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ddelline · 1 month

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wip wednesday (ft traumatic post-canon itafushi)

blurb | yea so this is a thing I never thought I would feel inspired 2 write. turns out that I did, and I do: I think the formula is megumi's inherent canonical misery(*infinity) + yūji's inherent canonical saviorism = ddelline wip

premise | follows canon thru ch256, deviates (obvs lol) after that to explore itafushi in a post-canon setting, centering on shared trauma, shared healing, and all of what may become of 2 boys who've been possessed by a 2000 yr curse and forced to bear witness to its murderous actions all the whilst (but it ends in yaoi. I feel compelled 2 point this out, even though it may count as a spoiler)

ok anyway, a lil prelude bit (spoilers 4 ch252) under the cut! posting for the sake of posting, lol, but when a b*tch hasn't delivered a new ao3 entry since october, that's what happens

25th December, 2018; Shinjuku—

In the zero point two second interval before Okkotsu-senpai snaps his right hand up and signs for the Angel’s technique, Yūji gets in close. In the exact second—same breath, same blink-of-eye—that Okkotsu-senpai intones, “Maximum output: Jacob’s Ladder,” and thrusts the katana through Sukuna’s tricep, Yūji lunges. He steps forward, takes one long step in one dizzying arc, and carves a knife-sharpened elbow into Sukuna’s right oblique. In the split breath that follows the incantation, he heaves back, finds his center of gravity and pitches backwards with everything he’s got.

Yūji screams, hoarse and raspy, desperate with futile hope: “It’s time to wake up, Fushiguro!!”

The battlefield freeze-frames. Suddenly he sees himself, bloodied and bruised and messily reversed-patched whole, land on the balls of his feet outside of the whiteout lance of the Jacob’s Ladder; he sees the splurt of blood in the wake of Okkotsu-senpai’s katana congeal in mid-air; he sees the monstrous outline of Sukuna temporarily undone, silhouette erased within the beam’s radius.

Yūji blinks. The next thing he sees is swirling black and blue nothing—like when you close your eyes and focus on the dark vacuum on the backs of your eyelids. He looks down, catalogs his bloody and ripped sneakers sinking slightly into ground that’s plush, looks sandy.

Darkness swirls. Yūji sinks. In front of him, Fushiguro has collapsed over his own bent knees. His face is turned into the ground, his fists are balled at the ends of where his arms are stretched out long.

“That’s enough. I’ve had enough.”

The composition of the soul—

Viewed from that angle, their plan had no flaws. Calculate: a curse puppeting a human vessel, theorized soul multiplicity, Yūji’s ability to perceive and target the soul, and the Angel’s technique—then solve for X. If the aforementioned conditions are used as variables, then no matter how you scramble them up, X will solve for a window wherein Yūji is able to bully open a sliver of an entryway into Fushiguro’s soul. And they did—it worked.

They’d one-upped the strongest sorcerer of all; when all was said, done and executed, they had outwitted The King of Curses himself.

However.

“That’s enough,” says Fushiguro’s collapsed body. “I’ve had enough.”

For a moment, Yūji doesn’t understand what he’s hearing. He feels like he’s being asked to interpret a conversation from underwater—goes back over familiarly shaped words, tries his best to turn over the syllables, to pick them apart and put them back together the way they’re supposed to be. His ears ring faintly.

He stares at the crumpled angles of Fushiguro’s back; a vulnerable spot of his neck peeks up visible where his collar creases awkwardly. He feels simultaneously nothing and like he’s very cold.

Yūji attempts to repeat the words, “I don’t—” but the words lodge in the hollow of his throat. His ribs feel suddenly tight over his heart.

What they’d failed to take into account was the possibility that within Fushiguro Megumi’s soul—any will to live had been extinguished.

Comprehension slams into Yūji like a freight train. He stops breathing. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, he thinks. Blood rushes in his ears, squalls and claps like thunder. He wants to repeat himself—it’s time to wake up, Fushiguro; there’s no time actually, we don’t have time for this, so wake up—but when he tries, his throat closes up and his jaw sticks shut. His mind is racing, his heart inches upwards in his throat.

“Fushiguro—” Yūji croaks, but runs out of words. Fuck, but he’s always been better at doing. He takes a step forward, stretches out a hand.

The blue-black vacuum shudders. The sandy ground quakes.

“No!! Fushig—”

“Scale of the Dragon.”

Yūji blinks. His surroundings once more have shape: the sky is a murky dome, the ground craggy rock. The entirety of the landscape—cut through by thousands, maybe countless katanas. A violent shiver shudders through him, makes him stumble slightly forward. Far up the blade-crowded plains, the blinding light of Jacob’s Ladder has winked out; a bleached sand tempest spirals from its impact site.

Fushiguro is gone.

They failed. Yūji failed.

The pale sand whorl shudders and warps. “Recoil.”

Yūji’s mind draws blank. He understands, somehow primally, that he needs to move. His heart races, slams against his too-tight ribs with meaty thunks. Fushiguro is gone. Against all odds, their plan had worked; Yūji had reached him—and he’d failed.

“—tadori!” cuts a voice—cuts Okkotsu-senpai’s voice, tight with nerves, from somewhere ahead and above. It sounds submerged, hindered; or maybe that’s just him.

Him—who needs to move. He needs to move now.

“Twin Meteors.”

“Itadori!!”

Yūji snaps both arms up in tight guard on knee-jerk instinct. The first reinforced Cleave slashes across his forehead up into his hairline not a second later. Pain cracks through his skull, blinding and breathtaking. In front of him, Okkotsu-senpai’s matte white uniform splits open, blooming a violent red. Rika shrieks. Okkotsu-senpai sinks to one knee with a pained, bitten off grunt.

“Okkotsu-senpai!!”

Yūji grinds a heel into the solid underfoot, forces his weight into his knees. Don’t move; focus on defense, says a small, rational part of Yūji. Don’t move in any way that might jeopardise the plan, says an amalgamation of their remaining fighting roster.

Move. Move now; a short sprint and you can make it in time, drag Okkotsu out of danger, says his instincts. Yūji bites his lip raw to keep from swearing. Sweat slicks down the small of his back. He remains still.

The next three hits garrote across his hip, stomach, upper thigh; gouges him clean to the bone. Yūji grinds his teeth until his back molars creak and swallows back bile reflexively. Pain, bright and overwhelming, sparks in his chest. He wills himself to lean into it; feels the pain, but not the shock. He repeats, focus, and breathe, says it over and over again, wearing the words down like an old prayer. He’s already failed an assignment once today. He’s not allowed to contribute to another defeat. All that matters is the plan, the painstaking step-by-step—

The greyscale dome of Yūta’s domain cracks and shatters.

Yūji sees Maki-senpai slip the Split Soul Katana home—the tip ruptures bloody through the stretch of skin supposedly guarding a curse’s heart—before he actually sees Maki-senpai.

Sukuna grunts, freezes. His eyes go wide. Slowly he cranes his neck, gaze abandoning Rika and Okkotsu-senpai to dart over and behind the bulk of his right shoulder.

The plan. The painstaking, convoluted, step-by-step plan, outfitted with so many failsafes and exceptions it can barely be called a plan at this stage. The plan with its end goal—

Fushiguro. For Yūji, he’s both the beginning and the end.

Behind him, someone is propelled from high above into the pavement with such brute force that it sends violent tremors shocking through the full expanse of the city block.

Step one is getting the hell out of dodge—clear the way for Maki-senpai.

He wills himself, as the domain collapses into bleak daylight and a ruined cityscape, to move. He sees Ui Ui swoop in from high above, aiming for where Okkotsu-senpai is cradled in the spindly palms of his shikigami. Neither Chōsō nor Kusakabe should be far off, then. Yūji can tag out for now.

He grits his teeth and steels himself, spins on one heel and takes off in a sprint.

The sudden movement strains the gouges in his thigh and hip taut; what did he expect, really? Pain, furious and overwhelming, lashes up his spine, burrows into the lesions; blacks his vision for a split second. He stumbles, swears. The wound across his forehead dribbles steadily into his eyelashes and along his temple. He scrubs the inside of his wrist irately across his face. Taking quick stock, he traces the pain, sparking like a live wire, to three busted ribs, six lacerations at worst: forehead, forearms, torso, left hip and upper left thigh.

He blinks crusting blood and light-headedness out of his eyes; he hones in on the pain he’s feeling—digs in to use it as a focal point, situates himself inside it. It’s physical, he thinks; just physical, it’s fixable. For me it’s fine. Not like—

It’s time to wake up, Fushiguro!!

Cutting a sharp right corner, sprinting down a narrow, partly collapsed alleyway, Yūji imagines Fushiguro before him: beaten down—defeated; kneeling face down in the blue-black vacuum pit of his soul, the expanse of his shoulders pitching into the not-sand of the ground; the skinny stretch of his back long and limp over folded knees.

It’s enough—I’ve had enough.

Yūji scrubs an angry hand across his eyes. “I’m not giving up on you!”

#fic: when you dig up god's little acre #itafushi #jjk #my writing #work: fic #wip wednesday

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beardedhandstoadshark · 5 months

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Your ocs have to defuse a bomb. (that was hid in the house) what would they do?

I can give ya a joke version and a serious version! (The serious version is kinda dark so I slapped some cw‘s in red above it)

Anyways, joke version!

For the joke version, there’s Red. Ok,context: videogames. She is, upon other things, based on an oc for the first two games of the etrian odyssey series. Those still had an apothecary with its own NPC’s, and EO2’s was a certain guy named Dr. Derek Styles.

This is important, because I also played another funky lil game of theirs called Trauma Center : Under the Knife, a surgeon simulator.…who Dr. Styles happens to be the main character of.

In one of the missions you’re locked in a hall and have to use your surgeon skills to defuse a bomb.

Cue to Red ringing up her cousin living on the other side of the continent so she can run to the town apothecary and play the most hardcore round of "Keep talking and Nobody Explodes“ ever with their local medic (Or second-most, in Derek‘s case.)

As for the serious version…

Cw for mentions of death, lots of existential fear, despair, and detachment from reality (?). Also potential self-sacrificial tendencies? I’m very bad at guessing what these qualify as so just to be sure.

We good? Ok!

I‘m assuming they‘re locked in with no phone connection for some reason because otherwise they’d all have dipped! Especially Yel! And also that the bomb is strong enough to blow up the whole house and not just a grenade because otherwise they’d just find it and bunker up in the opposite corner! So!

Yeah he‘s not having a good time. First to try leaving and the last to accept it won’t work. Panic and mortifying, primal, fear. Takes a while to "calm down“ and even then he’s sitting as far as possible with tears until it’s defused and he‘s far, far away from the house.

Deniz would straight up not register he’s in danger. Or rather, he rationally knows it, but the fear itself doesn’t kick in really. It’s…detached? (Is that the right word?). So he’s actually pretty chill at the start, doing the most work to find it! Until he does. Find it. Then it’s a weird flip-flop between existential fear and more detachment spiked by a really weird feeling of calm and safety until it registers again that Oh Yeah. That‘s not the case at all, is it? He’s in danger. He might die. He could die. He will die. Yea I think at one point he’d just go and stay with Yel.

As for Mage, we’ve got guy severely lashing out because they can’t deal a second time with losing someone close and not being there there to stop it. Would you believe if I told you that "could Mage tank an explosion?“ is a genuine question I keep thinking about? It’s cuz of magic systems vs op abilities. Anyways. Since he’s basically always running around with at least some of the to-be-sold item stock, they‘d down every single buffing potion in one go, cast a big shield, and hope that if it does explode, he’ll survive the resuming magic recoil for long enough to find out if it at least worked. (Rn it probably would work, but barely.)

Violet has some basic knowledge about bombs because it was part of her education after the castle got a threat once, so she’d put on her serious mask to dispatch those who might be a treat to the situation rn and walk Red through the motions once it’s been found. She’ll either have plenty of time afterwards or be dead by then, so there’s no way she can afford to feel anything right now or deal with the others‘. (Spoiler: She does not properly deal with it afterwards. Girl pls stop acting like you’re fine.)

And even if any of the others wanted to do it, Red wouldn’t let them defuse the bomb in her stead. But it’s fine! Red’s the Hero, this is what she’s here for! To protect others! So she’ll protect her friends. They’ll just need to do what she says and let her do this. Red’s got this. Everything‘s in control, She’s got this in control. Nothing will turn out bad as long ad she’s here, because she’s the Hero, and nothing can happen to her. It won’t let her. Nope, no worries. She’s got it in control. It’s in control. Everything is in control. It’s in control. It’s in control. ITS IN CONTROL. ITS IN CONTROL ITS IN CONTROL SHE‘S IN-

Oh hey, would‘cha look at that. The bomb‘s defused. See? Told ya it‘d be fine as long as everything goes Red‘s way :)

#another anon ask #original character do not steal #character study (???)#attempts at proper character reactions to not-light hearted situation swere made #disclaimer; this was not written by a writer #so probably not very realistic reactions tbh

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becomewings · 3 years

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BTS Universe Timeline

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TIMELINE GUIDE

Content warning: contains references to death, suicide, suicidal ideation, child abuse, domestic violence, blood, homicide, depression, trauma, PTSD

This guide contains major spoilers from all BU media

Revisions and additions will be made as necessary, so please visit the original post for the most up-to-date version (update log is included at bottom of post)

All names are provided as fully as known

Bracketed dates are inferred or calculated from references in the text

While the timeline is presented here as objectively as possible, I acknowledge that there is a level of subjectivity in choosing which information is significant enough for inclusion and in certain connections drawn between entries

Please inform me of any suspected errors; I will investigate and correct them

Do not repost, copy, or quote without permission

School Years: Together & Apart

- March Year 19 through 10 April Year 22 -

2 March Year 19 Notes 1 (SJ)

Ten days after returning from the U.S., SeokJin and his father visit the principal’s office at his new school. SeokJin learns that he will start one grade lower due to the different education systems. SeokJin’s father grips his shoulder while the principal explains that school is a “dangerous place” that needs to be “tightly controlled.” He asks: “You know you have to keep me informed, right? You’ll be a good student, right?” SeokJin squeezes out a “yes” and his father lets go. Both ChangJun and the principal laugh. SeokJin looks down at their shining shoes, wondering from where the light is coming.

Note: SeokJin’s 25 June Year 19 entry in Notes 1 specifies that his father attended the same high school. JiMin’s 23 July Year 22 entry in Notes 2 reveals that, according to a comment he finds on an online news article, ChangJun and the principal were in school at the same time and fought with each other “as if it would only end when one of them dropped dead,” but they appeared to get along later due to politics.

3 March Year 19 BTS Universe Story: The Boy on the Threshold, ep.1

On the first day of school at Songju Jeil High School, the Dean of Students berates the six latecomers lined up outside: SeokJin, NamJoon, HoSeok, JiMin, TaeHyung, and JungKook. YoonGi arrives even later. The Dean assigns them one month of community service as punishment. When he notices SeokJin, he clears his throat and says he is letting them off because it’s the first day: they must all assemble after classes to clean the annex, a classroom turned into a storage room. This room becomes their meeting place and hideout even after their punishment is finished.

Note: Their punishment for being late is referenced in JiMin’s 12 March Year 19 entry in Notes 1, when he escapes to the old classroom again and finds the others already there. He observes that it feels as though they’ve been “hanging out together forever.” The punishment scene is also similar to a moment in the BTS Begins Middle Scene VCR. Although it includes a few extra students and cannot be confirmed as BU content, it does mirror the canonical detail of YoonGi arriving last.

28 May Year 19 Notes: Answer

In the classroom hideout, JungKook asks everyone what their dreams are because he has to write a paper about future hopes. SeokJin wants to become a good person, and YoonGi says it’s okay to have no dream. TaeHyung poses on a chair and says he’s going to be a superhero. HoSeok scolds him and adds that he wants to find his mom and live happily. JiMin asks him if he is unhappy now, and HoSeok pulls an exaggeratedly worried expression. “Is that how it works?” JiMin is flustered when HoSeok asks what his dream is and remembers that when he was in preschool he wanted to be president, but didn’t know what he wanted after that. Everyone looks at NamJoon, who shrugs and confesses that while he wants to say something nice, he doesn’t have a dream either and just wishes that his part-time job pays more. JungKook looks down at his assignment, divided into sections for “student” and “parent,” and wonders what he hopes to become. He can’t think of anything to write.

