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papermint-airplane · 2 months ago

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I wrote a drabble and now I'm making it your problem.

Remember her? Yesenia Mora, my new little awoo-wolf? I wrote a scene featuring her and I would like your onions on it if you'd care to read it. Critiques are welcome. Just be nice, I'm a fragile little grape.

It's less than 2000 words and a very rough draft I wrote in like two hours and *flaps hands* it is what it is but if you want to read it, here it is.

Deputy Daly slowed the police cruiser to a crawl. Silhouetted against the rosy sky, wreathed in gold from the setting sun, was the unmistakable figure of Yesenia Mora. She had her head down and her hood up but the single strand of bright pink dyed hair that had managed to escape containment gave her away. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder as she trudged along the side of the gravel road with a purpose known only to her -- and to be discovered later by Deputy Daly no doubt.

She wasn't a bad kid by any means. She was always polite and respectful when she was being handcuffed and shoved into the backseat of the cruiser, barely making a fuss at all when she was deposited at the front door of the rundown trailer she and her folks called home. A stern lecture, a promise to do better, and the same old song and dance repeating again and again the next night and the night after and the night after that. It was never anything too egregious, just your standard stupid kid shit. Some mild vandalism to public property here, some underage drinking there, a petty theft or two, but nothing that would get her sent to Big Girl Jail. She'd take her lumps in front of the judge every time, not trying to cast the blame on her hoodlum friends or an absentee father.

In fact, Eduardo Mora was anything but an absentee father, which Yesenia would be the first to tell you if you tried to attribute her behavior to her upbringing. He's a kind, loving, salt-of-the-earth type -- a real pillar of the community. He just sucks at wrangling his beast of a daughter, is all. He'd sit in the gallery giving her disappointed looks while she pleaded no contest to all charges and she'd do her best not to make eye contact with him while the judge sentenced her to yet another fifty hours of community service. After one particularly brutal reaming from a new judge who thought he could correct Yesenia's bad behavior by making an example of her -- a rookie mistake -- Deputy Daly caught a bit of the conversation between father and daughter as they exited the judge's chambers.

"Is it me?" Eduardo had asked in a weary tone. "Do I not pay enough attention to you? Am I missing some big red flag you don't know how to talk to me about?"

"No, Dad, it's not you," Yesenia groaned exasperatedly like it was the millionth time they'd had this very same talk. "You're a good dad. Everything's fine."

"Then why--"

"I don't know, ok? I just...it's not you."

The conversation ended abruptly in the parking lot where Eduardo's wife -- Yesenia's step-mother -- was waiting, impatiently tapping the toe of her knock-off Jimmy Choo, arms crossed, and looking for all the world like she'd rather be anywhere else but here.

"Are you done?" She demanded. "You promised you'd take me to the mall when this was over. The outlet is having a sale on--"

Their voices were drowned out by the slamming of the car doors and the engine turning over but Deputy Daly could see Mrs. Brianna Hartford-Mora's (as she insisted on being called) lips going a mile a minute as the car pulled away. Yesenia slumped in the back seat with a miserable expression on her face. What a cliché! Dad gets remarried to a much younger trophy wife after his divorce and his teenage daughter starts acting out in increasingly disruptive ways, all the while he's too dumb and horny to notice the new wife treats his kid like shit. A tale as old as time.

So it's no surprise that Yesenia would be out here on the shoulder of Route 203 looking for more mischief rather than going home. Whatever childish stunt she had planned now, however, was going to have to wait. It was far too close to nightfall and Yesenia was far too near the forest for Deputy Daly's comfort. She may have made some bad choices here and there, but she didn't deserve to die.

He flipped on the siren for a short burst to get the girl's attention. Her spine straightened for a moment before relaxing back into her trademark slouch and she turned to face the open passenger's side window.

"Problem, Deputy?" She grinned widely. Something about that grin always unsettled him. Maybe it was the way it never fully reached her eyes or maybe it was that it showed far too many teeth.

Deputy Daly shook his head. "Nope, no problem. Just wanted to see where you were heading at this time of night."

Yesenia shrugged. "It's not night yet."

"It will be soon enough. You don't need to be out here when it gets dark."

"Why? Afraid I'll steal a street sign or something?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." He returned the girl's smile. "It's dangerous to be out here in the dark."

Truth be told, it was barely safe during the daytime. There was a sinister quality about the forest that had locals petrified to so much as spare it a glance, let alone outright acknowledge it. When he'd first moved to Mintvale, during a search for a stolen trailer, Deputy Daly had suggested a canvass of the forest as the densely packed trees and unruly underbrush made it an ideal hiding spot for thieves. His fellow officers quickly shut him down with a look of shock and horror on every one of their faces.

"Nobody goes in there," he was told by one of the other deputies who'd lived in Mintvale for twenty years. "Nobody!"

When Deputy Daly intimated that he would simply search the area himself, the sheriff forbade him from taking any such action with such a fervent finality that he feared for his job were he to bring it up again. So he didn't. He bit his tongue and watched as missing persons case after missing persons case stacked up, all with one thing in common -- they went into the woods and were never seen again. The sheriff refused to do anything about it because sending a search party into its arboreal maw meant the department would lose several good men and women with nothing to show for it. It would be a suicide mission.

Now, with Yesenia so close to the treeline, Deputy Daly was terrified that her file would be the next to cross his desk. What would he tell Eduardo? That he saw her and didn't do everything in his power to stop her from breaking the one rule that maintaining the peaceful bucolic life in Mintvale entailed? Absolutely not.

"Where are you headed? Maybe I can give you a ride."

Yesenia scoffed. "In a cop car? Yeah, no thanks. I'd rather walk."

He flicked his eyes up to the steadily darkening sky. Yesenia did the same. The faint glimmer of the evening's first stars was just starting to peek through the wispy clouds and he knew it wouldn't be long before moonrise. It was going to be a full moon tonight which always spelled extra trouble for the Mintvale Sheriff’s Department.

"Yesenia, listen to me. You can't be out here." Her right hand, which hung loosely at her side, twitched. It was a barely perceptible movement but it didn't escape the deputy's notice. She was nervous. Hiding something. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing," came the answer. The girl thrust her chin out defiantly. "Nothing you need to be concerned about." The two stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment before Yesenia's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm just going to the college campus. To the library. To study." She hefted her backpack on her left shoulder to illustrate her point. "See? I got books and everything."

Deputy Daly heaved a sigh, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Look, I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm really not. I just want you to be careful."

Annoyance flickered across Yesenia's face and for a second, Deputy Daly thought he caught something else in her dark brown eyes -- something feral. It wasn't the first time he'd seen that look on her face. The night he found her attempting to break the chain holding Betty Fuller's shed closed with her bare hands, there was an animalistic rage boiling inside her that he'd only seen in grown men hopped up on PCP in the worst parts of the Seattle streets he worked before moving here. Never in a teenage girl. Never in Yesenia Mora. It had almost frightened him and it had occurred to him then that she might be capable of far more damage than he'd realized.

"I'm fine," Yesenia croaked out. Her voice was strained, like she was holding back a sudden surge of anger that threatened to break free at any moment. "Really. I promise. If...if I need you, I'll cal--" She was cut off by a sudden muscle spasm that had her doubled over in pain, leaning on the cruiser's door for support. Deputy Daly ripped off his seatbelt and made a grab for the door handle before Yesenia stopped him. "No! Don't get out! I'm fine!" She grabbed her waist. "Stitch in my side. Too much...exercise...after dinner...I'm good. I'm good." She repeated the last bit seemingly more to convince herself than Deputy Daly.

