#<- might come back to this once i have the corresponding chapters translated. give me a day or two

[lee-hakhyun]

from an outside perspective it’s really feeling like they’re emphasising kim dokja’s status as an eldritch god. like,,, you don’t feel it through orv because kim dokja himself has just enough knowledge from reading twsa to navigate, and on his own you can really tell how human he actually is, but. take things from a distanced perspective, and suddenly. suddenly, it’s azathoth and the outer gods of lovecraftian lore, played completely straight. i’ve heard enough people compare azathoth and kdj that i think i can say this much

you wanna know something i’ve thought about a lot regarding kdj and the oldest dream? about yjh becoming a terrorist, and how kimcom willingly went back into the fray, how they returned to the previous timeline - and how some people couldn’t comprehend their choices at first? it makes me think of that old trope of ‘going mad from the revelation’, how some people say that gazing upon this otherworldly being’s true form or ‘learning the truth of the world’ would surely make someone go mad.

go mad with what, though? insanity? or grief? because so, so often, one’s pain is incomprehensible to outsiders, and fail to understand how or why you lash out or break down. it’s a depressing pattern in real life, too. kdj goes mad with grief and self-hatred, learning the truth; kimcom take on the insane route of going through the apocalypse again just to reach the end; yjh is unable to heal, to cope with a world without the scenarios and without his companion to bear through it, and so he fights over the replica of the arc. from an outsider’s perspective, without the understanding that the people involved are all brokenhearted over truths only they know, it might come off as insanity. but it’s all just grief.

with that said, however, to have someone jung heewon KNEW, cruel as he was, replaced by someone from a world beyond - and to start singing the praise of someone else’s name? to say ‘i need to find them?’ how all of them look to one name that outsiders simply DO NOT KNOW, to hail this unknown person as important, as an idol, as… as a god…

the 41st turn before their version of shin yoosung travelled to the other worldlines is a forgotten story, and by orv logic forgotten stories are outer gods. in lovecraftian lore, the outer gods sought to wake the blind idiot god azathoth, who in orv is represented by kdj dreaming for ‘eternity’. also, the Outer Gods of orv (the one actually being called as such right now) see the side story - which is the ‘forgotten’ 41st turn, now being written in where once it was not - as their chance to finally be written on the wall. so it’s. it’s. this is just singshong taking their lovecraftian elements to their logical extreme

interestingly, however, kdj isn’t the only reader anymore, is he? orv places a lot of emphasis on communication and writing on the wall, but in the side story it could perhaps be interpreted as ‘trying to be read by one person in particular’. and then the readers that die are labelled as ‘kdj33’ or ‘kdj47’, reducing them to being ‘just a part’, but… they’re all different people. they’re all people who took in kdj’s story, thus his story becomes a part of their own - but only a part. i’ve said that before, but.

well, you can’t force your own narrative on to someone else.

han sooyoung tried that, actually, didn’t she? tried to get kdj back through ending the story early only to realize the hurt she was causing and backing off. you can’t always reach people in the way you want. that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stop trying, but there’s also a point where you need to recede, to compromise. am i making sense? i have no idea where singnshong is taking this story, but i’m looking at hsy with lee hakhyun and ceokdj with the readers turned kdj fragments and the outer gods wanting their story written on the wall and. i feel like i’m starting to see a pattern. i could also be hallucinating, but i could also not be. i offer this for your consideration

okay i put this aside for a bit but yes. oh my god. eldritch kdj.. i had not heard about this before, but that's so interesting thinking about it through that lens. and in the side story, hsy forcing the memories of orv on jhw to try to break her.. the explict mentioning of han sooyoung being seen as a 'god' in that moment...

--

fun fact, if you don't remember! lovecraftian horrors are also mentioned as outer gods in orv

chapter 179. when talking with the devourer of dreams, kdj mentioned these modifiers

the fear of sarnath - bokrug

horror from the hills - chaugnar faugn

master of r'lyeh - cthulhu

--

now, adding my own thoughts - the pattern is identity. stories.

there's something wrong with everything in this turn.

the kkomas were cute. until it was revealed that they were dead readers. though.. is that not also kind of what the yoo joonghyuk kkomas are? they may have all been yoo joonghyuk, but their lives in that turn were their own. <- however. the difference here is that while the yjh kkomas were all 'yoo joonghyuk' these kdj kkomas were NOT. they all had their own lives before being brought to wos, and upon being killed and placed in the theater.. they lost themselves.. which is terrifying to think about. you die, and you're brought back to watch your companions go on without you, but you're not yourself anymore. you're kim dokja, who wants to continue watching the stories on the screen.

the transmigrated readers. until the latest chapters, we hadn't been shown the real effect of the readers possessing characters in this world (honestly, we were led to believe that most people transmigrated into 'extras' without their own story. but that's not true, is it?). cheon inho has no one close to him as far as we know (lol), but that's not the same for others. what about the people who knew the possessed characters? lee hakhyun realizes this in the latest chapter, that maybe him and the readers coming here were an additional disaster for the people that lived here.

lee hakhyun's problems,, he's constantly going back and forth on 'lee hakhyun' and 'cheon inho', and there's clearly something wrong with the way he sees himself... we know more about him that he does currently, and if he does find out. i don't think things are going to end well.

and of course. everything about kim dokja. his name is in everyone's minds, the readers are desperate for a source of hope and he has become that to them. kim dokja is being idolized. even before the scenarios, there were those using kim dokja's story in the same way he used yjh. it's not framed as a negative, if that's what you need to do survive, then you should always do what you can to survive, no matter what. but even when you borrow stories, you need to stay yourself. you are your own person.

there's a clear connection with all of these, and it's identity. who someone is, the way they're seen, their stories. what makes you yourself? stories make up who you are, and these outer gods want their own stories written down on the wall to define themselves. rep kdj wanting the readers to forge a new story, lee hakhyun discovering stories that were never told in orv.

right now, nobody's happy. time is running out for the outer gods, the readers have unwittingly destroyed others by taking over these 'extras', kimcom are still desperately searching for their star, our dear protagonist is continuing to doubt himself. and kim dokja is still watching.

...this is orv. not everyone will get their happy ending. their goals oppose each other. we can hope for the best, but that isn't going to happen.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tedious Joys - Chapter 4 -

- Ao3 link -

It had been an inauspicious year to begin with.

A poor harvest led to famine among the common people, which in turn created conditions ripe for evil creatures of all sorts; the night-hunts that were often treated as playful competition by the cultivation world became more like the boring drudgery of everyday work, disciples setting off in packs on a regular basis all over, time and time again. The tension wore on the sects, some more than others, and dozens of small disputes began to rise up, needing to be dealt with. Lan Qiren’s schedule became busy, and then busier, and then became overwhelming; he was forced to discard one pastime after another in his efforts to hold back the rising tide, and in the end sacrificed sleep and sometimes meals to preserve only two: playing for Jiwei and spending time with his nephews.

It meant that he was unprepared, both mentally and physically, for word of the death of Cangse Sanren and her husband, which took over two years to finally come to ears of the Great Sects – such a shocking failure of information that Lan Qiren briefly wondered if it had been concealed intentionally.

The sudden shock of grief hit him hard.

He tried to convince himself that he had expected it, that she had expected it, that at least her son was now safe in the Lotus Pier, and yet all he could think about was that he had one less friend in the world. The sadness interfered with his focus, creeping in at all hours, uncontrollable, until one evening he was playing guqin with his nephews and looked up to find them both weeping uncontrollably from the music he was playing. When he tried to stop mid-song, he abruptly collapsed, and upon waking was informed that he had become feverish at some point in the night.

His sect doctors advised him to go into seclusion until he could control himself.

Lan Qiren refused.

They advised him again, this time with greater insistence, and with the support of his sect elders.

“Tell them to fuck off,” Lao Nie suggested, pouring a calming tea that he’d brought from Qinghe.

He’d come to visit with his sons, Nie Mingjue disappearing with Lan Xichen as always and Nie Huaisang engaged in the newest stage in his eternal battle of wills with Lan Wangji over a game of weiqi that they were both taking far, far too seriously.

(Despite knowing Lan Wangji and indeed Nie Huaisang better than most people alive, Lan Qiren honestly could not determine whether the two of them despised each other or were close friends. Lao Nie claimed the answer was both, simultaneously, but Lan Qiren didn’t understand that at all.)

“That is not how we do things here,” Lan Qiren said, accepting a cup. It was rude for him to allow a fellow sect leader who was his guest to serve him, rather than the other way around, but he had a headache from the persistent fever and exhaustion that was even more persistent, the boundless river of grief in his heart translating into physical agony, and anyway Lao Nie hadn’t exactly asked permission before proceeding. “It would be more appropriate for me to present a well-reasoned case for it not being necessary, based on rules, authority, and precedent.”

“Except you can’t put one together because you’re upset and tired,” Lao Nie said with a snort. “That’s stupid. You’re overworked, stretched too thin, you just found out that your friend is dead – you need sleep, not seclusion. Anyway, what happens if you do go into seclusion? Aren’t they always saying they need you to stick around to be Sect Leader so desperately?”

Lan Qiren rubbed his eyes. “It would not be true seclusion. I would be expected to continue certain parts of the work.”

“You’re joking.”

“It would be primarily administrative correspondence –”

“By that token, your brother ought to do it!”

Lan Qiren glared. “It’s not the same and you know it. And they are not wrong that I need rest.”

“From what I recall of what you’ve told me about your sect’s practice of seclusion, that’s not rest,” Lao Nie said acidly. “Surely there’s something I can do to help. I could send over some of my disciples…”

“Excellent idea,” Lan Qiren said, rolling his eyes. “We can replace all those rumors that I’ve been secretly pining for years over my best female friend with ones regarding my best male friend.”

“It is a little ‘hero rushes to save the lady’, isn’t it?” Lao Nie said thoughtfully, shaking his head in amusement. “But seriously, I came here for a reason, and it’s not Jiwei or A-Jue or anything like that. You’re always trying to help me, Qiren. For once, let me help you.”

Lan Qiren would normally protest this – because Lao Nie had so done many things for him over the years that it was an incorrect statement, because he hated the helpless feeling of letting someone do things for him, because that wasn’t something sect leaders did for each other – but he was tired and he feared seclusion and sometimes he thought it might be nice to do one thing that could be considered a little reckless before he died.

“Very well,” he said, closing his eyes and drinking the tea. “Do as you like.”

That was a dangerous thing to say to someone like Lao Nie, who promptly pulled three dozen Nie sect disciples from out of nowhere and sent them scurrying around hunting down evil with the energetic enthusiasm of youth entrusted with gigantic sabers and the freedom to use them as they would, while he himself settled in very happily in Lan Qiren’s home, sleeping on a guest bed, keeping away unwanted visitors and helping with any paperwork that didn’t explicitly require a Lan. He also recruited Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen to assist, despite Lan Qiren’s protests that bureaucratic busywork was not an appropriate way for boys of approximately fifteen and definitely twelve, respectively, to spend their time; both of them very solemnly assured Lan Qiren that they were more than happy to do whatever they could.

Even little Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang bullied their way into being involved, insisting that they wanted to do it more than they wanted to train or play, although at their ages there really wasn’t much they could do besides grind ink and run messages to the relevant recipients.

As Lan Qiren might have expected, rumors immediately started about some sort of torrid affair – life would be so much easier if everyone obeyed the rules against gossiping purposelessly – and they even got to the point that several of the sect elders cautiously hinted to him that although cutsleeve relationships were far from being in vogue, they had at no point been explicitly forbidden by the rules, and cited several provisions which seemed to favor such things.

Lan Qiren had thanked them for the reminder and caustically commented that he would be sure to incorporate that into his next set of lectures as he could see no other reason for them to mention it, and soon enough they backed off, shaking their heads. Still, those busybodies that had his best interests in mind were still preferable to the ones that started once more raising the idea of finding him a nice bride of suitable age – by suitable age, they meant too old for children, lest he get any idea of challenging his brother’s line of descent – before he did anything foolish like fall in love, or, worse, to act on it.

Obviously he had no intentions of permitting that.

Still, after a month of enforced rest, Lan Qiren was feeling a bit more himself. He took on more and more of the work, albeit supervised by five sets of judging eyes, and even began to play once more, this time without bringing anyone to tears. Jiwei and Xinfei rested together by the door in comfortable equilibrium, hot and cold, weak and powerful, and the jade pendant that Lan Qiren carried with him remained cool to the touch, not hot at all.