12 June Year 19 — The Sea Notes 1

YoonGi’s entry:

All seven boys cut school and decide to go to the sea. They have little money between them, so they must walk to the train station. As they leave, YoonGi almost bumps into JiMin and realizes that he is standing frozen with a trembling face. JiMin stares at a sign that reads “2.1km to Grass Flower Arboretum.” YoonGi flatly tells him that it’s too hot to go to the arboretum. He has an “instinctive feeling” that they should avoid it. He observes that JiMin walks away like a little kid, head bent and shoulders hunched.

JungKook’s entry:

The boys arrive at the beach. They hang around under a torn parasol until HoSeok holds up a discovery on his phone: a large rock that is supposed to grant your dream if you stand atop it and shout your dream out to the sea. TaeHyung encourages them to go. While they grumble in the heat on the long trek, JungKook reflects on how he had recently asked the others what their dreams were. (See 28 May Year 19.) None of them really have a dream to pursue.

YoonGi tells JungKook to stop biting his nails or else they’ll become like his. Then he asks JungKook what his dream is. Having never thought about it, JungKook doesn’t know. He hesitates and then asks what a dream is. HoSeok rattles off a few definitions from his phone. YoonGi questions, “How can something that you want to achieve most in your life and something that is unlikely to come true both be called a dream? … Don’t ever try to have a dream.” JungKook asks why. At his glance, YoonGi stops biting his nails and puts his hands in his pockets. “Because it’s tough having one.” JungKook is curious about why YoonGi bites his nails but doesn’t ask. He recalls that it has been a habit since his childhood to hurt himself. He remembers cutting his finger on a knife badly enough that his mom took him to the hospital, but she didn’t take care of him after they went home. His wound healed slowly because he kept pressing it; the pain helped him feel awake. Even now, he sometimes feels hollow.

TaeHyung asks how much longer they have to walk. HoSeok is puzzled, saying they should be close. They gaze around the empty, pebbled beach. JiMin sighs and reads aloud from an article on his phone. A resort will be built on this beach, and the construction company blew up the rock. They notice the cordoned off construction zone. They try to reassure each other to remain positive, but they all feel the disappointment of walking all that way for nothing. JungKook notices YoonGi biting his nails again and tries to stop him, but he is interrupted by a loud drilling noise. JungKook looks past him at the sea and all that remains of the dream-granting rock, the pebbles under their feet. “Is the world tough for you, too?” he asks, but YoonGi can’t hear him. JungKook screams again. “Do you want to give up on this world, too?” HoSeok and TaeHyung laugh at their mimed conversation. They all look out to the sea and shout their dreams. The drilling is so loud that they can’t hear each other. JungKook cannot even hear his own dream. When the noise stops, they cut off abruptly and laugh. SeokJin suggests that they take a photo. He sets the timer and runs to join their row, the sea behind them. They walk back to the train station. JungKook asks if he can keep the photo. SeokJin writes “June 12” on the back and gives it to him, telling him that his dream will come true. JungKook asks if SeokJin knows what he shouted to the sea, and SeokJin merely taps his shoulder and strides ahead.

BTS Universe Story : The Boy on the Threshold, ep.3

JungKook’s memory of the beach trip follows a similar structure to the scene in Notes 1, plus a notable addition. After they fail to find the dream-granting boulder, JungKook climbs up on the pier railing. He thinks: “I’ve always liked walking on the edge of walls or on top of lines. Focusing on centering my gravity means that I don’t really think of anything else, and the boundary—not quite a part of either place—always felt like where I should be.” Someone grabs his arm while he precariously balances. YoonGi tells him not to do that, and JungKook assures him that he won’t fall.

“YoonGi would often grab my arm when I walked on railings. The others would look after me, too, after seeing him do that. I liked their helping hands. It felt like they were telling me that I should go to them. That this wasn’t my place. Maybe their hands were why I walked on the railings.”

25 June Year 19 Notes 1 (SJ)

Alone in the classroom hideout, SeokJin finds a plant by the window. He takes pictures with his phone but doesn’t think they capture what the human eye sees. He notices that “HoSeok’s plant” is scribbled on the floor beneath the pot and then realizes that the window sills, walls, and ceiling are covered with graffiti and drawings, messages left behind by the students who once passed through that room. He wonders if there were past teachers who used violence and endless tests or students like him who ratted out their friends to the principal. Since his father also attended that high school, SeokJin looks for his name on the walls and finds it with a phrase written underneath: “Everything started from here.”

Note: TaeHyung, JiMin, NamJoon, and YoonGi discover several other familiar names near Kim ChangJun (SeokJin’s father) on the classroom wall in TaeHyung’s 23 July Year 22 entry from 7’s album Notes and the extended version in Notes 2.

30 August Year 19 Notes: Her

JiMin plays in HoSeok’s shadow while he is on the phone, reflecting on how HoSeok has accompanied him on the two-hour walk home since the beginning of the school semester. JiMin eventually realized that HoSeok didn’t live in the same direction but never questioned him, simply hoping that their time walking together would stretch the day out a little longer. HoSeok finishes on the phone and chases after him while the cicadas sing and their ice creams melt. Suddenly, JiMin is afraid, wondering how many of these days are left.

20 March Year 20 Notes 1 (TH)

TaeHyung sneaks up on NamJoon in the hallway by their classroom hideout. He stops when he hears SeokJin’s voice inside, apparently informing the principal about how TaeHyung and YoonGi had ditched school and got in a fight over the past few days. SeokJin throws open the door, phone in hand, and looks flustered to see NamJoon standing there. TaeHyung hides in a corner and is shocked to hear NamJoon assure him, “It’s OK. There must’ve been a good reason.” HoSeok and JiMin find TaeHyung in the hallway, and HoSeok pulls him into the classroom. NamJoon beams at TaeHyung as though nothing strange has happened. Believing that NamJoon “must have his reasons” because he is more intelligent and mature, TaeHyung decides not to tell anyone about the conversation he overheard.

15 May Year 20 Notes 1 (NJ)

NamJoon visits the classroom hideout on his last day of school. Two weeks prior, his family decided that they needed to move due to complications with his father’s health and their overdue rent. NamJoon tries to write a message on a piece of paper. He scribbles “I must survive” before the pencil lead snaps. He crumples the paper and writes in the dust on the window instead.

“No farewell message would be enough to let the others know how I felt. At the same time, no farewell message was needed to make myself understood. ‘See you again.’ It was a wish, rather than a promise.”

Note: “I must survive” is a recurring message tied to NamJoon in the BU MVs. See also 17 December Year 21.

7 June Year 20 Notes: Persona

TaeHyung’s two month old puppy Dubu slips out of the leash and disappears while he is distracted on his phone. TaeHyung runs around the neighborhood looking for him, first angry at the puppy and then blaming himself. When Dubu returns on his own, TaeHyung is filled with the unfamiliar feeling that he is someone who can be relied on.

11 June Year 20 BTS Universe Story: The Boy on the Threshold, ep.5 Everyone’s Place

In the classroom hideout, JungKook listens to YoonGi playing the piano. The sound of the music makes him feel as if YoonGi understands how he feels and is trying to console him. The Dean of Students forces the door open, demanding why they are there. He berates and slaps JungKook, knocking him to the floor. YoonGi steps between them and shoves the teacher’s shoulder. The dean warns him that he had better be prepared for the consequences of putting his hands on a teacher and then leaves. Despite his throbbing cheek, JungKook smiles because it is the first time someone has protected him, and the feeling of getting closer to YoonGi makes him giddy. For the next two weeks, YoonGi does not come to school.

25 June Year 20 Notes 1

JungKook’s entry:

JungKook tries to play the piano in the classroom hideout, unable to make it sound like YoonGi did. He reflects on the rumor that YoonGi was expelled after the events of 11 June and wonders if YoonGi would still be here playing the piano if JungKook had not been there that day when the teacher appeared.

YoonGi’s entry:

Breathing hard, YoonGi arrives at his bedroom, removes a half-burned piano key from an envelope in his desk drawer, and throws it into the trash can. He remembers a day four years ago when he returned to their burned down home and found a skeleton of the piano where his mother’s room used to stand. He noticed several piano keys on the ground and took one of them, wondering what note it was and how many times her fingers touched it. In the present, YoonGi thinks how unbearable living under his father’s rule is and recalls what happened that day: he is officially expelled from school. He picks up the piano key again and hurls it out the window.

“I couldn’t hear the piano key hit the ground. Now I’d never know what note it made. It’d never make a sound again. I’d never play the piano again.”

17 July Year 20 Notes 1 (SJ)

At the end of the last school day before summer vacation, SeokJin tries to leave quickly but is hailed by HoSeok and JiMin. No one knows that he was pressured by the principal and revealed their hideout, which led to JungKook and YoonGi being discovered (11 June) and the latter’s expulsion (25 June). HoSeok wishes SeokJin a good vacation and to keep in touch, but he can’t reply.

“My first day at this school crossed my mind as I passed through the school gate. We were all late and got punished. But we were together, so we could laugh together. I had ruined all those memories we shared.”

Note: Variations of the sentiment “we can laugh when we’re together” recur throughout BU.

15 September Year 20 Notes 1 (HS)

In the hospital emergency room, HoSeok wants to explain how JiMin had a seizure at the bus stop to his mother, Sim SeonMi. When the doctors wheel JiMin’s bed out, HoSeok begins to follow until SeonMi thanks him and touches his shoulder. He feels like she has drawn a line between them that he cannot cross. He falls to the floor, and when he looks up, JiMin’s bed is gone.

Note: The name of JiMin’s mother is specified in his BTS Universe Story arc, Stopped Time. JiMin’s 11 May Year 22 entry in Notes 1 reflects that he blacked out at the bus stop after seeing the window of the Grass Flower Arboretum shuttle bus open. His 12 August Year 22 entry in Notes 2 reveals the real cause of JiMin’s seizure at the bus stop: he sees the boy that he left behind at the arboretum warehouse on 6 April Year 11. Though the boy’s empty eyes no longer speak to JiMin, this chance encounter awakens his memories of that day.

28 September Year 20 Notes: Her and Smeraldo Books Twitter

JiMin, heavily medicated, has lost track of how long he has been back in the hospital. But he considers this a special day because he lies to the doctor for the first time about not remembering anything.

Note: He is lying about not remembering what triggered his seizure at the bus stop on 15 September and/or what happened at the Grass Flower Arboretum when he was a kid (see Notes 2 comments above). This lie is also referenced in his 11 May Year 22 entry in Notes 1.

30 September Year 20 Notes 1 (JK)

A teacher hits JungKook with an attendance book when he refuses to admit that he still visits the classroom hideout, reminding him of when YoonGi was beaten. Later, JungKook stands outside the room and imagines that the others are waiting for him on the other side. He opens the door to only find HoSeok, clearing out what remains of their belongings. HoSeok walks him out, and JungKook realizes that those days are gone and will never come again.

25 February Year 21 Notes: Her (HS)

HoSeok watches himself dance in the mirror. He has danced since he was around twelve and discovered an ecstasy that came from inside himself. Outside of the mirror, HoSeok is a person who collapses everywhere and takes medicine he doesn’t need, who smiles even when he hates it and isn’t happy. But when he dances, he truly becomes himself, casting away all that weighs him down and feeling that he can become happy.

2 May Year 21 Notes: Persona (JK)

Biking along the Yangjicheon riverbank, JungKook thinks about how his friends left him one by one and that no one at home or in the world smiles at him anymore. He stops in the shadows under a bridge. Nobody comes to this kind of ruined place, and maybe that is the reason no one comes to him either. He feels most comfortable alone in the complete darkness where no one will look for him and wants the moment to never end.

9 August Year 21 Notes: Persona (SJ)

SeokJin walks along a Los Angeles beach and photographs the ocean. It has been a year since he fled Songju and moved to his mother’s family’s home, where he grew up as a child. He doesn’t photograph people anymore and didn’t bring any photos from high school with him, afraid to remember who he was at that time or to wonder about how his friends are doing and whether they still think of him.

17 December Year 21 Notes 1 (NJ)

This lengthy entry details events that transpired since the autumn of Year 20 when NamJoon’s family moved to the village, framed by moments on 17 December itself as NamJoon leaves on his own. His family chooses this village because it has a nearby hospital for his ailing father and employers who will hire someone without a high school diploma. NamJoon serves as a delivery boy for an eatery, competing for work with the other local boys. They grow a strange sense of solidarity, and he privately dubs one of them “TaeHyung,” even though the boy’s discontent, outward behavior is more akin to YoonGi’s. (Quotation marks added to the name here for clarity.) Competition slackens when snow falls in winter. NamJoon and “TaeHyung” are the only ones poor enough to risk the road up to the mountain town’s rest area when orders are phoned to the village below. On an afternoon forecast to have heavy snowfall, the restaurant owner dismisses “TaeHyung” due to his bruised face and gives the deliveries to NamJoon. The old delivery scooter fishtails on NamJoon’s third trip down the mountain, throwing him off. More anxious about the scratched scooter than his cut ankle and aching body, NamJoon finally gets it to restart and returns to the eatery. “TaeHyung,” who has been hanging around this whole time, approaches and asks for a favor. Before he can answer, NamJoon receives a call from his mother relaying that his father went outside alone and fell, requiring a trip to the hospital. NamJoon understands that his father was only trying to keep his dignity but is still frustrated because he can’t earn any more much-needed money this day. He hands “TaeHyung” the keys and leaves to take his father to the hospital.

The next day, NamJoon learns that “TaeHyung” was in a fatal accident during one of the deliveries up the mountain. The police officer blames him for being a poor driver and not wearing a helmet. NamJoon does not speak up that he has never seen the helmet the owner now has placed out on the counter. He visits the scene of the accident, thinking that the white outline on the road could be his if he was the one to make the next delivery—just as it could be his family mourning in the village instead of “TaeHyung’s” mother. On a later trip carrying his father home from the bus stop, NamJoon pretends not to hear his father’s frail voice over the noise of barking dogs. A week after that, NamJoon is making steady deliveries up the mountain. During what is ultimately his last delivery, he speaks with a stranger at the rest area, who cautions him to take care. “Do you know what’s really dangerous? Calcium chloride and wet leaves, not the snow itself,” the stranger blurts as NamJoon departs. NamJoon drives carefully back, not looking at the scene of the accident. This is not out of safety, as he tries to convince himself, but guilt: guilt for surviving, for his relief of being the one alive, for not defending “TaeHyung’s” driving skills. He also wonders if he is “a hypocrite pretending to have a guilty conscience.” Because he scattered wet leaves and sprinkled calcium chloride to prevent the road from icing over where he fell that afternoon, believing that he would be making the next delivery. If he did not do both those things, would “TaeHyung” be alive?

Mind and body numb, NamJoon makes it home from the delivery detached from the world around him. The barking dogs snap him out of the daze, and he remembers his father’s words that he pretended not to hear and dwelled on daily despite trying not to think about them: “Go, NamJoon. You must survive.” The next morning (17 December), NamJoon sneaks away to the bus stop. He is running away from his family’s misfortunes, from his own resignation to his fate, from poverty. The bus is scheduled to arrive in Songju in a few hours—the city he left with no notice and is returning to once more with the same. NamJoon wonders if his old friends still live there and how they are doing. On the frosted window, he writes with his finger: “I must survive.”

Note: The village boy’s real name is JongHun according to NamJoon’s 12 June Year 22 entry in Notes 2, which also reveals that he visited JongHun’s home to give his condolences before he left town.

1 February Year 22 Notes: 7 (SJ)

Summoned by his father without explanation, SeokJin flies back to Korea from Los Angeles. Although he has addresses in both LA and Songju, neither place feels like his home.

———————————————————

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Posted May 5, 2021

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birdship · 3 years

Text

Leave It In The Sun: Chapter One (a Disco Elysium fanfic)

Warnings: Full game spoilers, eventual spicy scenes, basically the level of adult content in the game itself.

General summary: A slow(ish) burn exploration of life at Precinct 41 after Harry and Kim wrap up the case and Kim makes the move to Jamrock. Mainly just about how Harry and Kim's relationship might develop, and a sort of character study of some of the employees of Precinct 41 in general.

