obviousleeanonymous

[obviousleeanonymous]

Chutes and Ladders CH 11

Summary: To climb to the top, you gotta fall down a chute or two or three or four… and break a few bones. But it’s okay, ‘cause time heals all wounds. Right?

(Because I fogot I never posted this here, fam.)

CH1 AO3

You jangled the doorknob, a loose component rattling uselessly. The door remained locked. In your backpack of things that were not yours before you shoved said not-your-things within, you had varying screwdrivers and gizmos and gadgets and kawoozits. Before you fiddled for an aforementioned screwdriver that might work as intended, you stared down the basic welcome mat. Stepping back, you used your foot to flip the stalwart foe. Lo and behold, a nondescript key was underneath! People still did that? It was like asking to be robbed.

Shrugging to no one in particular, you slid the key into the brass lock. At worst, it would simply not be the correct key, so it hardly hurt to try.

The door opened with ease, creaking profoundly—a testament to people’s inherent stupidity. Not that it much mattered anymore, you have yet to encounter another person during your—how many days?—vagabondage.

The stench of stagnacity flowed from the room, with sepulcher heaviness and choking dust, and out to the hallway like water rushing through cracks in a failing dam.

You only took a single step into the room, absorbing the still-scene before closing your eyes.

The hum of cicadas became the electric sibilation of the refrigerator. Insensible jargon filtered through a small television on the countertop. A man brushed remnant crumbs of breakfast toast off the plastic laminate surface and perused a paper. A child ate cereal, secretly adding more when the adult was sufficiently distracted all the while grinning at her deft subterfuge. A teenage boy with horrible bed hair shambled groggily into the kitchen...

Was this morning routine—

You opened your eyes, suddenly grateful to be brought back to the derelict living area trapped in a state of perpetual abeyance, just waiting for someone to return to the moldy bowl on the table, pick up the fallen ceramic cup, and resume reading the long irrelevant newspaper. Coffee stains covered the the front page, obscuring the date, but you guessed it to be several months ago.

You made a home out of the bits and pieces others left behind.

After scouring the defunct abode at a listless pace—nothing to gain in haste but waste—you garnered a sizable stock of canned goods still within decent expiry and more clothing to augment your hobochic ensemble. And, of course, a magnificent, comfortable, plush, relaxing, state of the art, better than an organic mattress bean bag chair. Vintage puke chartreuse to boot!

The beds were aight tho’.

As you meandered through the modest apartment, you flicked the light switches and tested the faucets. Predictably, there was nothing in terms of basic utilities, but you spotted some change on the floor. A brilliant idea tickled and caressed the crevices of your gelatinous brain-muscle.

Hefting the prized bean bag awkwardly over your shoulder, you departed the apartment, stopping only to collect the scattering of coins. Locking the door with the key was an afterthought.

You knew every payphone, could practically smell the anachronistic booths from miles away.

You had a brilliant plan.

+_____+_____+

Payphones irrevocably meant something to you, something special, intrinsically intimate in a manner that should never logically be. Emotional lows were had within four enclosed grimy, semi-opaque walls.

But this… This felt different. Cathartic, even.

You reclined on the bean bag, shoved into the cramped booth, legs propped on the protective casing that partially housed the phone. The dense cord only barely reached far enough. Your head lolled back, blood rushing, and you gazed at the sky—buildings in Spartan hues cutting into vibrant cerulean like jagged teeth.

Though you were certifiably certain you were on hold longer than you had been speaking with the operator and subsequently a customer service rep of the Z-City Waterworks, you had a pocket full of change and nothing better to do.

The irritatingly dross hold music cut off, a voice tentatively questioning, “Hello, miss—”

“Yah. I need water in my place.”

“...And you are sure you’re a tenant of Junction Crossing?”

“Yep,” you glanced at the crude scratches on your arm, roughly resembling the building name and apartment number. Keys made poor knives and even poorer writing instruments. “Number 124C.”

A long pause.

You tried to readjust, stretching your cramping legs but your walking-limbs slipped on the glass. So you wiggled, further digging yourself into the forming contours of polystyrene beads.

“I’m terribly sorry, but no one lives there.” You could feel the tense smile surely plastered on his face—for no one could sound so artificially pleasant.

“I do. It’s why I’m callin’ ya. Yakno. Water.”

“That neighborhood is a warzone. We don’t service it but if you relocate to a safe—”

“Sweetcheeks McGee, what is the name of your biznass,” you never even gave him a chance to respond, “Z-City Waterworks! I. Am. In. Z-City. You can’t not not give me water. That’s like murder.”

“I—That—You… How is murder?”

Oh Sweetcheeks walked into that debacle. Inhaling, you bawled melodramatically, “You want me to die of thirst!”

He sighed, giving up. “Ok! Ok! I’ll put it through but it will be turned off when you don’t pay.”

“‘Kay, Sweetcheeks.”

The other line went dead and you tossed the receiver, not caring to get up just yet. Rather, contemplating the meaning of life seemed a much more topical subject—which was nothing.

You just didn’t want to recall anything other than the right now. Guilt had no place—this is your new life, a new you. All else be damned.

But then you saw him walking all casual-like, a glorious baldylocks bedecked in a boob-tastic hoodie staring blandly at a receipt with a meager bag of groceries limply dangling in his other hand.

At first, you wanted to ask how he made the world upside down, but you remembered how you were reclining as the next best thing came out of your mouth. “Ya scrub, buying shit.”

He halted, staring at you in blank volumes that resonated with your being and said a solitary, “Eh?” He was familiar, a kindred animal—though you just met him, this bald fellow did not seem like a person who tolerated bullshit.

You could dig that.

“Ya live here too, right?”

He shrugged, “Yeah.”

“There’s like a ton of abandoned stores, bruh. Mad easy to get fat like cats.”

His eyes widened marginally. “How come I never thought of that?”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to do, neighbor. Wanna go lootin’?”

He took a minute to contemplate, picking his nose with minimal zeal. “Ok, I guess.”

[obviousleeanonymous]

Kudzu 4

Naruto/ Boruto: Naruto Next Generations Fanfic Reader-Insert (Female)

Summary: A field of verdant kudzu vines choking out the light of their still-seeing eyes, but the flowers are oh so fair.

Who should fault the vine?

Link to AO3

Take Me Out and Breathe Me In, I Hold a Ten Ton Hammer to Your Skin

A profound silence often lingered before acts of violence, especially if stemming from an emotional state.

