Honour and Duty.

It’s like the oath - nothing before the Crown. No matter what happens.

It was an easy oath to take, for Tooru, because there was only one thing he treasured more than the cause - and he’d been right beside him then.

He’s always been right beside him, just out of reach, but close enough for comfort. There, warm and comforting.

Knights are told to try and think of home, during the harshest days of training. They say it helps to remember what you’re here for, what you’re fighting for - the realm you want to protect, that keeps your loved ones safe.

When Tooru thinks of home, he sees Hajime’s face.

What do you fight for?

Tooru knows the words, but there’s only one in his head, only one possible answer as he watches his partner turn and walk back the way they’d come, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

What do you fight for?

Hajime stops, but he doesn’t turn around. He knows he must be listening for footsteps, waiting for Tooru to do the duty assigned to him - serve and protect.

Obey.

Tooru wishes he was more like Hajime - always the one to speak up, to defend, to give voice to injustice.

Honour and Duty, to my land and to the Crown.

All he can do is stand and watch as the world crumbles around him, taking his certainty with it.

What do you fight for?

Hajime.

Chapter 2 →

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu fanfiction #iwaoi #oiiwa #iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru #myfanfic

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clankitsfanfiction · 7 years

Text

Color Me Like Chems, A Hancock x Female Sole Survivor Fic

Chapter Ten: pearl (like lightning)

<< previous chapter first chapter

(or read this chapter on Archive of Our Own here)

It was hard for Hancock to keep his eyes open.

Not because he was sleepy— well, he was a bit tired, not sleepy— but because of all the colors. Truth be told, there wasn’t that much to look at in the shack, but he had figured out that the almost-rotting interior was a shade of brown, since it seemed to match Nora’s hair. Really the only source of color in the room was Nora herself.

And god-fucking damn if she wasn’t a radiant beauty. So much so, it almost hurt to look at her.

Sighing, he pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against and crossed the room towards her sleeping body. He sat down a couple feet away from her, and allowed himself to stare, because he’d had so little time to look at colors in this world and why not start now?

It was ironic that he could now see the color of her vault suit but still hadn’t asked her what the color was. Huffing, he dropped his gaze a little lower until it rested on his overcoat, which she was clutching in a fist as she slept. Red was for sure the more vibrant color he had seen so far, but he hadn’t seen that many. Red, brown, and the color of the radstorm, if he thinks about it.

Holy fuck. He’d found his soulmate. The one that was supposed to be his better half. The one that was supposed to be his everything.

So why did he feel like laughing and crying all at once?

Hancock likes Nora. He knows he could grow to like her that way, too— can already see hints of a crush creeping into his consciousness. But fuck, she had a husband. A husband who’d died recently, and assuming he’d been in whatever vault she came from with her, what the fuck could’ve killed him in a vault? Yeah, he’s heard of Vault 81, but none of the pansies in there would dare take one step outside their precious vault. So which one is she from?

Does she even want a romantic relationship? Well, the answer to that question was fucking obvious— of course not. Her husband basically just died. The question is, would she ever want one? And with a ghoul, at that? Hancock doesn’t know. He’s not going to know for a while, most likely. So what was he supposed to do in the meantime? Follow her around like a dog?

Hey, that actually doesn’t sound that bad. It had essentially been what he was going to do anyways. He would’ve been interested even if they hadn’t been soulmates. Hey, here’s a thought; does being a ghoul affect the way I perceive color?

His internal monologue was stifled when he heard Nora let out some mumbles. Pausing, he focused his gaze back on her and listened. Eventually, he managed to catch some words. “No… Shaun…” Who was Shaun? Must’ve been her husband. Shit, he shouldn’t be listening to this. Should he wake her up or let her sleep? She looked exhausted, and he didn’t want to wake her if it didn’t some necessary.

Luckily, she let out a sob, and that made his mind up quick enough. Standing up, he gently inched his way towards her until he could see the mist when she exhaled. Looked like his coat wasn’t doing that good a job keeping her warm. He hesitated, wondering if he needed to touch her to wake her, but it seemed unlikely that a voice could wake her right now unless he screamed himself hoarse. Steeling himself for a violent reaction, he leaned down and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. Perhaps a little too gently, as she didn’t wake. So he gave her the tiniest shake.

He should’ve expected her to kick him in the stomach, really. It was his own fault for trying to wake up someone in the Commonwealth with a shake. Why couldn’t he have just smashed a glass or something?