“You will need to go soon,” he told Lao Nie, who shrugged, not denying it – a month was a long time for a sect leader to be away from home absent some valid excuse like a war, not quite too long but starting to push it. No matter how effective one’s deputies were nor how much work one did from a distance, a sect leader was still necessary, in the end, or else Lan Qiren’s life would have been very different.

“Next week,” he said. “That’ll give me just enough time to take the boys home before heading back out again for the conference in Qishan.”

“There’s a conference? I wasn’t informed.”

“No, you weren’t, because I didn’t inform you,” Lao Nie said, utterly shameless. “You’re going to stay here and rest. It’s just a stupid party.”

“That doesn’t matter if it is also a stupid party which everyone else is attending,” Lan Qiren said sternly.

“Jiang Fengmian isn’t going, either,” Lao Nie said. “Doesn’t want to leave his new ward alone just yet…newest rumor has it that Wei Wuxian’s his bastard with Cangse Sanren.”

Lan Qiren shut his eyes. “Of course. Wasn’t I the one having the affair with her last week?”

“Perhaps it was a love triangle?”

“A square, at minimum. Don’t forget she had a husband.”

“A pyramid!”

“Lao Nie…”

Lao Nie laughed. “Jin Guangshan isn’t making it, either. His wife’s giving birth – predictions say to a daughter, I think, assuming this one survives the birth – and all accounts say that she’s threatened to cut his balls off if he even thinks of leaving Lanling City. So, you see, it really is just a stupid party, and by missing it you’ll be doing just the same thing as all the other Great Sects.”

Lan Qiren felt a sudden stab of misgiving. “Except you.”

“Except me,” Lao Nie said cheerfully. “Me and Hanhan.”

Lan Qiren truly did not want to know what went on in Lao Nie’s mind sometimes.

“Why don’t you refrain from going as well?” he asked, aware he sounded tetchy and irritable like some jealous wife in an opera. “If no one else is going.”

“Oh, I have to go. A-Han asked for me specifically,” Lao Nie said, and Lan Qiren thought to himself oh I’m certain he did, then promptly felt bad about doing so. Sneering for no reason was prohibited. “Someone’s gifted him with some magnificent saber for his collection, apparently, and he was boasting that it was the best there was right up until someone stuck their nose in it and said that it was all well and good but no comparison to my Jiwei.”

Lan Qiren could imagine exactly how well a statement like that had gone over with Wen Ruohan.

“And now he’s demanding you show up and produce evidence?” he asked, unimpressed.

Lao Nie grinned. “Ah, Qiren, it’s almost like you’ve met the man before.”

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Lan Qiren said. “Why should you go just because he asked? He’s your equal, not your master.”

“There’s no harm in giving him some face.”

Lan Qiren could think of several ways that it could lead to harm, the inflation of Wen Ruohan’s already bloated ego being not the least of them, but Lao Nie was his equal as well, his equal and his elder. If the man had made up his mind, as it clearly appeared that he had, there was nothing Lan Qiren could say that would change it.

“Good luck, then,” he said, shaking his head, and called the boys to come in for dinner. As usual, the Lan half of the table remained mute while the Nie half did nothing but chatter, each according to their own family custom. It was a test of wills and endurance – Lan Wangji’s eye kept twitching every time Nie Huaisang filled in words for him, possibly due to the extremely high pitch Nie Huaisang chose to represent him – but it was a joy to share the time with them nonetheless.

Before Lao Nie left, Lan Qiren tried, not for the first time, to press the jade pendant that resonated with Jiwei into his hand. “You should take it with you,” he insisted. “Especially if you’re going to the Nightless City to exhibit your saber – there’s a great deal of resentful energy there, and you know that always gets Jiwei’s bloodlust up.”

“Which in turn will sharpen my reflexes, just when I need them most,” Lao Nie said, pressing the jade pendant right back into Lan Qiren’s hand. “Better you have it.”

“Lao Nie…”

“Jiwei likes you now,” Lao Nie said, as if that mattered. “She’s been just as avid to protect you as I’ve been, this past month – if I didn’t need her by my side, I’d almost be tempted to leave her here with you.”

Lan Qiren arched his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting that I can’t protect myself? Here? In the Cloud Recesses?”

“Saber spirits are not smart, Qiren. But even she can tell that you’re not well yet.”

Lan Qiren waved a hand dismissively. “Well enough,” he said, and it was even true – the grief was still there, of course, and likely would be every time he thought of Cangse Sanren in the near future, excluding maybe the few times when it was one of his students that resembled her only in terms of how much mischief she would get up to, but it was no longer drowning him. He had hope that, in time, this wound would also scab over and the hurt fade, and that at that time he could once again think of her with nothing but joy.

Lao Nie huffed. “Well enough isn’t well,” he grumbled, but that didn’t stop him from gathering his children and his disciples and heading out back towards Qinghe. “Take care of yourself, Qiren! Be well!”

“And you,” Lan Qiren said. “Keep out of trouble, my friend.”

From what he later heard, the party at the Nightless City went about as anyone with half a brain might have expected: Wen Ruohan swanned around until Lao Nie showed up, there were tense words exchanged, and then Lao Nie produced Jiwei, allowing Wen Ruohan to examine her and even pat her a few times before the Wen sect leader was forced, with great reluctance and through gritted teeth, to admit her superiority to the saber he had received.

The stories ended there, but Lan Qiren had enough imagination to fill in how the rest of the night might have gone, especially with the only sect leaders there being Lao Nie and Wen Ruohan. He sincerely hoped that Lao Nie had remembered all those lectures he’d given him about the foolishness of lying in the same bed as poisonous snakes, no matter how beautiful they might be on the surface.

Perhaps he had, perhaps he hadn’t.

Either way, Lan Qiren heard nothing else until the day he interrupted his own afternoon lecture with a sudden cry of intense pain – the jade pendant had abruptly gone so hot that it had burned, and although his clothing, protected by stitched-in incantations, was unharmed, the heat was so severe that it had nevertheless left a mark on his thigh through all those layers.

Clutching at his leg, Lan Qiren ordered his students to run to fetch him cold water and a doctor, and wondered what in the world had happened.

A letter, he decided. He would write Lao Nie a letter to ask.

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH14

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Gore, general violence, Din/Third person POV. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE BOTTOM Word count: 16,019 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist / Playlist

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THIS IS THE WAY

The Sun stands off to Din’s side, silent in a comforting way, a placidness he’s unable to recover within himself, and he savours the company with a gloved hand roosting on a curve. She twists to face him, bestowing a grand smile of rays that encapsulate inside and furnaces his figure until he’s blanketed in a toasty buzz, a swelling in his internal organs that he’ll just never become accustomed to. Din reacts to the sensations the only way he knows how and drags her into his side, a hand slithering to her hip to steady her there; little engagements that he’d never considered partaking in before the Girl.

Hands carved of dormant radiation fuss with the makeshift strap slung across her shoulder; one of the more unfortunate after-effects of her victory. Din had to utilise his craftsmanship to gift her with a lash capable of taking the weight of the disruptor rifle—the harness he relied on was built into his bandolier with a small metal clasp. He cares for the Girl but she is no charity case; the rifle against her back is plenty more than he would’ve ever thought of parting with.

The meddling persists, tinking the steel of the barrel against his vambrace.

“What’s the matter?”

Her head shakes and sinks to indolently survey the turf beneath their feet.

He glances at her hand. “I thought you wanted it?”

She buckles into submission from his queries, not that it took much effort on his part, and drags a hand down the front of her face. “I did - I do but it doesn’t feel right. It’s not mine… With your religion and all this feels awry. I shouldn’t have this.”

“I want you to have it.”

It’s the truth. He wants to be endowed with the ability to watch her manipulate something that’s been with him for so long. He wants to bookmark how it frames her body—he doesn’t know how but it does and he’s eternally grateful for that—but most of all, he wants a part of him to be forever touching her.

Nonetheless, it still doesn’t satisfy her scepticism and she scratches into the leather strap until it weathers and flakes.

“It’s just—”

“What?”

A relieving puff of stale carbon dioxide dispels from her slim parted lips. “I don’t want you to think I’m using you for your rifles, for your protection.”

Helmet inclines enough for the tip of his T to connect with her eyes; a small shake of his head as if to enquire what she’s talking about. She’s more than capable of protecting herself. She’s demonstrated it time and time again and Din is the last person who’d assume such things from her.

“I mean it’s the only reason I hitched a ride from you in the first place. I felt like I deserved compensation for my rifle and I needed a way off that damned planet.” She stiffly eases her eyes to the ground and scrunches a stone beneath the toes of her boot. “I never could’ve anticipated all of what’s happened...happening to—to happen…”

Jumbled and stuttering as if she’d downed six flasks of spotchka is a new look on her. It spawns a bounce in his lungs but he stifles the deep chuckle in the interest of not distressing her more than she obviously already is.

Serrated seams etch into the ridges of her eyebrows laced with insecurity, as though peering through a distorted mirror; one concerned expression switching with the other.

She elaborates, with such a hushed volume he almost activates his sonic detectors to register the mumbling, “It just feels as though if this is in my possession there’s no need for me to stick around. You’ve cleared your debt. I’m of no use to a reinforced Mandalorian like yourself. I appreciate the offer, I do, but…”

“What about…” he suggests, two fingers tilting her chin upwards, “you just keep it warm for me.”

It’ll technically remain hers—radioactive fingers having tagged the trigger with her insignia, the rifle imprinting its framework into the soft flesh of her back whereas it never could nestle into his beskar—even if Din is the only one who believes so. His proposal appears to hit the nail on the head of her insecurities and she allows that pesky hand to cease its unjustified carnage on the strap once and for all.

He’s entrusted with a significant smile that he cradles in his palms gently, nurturing it to ensure its growth and progression—a curve of her lips he’s not worthy of possessing but she donates it nonetheless.

“I can do that.”

It’s a witless justification to continue this worldless pact they’ve got going on and they couldn’t give a damn whether it was a phony excuse or not. She’s deciding to stay as opposed to leaving the parsec with pieces of himself attached to her back and around her neck; she wants to stay. Peradventure, it’ll only be for a little while—Din wasn’t accommodating enough for people’s liking and they’d always leave eventually—but maybe she’ll outride his past acquaintances and remain.

Din silently sighs and glances down the path they’re idled along. Caben and Stoke should’ve returned by now, though he suspects they did and that they might have been accidentally exposed to his fixation on the Girl. They weren’t exactly being quiet in the Crest after all.

Still, it provokes an irresistible grin; she’s his and only he could arouse those sounds from deep in her stomach.

“Sweet girl.” His finger pets the peak of her cheekbone. “I think we’re going to have to walk back.”

She groans. “So much for an easy-going day.”

With their intended excursion back to the settlement coming up empty-handed, the two set out from the Crest and follow the path they’d been adhered to for the past hour.

It’s nearing dusk; vibrant blues and greens numbing to darkened blends of orange and purples. The Eclipse formally so highly spoken of from their taxi service approaches as the moon makes its tiresome journey above.

“D’you think we’ll get to see it?” The Girl’s questioning disrupts the flow of crunching gravel underneath their synchronized feet.

The sky is victimised by a leering tinted slit of transparisteel, analysing the steadiness of thick clouds rolling across the surface of the dual spheres. It scales inwards to observe the shadows of craters beneath the puffs. Sorgan’s secondary moon, much smaller in size or perhaps simply further away, is smothered in the overcast and lags behind its twin, silent and colourless.

“Clouds are moving fast. It should be okay.”

She nods. “Never had the pleasure of seeing one before. Heard they’re real pretty, though. What about you?”

“No. I don’t frequent a planet long enough.”

There’s a fork in the road, diverging off into three different paths but he’s got it all memorised in the back of his mind and continues onwards without a falter in his steps, the Girl to his side with a bounce in her step as she mulls over his candour approach.

“That’s too bad. Not one for settling down, huh?”

It’s a rhetorical question but Din doesn’t want to leave her hanging regardless, “No.”

“Yet here you are—” She prods a finger at his unarmoured side prompting a light swat to her hand. “—settling.”

“...I’m not settling.”

“No?”

His shoulders broaden and he hooks a thumb in the front of his belt. “No.”