His hand faltered. He knew if he pushed her, she'd take off running, and he'd have to chase her down to haul her into the sheriff's department and call her father to come pick her up. It'd happened before many times. The issue now was how much time they'd waste doing the Tom and Jerry routine while nightfall rapidly approached and the dangers in the forest grew in the cover of darkness. What was he supposed to do? Just let her go?

Yesenia raised her head to meet his gaze. Beads of sweat rolled down her temples as she struggled to conceal the agony overtaking her body. "Please. Go." Her voice broke into a pained whimper. "Please. While there's still time."

"Time for what?" he wanted to ask but he didn't get the chance. Another wave of pain wracked Yesenia's body and Deputy Daly could swear he heard bones cracking as she fell to the gravel beside the cruiser.

"Go!" she growled. Her voice sounded rougher now. Deeper.

"Only if you come with me."

Yesenia slammed her fist against the passenger door, causing the metal to buckle and bend inwards, forming the perfect shape of her knuckles. "Fucking get out of here!"

The sound of bones cracking was unmistakable now as her limbs twisted and contorted into unnatural angles where she writhed on the ground. Deputy Daly hesitated for a moment. He was about to shove open the car door to force the girl inside when he saw a hulking shadow lurking by the treeline, a pair of glowing amber eyes watching the scene intently.

The last vestiges of the sun were barely visible over the horizon now. It was too late. He couldn't stop whatever was going to happen now. With a spat curse, he threw the car into gear and stomped on the gas pedal. The engine roared to life, tires sending a hailstorm of gravel flying as he sped away, leaving Yesenia to whatever fate awaited her in that cursed forest. There was nothing he could do.

#writing #writers on tumblr #short story #vignette #tangentially sims related #just simblr things #sims story #so help me if this gets scraped for ai i'm going to flip a shit #original character donut steel #sim: yesenia mora

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fraglance · 9 months ago

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samantha-and-nellie · 1 month ago

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i *might* have taken a train trip recently, which prompted me to go through the samantha books and find every mention of trains.

... that's it, that's the post. enjoy!

(meet samantha)

(samantha's surprise)

(happy birthday, samantha!)

(samantha saves the day)

(changes for samantha)

(nellie's promise)

(the curse of ravenscourt)

(the cry of the loon)

(clue in the castle tower)

(danger in paris)

#the train ticket vignette!!! omg!!!#actually have no idea if anyone but me cares about this #but traaaaaains #i love train travel so much it's so nice #also i did just go through og central series/short stories/mysteries #so any revamps of the main stories might have more mentions that i missed #and there's obviously plenty of other samantha books/media that i didn't search (i know for sure the journey book has mentions)#and this was done just by keyword searching words like train and railroad #so totally possible that i missed things!#oh AND this is excluding mentions from the peek into the past sections #books #samantha parkington #lincoln #mrs. hawkins #from my slate #american girl #ag #agblr #american girl doll #grandmary #agnes pitt #agatha pitt #illustrations #nellie o'malley #uncle gard #aunt cornelia #admiral beemis #bridget o'malley #jenny o'malley

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ican-fixitbooks · 5 months ago

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Summertime - A Gray Ghost Story

(Hah)

It's summer, it's hot, and Valerie hasn't seen Phantom in over 6 months. Hasn't been with anyone for longer than that... and can't decide if she should go for what she's feeling now that their truce has been standing for years... or default to ignoring it. Which is harder now. She's been starting to like the cocky little ghost boy, who's very capable of taking care of himself... the problem is just about everything else.

But this is her last summer before college ends. If there's a time to try, it's now.

Chapter 4 has been updated - more to come soon! Happy New Year!!

#danny phantom #danny fenton #valerie gray #gray ghost #mature fic #short stories #vignettes #overarching plotline #these two should have been canon #Sams great but #you know #action #phantasy #romance

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sparrow-flight · 10 months ago

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Story 1: Here Now

[3715 words, 20 minutes]

1 January 2017 Winnipeg, Canada

The father walks the long way to the house that is not his own. He could’ve told the taxi to drop him at the door. Instead, he stops it at an intersection and it drives on without him.

In the 4am winter night, the father has no reason to fear anyone seeing him. The streets of this dingy neighbourhood are empty except for wet, brown snow that collects the deep footprints of strangers. The father has no reason to fear anyone robbing him. His pockets are light. They only hold an empty wallet, an expired driver’s licence, and a dead cell phone. And yet, the absence of life leaves room for imaginary danger. The father’s blue eyes stare down pockets of darkness, his tense legs ever ready to sprint.

He avoids the straight path that leads to his destination. Instead, he circles the housing block like a frantic bird, riding his own wings of instinct governed by survival, anxiety, and death. His metronome heart sets his quick pace, and when he makes the final turn that brings his destination into view, his heart drums to the swell of fear and excitement.

His eyes now squint in the dying light of sparse streetlamps, and he whispers to himself house numbers he passes in the language of a stranger. He stops at a small house. Its front has a door, a window with blinds, and a broken bulb with frozen cobwebs. Before the door is a wooden deck with stairs. Rusted nails barely hold the planks in place.

He walks up the stairs to the door and raises a fist to knock.

Fuck. No one’s going to be awake. God, I’m a fool. Got too excited—

Movement, through the crack beneath the door. It sparks the warm memory of the padded pit-pat of small, socked feet on hardwood floor. The father trembles. He doesn’t know if it’s from cold, excitement, or fear. He knocks before he decides.

The pit-pats are real now. He can hear them: larger, heavier, but undoubtedly theirs. The window blinds fold to form a peephole. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and the father stares down at an almost mirror image of himself. The same messy black hair, the same weary eyes: his eldest child, better than him in every way.

They speak in the language of family. “Daa?”

The eldest child throws themselves at their father, nearly knocking him off the stairs. He can’t help but laugh as he picks them off the snow, warmth bubbling out of him into his tight embrace. His child is taller and stronger now — an adult by all definitions. But to him, as they bury their face into their father’s chest, they’re still so small, so light, so easy to tear away from him like before.

—

It has been a year since the siblings have lived in this house together. The eldest, Hrodwyn, left Auntie Elmira’s care at the orphanage when they turned eighteen. They had saved up enough from their two jobs, and the two jobs continued to be enough for rent. Their two siblings followed them: their sixteen-year-old brother Merethel who always kept his long, black hair swept over his right eye, and their twelve-year-old sister Hygd who always kept a smile on her face. Auntie Elmira let them leave. She knew they were inseparable, and their father was relieved that they were.

It has been ten years since their father was wrongly sent to prison. On the red-blue night of his arrest at their doorstep, Hygd was three and wailing, Merethel was seven and scared, and Hrodwyn was ten and bold. Hrodwyn heard the officers yell “Gavrill Vorobyev” over and over, watched them slam their pleading father against a car, and felt their siblings shatter in their arms. As the officers drove their father away, Hrodwyn knew it was now their responsibility to protect their family. They knew it was now their responsibility to fix all the broken pieces their father left behind, even if it meant pricking their own fingers.

In the mornings following their father Gavrill’s return, Hrodwyn made sure every piece of the siblings’ lives were meticulously organised like glass figurines on display. Nervously, they presented their father their handiwork within the cabinet of cutleries and Tupperwares, the closet of detergent and cleaning supplies, the fridge door of schedules and chores. All this order balanced on a rickety shelf Hrodwyn had built; all this order came crashing down in days to make room for Gavrill.

