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[prcphesise]

ITSYBITSYPARKER.

Peter blinked behind his mask. Was the idea of him being the real deal ever in question? Huh. It was a little jarring to be honest, Peter wasn’t used to RESPECT not by a long shot, but in general people had stopped being skeptical of his powers a few months after he’d started this gig. 

And then…why did he do this, that was the question now wasn’t it. He sobered, going strangely quiet, a sudden turn from his previously rambling self.

“Someone has to,” he started and debated leaving it at that, but that wasn’t really good enough. It was true but it didn’t cover the real reason he squeezed himself into spandex night after night.

“Because I have these powers and the last time I chose not to use them someone I love died. So, yknow, I guess it’s volunteer work. I mean I don’t get paid.” And really, someone should actually pay superheroes for the work they did. 

“How about you Ms. Pointy Stick?”

          ❝ SOMEONE HAS TO, ❞  she agrees, surprising herself with a slight nod.  whatever annoying attitude he’d entered the alley with is suddenly nowhere to be found.  instead, his words betray vulnerability.  processing his story, she quietly adds, ❝ i’m sorry for your loss.  i, uh...i know what you mean. ❞  unintentionally putting loved ones at risk is certainly a unique form of torture.  her eyes remain trained on his masked face for a moment as they exchange something like solemn understanding.

the blaring of car horns and whirring of fluorescent signs flood the alley--the city waiting just beyond this corner they’ve both found themselves in.  she wonders if he, the proud local hero, has the time to be chatting with her ;  she knows she doesn’t.  ❝ tell ya what :  i can handle the nightlife.  it seems like you could use a break, anyway. ❞  eyebrows perked, she offers a kind smile along with an outstretched hand.  ❝ deal ? ❞

[prcphesise]

FASCIINATING​.

           HE IS STILL WATCHING HER—an action he is used to doing, has become associated with; Spock is of a quiet sort, he knows, keeping to himself when he can help it, sitting somewhere in the middle of every class—the front is too obvious, too open, while the back is a place reserved for miscreants, and a place for an eye, always an eye, where Spock does not wish to be seen. It gives him opportunities like these, tiny windows into the lives of others. He is observant but only in search of a way to avoid them—contact, conversation, this. Spock has moved from place to place to yet another place his whole life—despite what his mother says, this is our home now, she told him; in the sun, in the heat of Southern California. Even so, forming relationships, or friendship—things he will not, he cannot do—is illogical. Because he does not know how. His body reminds him of this, aching sorely above stained lips. She, Buffy, punched him. Spock sniffs, wipes his hands on his nose, then tries again with the bushel of paper towels she passes, or shoves, his way. The bathroom smells like copper. But it might just be him. Spock takes a moment to dab at the smear of red under his nose, glancing at the crimson color soaking recycled brown, scratchy and terrible against the skin of his knuckles—it is undignified, it is inconvenient. He should be angry or annoyed or something, but instead what he should feel is tampered by an overwhelming curiosity. Spock tilts his head, watching her carefully, “Who did you think I was?” 

          DESPITE FAILING TO  maintain eye contact with the boy lasting longer than a few seconds, buffy feels studied by him.  considering the damage she’s already inflicted, she lets him observe her in his strange way.  in a distant recollection, she realizes she’s felt this undeterred focus from him once or twice in class.  her weight shifts uncomfortably between her heels.  okay.  so he’s a little weird...doesn’t mean he deserved any of this.

his question catches her off guard, even after she had given him permission to ask it.  lips part uselessly and she shakes her head, searching for some sane-sounding response.  ❝ uhh. ❞  her brow furrows.  ❝ it’s kind of a long story.  i have this...stalker, ❞ she blurts, another wave of guilt crashing over her in an instant.  now she’s lying to the poor guy ?  with a little nod of confirmation, she presses forward, words flowing faster than she can think,  ❝ oh yeah.  real big, scary dude.  he won’t leave me alone, so i had to learn self defense !  the whole thing’s got me all wigged out. ❞

she exhales nervous laughter, internally debating whether this lie is really necessary.  the truth would be way too difficult for him to process, she reminds herself and eagerly changes the subject ;  ❝ but, i get that that’s NO excuse to go around punching my way through passing period.  seriously, i’m so sorry, uh-- ❞  oh, this is embarrassing.  she’s totally blanking on his name.

[prcphesise]

WILDCARDWHEELER.

nancy’s  red  jacket  was  always  a  comfort  object,  it  is  what  she  wore  with  pride  remembering  she  shot  the  can,  remembering  when  she  swung  the  bat  and  chose  one  of  her  weapons  and  chose  to  prepare  to  fight  for  barb  than  flee. the  jacket  held  such  a  nice  symbolism  for  her,  the red  for  passion  and  the  fact  she  was  able  to  stick  up  for  herself,  but  the  gun  in  her  shaking  hand  held  a  greater  responsibility  in  her  life,  it  was  almost  also  an  comfort  thing,  sleeping  with  the  gun  under  her  pillow,  never  wanting  to  see  one  of  those  things  again,  but  now  she  is  prepared,  any  demigorgan  that  wanted  to  come  her  way  needs  to  be  taken  down. for  the  sake  of  her  friends  and  family  and  town,  nancy  perks  up  at  the  compliment,  her  blue  eyes  are  still  stunned  beyond  relief  at  the  way  the  stranger  maneuvered  her  body  and  the  wooden  stake,  killing  the  thing  instantly,  nancy  recovers  and  finally  smiles,  grateful  nod  at  the  save. “  yeah,  i’m  good,  how…  how did  you  do  that?  “  more  like  who  the  hell  are  you?