She chuckles at him but mercifully leaves it at that, well aware what he says isn’t true but she’s none the wiser to what he’s settling down for—and it’s not Sorgan.

Leather clings to her hip for dear life, refusing to surrender its residency even when they drift from one another to avoid a dip in the path; fingers merely burrow into the cloth and drag the warmth straight back once they’ve passed. Din exploits the absence of inquisitive glances and looming queries to dedicate cloying touches and he’s not afraid to demonstrate it. Where, even a week ago, he couldn’t express these emotions without the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the arousal pulsing in his core, but circumstances have changed—evolved into something fresh.

Something untouched that he wants to corrupt with his obscene hands.

It’s short-lived. Snooping eyes return.

Lanterns emitting orange hues reflect off the waters of the emerging krill ponds, softly rounded fluorescents mirroring against his polished beskar as he sweeps through the troughs. The majority of the inhabitants surround the central campfire, its flames a worthy competitor to the lanterns mellow gingers. They lick and lick and lick at the sky, the scorching embers puffing into the fading purples upwards; laughter and the tinking of spotchka-filled flasks circling the bonfire.

Leather collapses resembling the Crest plummeting through the atmosphere. Heavy, fast, and everything in slow motion while he processes he’s losing traction, a small hitch in his chest upon striking his own thigh. She’s right beside him, an inch away from brushing elbows, yet she’s still too far.

It’s not in his nature to act so possessively in front of people—out in the open for whoever to gauge thoughts, to probe his emotions—and he won’t start parading around now, in spite of the fact she’s accumulated fresh bruises that haven’t been fortunate enough to receive time to heal; or even grant the red inking to mollify into something a little less salient.

They’re the one factor he can pardon from his public displays of affection regulation. It’s simple and clean. An honest indication of what’s between them without needing to flaunt it, simply a demonstration to not infringe on their relations.

Din is accustomed to the turned heads, the watchful gazes as they make way to the midpoint, but the Girl still finds it intolerant; the exposure too confining and she slinks back a few steps. He continues onwards not wanting to draw further attention to her and they pass the spectators, eyes stooping and communication commencing after they’ve had a gander of their guests—their clothes and the Girl’s dishevelled hair evidence enough.

They’re really not as discreet as they pass themselves off to be.

Omera interrupts his motion with a sidestep onto their path. She offers a courteous smile. “Did you have an eventful day?”

“Yes.”

“Can we expect your participation tonight? It should only be a few more hours before the eclipse commences.”

Din nods, somewhat reluctant to agree. Social settings weren’t in his favour but there’s a persistent woman on the heels of his boots who longs to see the phenomenon, and whatever she wishes he will grant with a simple please Din.

Omera gleams at his accepted invitation and gestures past the campfire to a stationed bench compiled of dishes and brimming glasses of various liquids. “Help yourself to our delicacies. It’s all traditional for the celebration.”

He softly sighs, not enough for anybody to hear him over the uproar but it’s sufficient in getting his unimpressed thoughts regarding the taunting dishes—at least, the Girl notices. His helmet pans to the heft on his pauldron, caf-coloured eyes trailing along the limb and jumping to its partner gesturing in the direction of the hut.

“I’ll get you something to eat, all right?”

She doesn’t entitle him the opportunity to oppose her proposition before bounding through the crowd to collect a platter of high-grade Sorgan nourishments. He scouts for a moment, considering her with a slender tilt of his helmet; riveting, how enthusiastic and adaptable she is to the liability of his Creed.

The Way had forcibly distanced him from so many potentials, pulverised them before his very visor, and here she was, dirtying her faultless hands with the soot of his decisions simply to cater to him.

It wasn’t all that long ago he’d be seated up in the Crest’s cockpit, a helmet on his lap, a bowl of nutrients in his hands, a deadpan expression etched into his face as the stars skim past the viewport. Silence, he so often told himself he favours, accompanying him like a prodding rod at the back of his ears; loud and exhausting despite its very name.

It has been quite a while since he’s succumbed to the silence with the Child and all. While he wished the kid would actually comply with his requests, Din has a preference for the cooing and squealing of a baby than the hum and buzz of his haven.

Perhaps it won’t last long—the Child will be returned to wherever he originated and the Girl will journey on after some time—but at least he can savour the atmosphere until then; anything ranging from the snarky remarks to the comfortable quiet in contrast to the loud, resonating one he’s been inflicted by all these years.

“I’ll leave you to eat,” Omera announces, “I’m sure your boy would like to see you when you’re done.”

Another nod on behalf of him, another burden on his pauldron from her; a fleeting touch of her hand but it’s cold and sharp and Din yearns for the Girl’s radiation to cleanse him of the hypothermia.

He sighs and makes his way to their hut.

Their quarters are overfamiliar. The littered blankets untouched, the way Din liked it, lasting evidence of what occurred. The flimsy dress she despised neglected and long forgotten, though it resurges the crisp memories regarding Din’s Honour; how he nonchalantly stripped himself of what he’s constructed himself around simply to feel a smidge of liberation with the Girl—to highlight their connections in the cracks of their implicit relationship.

To show he’s more than just a rusting Creed.

Din exhales through his filters and sinks to the cot’s mattress. It’s not nearly as comfortable with all the beskar on but it’s not as though he’ll be inside long.

“Oh yeah, you just relax there why don’t you?” The Girl grumbles from the doorway, balancing an assortment of bowls and plates in either hand and the crooks of her elbows—she would’ve made for a poor waitress in another life.

He makes no attempt to aid her. “That’s too much.”

“It’s not all for you. Other people eat, too, you know.”

Oh, he knows all too well. The sugary goodness of a thick syrup running down her fingers and onto his tongue never strays far from his mind.

She tries for a bend of her knees to ease the dishes onto a surface but they more or less topple out of her grip, scattering pieces of fried foods across the burnished wood. “Shit...ah, it’s just yours.”

“Funny.”

“I like to think so,” she cracks.

Din strains from his position to observe the variety of consumables she’d pinched from the community; bone broth, assorted krill, an unidentified pastry of some sort—Din crosses it off his list, far too dry looking for his taste—among snacking foods.

They’re not worthy of the title ‘appetising’ but Din’s acquainted with tasteless stock; he only ever eats it for the nutrients anyways.

She hoards a bowl of bone broth to her chest. “I’ll be outside. If you want seconds just call me, yeah?”

Leather wraps around her wrist before he properly registers her words. “No—you can stay. It’s not like I haven’t taken this off around you before.”

“I thought you might’ve wanted to eat in peace.”

Din exhales a laugh out of his nose. “A girl of your build should be smarter than that, no?”

It rises a simper out of her, a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. Din retrieves the extended plate of krill prepared in a vast abundance of methods—fried, broiled, roasted, sauteed—he unenthusiastically considers a crustacean between two gloved digits.

Vibrant cobalt had grown to a dim grey underneath the golden breading, a fine sheet of oil coating leather skin and a drop of grease slipping down the curve of his thumb. Reluctance and dissatisfaction are apparent in his mannerisms and vocoder, emitting an exhaust laden sigh that crackles into the quiet lodge.

The mattress dips with her weight, the press of her back against his beskar. “Not one for krill?”

“I think I’ve had my fair dose,” Din broods.

“Still pent up about getting a little bit of water in your circuits?”

Another cheesy droid joke that pushes his eyes into the back of his skull but he lets it slide. Din’s famished. It’d been a while since he ate; well, not exactly but the Girl wasn’t much of a meal more than a treat. If he could draw out sustenance from her he’d never have to endure another stale dessert or salty meats from who knows where.

Their backs are pressed firmly together, practically leaning on each other for support, and Din doesn’t need to verify whether she’s looking away for him to unlatch his helmet. Its casual hiss signals for her to keep her eyes trained forwards and he lays the steel to rest beside him.

It’s the first time her eyes are open while the helmet is detached. Well, maybe not the first—he had lifted it the slightest back on Tatooine, in the cockpit while she busied herself with his Crest’s maintenance. The circumstances don’t much differ from now; both scenarios involve food of some sort and resolute trust.

Cobalt of the sweet dessert transferred to a chewy crustacean that’s comparable to grinding tar in his mouth, tough and fudgy but in all the worst ways. Din isn’t a selective person; he can consume the coarse flavourless product without a second’s worth of hesitance but he’s had the best of the best—jatnese be te jatnese, he’d said so himself—a gluttonous intake of the Girl’s taste and nothing will ever equate to that.

The mound of unchewable meat slips down his pipes, buttery and peppery but overall bland. Nutritional enough. He crams another cluster of the crescents into his gullet to appease his appetite.

The Girl sips on the pale cream broth behind him, head tilted against his as the liquid leaks from the carved bowl and between her lips. Din can’t imagine the taste is much better than the krill with the colours being so dull—as though they were eating the incarnation of unstimulating hues of greys and blacks.

“Do you want to try some?” she asks, extending the half-empty bowl to their side.

Din retrieves the grub with a low hum in his throat, uncertain, but ultimately decides it can’t hurt to give it a try. It’s obviously edible if it’s a Sorgan delicacy—how wrong he was. It’s saltier than the oceans with chunks in it; he doesn’t even want to think what they could be. He refrains from spitting the soup back into the bowl or onto the cot and feebly swallows the lukewarm puddle, a nubby leather wrist wiping the residue from his lips with disgust.

She bellows at his reaction, the back of her shoulders bouncing against his pauldrons as she struggles to contain herself.

The base of the bowl knocks against the closest surface available, a flimsy stool that accompanies the table, and he scowls with his arms crossed against the hump of his chest. “You’re wicked.”

“Seemed like you wanted a taste with the way you were looking at me.” Din’s head slightly tilts as he watches from the corner of the visor. “I can feel your eyes. Not sure how you ever catch bounties when all you do is stare.”

Bounties are intimidated by my staring, they’re smart, he wants to retort but saying bounties and smart in the same sentence is comical.

Appetite long gone, by consequence of broth that would serve a better purpose as blurrg feed, Din clips the rim of his beskar between two fingers and considers it among his lap. There’s no intent to lift it up and over his face. No intent to distance himself from the Girl just yet. It gawks at him; captivating in its own methods but still so ransacked of life. The black void of his false eyes darker than that of Space’s vacuum.

Din’s eyes ricochet from the slit to the back of the Girl’s head like a blaster bolt within a room of reflective duralloy and nowhere to go; pondering the morals of his very character as he aligns the crown of her head with the vacancy in his clutch.

She noticeably stiffens as his helmet envelopes her, the rim slack around her neck with nothing to latch onto. Fingers dismiss the fried krill she’s been feasting on and orbits the surface; Din amicably smacks them away and lays his hands on her shoulders to loosen the knots.

“Greasy,” he simply explains his reaction.

One would think such a valuable material as beskar could be cleaned with a small wipe of a damp cloth. One would be wrong. It’s a nuisance to maintain its condition and he’d been lagging behind with its upkeep as of recent—he couldn’t afford greasy fingerprints.

Soft vocals are replaced with a crunchy crackle, an unnatural graininess as if she digested a bucket’s worth of Arvala-7 terrain; sand and grit forming lumps in her ducts and spluttering into the internals of beskar, “What are you doing?”

His fingers rub into the base of her neck, the deepness of his unaffected tone eliciting a hum within the helm. “The rifle won’t be used to its full potential without the helmet.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not giving you the helmet. I just want to show you what it can do.”

“Is this...allowed?” She goes to scratch the back of her head but knocks against the steel and limply drops her hand. “It doesn’t feel like this is allowed. I’m sure there’s a rule in that big ol’ Manual for Mandalorians you’ve got hiding around.”

He scoffs. “Do you want to see it or not?”

It dips to a dainty nod.

“Gods, this is heavy. Don’t you get a sore neck?”

Din neglects her questioning and extends his vambrace before her, his other arm reaching around to point at the buttons—effectively sandwiching her between his gauntlets—and his finger focuses on one in particular. It’s a small circular button, a clone to all the others, but more weathered from the abrasive leather. “Click this,” he instructs.

She complies, her digit dainty beside the stocky hide, helmet perking up once the thermal activates and submerging her vision in cool hues of blues. Her curiosity matches that of the Child’s as she twists and turns her head side to side, surely discovering the warm tones of candlelight and heat signals radiating from their hands before her.

“Wait a damn minute—” The Girl aims to toss a suspectful glare in his direction but quickly dismisses the desire, his exposure never far from the forefront of her mind, “you cheating-”

“I told you, Cyar’ika,” Din coos against the side of the helmet. “Not a gentleman.”