They wailed; you screamed. But all you could hear was the thrumming of your adrenaline fueled heart against your chest, the incessant pounding in your ears, the thump of your feet hitting the sand hard.

Because you had a face to the anger boiling in your veins, a face blotched with burns from the unforgiving desert sun—he either had no protection or did not care. Oh, but he would hurt so much more if you struck him.

The nightly gale stirred the sands like cold fingers running through silken hair, fanning the hissing flames eating away your home. Between every ebb of the wind, heat tickled your face.

You charged, ignoring reason advising against a direct assault. You should surprise him, use a diversionary tactic to create an ideal scenario. You could even follow him back for intel or simply slit his throat in his sleep. Recklessly charging in was for brutes or the ridiculously strong—you were neither, you weren’t even whole.

But he—he stared back imperiously, grinning through viciously sharp teeth, manic eyes gleaming under a mane of unkempt verdigrisy hair. He was the enemy, the one at fault, the cause.

You would be the cure.

Using momentum, your bum rush morphed into a sideways kick, rotating your planted left foot to add to the power. It connected, or rather, the man grabbed hold to block, and held your limb in place to keep your movements in check.

You had made a mistake compounded upon another—you acted before weighing your capabilities… besides the fact that you forgot to add chakra to the blow. Too many years without a fight dulled the blade, it seemed.

But you were no toothless tiger. Your blunder would become your boon.

Dropping to your left palm, only for balance as you hardly trusted its full faculty, you kicked his abdomen with your free leg, chakra pulsing warmly throughout your body, sending oddly nostalgic but impossible tingles down your arms. Most importantly, the energy pooled and released where you made contact.

He did not expect it; he was not ready. He went flying, releasing his grip, and crashed into a mound of shifting sand several feet away.

You did not relent—you couldn't afford to. How long could you—

A downward stomp to his mangy mess of green hair became slightly smoldering debris. Kawarimi. He was no common brigand, you feared.

He kept hidden, waiting for an opening. Because that was what ninja were trained to do—what you were trained to do.

He wouldn't recklessly rush in with dangerous abandon, and he wasn't fueled or invested with emotional turmoil like you.

So you turned to and fro, only half-heartedly trying to locate him. You much preferred playing the part of an inept combatant, feeding his confidence. “Come out, you cowardly dog!” Flailing your arms for effect, your ears—your other senses—strained, waiting.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. This battle of attrition stringently relied upon you hurting him insurmountably more with every opportunity. You could not and would not win the long game.

He moved with utmost care, using only the ball of his foot, stride quick and precise. Truly, he should have been undetected.

But he was not. For his tactic was flawless nearly anywhere else, a clear testament that he did not live long in the deserts of Kaze no Kuni.

To you, his rhythmic maneuver contrasted jarringly against the consonance of the night. He should have expended more chakra to make his steps lighter, as if on water, and slide along the sandy surface—a much more natural sound as when wind met sand.

So you acted unaware, and he was none the wiser.

The hair on the back of your neck rose, you could feel the air displaced from his punch. Ducking under his fist at the last moment, you snapped your leg in a high kick connecting with his jaw. It cracked, you prayed it broke. He deserved to suffer more.

He recovered mid stumble, retreating with a grand backwards leap and shooting slender needles from his mouth. Not wanting to lose proximity again, you blocked with an arm instead of dodging—every second, every inch mattered—and rushed headlong. The man grinned widely, and it took you a moment too long to realize—needles meant poison.

But he made the mistake. He never never noticed that the arms under your bandages were nothing more than poor prosthetics.

You exchanged blows and parries, hair breadth dodges and nimble feints. He seemed to enjoy prolonging the fight with taijutsu rather than unsheathe the ninjato at his hip in an attempt to garner further advantage. Then again, you have been stumbling more and slowing your kicks gradually.

Wouldn’t the cat prefer playing with the mouse?

A flat palm to your chest sent you reeling to your knees, you barely fought the impulse to turn with the hit and sideswipe his legs out from under—that would not end the bout. His stance changed, hands forming seals to a technique you did not recognize.

He assumed you immobile, that the poison coursed unchecked through your veins.

While he casually went through the motions of a complex and obviously specialized technique, you focused your mental acuity on a single arm, a single hand, willing your wooden digits to move.

Tiger. Hare. Dog. Ram. Dragon.

Booming thunder reverberated moments before heavy rain fell, cold against the heat of your skin.

But you were ready before him—springing into action—kicking twice in rapid succession, sending blades of cutting wind aimed at his torso.

While the cat played, the snake takes the kill.

He survived, though his chest little more than a bloody ruin, you took solace in the small comfort that you stopped the latter portion of his jutsu. He unsheathed the straight-edged ninjato, bleeding profusely but murder in his eyes.

He charged, the rain enhancing his speed. If he was in crippling pain, he did not show it.

As his blade fell, you turned it aside with a snapping kick, readying follow up with another hit to his chest. But he let the blade be turned, only to bring it under your extended leg and within range for a nigh-lethal thrust lest you retreat.

That was an expected move, however.

Instead you dropped to your back and kicked his kneecaps with both feet.

A tendril of sand wrenched the ninjato from his grasp as he fell, tossing it aside like a discarded toy. He stared blankly at his empty hand, at you in confusion.

You simply used his distraction to land another whirlwind kick to his face, but he escaped once more with kawarimi.

But this time, he did not return.

The sand had not been your doing, but you had a decent idea.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Kudzu 3

Naruto/ Boruto: Naruto Next Generations Fanfic Reader-Insert (Female)

Summary: A field of verdant kudzu vines choking out the light of their still-seeing eyes, but the flowers are oh so fair.

Who should fault the vine?

Link to AO3

Chapter Three: Keep Sliding Down the Slippery Pole to the Edge of the Night

In silence your gaze slowly devoured, savored the veritable feast before you. Fragrant ginger-turmeric soup, rice, and thinly sliced beef. Steam rose, slightly distorting the air as if a mirage.

“What is this?” you questioned his unpainted face, his skin a shade shy of legitimate tan—there was a notable vulnerability, a softness to him—and a redness to his weary, sleepless eyes. The shinobi world—nay the world itself—does not succor frailty. He should have been the one left behind.

“A meal,” he smirked, hiding behind false mirth. “It’s not poisoned.”