          ABOUT TO ASK  where she got the jacket, buffy consciously suppresses the urge and smiles to herself.  she must have sunk to a new low, managing to remain so casual after facing some unspeakable new horror.  still, she can’t decide what’s more crucial--information about some creepy thing she’d encountered while walking home, or local retail recommendations from a stylish peer.  glancing again at the trembling girl with the gun, buffy admits to herself that perhaps both conversations can wait.

❝ practice, ❞ buffy replies vaguely, shrugging.  it’s not a lie.  she stashes the stake back into her pocket, hoping the girl won’t question further about it.  ❝ are you sure you’re good ?  ‘cause you seem a little shook up.  and, believe me, i don’t blame you after plugging this little...darling over here ! ❞

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BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER — “Anne” (1998)

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CITIALIIN​.

     THE BOOK plummets to the floor with a resounding clatter, echoing through the dusty library like a gunshot.  Silver gloved hands remain outstretched before him, his fingers curling like withering leaves, and he turns to her with wide, petrified eyes, lips parted as he stammers, splutters, verges on the edge of his panic, ❝ I – i – it’s squished ? ❞ he manages, a strange ashen paleness waxen over his gaunt features, ❝ as in, it’s broken ?  I don’t, I don’t, ❞ and he succumbs to some mechanical stutter, thoughts going far too fast to properly translate, his hands winding into his hair as he forgoes the chair to frantically pace the room, ❝ I don’t – I don’t know how to fix it ! ❞ he finally manages.  

     HE TURNS to her in desperation, hands frantically clutching his right side – a human might assume he’s got some sort of cramp, but that’s his heart fluttering down there, thudding at a million miles a minute, teetering towards outright fainting.  ❝ I don’t know how to fix it !  How could I possibly know how to fix something that complicated ?! ❞ he asks angrily, before he clamps his hands over his mouth, guilty apology written all over his face.  ❝ I’m – I’m so sorry I yelled.  But I don’t know how to fix it, ❞ he manages through his fingers, slumping into the chair as he winds his digits into his hair.  

      ❝ I CAN’T fix it.  How could I ?  I’m not a mechanic, I don’t know anything about machines, ❞ he bemoans, dropping his head to the desk as he hides in his folded arms.  Trapped – and the atmosphere suddenly feels crushing, the air a noxious fume, hithes throat closing tight when he realizes he might really be – trapped here, stranded, that this may be his final destination.  ❝ You have to help me leave, ❞ he suddenly begs her, his hands clasped together.  ❝ I – I don’t want to stay here ! ❞   

         HER GAZE FALLS  mournfully to the floor, her lip worrying between her teeth.  neither her nor giles had anticipated him not knowing.  she figured if he knew enough to fly his spacecraft, he might know something or other about repairing it...then again, her mom’s been driving for years and still can’t change a tire on her own.  after a moment, she responds hesitantly, ❝ i-i can try, i mean...you’re sure you don’t know anything ? ❞

she starts to worry, realizing her own lack of knowledge on the subject, limited to changing out the double a’s that power her boom box.  and giles is hopeless, obsessed with old books and the complete opposite of tech savvy.  her gaze flicks upward at him, sympathy in her expression as she reaches an arm out to touch his shoulder.

❝ we can help.  or, try to help !  a-and in the meantime, we’ll hide you. ❞  the words seem the least bit comforting, she recognizes, sensing his fear and panic at the situation.  ❝ keep you safe, ❞ she corrects, more confidently, shaking her head.  removing her hand, she racks her brain for any kind of  reassurance she can offer.  ❝ i’m guessing you didn’t mean to land here...but there’s a lot of earth that’s worth seeing while you’re here.  like, the beach !  and the mountains !  and... ❞  an idea creeps into her head and she reaches for the spice girls cd again.  ❝ and concerts !  did you know you could see the spice girls perform live ?? ❞

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IN THIS HOUSE, THE MOST DIRE, HORRIBLE EVENTS TOOK PLACE… / 🕊️

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SOFTHCRTED​.

Zuko bared his teeth as her comment hit home. He would not show weakness in front of this girl who couldn’t possibly understand ANYTHING about him. She wouldn’t possibly understand that he had EVERYTHING to prove.

 “I don’t need a special holiday to kill you,” he snarled, fire licking at his fingertips. Of course, a holiday would probably be helpful. The ones his kind celebrated tended to embue them with more power. But the closest one wasn’t for a few months at least and Zuko wasn’t willing to wait that long. 

“Now let’s do this,” Wasn’t the best line, but Zuko wasn’t great at quips besides, it served a purpose. He took a deep breath, tonight would be the night. He’d finally be able to go home, his honor would be restored and he’d be hailed as a hero. A Slayer-killer. 