At first, Gavrill did not see this as a problem. He saw no problem at all — he was finally free, and his senses flared with life. He relished the touch of warm skin instead of thin paper, savoured the sound of rich voices instead of broken static. And with every chip and crack he felt between him and his children, an echo of his wife’s voice would comfort him:

—You’re here now, she would say, and that’s all that matters.

But it did not take long for reality to slip through the cracks of his ignorance. That was what he got for dancing around “How did you get out of prison?” — that was how he began stepping on his children’s broken pieces.

—

4 February 2017

“Daa, daa.”

Gavrill jolts awake on the couch. Foreign babble plays to colourful cartoon ponies running across the television screen.

“Ah, sorry daa,” Hrodwyn whispers in the language of family, Ingush — Gavrill ensured Auntie Elmira taught them when he was in prison. “Do you want lunch? I was going to heat up the stew you brought home last night.”

Gavrill rubs his eyes. Yesterday, his new job called him to an orientation in Rio de Janeiro. He bought the stew before he flew back. “Sounds good. We should finish that soon. It smelled great! I think you will all like it.”

Hrodwyn smiles politely. “I’m sure we will.”

Gavrill stands up. He sees Hygd at the foot of the couch, knees tucked to her chest as she watches the cartoon. He looks around for Merethel and doesn’t find him — he’s probably studying in Gavrill’s bedroom, the only other room with a table. Hrodwyn is already in front of the fridge: a Tetris map of new groceries, wilting vegetables, and takeout boxes. They move the stew containers from the fridge to the microwave, then drift from the kitchen to Gavrill’s bedroom. A minute later, they return with Merethel grumbling behind them.

The microwave beeps. Gavrill opens it, but Hrodwyn beats him in removing the containers, slipping past him with an “it’s okay”. They place the containers on the bar table that divides the kitchen and the living room. Merethel catches a sniff of it and speaks in English.

“Wow, this smells good,” he dips his pinky into the side to taste it. “And it’s not spoiled!”

“Of course not,” Gavrill responds in Ingush. He brings one container to Hygd and sits next to her. “I wouldn’t feed you spoiled food.”

Merethel raises an eyebrow.. He takes a spoon from the drawer and the container of stew.

“Hey,” Hrodwyn says in Ingush. They sit across Gavrill. “Don’t go back to daa's room. Eat here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re always there,” Hygd says, also in English.

Merethel curls his lip. “And?”

“Hey, no English,” Hrodwyn reminds their siblings, who comply.

Hygd tries drinking the stew straight from the container and burns her tongue. “daa's been asking you to eat together with us, like, every day. Don’t you hear him?”

“Well, I’m sorry, but are you studying for a scholarship?” Merethel sets his stew down with a huff and sits across her. “I thought so.”

“Hey, come on,” Gavrill says. “Be nice to your sister. Can you get a spoon for her, please?”

“She can get it herself.”

Hygd frowns. “But you’re closer! They’re on your side!”

“Come on,” Gavrill sighs.

Merethel grumbles. “Why do you want me to give her a spoon so bad—OW!”

Hygd had kicked him underneath the bar table. He retorts by trying to kick her back, but she tucks her legs out of reach. Merethel kicks her chair instead. It screeches against the floor. Hygd grins at her fuming brother. He growls and tries again.

“Hey-hey! Enough!” Gavrill yells then bites his tongue. Shit, too harsh? He lightens up. "Don’t be like that. Just pass her a spoon, please. And one for myself as well."

The two ignore him and continue scrabbling. With a sigh, Hrodwyn clears their throat and glares. Only then do their siblings stop. A second glare makes Merethel pass a spoon to his father and sister. A third isn’t needed to make Hygd smile sweetly and thank him.

Fragile silence falls on the table. Gavrill tries to tread across it carefully towards his children.

“Well, this is nice. Um,” he smiles and looks at Hrodwyn. “I’m glad you got off your shifts today. I think this is the first time we’ve had lunch together!”

“Yeah! It took, like, a month,” Hygd tilts her head to Gavrill. “And you still haven’t told us what your new job is!”

Merethel scoffs. “Or what kind of company can hire a man out of jail.”

“Hey, I—” Gavrill opens his hands. “Those questions can wait until later. Why don’t you guys tell me about school?”

“Ugh, it’s boring stuff compared to what you’re doing! I think,” Hygd mixes her stew. “Why don’t you wanna tell us?”

“Yeah, daa,” Merethel says. “Why don’t you? You’ve had your orientation. You should know enough about your job to tell us about it now, right?”

“How was Rio? Did you see any birds?” Hygd swings her feet.

“It was very nice,” Gavrill smiles at her and folds his arms. “Very hot. But uh, the food was good! And there were little birds on the street. Oh! I forgot I got the three of you keychains—”

A loud slam and screech interrupts the conversation. Merethel had pushed his chair back. He stands up. “I’m going to my room.”

Hrodwyn tugs his sleeve. “Hey—”

“Don’t touch me,” he spits in English and yanks his arm away. “If he doesn't even want to talk about something normal like a job, what the hell else can we talk about?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk about it!” Gavrill shocks himself with his tone. He offsets it with a smile. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Come, sit, sit. You want to know what kind of company got me home, right?”

He gestures towards the empty chair. Merethel narrows his eyes and remains standing. The two other siblings also look at Gavrill in anticipation. His open mouth runs dry.

Helvetia Ltd. A private military contractor working for an R&D consultation firm funded by the G20. A company of hounds with global reach and infinite pay. A company that operates in the dark, hidden between the lines of conspiracy theories.

“A big company,” Gavrill finally decides. “Powerful, obviously, and they know I’m innocent, so they got me out. In exchange, I get a job right out of prison. And I get to be with all of you again!”

Merethel switches to Ingush, making sure his father understands him. “Very descriptive, daa.”

He storms off to the siblings’ shared bedroom. Hrodwyn reaches for him. Gavrill sighs and waves for them to stop. The bedroom door slams shut, and the two remaining siblings are left to contemplate their father’s response. They swallow it with lunch.

Soon, Hygd’s eyes creep to Merethel’s half-eaten stew, then to the hallway he vanished off to. She slides off her seat and picks up his stew with both hands.

“He still needs to eat.”

Her small feet shuffle down the hallway. Once she disappears around the corner, Gavrill deflates, burying his head in his hands. Hrodwyn stirs their stew.

“Are you not going to tell them anything?

Gavrill sighs as he picks himself back up. “I’m not going to tell any of you anything you don’t need to know.”

Hrodwyn leans towards him. “Daa, you can tell me. I’m an adult now. I can take it.”

He looks at his child, the bags beneath their eyes, and shakes his head. “It’s fine, really. It’s a good job with good pay. Contract-based, so I’ll be home most days. Don’t worry about it.”

Hrodwyn’s voice is quiet, fraught. “Then at least tell me you know who framed you. Were they caught?”

“No. And I don’t know who or where they are.”

“What? Then how does the company know you’re innocent? Did they reopen the case?”

“I don’t know.”

Gavrill continues eating his stew with downcast eyes. Hrodwyn stares at him. “Why aren’t you worried? That guy is still out there. What if you get framed again?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“It’s fine. Trust me.”

“Did the company tell you something?”

Gavrill closes his eyes and sighs. “Look. When I got arrested, the court said that they were going to lock me up until they found the real culprit. Ten years passed. No one figured it out. They’ve all moved on from that and I’ve moved on from that, too. I’m just glad I got out in the first place. That’s all.”

Hrodwyn is quiet for some time. “Will you tell me why you got hired? Is it because of something you did in Ingushetia?”