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Chapter one summary: Two difficult weeks after leaving Martinaise, Harry finally reaches out to Kim. Chapter length: Approx. 4.3k words

The sun is only just setting over the streets of Jamrock, drenched in rain and neon. The city stops to catch its breath in the intermission between day and night.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And so do you. You could’ve sworn the nearest payphone was, y’know, nearer than this. Maybe that bone-shattering gunshot wound also isn’t quite as far along in the healing process as you thought either.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Brilliant claws of pain rake down your thigh as you lean against the payphone and try to center yourself.

You glance at the phone resting in its cradle, with some trepidation. Phone calls are always a bit… difficult for you. Especially these days.

SUGGESTION: You can still change your mind.

VOLITION: No. You came here for a reason.

SUGGESTION: Or… you could always just call her instead.

VOLITION: *Focus.*

You take a deep breath. The late spring air is turning chilly in the slowly setting sun. The rain drizzles lazily as it has all day, showing no sign of stopping. A handful of people are still--or already--out wandering downtown Jamrock, laughing and talking and hurrying home and running errands and entirely focused on just about anything in the world *besides* a washed up middle-aged man having a minor anxiety attack and moderate-to-severe hip pain next to a public phone at 6:04pm in the rain.

INLAND EMPIRE: The loneliness knocks the wind out of you. You thought you were used to it by now. It’s worse outside, around people.

DRAMA: The threadbare costume you created for yourself in the privacy of your dark, trash-strewn apartment doesn’t seem quite as convincing with an audience.

VOLITION: Stop the goddamn pity party and pick up the phone already.

The receiver is light in your hand as you fumble for change and the crumpled slip of paper you’ve had in your jeans pocket for the last two weeks or so. You slowly, deliberately dial the phone number written on it, as if some part of you is afraid that your fingers might just automatically fall into the patterns of *her* number instead.

VOLITION: They might. But you’re done hurting yourself.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Well, maybe not entirely. Yet. But you’re done hurting yourself *with her* for sure.

INLAND EMPIRE: You still feel like you deserve that pain. But it’s wrong to keep using her as the knife you gut yourself with. She deserves better, even if you might not.

LOGIC: In any case, this isn’t about her. It’s about you, and it’s about--

“Hello?” Kim’s voice is muffled and tinny through the old, worn copper wiring. He sounds tired, but you guess that’s not particularly surprising. You’ve been pretty damn tired too.

“Kim, hey, it’s uh, it’s me,” you reply awkwardly.

“Harry? Do you need something?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is the first time you’ve called him since leaving Martinaise, despite carrying that little piece of paper around for the last two weeks. He’s thinking, why now?

“Yeah, no, I just happened to be downtown this evening,” you ramble, “and I thought--”

“You’re drunk,” he says. It is completely without judgment. A stated fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Harry Du Bois is drunk. “Where are you exactly? I’ll--”

“Wait, no!” you exclaim, a little too loudly. A nearby pigeon makes a mad dash in the opposite direction at the sound. “That’s not it! I swear I’m basically sober right now. Mostly.”

A long pause on the other end. “Alright,” he says plainly. “So what can I do for you?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Make no mistake, he’s picking his battles here and gingerly stepping *around* that “mostly.”

EMPATHY: He’s just relieved it’s even that much.

COMPOSURE: How embarrassing.

VOLITION: Just start over. Your first sentence was garbage, but you know you’re under no obligation to continue it, right?

You take a deep breath, then try again.

“Well, it’s really more about what *I* can do for *you*,” you say as smoothly as possible. “You know that big motor carriage exhibition in town? It just so happens I’ve got *two tickets* to it.”

Another long pause. “You mean the one that ends today?”

“Yes,” you confirm.

“And are you aware that it is currently around six o’clock in the evening?”

“Is it? I mean, yes. Yes it is,” you say confidently. “I am aware of the passage of time.”

“And you waited until now to do this?” he asks.

EMPATHY: He sounds more amused than annoyed, though you definitely detect a bit of both.

“Uh,” you falter. “Look, it’s open until 8:00, so do you want to fucking go or not?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: About half a kilometer away, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is sitting in the kitchen of his new apartment, already in his pajamas and winding down for the evening. It’s a bit early for that, but he figures he should take the opportunity to rest before he tackles that mountain of backlogged cases he was promised upon making the move to precinct 41.

Two weeks ago, he said goodbye to the strangest man he’d ever met. A man he found himself inexplicably drawn to in the week they spent together, and whom he thought about every day since. Wondering if he would take the lifeline Kim tried to throw to him, or if that little slip of paper would just end up forgotten at the bottom of a vomit-soaked trash can in some shitty bar. Wondering if the dawning trauma of everything that happened in Martinaise and the restlessness from sitting at home recovering from its aftermath would combine to pull him down into a dark place beyond Kim’s reach for good. Wondering and wondering to fill the silence. And now finally the silence is broken, but whatever this cry for help is, it is not the one Kim ever expected to receive.

But he knows one thing for sure: it *is* a cry for help.

“Alright,” Kim says finally. He takes a sharp breath. “Sounds good.”

The walk to his apartment takes a bit longer than you expected. It’s not that far from the downtown payphone, but you still wasted a good 20 minutes on the journey.

ENDURANCE: You are expecting too much of yourself too soon.

INLAND EMPIRE: It’s always one or the other with you, isn’t it? Too much or not enough.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Twenty minutes to walk a few blocks? Fucking pathetic. What kind of cop are you? Hell, what kind of *gym teacher* are you? Man up.

ENDURANCE: No. It’s a miracle that you’re still standing at all.

PERCEPTION: Beyond the apartment door, you can hear footsteps and soft humming.

You knock, and the door opens almost immediately.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shit. You were hoping you’d have a few spare seconds to think of something really cool to say.

REACTION SPEED: C’mon, say something fun and upbeat to prove you’re not a depressed sack of shit who’s been spending the past two weeks drinking alone in the dark.

DRAMA: Showtime!

“Howdy, pardner,” you hear yourself say.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Finger guns! For god’s sake, don’t forget the finger guns. Without them, you just look like a goddamn lunatic.

You do the finger guns.

Kim does not seem particularly impressed as he slowly looks from your outstretched gun fingers to the twisted grimace that now wracks your face.

“Please, holster those things before coming inside,” he says humorlessly.

You blow the pretend, metaphorical smoke from each of your hot weapons before stuffing your hands in your pockets. As you do this, he watches with an appraising look.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s wondering if this is *regular* weird or *drunken breakdown* weird. However, he is intimately familiar with your brand of stupid bullshit at this point and it doesn’t take long for him to place it in the former category.

“We should hit the road soon,” you comment as you peek curiously into his apartment.

“Hit the road,” Kim repeats with mild amusement, “in what?”

LOGIC: Oh. Right. The Kineema is property of Precinct 57. Not Kim Kitsuragi personally.

“Shit, yeah,” you concede. “But hey, if we call a taxi now--”

LOGIC: You’ll arrive just in time to immediately turn around and go home.

HALF LIGHT: You fucked up. You’re a fuck-up. Great job, idiot.

VOLITION: Try not drinking and blacking out all day next time.

LOGIC: Yes, but then…

“Fuck,” you inhale. “Fuckady-fuck-fuck. Shit. Goddammit.”

Kim waits patiently for you to catch up. You’re almost there.

“I should’ve called earlier, sorry,” you apologize. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

LOGIC: What is wrong with you is that you drank all last night, slept off a hangover most of the day today, and woke up in a daze about 45 minutes ago. But what’s done is done. No point in bringing that up now, right?

“Nor do I,” says the lieutenant with a small smile. “But whatever it is, I am no longer surprised by it, I assure you.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you repeat, leaning on the door frame pathetically, a congealed ooze of mental illness and embarrassment. “Sorry for bothering you in the first place. You’re always so nice to me, even when I’m a pain in the ass.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Which is to say *constantly.*

Kim says nothing. Just sighs almost imperceptibly.

EMPATHY: Your self deprecation is frustrating for him, and he does not know how to respond to it constructively and compassionately.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He *does* think you’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but a pain worth dealing with.

INLAND EMPIRE: For reasons beyond your understanding.

“Why did you agree to go in the first place?” you sigh. “You’ve got a brain that actually works, you knew it wasn’t gonna happen. If you’re trying to make fun of me, then, well…”

You pause.

“That’s just fine, I guess. Good job, carry on.”

He adjusts his glasses and looks away. “I appreciated the intention,” he says finally, in a measured voice. “And since I hadn’t heard from you the past couple weeks…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: ...He was afraid you wouldn’t bother trying again.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I’ve been kind of busy. You know how it goes after cases like that.”

“I do,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “you’re welcome to come in if you like.”

You hobble into Kim’s sparse kitchen and collapse on a dining room chair. It creaks ominously under the velocity of the assault.

“I’m glad we have an opportunity to catch up,” he says politely, pulling up the other chair and gazing at your pained expression from across the table. “Your injury is healing well, I assume?”

EMPATHY: It is obvious that he does not in fact assume this at all.

You shrug, still trying to get a hold of yourself and push back the ache swirling at the edges of your mind.

He watches you struggle for a moment, then gently says, “it will take time to heal, but it *will* heal.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: *So please be patient and kind to yourself,* is the silent plea left unsaid. It hangs in the air pitifully. You both know it’s there.

“Time hasn’t exactly been a good salve for me in general,” you mumble.

He’s silent for a while. Opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again.

“Harry,” he says finally. “What happened in Martinaise is not your burden to carry alone.”

“I thought you didn’t like *personal issues*, lieutenant,” you say.

“I don’t,” he says with a frown, “but this…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is about me too, he thinks. As much as he hates to admit it. He doesn’t particularly like his *own* personal issues either. But the past two weeks were hard for him, and you didn’t make them any easier.

EMPATHY: He was worried about you, and--although he will never admit it to himself, let alone you--there’s a part of him that selfishly hoped you were worried about him too. At least a little.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s used to this line of work, and so are you despite the holes in your memory, but it never gets any easier to deal with some things.

EMPATHY: There was so much death that day. It haunts you. And now as you sit in Kim’s kitchen, the alcohol slowly filtering from your blood and leaving behind the dregs of a headache, you realize it still haunts him too. You both added perforations you never wanted to make.

ENDURANCE: It’s too much. Your head swims and your entire body aches in the throes of repressed grief fighting its way to the surface of a sea of quickly evaporating Commodore Red.

INLAND EMPIRE: Warning! Trauma containment center has been breached! Evacuate the area immediately!

HALF LIGHT: You’re going to cry, aren’t you? You’re going to fucking cry. Right here in his kitchen. Why can’t you keep your shit together for more than five minutes straight?

You are entirely unable to keep the tears from rolling silently down your cheeks, unbidden.

INLAND EMPIRE: You don’t have it in you to really cry properly, like a normal fucking person. Not anymore. Something has disconnected the wire from your “press here to begin sobbing during your emotional breakdown” button, and you’re not sure what or when.

ENDURANCE: But human beings *cry.* And despite everything inside you that’s broken and rotting, you *are* a human being. You can’t not be.

Kim’s standing next to you now, his hand resting comfortingly on your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything.

EMPATHY: That’s the point of this whole shoulder-touching business in the first place--your disconcertingly unhinged behavior has left him at a loss for words, yet compelled to offer *something.*

This goes on for the longest five minutes or so the world has ever seen. But finally, you’ve wrung it all out of yourself and the tears stop almost as abruptly as they began. His hand gives your shoulder a squeeze, then he sits back down in the chair opposite you, avoiding your eyes. He rummages in his pocket for something, then hands you a blue handkerchief.

“Where the hell do you keep all these?” you mumble as you reach for it. “Fuckin’... infinite handkerchiefs around here.”

“What can I say? I like to be prepared,” he says.

“For drunk idiots who throw up all over crime scenes and have mental breakdowns in your home?”

“Usually to clean my glasses,” he says flatly. “But at this point, I suppose it *is* fair to say that it’s also for your various crises as well.”

“Well, thank God one of us is prepared,” you say. “What would I do without you, Kim?”

He hesitates, a strange wistful expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know. What *did* you do the past two weeks?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t… That’s none of my concern,” he says quickly.

AUTHORITY: Who the hell does he think he is? You’re not a child who needs to be minded. You’re a grown-ass man who can sit alone in his apartment and get wasted if he fucking wants to. Assert yourself!

“Honestly? Drink, mostly,” you say with a self-conscious chuckle.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He just stares at you with the bleakest expression you’ve ever seen cross his face.

EMPATHY: He’s so tired. So frustrated. So disappointed.

INLAND EMPIRE: Oh God! He’s *disappointed* in you? This is terrible. Anything but that, please!

“I thought I was doing better,” you say quietly. “Guess not.”

“You were,” Kim says kindly.

INLAND EMPIRE: Tequila Sunset hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it still will. Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe when you took up that mantle, it was like some sort of alcoholic event horizon. Tequila Sunset is the only way it was ever going to end. What other force in the universe could begin to exert as much gravitational pull over you?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: From the void we came, to the void we must return.

“Listen,” Kim tells you, “this is not surprising. It’s got to be harder now that you’re back in Jamrock.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s *easy,* baby. All your old favorite haunts are here. You know all the cheapest bars, the sketchiest parts of town with the purest amphetamines… You can’t remember the names of half of them anymore, but the muscles in your legs can trace the steps there perfectly. That shit’s burned into your body forever.

“Yeah.” You swallow hard. “Anyway, what about you? How’s Jamrock treating you?”

EMPATHY: The darkness clouding his expression lightens a bit.

“Good so far,” he says. “I’ve actually only been here for a few days. G.R.I.H. wrap-up took longer than I expected.” He pauses and looks out the window. “But I’m glad to be here now.”

“Really,” you say with a laugh. “In this shithole?”

“It has its perks,” he says. “I’m looking forward to beginning work at Precinct 41.”

“You’re not working solo, are you?”

“For right now, yes I am,” he replies. “I’m fine with that. I’ve done it before.”

INLAND EMPIRE: The idea of sharing a workplace with him and yet not being at his side when he needs you… it makes you feel cold, lonely, somehow.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You have a duty to Jean. Jean is your partner.

SUGGESTION: Fuck it, just say it. You know what you want to say. Say it and get it over with.

“You should work with me,” you blurt out. “We were such a good team in Martinaise. We could keep those good times rolling!”

“I’m flattered, but,” he says, turning his head. “Satellite-Officer Vicquemare…”

“Doesn’t give a shit about me,” you say. “Fuck him.”

EMPATHY: That’s not exactly true. You know it’s not.

INLAND EMPIRE: But the truth is complicated. It’s easier to just boil it down to *fuck that guy.*

LOGIC: Jean is bad for you, and you’re bad for him. Or, you used to be. And has anything really changed? Are you really any different? Maybe it was just the change of scenery that fooled you into thinking otherwise.

INLAND EMPIRE: Same old Jamrock. Same old coworkers. Same old bad habits. Same old *you.*

“I’m not so sure about that,” Kim says delicately.

“Forget about him,” you push, suddenly more serious about this than you intended to be. “I can arrange this shit with Captain Pryce, and I can deal with Jean.”

“I… uh,” he coughs. “I don’t know what to say.”

DRAMA: You’re in control of this show now. Pull an honest answer out of him.

You point at him and narrow your eyes. “I know what you should say: what you *feel* in your *heart*!” You pound one fist against your chest over your heart to drive home the point, then wince.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Please don’t do that.

You break the dramatic pose and lean back in your chair again with a shrug. “Or just tell me to fuck off. None of this wishy-washy noncommittal shit, though.”

He’s silent for a long time, watching and listening to the rain as it picks up outside. Then finally he gives you an apologetic smile and speaks.

“Harry,” he says kindly. “Fuck off.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Translation: maybe. But not now.

EMPATHY: He’s not angry, he’s deflecting. This is by far the nicest way you’ve ever been told to fuck off. Don’t take it too hard.

“Alright, alright,” you say. “Forget I said anything.”

You spend a while just making smalltalk at Kim’s kitchen table. None of it means anything, but it’s nice. It’s a nice, good, human thing to do, sitting and chatting with him. Makes your “regular well-adjusted person” costume fit a little better. The rain begins to let up a little in the fading sunset.

