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↳ The Gods of calamity and fortune

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The creative process is fickle and all consuming.

Every thought and his very mind are wrapped around the pen in his hands and splayed across the smudges and streaks of cardboard bound paper in his hands. This is the last place he expects company (company outside of the quiet voices that mumble from around corners and peer over his shoulder-- unseen unless they wish to be seen).

“Huh--?” It’s not a particularly graceful response, and it’s more a squawk than actual words.

He looks up, sitting up straight so that he leans against the mound of engraved stone behind him (its owner doesn’t mind, he’s already checked).

“These aren’t robes, kid. Do I look like some kinda’ monk to you?”

“Can’t a guy just pursue his artistic visions in a graveyard without someone questioning his world views?”

His shoulders draw back, and he settles more comfortably against the tombstone. His fingers tap along the white spaces of his sketchbook-- his companion seems like he wants to stick around.

“What about you? What’s your path of enlight-- whatever you said before.”

建功立業

「☁」HUMANS say the dead do not speak, but that’s a lie. Graveyards are one of the noisiest places to be if your eyes and ears are open. But in this case, they’re also the least crowded on a January afternoon, and it’s not long before the city forces Anqi to their lands to seek some peace of mind.

Or try to, anyways.

There’s something else here that catches his interest, a sort of warmth at odds with the snow. Spirits and ghosts are notorious for their yin energy, but somewhere amongst the tombstones and bodies is something brighter, something positive, something–

–wearing all black. Huh. Isn’t that a Daoist color too?

Three skips later and he’s standing respectfully below a statue of some lady with wings, not more than a few feet from the beacon that brought him here.

“Oh, hey.”

“Which path of enlightenment do you hail from? I don’t think I’ve seen those cut of robes before.”

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get that fuck outta here sasuke

lol binch?

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He notices her only by chance-- but that’s how it always is when it comes to the two of them.

They seem to have the same sort of idea that day; though they differ in execution. Under his arm rests a large pink cat-- filled with as much cotton as the woman who ran the stuffing machine would allow him, and dressed in a dull navy coat, pink scarf wrapped around its neck.

Initially, he’d wanted to make one that looked like him; but they’d only had pink ones of that size left.

But it would suffice-- something in her honor, something so no one could claim she was ever out of sight and out of mind.

He nearly misses her, what with how the crowd inside the store closes in on him and drives him towards the center even though he’s trying to leave. But he escapes the current, and somehow stumbles straight into her.

It’s selfish, but he is glad she is here with him instead of somewhere else where he exists no more.

“HI-YO-RI!” Every syllable is an exclamation-- he practically jumps, practically falls on top of her when he lands.

“Wah-- it’s been so long, it’s been so lonely! I was half-way considering replacing you.” The cotton and felt version of her pokes out from underneath his arm, as if to make her presence known.

Once again, Hiyori has been ripped from the arms of her once peaceful existence.

He hates himself a little, for feeling relieved.

❛what is⋮ home❜?

     While exploring she managed to stop upon a cute little store. The workers were kind and the idea of creating your own stuff animal immediately grabbed her attention. Also immediately she found herself holding onto two pre-made stuff cats. One was blue, the other yellow. She could even dress them if she wanted and her eyes landed on a cute little jumpsuit. Smiling she reached out to grab it but stopped in mid-action. Slowly a frown tugged away at her smile and she merely stared at the doll outfit. Glancing down at the two stuff cats she grabbed she realized she wouldn`t be able to pay for it. 

     Turning away she walked back to place the stuff animals back into the basket she took them from. Hesitantly she sat the yellow one back first and laid the blue one beside it. However she found it difficult to tear away from them. The store, this setting– everything remind her of an event that took place a while ago at Capyerland. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest. Although things were different, she still remembered them both but she had no idea how much longer that would last. 

     Having gotten carried away by all the nicer things in this city she nearly forgot she needed a way to get back. Perhaps it was her own cockiness that made her believe Yato and Yukine would come to save her but what made her think they`d notice? They were probably still at Kamuhakari. So instead of relying on those two to save her she needed to start taking action herself. Then again it was easier said than done, after all she had already attempted to find information on the city yet she turned up empty. Exploring was her only choice. 

     However there were a few things she had to take care of first. Getting a job was and making sure she had a way to keep her memory intact were both important. Plus if she found a job she could perhaps come back and buy those stuff cats. She could dress them up as them and even get a voice clip to remind her of their names. Whatever it took she was going to do it. Somehow she`d make it back.