          HER BROW FURROWS   and she can’t help but scoff at his lame invitation.  ❝ could you be a little more specific ? ❞  clearly, he’s waiting for her to strike first.  instead, she simply stands there with her arms folded across her chest, considering how desperate this attempt on her life is coming off.  she knew before that this guy is intense, but apparently, she had breached a sensitive subject matter without knowing it.

a smile crosses her lips, half-heartedly kind.  ❝ y’know, if this is just you blowing off steam, there are other waaay more productive methods than murder, ❞ she suggests, her tone perky yet pitying.  ❝ you could listen to the get up kids and have a good cry in the mirror moment !  that always helps me.  or--i don’t know if they have therapy where you come from, but, wow, already so many options ! ❞

as a sign of surrender, she casually leans against the grimy angel statue behind her.  extending a hand to her side, she pats a vacant space on the statue, indicating for him to come and sit beside her.  ❝ so !  why do you feel like you have to fight out the angries ? ❞

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SUNNYDALESLAYS.

        [ ☠ ] —— Spike chuckled lowly, enjoying the attitude the girl had. She was young, he was sure. Younger than the legal age to drink, but did he actually care about that? He was a vampire, so that was an emphatic  NO.  All he cared about was the fresh blood that he was going to drink, after he let loose a little. He wasn’t going to cut the dancing short, not when her body heat was warming so damn deliciously. 

                    “Your life story is the furthest thing from my mind right now,” he replied as they danced. He took a quick swig of his beer, downing half of it, then placed it on a tray that a waitress was holding as she walked by. 

         Both of Spike’s hands were on her body then, moving his hips along with hers, the beat of the song dictating their flow. As the song came to a close, the vampire took her hand and led her away from the dance floor towards the bar, not wanting to lose her attention. 

                    “Can I buy you a drink, luv?” he asked, ignoring the angry looks of them men who’d wanted to dance with her next. 

          IT TAKES CONCENTRATED  effort to remain in the present, the dim lighting and the deafening music threatening to lull her further into her own thoughts.  but something about his undivided attention grounds her back to the cramped dance floor.  wordlessly, she continues to grind on him, surprising herself when she allows his hands to roam her midriff so freely and then be pulled toward the bar.  

❝ cold hands, ❞ she observes when they reach the bar, pulling her hand from his in favor of folding her arms on the counter.  glancing over, she notices he’s now standing under a light and seizes the opportunity to thoroughly look him up down.  a little older, and apparently british--maybe he’s the distraction she’s looking for.  not quite sure what she’s getting herself into, she shrugs and flashes him a smile.  ❝ sure !  thanks. ❞

when the bartender arrives, buffy orders a rum and coke--the only drink she’d really ever had, at some high school rager from her freshman year.  she asks for id, and buffy promptly hands her a fake.  buffy glances casually at the handsome stranger, weight shifting awkwardly to her opposite side as the bartender excuses herself.  she takes buffy’s id with her.  trying not to betray any signs of nervousness, buffy leans in a little closer, her bare arms brushing the leather of his jacket.  ❝ so, uh, what’s your name ?  i don’t think i’ve seen you here before. ❞  not that she’d ever been to this particular bar before tonight.  before he can answer, she feels a tap on the shoulder.

❝ i’m going to have to ask you to leave, ❞ says an officious-looking man in a black t-shirt as he hands buffy her fake id back.  realizing she’s being bounced, she suppresses the embarrassment and scoffs, reading the little card and holding it up.  ❝ what ?  got something against organ donors ? ❞  clearly, by the bouncer’s threatening glare, she concludes that her sarcasm is not appreciated.  she turns, meeting the charming brit’s eyes again and making a snap decision.  ❝ let’s get out of here.  this place sucks, anyway. ❞

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ITSDEADLIGHTS​.

“–You speak of  vampire hunting as if  its some  dr e a d fu l  chore… Heh. Perhaps for a human it is–” The creature replied, barely glancing down at the pepper spray she raised up before dismissing it as nothing to be concerned about. “–Its  not to me  though. I love killing vermin–”

IT turned to the window, looking out at the unassuming town, glaring as if trying to locate one of these ‘vermin’ as they spoke, “–The  little fucks  show up like everything is theirs for the taking–” The BEAST said, “–But I don’t allow that  not in my town  They think they have so little to fear, but  I show them  and they always  S C R E A M  in the end–”

 A thoroughly broken vampire had fear almost as tasty as a human, which made them at least worth the effort of breaking to begin with. The major draw back was that they crumbled to dust after death, and IT had grown such a taste for meat over the years. Bob licked IT’S lips, turning back to  Buffy.  “–Derry doesn’t need the Slayer–”

          SHE AVERTS HER  eyes as it turns away from her, thoroughly discomforted by its strange, aggressive manner of speaking.  but there’s something else--something about its energy that envelops her as though she’s surrounded by bodies despite the two of them standing alone in the empty hall.  the little blonde hairs on her exposed arms start to stand and part of her wants to say whatever it takes to get this creep off her back.