Gavrill stops eating. “What makes you think that?”

“I remember how you fought against Russians. I remember how mama died. It’s why we moved here, isn’t it? And now you have this strange job you don’t want to tell us about—”

A rap on the door interrupts them. Gavrill, relieved, quickly leaves the table. He peeks through the blinds, frowns, and cracks the door open. Wind cuts into his face. He looks down. A large package sits atop fresh snow. Its only identification is a tag taped onto it: “HROTHGAR”. The name his wife once gave him. The name he now gave Helvetia. Footprints trail away from the package to the road where it meets fresh tire tracks. No vehicle is in sight.

He scowls. He grabs the package, dusts snow off, slams the door shut, and locks it. Before Hrodwyn can see it, he rips off the tag and shreds it, pocketing the strips.

“Do you need help with it?” Hrodwyn tilts their head. “It looks big.”

“No, it’s fine. I think it’s from work. Do you have a cutter?”

Hrodwyn hands him a pair of scissors. He carries the package and the scissors into his bedroom and closes the door. Large luggages and old boxes are spread across the floor. Their contents, the salvaged pieces of a happier life once lived, have yet to be organised into wardrobes, sorted into shelves, or fitted into photo frames. Gavrill has no time or energy to. They’re not his children’s — they aren’t as important.

Gavrill pushes the luggages and boxes aside with his foot. He drops the package in the space he made. He sits on the floor, raises his hand, and plunges the scissors into cardboard.

—

The package contains Gavrill’s uniform: a three-piece navy suit with a golden tie and a pair of black oxfords, and a durable coat designed for urban environments. The suit feels too expensive to bend his arms in. He tries wearing it without creasing the fabric. It takes a long time — long enough for his two children to knock on his door: Hrodwyn who stared in confusion, and Hygd who brimmed in awe.

By then, Gavrill still had not worn the entire uniform — he had forgotten how to tie a tie. He could count the number of times he has done it in his life on his hands, with all but one count being for court hearings. So Hygd gets to work. She pulls her father out into the living room and opens a YouTube tutorial. Time passes. Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s fussing grows louder without them coming any closer to their goal. Their commotion annoys Merethel enough for him to bring out his own tie for a snarky demonstration. Soon, all three siblings end up circling their father for final touches: fitting the golden tie, tightening the vest, and smoothening the suit as Gavrill stands stiff like a Christmas tree.

When they’ve finished, Hygd steps back to look at her father like a panel judge. She watches Hrodwyn attach the final piece: Helvetia’ lapel pin bearing a cross in a shield. Hrodwyn steps back to join their sister. Gavrill remains frozen in place.

“I feel so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Hygd grins. “You look cool!”

“Do I?” he looks at his other two children with an uncertain but small smile. My daughter called me cool.

"You look… expensive. Very expensive," Hrodwyn gazes at the suit's double vents, the trousers cut to the curve of Gavrill’s legs, and the hand-stitched buttons. "How much did this cost, daa?"

"More than the suit I rented for my own wedding, that's for sure,” he grumbles. In a clearer tone, "I don't know. The company covered it. But what looks wrong?"

"You don't look comfortable in it. It shows.”

"When was the last time you combed your hair?” Merethel adds. “Or got a haircut?"

Gavrill grimaces. "I didn’t need to touch a comb or cut my hair back there. I only trimmed it now and then. Is it that bad?”

Merethel is quick. “Yes.”

Hygd punches his arm.

“It’s not that bad,” Hrodwyn taps their chin, “but if you did something to your hair, you can look more professional.”

"Oh! Wait, daa, sit, sit," Hygd drags her father to the couch and forces him to sit. She crawls behind him, kneels, and gently combs through his lightly greying hair with her fingers. A spare yellow hair tie comes off her wrist. She bunches his hair together. "Too tight?"

He shakes his head. "What are you doing?"

"Tying a bun," she does so expertly with a quick twist, then jumps off the couch to look at him. She grins at the team effort. “Daa! You look like a thousand bucks! Here, here.”

She grabs her father’s hand, which squeezes hers in return, and leads him into the siblings’ bedroom. Hrodwyn and Merethel follow behind. She turns on the lights and pulls him in front of the chipped mirror mounted on the wardrobe door. “What do you think, daa?”

Gavrill stares at his reflection. His smile dissolves. He doesn’t recognise himself. He only recognises Agent Hrothgar, Helvetia’s newly hired murderer, wrapped in a gallant lie of navy blue as he stands in the bedroom of children.

Hygd smiles brightly. “So..?”

Hrodwyn notices his stare. “What’s wrong, daa?”

If he doesn’t recognise himself, will his children recognise him? After a job that hails bullets and shrapnels at his body and his mind, after he returns too splintered to shield them from the truth, will they recognise him as their father? He can try to convince them. He can try to be the best father he can be to erase the decade when he wasn’t. He can try to pretend that he’ll never leave them again, that he’ll always be there for them, that he’ll cut himself wrapping his splinters to hold them tight and never let them shatter into pieces again—

—Our children are smart. You can only do so much to protect them, Gav. How would you rather them find out? Her smile would sadden. With a voice full of conviction, she would say: —Don’t you have enough regrets?

Gavrill looks away from his reflection. His eyes drift to his children.

“You need to know about my job. Can we talk?”

Gavrill sits on Merethel’s bed, next to Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s bunk bed. He pats his side. The siblings, surprised by his directness, move to sit next to him.

He twiddles his thumbs. "This job I have, it's... dangerous. The company is even more dangerous. They have a lot of power, a lot of money,” he tugs at his three-piece suit. “They were able to pay my bail and hire me out of, well, you know, in exchange for my… skills. And I—” he hesitates, “I can’t leave unless…"

“You die,” Hrodwyn states.

Gavrill pauses, then nods. Their delivery stings.

The room falls silent. Hygd curls into a ball. Merethel tries masking his nerves.

"Ah, well, it's like, uh, working for the military then, right? There's always a high chance of death, and it's a risk some people with families take."

Gavrill’s voice is soft, defeated. "I'm sorry."

“It’s fine. It’s… whatever,” Merethel looks away. “It’s not like you’ve never been gone before.”

Gavrill winces and opens his mouth. Hrodwyn interrupts him. “Don’t apologise. You had no choice and you did what you had to do. They were never going to reopen your case. There will never be another option for you besides this one.”

Gavrill hates how he sees himself in his child’s placid eyes.

"What should we know about the job?” Hrodwyn continues. “What do we have to do?"

"I'll be here until the company calls me. Whatever they tell me to do, no matter how dangerous, I must follow. The company also has enemies. Keep the blinds closed, don’t let strangers in, never enter the house when someone’s watching, and always tell each other where you are, hmm?" he raises his phone. "If something’s wrong, call me or Auntie. Don't let anyone in the house. You still have Auntie’s phone number, yes?"

The children nod.

“Good. And lastly,” he voice softens and he wraps his arms around his children, "don't worry about me. I will always do my best to come home to you. I may get hurt, but I will always come home. Okay? My fight is to go back home to you, no matter what."

He pulls them in closer. The cracks between them remain but in this moment, the family is whole.

"I am here now. And I swear by my last dying breath, I will never, ever, let anything take us apart again."

Hygd picks her head up from her tucked knees. “Promise?”

Gavrill hooks his pinky with all his children’s and smiles. He cuts himself with his words and hopes it never heals.

“I promise.”