His blatant rhetoric failed to amuse you, and you had not the patience to play into it, not this day. If Kankuro wanted to poison you, he would have done so far more easily and directly. He need not waste a perfectly fine meal.

“Why are you doing this?”

He sucked in his breath, closing his eyes as he leaned back, away from you. “We’ve never had a meal together.” His logic was simple. So painfully, uncharacteristically naive it made you retch.

From your periphery, a shinobi gave you a brierly glare sharper than the kunai he grinded with a smooth whetsone. The blade would break ere long.

It was surreal; it was ludicrous.

Because you were the prisoner.

“What are you doing?” You changed the query to better represent your lack of comprehension. His actions did not reflect his role.

“Isn’t it obvious?” His index finger traced the edges of a small cup in lieu of a direct response.

You wanted to flip the low table over and ruin all his innocuous, misplaced, and grossly out of place intentions. But you held back, kept your ire quelled. “If I said I wanted braised eel, would you get it?”

“Who am I,” you rose, looming over the jonin sitting too casually and continued callously, “and who are you?”

The rhythmic sound of steel against stone ceased, the silent observer to your display tensed, ever ready to resort to violence.

Kankuro crossed his arms, scowl marring his features. “Can’t we just eat?”

“We can’t go back to the past, and I won’t give you want you want.”

He rested on his knuckles, dark eyes searching your face for a sign of something, anything that was not there. “And if I want both,” his voice echoed firmly, belying the hope he so desperately reached for. There was honesty bleeding from his wavering eyes—no one was skilled enough to fake that.

Unbridled sunlight poured in from your cell’s solitary window, separating you both by a harsh line of light and leaving the remainder in a state of fabricated gloam.

“You’ll get neither.”

He huffed, sipping from his cup while mulling over your words, over his muddled thoughts. “I know you're not a bad person.”

“Why?” You seated yourself, regaining composure. You could not give him anything, not even body language. Not any more.

The shk-shhk resumed, counting the moments of awkward silence as the second hand of a clock counts the passing of time.

“When we first met… that was you. The real you.”

“I seem to recall we were both using false identities.” Gaze level and unblinking, you stretched out the pause, “Relationships built on deception will never be true.”

Kankuro crossed his arms, turning his head away from your scrutiny. “I don't believe that.”

“Believe what you will.” A calm clarity washed over you, cold and distant and inert. You picked up your chopsticks and ate—not because he swayed you but because he did not understand you. There was no purpose to explain your resistance; that the food before you required more labor in an environs that mandated the utmost frugality… that his flagrant display of authority near-epitomized the corruption you so detested.

So he smiled, and you ate to regain your strength.

He could not keep you forever. Eventually Kankuro would have to interrogate you, regardless of his perceived sentiment. Likely not this night, but soon.

As the meal ended—you offered generic, noncommittal responses to his casual banter—he placed all of the dishes and utensils on a utilitarian tray to carry out. The thought of purloining the chopsticks entertained you briefly, but they would be noticed.

Kankuro departed, his footfalls weightless, scintillant torchlight danced along his retreating form, bathing him both in shadow and in light.

You sat in the rays of the descending sun, relishing the moment and falling into deep meditation.

It felt like minutes when your eyes opened, but the moon hanging in your window disagreed. The scent of petrichor pulled you from your reverie, moisture building on the back of your neck.

And just like that, both scent and sensation were gone as if imagined—for this was the dry season.

But you remembered… you remembered the night it rained over Sebonehari.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Glass Castle 3

Glass Castle CH3

Summary: A princess in a castle of glass; a king in a city of sand.

Excerpt: “You don’t know how to relax do ya?” Much like the day before, his exasperating pluck indicated he pose no question that he did not already know the answer to.

Fire burning in your veins, heart racing, you opened your mouth to say an amaroidal reprisal, but you had the wherewithal to hold back. You always said regretful things in the heat of emotion. So you took another drink, the lesser of two evils.

“Well you sure know how to make a date awkward,” you chuckled, passing the comment off as a joke—the most watered down version of what you really wanted to say. Because even though you know you will regret it, you cannot help but say it eventually anyway.

Better to get it out of your system under your own terms… like ripping off that old, pus encrusted bandaid.

Kankuro laughed riotously, earning peculiar stares from the patrons who soon returned to their leisures once the initial interest abated. “Oh? This is a date, now is it?”

Aaaaaand your bitter liquor became your best friend. You took a elongated swig to hinder talking—when did it become so full? You stared at the bartender’s back, shaking with silent laughter. It was not to find something else to look at besides Kankuro… who kept on talking, totally unhindered.

“I thought we were just getting some work done and having a drink. Platonically. Though,” he paused with feigned dramatics, “this is much more like a date than what I interrupted with Lord Kazekage.”

Link to AO3

[obviousleeanonymous]

Kudzu 2

Naruto/ Boruto: Naruto Next Generations Fanfic Reader-Insert (Female)

Summary: A field of verdant kudzu vines choking out the light of their still-seeing eyes, but the flowers are oh so fair.

Who should fault the vine?

Link to AO3

Chapter Two: A Head Full of Smoke and a Heart With No Pity

Clouds rolled overhead, spurned by acheronian winds preluding the dusking hour. The cry of crickets cascaded into a calming chorus, but were they warning of predators, seeking a mate, singing simply to sing? You did not know, taking a sip of warmed sake in a delicate cup held precariously with your two stiff palms—courtesy of the decanter partially embedded in the sun-baked sands.

You did not know the reason for the cricket-song, but you enjoyed the approaching night—the boundless sky bursting into a nimiety of bold oranges and reds and violets before dimming into something much darker, much deeper, milky pinprick stars emerging from a day-long slumber.

Though you knew the stars were always there, it wasn’t what you felt. Hell, there were even rumors that the visible stars likely died a long, long time ago. But these stars above, dead or alive, were with you now, atop a sandy dune, basking in the revels of the encroaching night.

As you also knew you were not often alone on your nightly gazing, you casted a glance to the churning sands always moving just ever out of sight. Sometimes you saw a monster within, as things unseen were wont to be—until revealed, rather. One’s imagination birthed the most frightening creations.

Another laborious sip of the quickly cooling sake, another futile sidelong stare, another question unanswered, “Will you be a silent companion this night?” For there had been many nights with many queries and your aphonic companion remained ever so.