❝ fine, i can take a hint, ❞ she musters sarcastically, folding her arms protectively across her middle.  its phrasing worries her...what does it mean by its town ?  with a shake of her head, she decides that’s none of her business at the moment.  the only objective on her mind right now is to escape this conversation--go now, question it later.  ❝ plus, it sounds like you’ve really got a...knack for this sorta thing. ❞  more like murderous urge.

instinctively, she takes a step backward, hoping to put some more physical distance between them.  it still doesn’t feel like enough.  ❝ tell you what.  you can have the vampires !  they’re all yours, seriously. ❞  she nods, a false smile spread across her lips.  ❝ and if you ever get tired of the...screaming ?  feel free to give me a ring ! ❞  she says this as more of an expression, hoping to never have to suffer through a phone call with it.  her head tilts to the side and she hesitantly asks, ❝ what should i...call you ? ❞

[prcphesise]

BROKENSPY​.

this feels like something out of a movie, or at the very least, some sort of an elaborate prank. first there was the guy’s face, and then there was the way the bullet did absolutely nothing…what the hell was that about? bulletproof vests were one thing, but that definitely wasn’t it — it was almost like he was impervious to them. sarah had been working for the CIA for years, she knew a thing or two about bad guys, she’d taken down her fair share of shady humans, but whatever he was? it didn’t exactly seem human, which kind of felt impossible.

and yet, the girl she’s stumbled upon seems unfazed, seems to know exactly what’s going on. it’s baffling. tucking her gun back into her waistband, she takes the wooden cross and stake in her hands, staring at them like she has no clue what she’s supposed to do. she’s skilled with plenty of weapons, had extensive training, but a wooden stake? “are you trying to tell me you think that guy’s a vampire?” she hisses. it seems more like she knows he is, and though, as sarah glances over, she can certainly see why that conclusion would be drawn — how can it possibly be? it really isn’t the time to have some sort of existential crisis about the existence of the undead, but she needs another moment, before she can even think about jumping into action. “this is crazy.”

          NOTICING THE WOMAN’S  hesitance, the awkward way she holds the borrowed stake, buffy chuckles softly and flashes her an understanding smirk.  ❝ trust me when i say it totally is.  don’t sweat it ! ❞

a snap of a twig very close by, and buffy’s expression hardens again.  she grips her own stake and finally sprouts up from the tombstone to face their target.  the vamp staggers backward a step, probably expecting the less prepared of the two blondes, and fearfully eyes the stake that twirls comfortably between her fingers.  ❝ so !  i hear you’re having trouble with the law, ❞ buffy pipes up, stepping around the stone and closer toward him.  while she doesn’t know quite why this cop or whoever she is is after him, it doesn’t surprise her considering how much trouble he’s been causing since arriving in sunnydale.  ❝ didn’t they tell you i’m the sheriff ‘round these parts ? ❞ 

losing patience, he lets out a guttural growl and lunges at her.  with a little grunt, buffy grips onto his outstretched forearms and flings him overhead as if they’re some deranged skating duo.  he crumples ungracefully to the ground, and hops up in time for buffy to whip around and start blocking his oncoming punches.  she shifts a quick glance toward the spot where she’d left the other woman--just enough time for the vamp to knock her to the ground with one hard punch.  he starts to run in the opposite direction as buffy sits up.  ❝ NOW ! ❞ she calls out, just as he’s about to pass the woman’s hiding place.

[prcphesise]

HYAKIRU.

look at that. her eyes widened. that was unusual, and while watching her, he made note of it. a little detail to remember for later, filed away in the buffy summers folder of his brain. it was getting thicker with each encounter. now then…

he may not be the most attuned to people - emotions often eluded him, as he struggled to barely understand his own - but there were certain… movements that she acted out that caught his attention. the sip of her soda was, oddly enough, the thing he fixated on the most as he listened to her. the nonchalance of her tone ( the casual nature of it, one might say - and yes, he could pick this up, as she was acting the same as always despite how she may have appeared ) was curious to say the least. was this truly the entire story? people rarely did tell him theirs - only if he asked, though the child who had once lived on his floor was prone to telling him stories about his days at school, his parents, and so on so forth… but that was an anomaly. an exception to the rule.

nevertheless, her story is an incomplete daisy chain - the pieces are there, but the holes are ever present. he cannot say how, but it is a feeling he has. it permeates through his entire being. but he is not certain whether it is appropriate to ask or not - in his experience, people withheld information they did not wish to present. if he prodded, they often got agitated, frustrated with him. and, after the mishap in the library earlier, it behooved him not to press the issue. still… he could not deny that scratch scratching in the back of his brain; the insistence that there was something more there than met the eye.

there was the issue of her aura, after all.

“ fewer friends now. but better? ” hyakkimaru says, eyes focused on her like always. what he sees is her, of course - her blonde hair, her eyes, her pastel manner of dress. but her aura is overpowering above all else - silver, hints of red. only somewhat discordant, as if something she was describing had disrupted her sense of harmony. but where could it be? he looks down at his hands folded across the table. closes his eyes. contemplates what she has told him, what he has observed of her behavior. but, of course, can come to no conclusion other than what he has already surmised. he opens his eyes again, blinks. so he can appear at least mildly normal, not vacant ( which he was told he looked like in the past ). “ good. better than… like back then. that would… be bad. ”

she still jokes. like always. by now, he has come to expect it from her. a biography… if only she could tell him more. he wants to hear more. there’s nothing more he wants than that at the moment. he fidgets, trying to prevent himself from asking. prodding was not good. he has learned from his mistakes in the past. but…

“ twists and turns. i want to know… more. i… want to read it. your biography. ” so much for keeping it quiet. but he says it with a smile. he means it, and he chuckles a bit. rare. hopefully she knows that he is, well, attempting to go along with her joke. he is poor at it, but he can at least try. it is the most he can do to prevent himself from talking about, well… himself, like she asked. his turn. what could he say? as he considered it, his smile faded - the stoicism returned. there was far too much to say, twists and turns as she might say, that had led him to this point. every notch on his prosthetics told a story. the burn on his chest was a tale in it of itself. the scars on his back? a whole night’s worth of anecdotes.