“You know, we could do something else if you like,” he says brightly. “Here in Jamrock, I mean.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah. Lots of stuff to do in Jamrock. Like speed and hard liquor. Or crying in the bathroom of a dive bar because you’re too fucked up on speed and liquor.

SUGGESTION: He probably wouldn’t go for that.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: There’s got to be somewhere else to go. Something else to do with him. Think. What do you want to do with him?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh buddy, are you sure you’re ready to open that can of worms?

The lieutenant watches you as you rub your temples in an effort to massage the awkward thoughts out of your terrible brain. Then he says, “you know what, don’t worry about it. It’s fine, we can just stay here.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say. “Sounds good.”

“I’m going out on the balcony for a cigarette,” he informs you. “You can--”

“I’ll come with you,” you interrupt.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He pauses, wondering how many you might’ve had already. Then again cigarettes are, shockingly, by far the *least* detrimental of your *many* vices.

The two of you step out onto the lieutenant’s rather small balcony. It’s still raining very lightly, but this is probably as good as the weather is going to get tonight. Good enough. There’s really not quite enough space for two adult men to comfortably lounge around out here, though. You try to make yourself as small as possible as you fumble in your pockets for a cigarette and lighter.

PERCEPTION: You hear the soft click of a lighter and smell smoke on the gentle evening breeze drifting over from your left.

“Fuck,” you grumble. “I forgot my light--”

You realize Kim is holding out his own lighter wordlessly, still gazing out at the city sprawling out below.

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods. He pockets the lighter again once you’re done with it, then leans on the railing and exhales smoke with a sigh.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Outwardly, he is silent and pensive. He almost seems anxious in a way. But in truth, he likes this. He’s enjoying standing out here in the rain and the dark and smoking his nightly cigarette by your side once more, just like that first night in Martinaise.

You rest your arms on the railing as well and try to map his sightline. Your arm presses against his in the cramped space, but he does not react.

“Pretty bitchin’ view here,” you comment. “Comparatively.”

“Mhm,” hums the lieutenant. “By Jamrock standards, quite bitchin’.”

PERCEPTION: His hand dangles loosely over the edge of the railing. It’s a bit smaller than yours and much thinner, bonier. Sharp and angled like a marble sculpture.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A work of art. Just like the rest of him.

SUGGESTION: Wonder what that hand would feel like in yours…?

“Everything alright, detective?” Kim asks, smoke escaping from his lips as he speaks. You realize that you’ve been staring at his hand for longer than is generally considered acceptable by polite society.

“Just spacing out a little I guess,” you mumble, averting your gaze.

“Par for the course with you,” the lieutenant chuckles.

VOLITION: Don’t make this too weird. Don’t think about that cigarette dangling loosely from his beautiful hands, or how soft his lips must be, or how nice it would be to just give up all pretense and embarrass yourself and hug him tightly right here on the balcony. Whatever you do, don’t think of any of those things.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shit.

“Well, it’s getting late,” you say, stubbing out your half-finished cigarette in the nearby ashtray. “I should probably go.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. We’ve got work in the morning after all.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You do?

VOLITION: Just play it cool.

“Yes,” you say, nodding stoically. “Tomorrow is Monday. I am aware of this, and that is why I said that in the first place, and not for any other reason.”

SAVOIR FAIRE: Nailed it.

“Tomorrow is Tuesday,” Kim says flatly, his face expressionless.

“I know that!” you say defensively. “I was just testing you. Come on, Kim, you don’t think I’m really that stupid, do you?”

He starts to say something, then thinks better of it and instead takes a long drag of his cigarette before trying again. “No, detective. I don’t think that.” Then he puts it out on the bottom of his boot and drops it in the ashtray.

The two of you head back into the apartment as the rain starts up again. You pull on your tarpaulin cloak in preparation for the long walk back home. But as you reach the front door, the lieutenant stops you.

“You know, you could just stay here if that would be easier,” he says abruptly, looking tense. “It’s late, and it’s raining, and…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: ...And the route from here to your home features at least a dozen bars along the way.

EMPATHY: He’s worried you might not be able to resist the siren song of their garish neon signs and blaring dance music spilling out onto the streets like a red carpet unfurling.

“And your injury,” he adds quickly. “It was causing you some pain earlier, wasn’t it?”

HALF LIGHT: You don’t need his *pity.*

INLAND EMPIRE: Maybe you *do.* He knows you too well already.

EMPATHY: And, for whatever reason, cares about you a little too much. A terrible decision on his part, really.

“Yeah, good point. Plus your place is closer anyway,” you reply. “Thanks. Sorry to impose.”

He gives you a little nod. “It’s no trouble at all.”

Soon, you’re settled in on Kim’s couch under a small pile of blankets that still smell like artificial flowers, cloying and too sweet, freshly laundered.

He says good night and disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. It’s strange somehow, lying here in his living room alone in the dark. Like you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. Like sneaking into a museum after it closes.

PERCEPTION: In the hazy twilight of impending sleep, you notice a calendar on the wall across from you. You can just barely make it out in the dim light, and you realize something.

“Son of a bitch,” you shout, “tomorrow *is* Monday!”

Just before you retreat into the blanket nest you could swear you hear a muffled apology from the next room.

#disco elysium #fanfic #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #harry/kim

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kaysutcliff-michaelis · 3 years

Text

Bright We Burn ending rant (SPOILERS)

Under the cut you will find my opinion with lots of spoilers, capitals and cursing about Bright We Burn (and the Conqueror’s saga in general) written by Kiersten White.

Quoting from https://booksandreaderssite.wordpress.com/2018/10/13/bright-we-burn/ “This book was ruined by the author falling in love with her own character: Perfect Beloved Radu“

I finished reading the book like an hour ago and I’ve been complaining, crying, and looking for reviews since then. I hate it, hate it so much, as much as I loved the first two books and the beginning of this one.

The impression I get from the ending is not one I expected to get from a book that had a strong female protagonist as its main selling point. Mainly because said protagonist gets the worst possible ending. I didn’t expect a happy go lucky ending, I didn’t even expect her not to die or the author to stray too far from historical facts. Just because of the title I expected her to be like a shooting star, briefly burning bright. But she didn’t burn bright, she just burn. What I didn’t expect was the ending feeling completely alien to the rest of the saga.

Lada is ruthless, strong, smart, a great tactician and has her sights focused on her goal, being the prince of Wallachia. And fuck Mehmed, Radu, her father, and whoever tries to prevent her from ruling her country. She gets the respect of her men and the people of her country, she’s a good and fair ruler even if she got there with rather bloody methods. But haven’t they all? The Ottoman Empire Mehmed and Radu are so fond of is built on the blood of the janissaries they have taken from vassal states and the blood of the Christians from Constantinople. Yet the moment Lada kills the boyars (who have been leeching off Wallachia for decades) and Mehmed’s envoys (who burnt a village first), she must be stopped. How dare a woman make life easier for the people of the country?

And for some reason, the author allows two men to ruin what Lada has built with blood, sweat and tears. And to add insult to injury, the men who should have helped her (Mehmed even claims “he gave her the throne” as the selfish and self-centered asshole he is).

And she loses everything and everyone who is important to her. Petru, Nicolae, Oana, Stefan, Daciana, and Bogdan. Oh, Bogdan. How I wished Radu lost an eye to compensate for his murder.

And in case that was not enough, the dragon that was so strong and fierce suddenly turns into a girl that is lonely and hurt and needs her brother to survive and give her back her country. The country that never recognised Radu as prince. The country that loved Lada.

HE FUCKING HAD TO GIVE HER WHAT WAS ALREADY HERS. A MAN. AGAIN. HE FUCKING TOOK THE THRONE FROM HER AND FUCKING GAVE IT BACK AS IF HE WAS A DAMN SAINT. ALL SHE DID AND IN THE END SHE WAS PRINCE BECAUSE A FUCKING MAN ALLOWED IT. HOW IS THAT FEMINIST??????????? WHAT IS THE USE IN HAVING SUCH A POWERFUL FEMALE CHARACTER IF THE FULFILLMENT OF HER DREAM DEPENDS ON THE WHIM OF A MALE EVEN AT THE VERY END?

AND HE EVEN GETS AN “I TOLD YOU” MOMENT!!! THE AUDACITY!!!

And her death... such a warrior, killed by a nameless assassin with a knife to the back. A nameless grave. So disrespectful to what Lada was. I don’t care if all the things I didn’t like were for historical accuracy’s sake. Lada was her character and deserved way better than that.

Moving on to the treacherous rat that Radu has become, I liked him so much and in this book I could only pray for someone to smack him as hard as possible. He goes from the poor and traumatised soul that is being manipulated by Mehmed and has lost his best friend and potential partner to enabling Mehmed’s actions while being fully conscious of how he’s being used, instantly healing himself from a trauma that is not relevant ever again, not giving a damn about killing people, sending Kumal to his death without sparing it too many thoughts, and having a cute little happy family while wanting to imprison his sister for the rest of her life and thinking he’s doing her a favor. He actually thought it was good and fair to plan a happy life for himself while destroying everything his sister had fought for. The sister he never ever chose.

Am I the only one who loved that the Danesti brothers started being problematic as soon as Radu gave them the throne?? Boyars will be boyars, and I don’t understand how he thought those two would be better rulers than Lada, they wouldn’t enter the castle and still wanted the money, the lands and the fancy stuff.

I honestly cannot believe how much this character has changed (for the worse), and how he acts like he’s so good and only looking for the best for those he loves when he’s a traitor, a liar, a killer and the reason why Constantinople fell. He cannot forgive Lada for protecting Wallachia, but apparently everyone and their mother have forgiven and forgotten all the blood staining his hands. Also I find it unbelievable how he sells the way the Ottoman Empire is run to Cyprian but then when Lada tried to use some of the things she had learnt there to run Wallachia it was suddenly the worse thing ever. Radu is definitely not the good Dracul sibling, he’s the toxic one.

Speaking about Cyprian, I honestly couldn’t feel happy for them. When he came back to Radu I was already too angry and wanting to send him packing back to Edirne. Amazing how Cyprian can give counsel about how to deal with Lada when all he knows about her is second-hand but he can forgive Radu for lying to him, making the siege worse for everyone, being the reason why his uncle is dead and his city was lost (and even if he doesn’t know about it, the reason why Giustiniani may have died).

And Fatima?? How she “took care” of Lada at the end? I can’t tell if she’s too broken or what, but it was creepy how she could take care of Lada when Nazira wouldn’t even stand being in the same room. Even if she was going to give them her baby, it makes me wonder how messed up she can be to be able to behave that way with the person who killed her brother-in-law and they were so adamant to condemn.

I won’t even talk about the baby thing because that was just so unnecessary for the plot and for Lada herself as a character.

Going back to Radu and before talking about Mehmed, I hate how he is 100% sure that Mehmed knows about his feelings and is using him and said feelings and he??? just??? allows??? it???? Still does whatever he wants, still appears at his doorstep no matter his trauma with Constantinople, still makes Nazira and Fatima leave their house though they had just been reunited and Mehmed didn’t care that much about finding Nazira and STILL at the end, 20 years later is in good terms with him. He didn’t confront Mehmed about using him, never called him out. Radu is the friend who will listen to you when you’re explaining how a common friend has abused you and then will keep being friends with the other person and abandoning you :D

I am not Mehmed’s biggest fan, but it’s like he isn’t even a character anymore in this book. Even if we never have his pov it always felt like this story was a triangle, but at the end it was like he wasn’t there anymore, he isn’t even the source of conflict because Radu isn’t in love with him anymore. Even for all their alleged worries about Theodora being Mehmed’s biological daughter, that issue was glossed over in a matter of three lines. I do wish he had stayed more relevant (and that he had never left Constantinople).

Surely I’m forgetting something but I think my point is clear XD Radu is a hypocrite who didn’t deserve his happy ending, Mehmed became so irrelevant that the plot was missing something, and Lada, our dragon, deserved way better. Oh, and don’t write a “feminist” YA book if the female character is the one who’s going to have the worst ending. It just feels like you’re telling women they will end up alone and dead if they are as strong and determined as Lada, and to suck it up because men will always be forgiven for the crimes.

#the conqueror's saga #and i darken #now i rise #bright we burn #lada dracul #radu dracul #mehmed #kiersten white #spoilers #book rant

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withathousandlies · 4 years

Text

BNHA and the Not Talked About Trauma

Trigger Warning(s): Talk of canon events, including suicide baiting, kidnapping, suffocation, murder, and neglectful adults. Please do not read if any of these will cause harm to you, physically or mentally.Be warned that this could contain spoilers. I apologize if this turns into headcanon territory. This is also based on the anime.

Right in episode one we see the Sludge Villain. He is fleeing the scene after robbing a bank, when All Might notices the villain. The Sludge Villain is then forced to use the sewers to escape and he decided to come out of the sewers to steal Deku’s body. All Might catches up and uses Texas Smash, later trapping the villain in two pop bottles. The hero then tries to go and hand the Sludge Villain to the authorities, but Deku latches onto his leg. He doesn’t notice until later, but the bottles fall out of his pockets.

The Sludge Villain escapes the bottles and finds Bakugou, and takes control of his body for his quirk (explosion). Take note that while this is going on, heroes are nearby but not helping. The slime of the villain covers all but Bakugou’s upper face. Meaning, it’s in his mouth and nose, not letting any air in or out. So Bakugou is suffocating while heroes stand by, letting this happen. And then the villain is finally defeated, by All Might using Detroit Smash while Bakugou is inside the villain. That alone should have caused a broken jaw, maybe worse since he was technically punched by All Might’s signature move. They do not check Bakugou over (physically or mentally) after this over, and he just walks off.

The U.S.J

Skip to later, where Deku has All Might’s quirk and he and Bakugou get into U.A. Highschool. The first major event is the U.S.J Incident, where The League of Villains, lead by Shigaraki Tomura, invade class 1-A’s rescue training. They are confused when they don’t see All Might, who, since he overused his power that morning, didn’t attend the training. Shigaraki decided to send the villains to attack students, hoping it would make All Might step out.

Aizawa Shouta, Eraserhead, intructs Thirteen to protect the students while he takes out some of the lesser villains. Kurogiri, whose quirk is Warp Gate, slips by Eraserhead and blocks class 1-A from leaving. After questioning the students, he uses his quirk to separate them into different zones of the facility, where villains await them. Deku, Mineta Minoru, and Tsuyu Asui get out of the shipwrecked zone and plan to regroup with Eraserhead.

Shigaraki studies Eraserhead’s attacks against the other villains until he decides to attack the pro hero himself. He monologues that he knew Eraser had to keep his eyes open for his quirk to actually work, and uses the hero’s lapse between erasures to decay his elbow. The students watch in horror as Shigaraki says that he is not the final boss, but a Nomu is. The Nomu then crushes the pro hero.

Tenya Iida, whose quirk is Engine, attempts to escape the U.S.J to find reinforcements. With the help of his classmates, he manages to exit. Kurogiri goes to inform Shigaraki that the student escaped, and an angry Shigaraki finally notices the three students. He goes to put his hand on Tsuyu’s face, but Aizawa erases his quirk. Deku then uses a full powered smash, but the Nomu absorbs the impact. Just before the villain and the Nomu attack the students, All Might shows up. He saves Eraserhead and scouts out the remaining villains. All Might intructs the three students to take Eraserhead to safety and attacks Shigaraki, but the Nomu once again saves him. Kurogiri then traps the hero in his warp gate and attempts to crush him. Deku rushes to the scene, and Kurogiri attacks him but Bakugou saves him by blasting the villain and pinning him after exposing his body. Todoroki freezes the Nomu, and All Might is free. Deku, Todoroki, Bakugou, and Kirishima aid All Might in the fight. The Nomu breaks out of the ice and attacks Bakugou to free Kurogiri. All Might saves him, but takes the hit. All Might tells the four students to not attack.

The shockwaves from All Might and the Nomu’s fight keeps Shigaraki and Kurogiri at bay. All Might slams the Nomu into the ground, breaking it. As the Nomu gets up, All Might uses a smash so powerful that the Nomu goes through the roof of the facility. The hero reaches his limit and tries to intimidate the two villains into giving up. They attack All Might instead, and Deku rushes to his aid but the villains stop him. Deku’s face is nearly decayed by Shigaraki, but Snipe shoots the villain. Iida returns with U.A. teachers.