---

First | Next About the Flight | List of Stories | Official Website and Newsletter

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shypixiered · 6 months ago

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A *Completed* Fic Advent Calendar Eight years after the events of Persona 5, Makoto starts to notice how lonely things have gotten. Fortunately, Ren has recently moved back to the city. From the beginning: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60998332/chapters/155829913

Merry Kurusumas to all, and to all a good night!

#shumako #makoto niijima #joker x makoto #persona 5 #joker x queen #niijima makoto #my fanfic #fanfic #fic advent #story told daily in short vignettes

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pawseds · 8 months ago

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愛してる • Aishiteru

In which "Snakebite", runaway teen by circumstance turned yakuza information broker, sneaks into his mother Hibara's house. He leaves her money, as he does every month. She grabs onto the ghost of his presence and searches for him, as she does every month. She is running to the door, crying for him to return. He listens from outside, knowing he can't for her safety.

[325 words, characters belong to @mintrhine]

Snakebite closes his eyes. The months with Kensuke have reminded him of not only what home felt like, but how much he missed it.

Is that how you feel, ma?

He forces himself to listen. He forces himself to listens to the punishing call for the little boy who has run too far in a game of tag, the desperate cry for the young man who has run too far to ever return.

Is this what I have done to you?

He can't blame her for still chasing after him, or for thinking nothing has changed. After all, the last memory he gave was one of young eyes and dark hair she shielded her whole life. It was that little boy's fragile innocence she guarded from the closed doors where he was born; the closed doors of rough nights and rougher hands, where men bruised her dignity in secret to uphold their own in public.

She doesn't know better than to stop. He can't blame her, either. She has spent 15 years doing nothing but protecting him -- now it was all she knew to do. But her little boy has grown, whether either of them liked it or not; the little boy has always known what his mother did behind those closed doors; and that little boy has changed because of it, whether for better or for worse.

But if it takes Snakebite's guilt and his mother's broken heart to finally open a new door for her, then so be it.

It's my turn to protect you now, ma. I'm sorry.

And he knows that there is only room for one beyond that door.

I don't regret anything. I don't want to regret anything. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

The door opens. Hibara runs out into the night. Her son is not there. She is too late. Only his shadow remains as a piece of paper lying at her feet.

大好きいつも、ありがとう愛してる

---

I offered @mintrhine, one of the Helvetia players, to help write his NPC Yamasaki "Snakebite" Ryumi from the background of his PC Tatsu/Kensuke in a play-by-post/open roleplay kind of situation. This is an unedited segment of what I've written for that! I thought it'll be nice to explore this aspect of him to add another dimension to him.

As evidenced by my writing project @sparrow-flight, I treat these as writing practice and I kinda put my braincells into this part that reads like a tiny character sketch/exploration, so why not put it up here? I should put up more writing here, anyway, even if they're nothing too neat but short and sweet! I think the door metaphor that mirrors reality is alright, and I also like the last paragraph full of puns. Double meanings brr (I wrote this while walking home from a midterm and then squatting in my bedroom)

I also tried putting 3 different levels of saying 'I love you' in Japanese in increasing order of meaningfulness/intensity? I don't speak the language so feel free to let me know if it doesn't work!

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groovebunker · 11 months ago

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niles fixes her with a death stare from the front of the church when the priest asks if anyone knows why max and fran should not be married.

as if she’s going to interrupt.

as if she’s going to ruin the happiest day of fran’s life.

#fran x cc #cc x fran #francc #the nanny #my fic #an experiment in short story writing bc the vignettes don't count #thank you to the_frankenman_writes for the tips!!#oh look a taylor lyric as a title

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roshiwrites · 4 months ago

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You Look Pretty

You look pretty standing in my doorway in your oversized cardigan. The yarn is bright and appropriately colored for autumn in its mustard yellow. I smile at you, and my heart begins to race as I step aside for you to enter my home.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” you say as you pass the threshold. “It means a lot that you’d want to speak with me.” I hear your unspoken comment, the gentle, ‘considering the circumstances,’ that you don’t say. You give me a bashful curve of your lips, though, and once again I can feel my heart skip a beat. I catch the gentle look in your dark eyes and I return your smile with one of my own.

As you move into the foyer, I cast my gaze out on the street, up and down, before I close the door behind you. Paranoia dictates that I lock it before I turn to you and say, “Is that alright? That I lock the door?”

You’re still smiling kindly as you turn back to face me, and I watch your pretty eyes flick past me to the door before you nod quickly. “Of course. It’s your home.” I can see in the twist of your lips that you’re a little uncomfortable, but I know you won’t say anything about it, because…

“Tea, coffee?” I offer to you as we leave the foyer. Something to break the silence.

Your smile relaxes at the mundane offering and you nod the full head of auburn hair at me. “Coffee, if you don’t mind.” You look at me sympathetically - or is that your empathy? - and grip your folio a little closer to your chest.

My heart does a little flip-flop as I watch, so I turn away before you see my budding blush. “Certainly, no trouble,” I say back to you with forced confidence. “We can start in the kitchen.”

I lead you through the sitting room, the lighting soft and inviting and warm, and then into the kitchen. Your heels click-clack on the tile floor, and I shiver a little. You notice, giving me a caring expression. “Cold? It is a little chilly today.” You make innocent small talk to ward off the silence.

“A little,” I lie, then gesture to the barstool for you to sit. Only once you’ve perched up on the stool do I turn to prepare the coffee. As soon as my back is to you, your visage enters my mind and I can see clearly the curve of your face, the fall of autumnal red hair cascading down your shoulders. “That cardigan looks so pretty on you; where did you get it?” Something else innocent and innocuous to keep the silence from growing.

Your answer comes with a hint of surprise as if you weren’t expecting me to ask such a question, but you answer in any case. “Oh, thank you. It was my grandmother’s before she passed away. My mother didn’t want it, so I took it while we went through her things.”

The warm aroma of brewing coffee makes my senses tingle. Methodically, I move to retrieve mugs, cream, sugar, and honey and set them in the center of the bar island. “Well, it suits you,” I boldly say, turning around to the pot.

Drip, drip, drip. I focus on the steady sound of coffee brewing for a moment. It’s enough right now. “Biscuits?” I ask over my shoulder, casually. Too casually maybe, but you don’t seem to notice. You just nod your assent as you set up your space on the counter, offering an affirmative with the action. I can imagine your red hair bouncing.

I fetch the biscuits, a plain assortment of cookies from the cheapest shopping mart because they taste like my childhood. By the time I have them arranged neatly on a plate, you’re waiting patiently for me - or the cookies, so I hastily deliver them to you.

Your face lights up with joy unexpectedly at the cookies. “Oh, these are the best cookies,” you tell me, not having to feign your confidence. “My grandmother would bring some like these over from Denmark, in that tin?”

Your friendliness, while also unexpected, is welcome, and I offer you a smile. “How sweet,” I reply because I don’t know what else to say.

The coffee pot beeps its completion then, and I smile gratefully for the timing. “Room for cream?” I ask you over my shoulder, hoping to catch just a glimpse of your hair as it falls over your shoulder with your nod.

“Please.”

When I return with the coffee, I set it before you. You reach for it at the same time, and our fingers brush. My heart pounds in my chest but I remain collected as I offer a smile I hope is apologetic enough for the awkward contact. To hide my anxious swallow, I reach for a cookie and then take a little bite.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” you ask me, already retrieving your tape recorder, so certain I’ll be acquiescent.

With my coffee now the way I like it - a little bit of cream, a little bit of sugar - I turn back to you before eyeing the recorder. “I think it would be good for posterity,” I say after a few brief moments of thought. After all, this is something you’ll want to remember.

You smile, causing my heart to give the slightest flutters, and I think that maybe you’ll be the one. Maybe.