“I wasn’t expecting to end up flat on my back this soon.” He managed to cough out, despite his sudden shortage of breath.

“Shit, Hancock, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. My fault for being so close. Would appreciate a hand up though.”

“Yeah, of course.” Since he was unable to see her, he could only hear her let out a hard breath and a few sniffles. A few seconds later, she came into view and offered him a hand.

He took it and felt shivers run through his spine at her touch. With a grunt, she helped pull him back up before handing him his coat. “Has the radstorm stopped yet?”

“No idea. I’m guessin’ so, seeing as how the sounds of lighting have stopped. She chuckled, and he gave her a look. “What?”

“Lightning doesn’t make any noise. What you hear is thunder. Lightning is the flash that comes before.”

Shrugging on his coat, he made an impressed noise.“Huh. Never knew that. You’re one smart cookie.”

“I do have a degree in law, after all.”

What? “What’ya mean? Like, I know what a degree is, and what law is, but how can you have a degree in one?”

Her lips moved but no words came out. Gaze hardening, she stood up straighter and took a breath. “Guess I’d have to tell you at some point.” She shifted for a second more and almost turned away, but at the last second she turned and stared at him. “I’m from the past. Before the war. I went into a vault the day it started. I was frozen, but woke up briefly in time to see my husband get shot in front of me as my son was stolen from his arms. I was frozen again and only woke up months ago in this wasteland.”

Dead silence. Hancock wasn’t sure what to say. Was she being serious? But who the fuck would lie about something like this? Did she need mental help?

She stared at him, evidently waiting for a response, but when the silence stretched on she sighed and turned away. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me. You can ask Piper and Nick, they know my story. Nick’s helping me find my son.” Walking towards the door, she put her ear against it for a couple seconds before looking back at him. “Sounds like the storm has stopped. You coming?”

Still stunned, he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Just give me a second.”

---

They headed back to Goodneighbor because, well, that’s what they had been doing before. It’s a different akward silence from before, because Hancock it’s shock and isn’t sure what to think. Thankfully, he’s currently decided for the time being he believes Nora. She is his soulmate, after all, and they’re going to check in with Nick and Piper anyways. So what he’s currently doing is looking at the colors of the world because, hey, he can see fucking colors now and isn’t stuck inside a rotten shack. He can’t name most of them, but the world looks fucking amazing and he can finally be actually ecstatic about something for the first time in a while. And he has his soulmate with him. Sure, things might be a little uneasy right now, and they’ve had a rough start, and it definitely will be a bumpy road in the future— but they’re together and will most likely at least have a platonic relationship in the future. So, he’s happy. Can you blame him?

Their luck continues, as they don’t run into anything and reach Goodneighbor without any further incidents. Hancock’s happiness dims a little because he gets hit with the real world again— they’re going to have to tell people they’re soulmates. Who knows how people will react? They’re really only here because it’s the closest place nearby and neither of them are going to be able to walk much longer with the events of the day fresh in their minds. It’s strange, how different his town looks now. Nothing, nothing looks the same. Even the things that were already a shade of black or gray or white somehow seem brighter, more vibrant. He can tell Nora’s enjoying it too, by the look on her face, since they still haven’t talked in awhile. Together, they stand at the entrance to the town for a minute, drinking it all in.

Finally, she pulls him to the side and raises an eyebrow. “So, Mayor Hancock, what’s the plan? Are we going to be upfront and honest or keep this on the down-low?”

He frowns. “What’s the point of tryin’ to keep something like this secret? People are gonna notice how we examine things. Hell, I still have to tell my town I’m taking a vacation. How ‘bout this; you chill with Daisy, tell her what’s up, and in the meantime I’ll round everyone up for my big speech.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, okay.” She starts to turn before he remembers what she said when she was sleeping.

“Hey, before you go, who’s Shaun?”

The tone of indifference she’d been giving off since she said she was from the past is replaced with the way her shoulders stiffen and the icy gaze she gives him. “Where did you hear that name?”

“... Heard it right before I woke you up. You were mumblin’, but I didn’t catch much more than that.”

“He’s my son.”

Ah, shit. “Oh. Thought it might’ve been your husband.”

She said nothing, just walked away from him and left him standing in the middle of town with a pained look on his face.

That girl is a rollercoaster. But, hey, the ride so far hasn’t been that bad.

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