“ me… i… ” he trails off, looking away. down at his pizza, in fact, which he is taking the time to savor. one bite at a time. she was certainly not kidding - it was one of the best pizza places in town; in that it was the only pizza place he had gone to while living there. he swipes another bite as he thinks. swallows. it was true that he had told her about jukai, the limbs, their origins… but not how he had ended up in a care center. who his real father was, where his real mother was. why he was in america. there were likely multiple questions she had about him… but then there were the demons who continuously ate away at his flesh; as if there were parasitic millipedes burrowing deep within his skin and chewing their way out on a daily basis. an endless battle it was to fight them off. but he could hardly tell her that, lest she run away screaming in horror at what she had just heard.

he can embellish a bit. keep it short. not mention… anything of his birth. his circumstances.

“ lived in japan. in a care center, ” he starts. he remembers it well, that sterile place, with the fluorescent lights overhead and the kind quiet of jukai tending to hyakkimaru’s every need; the one bit of luck in his life. “ parents left me. but not there. elsewhere. i was found. …no arms. no legs. no body. then… these. ” he gestures to his arms, expression serious. jukai was perhaps the most pleasant memory he had of the care center, although… “ jukai. like family. gave me body. ” he smiles warmly at the memory of jukai’s large hands fitting the prosthetics over hyakkimaru’s shoulder, hooking them in place, making sure they did not slide off. however, his smile fades as he returns to the present, remembering that day, when the two strangers came into his room. jukai regarding him sadly as he left. an unremarkable goodbye. “ but not for long. then, people came. current family. was told that i would… go with them. to america. …as their son. ”

son. the word feels cold. impersonal. it hurts to say, a stone in his mouth that he cannot remove. his face visibly contorts in momentary disgust - a lapse in his usual stoicism. he tightens his fists on the table, then unclenches.

“ move around a lot, ” he continues finally. “ father is… ambassador. busy. mother… not sure. also busy. so… i am alone. most of the time. ” now he is beginning to return to normal. yes. his day to day was the same old same old, and it certainly gave him time to hunt. of course, omit that from the explanation. it would never be said. “ okay, though. quiet at night. i like that. not so lonely. at night, i make… ramen. easy peasy. ” a playful grunt, echoing her own joking nature - he is trying, after all, to be more casual; whatever casual meant… but still.

then why did his chest feel so hollow half the time? why did it pain him if he stopped moving for even a second in the vacuous, cold spaces that were supposedly his home? of course… he had never gotten the time to get to know them. get a feeling for them. they were always so impersonal, just… places that passed him by, and he passed through them. ah, but right. could he really, truly say he was alone anymore?

“ you are first. that i… get to know, ” he explains, nodding slowly - whether it was to her or to himself he could not discern. “ i like it. that is why… i want to know. about you. thank you… for your story. ”

he takes another bite of pizza. delicious cheese. it melts in his mouth; provolone, mozzarella, feta chunks… a symphony of flavor. how lucky he is to share it with her. for once, he can forget about the demons that lay just beyond the light at the end of the tunnel that he had been traversing ever since he gained a sense of corporeal self ( that he breathed, that he felt, that he thought - he sense that he was, in essence, a being on this planet ). he can forget that he has a quest to fulfill, a destiny, a goal that he is fixated on above all else.

he can forget all of that in this moment, with that taste on his tongue and the pleasure of good company right in his grasp. 

“ sunrise here is brighter than anywhere else. …few friends. is best. ”

          DRAWING HER PLATE  closer, she works on her slice of pizza as she listens intently to his tale.  she’s grateful that the focus has shifted off of her.  despite regularly lying to certain people in her life, she realizes perhaps she isn’t the best liar ;  perhaps those people just don’t pay very close attention.  but, when speaking with hyakkimaru about anything--especially subjects of a more sensitive nature--she feels almost as though she’s being studied.  the boy doesn’t need her biography when he can already read her like a book.

when he addresses what she’s told him, admits he wants to learn more, she simply smiles politely and avoids eye contact.  having known each other a mere couple of weeks, the thought of being so vulnerable with him is frightening.  she leans back in her seat, retreating behind her wall, and hones in on each detail he can provide.

he had spoken before about the man who gave him his swords and prosthetic limbs, but she realizes as he elaborates how little she knows of his background.  she had no idea he had been abandoned as a young child, or living with adoptive parents now.  the crust of her pizza slips gently out of her hand and back onto her plate as she leans forward, face twisting with concern.  the way he regards his current family does not compare to the little twinkle in his eye or warmth in his voice when reminiscing on his relationship with jukai.  to not even know what his mom does for work...