“I...I demand a rematch.”

Din chuckles into her, the leaps of his laughter ricocheting against her back but he pays her decree no attention. There’s no way she’d reign successfully in a no holds barred condition, not when his visor contributes half of the rifle's potential of force. Then again, if things were to pan out the same way it did earlier perhaps he’ll take her up on it—just for fun.

“Good for calculating how many threats there are--”

“Yeah, that, or being a little-”

“Next,” he navigates her hand to a second preset.

The thermal deactivates with one push and the sonic detectors engage with another.

It must be disorienting for her to focus on all the surrounding sounds of the settlement, the steel swallowing her senses, Din remembers the first time he donned a helmet—one much smaller and lighter than his current but all the same in terms of abilities and desensitising him from the outside world. Pair that with the power to be able to hear a whisper from over a hundred metres away, it can turn situations sticky and muddled if not appropriately centred.

“What do you hear?”

She’s mute and motionless, suspended in the limbo of space and time.

Din presses a kiss to the nape of her neck in an attempt to declutter her mind but it does very little; sharp claws of concern grasping at the back of his head and scampering upwards until the pressure against his temples is unbearable and it finally conquers him.

He shouldn’t have imposed this on her. He of all people should’ve known better. It takes years of getting accustomed to it.

“Hey. Hey, okay, no more.”

It’s eased up halfway before she interrupts and pulls it back down. “I’m fine. Just trying to focus. There are too many conversations, it’s distracting.” She chuckles. “Good thing I didn’t have it this morning. You snore, you know. Would’ve rendered me deaf.”

Din grumbles beneath his breath—something even the detectors can’t distinguish with the crackles in his vocal cords—and sharply flicks the back of the steel with his forefinger, grinning when she compresses a hand against the side where her ear resides.

“Ow,” she whines. “Okay, okay, turn it off. I’m sick of hearing you breathe down my neck.”

It disables with a final push of his vambrace.

The Girl explores the surface of the beskar with either hand and Din subconsciously annotates how dilatory she is with it—her fingers dipping from the cheek ridges to the face and around the ear caps before resting against the sealed cooling vents at the back—solely dedicating the time to recognise the only face she can put a name to but from his perspective.

Combine that with being endowed with the pleasure of seeing her in his shirt and helmet provokes Din’s heart to stammer against the bones, his jaw to tighten and he seizes the beskar by the edge and twists it to face him. He enables virtually no time for her to comprehend what he’s planning and it’s undetermined whether she managed to shut her eyes before his face is frontwards, but he trusts they are.

It’s outlandish to gaze into the cold dark visor when there’s another lifeform beneath it. Sure, he’s encountered incalculable Mandalorians in his lifetime but never has anybody worn his helmet—it’s a fragment of his Creed, of Him, and he’d rather fall victim to a sarlacc and endure the agony of being digested for millennia than to witness another being wield his persona.

Omitting the Girl from the equation, naturally.

She could carve out his heart with his vibro-knife and he wouldn’t complain one bit. It’s incomprehensible what she does to him. Just a touch of her finger on his face and he’s primed to brandish a blaster and confront her greatest enemy even if he’s incapable of victory.

Nonetheless, it astonishes him how she can gaze into the nullity of a slit and not request—demand—for more. She’s more than deserving of it and yet she doesn’t wish for it.

Perhaps she sees a mirrored image of what’s before him. Not a slab of shiny steel nor a devout Creed but merely the living tissue, the pumping blood, beneath it.

Din trails a digit along the steel jawline and lifts as he reaches the transparisteel visor connecting to the curve at the bottom. It lifts only a little, just enough for her lips and the point of her nose to peek beneath. The soft hills separate instinctively and he wastes no time slotting his own in their place, cupping the back of her neck with his free hand to drag her in close.

Those damned words. They utterly refuse to vacate his mind—duplicating by the dozen and submerging his thoughts and sensations with foreign statements. It links together into a lengthy chain made of high-grade alloy, fortified greater than freshly smelted beskar, and packages his consciousness into overburdened disarray.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum. Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Din needs her to know; needs her to hear those words tumble out of his vocal cords.

He needs to enunciate them—to listen to himself admit the feelings hidden within him aren't pseudo.

But he can’t; his lips cease their endeavours against hers yet he still can’t discover the courage to say three little fucking words. Thank the stars he disabled the sonic detectors because he wouldn’t be able to take the speculative questioning upon hearing the thumping in his chest, deep and muffled pulses of his heart struggling to compete with his nerves.

“Din,” she whispers. “You’re overthinking again, aren’t you?”

“No…”

“Come on, you need to get some fresh air. Let’s go see the kid.”

No, not yet, he thinks. Please, just a little while longer.

She hoists the beskar from her head slowly, inches of her impeccable face unmasking at a time. He cups her jaw and tilts her head to peck at her chin, her cheeks, and forehead as the helmet is relieved from each section.

Din records the movement of flesh underneath his lips as she smiles against his intimacy and it urges something intense and unexplored in his centre, his core, and the helmet bounces off the cot and crashes to the floor below with a small push of his three fingers; his lips refusing to curb their hunger for cushiony skin and his weight slowly applies against her until she inclines onto her back with him above.

“Din.”

“Mmm,” he hums, leathers stroking the strands of hair out of her face before reconnecting his lips to her cheekbones.

“We—we can’t. The kid is waiting for you.” Her actions overpower her words; a hand slides down his cape feebly, her fingers catching on the folds to thrust him closer.

“You’re addictive.”

“Not so bad yourself.”

Din emits a gravelly groan and slides a knee between her legs, the edge of his cuisse brushing against the peak of her groin. “Can I have a taste, Cyar—sweetheart, please?”

They don’t have the privilege of time on their side, Din’s more than aware of this fact and yet he can’t stop the glove from slithering down her neck and the curve of her chest to idle at the hem of her pants.

“You’re insatiable,” she says, fingers firmly rooted within the scratchy cloak.

She’s hitting the nail on the head with that proclamation; he’s utterly unsated and deprived of her sweetness. Din requires it like sustenance—like medicine.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Never.”

The aftertaste of her slick is on his tongue and he needs more. He wants to binge on her for eternity and, maybe, then he’ll finally be content; a belly full of her translucent flavours, the gums of his throat and mouth coated in the thickness to the brink of suffocation.

Din’s fingers toy with her buckle loosely, queuing for approval.

“Can’t,” she whines pitifully. “We���ve already made our presence known. They’ll be expecting us out there. Besides, you should spend time with the kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No?”

She grins. “Well—maybe back to the Crest. Has that offer got an expiry date?”

“Offer?”

“Already forgotten, huh? If I remember correctly, you said you’ll fuck me in your bunk whenever I want.” She mimics his words, “Name the time.”

Shit—it wasn’t just pillow-talk.

“Why didn’t you mention it while we were there?”

“Oh no, Din.” He’s dragged inwards, his lips brushing the tip of her ear as she diabolically whispers into his, “I got something special planned for that.”

A chill runs beneath his beskar, brandishing his flesh with a bumpiness the dunes of Tatooine would envy. There are endless possibilities for what she’s got in mind but Din’s been excluded from her brainstorming. It doesn’t cease his imagination to run wild with disgusting thoughts of deviancy; ones involving her bent over on that shitty cot of his, the familiar manacles capturing her wrists, shameful noises slipping past those beautiful lips as he takes her night long and into the rise of the sun.

It had to be bigger than that. Don’t get him wrong, he wants to give her all of that, badly, but she could’ve done it earlier. They would’ve had the equipment on hand, no preparation necessary. No, she’s suggesting something else. Something bigger.

But she won’t indicate anything further, won’t give him a little taste of what’s to come, and cruelly urges him back onto his feet to recollect his helmet with a heavy hand.

She observes him upon hearing the click of his locking system inside the helm, either hand on his hip with an inclined head that just reads don’t leave me hanging.

“Suspense makes it all that much better,” she sweetly says.

He’s beginning to realise that sweetness is all exterior, a disguise for all the hot and heaviness she possesses within. A decoy that he’s fallen victim to. He’s like that of a fish foolishly nipping at a too good to be true enticement, the Girl laying in wait for him to latch on and reel him into his doom.

But she’s inexperienced. Unsuspecting of his abilities. Oblivious to his attachment to her lure.

She’s sweet but she’s also sour.

Salty in the heat of the moment.

Bitter in times of hurt.

Saliva constructed of pure savoury goodness.

She’s got all the nourishments he requires and there’s an endless supply; flavours he can taste straight from the source.

So, one can assume the agony, the clenched fists in his gloves, as they saunter through the chatty crowd, her hips swaying ahead of him a little too provocatively. She knows what she does to him, he’s demonstrated his need in various positions, and she’ll go above and beyond to find one way or another to fuck with him—to poke and prod to test his self-control before he drags her behind a hut and fucks her against the walls, whether it was outside or not he couldn’t care.

To fuse her fingers with the puppet strings attached to his pauldrons.

“This should be quiet enough,” she announces and throws herself onto the handcrafted bench, tossing a leg over the other and patting the empty space beside her. “I know you like quiet.”

Din plops down with the Child on his lap, a slothful hand massaging the green wrinkles at the summit of his head. There’s a handful of farmers in their own respective groups scattered around them, producing enough noise that allows thoughts to wander without concerning themselves with maintaining a conversation.

Sorgan’s moons are at their pinnacles, puffy grey plumes illuminated into off-whites from their luminescence. One sphere perches in the vast black, performing as a repellent to the swarms of haze, while the other is blinded by the thickness of the clouds; a circular radiance perceived through the fluffiness the only indication the planet possessed more than one.

A vague shadow surmounts the moon’s edge, the dawdling process of the eclipse having commenced but it’ll be quite some time before anything worthwhile transpires—Din sullenly groans at the missed opportunity to give her his tongue back on the cot. It’s not as though they were missing out on anything. It would’ve only taken him a couple of minutes to work her up to the brink, a couple more to—

“I never asked,” she says. “What’s the deal with you and the kid?”

“What do you mean?”

She shifts in search of a comfortable position among the splinters. “He’s a bounty and you’re a bounty hunter; please don’t make me explain further.”

Din sighs and swipes a finger across the leafy brim of his ear, provoking a gentle burble into the Crest’s gear knob. “I handed him over but they were doing experiments on him and I couldn’t leave him there. Things didn’t go to plan--”

“Because you don’t plan.”

“--and there was a shootout with the Guild.”

“So,” She ponders, “you’ve got a bounty of your own now.”

He scoffs. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late.”

Din entertains her amusement with a quiet huff of air through his filters, soft enough for her to register it’s not an annoyance. The subject of the Guild raises some questions he’s not wanting to voice—they’ll only ruin the mood and he doesn’t want to admit defeat—but he’s to play the hand he’s been dealt.

“We need to discuss where we’re heading next,” he says.

“So soon? It’s only been two days.”

“Should consider ourselves lucky we’ve managed to survive this long here. There could be hunters stationed from the last time I was here.”

“Right—and the Crest would’ve got their attention,” she agrees. “Okay. Where are you thinking?”

Somewhere reclusive. An isolated backwater planet much like Sorgan but one where nobody knows their names or reputation. Although discovering a planet with the aforementioned qualities is easier said than done, especially with the threats of audacious bounty hunters on their thrusters. Idling in space until they stumble across a safe-enough planet—or if pirates picked them off—was always an option.

Din sighs.

The Girl was right; he doesn’t plan. He’d just been traversing from parsec to parsec all his life, picking up commissions for fuel and a bite to eat, partaking in activities that simply aided his survival. Now with the Child, he’s expected to have a procedure—to shield him from the dangers Din automatically puts him in upon rescuing him from the client. But he doesn’t have the scheme to save their lives, literally.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Nothing wrong with not knowing. With my skills behind a rifle and your—uh… Point is, we’ll figure it out. Lighten up a little, you’ll wrinkle that pretty face of yours.”

With a roll of his eyes behind the visor, he settles for her words of reassurance and heeds her suggestion to relax his forehead.

“Mandalorian—Mando,” Omera’s abrupt panic-stricken tone is plenty for both of them to straighten their posture and bury the quips. Din twists his helmet to where she stands behind him, noting the fumbling hands before her lap, the twitch in her eyebrow ridges.