“That’s fine. You do as you will, just as I do.”

You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of fading warmth, the rise of chilling inclemency, shivering at the sensation of gooseflesh on your arms. But you were fine, you knew these fickle, abiding sands.

But the cries came unremittingly, killing the peaceful stillness with shrill terror, and fire—your now open eyes witnessed—fire burning in the little shanty of a village, created from broken remnants of an Ozymandian kingdom long lost, long forgotten, and long without a name.

Sebonehari was not a place for violence, not now; not ever.

“My night-long friend, care to lend a hand?” you could not contain the tremor in your voice. You did not want to do this alone. Your arms hurt, and you dropped the tiny cup, sake spilling into the sands.

But he was gone, as you expected. You did not fault the monster, however, for he had his reasons. Just as you had yours.

You walked toward the burning village, thinking of the faces of those that cared for you. If you did not succeed, you would die trying—nothing else mattered.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Kudzu CH1

Naruto/ Boruto: Naruto Next Generations Fanfic Reader-Insert (Female)

Summary: A field of verdant kudzu vines choking out the light of their still-seeing eyes, but the flowers are oh so fair.

Who should fault the vine?

Link to AO3

Chapter One: Uh, Running on Down to the Hole in the City

The moon was trapped in the window, you decided, pale light illuminating the days old grime on your face. Sure, logically you knew that to be a falsity, that the moon was not truly captured, but who could deny the opinion you carried in your own thoughts—the conviction in your heart?

The moon was trapped in the window as you were trapped in a cell. An ever present companion in your solitude.

As if to further remind you of your predicament, your jailor ran his hands against the barring beams, a hollow sound resounding in the silence. He knew that it would do little to prevent your escape.

But you knew he'd prehend you just as quick. You did not want to hurt them—certainly not him.

“Against better judgment, I’m trusting you not to escape.” The face he wore with red paint was angry, harsh lines reforming the edges of his eyes and mouth, but you could see his true face underneath.

Sorrow. Longing. But no regret—he had his own conviction.

You made no attempt to quell that bitter, biting laugh. “You just want to take me apart and see how I work.”

He frowned, turning away. “I want to help you before I’ve no choice but to hurt you.”

“There is always a choice, Kankuro.”

He snapped back, facing you with the irascibility to finally match his meticulous paint. “You chose to threaten the daimyo’s life.”

You shrugged noncommittally, adjusting your seated position to lean against the cooling wood, facing away from him. “As a result of the choices he made.”

The moon faded momentarily from a passing cloud.

He tossed an old hitai-ate, rusted and damaged by age and not from use, a thing that should have been abandoned long ago. “As you chose this?” He questioned, triumphant tones raising the cadence of his voice. He wanted to hit a nerve—show you that he knew what that hitai-ate represented. But his actions were petty and foolish.

You gave him nothing, and he walked away, footfalls heavy whereas they should be soundless. It gave away the seed sowed in his heart; revealed the weakness in his conviction.

But your mind reminisced of how it began, of how it ended. For who could deny the conviction of your still beating heart?

[obviousleeanonymous]

Glass Castle CH2

Summary: A princess in a castle of glass; a king in a city of sand. Excerpt: You recalled a curious pot in your bedroom, but your brain refused to logically identify its purpose. Resolving to not dwell on basic amenities you now lack from your relocation, you simply grabbed a handful of moist towelettes to wipe yourself, tied up your tousled hair, and slapped a faded cap to cover the rest. You were here to build something new; not linger on what was. It was about where you were going, not where you came from. Link to full chapter on AO3.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Glass Castle

Naruto fanfiction. Reder Insert. Gaara/Female Reader. Some Kankuro/Reader too. Summary: A princess in a castle of glass; a king in a city of sand. Excerpt: Your life dangled over the precipice of change, much like the world in the last decade or so since… You taped the nondescript cardboard box closed and slapped a premade shipping label with abandon. Within that meager box laid all your memories and keepsakes. Everything else was thrown away. The small apartment in the rebuilt Konoha was bare, empty, walls freshly coated in a neutral off-white—the heavy scent of solvent based paint made you dizzy. You and your box were the only objects left. High-noon sunlight poured in from a large window. This would be someone else’s home to make memories because it was no longer yours, not anymore. Hefting the box in one arm, you walked to the doorway one last time. Even the scuff marks from when you used to kick the door closed had been thoroughly scrubbed pristine. As if you had never been. Link to full chapter on AO3

[obviousleeanonymous]

In Relentless Flux CH1

Summary: Because a little girl made a mockery of the Galaxy Garrison, you got a new job. Because you got a new job, you messed around with an alien spaceship. Because you messed around with an alien spaceship, you became lost in space. Space was awesome and all that jazz, but getting a new job sucks! Or did little girls just suck?

---

In Relentless Flux What Rises...

Apparently a teenage girl infiltrated and compromised the integrity of this super fancy military slash academy slash space agency slash cool as ice building… aka the Galaxy Garrison in the middle of the Callado Desert. They hired you—though your degree was simply an associate’s and an elective course for shits and giggles to boot—even though you applied on a whim because money. But none of that mattered because…

“Mitch, your password cannot be your name.”

“Commander Iverson,” the tall man stated flatly, with no humor. Even if you were not sitting at his desk, assessing his level of security—or lack thereof—he would tower over most. But until he had a legitimate password, he would forever be “Mitch”.

“Alright, Mitch.”

He bristled, mouth forming a harsh line, glowering black eyes spoke volumes, but Mitch said nothing as per usual. Hell, if you weren’t planning on quitting after a month, you would have curbed your behavior. But when the head authority lets your smarmy ass sass him to Cincinnati, you sass him to Cincinnati.

In your opinion, he deserved it—and it wasn’t you scratching a power tripping itch you never knew you had. Half of his problems could be resolved with simple google searches. It was no wonder that the Garrison had a security breach regardless of the breachee’s skillset. “Please, change your password. An acronym for a sentence mixed with shorthand is a pretty solid baseline.”

“Yes.” His posture, his visage, remained rigid, and you could seriously not read him. Yet somehow you had a feeling his password was going to be “iaci1”... Lord help you if your hunch proved correct. If so, you were gonna walk out, pay or no pay.

“If that’s all, I’m gonna get some grub in the caf. Y’all got some mean veggies.”

“It is not. I have something else for you to look at.”