his reluctance in proceeding, she imagines, has to extend beyond the language barrier at this point ;  it’s a feeling she’s experienced too, and for that, decides not to press him for specifics out of respect.  briefly, buffy glances down at the checkered table cloth, apparently studying the pattern yet privately wondering how lonely her friend really is.  she wonders a lot of things about him.  ❝ no, thank you, ❞ she says quietly, unsure how else to respond.  meeting his expression with a slightly sad smile, she shrugs.  ❝ you do live in sunnydale now, so sun is kind of a given. ❞

for a moment they sit in silence, buffy’s eyes returning to the table cloth and her pizza remaining untouched on her plate.  hoping to steer the conversation in a lighter direction and carefully avoid any touchy topics, she pipes up, ❝ y’know, i don’t think i’ve ever had ramen before.  maybe sometime you can show me how to make it. ❞

[prcphesise]

BETELGUIDE.

         JUST AS HE VENTURES TO THINK   he may be gettin’ somewhere with this thing, he lands with a spine-splintering  ‘ OOF, ’  and a laugh.   quick— !   chalk an outline around him and maybe he’ll  stay  down for all our sakes.

she talks and he hears it and he props himself up, leaned back on his elbows. the half-smile’s still there, an infuriating, tawdry, twitching piece of delight squeezed out of having apparently ruffled her feathers worth a dime.  look at her speak!  oh— oh, it’s a threat. okay. he fixes his face and he nods. he nods very seriously.

“ sure. sure, yeah, uh huh. yeah, no— i gotcha, b— uh, just a figure, figure-a speech, y’know? ”   he waves her grievances off ineffectually.   “ don’t mean nothin’ by it, you know me; little nicknames and stuff, s’just part of my charm, but I’ll stop it if ya want me to, you know i understand it. anyway, ”   he waves a hand.   “ that card’s custom-printed up’n everything, don’cha think you’re bein’ a little har— ”

both the ax and a satisfying shriek split the air.

“ WOAH! oh-oh, woah, sweet holy hell, angelica, hey-ho, let’s watch it with the goods. ”   he draws his knees up and scuttles until his back is against the wall.   “ you wanna talk business–? c’mon! i told ya what i do, i do– stuff! whatever kinda stuff you need! whatever ya want! ”

he presses against the wall, using it as leverage to slowly, slowly, get back to his feet, a hand outstretched to stay her. he pauses, softer.   “ …mostly i scare the livin’. y’know. for dead folk who want ‘em out. it’s– a livin’. heh. ”   he spreads his hands as though laying out a whole deck of business cards.   “ but i got aaaaall kinda other skills, okay? good even for breathers such as yourself. whatever ya need. or want. so… ”

he folds his hands behind his back like a naughty schoolboy.   “ what do ya want? ”

            HER BROW QUIRKS  upward at the word ‘charm’ and she takes a moment to look him up and down, curling her lip and barring her teeth.  ❝ if that’s charm, then i’m a talking pomeranian, ❞ she says dryly, not amused in the slightest.  by his reaction to her threat ( mostly the ax, though ), it’s clear she’s successfully communicated her point.  with barely a huff, she raises the ax from between his legs--an acknowledgment of good behavior--and rests it idly at her side.  the moment may arise where she’ll need to use it again.

❝ scaring ? ❞ she replies lamely, the hint of a smile dawning on her quizzical expression.  ❝ so what you’re telling me is that you spend your afterlife as a glorified sheet ghost. ❞   she highly doubts it.  after all, it sounds sort of sad, even for a demon, or ghost, or whatever.  there has to be some detail he’s leaving out, some ‘stuff’ that he’d rather not admit to.  ❝ no possessions, no torturing, no soul-sucking, havoc-wreaking, setting the world ABLAZE in hellish fire ? ❞  her eyes widen expectantly.  seemingly not.

with a flick of her fingers, she tosses the slightly wrinkled business card to float and land at his feet.  the thought crosses her mind that she may have been a bit harsh.  sure, he’s a total CREEP, but she may have overestimated his abilities.  her head cocks to the side and a humoring smile spreads on her lips.  ❝ y’know, now that you mention it, pulling a prank on my old high school principal would be hilarious. ❞  the suggestion is entirely sarcastic, but she gets the feeling he may not catch the humor.  surprised at herself for indulging him, she shakes her head.  ❝ but i think i’ll pass.  i’m sure you’re VERY busy with all your clients. ❞

[prcphesise]

FASCIINATING.