Din deposits the Child into the Girl’s arms and stands. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Caben and Stoke...they—they weren’t with you?”

“No, they never returned for us.”

The Girl interjects, “We assumed they headed back before us.”

“No, no. Nobody has seen them.”

Shit—he should’ve realised something was wrong when they failed to show up. Raiders? There was no sign of them on that trail—but Din wasn’t exactly in the right mindset, being too haunted by the Girl’s temptations.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you...at an unfortunate time, no less, but-”

“I’ll go trace their route and see if I pick anything up,” Din says.

“Thank you, thank you.” Omera clasps his hands in gratitude, her thumbs brushing along the stitching.

“It’s not a problem. If I don’t come across them on the trail, I’ll question the neighbouring settlement. They should have some information.”

“I’m coming with you,” the Girl pipes up.

“No. Stay with the kid here.”

She shoots him a curved eyebrow and places a hand on her hip, her other cradling the Child into her side. “I hardly think watching the moon is of importance right now. I won’t let you go out there alone and it’ll be quicker if there’s two of us looking.”

“I don’t want-”

“Don’t want, what, to drag me into this? I think we’re far past all that, no?”

Din sighs. “Fine.”

No use arguing with someone so cocksure like her. Besides, when push comes to shove she’ll be resourceful with the rifle.

The Child isn’t happy at the circumstances, to say the least. He finally finds serenity wrapped in cold beskar edges and has been stripped away so soon—he glares at his guardian in the warmth of poncho-clad arms while Din and the Girl retreat into the woods once more. He’ll make it up to the kid when he gets back; Din’s certain he’ll face the wrath of a foot-long baby if he doesn’t.

“I think you should take the rifle. Just in case.”

“No. You need something to protect yourself.” Din brushes her suggestion off and activates the thermals on his vambrace.

“I’ve got my blaster.”

“That’s not enough. Here, hold it up. Press that. Be careful with the bayonet.”

She glances at him with questioning eyes and rests the rifle against her hip. “What’d you do?”

“It’ll administer electricity to anybody who touches it. There're only so many cartridges—” Din presents a cluster of steel cylinders in his glove and she shoves them in a pocket in her pants, “Pair your blaster with the bayonet and use the ammunition sparingly.”

“You think we’ll need them?”

“Just be prepared.”

They fall into a sharply cold silence, Din utilising his sonic detectors as they trudge through the bush to discern any commotion that may be of use. The Girl retains a pace a few steps behind his own, purposefully slotting her boots into his prints to avoid a stray twig snap here or a tumble there. It’s wordlessly recognised if there are raiders in these parts it’s best not to disclose their presence, especially not when there’s two of them. It supplies them with a lead on their opponent, at least until they identify how many there are.

The thermals are nothing but counterproductive. If they had passed through recently the track would surely be lit in fire-orange but it’s all blues and greys; Din thumbs the button to restore his vision, relieving the burden of having to focus on where he steps and clicks another for his sonic detectors. His vambrace was really getting put to the test today.

“Where——or….hurt you.”

Din freezes, the Girl sharp in his guide, and adjusts his helmet to pinpoint the muffling in his sensors. It’s quiet. Shallow. It could be flooded with a singular flask of water.

“Does….Child,” It’s speech tears.

East, about ninety metres out. The forest is thickened around these parts—too dense to trace any campfires or shadows—but there’s somebody there and they’re referencing a child; there’s not a doubt in his mind it’s The Child.

They’re not raiders. They’re not people who’ll go down without a fight.

“Guild members,” Din slips.

“Any clue how many?”

He hones in on the vocals, isolating each individual muffle or change of tone that could indicate there’s more than just the one. Even if he’s wrong, it’s best to be over-prepared. “Two. No, wait...three. I think.” She quietly mulls the possibility over, the strap of the rifle flinging over her shoulder as she makes way inwards. Din seizes her wrist and suspends her movements. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll get the high ground and see if I can spot Caben and Stoke. There’s no point starting something if they’re not there.”

“High ground?” Din questions.

She grins and breaks his grasp. “How’d you think I got those targets up in the trees?”

The Girl cracks her knuckles, the clicks and pops of joints puncturing his eardrums through the detectors like a bubble underneath a needlepoint. Either of her hands sprawls on the sides of a trunk, fingers dig into the bark for traction, and she hoists her feet up—she’s like the Crest in its ascent, agile and coordinated as she frog-kicks herself up into the branches.

Din’s eyebrows raise in dismay; he didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t that.

The potential one possesses outside a suit of steel is still an astonishing concept to Din even after all these years of branding himself to the insides of his helmet. There’s an endless list of skills he’ll never be able to master—untapped aptitudes that have greyed into a colourless nothing.

Steel platings obstruct his movements, the helmet an obstacle to his sensations; his birthrights.

Brittle tree arms creak and whine above him, the leaves rustling as she navigates the long-arm’s lens to her sight. He’ll be left in amazement if she can distinguish the bodies from the swaying of blunted foliage. The land is too compact with trunks reaching the clouds, even with the magnified scope it’ll be near impossible to identify how many there are or whether the missing duo is being held captive.

His thermals would come in handy right about now for her; with her height advantage and his helmet, she’d assuredly recognise their precise positioning. Hell, she’d be an unstoppable force—a marksman even the greatest of bounty hunters would shake in their armour witnessing.

The Girl’s low tone sails through the treetops, gliding with the bitter night edge, and into his sonic detectors, “I see them—they’ve got them in the middle of the camp. Minimum six hostiles. All equipped with blasters. I can take two of them out from here.”

Well, he’s definitely left in amazement.

That’ll leave him with the remaining four, so long as there’s not more concealed within the shadows.

A lack of communication between them serves as nothing but an impediment, but time isn’t on their side and Din can’t waste any more of it to collect the comm units from the Crest. Weapons locker, second drawer, to the left.

If only he had thought of it earlier.

Din’s helmet inclines skywards, his visor scaling in and outlining her frame.

They’ve got each other's credibility and that, strictly, is sufficient for Din to jump into action; cutting through the undergrowth and stealthing between pillars of wood, each succeeding stride premeditated.

His scanners crackle against his ears, a gruff voice laced with croaks and coughs slipping through the beskar, “Where is he? Look at me! You’ll tell me where he is, boy, otherwise I’ll gut you right here. Perhaps watching you die will encourage your friend to speak, yeah?”

Caben and Stoke quake ahead of the lambent light illuminating their features; previously happy expressions replaced with terror, identical to when the AT-ST had broken through a dozen sturdy trees to gaze upon its victims with hollow eyes.

A burly Weequay paces before them, twin thumbs hooked on the hoops of his trousers in an attempt to appear stockier.

Fuckin’ Weequays.

Din’s blaster will come up short in a confrontation with that layered flesh of his and, with the lack of communication between them, he can’t depend on the Girl on being able to snipe him—he may not be one of the two she can manage. Another Guild member sits off to the side of the farmers, intimidatingly polishing a small vibro-knife in his fist. The remaining four she spoke of patrol their encampment; all either human or made with skin he can puncture.

It won’t be easy and the Weequay has the advantage; Din will need to take him out first and foremost.

He’ll put his faith in the Girl’s abilities that she can ward off the other’s long enough.

Din shovels a cluster of rocks into his hand and hurls them overhead and into the copse recesses, the rustling effectively tearing the hunters’ focus from their posts—Din springs to action and leaps from behind the greenery boscage, blaster pistol in his dominant hand and vibro-knife in the other.

The Weequay’s back faces Din and he exploits the factor, pouncing like a predatory loth-cat onto him and slicing a gash into the leathery hide of his neck. It does minimal damage, a small notch for a dribble of blood to meet with the neck of his shirt. He’s thrown off of the hunter and stumbles backwards into a tree, grunting and raising his blaster outwards; the trigger snaps against the alloy hold, a burning beam of cherry drilling into a fleshy build. It drops to the dirt, blaster bouncing astray.

“Mandalorian!” Caben exclaims into his detectors.

Din doesn’t reply nor impart his eyes to analyse their condition - they’re alive and that’s all that mattered while in the midst of battle.

The Weequay restores his attention to his surroundings, scowling at the Mandalorian before him and dipping calloused fingers into the wound of his neck. He snarls at the amassed blood on his tips. “You’ll pay for that, Mando, just as soon as you tell me where the bounty is.”

Child--bounty.

Any doubt that he had about them being after the kid is shattered, obliterated entirely.

Din’s vibro-knife pulses in his fist, his finger planted against the trigger in his other. The four scrawnier minions gather around his position against the tree, brandishing arrogant smirks as they languidly handle their blasters.

“I said-” The Weequay spits between his boots. “-tell me where the bounty is. You may have taken one of us but there are plenty more. There’s only one of you—your friends here aren’t much fighters.”

One. He scoffs.

A henchman, typically made of flesh and bones and blood, pops beside the Weequay; organic matter dissolving to flaky dust onto the forest floor. It leaves nothing behind that proves it was once a humanoid, barring the hunter’s blaster which plummets to the soil and knocks against the boot of his partner.

“What the pfassk!” One of them cries.

His detectors pick up the familiar whistle of a rifle pellet.

The Weequay raids his surroundings, concluding Din’s ally to be the in the only place that’d see them from this distance: “In the trees! Go!”

The hunters follow their orders but abruptly stop; a second member obliterating the moment his boot sole leaves the ground. Particles scatter with the breeze through the leafy canopies. They lie in wait, suspecting of another incoming granule but Din knows it won’t come—they’re well out of her sight.

But he can’t let them head in her direction; Din flicks the point of his blade between two fingers and slings the knife through the air and into the Weequay’s gullet once more—deeper and thrumming out splotches of plasma, an unnerving outcome of the intensity the knife is throbbing.

He staggers backwards in shock but Din focuses on the others, administering two perfectly aligned bolts into either of their unsuspecting chests; they nosedive into snapped twigs and gravel where sticky liquid accumulates underneath their bodies.

One to go.

Din didn’t act in accordance with his plan—the Weequay winding up as the last he’s to tend to—but this works, too.

The blade is ripped from his gullet, a spurt of hot blood following its dislodging, and the Weequay balefully boasts the dagger in his clutch. “Come now, Mandalorian. It’s going to take more than that,” he snarls.

He scoffs to himself in response and edges closer to one of the hunters drift melee weapons, footsteps precariously slow to ensure he doesn’t allude to his intentions—the bushes swish, a deep crack of a stick, and they freeze as one.

Visor and darkened pools of black sharpen against the lightless forest, apparently having forgotten about each other’s threat to concentrate on their snooping bystander.

The Girl steps out from the dusk, amban rifle hoisted forehead level with the Weequay. She stands stout on her feet, the wooden stock butting into her shoulder, eyes perfectly trained on her target before her. She doesn’t shoot, she won’t without his expressed permission.

The hunter recognises defeat and tosses the Mandalorian’s vibro-knife before his boots.

Din decompresses somewhat, allowing a sigh to flee from his filters and swoops up the knife and creeps past the defeated frame to shred through the rope bindings around Caben and Stoke’s wrists. “Thank—thank you,” Caben hisses and rubs the rash they’ve left in their wake.

Stoke imparts a gratified nod and smoothes out his clothing. “We’re sorry. They ambushed us on our way back---wanted to use us as leverage to draw you out. We’re just glad they didn’t track us back to the settlement.”

“Are you okay?” Din asks and quickly glances over their appearance. Some creased clothing and maturing bruises but for the most part untouched - no blood, no wounds.

They nod their heads in unison.

“He’s--” Caben glares at his captor warily. “He’s after the kid—your kid.”

Din suspected as much. “We’ll deal with him. Where’s the speeder?”

“Destroyed!”

He sighs and contemplates his options as if he had any. No speeder, no ride. “Follow the trail back to the village. We’ll be right behind you.”

They share a concerned look between each other but heed Din’s instructions, slipping past the growling figure and bounding through the bushland towards their escape route without glancing back.

“Quit wasting moonlight, boy. Get your hands dirty,” the Weequay sneers.

Judging by the bravado performance he puts on, he reckons he won’t suffer at the hands of an irritated Mandalorian tonight—he couldn’t be more incorrect even if he were to claim Din was of another species underneath his armour. A nettlesome Gungan. A hard-headed Klatoonian. An emotionless droid. He’s heard it all and they’re all closer to being more correct than he assumes of his safety.

There could be a message to send; violate every bone in his body to signify not to challenge the wrath of a well-equipped storm.