Holding back your sigh, you rose from the chair. At least you weren’t super hungry. So you followed the ever-stoic Mitch, regardless of your less than stellar impression of the whole Garrison, they were paying your bills. For a month, maybe less. You could hold back for now.

---

The correct response to the something else for you to look at was: Sir, Mitch, Sir, I’m pretty dope with a spectroscope, and I’m so geng computer jargon… But this is alien shit. Literally.

Instead, you ran your hand along the nigh-seamless spaceship, comfortably warm under the baking Calladan sun, and said all chipper, “Right on it, Mitch.” You would never have another opportunity like this in your entire life. Somehow, you no longer regretted the hour and forty seven minutes it took to sign all of those non-disclosure documents.

Scrambling up the ladder, dignity be damned, you entered the cockpit. The interior seemed larger than you expected, but after sitting in the chair, the intended pilot was larger than an average human. The hatch unexpectedly closed, giving you a mini heart attack. At least it confirmed that the ship had power., but now you were in total darkness.

Fumbling around, you veritably touched everything until the panels before became alit in a bold, violet glow. Obviously, it had to be the control thingamajigger. The screens revealed Mitch with a handful of officers trying to pry open the hatch to no avail.

You should probably get out. There was no way you could read anything on the keyboard or displays. An intelligent species would also incorporate simple symbols to express words—something universal. There should be something you could figure out in that case. So you scoured the cockpit for said symbol. How complex could it be?

Your eyes fell onto a symbol that looked too much like a power symbol. There was no way it could be… but it was the only familiaresque thing. It would do something, right?

Huffing that sigh you held back before and crossing fingers, you tapped it.

And then you were flung back into the oversized seat, because G-force.

You should have thought about finding a seatbelt or harness, but instead just thought of how you were never getting that paycheck… because you were going to die.

The alien vessel banked in a different direction and you cracked your head against the smooth, cinereous wall. The stars, closer than should ever be, blurred as you fell into the void.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Fascination CH3

It took many heartbeats and calming breaths to form your words—words that you chose with the utmost care. For you were at a major disadvantage and much you needed to know. Far too much. Standing with posture firm, you bowed from the waist, speaking your name before adding, “You have my utmost gratitude for saving my life, sir…” the words filled the ornate room, as if carved from ancient marble, imploring. Of what little you did know, insulting this man or creature would be no boon. Every moment was like walking barefoot on jagged seashells and mossy stones, and your hands trembled. Digging your fingers into your still damp clothing helped to keep the shivering at bay. More than barely placated nerves caused said shivering, of that you had nary a doubt. Of that you feared. Hypothermia was a mistress you wanted no parts of. “Prince Sidon,” he spoke, a measure of incredulity saturated his haughty tone, stating with inflection alone that he found it preposterous he had to inform you of his name and station. Apparently your expression gave away your lack of recognition, so he crossed his arms, puffing out his bare chest. “Prince of the seas and oceans, ruler of Immis Orah.” His words elucidated nothing, but you made a much more conscious effort to keep your confusion less blatant this time. “Oh yes. Of course.” But now a conundrum! You needed to continue the conversation, but how tactless should you be—how much could you get away with? “Pardon me for how brash I must sound, Prince Sidon, but when might I be able to go home—” You couldn’t finish, Sidon stiffened as if cut from cool marble and you could practically see the hauteur pooling in his impossibly bright eyes. Did you push too far? Though your want to go home could hardly be a surprising request. “I found you. You belong here.” His voice lost any semblance of joviality, leaving nothing but brusque acrimony. Sidon did not wait for a response, clearly not caring, and dived back into the pool, the subsequent splash doused the closest oil lamps. And your prison was that much colder, that much darker. You needed to escape. Rushing to the large door—the only door—you nearly slipped on the slick floor. Grasping the handle, you pulled. Nothing. Using more strength, you only gained a horrendous grating shriek like nails on a chalkboard, but you could feel the vibrations run through your very bones. The door was effectively sealed due to unuse and age. But Sidon obviously brought you into this room. Therefore, there must be a way out. As you turned, you screamed in a completely undignified manner. A child stood directly before you, but no simple child were they—apparently nothing in this “Immis Orah��� was truly simple. For what child was made of warm-hued wood and face was verdant leaf? Or was the child simply wearing the leaf as a mask? “Hi,” the child waved. “I’m Aspen.” Kneeling to be at eye-level, you returned the greetings. “Mhm. I know who you are.” Aspen tapped their little knubby feet in one of the puddles. “The Neverking took you.” “Never… king?” “Uh-huh. ‘Cause he will never be a king. Pherniize could be a queen.” “Who is she? Does she live here too?” Maybe you could get this Pherniize to help you escape. “You’re like a human. Not knowing anything.” Aspen huffed an exaggerated sigh. “She’s the sea-witch. Nahh… The Neverking don’t like her much. I don’t see her around. I hear her call though!” You shook your head, you had to be more direct. “Please, can you help me get out, Aspen?” The child stopped, staring at you with hollow eyes. “Mmmm… Nah.” “Can you tell me how to get out instead?” Aspen bobbled their little head and hobbled over to the dark pool where Sidon once was and pointed into its depths. You followed, peering in. You could see nothing. Though you could not swim, should you try? Or should you wait? “Go! Go! Go!” Aspen laughed as they pushed you in. This time, the water was different. There was no light. Just darkness. Heaviness. Loneliness. Emptiness. But why did it feel like home? Why were you not afraid?

[obviousleeanonymous]

Chutes and Ladders CH 11 Preview

Notes: Took a while to get started on this one, and progress is slower, but I have a good grasp of the chapter's contents and feel. Prevalent theme: “You remember moments but not the time between.” “You made a home out of the bits and pieces others left behind.” --- You jangled the doorknob, a loose component rattling uselessly. The door remained locked. In your backpack of things that were not yours before you shoved said not-your-things within, you had varying screwdrivers and gizmos and gadgets and kawoozits. Before you fiddled for an aforementioned screwdriver that might work as intended, you stared down the basic welcome mat. Stepping back, you used your foot to flip it. Lo and behold, a nondescript key was underneath! People still did that? It was like asking to be robbed. Shrugging to no one in particular, you used the key. At worst, it would simply not be the correct key, so it hardly hurt to try. The door opened with ease, creaking profoundly—a testament to the stupidity of people. Not that it much mattered anymore, you have yet to encounter another person during your—how many days?—vagabondage.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Chutes and Ladders CH2

Summary: To climb to the top, you gotta fall down a chute or two or three or four… and break a few bones. But it’s okay, 'cause time heals all wounds. Right?