The rustle of your notes brings me back to the moment with you. A well-worn notebook rests beside your recorder, and I glimpse your neat, flourishing penmanship–so old world in our modern society of everything digitized. For a moment, I’m captivated by the swirling cursive letters–just different enough to see your flair in them. How unique.

When you notice me staring at the pages, you apologize. “Sorry, I take a lot of notes on top of the recording.”

I blink, then put a smile on my face. “Oh, it’s quite alright,” I assure you. “I take a lot of notes for my work, too; I must be very meticulous.”

There’s a sudden snap when you press the button to record, which is followed by the soft hiss of analog. I’m astounded by how quaint it is, and how picturesque an image you present: a Danish grandmother’s sweater, cheap cookies, and a bona fide tape recorder.

“What do you do for work?” you ask me as your first question. “Since you mention it, that is.” Is that a blush forming on your cheeks? I think it is. Just the slightest of rosy hues on the very top of your sharp cheekbones.

“I’m in finance,” I explain, and it’s true. “The firm I’m with has me sign an NDA, unfortunately, so there’s only so much I can mention. Just know that I am very, very good with numbers.” It’s the most I’ve spoken as an answer since you’ve arrived, and you look oh so interested in what I have to say.

The soft scratch of your pen against paper accompanies the hissing of the recorder for a moment as you notate something I said. In this day and age, most journalists would easily have a writing tablet for notes and recording alike. Yet you’re different.

“If you could say one thing about your job, then, what would it be?” I’m surprised by your respect for the non-disclosure agreement clause, so I feign a moment of thought. Instead of thinking, however, I watch you as your head lifts and bouncy red curls frame your pale face.

I blink. There’s a blush forming on my cheeks again, so I put on another smile for you. “Well, there is only one other thing that’s certain, and that’s death,” I say easily. Too easily, maybe, because your hand pauses for a moment, just a tiny moment.

When you look up at me, I’m afraid that I’ve said the wrong thing. But then I see your smile, and the triumphant little look in your eyes. “Ah, I see. So it will be busy season for you in a few months, after the new year.” It’s innocuous, and I’m impressed that you figured it out so quickly.

“That’s right,” I agree, then take a quick sip of my coffee.

You take this opportunity to ask another question, this time unrelated to my job. “Where are you from? Did you grow up in this area?”

There’s something about you that puts me at ease; maybe it’s the congenial way you question me. Maybe it’s the way I imagine your curls enclosing the sides of your face when I close my eyes for a moment, pretending to draw back my memory to answer your question. “No, I’m not from here. I grew up in a little town in Louisiana. It’s hardly on the map,” I explain when I open my eyes, and my gaze settles on your green one.

“Can you tell me what it’s called?” you press lightly, and it really feels like we’re having a simple conversation.

Shaking my head at your question, I also smile, and easily hedge around it. “Afraid not.”

We go back and forth this way with simple questions, and you make it feel so natural, and very unlike an interview. I can tell you’re about to ask me about it when you fall silent, reviewing your handwritten notes on your paper.

“Do you mind if I ask you about it?” Your voice is soft, and this time it’s definitely sympathy in your tone that I perceive.

I lift my free hand to gesture vaguely in the air, then say, “Not at all. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

You smile at me, nodding in acquiescence, then say, “What was it like?”

This displeases me. “What was what like?” I return softly because I want you to say the words, the ugly words.

“The attack.” You say this easier than I thought you might, considering the circumstances.

I wet a lip with my tongue when I hear you say it, and nod. “The attack,” I repeat, then continue, “was…frightening.” How to elaborate on such an experience?

“Can you give me a little more detail?” you prompt, and your willingness for it soothes me.

Nodding, I say, “I can. I just…don’t want to frighten you.” There’s hesitance in my voice, but I emphasize my words correctly to make you feel like I’m too considerate and too sensitive.

I watch your throat as you swallow, and my heart thuds in my chest. I find myself mimicking you, and then you silently encourage me.

I tell you, then, because you look like you really want to know. I tell you in great vivid detail the luring technique used, and how susceptible most women are to it. You nod thoughtfully at that, making a note. I continue to tell you about the struggle, leaving out no sordid feature for your growing morbid curiosity.

Words are far from failing me as I recount in explicit detail the way the acid sounds as it drips, sizzling on the metal catch below it before evaporating quickly. As I speak, you shiver, and I smile again.

“Cold, dear?” I ask simply.

When you look up at me, you look confused because I’ve just broken a spell on you, woven with my words. Then you blink and shake your head. “No, just…listening,” you say softly, then go for another sip of your rapidly cooling coffee. “You were talking about the acid. Is that…what was used?”

Your prompt makes me smile, so eager for the macabre. “Yes, it was,” I answer, and offer my scarred hands for your perusal. Burn marks score my flesh, healed over in new pink skin. This time when you shiver, I don’t ask. I know.

Your next question makes me smile, a dark twisted expression that mars my otherwise pretty lips. “How did you get away?”

“I didn’t,” I answer you, and you look shocked for a few moments.

“Do you mean…that the attack will always be with you?” you ask intuitively.

I waste no time in answering you, still smiling. “Wouldn’t it stay with you?”

You begin to consider; I can see the thoughtful cast of your gaze as you regard me in a new light. I wonder, do you see it now? The luring technique which works so well, disarming you with a smile and a blush.

Then you’re shaking your head, blinking, and I can tell you’re dismissing the notion as preposterous. But there is a ‘what if’ lingering in your eyes as you regard me. “I suppose so,” you reply thoughtfully.

Silence buds. You sip your coffee quietly, and I take up another cookie. Then, genius strikes.

“Why don’t we move into the sitting room?” My suggestion comes easily. I distinctly do not offer to refill our coffees, not yet.

When you nod, I am transfixed by how your hair moves around your eyes and sharp cheeks. It reaches past your shoulders, wild and riotous, and for a fleeting moment, I want to feel it beneath my slender fingers.

“Sure, let’s.” Your smile breaks the spell you cast on me - or bewitches me further. The shape of your lips reminds me of a cupid’s bow, and painted like one, too. Everything about you screams ‘timeless’ and I want to keep it forever.

I lead you back into the sitting room because I fear what might happen should I follow you, instead. We sit across from each other; you set your tape recorder, still quietly sibilating, on the table between us. “Where were we?” I ask, wondering what you noted last.

Your gaze stays on me for a few extra moments before flickering rapidly down to your scribbled notes. “Ah,” you begin, filling in the silence you’re creating with your voice, “You had just said the attack would never leave you.” Your voice starts strong when you speak, then slowly softens into a murmur by the end.

“Of course.”

I lead us back into the mire of the attack, and the subsequent escape. You hang on to every word, yet you don’t look up from your notes as you furiously put your thoughts to paper. Once more, I weave a spell around you with my voice, a soft note here, a blush there to punctuate a statement. You ask questions conversationally yet with great importance, and a great need to understand the answers I give.

When your hand slows while I’m still speaking, I pause too, and ask, “More coffee?” with a smile.

It takes you a moment to respond, but you do with a stammered, “Yeah, err, y-yes, please.”

“No problem.” I take our cups to the kitchen. I listen to your mobile when it rings, and I’m grateful for the distraction it creates.

Your ringtone gives me pause, though, as it’s some jazzy little number played on the French horn. The enigma continues.

By the time you finish your conversation, I’ve finished my preparations. The coffee mugs remain on the counter as I return, holding a rag in one hand. You are so ensconced in your thoughts that you don’t know I’ve come up behind you. You have no idea what’s coming next.