Snipe injures Shigaraki and Kurogiri shields him. Ectoplasm and Present Mic get other villains while Thirteen attempts to capture Shigaraki and Kurogiri, but they manage to warp away in time. The teachers get the remaining criminals and rescue the students. Detective Tsukauchi and the police debrief the students and the students discuss their fights until they’re dismissed and return to school.

So after

The students being forcefully separated during a villain attack.

Deku, Mineta, and Tsuyu seeing their teacher’s elbow decay.

Seeing the same teacher being crushed by a Nomu.

Tsuyu’s face being in danger of being decayed.

Watching All Might fight an Nomu.

Deku’s face nearly being decayed.

The police debrief the students and they return to school. No talk of therapy or anything for the traumatic events, and no medical check, they just return to school.

Hosu Incident

After murdering seventeen heroes and injuring twenty-three beyond recovery, Stain the Hero Killer becomes a punishment on the entire hero community. Ingenium, Tenya Iida’s older brother, and his squad search Hosu for Stain. The hero finds Stain in an alleyway and the Hero Killer manages to injure Ingenium and leaves him for dead.

The attack draws the League of Villains to Stain. Shigaraki asks Stain to join their party, but he paralyzes Kurogiri and stabs Shigaraki. Stain tells him he’s weak and Shigaraki destroys the Hero Killer’s knife. He tells Stain what he desires and Stain is intrigued. Kurogiri is freed and he returns Stain to Hosu.

They follow Stain to Hosu. Stain explains what he plans to do, and continues his work. Shigaraki claims that Stain is wasting time. Irritated, the villain mocks the Hero Killer and requests three Nomus for Kurogiri to warp to Hosu City.

A Nomu attacks a train occupying Deku and Gran Torino. Gran Torino gets the Nomu off the train and saves the pro hero it was attacking. Deku exits the train to search for Gran Torino and Manual, Mizushima Masaki, takes Tenya Iida to the center of the incident, but he goes off the path.

Stain’s next target is pro hero Native. He paralyzes Native and prepares to kill him until Tenya intervenes. Stain tells him to run away, but Tenya declares he will avenge his brother. Stain is displeased with Tenya and decides to make him a target of his purge.

Gran Torino fights the Nomu and Endeavor helps in defeating it. The Flame hero asks Gran Torino to investigate the location his son, Shoto Todoroki, gave him. Endeavor helps the other heroes along and kills one Nomu. Deku guesses the League and Stain are connected and goes to search the back alleys. He successfully finds Tenya and Stain just in time to save his classmate from death. Deku fights Stain but is paralyzed.

Stain is impressed by Deku and allows him to live. He tries to kill Tenya, but Shoto Todoroki attacks him with his fire. They begin to fight and the U.A. student is quickly overwhelmed. Deku is not paralyzed anymore and they try to stop the Hero Killer. Tenya is forced to rethink his motives and joins the fight.

They work together to defeat Stain and restrain the villain to bring him towards the street. They are eventually found by Gran Torino and other pro heroes. The last remaining Nomu suddenly arrives and takes Izuku. Stain regains consciousness and kills the Nomu to rescue Izuku.

Endeavor arrives and recognizes Stain. Stain becomes annoyed at the sight of Endeavor and releases his bloodlust. His words strike fear into everyone present. The fight only ends when Stain falls unconscious because a broken rib pierced his lung.

The students are admitted to the hospital and confronted by Gran Torino, Manual, and Kenji Tsuragamae. The youngest Todoroki gets into a fight with Kenji about illegally using their quirks to fight Stain. Chief Tsuragamae pardons the boys of their crimes under the condition that they cannot publically be credited as the ones to defeat Stain. Instead, the credit goes to Endeavor.

And so, after

Tenya almost losing his brother.

Tenya fights Stain on his own.

Tenya almost dying.

Deku, Tenya, and Shoto fight Stain to the end.

And the credit going to Endeavor, Shoto’s hated father.

There is still no mention of therapy, although they did go to the hospital this time. And Shoto has to face the extra annoyance that his father gets credit for defeating Stain, therefore probably getting more popularity.

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{ {Thank you @wonhaebunny for helping <3} Part Two will come later as I’m tired and have school in two hours or less. } {September 4th: Originally this was going to have a part two, but to be honest this was just a random thing I wanted to do in the early morning hours. For now, it’ll stay as a whole with no parts.}

#boku no hero #bakugou katsuki #tenya lida #shoto torodoki #izuku midoriya #class 1-a #trauma #spoilers #eraserhead #present mic #gran torino #endeavor #ingenium #potentially triggering #the league of villains #nomus

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iwillsithereandtrytocontribute · 4 years

Text

Solus

Pairings: None

Warnings: Nightmares, parent death (past, not described in detail),

Masterlist Ao3

Spoilers for the Rome Arc

I’ve been having a lot of Feelings about Sasha, Rome, and the letters so have this. I’m planning on having a sort of series follow-up, but we’ll see how I much I get done of that.

Some quick notes:

1. The title "Solus" is Latin for alone. 2. There's some Latin interspersed in the text, it should be translated right after. If not, please let me know. 3. My personal headcanon is that Sasha did name a kid Brock and just didn't mention it because none of the people receiving this letter actually knew Brock.

Enjoy :)

Sasha Rackett has had her life torn apart a thousand times, a thousand ways. She’s lost her parents, her friends, her rivals, her mentors, and everyone in between. Growing up in Other London though, you learn to be tough. To have a thick skin so that if you can’t dodge the knives they still can’t leave a mark.

Nothing could have prepared her for this. So much has happened in the span of three days. She went to Rome, saved Beaming Gusset and the other hostages, time traveled, lost her friend, and watched the fall of Rome in real time. And here she is trudging along in the countryside that surrounds what was once Rome. The gutted empty shell she’d seen 2,000 years in the future now that the dragons had had their fill of revenge.

Sasha is not alone for once, though sometimes she can’t quite decide if it’s a blessing or a curse. She thinks maybe somewhere in the middle. She’s grown used to being around company, even just those few friends, the past couple months. Gods, it’s only been a month or two since she left London behind, likely forever. Does London even exist now?

Cicero follows doggedly behind her. It’s his turn to hold the kid. Sasha couldn’t save everyone. Hell, she could barely save anyone, but they couldn’t ignore the child they found, half buried under the rubble. Somehow he had survived. And somehow they had found him. Sasha couldn’t save everyone, she couldn’t save Grizzop, but she could save him.

Cicero looked up to catch Sasha’s eye and she realized with a start that she’d been staring at him. She nodded at him awkwardly and he nodded back.

“Water?” Sasha asked, forgetting where she was for a minute. “Um, right sorry,” she continued seeing Cicero’s confused expression. “Right. Á-áqua? Right? Or is that Spanish,” Sasha mused to herself. Judging from the change in Cicero’s expression she’d gotten it right. He carefully laid the kid down and took the water skin as Sasha offered it.

As he drank, Sasha took stock of their combined injuries. Cicero is looking a lot better than he did yesterday, even going on with no sleep as they are. His main injuries were healed by the potion and he had gotten over the shock well enough. Sasha had had worse. And the kid probably had some head trauma, fading in and out of consciousness like he was. So all in all, they might look like hell, but they were surviving.

“Témpus?” Sasha tried in her broken Latin. The potions they’d taken back in Rome had long since worn off, leaving a language gap with a thin bridge across, held up by the few Latin lessons she had taken back when Barret had sent her to Upper London for “an education.”

Cicero held up 4 fingers. “Quáttuor hóra.” 4 hours. Sasha nodded and took a deep breath. She took the water skin back and hooked it onto her belt. She counted her daggers obsessively, checking and double-checking that her spring-loaded wrist sheaths were loaded. Finally satisfied, she lifted the kid as gently as she could, muscles screaming in protest as she lifted him, and continued in the direction Cicero had pointed in as they left the destruction of Rome.

“I know a place,” he had said. “This way.” Sasha had followed because what else could she do? She was alone, alone, as out of her element as it was possible to be. So she followed.

It took them just over 5 hours to reach the house. The villa really. It was large, with wide sprawling grounds and tall pillars that surrounded the courtyards. Sasha slumped slightly with relief. Here was a place to rest, if only for a little while.

Cicero gestured her inside, staggering in behind her, his legs weak beneath the kid’s weight. He wasn’t particularly large, but they had been trading him off for hours with little to no rest. They had been too anxious to get away from Rome. Sasha didn’t know much about the fall of Rome, and certainly if the dragons had decided to pick off the few people who had escaped the city no one would have known about it regardless. Cicero seemed to share her anticipation if not her thought process, and had agreed without question not to sleep for the night.

Sasha sighed, rubbing her forehead. She was going to have to learn Latin wasn’t she?

She made sure the kid was taken care of. The villa seemed pretty empty, but she trusted Cicero a moderate amount at this point. Something about living through an apocalyptic event with someone makes you want to trust him. Sasha would not be surprised to learn later that the villa was owned by a rich family. All of whom were in Rome at the time of its fall. At its center. The chances of their survival were slim to none. They did not turn up to reclaim their home.

Finding a room for the kid, she’s started calling him Brock in her head, was easy. Sasha sits in a chair across from the bed, intending to keep an eye on him for just a little while. It wouldn’t do for him to wake up alone. Sasha has woken up alone before.

The dark she loves so much, suddenly pressing in close. The bedsheets, blankets, her own clothing, suddenly tight and strangulatory. Her panicked heavy breathing as she pads down the stairs to her parent’s bedroom, silent as ever, only to find a pristine, empty bed. Huddling, knees close to her chest as she instructs herself over and over not to cry. Failing.

Sasha wakes up with a start, knife immediately in hand and held to her attacker’s throat. Cicero blinks uncomfortably, shaking slightly as he carefully removes his hand from Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha wrenches her dagger from his neck in a motion so quick it looks as though she was never holding a dagger at all.

Looking outside she can see the sun setting. She must have fallen asleep. She’s no stranger to nightmares, though that one’s worse than most. Sasha rubs at her eyes as Cicero tries to lead her out of the room.

“No. No, wait. We shouldn’t leave him alone!” Sasha pulls away, only to be caught by Cicero again. “Um, um.” Sasha racks her brain. “Solus,” she says, pointing at the kid. Alone. Cicero nods, pushing her towards the door again. Sasha tries protesting again, when he lets go of her to sit in the chair he had found her in.

Sasha nodded with understanding. “Grátiās.” Thanks. Cicero returns the nod with a tired smile.

“Sómnus.” Sleep.

Sasha understands. And she sleeps.

Not without nightmares.

There’s the usual contenders; losing Brock, losing her parents, Barret’s manipulation, a particularly gory end to a co-conspirator from an Other London heist. But over the last months, she’s gained oh so many more. In her dreams she listens to Mr. Ceiling tear her mind and body apart, feels her humanity slip away, sees Zolf leave, and Grizzop die. Over and over she sees and feels spears plunge, needles prick, knives slice, and magic burn. Sasha does not remember the last time she slept through the night without waking up in a cold sweat, but the dreams have only increased in number and intensity.

Sasha does not remember the last time her eyes were clear of their deep circles, that against her pale skin give her a sickly glow even when she’s not mostly undead.

Sasha wakes up, and stays awake when the sun rises over the gently sloping hills surrounding the secluded villa. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she gives a small smile at the beautiful scarlet red sunrise. Her smile fades when she sees the thick wall of smoke at the edge of the horizon, assisting the sun in painting a blood red sky.

A painful reminder that Rome has fallen and Sasha was here to see it. Alone.

Years later

They went back. Back to the city once they were sure the dragons had had their fill of it. They found so very few to save. Mostly children. So many children. Sasha’s heart broke to hear their cries, to see them clutching at the torn clothes of their parents as they came to save them. They aren’t alone anymore.

Some were too young to know their names, too young to remember their families in a couple of years. Sasha gave them names. Amidus, Wilde, Brock, Azu, Grizzop, Sagax for Zolf, even Bertus. It took a couple years for the sad smile she had whenever she said their names to turn genuine, but it did happen eventually. It was as much a way to remember her friends as her yearly trips to the temple of Artemis in the nearest city were.

She taught them everything she knew. Acrobatics, stealth, throwing daggers, how to detect traps, the whole lot of it. Cicero covered the more academic side of things, the villa had a decent library, and all things considered he was a good teacher.

Sasha had never expected to live long. It just didn’t happen in Other London. Before she left, Barret was the oldest person she had ever seen and he wasn’t far past fifty. Besides, her line of work was dangerous. Yet, here she was, living. Passing down a legacy to these kids. She hadn’t realized how much she had wanted someone to learn what she knew, how much she wanted to pass down her knowledge.

She found that fulfillment in the children and teenagers they rescued from the still-smoldering ruins of Rome. And they found new lives with her and Cicero.

Still, on the days she felt like she was forgetting her old life, Sasha would slip away. To a secluded spot in the orchard that only she knew about and slide on her old leather jacket, and she would just take a moment to remember.

Remember gruff Zolf, with more rough exterior than a ship covered in barnacles. The first to make her a partner rather than someone to order around. Flighty little Hamid, gods Sasha missed his hugs. Out of all of them, he was the one who’d stuck around the longest. The soft, kind Azu and her complete understanding. It was rare that Sasha could find someone to be silent with, and yet there Azu was. Grizzop, who practically vibrated whenever he got angry. Sasha always started crying by this point. Grizzop, who had given everything to protect her. And Wilde. After all their time spent together, Wilde had grown on her. Sasha still thinks of puns he would like sometimes. She writes them down on a sheaf of paper. Maybe he’ll get them one day. Even Bertie’s sharp edges have been softened with time, and memory always puts a hazy glow on the past. Sasha knows he was horrible, but he’s still a part of the best and worst months of her life, so she can’t just forget him.

One day, many many years after Sasha has been trapped in the past she sits down to write a letter. One that she hopes might someday reach her friends. Her only way to say goodbye.

She’s been writing them letters for years. Hamid, Azu, Wilde, even Zolf in the vain hope that they will find them.

They are a mix of English and Latin, it’s been so long since she’s spoken or written in her native language, she can hardly remember it anymore. As time passes, they become almost entirely Latin. Sasha knows they’ll find a way to read them.

She’s getting on in years now, so much older than she ever dreamed of being. So she writes each letter knowing it might be her last, not that she ever believed any different.

She signs each one with the name her family gave her. Both of them.

Whosaskinus “Sasha” Lolomg

So... Here. Like I said, I have plans to make a short series with some letter Sasha writes to the party (because there’s no way it was just the one) and I really like writing in her voice. If you’d like to be tagged in that when I post it please let me know. If you just want to chat my inbox is open. Stay safe :)

#rqg #rusty quill gaming #sasha rackett #rqg cicero #rqg spoilers #rqg fic #jasper writes

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an-abundance-of-castiels · 5 years

Text

Best Left Forgotten

Part 16: Lost

Series Summary: You wake up in the bunker with a serious head injury and no memory of the last year or the Winchesters and find that Dean is avoiding you. You are determined to find out the truth about what happened but maybe the truth is best left forgotten.

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam

Warnings: language, Season 10 Spoilers

Word Count: 2075

General Disclaimer: I do not own the gif or any of the Supernatural properties or characters. This is a fan piece and is intended to be enjoyed only as such.

A/N: This is my first fic so any and all feedback is appreciated! A HUGE thanks to @weirdochick56 for rough beta-ing and encouraging me to pick this up again and give it another try in the first place!

Best Left Forgotten Masterlist

Missed Part 15?

**********

It didn’t take long for Sam and Cas to sneak you out of the hospital. You were frankly surprised at how simple it was. You changed into the street clothes Sam had brought you, kept your head down, and walked right out. And now you are standing awkwardly in front of Rowena and Crowley.

Sam is bickering with Cas about leaving him here to finish the spell. “Cas, finding Dean won’t matter unless we can remove the mark!” Sam insists.

You smirk as Crowley rolls his eyes so hard the whites of them are the only things that show.

“What about the consequences?” Cas protests, “Dean said-”

“Dean guessed!” You interject angrily. “Think about the consequences of not doing it. I won’t let him go, I can’t. You know that Cas.” Your voice is barely a whisper by the end. You swallow the things you can’t speak out loud.