Chapter One

Chutes and Ladders Chapter Two: What an Awkward Fish

Not a clown, at least. From the furtive glances you stole, the blue haired man possessed a definitive boyish quality. Handsome, with nary a doubt, but room to grow still. Or perhaps his youthful visage would linger for many years hence. You grit your teeth—he still did not put on the seat belt!

Your hand halted momentarily over the radio dial before switching on the heat. Though the setting remained quite low, the sound blaringly sliced through the uncomfortable silence. You disliked new clients for this very reason—glancing at the time—you really did not like new clients at 2:17 in the morning. Should you speak, or wait for him first? Did he know his destination? Or did he not want the heat on—

“Is the heat okay?” you blurted.

God, why did you always speak your mind so untimely, so clumsily, so unprofessionally?

“Oh, it’s quite fine.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between long, slender fingers. Great, now you clearly annoyed him. Was he a model—you wagered on a hand model.

Biting your lip, you caught yourself before you fell further into tommyrot-ery.

“Know the coffee shop on 43rd Street?” If he seemed bothered, his face revealed nothing. He was probably great at poker, and played on the weekends in a speakeasy. With bourbon. He doesn’t smoke because you cannot catch the scent of tobacco on him.

“No, but I can get you there in a crash and a flash, Mr. Sweet Mask…” Why did he have such a weird name? Did he prefer a different title? “...Sir.”

He chuckled melodiously. Bets changed from hand model to singer... or former singer turned hand model. He definitely sang cheesy love songs from two generations ago in the shower. For sure. “Just ‘Sweet Mask’, if you would.”

Shit. You did it again!

Nodding, wordlessly because you lacked faith in your mouth-spewing, you began to drive into the heart of A-City. Compared to the bustle of day, traffic proved marginal, practically nonexistent, at best. All the better, for it gave you ample time to regulate your breathing and curb the glares at the seat belt not belted.

After roughly ten minutes of mundane maneuvering, you idled in front of Queegquegs. Sweet Mask, wearing ginormous sunglasses that screamed “I’m famous so look at me”, sauntered into the coffee shop. Regardless, you would remember the place—not too many choice shops operated twenty four hours, after all.

For all intents and purposes spacing out, you regarded the large intersection of 43rd and Anpan. Desolate, empty, serene. Yet, only a few feet further, you saw the remnant debris of the carnage from sometime earlier that day or late the day prior—a monster attack, for what else could it be in this day and age? By now, most of it appeared clear, or rather, by comparison to last you glimpsed it. This time, you did not turn your gaze.

When did monsters and heroes become so commonplace?

People died yesterday.

As you tried to find another distraction, you spotted a tall building in which a large segment had newer paint and construction—people surely died when that structure became so compromised. If a Demon or Dragon Disaster happened, did the populace even have a chance to evacuate?

You wondered how many parents said they would be right back and never say “I’m home.”

“D—” Thankfully, Sweet Mask opened the backseat passenger’s door, effectively killing the words from your mouth. Damn your word-sputtering.

The interior smelled of wonderfully brewed coffee, and, judging by the small size of the container and bold aroma, likely legitimate espresso. The temptation to garner your own beverage of the roasted bean variety proved strong, almost too strong, but you were working. To give in would be disrespectful to your client. And he still made no attempt to use a seat belt.

“Have I done something to offend you, or do you always glare, miss driver?” Shit. He caught you—fix it, now. Deflect the question.

“N-no. Not really. But you haven’t put on your seat belt. That’s illegal.” Change the subject! “Why do you wear your sunglasses at night? Doesn’t that draw more attention?”

You kept prattling, barely even breathing. You needed to change the goddamn topic! “You must work mad late, right? Are you a hand model? I hope you are because—I mean—I’m super happy you’re not a clown. They just aren’t funny, you know? Not to say that you aren’t funny. Are you?”

Sweet Mask took a long sip of espresso, and you just had to add, “I know I’m an awkward fish… Please don’t sue me.”

And then he choked, spitting the drink in an undignified manner.

“Or die. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up now. Are you okay?”

+_____+_____+

Several days after, mercifully, not losing your job, you stopped by the local Wells Embargo branch in A-City. You expected the venture to be relatively quick, for a bank anyway. But. Well. Bank robbers.

And they sucked at it.

Sporting tacky leather jackets, with no weapons drawn or otherwise, the group of three ordered everyone against the walls, kneeling. Everyone complied, including yourself, but you simply wondered how they spoke with green grasshopper faces.

After almost fifteen minutes of the would-be-crooks unsuccessfully attempting to open an oversized safe, you stood up, calmly walking to the exit. Hell, you were several feet away before the grasshopper-man realized and grabbed your arm in a weak-sauce grip. Why did everyone listen to them? They had no weapons. Not to say of the biggest mistake they made—

“Where are you going, girl?”

“How do you talk, Mr. Grasshopper Face. I mean, I’m going to work.”

He growled, or more accurately, chirped. “Don’t disrespect us Kamen Raiders! And we are cricket men. Do I need to hurt you, little girl?”

“With what,” you deadpanned. Nope, he still failed to grasp the situation.

“Our Kamen Bikes,” he stated though it sounded much more like an unsure question. Even his grip loosened, indicating his doubt.

“Okay, Mr. Kamen Raider. Look over there, please.” You pointed at different segments of ceiling sporting black half spheres. “CCTVS. Outside, with your bikes that you threatened me with, are more CCTVS at every corner. And the Hero Asso—”

“—They won’t make it!” He yelled, rudely interrupting you.

“...They don’t have to make it.” You shrugged at him. His antennae drooped. Confused? You continued, “It’s not very smart to rob a bank when the police station is literally across the street. Look, the good policemen even got your bikes.”

+_____+_____+

After the police escorted the Kamen Raiders to their new home less than fifty feet away in pretty silver bracelets, you went up to the somewhat shaken teller. “Hi. I need to make a withdraw from my savings account.”

The frazzled lady tried to hold a pen, but her grip proved much too shaky. “Oh, if only Sweet Mask saved us…”

Snapping a finger in front of her face, she jolted, and finally looked at you. “Can I get my money, please? I gotta get back to work soon.”