                   AN ACCIDENT DOES NOT at all appear—does not feel—to be the case, in a crushed space of pain that is sharp & wet & stained to each corner of Spock’s lips. he’s looking at her from the corner of his eyes, his head tilted back, brows knit, as he wonders openly just who that someone else was, if apparently not him, that this aggression was meant for. his mind supplies him with a name he’s heard once or twice during role call, from the call out of a friend of hers he’s caught in passing in the halls. Buffy Summers—who is shorter than himself, with stylish blonde hair, & a thoroughly unassuming stature. it’s a visual observation he makes without insult, sniffing again when he thinks his nose has finally stopped bleeding.  appearances can be deceiving—& in this moment Spock feels his entire face would agree; it is a concept he knows full well.  ❝ no, ❞  he says, more nasily & stuffed up than he is proud of. Spock wipes over his mouth, smearing blood over the top of his hand. Buffy seems genuinely apologetic. it eases him some but,  ❝ not broken. just —, ❞  it hurts & with a huff, he realizes has no idea how he intends to explain this to his mother,  ❝ may i ask you a question? ❞ 

          HER EYES DARTING  from his swollen nose to her own completely unharmed knuckles, the difficult situation continues to dawn on her.  she’s getting sloppy--not only did she allow this paranoia to dismantle her better judgment, but another student is hurt now because of her.  and EVERYONE saw.  wringing her hands, she tries to convince herself that it wasn’t that strange ;  punching another student doesn’t exactly out her as a slayer...just any ordinary unhinged juvenile.  the thought of another expulsion crosses her mind and she’s quick to shut it out, knowing full well her family can’t take the additional stress.

she cracks a little, relieved smile and sighs, her whole body relaxing.  it’s not broken--just bleeding a ton.  in a brief moment, she feels compelled to hug him, but keeping appearances in mind instead channels this anxious energy into grabbing him another bunch of paper towels.  ❝ that’s great news !  super, super great.  and y’know what else is great ?  the school nurse !  okay, i’ve never gone to her, but i’m sure she knows ALL the ins and outs of...nursing !  and she could totally help with...your thing.  and-- ❞  

grateful for any excuse to quit babbling at the poor guy, she cuts herself off and glances up nervously to meet his eyes.  ❝ shoot. ❞

[prcphesise]

SUNNYDALESLAYS​.

@prcphesise​  LIKED  for a starter

         [ ☠ ] —— Travelling from Europe to the bleeding United States with a sickly Drusilla was no where near fun. She was moody, needy – which he didn’t entirely hate – and so very ill. His Dark Princess needed him to do way more than usual, and he would, without question… 

                    But a vampire needed to let loose and have a bit of fun, too. Running from an angry mob used to make his heart feel like it was beating in his chest, his veins coursing with adrenaline, but not when their lives were ACTUALLY in danger. 

          He tilted his head back, breathing in deep through his nose. He caught the scent of a bar easily, and with the intention of letting lose before  bringing home a meal for his beloved Dru, Spike entered the establishment and headed straight for the bar. He ordered two shots of whiskey and a beer, then turned to survey the crowd. 

                    When his eyes landed on a petite blonde, who was dancing like she didn’t have a care in the world, Spike smirked and locked his target in for the night. Well, the first one, anyway. She looked almost out of place for such a shitty bar, but he didn’t mind that at all. He downed the two shots, and with his beer in hand, he made his way over to the girl. 

          With a quick warning glare to the poofters who were flocking around her, Spike came up behind her, wrapped his free hand around her and let his hand splay over her flat stomach. He started to dance with her, his hips swaying in time with hers, showing the other men that she was his tonight. “Hello, cutie,” he murmured into her ear, enjoying the feel of this. Enjoying the warmth of  HER.  “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a hole-in-the-wall bar like this?”

          IN DESPERATE SEARCH  of someplace’s other than her dad’s, she had stumbled into an unfamiliar, scummy bar for the evening.  escaping has so far proved to be disappointingly easy here, her dad clearly having little idea what to do with her.  she could lie and tell him she’d be at a friend’s for the night, both of them knowing full well she doesn’t have any friends left in l.a.  she’s not sure if she has friends anywhere anymore, after isolating herself all summer and nearly severing all ties from sunnydale.  even in the seedy city bars, her mind can’t help but wander to the bronze, polished and innocent by contrast, and all the memories she’d made there.  she wouldn’t blame her friends if they wanted nothing to do with her.  maybe, at the end of the day, she was always meant be alone.

on the dance floor, surrounded by people, she can’t help but roll her eyes at herself for getting lost in her own existential thinking again.  the reason she came here in the first place is to be distracted--why can’t she just surrender to the distractions ?  regaining some semblance of consciousness, she sways with more fervor, raising her arms and slowly working her body lower to the floor.  when she sprouts up, she finds some big, leather clad arm hungrily wrap around her torso.  she allows it, and then--

cutie ?  her brow furrows and she turns, her gaze flicking upward to meet this stranger’s, the first time she’s made lasting eye contact with anyone tonight.  okay, he’s pretty good-looking, she thinks to herself, despite dressing like some 80′s wannabe ;  but people don’t typically approach her for a conversation in these kinds of places.  she wants to ask if he’s serious, if using ‘ hey cutie ’ has really ever got him anywhere with a woman, but quickly decides she doesn’t care.  she considers sparing him the exhausting pleasantries and simply ignoring the dumb question, but finds herself humoring him instead.  ❝ just passing the time, ❞ she replies vaguely, averting her eyes again and turning back around.  seamlessly, she falls back into the rhythm of the song blaring from dingy speakers, hips gyrating against him disinterestedly.  ❝ are you here to dance or to hear my life story ? ❞

[prcphesise]

PRYCEISM.