He’ll be in pain, Din’s sure of it, only, it’s undecided to what extent.

The Weequay grins, a sharp menacing clenched-teeth smile that puts Din back in his place, a guffaw that transmits a surge of electricity down the bumps of his spine; sounds of self-assuredness he shouldn’t possess in his perspective, unless...

No—he’s laughing at their idiocy. He’s pending for the upper hand.

Din spins on the heels of his boots, blaster pistol scanning the thicket. There’s more. There’s fucking more of the bastards and they’re smart about it; they laid in wait and let Din kill their teammates, let Din think he had the advantage, and only to fucking swoop in once they’ve noted all of his abilities—his sonic detectors. They’re too quiet for him to sense.

He thumbs his vambrace to activate his thermal but he doesn’t get the opportunity before he’s kicked in the back, staggering a few steps before crashing to the ground in a heap of steel. Grunting and groaning, he surveys behind him for the abruptness. The Girl is preoccupied in a feud of her own with three ambushers, applying his previously described strategy of paralysing with the bayonet before finishing them with her pistol.

She’s tossed around a bit; slammed into the trunks of trees and thrown onto the ground but she recovers and snaps the trigger of her sidearm with such ease. She’s capable, she’ll be fine.

Din needs to focus on this fucker—he needs to kill the scumbag.

Who knows how many of these guys there are. They literally came out of the fucking woodworks; the Girl wasn’t the only one who thought of taking the high ground and with it being so dark out Din hadn’t even thought to assess the treetops.

But they still didn’t know the extent of his capabilities. The hidden gems implanted in his vambraces. They weren’t just for show, after all.

The lurkers are dismissed for the time being—they’re distant, patient until he makes a miscalculation, and he can work with that—his attention focuses on the leathery neck oozing taunting blood. Din’s fingers curl around the vibrating hilt of his blade and lunges while the Weequay is empty-handed, delivering another slash across an arm this time.

It’s too protective, too tough for him to pierce and really leave some damage.

If Din can get one good stab in his throat, he could fucking skin him alive.

But he’s being surrounded. Hunters making their debut from behind bushes and circling him as if he were a fire in the midst of a snowstorm. It just doesn’t end; this was supposed to be a calming few days away from combat and here they were. Din anticipated this happening—tranquillity scarcely presenting itself to him—but he didn’t expect it so soon. The last he was on this planet, he’d been endowed with a few weeks at the least.

A shrill scream erupts, resonating through the forest and waking the creatures dormant in their hides, but it’s so much louder within his helmet on the account of his detectors. His ears pulse with frigid blood. His windpipe snaps closed, lungs thumping against his ribs.

He doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t. But he needs to - needs to reassure himself that it wasn't the shriek of a girl who’d just obtained something severe, something that makes her screams force time to fall dead.

It’s blurry and hazy, his cloddish eyes simply refusing to cooperate, like observing the scene unfold through a brimming glass of steaming caf. Din manages to discern a pillar, mobile with a rifle in its arms, but it’s not the Girl. Din’s learnt her figure greater than the Creed he wears. He’s felt all of its curves and bumps underneath his callouses. He’s dedicated the inches of his tongue to its sweat.

Din could sculpt her physique out of a slab of concrete with nothing but his fingernails.

That pillar isn’t the Girl—so why does it have her rifle?

Eyes stoop lower, the haze clearing and the Girl becoming so clear-cut it aches his retinas. She’s on the ground—the dirty fucking ground—being suppressed with a boot on her midsection; her hands claw at what little shin she can reach but her efforts are depleted, slowed and weak.

The knife thrums intensively and numbs the tips of his fingers, complementing the tingling billowing through his veins, his organs, wrapping around his bones and urging his legs towards her but a hunter steps before him to block his view.

His heart stutters inside his ribs. Stopping and starting. Leaping and dropping.

Pull your head in and kill these assholes, Din demands himself the willpower to snap his scrutiny around the four hunters caging him in a circle. He’s not in the mood to entertain their wishes for a brawl and triggers the flamethrower in his gauntlet, swirling on his feet to enkindle them with orange heat that’ll leave a mark if not end them.

Clothes of two of them ignite, hastily engulfing their frames and biting its brand into their flesh.

Din relishes in their screams, their desperate tries to distinguish the unforgiving flames, and, in his foolish stupor, he’s forced onto the ground—two thickset weights on either of his arms, the front of his helmet slamming against the dirt and knocking against his nose with a vengeance.

He struggles underneath their grip but hardly moves an inch.

The Girl whimpers, faint but oh-so lively with his detectors. Din’s helmet scrapes across the ground as he cranes his neck to peer at her—the hand that’d been working at a shin now flat against the ground, her writhing the only indication she’s still conscious.

Din wants to look away, wants to shut off his sonic detectors and close his eyes.

It hurts to look at her; that pain he’d receive the day after a tussle with a high-end bounty but intensified by a dozen and stripping away at his internal organs as opposed to muscle tissue.

She’s being brutalised. A boot on her abdominals milking her of pained mewling.

“You’re impudent, Mandalorian,” the Weequay gurgles. “Should teach you some manners. Oi, bring her ‘ere.”

Din’s muscles tense. No armour can conceal the visible discomfort those words bring to him but he tries for his voice anyways, “What is it you want? To take me back to the Guild? I’ll go--leave her alone, she’s not a part of this.”

“She killed my men.” Leather-face huffs a breath. “Bring her ‘ere.”

The lackey complies, rugged gloves tearing into her skin and thrusting her in their general direction. Din scans her body for injuries, the spotlight of his eyes staring at the dark vermillion patch seeping through the black of his shirt at her belly. He struggles for a breath. Struggles to swallow the rising liquids that burn the back of his throat. Struggles to not implode with cusses that’ll only edge their retaliation over the brink.

Fucking vermillion.

A colour that looked fantastic on his foes but so fucking unsettling on His Girl.

Her competitor wears the same colour as her, a circular bolt wound in his shoulder and it doesn’t take a genius to piece them together. She must’ve been fooled. She must’ve been attacked with the knife in his hand while tending to the other hunters that now lay dead among the bark.

She can’t stand upright without the arm fisting her shirt and she drops to her knees and successively her stomach before him. They’re both a quivering mess, though for wholly different circumstances, and Din can’t fucking take the look she gives him. So painful. So devoid of that sweetness.

“Sorry, Me’suum’ika,” she whispers.

She feels as though she failed him—that somehow her getting injured resulted in him immobile, anchored to the forest floors and staring at his companion face-to-face while she bleeds out unattended to. Not the fact he can’t control the emotions that overwhelm him. Not the fact that it’s his own incompetence.

“No—pretty girl, look at me. Look at me.” Din trashes his weight against their hold but the position is awkward and his legs are unable to administer any power into his core. He’s as hopeless as captured krill, simply flailing about in hopes it’ll get him somewhere.

The Weequay wipes blood from his neck and nudges a foot into her side, squirming it underneath her stomach and flipping her onto her back to expose that hellish colour tainting her midsection. It melts through the shirt and adheres the fabric against the invisible wound beneath; Din’s eyes refuse to cut away.

It’s painful. Identical to those atrocious holodramas that’d screen late at night in the sketchy areas of town—it’s a shootout of a mess and he just can’t look away.

“She’s dying,” the Weequay announces. “There ain’t no medicine out in these parts. She’ll be gone before you can even lift her off the ground.”

Din’s stunned into silence. What’s he to do? His Girl is an arms-length away from him, bleeding out and moaning in pain, and he can’t do so much as stroke the hair out of her face and reassure her that she’ll be okay.

The Weequay snatches her rifle from his men, twisting the framework in his arms and hovering the prongs directly over her forehead—barely an inch of space between beautiful soft skin and a fatally paralysing influx of electricity.

“Don’t,” Din warns, tone more emotional than he wants to display. “Touch her and I will never stop looking for you.”

“I can end it all for her right now. Turn her to dust. Take mercy on her. Look at her, she’s in agony.”

The Girl’s mouth opens and closes rhythmically, an arm strewn across her front to stop the gush of blood—it’s fucking bad. It worsens when she looks at him, the angle causing tension to find a path along her neck and down to her belly but she shuns the idea of glancing away. Din’s throat tightens.

“All you need to do is point me in the direction of the bounty.”

The fucking choobies on this guy.

“Get her assistance and we’ll talk,” he bluffs.

They’re not impressed by his demands, a singular knee from either of the hunters digging into his forearm. The vambraces support a majority of the weight but it’s still hefty, still——

Vambraces. He’s exhausted what little fuel remains for his flamethrowers but there are still a few tricks in wait up there—techniques that they’ll never anticipate.

Din strains his arm beneath the hunter, flicking his fist as best as he can manage for specks of bright blue to ignite within the cavities of his wrist. A handful of the explosive tips dispense into the still air above him. The birds sing their tune as they coordinate their attacks, dedicating themselves to targeting each individual quarry. One dives into the side of a hunter to Din’s left followed by another to his right, the muscles pinning him down becoming limp, the third impact into the chest of the Girl’s half-defeated foe.

They lay lifeless among the forest; scorch marks where they’d been touched with his beskar sparrows.

Two birds remain circling overhead.

Two?

One dips through the air targeting the Weequay like a missile with his name written on it but Din conducts a staredown with the last, his eyes swiftly tracing the projectile. It makes its move—identifying the bleeding woman coiled on the floor as a threat to his safety, but Din matches its tempo and hurtles himself atop of her body.

His weight stimulates a displeased groan from her throat.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says.

Din cages her head in with his arms and tucks her face into his cowl before caving in on himself, a poor attempt to cover every inch of soft flesh with reverberating beskar and it works.

He feels the menacing tink through his spine as it bounces off the steel and into a tree.

He peels himself from her, cherry liquid having been smeared across his beskar platings, and examines her condition—the shirt drags up and tracks the blood to her ribs, a wide three-inch chamber in her stomach that convulses with each unsteady exhale.

She grunts incoherently and latches her fingers onto the perimeter of his vambraces, beseeching eyes demolishing the resolve within him. “We’ll get you fixed up, all right?” Din examines the incision with trained eyes, plush grey-purple tissue beneath all the vermillion causing his heart to drop.

It’s not that she was trying to stop the bleeding; she’s trying to prevent her fucking intestines from spilling out.

They’re still tucked away inside, where they belong, but if she moves too much they’ll slip out with ease.

His glove compresses around the fabric, wringing out the garment of her insides. His helmet sharply tosses in the direction of a small explosion by his final whistling bird. Weequay remains upright. Din’s insides boil.

This fucker. This son of a bitch.

This is his fault.

His Girl lays beneath the stars, her essence draining from her disoriented body, all because a handful of good for nothing guild members needed to get their hands dirty for a lousy couple thousand credits.

Din’s knees crack as he raises to his feet, his shoulders contracting and fingers crunching around a blade’s hilt. She sputters for a breath, her lungs failing to cooperate with her demands; the distressing audio flourishes the growing rage within him and he scowls under his visor.

He wishes it wasn’t there—wishes he could pluck the damned steel from around his face to burn the Weequay’s leather hide with stewing caf; a tribute of his ire. To permit the one who attributed so much agony on his beloved to gaze into his eyes as he snips his vocal cords through the wound in his gullet; darkened eyes that haven’t touched daylight in decades to swallow him whole in their shadows.

Like a hibernating beast longing for its first meal upon awakening.

Din cocks his vambrace controls and fires out his grappling cord, cleanly winding it around the maimed throat of his opponent, jerking forwards and concurrently rushing into his physique so they tumble to the turf and fend off each other’s clamouring.

That message he had been planning on distributing for the galaxy’s eyes is burnt to ash, much like that of the Weequay’s comrades. Din simply wants to murder the bastard—murder. An act far worse than killing. Killing somebody had always implied his survival, a requirement to take matters into his own hands so that he returns to the Crest with a beating heart.

This wasn’t survival.

This is harsh tidal waves crashing against the foundations of a lighthouse.

This is the crack of lightning in the sky in an unstoppable catastrophe.

This is a whole new side to Din that he’s never witnessed before. Anger that drowns him from the inside out. A bitterness that prods his taste buds. Overheating caf scorching holes through the visor.

Din registers the whipcord and how his fingers hook around the thread.

Din registers the dire clawing at his helmet, the Weequay’s desperation urging him on.