+_____+_____+

Knowing full well that you would be certifiably late picking him up, you pulled over, hazard lights flashing ominously.

Then you screamed at the top of your lungs, not giving a hot damn if people heard through the windows or not.

Sweet Mask. Handsomely Masked Sweet Mask. He was a hero. Good thing that, 'cause heroes don't murder people. Right?

You were so screwed. “Fuck.”

[obviousleeanonymous]

Chutes and Ladders CH1

Notes: I figure I ought to post the fic here, even though I've been working on it for quite a while and posting it elsewhere. Regardless, I have much love for this story. (Link to AO3) As a general warning, there are darker, more unpleasant things that happen but as a whole, this is very much a comedy with slowburn romance. Like the slowest of slowburns. (But I believe you will like the MC enough to roll with it, 'cause she is like the best and worst role model ever.) Without further ado...

Summary: To climb to the top, you gotta fall down a chute or two or three or four... and break a few bones. But it's okay, 'cause time heals all wounds. Right?

Chutes and Ladders Chapter One: The Girl Stuck in Neutral

You liked how it felt, the purring of the 2-ZOOZ+ OHV Slujking engine trailing up your legs—if only you could take of those damn heels—softly thrumming through the steering wheel and into your tastefully manicured nails. It was subtle; it was perfect.

“Alright, no more distractions,” you mumbled, adjusting the rearview mirror and checking for anything out of place… even though you already made sure to keep your vehicle in impeccable order before arriving—

“What was that,” came the haggard, worn question from one of your backseat occupants. You expected no less for the aged actor just finished a shoot. His manager, remained silent, likely distracted by the contents of his tablet, scheduling and whatnot.

Turning your head to grin at Krzys Czajka, stage name Mister K, you answered cheerily, “Nothing, Mister Czajka. I have a bad habit of talking out loud. Going home?”

He nodded stately and downed half of the tea-infused water bottle you set aside for him as he often requested after work. “Yes, please.”

Smoothly changing the gearshift, you pulled out from the studio’s back entrance. Already, dusk began to fall over A-city, giving the tall skyscrapers a vivid, but fleeting, red-orange glow. While his manager continued fiddling with the tablet, Mister K chose to rest his head against the slightly tinted glass, perhaps observing the same vision as you. Faintly smiling, you believed that the case.

Several uncleared roads forced you to take a more scenic route, adding on an extra fifteen minutes to a drive that normally took thirty. No one minded, or rather, voiced no complaints. Thus, no one minded. Finally arriving at the luxurious, high-end, Apex Heights—you really imagined a cozy cottage suited the suave gentleman rather than such a tacky-named complex—

“—Miss?” Mister K’s manager tapped you on the shoulder, nodding his head toward the older man. You must have been zoning out.

“Sorry.”

“Oh it’s fine,” Mr. Czajka offered unassumingly. “I just wanted to let you know I am heading back to P-city, and will not be needing your services for a while.”

“Oh, I see. Take care of yourself.” How unfortunate to lose your most loyal client…

“I already put in a great word with your company, so I am certain you will have more requests,” he spoke while stepping out of the door the manager opened.

Hastily, you also exited the old, but stylish, black Hedge Contender in order to clumsily shake his hand.

Laughing, but not profusely, he added, “Is there anything you want as a parting gift?” Immediately, Czajka held up a hand to crush any protest from his manager. “I know that your company allows for gratuities and favors.”

You could not possibly ask for anything, but to reject it would be rude, right? Shit. What was something normal and not expensive? Think. Think. Think!

“An auto… graph!” came your awkward delivery. The debacle escalated when the only paper you had to offer was your business card. How unprofessional. With that, he signed your card, and you had to keep from cringing at your blatantly tactless self.

Once making sure he safely entered the building—his manager followed, likely having more work to do yet—you entered your car and pressed your head against the steering wheel, breathing slowly and deeply. “Alright. Let’s just get home.”

Now officially off duty, you put on some music, specifically B-City Nights and their first album, Work From Home. Though fairly dated, the duo had a distinct house, techno-funk feel, and was something that you enjoyed since childhood.

Cruising down the main road, no longer fully blocked off, bobbing your head Da Funct, you gawked at the damage done to three city blocks. A building leaning precariously, partially collapsed, deep gashes destroyed several sidewalks, and to say nothing of the innumerable crushed cars that had been pushed to the side to allow for but a modicum of traffic!

“Hope everyone made it out okay.” Sighing, you pointedly made an effort to ignore the scene, and raised the volume higher.

Your hands gripped the wheel so tight, your knuckles whitened bloodlessly. And you ceased rocking your head to the music.

+_____+_____+

Your hand lightly grazed the holly wreath on you door before you entered the empty studio apartment. “I’m home…”

On the TV, which you almost always left on, a reporter interviewed a hero you failed to recognized. Then again, so many new heroes emerged every day, that you were desensitized to it. Instead of turning it off, you lowered the volume a smidgen.

Navigating around your massive book piles, you changed into pajamas and acquired yogurt. “Maybe I should get some more shelves, but then I’d have to organize. Meh.”

So you opted to check your work phone, perking up at a message. A new job already? The number, however, was not a saved contact.

Sender: 0429-XXXXXX

answer youe phone already had to hunt for 33m exactly to get your work number *your

Oh. Darting over to your bedside desk, you grabbed your personal phone. You left it on silent, as per usual. A notification on the center of the screen informed you of two missed calls from your uncle. You sent him a text, saying little more than you were working and would stop by soon.

The rest of your night consisted of turning off the television and leafing through a vintage car almanac with more than a decade of age yellowing its pages.

+_____+_____+

The default ringtone woke you up, instantly making you forget whatever dream you had. Pushing the book off your face, you answered, trying to keep—and failing—to keep the grogginess out of your voice, “Hello? Yes. Yeah. I can get there pretty quick. Who needs to be picked up? That’s an odd name—No, no I can do it. Yes. Goodbye, sir.”

Running to the bathroom, after tripping over everything in your haphazard living space, you splashed cold water on your face and combed your hair. Within less than ten minutes, you donned a crisp black suit, and confidently strolled to your car.

“Well, Mr. Sweet Mask, you better not be a clown. I can’t deal with clowns at two in the morning.” You said aloud to no one, navigating down nearly empty streets to where the client should be waiting.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Fascination CH2

Notes: Always possible for me to do light revisions, as I typo all the time and I am tired presently. Thank you all for the support.