          “—good lord!”  With a start, a sound escapes the young Watcher akin to a gasp, long limbs abruptly flailing with the blonde’s sudden intrusion through the swinging doors. He very nearly knocks the cumbersome grimoire off the counter, a palm grasping at it while the other abruptly raises to his chest, the man’s heart hammering within the confines of his grey-suit ( as if contact with the area would somehow alleviate the strain ). This girl will be the death of him - as it is he’s still getting to grips with the new assignment in Sunnydale ( in the US, of all places! ), having only recently traversed from the Mother Country. ‘Wes’… - Buffy’s familiarity exhausts him already, lips pressing into a thin line as she draws closer, balking at her consistent butchering of the English language ( was this how all American youths spoke..? ). “Funny you should mention that. You were supposed to meet me at one of the crypts so that I could assess your performance. It’s all very well you telling me about it this morning, but did you at least begin journaling your encounters and any irregularities as I had requested?”

                    As much as he adored books, he didn’t feel that the library was an appropriate setting for him and the Slayer to make their main base of operations - it was far too public, the brunet having already caught two hormonal teens attempting their own biological experiment behind the stacks the other day ( the audacity… ). Wesley had already made up his mind - he would consult with the Council to find an alternative location— The book is firmly swung shut with the confession of this World History fellow, disappointment rapidly encroaching over his visage, the Watcher’s tendency to be high-strung coming to the fore in full swing. “That’s besides the point! The less people aware of your abilities and mission, the less jeopardy is placed on our entire operation. Discretion is key! Do you have any idea what dark forces are lurking in the most commonplace of locations through duplicitous means?”

          SHE JUMPS AT  the sudden slamming of his book and stares up at him wide-eyed.  often times he made his frustration with her clear, but she has yet to see him completely lose it.  still, if she had a wesley richter scale, she would measure this heated lecture as encroaching dangerously into the five zone.  she breaks eye contact and purses her lip, a slight pout that she doesn’t bother concealing.  just because they’d only just been partnered doesn’t make her automatically stupid, she considers to herself and promptly rolls her eyes.

❝ look, what do you want me to say ?  usually people...i dunno, run !  this guy didn’t run, he just stood there and gawked, i guess. ❞  her shoulders jerk upward in a shrug.  it’s as if he expects her to flawlessly juggle everything at once, control aspects of a situation that are completely out of her control--fight the bad guy AND herd everyone to safety.  she sighs, palms pressing against the side of the counter as she pushes herself off and stalks bitterly toward the table in the center of the room.  ❝ anyway, it happened.  i can’t exactly hop in my delorean and go fix it, ❞ she reminds him, already feeling exhausted from this conversation.  after all, she knows where she went wrong.  what she needs is support.  surprising herself, she tilts her head in his direction and blurts, ❝ i feel like you don’t trust me. ❞

[prcphesise]

HYAKIRU.​

@prcphesise​ inquired: " i may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but i’m pretty! " ↪ HELVETICA STANDARD... RHONY SENTENCE STARTERS.

he stares at her blankly. intently, intensely. studying her. the local arcade was buzzing and beeping with life, as though it could take off. today, it was his turn to take her somewhere, and so he had chosen here. there’s a game for everyone, isn’t there? he had though to himself as he mapped out - mentally, of course - where they would go. but even though they had just played quite the intense game of metal slug, and she’s said that… well.

it still takes him a bit of time to get the hang of her jokes - they are always rather, well… strange to him. sharpest tool? she was not a tool. was this some kind of american slang? actually, now that he thought of it, he had heard it before; his “father” would yell the phrase over the phone at someone who was keeping him on hold for too long. you’re not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, huh?

but why in the world was she calling herself that? certainly, she was pretty - that much he was certain of - but the two were not congruent. pretty had little to do with being the sharpest tool - he supposes this refers to being a prodigy, a star; the salt of the earth. conversely, if one was not, then they were… undesirable, to say the least.

“ no. you are… sharpest tool. shiny. and pretty. “ he nods, in affirmation. he means it honestly. “ so. you are… both. and… video games. not easy, sometimes. “

“ with practice, you will be… great. sharper than… sharpest. “

          SHE SHRUGS OFF  what seems to be a casual compliment, but smiles a bit to herself regardless.  based on their experiences together thus far, she’s noticed hyakkimaru has this unique way of speaking where he talks in very simple verbiage that manages to carry great weight.  more than any of her friends, he earnestly says exactly what he means ;  so, when he gives her a compliment, she cherishes it.

warmly, she smiles at him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.  ❝ thanks.  i guess i’ll just have to work really hard to fulfill my destiny as...the sharpest AND prettiest tool in the shed, ❞ she kids, appreciating her own joke in most likely a vastly different way than he might.  a destiny indeed.  ❝ once i master this game i’ll be unstoppable !  but--my god, what will i do with so much power ? ❞

she holds up a quarter between them with importance before sending it through the slot of the game.  then, she steps out of the way and playfully nudges him forward.  ❝ here !  if i gotta learn how to beat this thing, i have to learn from the master ! ❞

[prcphesise]

† @hyakiru​ said: " maybe... i know it all. " ( he attempts 2 joke. humor him )

rhony starter sentences :  accepting.

          NOTING THE JOKE,  she smiles proudly at him, practically beaming.  ❝ i’m sorry, are you coming after my job now ?  is that what’s happening ? ❞ she presses with an incredulous chuckle, following his chain of humor.  ❝ last time i checked i was the one tutoring you, knives. ❞