     Despite her determination the worried and troubled expression wouldn`t lighten up, not completely. Until she found a way back, would her parents be alright? Her grandmother– ? Would she still be there when she got back?  There were suddenly more problems appearing, circling inside her head, and she felt her shoulders snag. No, she needed to be strong. For them all. She must be strong. 

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There was a time-- that he still remembers well-- when her voice was home. And even when the ringing of her laughter became as familiar as the jingling of shackles, she was still once the only constant in his life. It is not a title he takes lightly, and despite everything it is not a title he gives without some affection.

They’d gone their separate ways because he’s learning how to live for himself-- but in the end he can’t hate her (at least, not in the way that everyone thinks he should).

Family is never simple.

“Not by choice.” Because even though he’s learning to be free, it’s in his instinct to justify. His hand falls to his side, fingers painted red, blue, and green-- can rattling as he moves.

He hasn’t scrawled his name, number, and calling card across the offending bricks-- but rather swirls of color, an unfinished, interrupted nebula. There isn’t any need to seek out those kinds of duties here.

He’s found time for a hobby in their absence.

“It’s getting pretty dark--” She is painted orange where the shadows don’t reach her, the dim glow of street lights illuminating the angles of her face in an ominous sort of way. His voice is level, but his free hand is balled into a fist.

“Girls shouldn’t be out this late by themselves.”

In a world without him ( temporarily, because if nothing else, she knows that Father will come for them — if not for her, then for the one he calls ‘son’ ), without protection, without comfort, Nora finds herself clinging to the one thing that does hold familiarity. It takes the form of a ratty t-shirt, Yato’s face beaming up from it in a manner reminiscent of all the other tacky merchandise he’s made in his failed forays away from them.

He’s never managed to last long on his own.

The existence of this garment means that Yato exists somewhere here, in this city, which is a better place to start than any other given her lack of instructions from Father. When he arrives, he’ll certainly praise her for keeping an eye on his wayward son. And hence begins her journey, holding the ridiculous item up to passersby as if she’s a lost child, and gradually, gradually, closing the distance between them until his familiar presence tugs at the edge of her senses.

Maybe if it’s in a place like this, he’ll stop running from the one thing tethering him to life. It still stings ( the memory of fingers rising and sharp timbres delivering dismissal ) more than she’d like to admit, and she finds herself wishing that Father would hurry and come. Come, and exact punishment on this rebellion that’s gone much too far.

She smiles at the thought.

“So you really were here after all.” Even as her voice carries to where he stands, can of spray paint in hand and offending red paint dripping from a wall, the stray herself steps forward from the opposite direction — and equal parts calm, equal parts accusatory, she addresses him by the false name he’s been set on as stubbornly ( futilely ) as everything else. “Yato.”

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Teenagers.. -- it’s a grumble audible only in his head, but it makes his frown dip deeper all the same.

Somehow, it’s not even really any of his questions that motivate him to shake off the sour disposition that’s got his feet pointed in the opposite direction.

“You’re lookin’ a little antsy there.” He follows, though with much less urgency, hands balled up in his pockets-- a sign of his lethargy. But he still follows, and the words ‘guardian spirit’ jingle like lose change between his fingers. “It’s not that weird you know.”

Dangerous for everyone-- but not weird (not comparatively, when you look at what this place is like on a regular basis; when he thinks about how heaven, hell, and the world in between have warped his sense of time).

“Hey, kid--” He starts back again, from the beginning of the loop-- hopping over the same railing one leg at a time. There’s a red trail that can’t decide which way it wants to flow across the concrete; moving back and forth like water at the edge of sand. His eye are drawn to the splotch of red wrapped around the boy’s neck; somehow brighter even than the mess on the ground.

“What are you, anyway?”

‘I could say the same to you.’

With anyone else, his voice would be superior, full of malice and then some at the idea that he could be bossed around. It’s only the man’s nature that strips the offense from his voice, leaves him sounding neutral and only the slightest bit surprised.

He looks at him once before he turns back to the scene. There’s more blood and more violence than there was just a second before – it’s like watching a play set at double-time, meaning and art sacrificed just to get the production out the door.

He’s expecting kebiishi to appear at any time. When they don’t, it makes him all the more uncertain.

‘If you’re some sort of guardian spirit,’ he continues, fixing his scarf restlessly, ‘You should be worried, too. If not – aren’t you the one who’s in danger?’ He says as much, and his eyes find the scratch on the man’s cheek again, a pointed look that says everything. There’s no reason to beat about the bush, not when he can feel that something about this man is not human, and surely he knows the same.