Your eyes fluttered open, pondering how many laborious hours were spent stringing the hundreds of colorful coral and shell fragments into the lengthy garland cord that decorated most of the ceiling. And how you wished to adorn your room in a similar fashion. Ah, but this was not your room!

Heart pounding a passionate tattoo, you bolted upright in the bed, silken sheets drenched and chill to the touch. Your head whipped to and fro, trying to ascertain, ever foolishly, just where were you and what happened.

“I cannot calm my mind, but needs must. Needs must,” you breathed out, throat sore, as if the words were a mantra against woe. Yet, you inhaled deeply, distorted recollections dissolving like seafoam against the sandy shores. You hand gently touched the tender flesh of your throat.

You remembered painfully coughing water from your lungs, even your first deep breath of air burned.

But you frowned, for the chess board lacked a number of pieces. You would figure it out, one step at a time.

Fingers ghosting over the delicate material of the gossamer sheets, shades of ivory and hints of silver spidersilk. The bed, larger than you deemed necessary, was designed in a similar fashion—soft, minute detailing but gaudy and gilded no less. However, that observation was not key. Again, the bed was quite sodden, but you were only damp.

It had not been long since you were saved. Or was this a far worse fate? Fretting would only hinder your chances of figuring out your location, to say the least of grasping freedom.

Your eyes scoured, the walls alit with little oil lamps hanging from slender chains attached to posts crafted into all manner of aquatic beasts. Some you knew, others you did not. Elongated shadows danced and weaved in rhythm with the flickering flames.

Kneeling on the bed, mattress slightly sinking under your more concentrated weight, you pressed a hand against the smooth wall adjacent to the ostentatious headboard, the color forever trapped between dark gray and cobalt.

As you expected, the stony parting was cool to the touch, wet from imperceivable rivulets cascading above. Immersing in the sensation, you closed your eyes, the strong currents beyond the walls seemed as close as the blood coursing in your veins.

A fragrance tickled your nose, bringing you to long-lost days of sleeping a warm embrace, of jumping in puddles under a summer rain… A call, a pull, a fascinating—

—splashing of water, purposely loud to garner attention like a petulant child spurned by a disinterested adult.

Oh, but it worked, and oh, no child was he.

He laid languidly across the floor, only his torso emerged from the pool at the farthest edge of the room, all the while his face—so white that you were certain noble women would gladly sell their souls to achieve such a pallor—a perfect mask of indifference.

As if he did not just have a histrionic outburst.

But you knew his eyes, those yellow eyes—floating in the dark, luring you—he was your angler fish, your savior. Though, you attempted to not be overly blatant with your staring, the crest of his head—or helmet, perhaps—was much akin to the body of a shark, redder than fingers stained with the juices of wild cherries. A shark seemed ever more apropos.

“Young one,” his voice lilted, every syllable a hair’s breadth away from bubbling into laughter, “your appearance is rather ridiculous.”

Oh, the manners on this one.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Preview Chutes and Ladders CH10

Using a dumpster redolent of rotting potatoes and curdling milk—how did a hardware store propagate such wretched aromas?—you reached the pane of the broken window, and you couldn’t be quick enough! In your haste to climb through, you punctured your foot on slivers of stubborn glass, deceptively sharp like kitten teeth. Then you dropped like a dropbear, landing on your back and cracking your head on the hard interior. But you were inside! Vision doubling,wavering you felt blood seeping—flowing warm honey—from your re-injured head. Just what the hell were you doing, really? Beams of sunlight cut through the dark of the room, for any working lights would be much too useful. The dust, only visible in the light, delicately drifted without a care. You wanted to bottle that feeling, that modus vivendi and swallow it whole, if only for the chance to imitate it. Or you just had a concussion and were trippin mad balls.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Fascination

Notes: I don't much like AU. I find that people tend to not establish much of what makes it "alternate" and "different" and simply soldiers on with defined or inferred facts but fail to fully extrapolate.

But dear lords above, I love this. It woke me up at 4AM. Motivational!Sidon will be later. I hope you all enjoy.

As you fell off the stern of an oversized cruise ship, you had a few precious seconds of eternity to contemplate, wonder, and dread.

Stars glittered marvelously, little gemstones and diamond dust sprinkled insouciantly on a sable canvas. You could never witness such a sight at home with all the electric lamps, or at least, not as such an empyreal wonder. No, you needed to be in the open waters, in the salty air.

But you weren’t allowed to be here, your father forbade it most profusely. You always wondered why, for surely his dislike of water derived from more than simply drowning.

Back crashing hard against algid waters, the air was forced from your lungs before you could even think to hold your breath—breath you so desperately needed. Sinking beneath the tides, the cruise ship bedimmed into little more than a pearly spectre. Soon, that too became lost in the peerless pitch. How surreal, you wondered with frightening blasé, as if you were pondering a curious phrase upon a well-worn page and not your imminent—

Snapping from your reverie, you clawed at the water, trying to pull yourself up, higher. Kicking and screaming, foolishly swallowing stinging salt water, you only managed to be further mired down. But why?

You did not know how to swim, but you should not be descending so steadily, so quickly.

So you floundered and flailed, concurrently wishing for death or for someone to save you—whichever occurred first. It did not matter, just that you wanted this struggle, this state of torturous limbo to end.

A hand snaked along your backside pulling you close, effectively making your pathetic struggling cease for a heartbeat. The murky water made it nigh-impossible to see, but you tried. Something pale, or rather possibly several shades lighter than the water, but you couldn’t be certain—human eyes just weren’t suited underwater.

You could see its bioluminescent yellow eyes, and all you could think of was a monstrous angler fish, luring you in, preparing to swallow you whole. Redoubling your efforts, you pounded weakly against his—because your mind came to that conclusion with your limited senses—too-smooth chest, slipping harmlessly aside as if coated in an oil.

And then lips, unsettlingly too human, came crashing against yours. Oh gods, if you had any air in your lungs, you’d have lost it yet again! He, the creature, it was trying to force oxygen into your mouth, not knowing that you swallowed far too much water.

Funny, you desired to die or be rescued mere moments ago. Fate decided to grant you both, exactly as you wished it.

The darkness took you; it felt like home.

[obviousleeanonymous]