And truthfully, neither do I.

There’s a sacred silence then, something untouchable. And then I know: I’m going to let you go. I can see that my decision has long since been made, and I won’t change my mind. Do you realize this? You begin to turn, and I lower my hands. You start when you see me, looking at me with wide eyes that lock with my gaze. At that moment, there’s a realization in your expression. You know.

A smile curls softly onto my lips, and I know this one is pretty; I’ve practiced it plenty. Slowly, you return the smile because you’re nice, and the nervousness is evident in the corners of your lips twitching upward. It looks like you want to speak–but what will you say to me? Will you accuse me? Or will you beg for mercy in hopes of appealing to my supposed better nature, if such a thing exists?

I can practically taste your apprehension at this moment. Had I truly been a cold-blooded reptile, my tongue would have appeared in the form of a small flick to sample the sensations in the air.

I’m no reptile, though. You seem to sense this. Now you’re the one to wet her lips with a hesitant swipe of that pink muscle. A clear mammalian response. Slowly, you meet my gaze once more. I see fear, unease, and pleading, but most of all, I see acceptance.

This takes me aback at first. So few are as accepting as you are at this moment. Of course, no one else has come this far.

In many ways, you are my first all over again.

Memories sweep through my mind of her, but her face is replaced with yours. It’s your red hair I see falling in cascades; your dark green eyes gleaming before the acid hits them, your screams echoing in the palace of my mind. But there’s no begging. No pleas to stop, no cries for mercy. Not with you.

You understand. You see me.

Visions of us - of you - flash before my eyes before fading into reality.

You stare at me, frozen in place while I control my breathing, my thoughts.

“Go.” I utter this to you first, then, continue. “The interview is over.”

My voice must be like a starting gun for you. At once, you’re in motion, but your movements are deliberate as you collect your things. It’s almost like you’re waiting for me to change my mind. Like you want me to change my mind.

I don’t.

I watch as you place your last item in your bag. You rise to your feet and not once as you move to the door do you turn to find it. Your gaze stays glued to mine and for a moment I feel something again. I recognize in you the beauty the rest of the world lacks.

You reach the locked door. Your panic begins to build, I can tell by the way you tug at the handle, the way your breath picks up as you begin to feel trapped.

When you hear my footsteps slowly moving towards you, you freeze in your anxiety, like an animal caught in the bright headlights of a car. As I finally reach you at the door, I can hear your hard breaths. Your back stays toward me, which would have made my job easier, had I decided to kill you.

Instead, I reach around your body to flick the locks undone. You stop breathing. I smile.

Crisp fall air greets us as I open the door for you. Instead of running, you take one step forward, then another before you’re out of my immediate reach. It’s only then that you turn to face me one last time with a bewildered expression on your features and a question on your lips. I just continue to smile at you, lifting a hand to shoo you away, then wave in a friendly manner.

A delicious shudder visibly wracks your body, but then you turn. You take slow, purposeful steps down the path and I watch as you make it to your car.

It’s only when you’ve driven away do I close the door on your departure, your memory.

You’re the one who got away.

#short story #aspiring author #indie writer #roshiwrites #short reads #vignette #writers on tumblr #indie author #fiction #horror

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w1llowwrites · 2 months ago

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Where the Snow Covers the Dead

_________________________________

Its cold....

I no longer feel the will to drag my body through the snow. It feels numb, no longer feeling the frosting tickle at my toes.

My clothes no longer hold me warm as blood seeps through it. The metallic taste reached my tongue.

My eyes won't even open, open to the cruelsomeness of this world, even in a surrounding so beautiful. A snow covered forest, something you'd hear in Christmas tales.

All alone deep within, the darkness threatens to seep in....

I give no fight against it, I feel the numbness travel from my finger tips to my heart slowly.

I knew what I was getting into once I got involved in this. Maybe I should have just hid at home. Humans are such intelligent species, why must they create weapons to kill with it.

None of us wants to be in this right now, yet we have to. For the sake of our people, our country, our families. We just follow what we think is right.

I open my eyes and try to look at the view in front of me properly despite my blurry vision. I see a dim cloudy winter day, the snow slowly making its way down, to cover our bodies forever if someone doesn't find our corpses. I truly do wonder how many in my position have been buried like this.

I don't feel the cold anymore, my body has gone numb, I close my eyes for one last time as I let myself hallucinate, hallucinate being in my warm home, seeing this view from a window, sitting with my family, eating warm meals instead of canned food for once, seeing happy smiling faces, feeling comfortable for once.

I take a deep breath in and exhale, as if letting my soul out of my suffering body as I finally rest.

_____________________________________________

https://www.wattpad.com/user/WillowWr1tes

#Vignette #prose poetry #prose poem #short story #Winter #snow #war

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fraglance · 9 months ago

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rewcana · 10 months ago

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new substack is up!!

it's a short fiction story this time

#rewcana writes #my writing #writers on tumblr #writblr #substack #short story #vignette #suburbs #nostalgia #writing #story #fiction #oc #just thots #love things #for winfry

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tales-of-iron · 4 months ago

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Lucky #3

I have lost 2 hounds since I reached this planet. I am in no position to complain. Marco is up to 8 now. He's always been a packmaster though. I couldn't keep up with that many. The stimulus alone would have me seizing in my console. I keep 3. I figured 2 could handle this deployment, so I left Val on ice. So...I'm fucked.

The depot always has bodies. Eager little brains just ready to get shackled to a handler and shot out into the field with enough chems in thier blood to slag steel. There's always someone willing to die for you. Few are willing to live for you is the problem. But it'll do until i can get Val defrosted and planetside.

I checked out the Depot's listings earlier today. Managed to find a brain with some synchronicity to mine. It's rough but the neural patterning should hold for a while. Worst comes to worst, I'll run it in tandem Val and have her gut it once she drops.

It should be delivered soon. I sprung for the sealed tank delivery this time. Should help with the recovery after their done splicing. I need some feet on the ground. No matter how green.

-VH

#the handler #fantasy #tech fanfic #drone #murder drones #vignette #armored core #short story #story

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sparrow-flight · 3 months ago

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Story 4: Final Call for HV413

12 February 2017 Winnipeg, Canada

The father is driven the long way to his uncertain grave. He was picked up, with little warning, by a black Cadillac Escalade of a hearse. He thought the Cadillac would’ve made a slow, sombre march to the entrance of the military airport’s gate. Instead, it screeches onto the runway and hurtles down asphalt, racing across the stripe of black that leads the father to his fate.

Last year, on the thirty-first of December, Gavrill Vorobyev was an inmate in Edmonton Institution — Canada’s most infamous maximum security federal prison. He remembers lying on a thin mattress that night, facing away from the twenty-four hour fluorescent light in his solitary confinement cell. He remembers falling asleep to the thought of his children entering the new year, until a sharp rap on his cell door snatched them away. Then in came the dazed guards on their heavy feet, fastening his ankles with chains, choking his wrists with handcuffs, and shoving his stiff body down a cold hallway into the phone room.

And there, he saw the midnight-blue jacket of the woman who ruined his life.

It was a man who wore the jacket that night. Gavrill now knows him as Henri Arquette. Next to him in a blue three-piece suit was Ulysses Fisher, the Ingush translator. Both men sat on one side of bulletproof glass. Gavrill, chained to a table, sat on the other side. And when the guards had lumbered back to their posts by the door, Arquette called Gavrill to serve.