“We’ll have to watch him murder until he turns into a demon again. Do you want that?” Sam tries to guilt Cas.

Cas looks torn. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it.

There’s a moment of silence between you three. Cas looks at Sam and then you. You notice the slight twitch in his mouth. His tell. A crack in his resolve.

You don’t have time for this, you need to find Dean, “Cas.”

He turns to you.

You grab his hand. “Cas. Please.” You look into his eyes desperately and for just a moment you let the fear consume you.. All of the things you can’t bear to say about what watching Dean murder the world will do to you washes over you. How it will tear your very self in half.

You aren’t sure what he sees there, but his expression shifts to a pained one as he looks into your desperate eyes. You get the feeling he knows something that you don’t. After a moment, his frown unfurls and relaxes to an even smile. “Okay, Y/N.” He looks down for a moment. Then he looks up with a small smile. “I owe you one anyway. You did save my life back there.” He pulls you into a rare, tight hug.

“Thank you, Cas.” You mummer as you close your eyes and hold him tight. You linger a moment too long and savor the warmth. You have accepted that this may be the last time you see him. If you fail to save Dean, you are certain that, one way or another, you will not make it out alive. You expect fear and sadness to wash over you, but instead you feel love for Cas, for your whole family. As if your heart is taking its last beats to love them as much as possible. You feel your resolve strengthen.

————————————

You stare silently out the window as tall pine trees fly by. On any other day, you would be riding with the windows down, taking in the warm smell of pine needles baking in the sun. You don’t really see them though and the moments pass without a second thought from you about your favorite part of summer. You’re too busy playing over the memory that came to you after the gunshot. Dean got out. How did you and Sam get him back? As much as your brain screams out to you that you don’t want to know, you have a sneaking suspicion that if you want to save Dean, you are going to have to know. He’s just a little lost right now. Like you were when you woke up without your memories, without the knowledge of how complete you were after you met him. He’s lost his heart, his soul, his very being, and it’s your job to find him.

You turn to look at Sam. He is staring straight ahead, eyes full of determination. Even if you don’t make it, you will make sure Sam gets out. But you need to know something first. Before you walk into all of this mess.

“Sam. I need to know what happened after we shut the power off.” You say evenly, gauging his reaction.

Sam’s head snaps to you. And he almost runs the car off the road. You grab the dashboard in a panic to brace for impact. Sam yanks the car back onto the road. You sigh in relief and your muscles unclench as he begins to slow down. He pulls off at a gas station and turns to look at you. “What?!” Sam stares daggers into you. Shock and disbelief all over his face.

“I remembered the last injection while I was out from surgery. The last thing I remember is turning the power off.” You look him in the eye. You finally allow the pain, conflict, and confusion that has ruled your life to take over your face. You are desperate. “Sam, I need to know. Before I walk into this. How did I lose my memory?”

Sam studies you closely. “I love you Y/N. I don’t want you to hate me.” Sam looks down in shame, “but if I tell you, I’m afraid of what will happen to you. You might pass out and I need you awake. I need you to help me save Dean.” He looks back up, begging you with his eyes.

You look down at your hands and pick dirt out from under your nails as you think for a moment. He’s right. Cas said remembering the trauma could have unexpected effects. So now you have to decide what’s more important: saving Dean or knowing the truth?

Dean is a part of you. Nothing you remember will change that.

You glance over at a very anxious Sam. “Okay, Sam. Let’s find Dean.”

Sam lets out a breath and you see his shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you, Y/N.” Sam pulls the car back out on to the road and begins speeding towards the tip that Rudy gave you. “Let’s find my brother and bring him home.”

————————————

You stare out the window thinking about Rudy. The girl that Dean “saved” may never recover from the trauma of him just letting his hunter friend bite the dust. Poor Rudy. He wasn’t the smartest, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.

Something black catches your attention and you turn to look at it.

“Over there! It’s Baby!” You point to a dingy motel room in excitement.

Sam squints at the car, seemingly unconvinced but decides to pull in. He looks over at you, nervous. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” You say steadily. You feel so sure of this moment. You are going to save the love of your life or die trying.

You both draw your guns as you approach the door. You knock as your stomach does somersaults. A mix of fear and nerves chewing at your stomach.

“Dean, it’s me and Sam. We’re coming in.” One swift kick to the door is all it takes for you to kick it in.

You slowly step into the dim room and fumble for the light switch as Sam covers you. You finally grasp it and are blinded for a moment as you flick it on.

The room is destroyed. Every piece of furniture has been smashed and glass litters the floor. Dean is nowhere in sight. You lower your gun and walk to the bathroom. The destruction in this room consists only of the demolished mirror. You walk over to the sink and pick up a triangular shard. You see an odd angle picture of your own face. What would make someone smash a mirror like that? You run your finger over the reflective surface of the shard and intense self-loathing fills your chest. That’s what. You remember how Dean just let Rudy die. This is a good sign. A sign that Dean still knows who he is. He still knows right from wrong.

“Y/N!” Sam calls from the bed.

You run over to the bed where a stunned Sam stands, staring at it and follow his gaze down to the bed. There’s a note scribbled in Dean’s messy handwriting on a piece of notepad:

“Y/N, I love you. Always.

Sam, she’s all yours.”

The keys to baby lay on the note.

Sam looks up at you with hopelessness and desperation in his eyes. You want to save Sam from all this but you ca-

Sam peeks around the corner and motions for you to look. You peek around him and see nothing. You lean back and see a hammer coming at your face. You dodge it and Sam shoves you away from Dean. You get a good look at him and see that he has a hammer in one hand and a knife in the other. Sam and Dean are locked in a wrestling match. You are frozen in place. Half of you doesn’t want to hurt Dean and the other half wants to save Sam. You can’t comprehend Dean hurting Sam… It’s Dean’s eternal responsibility to protect his little brother at all costs. It just doesn’t make sense. You simply.. can’t move.

Dean lets out a sick laugh as he starts to get the upper hand on Sam. Sam turns to you and screams, “RUN! GET OUT! GET CAS! RUN!!!!”

His scream breaks your stupor and a primal survival instinct takes over. You take off, running for your life, adrenaline and pure fear coursing through your veins. You hear Sam’s pained screams echoing down the hall and they yank you out of your instinct driven need to flee. His pain cuts you all the way into the center of your chest and you stop in your tracks. He’s losing and you can’t leave him. He is your family. You take a deep breath. This is Dean. Dean would never hurt you. You just have to make him stop and look at you. You can do this. You ignore the urge to flee and take off towards the sick laughing and screaming.

“DEAN. STOP!” You scream as commandingly as possible as you come to a stop in front of them. In just a few minutes, he has beaten Sam so badly that his blood stains the wall, floor, and Deans t-shirt. Your brain rejects what lies in front of you: that Dean has beaten his little brother within an inch of his life. You push down the horror that you can’t afford to feel.

Dean stops in his tracks and turns to you.

“Sop Y/n… e’ll kill you.” Sam struggles to spit out along with some blood. He tries to get up, but his leg is definitely broken and he falls. You grit your teeth and fight back the urge to go to Sam. You focus all your energy on Dean.

“Dean, look at me and just breath. Please. Please look at me.” You look him in the eye. Your body is screaming in fear, but this is Dean, your other half, the person you cannot live without and who cannot live without you. And he would never hurt you.

Dean looks into your eyes… his eyes soften and his shoulders relax. The tight muscles in his face fall as the rage slips away. And suddenly he’s your Dean again and there is nothing to fear anymore. “Y/N?” Tears start to run down his face.

“It’s okay baby.” You coo at him and without deciding to, you walk to him.

He spreads his arms open and you fall into them. You fit perfectly. You were made to rest in these arms for forever. He holds you tight and you breathe in his scent.

You wake up in the backseat of Baby. You had some kind of dream. A dream about saving Dean. Dean! Not a dream, you correct yourself, a memory.

You jump out of the car and take in your surroundings hurriedly. You have no idea how much time has passed. What if you’re too late? You are outside an old bar and the lights are on inside. You hear Sam yell out from inside and without thinking you dash in the door. You register Sam and Dean beating the shit outta each other in front of a tall, solemn-looking man.

Dean and Sam haven’t noticed your entrance and you watch Dean launch a glass at Sam. Sam ducks as you yell out. “Dean!”

His eyes meet yours as the glass smashes into the side of your head

And

shatters.

The world goes

black.

Part 17

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weakzen · 6 years

Text

The Sanguine Prophet

Aloth's first assassination attempt does not go as planned, in more than one way.

Rating: M Spoilers: Aloth's initial conversation after leaving Port Maje, if anti-Leaden Key Content Notes: gore

AO3 Version

In extremely small doses, the venom of the palmsling snake thinned the blood and inhibited the formation of clots. In large doses, it ruptured blood cells and corroded arteries and veins, spreading trauma through the body with every successive pump of the heart. It attacked organs and bones as it circulated, softening them to be more easily digestible. The palmsling's prey died quickly, fatally hemorrhaging not far from where bitten, their flesh slowly dissolving from the inside-out.

The finger-sized phial he was currently carrying in his satchel contained enough of its venom to condemn a man to that fate twenty times over, or so Aloth had been told.

As he crept down the cloister, he hid himself in the shadow of the roof and columns he passed, his shoulder nearly skimming the wall as he avoided the areas of illuminated tile. He moved on the balls of his feet with each step, shifting his weight lightly and quietly. The scarf looped over his head and across his mouth muffled his breathing as well, leaving only the noise of frogs and chirping crickets to indicate anything stirred in the night.

Fireflies drifted lazily through the abundant flora of the temple's courtyard. Nocturnal flowers opened wide and yearningly in the moonlight. And the moons themselves, both swollen full, hung aloft in a star-splashed sky and the glassy reflection of a pond below.

If Aloth were anywhere else, he would have called the sight beautiful. He would have stopped and passed under the arcade to walk along the gravel paths. He would have meandered hours away winding through that expansive garden, savoring every sight and smell and sound.

As it were, though, all he could muster for its spectacle was a sneering glare.

He glanced away and hurried on, rounding a corner that lead away from the courtyard and down another arcade. He made a right, then a left, descending stone steps and traversing another short walkway until, at last, he reached the locked door.

Kneeling in front of it, he slid two picks from inside his bracer and slipped them into the lock. As he worked the tumblers, a smile ghosted his lips. He'd never been properly appreciative to her at the time, when she'd insisted that he learn how to pick basic locks, at least, if they were going to delve into ruins together. He was grateful now, though, for that lesson. For so many others.

For her.

An ache of fondness rolled through his chest and, not for the first time, he wished she were here with him too.

The sentiment faded quickly though, when the lock popped and the hinges shrieked. The door swung inward, creaking and shuddering under its weight, until it hit the wall with a rattling clang. He froze, panic lancing white-hot through his core. His shoulders drew tightly about his neck as he reached for his grimoire and strained to hear anything above the pounding of his own heart.

After a long and tense minute, only the distant wail of a loon acknowledged him.

He forced himself to exhale, then to take a few steadying breaths before he pushed himself up from the tile with trembling hands. The hinges needed attention before he could proceed—he couldn't risk that racket again and he couldn't leave the door open, either.

Twisting his satchel to the front of his body, he fumbled through it until his fingers reluctantly closed around one of his more prized possessions. As he opened the small bottle, he gave its contents a final whiff and couldn't help the resigned, sighing exhale that followed. That scent wouldn't be easy to find outside Aedyr—and even he didn't know when he would visit home again.

At least, he rationalized, while he coated his fingers in his hair oil and rubbed it into the iron, the waste of it could serve as a lesson to be better prepared in the future. In his haste to examine the lock when he'd scouted the temple, he'd neglected to give the hinges the same consideration. He'd gotten lucky this time, that he still maintained the habit of permanently storing his belongings in his bags in case he needed to leave quickly. Even so, he would still have to hope no one noticed the scent of rainwood tomorrow morning. They might overlook the improved condition of the hinges, but he doubted they'd ignore a strange smell.

Uncertainty coiled in his stomach. He didn't like leaving all these variables up to chance, but he supposed there was nothing to do for it now. If he didn't seize this opportunity tonight, then he'd have to wait one more month. And, given how this past month had made him feel, he didn't know if he could bear another.

Finishing his effort, he tucked the nearly-empty bottle away and wiped his hands clean on his trousers. He gave the door a few tentative tugs and, once he was satisfied it wouldn't betray him again, he stepped through the opening and quietly shut it behind him.

Inside, he squinted in concentration then called forth a small flame in his palm to illuminate the windowless room. Linen vestments swayed softly on their racks and cast long, spinning shadows up the wall. Bronzed ceremonial objects glowed warmly from their places on floor-to-ceiling shelves. A round table sat in the middle of everything, covered in a row of knives that followed the curve of its edge all the way around. And in the center of their circle, above them—always above them—lie his knife, in a display case of glass and crushed velvet.

Aloth strode towards it and snapped it open, wrapping his fingers around an ornamental hilt carved with symbols and inlaid with centuries of dried blood. He tucked the sheath between his arm and torso and pulled the blade free, holding it up to his face to examine it. As his eyes roamed the rippling folds of metal, something quiet reminded him that it wasn't too late to just leave. He didn't have to do this.

But… even as that reminder spoke, something louder insisted that he did.

Because, if he didn't, then how many more people would this knife's owner kill? How many more children wouldn't reach their fifth year because the sanguine prophet demanded their blood to water that sickening, odious garden?

Aloth's hand squeezed the knife until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed around the dry, hard lump in his throat and slowly shook his head. He couldn't leave. He wouldn't. Not after what he'd seen. Not after what he knew of the Leaden Key's involvement here.

Not after how many years he'd unknowingly spent aiding them in creating horrors like this.

He hadn't directly contributed the situation here, he knew, but he still bore responsibility for it. He owed these people their freedom and any help he could provide them to that end, even if that meant resorting to underhanded tactics.

Even if that meant killing someone.

The flame in his hand guttered out as he closed a fist around it. Then, when he opened his hand again, a sphere of ghostfire popped out to float near him. In its eerie light, he donned a pair of leather gloves and unstopped the phial. As he carefully smeared drops of venom across the edge of the blade, his thoughts unwittingly traveled back to the morning after the last full moon, to the sound of desperate, choking screams and the guttural, insistent justifications shouted over them.

His mouth pressed into a hard line. He understood his risk of being caught increased the longer he tarried, but Aloth still applied the venom slowly and methodically, layer by layer, letting each coating dry fully before the next, until the phial dribbled empty at last and his work was done. He gingerly removed his venom-soaked glove, turning it inside out before disposing of it, the phial, and the other glove inside a sack tucked within his satchel. He sheathed the knife, returned it to its case, closed the lid, then glanced around to verify everything was exactly as he'd found it. Nodding to himself in conformation, he snuffed the light between his fingers and exited the room, re-locking the now acquiescently silent door behind him.

Then, as dawn grasped at the horizon, he fled the temple as quickly and quietly as he'd arrived.

It wouldn't be noon for hours, but already the cicadas buzzed incessantly and the air sweltered.

Aloth, at least, had some fleeting relief from the sun, in a patch of shadow cast by a thickly-leafed palm. Most of the villagers in the garden below weren't so fortunate, and instead attempted to alleviate the heat with wicker fans. Of all of them gathered here this morning, only the prophet was truly sheltered from the elements, in a lasting shade provided by a canopy of white canvas atop the dais.

Only the prophet could lead all of them to true shelter as well, Aloth garnered, as the man gesticulated and lectured the crowd in thick Vailian. While Aloth knelt and listened, his nails dug into his palms. He fought to keep his expression blank and his gaze cast submissively into the dirt. He needed to be patient—and he needed to remember to act his part. Cydrel was a proper, respectable guest, after all. Here all the way from Aedyr too, humbling seeking guidance in an effort to reach true salvation.

Even so, he felt his lip curling in disgust again as his eyes wandered to a particular patch of soil nestled between clusters of vibrant, orange lilies. The stain was gone, but he could still see it there. Her too, crumpled facedown in the flowers. He stared at the spot unblinkingly as the sermon droned on, until the prophet and the insects faded into indistinct humming, until his eyes watered and his jaw ached from clenching it.