But that’s as far as his thoughts go. Things change again when the police bring out their batons: time itself seems to slow down, to stutter, people going through the same motions again and again without stopping. There’s a woman who keeps falling to the ground; a child who keeps screaming, not a dozen feet away, but without a chugging, distorted kind of sound. It is chilling, in its own way.

And in its own way, it reels him in.

‘Be careful,’ he says as an aside, and he clambers over the railing, getting closer.

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“Yato-chan doesn’t really talk about himself much, but you can tell by looking at his face. He was always lonely.” - Kofuku

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Foster The People × Houdini 

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Original:  IK

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“Don’t worry about it.” The end of his sentence is garbled, muffled as he chews. She takes to the conversation better than he’d thought-- what was it with teenagers and existentialism?

Their showman claps, and his lovely assistant shuts her eyes in time with the echo of his hands. The crowd gasps, and Yato stuffs the remaining half of his meal into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“Anyway! Who says I don’t want it to work!”

“Maybe I have trouble sleeping? Maybe I just want someone else to take the reigns for awhile-- the human subconscious is a fickle beast.”

It’s the sound of the man in the center of the crowd clapping again that makes him look up. Suddenly, his participant is awake-- and she is frozen for a split second before she springs to life; hands tucked under her elbows in makeshift wings, unable to form any words outside loud clucking.

The crowd laughs, and Yato frowns.

“You never been in any of those kinds of situations kid? Sometimes people just want someone else to call the shots-- because it’s easier. You don’t have to think about anything, and when it’s all over you can blame it all on someone else.”

The crowd seemed to be filled with excitable but empty-handed people until he showed up. Eyes on the hypnotist, a charismatic man likely in his 30s, they all seemed just as willing to offer themselves up as to wait and see what someone else might do under his influence. Nemu didn’t have anything with her either, but her curiosity was muted and and strangely jealous. She had a hand to her mouth, a finger curled over her lips holding back anything she might have to say.

When the stranger with a cotton candy-covered hand eased in, she was relieved by what he had to say. The skeptical and near fearful choice of words echoed her own feelings, though she doubted they both had the same root for their concerns. “I think it looks like fun,” she told him instead, her eyes narrowing in amusement. He didn’t appear concerned about how he looked, stuffing food in his mouth.

“Giving up control is better than having it taken from you without a choice. And just knowing you might bark like a dog or confess a secret… well, hehe, it could be worse.” Nemu personally knew the icy grip of realizing her consciousness could be cut off at any time, for any reason. If it was worthwhile to the researchers—a way to smooth out their game—it was simply how things worked. 

“I’ve heard hypnosis doesn’t work if you don’t want it to. I don’t think you have to worry.~” Her own reluctance to relinquish any control she could grasp would keep that swinging coin from getting to her. “Where did you get that hot dog, anyway?”

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B-E-H-A-V-E never more You gave up being good when you declared a state of war

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The sky above him is gray, the asphalt below him is black, and the sharp pellet of hot metal that grazes his cheek (he can practically smell the smoke when it nips his skin—even though he knows most guns haven’t produced as much in decades, practically) feels purple and red.

His fingers press against his cheek, and the scar stains his fingers—makes his heart thump for the first time in a while.

The discovery of his own mortality isn’t spared much time, and on instinct he jumps forward (because he’s become so accustomed to acting for two in the midst of “battle”).

“Hey!” Yato has one hand wrapped around this stranger, another gripping the hilt of a sword that isn’t there.

A car tumbles past them, with a faceless driver and a wicked amount of momentum. Just as quickly as the tires found their unreal speed, they slow almost instantly—suddenly careening over the edge of a traffic divider in slow motion, like a scene from an action movie.

But it does not explode; there is no trillion dollar CGI display that follows. It falls to the side, screeches against the concrete, and everyone else around them finds their way back into the chaos.

It’s some sort of street brawl—police and criminals, and pedestrians who had decided to make the most of the occasion. It’s some kind of mess, and Yato’s hand finds its way to his cheek again.

He wonders where the person with gun is.

“Just a few words of wisdom—really, take them or leave them, doesn’t matter to me.” But his forehead creases, and his mouth dips—frown in between exhausted and annoyed. “Watch where you’re going.”

There are sirens right behind them, squealing like someone has put a cassette track on fast-forward.

“Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to play in traffic?” 

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Twenty-One Pilots | The Run and Go

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“Thanks for everything until now, Hiiro. Hiki, I hereby release you!”