Arquette’s call was that of a siren’s. First came the song of names of those Gavrill had failed and abandoned. Then came the photographs, the beloved faces of the dead and those who have not died yet — Hrodwyn, Merethel, Hygd, the children of his dreams, all so grown up now, all so easily captured. Arquette watched Gavrill’s eyes dart across the photographs, from one broken piece of his life to the next. He savoured the confused fear in Gavrill’s eyes, the growing tension in his shoulders. But that was not enough. He let his call continue to taunt Gavrill’s grief, laugh at his guilt, and wrench his heart with rage. He flashed more photographs before Gavrill. This time, they were of twisted, contorted corpses splattered across the baby section of a Walmart. It was the heinous crime that imprisoned Gavrill here, that shamed him in front of his children — the crime, Gavrill iterated, that was not his.

Arquette knew that. He knew that Gavrill was innocent. He not only believed that Gavrill’s face was stolen to frame him — he knew it to be true.

That was when Arquette hooked Gavrill with a photograph of her: the woman in the midnight-blue jacket, the Lamb of Providence, the sadist who stole his face, who stole everything, who can come after his children and steal them again no matter how hard his cuffed heels CRACKED the phone room’s table into splinters, how many times he threw his chair or the broken table legs or himself at the bulletproof glass like a trapped animal, how loudly he screamed questions in fury and fear of who the men were and how they knew her and where his children were what did they do to his children he will fucking kill anyone who touches them.

The guards did not react. Nor did Arquette and Fisher. Once Gavrill was out of breath, Arquette revealed that the woman was an ex-agent he wanted to track. He didn’t know why she framed him, but if he let out what she had put behind bars, she may return to put Gavrill back in. He offered him a chance of justice for the woman, a future for his children, and freedom for himself. In exchange, Gavrill had to answer Arquette’s call to serve: his skills that placed him in maximum security prison will be lent to Arquette’s family business, forever.

Gavrill quietened. He accepted the call. The clock struck midnight.

Though he was freed that night, Gavrill knew that he had traded one form of imprisonment for another. Still, it was a small price for him to pay to be able to hold his children again. Gavrill doesn’t regret it. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been trying to forget about how he signed his life away. He has stuffed his own midnight-blue uniform deep into his wardrobe, and he has reduced the memory of his job orientation in Rio to the keychains and food he got for his children. In the span of just a month and twelve days, Helvetia had shrunk to background noise in Gavrill’s head. The organisation no longer mattered to him. The grandiose dangers they preached felt so distant, so unreal. But Gavrill’s children are here now, smiling and pouting and laughing at him, and he knows that they are real. That is all that matters to him. And for a moment, he lets himself believe that all can be right with the world — until Helvetia Limited stops at his front door.

In the 8pm winter night, Hygd shakes Gavrill awake from the couch to answer his work phone’s call. Its unfamiliar, piercing ringtone confuses him at first, but Fisher’s voice is a wake-up call. It only takes a few seconds for it to dawn on Gavrill: the dangers were never distant, this new life is very much real, and he has forced it onto his children.

Hrodwyn, Merethel, and Hygd sense the tension in the air. They creep to their father’s room to see him wrapped in midnight-blue once more, but this time with a duffel over his shoulder and a pair of dazed eyes.

His children embrace him. He stays there, taking in their warmth, trying to stretch ten minutes to infinity. But fate arrives on four wheels, and it is impatiently waiting outside.

Gavrill silently goes to the door. His children follow him like ghosts. Hygd looks up at him.

“Don’t die, daa.”

Her father musters up the most reassuring smile he can.

“I won’t. I love you, my sparrows.”

Gavrill walks out of the house. Agent Hrothgar does not look back.

It is Fisher, dressed in that same blue three-piece suit, who drives the Cadillac. It takes an hour to reach the military airport. Hrothgar’s leg shakes the whole ride through. On the runway, Fisher parks half-hazardly a few metres away from Helvetia’s private jet. He tells Hrothgar to leave his things in the car — staff will load it onto the plane for them.

What staff?

Hrothgar looks out the window. He sees their figures emerge from the dark. He keeps his satchel by his side and his flask in his white-knuckled grip.

Fisher leaves the car with its engine still running. The door shuts. The car’s interior lights turn off. Hrothgar, his shaking leg now ready to sprint, slinks down his seat. He watches Fisher toss the car keys to a staff member before striding across the runway, across that dark stretch of black asphalt illuminated with dots of light and stripes of white; that vast, empty plane surrounded by nothing but low buildings to peer over across; that vacuum that hides nothing from Hrothgar but whose darkness hides everything from him—

—until Fisher climbs into the jet.

Hrothgar blinks. He sucks in a breath. Fuck.

Hrothgar opens the car door. The jet’s engine whines into his ears. He can barely hear the staff walking around him. He looks around him to make sure they’re only there for the Cadillac and not him. Then he looks around a second time, ducks, and runs against cold, biting wind into the jet. Once fully inside its interior, his grip around his flask finally relaxes. He takes a sip of the double-shot espresso Hrodwyn made for him. Its heat bites through his tongue. It’s enough to finally make him notice how incredibly spacious the private jet is.

He stands stunned at the entrance, overwhelmed by luxury. Fisher could care less. He has made himself comfortable on a plush couch. The coffee table in front of the couch has two bottles of vodka, two shot glasses, and a tray of fruits and cheeses. Fisher swipes one bottle. He lifts it to his lips, titles his head back until the bottle is empty, and languidly sets it back onto the table. In one practised motion, he slips his oxfords off, kicks his legs onto the couch, and tucks his hands beneath his head.

Hrothgar watches the younger agent close his eyes. Lucky.

Hrothgar’s eyes drift to the second bottle of vodka. He occupies his lips with the scalding coffee instead and forces himself to look away to the rest of the jet. The remaining seats are pairs of cushioned, enclosed chairs that face each other. A mahogany desk sits between them. He decides to sit in one of the chairs. For a second, his grief and guilt sits in the other.

A second is enough time for caffeinated agitation to seize Hrothgar. He slides the blind of the jet’s window close to block the view of the runway. He knows he’ll have to open them before takeoff, but a few minutes of safety is better than none. His right hand has resumed its iron grip around his flask, despite his seat’s secure cup holder. Meanwhile, as his eyes fall to the table, his left hand busies itself. It starts by nervously rubbing his wedding band, before reaching into his satchel and clutching something round, soft, and rigid — something secure and comforting.

He looks down into his satchel. The crocheted sparrow Hrodwyn gave him stares back up at him.

The final call for HV413’s departure is made. Hrothgar fastens his seatbelt and opens the window’s blind as instructed. A flight attendant offers him food. He purses his lips tight, swallows a rising lump in his throat, and declines with a shake of his head. He then watches the attendant approach Fisher, to ask him to sit up for take-off. As Fisher rubs sleep from his eyes, a twinge of envy — or fear, or guilt — snags Hrothgar’s chest. Life would be easier if he could close his eyes and sleep his twisting gut away; if he could let empty dreams keep faces buried away. But he doesn't have that privilege. Instinct forces him to stare at the empty seat ahead of him, and it will make him do it for 11 hours straight or until his body gives in.

The engine revs up. The jet begins to move. Before it takes off into the night, Hrothgar looks down at his crocheted sparrow again. He imagines the worst — imagines his children calling out for a father who’ll never respond — and sends one final message.

Gavrill: We're about to take off. Stay safe! I will be back. Love you guys. Hrodwyn: love you too daa, from all of us Hrodwyn: stay safe too Merethel: Marked as Read. Hygd: Marked as Read.

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Thank you @katastrofish and @mintrhine for beta reading!

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