But what Din can’t register is anything in between; his consciousness, usually so clouded with his own grievances, is utterly blank as if he were a wiped droid. All circuitry and no sentiments.

“Ash’amur,” Din spits and applies every pound in his build.

The whipcord is constructed of refined shivs that slice through the thick neck and into Din’s gloves, drawing blood from his palms and fingertips.

It’s the gurgling that does it for him. That vile bubbling of blood and saliva in his pipes as it rises upwards and leaks from clenched teeth down his frilled jowls. It’s too horrendous to sustain—Din cringes and seizes his vibro-knife, only to be punched in the side of his neck the moment he removes a hand from that rubbery fucking throat.

Din groans and slams the cord-entangled hand into his jaw, roughhousing his cranium into the dirt and presenting the vulnerable wound like the perfect target to practice his precision. The blade dips through the seams and excavates deeper through the muscles, intensifying his suffering and crackled spluttering. Coriaceous hands fumble at slippery beskar, mouth belching and spraying ruby drops across the surface of his Creed.

He digs his knee into the fleshy stomach beneath him, extracts his knife and plunges it directly through the crevice once more.

The appendages slink down his torso and thighs, accumulating in a motionless mound atop of twigs and stones—dull eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

That filthy noise pollution continues—fluids frothing and popping in the oceanic limbo of fucking somewhere. Din’s mouth reshapes into a sneer and he impales the blade through the muscle again and again, but the ruckus persists; striking his eardrums with more zeal than his efforts to numb it.

It’s too loud, too distracting, his senses simmering down to solely auditory perception as it spikes in volume. It needs to be stopped, he needs to vanquish it.

Din white-knuckles the rubber hilt and repeatedly thrusts the blade in and out of the wound with rigid movements, his chest heaving with floundering breaths as he falls into a mania of knife-plungings.

The Weequay is long-lifeless but its body rocks with each frantic stab, the blood squelching within the open wound, and Din doesn’t realise the chilling mass beneath him isn’t the cause of the carnage on his sonic detectors until it’s splintered and calling his name between cracks and coughs.

He visibly recoils.

That agonised suffocating on blood wasn’t him at all.

The Girl coughs again, liquid gargling in the deep of her throat.

Vibro-knife rips through the skin as he withdraws the blade and reverts back to the Girl’s aid, flipping her onto her side and smoothing out the hair. “Spit it up, Sweetheart,” he instructs. Vermillion amasses into a puddle beneath her mouth and floods the forest floors. “That’s it, keep going.”

She mewls, incapable of urging up the last swish of metallic liquid—Din intervenes and slips his hand free of his glove to wedge two fingers into her mouth, sweeping out the remainder of accrued blood and clearing her airways.

“Breathe in, there we go, and out.”

She exhales and nods to her wound. “Didn’t—didn’t see the knife in time. Thought I-I killed him.”

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, all right?”

There’s disbelief written on her face, her eyebrows and teeth tense as she chews on soft gums, but she gives him the faintest of smiles and a nod that’s more to reassure him than it is her.

She’s lost too much blood and the volume is only ballooning with time. Din acts fast and slashes a load of his cloak with his knife, again, the woollen trimmings serving as a tourniquet around her midsection; it’s a shitty solution and functions more to irritate the wound than anything—the fibres of the garment eating away at the uncovered pulsing muscle—but it’s all he’s got. They’ve got nothing going for them here and the Crest had to be a decent twenty minute trek outwards on a good day which this is fucking not, maybe thirty with her condition.

It has to last until then. It needs to.

If he can make it to the Crest in time and without dumping her guts out she has a chance—a chance, not a high one, but a fucking chance—of survival but he needs to go now.

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

She’s light. All that weight sitting on his shoulders mere hours ago is replaced with a floatiness that makes her feel non-existent, like a figment of his imagination. She compresses against the beskar while he zips through the forest like the pellets she’d administered to the hunters; agile, coordinated, but his concentration bounces from his path to her face every few leaps.

“Hey! Hey. Open your eyes. Show me your pretty eyes, sweet girl...there they are. Keep them open for me.”

She strains, “Sorry.”

The syrupy goodness of her tone he starved for—binged on—has boiled over to a sticky mess that only drags him in closer at the touch of his heart. It coats the organ like tar and hardens until it struggles to continue beating, slinking downwards and catching along the walls of his lungs to harass his breathing.

Din chews on his lower lip, his teeth burrowing into the pillows with each step of his boots and shredding them with his enamel until he tastes his blood at the back of his tongue.

She hums and allows her head to roll into the soft bicep beside it, situating her lips against the flight suit to commit a forceless kiss onto the only part of him that she can reach.

“Guess - guess I won’t be taking you up on that offer.” She smiles and exhales a breath—a laugh but she’s too weak to give anything more.

“Don’t… Stop acting like you’re--”

“Dying?” She scoffs. “Well, I-I am, aren’t I?”

No, you can’t Din thinks, you can’t fucking leave me here.

The urge to vomit creeps upon him; disguises itself among the churning of his stomach and the soreness in his throat. Perhaps he would empty his stomach right here and now, discount the concealing of his identity before the Girl just to have the opportunity to bend over and heave until there’s nothing but saliva expelling, but he doesn’t have the luxury of slowing down. In fact, he needs to pick up his pace.

He does just that—albeit not by much but every difference counts.

Din risks another glimpse at her; skin all pale and face scrunched to not let the pain escape from her throat or eyes. She struggles to restrain herself from allowing her eyelids to snap close, to let that twinge in her retinas finally rest—because Din asked to see those pretty eyes and what Din asks, Din receives.

She takes notice of his lack of reassuring words, the shortage of comforting glances, the cold absence of her Mandalorian as he distances himself from his emotions.

“Me’suum’ika.”

He regrets teaching her that word. It sounds so pleasing coming from her vocals, all soft and bouncy like a mattress he wishes to rest on, but currently, it’s pained. It’s croaky and poorly pronounced. It sounds dreadful—tainting the beautiful memory of exchanging nicknames.

She tries for his attention again, “Me’suum’ika…”

No. No, no. Don’t say it. Do not fucking say it.

“Din.”

Their motion suspends as fast as a string snaps. Boots kick pebbles ahead of their path. They’re in a wide clearing, the firs having been repelled at least a twenty-metre radius around them. Quiet. Open. Peaceful.

Forearms quiver with her maturing weight, mysteriously so fucking heavy like he was supporting a thruster of his Crest. The helmet is inert on his shoulders, staring off into the distance where the path narrows between rows of evergreen. Fingers on her waist and the underside of her thigh tunnels into the flesh, his one ungloved hand perceiving her dwindling warmth.

Despair overcomes him like an explosion. No ticking to warn him, no preparation. Just one big fucking detonation that blasts against his calves, staggering his stance and plugging his lungs and helmet with clotted smoke particles that stings his eyes and throat. His tongue liquefies and slips down his pipe where he gags on his own muscle.

“Put me down.”

“No,” he chokes. “I can do it, we can make it. I just—”

His vocals fissure. They crack and pop and it’s not on the account of his vocoder.

The hook underneath the rim of his helmet drags it downwards and every bone in his body tenses at the sight. The sight of His Girl so emptied of expression that she can barely hold eye contact with his black slit. The colour deficiency in her face leaves a sharp taste of salt on his lips, streaks on his cheeks.

Din she says softly, no—not softly but so devoid of strength that it comes out oh-so weak and quiet, put me down Din.

His knees buckle. His arms quake. He sinks to the gravel brutally.

The stones poke and prod against his caps, sharp edges cutting through his garment but he’s completely numb except for his hands and face—enduring the physical touch of a falling star versus the tides that roll beneath the steel.

He doesn’t want to drop her.

He doesn’t want to let her touch the planet's crust because he knows she won’t get back up.

“Me’suum’ika.” She wipes at his armoured chest with her sleeve. “You’re all bloody.”

Din shakes, scrambling not to cave into the overwhelming itch in his forearms—to not permit her perfect figure to be tainted with more grime than it already has been subjected to—except she’s made of duracrete, weighing him down like an anchor on a flimsy rowboat and he can’t come out victorious.

It’s a sluggish descent, all slowed to record each millimetre until she’s flat on the ground. A vermillion reservoir spawns beneath her and trails to seep into his flight suit, his ungloved hand gently laying rest on her concealed wound—the cloak lumpy and outlining something soft, squishy.

He retracts his hand as if it were in the mouth of a rancor.

There’s an unspoken statement that floats above them, circles them and weighs their shoulders down.

She’s dying.

Din knows it. He can see it. He can see her life vacuuming out of a three-inch slit in her abdominals and there’s nothing he can do to delay the inevitable. There’s nothing he can do to save her life. He’s never felt more incompetent but there’s a flicker of hope that she’ll make it. That she’ll just reabsorb the sticky liquid and suture her tissue back together—denial. He’s in utter fucking denial.

“Come here,” she breathes, fingertips stroking the scruff of his jaw underneath his cowl.

His teeth clench. “No, Cyar’ika. Sweetheart, please. I can make it. Just hold on for a little longer.”

“I can’t.”

Eyelids pinch together behind the tint but it doesn’t stop the nipping at his retinas. Gloved hand remains at the rear of her skull, cushioning it from stray rubble but he clenches around air when she hoists herself onto her elbows—approaching him since he’s too shaken to go to her—and knocks against the front of his helmet.

Din forces his eyelids to peel back and it’s a huge mistake.

All he can see is the bottom of her chin, the curve of her jaw, but he’s clever enough to string the clues together; the diminishing heat of her breath warming him on the inside.

The gentle press of her lips against the summit of beskar.

She doesn’t allow him to think, to speak, she does it all for him. But they’re not words he wishes to hear. They’re not I’ll be okay or let’s go home.

“Look.” She nods upwards. “Me’suum’ika.”

She’s not referring to him, but the real moon; its silver-white glow snuffed out and overtaken with oranges as warm as the sunrises that’d rebound off his beskar as he strides back to the Crest, a bounty in hand and dark crescents forming underneath his eyes. Reds as deep as the blood besmirching her gorgeous soft skin.

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

Pretty?

It’s obscene. It’s nauseating. It’s not fucking pretty.

It’s mocking them—mirroring the scene laid underneath it reminding Din of his foolish missteps; she’s all red and bloody because of you; she looks like me because you allowed her to tag along.

Din wants to pilot his Crest all the way up there and put an end to the disrespectful satellite.

How dare it look so full, so complete, while he’s disintegrating before it.

The Girl said he was one and the same with the moon—she fucking said that—so how can it be so unaffected by the loss of life beneath it?

The loss of their Girl.

Din isn’t the moon. He’s the abyssal milky ways that attract eyes at first impression only to exploit that and drag unsuspecting victims into the black holes in the galactic centre of his chest—he’s destruction and chaos and unrelenting, his gravitational pull too great for escape and it only ever ends one way.

“Don’t...don’t look like that.”

“Like what?” he snaps.

It’s unintentional. An overload of emotions that’s been festering for too long and shows its ugly face in the form of a pitch curated with venom and tears.

“You can’t even see me.”

He’s going about it all wrong except he’s right—she can’t see him nor can she feel his warmth but that never intimidated her. She’d found ways to adapt; ways to read his mannerisms and speech rather than facial expressions.

Din has the opportunity to seize that from her; to show rather than tell.

Explosion smoke splutters from his lungs and his fingertips ache as they fumble for the switch beneath the rim, the Girl’s blood soiling his clothed throat and the insides of his Creed. It unclasps, detectors maximizing its violent hiss. He has it maybe below his lips before she pulls and pins it down.

“You’re not ready.”

Din’s heart fractures; the beskar steel of his organ—that’s made to withstand a lightsaber—cracking and creaking at her words.

“No! No, no. You told me you weren’t going anywhere—you said that. You said you would look if I wanted you to see and, Mesh’la, I want you to fucking see.” Din’s fingers tremble against the back of her hands. “Sweetheart, please look at me. Let me do this...I don’t have anything else to offer.”

“Din…no.”

“Let me,” he demands but all the authority is suppressed with a heartache that chews him up and spits him back out.

There’s an attempt to conceal the groans and hisses—an attempt—as she breathes in deep, gathering as much fresh oxygen in her lungs as possible.

Din tries for his helmet again, employing her hands beneath the rim to lift, but she overexerts herself to stop him; tight fingers latched on the insides, knuckles brushing against a sharp jawline and collecting the wetness that streams directly into her grasp.