No one had said anything, when the acolytes picked up and carried the child away. No one had protested when the prophet squatted down beside her mother, not to minister comfort, but to coldly slice open her arms with the exact same implement that had killed her child. No one had dared look at the woman either, while she bled there mutely, curled into the dirt where her daughter fell, not when the prophet rose above them all, towering as he leveled his gaze against at each and every witness.

No one had stood up that day. No one had ever stood up to him, the blood-splattered culmination of Thaos' influence in this small part of the world.

Not until today.

A hand landed on his shoulder and Aloth flinched to attention, turning to see an acolyte gesturing toward the prophet. He stood, wincing as feeling returned to his legs, then he shuffled toward the center of the dais. The old man patted the cushion next to him and Aloth—Cydrel—knelt on it, pressing his palms together as he bowed deeply. The gesture was returned, albeit shallower and more hastily, as though the man held more respect for notion of formality than he did for the actual individual receiving it.

He spoke then, in rapid, confident Vailian, vacillating his attention between Cydrel and the crowd, his voice gradually increasing in pitch and cadence. Smiling mirthlessly, Aloth only understood every third word, but he understood enough. His fingertips dug nervously into his thighs and a knot slowly tightened in his stomach. Then panic spiked through him, raw and electric and confirming, as the man removed his knife from its sheath and presented it to Cydrel on flat palms.

His eyes widened as he glanced from the blade up to the prophet’s wrinkled, expectant visage. His gaze snapped back and forth between the two a few times. For a moment, all he could do was gape in response, his mouth wavering open while his heart thundered in his chest. Guest's rights? Guest's honor? Why hadn't this come up last month? He hadn't planned for this, for the man to actually deign his knife fitting for the use of a commoner, and a foreign one at that. But, as he withered beneath the man's increasingly intense stare, Aloth realized what he needed to do.

Bowing deeply, so deeply his hair ties clanked against the ground and his forehead almost touched the dais, he closed his eyes and summoned forth his best Vailian to issue an apology.

He was sorry.

He was not worthy of first blood.

He would shame himself eternally if he tainted the blade and body of a mighty servant of god with his own weak and still unmarred flesh.

Then he begged for forgiveness.

After an uncomfortably long and worrying moment of silence, he felt the prophet's hand fall on his shoulder to bid him upwards. Cydrel sat up, letting out a long, shuddering—and not entirely feigned—sigh. His back and shoulders were stiff and he kept his gaze fixed firmly downward as he apologized to the man again.

It, too, wasn't entirely feigned.

Chuckling softly, the prophet lifted Cydrel's chin upward with two fingers and nodded, seemingly pleased. Once more, the old man slowly rose to tower above everybody else. He turned to face the villagers and stretched his arm outward, flattening his hand and spreading his fingers widely. He held that position for a long moment, his heavily-scarred limb trembling with the effort, then he rotated his arm and made a fist.

And, with no further hesitation, he sliced himself open with three successive, parallel gashes.

Blood immediately ran down his arm in rivulets and spattered onto the ground below the dais. He grunted and squeezed his fist repeatedly, encouraging the flow. The sudden tang of copper made Aloth mildly nauseous. Or maybe it was the anticipation. Or the worry that had plagued him ever since he purchased the phial. In theory, the venom should have remained potent, even when dried. But, it wasn't as though he'd ever attempted this before, or knew anyone with experience in such proclivities. The local libraries certainly had no texts on the topic. And the chemist who reluctantly sold the venom to him had been of no help either, only emphasizing its danger and strongly encouraging a regimen of leeching instead.

Aloth pressed his lips together grimly. Perhaps he should have tested it on something first.

Before he could dwell on his mistake, however, the prophet spun and beckoned him upwards with the bloodied tip of his knife. Aloth hesitated, cringing inwardly, but Cydrel bowed stiffly and reluctantly obeyed. He walked to the edge of the dais, where the man deftly flipped the knife, caught it by the blade, and offered it to his guest once more. The confidence and determination that had filled Aloth when he'd snatched the knife in the darkness of night was nowhere to be found by the light of day.

His fingers slowly curled around the hilt once more. It was warm from the prophet's touch. Aloth's face was warm too, uncomfortably so. His heart pounded wildly in his chest and the knife quivered in his grasp. His thoughts raced desperately, searching for another graceful delay or an acceptable excuse, but they found nothing. He didn't have his grimoire, either. And he doubted he could run fast enough to make it out of the courtyard before somebody caught him.

Perhaps— Perhaps the venom wasn't working after all, and it would be okay if he made one small incision. A tiny slice. Or, perhaps he could pretend to trip, and lose the knife in the pond. No, that wouldn't work. It was too far away. He needed to think of something, though.

The prophet's eyes narrowed beneath his drooping, sun-mottled brow. His lips pulled into a disapproving frown.

He growled Cydrel's name, then roughly grabbed Aloth's free arm and yanked it parallel to the ground. He nodded once at the knife. Then at the exposed flesh. Then he bent Cydrel's hand back painfully for emphasis.

Fresh panic jolted through him. Why wasn't it working? He'd used the entire phial! How was the man still standing? And, for that matter, how had he ever thought himself clever for this plan?! Sickness roiled in Aloth's stomach. His skin thrummed unpleasantly. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, almost faint—

Faint.

He let the knife clatter to the ground, then buckled his legs to follow it.

As Cydrel collapsed, the prophet fell with him. A communal gasp sounded from the crowd when they both crashed into the dais. Immediately, his wrist stung and Aloth knew he'd landed on it poorly, but he didn't dare move or open his eyes. Atop him, the old man spat a litany of curses, then pushed himself up, carelessly jabbing his hands and weight into the flesh beneath him while Aloth fought to remain still. The man made a noise of derision, then Aloth heard the scuff of sandals and the metallic draw of a blade as it was picked up from the ground.

Right.

If the man hadn't offered any mercy to a trauma-shocked mother, then why would he care at all about someone who'd merely fainted?

He tensed as the prophet's hand circled around his wrist again. The grasp was sticky and Aloth tried not to shudder as he felt the other man's blood start to trickle down his own arm. The old man dragged him a short distance, grunting with the effort, then released his limb. It fell over the edge of the dais, ready to water the garden.

If he rolled over, he could fall too. Then he could still try running away. Or he could startle awake and plead sickness. Or cowardice. None of those options would truly stop anything, though. At this point, if a good way out this mess still existed, then Aloth couldn't see it. All he could do now was wait to feel the sting of the knife as it finally bit into his own flesh.

But… did escaping that fate even matter? His plan seemed to have failed spectacularly. And now he'd possibly ruined his cover identity as well.

Around him, a soft breeze ruffled his hair and the cicadas continued their ceaseless drone.

…Was he not even worthy of offering his blood anymore? Had he insulted their hospitality by passing out? Or— Had he already been cut, and just not felt it? The blade had seemed awfully sharp. No, if he'd been cut, then surely he would have felt his own blood. So… what was taking so long? Why hadn't he been cut yet?

What was wrong?

Dread settled his stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. Something was wrong. He couldn't hear the villagers or the prophet anymore. He couldn't hear anything but the insects and a steady patter of drips. He swallowed softly, then chanced cracking his eyes open to take a peek, hoping that no one would notice.

He needn't have worried.

From the limited angle he had on the crowd, he could tell they were looking toward the dais, but not at him. And they weren't just looking. They were staring. In wide-eyed horror. One man turned away. Another covered his mouth with both of his hands.

Then a woman screamed and the crowd erupted with her.

Shouting and more screaming and the slap of sandals against gravel all echoed across the courtyard. Aloth's hair whipped back and forth as several people ran by him. In the chaos, all he could discern from the noise were fleeting snippets of prayer cried out to many gods by many different voices. As the clamor around him intensified, he opened his eyes fully and slowly turned to the center of the dais.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

A few feet away, the prophet knelt spread-legged, his back arched and his head tilted toward the sky. His eyes were dark pools of crimson weeping ribbons of blood down his face. It oozed from his nose and ears and mouth too, staining his skin red as it streaked down his body, down his arms, down the blade, down to the ground to pool around him. Convulsions racked his torso and pulled his sopping vestment taut then loose with a sickening, rhythmic squish. Stringy bubbles foamed and popped between his lips—and Aloth realized the man was choking on his own blood.

This… wasn't what he'd wanted. He just… the man needed to die, yes. But Aloth had wanted him to die without suspicion, in the exact same manner he'd condemned so many others. Not like… this.

Aloth tried to sit up, but when he put his arm behind himself, it slid out from under him. He fell back into hot wetness. His eyes widened then he scrambled backwards in a panic, slipping and falling several more times as he tried to gain traction. He turned over and struggled to his knees, crawling away from the puddle as he gasped heavily. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take deep breathes against the sickness rising his throat.

It didn't help that he could taste the blood in the air, acrid and metallic. The smell coated his tongue and nostrils. Somehow, the courtyard reeked of it more than it had month ago. Or maybe it only seemed that way because he was… soaking in it. He exhaled through gritted teeth and tried not to think of the gore wetting his hair or the stickiness coating his arms or the gunk imbedded under his fingernails. Vile as it made him feel, none of that was important, not truly. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that he'd achieved what he set out to do, even if he hadn't accomplished it in the manner he would have preferred.

The prophet was dead. The people were free of his tyranny and his bloodletting. And the Leaden Key's stranglehold here had finally been ended.

A faint smile pulled at his lips. He wanted a long, hot bath when he got back to his room. Though, he doubted he'd ever be able to fully clean himself of what he'd done today. That too, didn't matter. Somebody needed to do something to stop this—he had needed to do something. And, dirtying his hands, literally and metaphorically, well, Aloth could live with that, knowing the village would finally be allowed to prosper as a result. Now, all he needed to do was make sure that knife was cleaned too, before…

He craned his head to the side and felt the world drop out from beneath him.

No, they—

They didn't have to do this anymore. He'd stopped it. He'd— The man was gone! Why were they still cutting themselves open?!

Aloth's stomach sank as he watched in stunned and growing horror.

…What had he just done?

Notes:

Written for @pillarspromptsweekly #54 re: how the companions learned their multiclass talents for Deadfire. Hope it, uh, counts.

When Aloth admitted to the Watcher that he'd arranged for somebody to have an 'accident' in Old Vailia, that certainly read as the action of a rogue to me, right down to the obfuscating language he used to describe the assassination he committed. And, Aloth being Aloth, I like to think his direct knowledge of all things roguish was experimentally self-taught and hard won, that his classroom was wherever he labored against the Leaden Key, and that his lessons were difficult, painful, and frequently teetered on disaster.

Oh, Aloth, you sweet summer child.

#pillars of eternity #pillars prompts weekly #aloth corfiser #zfic

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man-i-dont-know · 6 years

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BNHA Chapter 167: Thoughts and Spoilers (emphasis on spoilers)

Well, I am on time for once, mainly cause I really want to talk about this chapter. So, let’s get into it. ((Fair warning, this one is long. Half way down is about where the important thing is discussed, it starts with a “...”))

Bakugou is clean up crew for the ice slide, he’s pissed but he likes to blow things up. The kids also help with the clean up and the tear is so thankful and promises to teach them well. Todoroki is there making sure kids are a safe distance from Bakugou while he is on demolition duty. The kids and high schoolers part on a positive note, promising to be friends, apologizing for taking stuff, and possibly agreeing to take up a hero role in the future (that kid who Todoroki said had a good quirk for rescue purposes). All the high schoolers leave the building some time later, which i was disappointed by, apparently this was just a lecture before the make up exam? I was under the impression that this was the actual exam... oops. Anyway they leave and run into a group of people outside.

All Might, Present Mic, Endeavor, Meat Grinder and Meat Grinder’s teacher are all talking. It seems that the two schools wish to work together more closely due to the League of Villains sudden advances on both schools. Endeavor tries to act like a father to Todoroki, and Todoroki dodges a head pat (I know it sounds like he is a toddler, but in this situation it hardly seems immature). Endeavor says that he is proud of Todoroki, which provokes a look of shock, or at least that is what it seems like. Anger is probably a better word. Here is what I think though, since the emotion is hard to pin down immediately, it is probably meant to be confusing, or a mix of emotions. Which makes sense, Todoroki has never once seen his father be supportive in a way that hasn’t been fulled by ambition or hate. Endeavor then goes farther and says that he will be a hero that will make Todoroki proud of him. It is a step. I believe that there should have been other things that he should have talked about or apologized for first, but if Endeavor went straight to the heart-felt apology right off the bat, then that would have been terrible and unconvincing character development. I don’t know how I want his character to develop, but I am looking forward to whatever it is.

Todoroki doesn’t seem impressed by what his father said, which makes sense. Then possibly my favorite reaction panels came up: Inasa watched all of this, punched himself, hard, and went straight back to his straight-face, all this has Camie in the background looking on with concern. I like this little add in cause right after, Inasa goes up to Endeavor, the only hero he has ever hated and says that he will root for him to improve himself. I love this cause it shows both Endeavor and Inasa are going to grow as individuals (which is weird to say an adult will grow as an individual, but people never really stop growing, maturing, or gaining wisdom). This is definitely a reoccurring theme throughout the series, growth. Learning from mistakes and making the best of the opportunities that are given to you. I really love that theme.

While I did just say I like that theme a lot, when everyone parted ways, Todoroki looked away from Endeavor smiling, and that doesn’t sit too well with me. I suppose the main reason is that Todoroki’s trauma probably relates to a lot of different readers, and I don’t particularly want to see Endeavor become nice and Todoroki forgive him while all those readers either lose sympathy/empathy or someone they can relate to. I also don’t like it because I would think it would take much longer for Todoroki to come to terms with everything, but instead he is showing signs of accepting already (that one smile). However, personally, I want to see them both grow, and to back up my argument I say this, it would have to be a whole family thing to do it. Todoroki was the one singled out by his father, his siblings were mostly ignored, which is painful in its own way (if the father was a good guy), so in the end, forgiveness would rely on Todoroki and his mother. The mother seems even less likely to forgive, but we don’t know her personality at all beyond her... mental break... I suppose you could call it, and that sure as heck is not her whole personality. I will be able to better judge where everyone’s relationship in that family if I got to see some conversation between Todoroki and his mother, along with the siblings (ignoring the Dabi = Todoroki theory, cause Dabi might not be an abusive family member but he is a mass murderer/arsonist and in a family full of heroes, that is probably frowned upon by all members of the family).

We then see some repercussion of the last arc, Sir Nighteye had his funeral, Nighteye’s office was taken over by Centipede, the internship was suspended and Centipede and the other sidekicks are awaiting Mirio’s return. Eri has also woken up and her fever has gone down, her horn that seems to be the center of her quirk has shrunk and is little more than an adorable little thing that makes Eri that much more endearing. Unfortunately her mental state is still considered unstable, so Deku and the others haven’t had a chance to see her again, which suuuuucks big time. I want them to all meet and be happy. Is that too much to ask? Probably. But I will await that day to eventually come. And finally, we see them in an actually class setting (which is something that has always thrown me, lots of anime and manga take place in class rooms but I have never seen anyone actually doing classwork, with the exception of Light from Death Note in episode 1). Well they are learning Calculus it looks like, Kaminari is straight up dead (understandable), Jirou and Tokoyami seem lost but have good poker faces for the teacher, Momo is diligently working and Deku is feverishly working, even though he eventually gets it wrong (relatable). And even though Mineta is a little gremlin, his interaction with Deku after he got the question wrong was strangely close and seemed totally normal, like “hey man don’t worry about it.” Doesn’t change the fact that he is a gremlin though...

... Then the beginning of the true reason I wanted to write this one out. Aoyama appears out of nowhere during the break and starts feeding Deku cheese. The sheer effort put into the two panels where Aoyama feeds Deku is astonishing, as well as the closeness of these two dudes was... tense. The whole act felt intimate and Deku was blind-sided by this. Aoyama’s comedic timing is fantastic too. He has a whole panel to himself where he is just chewing on cheese, another panel of him trying to offer more cheese and a third whole panel of him just swallowing cheese, never once did he blink. Truly perfect timing and spacing. Then, just to be extra, he sets up his lunch, first with a tablecloth over his desk, then a wine glass, plate, knife and fork (does he carry those in his school bag?), and his wine glass is filled with juice more likely than not. So, ultimately, he is 110% extra.I’m not done there though. The narrator (future Deku) comes in and says that he never could understand Aoyama, and that his true colors would soon show. “True colors? What could that mean?” Well I am glad you asked! It means that in the last couple panels of the chapter, Aoyama is literally standing outside Deku’s window at night (since before 1 am) watching him do homework and watching him sleep. There are a couple things that are absolutely horrifying with this picture: Aoyama’s posture is so that he is leaned up against the window, palm flat against the glass, he is staring down at Deku while he is in bed, his facial expression is the same as always (meaning a tight smile), and he has some wacky bootcut type pants that flare way out at the bottom below the knee. So.... what the hell? Where did this come from? Where is the explanation? Do I want an explanation?

Here is how I see it, there could be three things happening here, I will list them in from most understandable to least understandable. 1.) That is actually Toga, which would explain why she feed him earlier and is watching him so closely, she wants to as close to him as humanly possible since she “fell in love” with him, and it also makes sense that the League of Villains wants to keep a close eye on him. 2.) Aoyama is the traitor, so he is watching Deku for the purpose getting information for the League. 3.) He is... just... “deviant.” Somehow got into U.A. so that he could do the same thing Mineta is doing, to get close the attractive people. The problem with why this is so shocking is that the feeding and the watching at night are intimate and stalkerish actions respectively, which hasn’t really been talked about so far. Abuse, extreme violence, careless violence, and even arousal/excitement from violence (Toga/Muscular) have all been discussed, but crimes of a seemingly sexual nature is particularly uncomfortable to consider especially when most of the cast are great, pure-hearted high schoolers. Heck, Deku has nearly fainted from dealing with Mei, how would he react knowing that someone is watching him while he sleeps with possibly indecent intentions? All of what I just said was about option 3, I won’t go into option one because that one is the most understandable of the three, so I will just discuss option 2.

He is the traitor. If this is the case, then it was/is brilliantly executed. Aoyama’s personality is so over the top all the time that it would probably be easier to describe it as someone role playing as a stereotypical French person. Since his whole persona seems to be a character, it is so abstract that it is hard to understand even if you spent a lot of time with him, which he hasn’t with anyone. Plus his natural dramatics would make it easy to lie, since dramatic lying would look the same as dramatic truth telling. If that is confusing imagine this: “hey did you do the homework?” “!!!! Oh Non!!!! I started to do so!!!! Until I saw a stain my suit or armor!!!! I simply had to polish the suit!!! It would not be nearly SpArKlY enough had I left it!!! My ImAgE!!!!” “... ok dude.” Obviously an exaggeration, but that is the gist, if he is normally like that than how could anyone tell if he was lying? Then there is the fact about his quirk.

A while ago (I forget which post), I talked about who the traitor could be based on the usefulness of their quirks, but Aoyama has such a straight forward quirk, how could it possibly help? After this chapter I started to wonder something, how come we only ever see Aoyama using his quirk with his belt on? Sure it could be a safety measure (like X-Men Cyclops’ shades), but what if the belt was just a tool? And we don’t actually know what Aoyama’s quirk is? Truthfully, that would have been hard to get by the design company, but I like the theory so I an gonna bypass that fact for a moment. If Aoyama’s “quirk” is simply the belt, imagine the potential of him having a hidden quirk, or worse yet, he could give the belt to someone like Toga and boom, suddenly the shape-shifter also has the original’s “quirk.” Toga would be indistinguishable from Aoyama, and since his personality is so wacked, have small/major changes in personality probably would be overlooked, the same way that Toga was able to replace Camie so well. ((this could also mean that Aoyama isn’t the traitor but simply had his place switched based on the recommendation of the real traitor. Basically the Six Braves situation where “oh you are the traitor, now the number is good. Oh wait there’s another? Then there is another traitor?”))

Ok. I’ve tired myself out. I’m done, tapping out. Thank you for reading, sorry it was a long post, but I feel that it was needed to get my thoughts out there. So thank you again for reading, I hope you all have a great day.

#bnha #bnha spoilers #bnha thoughts #bnha theories #katsuki bakugou #todoroki shouto #Yoarashi Inasa #camie bnha #endeavor #deku midoriya #aoyama yuuga #toga himiko

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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The Jane Doe Murders Review: Compassionate True Crime Doc Provides Closure

https://ift.tt/3nbdnMj

This The Jane Doe Murders review contains spoilers.

The Jane Doe Murders is another in a long line of true crime breakdown procedurals. However, it showcases something rare but obvious in the majority of these video journalism projects. At the heart of the case which is probed on Oxygen’s two-hour forensic investigation special is a personal story. The victim is neither famous nor infamous. She wasn’t at the center of a nationwide manhunt. Parents weren’t told to check on their kids at 10 o’clock because of her. Her case went unsolved without so much as a name to identify her. The series points out there are nearly 40,000 open cases in the U.S. where the victim of a violent crime is unidentified. The victims are called Jane or John Doe. They become cold cases. The Jane Doe Murders brings warmth as well as closure.

It’s not the most exciting thing Oxygen has brought us. It fills another need. One which viewers might not even know is out there. Finding answers to crimes we never heard about, and victims who’ve been lost to even the most local of history. The highlighted case has baffled local law enforcement for 23 years. A woman was left for dead in the remote woods of Polk County, Oregon. All that is left, after animals scavenged the body and the elements ravaged the tissue, is the skeleton.

The special is anchored by forensic specialist Yolanda McClary, who worked for the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department for 26 years. Sixteen of those years were spent in the crime lab. Picture her as a mad scientist with a badge. What really gets her angry are the families who get cheated out of their grieving process because the official process fails. The Jane Doe Murders is a procedural, but finds a way to reassemble the process in a new way.

The Jane Doe Murders is almost the inverse of most true crime documentary shows. The majority of these projects start with a victim and hunt for a killer, either because the crime has been unsolved or because someone else was charged and wrongfully convicted of it. Here we don’t actually know if there is even a crime. The documents in the Polk County Sheriff’s office lists her only as a “Suspicious Death.” The only thing the officers have to giver McClary when the investigation begins is a set of 23-year-old bones. Bones don’t have any soft tissue which can determine a knife wound. These particular bones have no signs of physical trauma to determine a bullet wound.

What the bones do show is Jane Doe had been a mother. There are certain ligatures on the pelvis. This puts fire into the search because now McClary imagines the woman’s child looking for a missing parent. The investigators get no leads based on a forensic anthropologist’s sketch of the dead woman. McClary moves to DNA testing and databases. The process is fleetingly fascinating because it is the best example of how she has to create something from nothing.

McClary, who also assisted investigator Paul Holes on the true crime shows The DNA of Murder and Cold Justice, kept in contact with her hometown team of trusted genealogists, and their access to technology, like DNA databases. Certified genealogist Charles McGee explains forensic genetic genealogy. The team base their findings on people who share a percentage of their DNA with Jane Doe. They begin with GEDmatch, a genealogy database used by law enforcement to compare unidentified remains with recorded data.

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The sequence starts by making it look like a search for a needle in a haystack. But the experts working the dials quickly get thousands of partial matches. This excites them because they get to the work of breaking down the data to more accessible information. They go through marriage certificates, adoption papers, and finally actually begin talking to people who might actually have first-hand information.

Once the clues are put together, and a name replaces Jane Doe, the family has to be told. In this particular case the team has put enough together to be assured of their findings, and are looking for confirmation. This comes when the special is about a third of the way through, but the twist is now the family has to deal with, not only a grief, but disappointment.

After the initial connection is confirmed, the family history plays out with more detail than most people get on Ancestry.com. The DNA matchups veer through an alcoholic marriage, an accident reported in a local paper, adoption, and a crime. The connective tissue is very strong. The team fills in gaps with other family members. One of the original investigating sheriff’s officers remarks on how much you can learn from a third cousin. He is visibly surprised.

The special inadvertently showcases how investigators in cases like these need connections as much as those affected by the loss. The forensics team is happy to share information they have because they are hungry for the information which comes in from the family members they track down. Each lead fills in missing details until they actually get to people who remember the victim as a person. People who can give very specific and personal details. We learn Jane Doe, Kathie, once she’s been identified, could sing. Other than that, she didn’t live a fairy tale life. She had a short-lived marriage, which lasted under a year.

Once the team establishes who the bones belong to, they theorize on the crime. They make connections, and even visit possible suspects. But their aim is more to reconnect the family members, not only with the formerly unidentified crime victim, but with each other. The team has collected names of aunts and uncles these people didn’t know they had because of the mystery of what happened to this woman. The special gets particularly weepy during the recollection of a sad parting scene. “Mommy I want to go with you,” is the one of the only memories one person in the special retains of the former Jane Doe.

The Jane Doe Murders is a more emotionally cathartic entry into the true crime catalog. It is still played very dryly, but the players bring a sense of personal accomplishment to each finding. The special starts at a point of impossibility and ends on a compassionately restorative note. These cases are out there, and they can have satisfying conclusions. It also shows how even the most seemingly mundane character has an interesting backstory when you start rattling bones.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The Jane Doe Murders premiered Sunday, Jan. 3 at 7 p.m. on Oxygen.

The post The Jane Doe Murders Review: Compassionate True Crime Doc Provides Closure appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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dahniwitchoflight · 7 years

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Something kinda disturbing in Ace Attorney: Spirit of Justice that I feel the need to talk about

Not something I usually talk about I know, but there’s a certain character in case 4 I think, the one about Rakugo stuff (spoilers btw if you havent played it and care about the ace attorney series lol) that just.

has so many disturbing implications and when playing it with my boyfriend I got Very Upset about it cuz the actual reveal was very sudden and all like all the stuff before suddenly made sense to me all at once and i was like oh god and now I feel the need to make a post about it to be like I’m not the only one who noticed this right???

but basically warning for talking about disturbing content like severe child abuse and multiple personality disorder and sexual abuse esp so if those things upset you just warning there in here

but yeah lets just dive right into it holy shit Uendo Toneido what the hell happened to you???

theres SO MANY THINGS that point to disturbing things that happened to you when you were a child, but I have no idea if Capcom really intended to make this connection or make this that dark since in the case they never really go into his backstory at all at any point, not even why he has Multiple Personalities in the first place, and its not relevant to the murdercase at all, so its just, never touched upon or outright said but like, all of it fits together into a coherent narrative if you care to actually put the evidence side by side so theres no way it wasnt 100% unintentional but jesus christ.

Uendo was traumatically raped as a child. someone got him drunk and violently raped him, maybe even repeatedly, and thats where his MPD/DID and all of his alters come from. thats the only conclusion I can come to after everything about him that we know.

for one, this is a character that has multiple personality disorder with 4 alters:

Uendo, the rakugo performer, Patches, the jester, Kisegawa, the female courtesan, all adults and can share memories and front at the same time kinda, and Owen, the child who has separate memories and can’t front unless all 3 of the others do not

the first 3 are ones that are revealed when Uendo first reveals that he has MPD/DID, and for most of the case hes being accused as a murderer, with the first 3 protecting/hiding the fourth from the court at first

and firstly MPD/DID is already something that cannot exist without some kind of severe trauma happening in very young childhood, with the most common cause being severe sexual abuse that a child cannot handle on any level forcing the mental split into an alter that can handle it, so already just from that i know something bad happened to Uendo.

and one of the alters is a female Courtesan. aka a prostitute. so theres another point to the trauma and abuse being of a sexual nature, and I ain’t even close to being done with evidence pointing to something like that happening to Uendo as a child.

nextly in the case, the defense originally thinks 4th personality must be the murderer, since its a point made that they know Owen exists from other evidence and Owen’s memories are cut off from the other 3 Memories (with the first 3 all able to front at the same time and memory share, but Owen being a totally seperate one from the others)

but when he’s forced to reveal his 4th personality, its because the court mandates that they prove the defenses theory about Owen being unable to front unless the other 3 are unconscious by forcing him to consume alcohol to get pass out drunk since hes apparently a ridiculous lightweight, like he claims licking some off his fingers would make him pass out that much of a lightweight

its actually a baked good without about half a shot of uncooked alcohol in it thats apparently enough to make him pass out drunk, but the thing is its physically impossible to get pass out drunk from that amount, especially from a baked good which likely lost its alcoholic content anyway, especially because alcohol works on a physical level with your blood and brain and stuff, not a mental one and Owen the child showed no signs of being drunk at all immediately after, which highly suggests to me that hes not a lightweight, its just the taste of alcohol severely triggers him back into his trauma-child state.

thirdly, then its actually revealed that Owen isnt the murderer, but the witness to the murder, and god, the way that Owen is portrayed as absolutely scared and traumatized by watching his sister figure forcibly suffocate his father figure is awful, especially because hes so upset he cant remember all the details properly and is crying and shaking about the whole ordeal

and then exactly which details he blocked out over the course of the in-court therapy session just prove my point even more

A) like first he remembers standing somewhere, and merely seeing his dad also standing up with blood dripping on his face

B) then after some therapy digging, he remembers they were both lying on the ground and the blood drops make more sense

C) then after that is when he remembers that his sister figure is actually on top of his father figure straddling him and shoving dough in his face to suffocate him while bleeding on him because she accidentally got cut with a knife the dad guy was wielding

like the amount of blocking out to get from point C to point A is tremendous, and the fact that all the things being blocked out were the existence of another person in the process of straddling and murdering another person by pushing something into them, like when you ask why he would mentally block out those details and not other ones its becomes clear if you add the fact that as a child something very violently similar was done to him

and the only reason it was the inner trauma child that witnessed that and not Uendo the main fronting alter is because Uendo accidentally consumed alcohol from those very same baked goods I mentioned earlier and passed out in the same room, murderer just didnt think that this would cause Owen to come out, she just thought he was actually pass out drunk

but like, godamn, all of it is so, directly pointing to that one conclusion.

the fact that he has MPD/DID at all in the first place

the fact that one of his alters is a female prostitute

His unusal triggery reaction to the taste of alcohol, not the alcoholic content itself because there really wasn’t physically enough to do that

the way he blocked out certain details of an unrelated traumatic event because they were so similar to his original traumatic event/s

and I say possibly eventS because MPD/DID is what can happen after severe trauma. and one of the alters was a prostitute, suggesting that his brains way of eventually coping as a child was to create an alter that could handle what he was going through, aka repeated sexual encounters, something a prostitute’s whole job description entails

like holy fuck that is a seriously dark backstory for a character we never see before or after this one case that’s mostly unrelated to the larger ongoing plot of the game in the other cases

like Ace Attorney is not a game this dark and I have trouble believing Capcom really intended this, but its fits too perfectly to be pure coincidence and they HAVE made M Rated Ace Attorney games before. its just, never gotten to this level of dark, they only ever deal with murders and the occasionally theft, we’ve never had any dealings at all with any kind of sexual assault and even in this game its not delved into or relevant at all to the case Uendo is in

but anyway yeah I got really upset when Uendo’s 4th Alter was suddenly revealed to be a traumatized child and not the True Murderer like the whole case before was implying and hyping up because that was just too real too fast yknow. I was totally expecting the whole hollywood “mentally ill people are dangerous” narrative not something actually accurate to MPD/DID

edit*

prideandprejudiceandkittens replied to your post “Something kinda disturbing in Ace Attorney: Spirit of Justice that I...”

ok this is very insightful and likely, BUT kisegawa and the japanese idea of the "courtesan" (like geisha) IS NOT sexual. it isn't, really. japanese oiran (which is what kisegawa is clearly evoking) are sexual workers but their main role is to perform, they are trained under classical instruments, tea ceremony, calligraphy, etc. it's like a traditional display of femininity and much less centered around the whole "prostitute" part. just had to clear this up.

? I never said they were a Geisha or an Oiran, I said they were a courtesan/prostitute? I mean, they clearly are evoking the image of a prostitute with Kisegawa, but I never implied that that’s what a Geisha is. I never even said the word Geisha anywhere here

those performers like you said are elegant and perform femininity to entertain, Kisegawa is coarse and rough and female with harsh language and not presenting any skills like an entertainer (other than Rakugo like they all do) therefore Kisegawa is a female courtesan/prostitute?

#Ace Attorney #Uendo Toneido #spirit of justice #aa:soj #a lot of triggery content in here reader beware

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