“This is the Way,” she says it as a reminder and a reassurance that she’s content with never seeing his face because This is the Way, but it only frustrates him; boils the tears on his face until they convert into vapour that attacks his visor, leaving only the crust of salt residue on his cheeks.

You’re dying in my fucking arms he thinks the least I can do is desecrate my Creed.

It wouldn’t even be a desecration, not really. That would imply a disrespectful act was to occur and this was anything but. It’d be an honour, a homage of an unspoken pledge uttered in the dead of the Crest that outweighs the one he took among tinted visors and enkindled torches.

Din’s taut. Rigid muscle constructed of resolute alloy.

It’s not comfortable to rest among sharp edges that prod into her sore skin but rather than peel away—rather than let her breathe without the weight of steel to her side—Din cradles her against his chest, transferring the most minuscule amount of body heat that slips through his seams into her.

His hand is glazed with sticky deep vermillion that oozes from his fingertips, the gravity magnetising droplets onto the beautiful cheek it hovers above. Din wants to touch her, wants to feel the sun warm his flesh and blood, but he’s scared that if he touches her he’ll ruin her iconic softness with coarse fingers.

Blood smears onto her face and fills her sinuses with metallic scents to match those flavours in her mouth, her cheek gluing itself to his hand for him. She offers him a weak smile and entitles herself to a moment to browse his solid face, following the edges of his cheeks and swiping a thumb across the chin’s rim.

“Kiss me,” Din requests. “Just—just once.”

“Just once?”

He nods. “Just once. Do—can you manage one?”

The Girl chuffs out a laugh but cringes at the disturbance in her core. “I might have one in the bank for you.”

She elevates the beskar to the dip in his nose, scenic eyes securely held shut to preserve the Creed he’s already decided he would renounce for her if she would just let him. She deserves to see him, to gaze into his simmering caf. His thoughts range from disloyal alternatives that scour against the sincerity of his mind, wiping him clean of the trust he’s built around himself, all the way to options where he doesn’t go against her words—thoughts where the beskar lifts no higher than his mouth.

He condemns both of the options; either tricking her into seeing him for his own greediness or listening to her pleas despite how much it fucking hurts.

It’s not fair.

Din’s lips hurtle themselves into her; hungry and distraught, a false hope that if he engorges on her taste alone it’ll dispel those macabre thoughts from his consciousness. All he can fucking taste is salt and metal that’s been left in the rain. Her zest, her sweetness, the flavours that taste of her, is gone.

It doesn’t stop him.

He compiles it in the back of his throat simply to have something of her inside him. He’s indulged in her tasteless saliva, the saltiness of her sweat, the syrup of her slick, and now the rancid warmth of her blood.

He can’t hear. He can’t see. He can only feel and touch.

She’s hardly lukewarm, the sun’s rays disappearing over her horizon.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.” Din brushes the hair out of her face. “Not a minute passes where you’re not in the forefront of my mind, Sweetheart. I’ve never encountered somebody so...extraordinary as you. I just need you to know before—before…”

“Din…” Her voice pops, tears of her own brewing.

“I love you,” he confesses, wet beads plummeting from his jawline to her neck. “You taught me how to love; you are my love and that will never change. I love you, ner Cyare—my beloved.”

Din recoils like he’s poked in the chest. The snuffling and mewling that erupts from her vocal cords upon his confession burn him—singe his lungs until they’re tender with each inhale. Nothing could have prepared him for this reaction; the unmasked sobs and vulnerability she’s never shown, not to this extent.

Fingers that dig into his flight suit feel like minuscule vibro-knifes in his biceps. Statements that gush out of her mouth and landslide his heart into submission—I love you, Din. I love you. I love you.

A star and a satellite falling in love; it’s an implausible outcome bound for disaster.

The sun manipulates its flames that allows colourful flowers to bloom or for lively forests to ignite. The moon pushes and pulls the tides fit for a gentle roll across a beach or to capsize rigs with a single flick.

The Sun and the Moon.

Fire and Water.

They’re polar opposites and, despite everything in the universe working against them, they’ve merged as one. Two equally fractured vases exchanging their missing pieces for compensation; a bright orange that’s warm to the touch in Din’s heart and within her lies a sparkly silver shard, a piece of his beskar residing within her to ward off onslaught.

He’s trawled inwards, naked cheek against naked cheek; scruff pricking against the bone of her jaw. Their tears fuse as one and wedge between their pressed flesh. She sobs against him, the hand on his helmet dipping underneath the silver to tangle her fingers within his knotty locks.

I’m fucking scared Din she breaks, I don’t want to go.

Din’s lip trembles. He can’t paralyse the pain that brings forth the donning of a brave face when confronted—that crinkle in her brow isn’t fooling anybody—but, perhaps, he can distract her. Draw her attention away from the gnawing of her intestines against scratchy wool.

“I know, Darling, I know.” Voice so soft and comforting it encourages her fraught muscles to slack and abandon her awareness. “Focus on me, okay?”

Her lips part when he nudges against them, accepting the tongue that requests entrance. It’s one final deliverance on both sides; a diversion for the Girl and a concluding act of love for Din—something to burn into his lips for decades to come, something to remind him he’s deserving of love.

He takes it slow for her sake, concerned that his usual greed would be too overstimulating. They’re lackadaisical; movements so weakened they’re hardly moving, simply holding each other as they quietly sob into the others mouth.

His scalp is heavy with her fingers and he synchronises his own to the nape of her neck, dirtying her pretty hair with sticky plasma. Pretty hair he’ll never be able to touch again—he’ll never be able to feel the strands between his knuckles as he tilts her head back and deepens their devout kisses. Kisses he’ll never be blessed with again.

Fuck.

He can’t stomach it, can’t bear the thought that he’s going to be abandoned all over again.

First, his parents and now his beloved girl—everybody he cared for is slipping through the gaps of his fingers.

It’s not even a gradual process; there’s not enough time for him to tell her how much he loves her, how he’ll never love another lifeform a fraction as much as he does her.

It’s as rapid as a waterfall, a suffocating surge that’s stern against his protests; his silent pleas of please don’t take her away from me.

Din feels the pulsing in her tongue fade; acknowledges how her fingers lax against his scalp, registers how he’s been deserted despite their tongues intertwined. Beskar slips down the slope of his dewy face as he recedes within himself.

The Girl is static, still, silent.

She’s not got a fingernail’s worth of oxygen in her lungs, not a twitch in her eyebrows.

Din’s beloved Girl is gone.

The sun’s solace warmth has been wiped from the face of the galaxy, leaving residual liquid flames that paste in thick layers to his armour. Only an odious sphere of blended carmines remains perched in the celestials—a blood-red lunar eclipse that penetrates through the solid of his heartplate and devours his internal organs.

Din remains idle for what feels like a century, his consciousness paralysed with a stab of her amban rifle’s bayonet. Deprived of sensation—drained of emotion and thoughts—the tears have stopped and left behind an ache beneath his eyes.

When he does eventually move it’s wearisome. The momentum of a dawdling crawl; a by-product of the corpse in his arms and bedrock in his boots.

It takes him longer than it should to reach the Crest.

It takes him longer than it should to lay her body to rest atop the hold’s crates.

Din tries to tell himself she looks peaceful, that she’s somewhere better, that's what people said to others in times of grief, but what could be better than roosting between his arms in the comfort of a secure body of beskar?

The Razor Crest’s lethargic humdrum probes his sockets, the absence of a thumping heartbeat so fucking apparent that it’s harrowing and Din can’t tolerate it for another second. His Creed rips from his head and hurtles through the air to slam into the duralloy walls of his supposed sanctuary, denting a dome where the summit of beskar impacts but it’ll never be enough to damage that fucking helmet.

His trademark steely stoic persona is substituted for tan mien; his inability to conceal his expressions from years of never needing to palpable at the faintest indication of an eyebrow twinge.

Din presses his lips against her forehead, a frigid and stiffness that transfers to his mouth. He luxuriates on her, delivering docile pecks across her face that burns his lips. Din surrenders the last of his breath to her but he’ll never receive any equivalent ever again.

Memories are all that remains—reminiscences that tug on his lungs. They obscure his mind's eye with dull images of the individual circumstances he’d separated the man from the religion.

He wasn’t to ever remove his helmet. His heart sinks. Din had never contemplated the impact of the decree—the implicit statement that it included whether one’s eyes were shut or not.

His heart’s arteries melt into the muscle and flood it until it capsizes within itself.

Din had been subconsciously unearthing methods and plot holes to eliminate beskar from the equation to indulge in the Girl’s temptations—to permit him the opportunity of a lifetime and experience affairs that scarcely presented themselves to him—but it had backfired.

The helmet was removed, whether her eyes were shut or not it didn’t matter.

His Creed was tarnished the moment he even thought about being with the Girl and it only continued downhill from then on—a terminal illness that burrows its relentless claws into his core and carefully conquers each inch of his body without ever drawing attention to itself.

“Cyare.” His vocals crack and pop. “Open your eyes.”

Look at me. I’ve dishonoured my vows for you. Open your eyes and look into mine—savour the caf you were so curious about. You have to look at me. You need to. Please don’t let my sacrilege go undervalued.

They’d been wasting precious moments this entire fucking time. Din’s Honour was non-existent and he could’ve bestowed her with the knowledge of how his eyes brightened whenever she glanced his way, how indentations of shallow dimples formed in his cheeks when he’d smile at her snarky remarks.

His fist slams against the crate beside her. “Stubborn girl.”

Why couldn’t she be like the no-good schemers that yearned to see beneath the steel?

Why did she have to be so protective of his oath?

She died never knowing what the man who loved her looked like.

A sparkle beneath her shirt catches his eyes, solid alloy beckoning his hands. Beskar is still warm to the touch from her sternum. Din rubs the face of the pendant's skull raw, dried blood flaking off onto the steel, his thumb heating with the friction. It’s not much, hardly anything actually, but it’s something that she claimed ownership of—something physical that he can touch and hold that was once pressed against the beat of her heart. With nothing else in her possession of her own, it’s all Din’s got.

It’s knotted around his neck, the thread weighing like a bantha and the pendant torching a permanent mark into his chest. He welcomes it, remains stoic and unflinching as it intensifies and scars over—he wasn’t afraid of being burnt, after all.

Din wipes away the scarlet meadow of clumped hair adhered to her cheek and sets the hem of her shirt as low as it'll reach, concealing the hump of soaked wool. He believed himself to be incapable of shedding more salty liquid from his ducts but tonight is full of surprises. Their foreheads pin against each other, wetness streaming down the curve of his cheekbones and into her hair.

He’s uncertain where he stands with his Creed—it’s not of importance right now—but he was raised on their culture, their words so beautiful that it only felt right to say a final remembrance.

My Sun, Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.

----

jatnese be te jatnese - the best of the best ni kar'tayl gar darasuum - i love you me'suum'ika - moon choobies - testicles ash'amur - die ner cyare - my beloved ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum - i'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.

A/N: i'm so sorry. there might be an epilogue if you guys are interested in that.

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex, @omgreally, @spideysimpossiblegirl

[sirensumbra]

Chapter 2 - Impasse

Nothing.

He had found nothing.

A few abandoned camp sites and cold fires was the only evidence that someone had been in the area. He kicked at the ring of coals with the toe of his boot. Small bones, likely from a bird, skittered across the rough stone ground like pebbles across a pond.

From his pocket Azriel pulled a worn, folded piece of paper loose. The handwriting across the page was tight, neat. Bending at the knee, he rubbed a bit of coal against the pad of his thumb. With a single swipe he crossed the last marked location off, the scrawl beneath disappearing.

He’d read Gwyn’s handwritten notes over and over the last few weeks. Unable to sleep, tired of watching the stars, he’d read the lines until they were memorized.

Azriel had missed nothing. Neither had Gwyn. She was concise. He’d found himself drawn to the small footnotes and occasional quick sketches she’d inked in the margins.

There were moments, evident in her scrawl, where she’d taken breaks, or hesitated. He could see it in the varying thickness of her pen strokes. What had she been thinking? What had given her mind pause?

Heaving a deep sigh Azriel tucked the parchment back into his pocket. Wrapped in shadow he left the Illyrian mountains, winnowing through dark umbra until he was far enough from the camps. The rest of the distance he covered in flight, enjoying the sting of rain against his cheeks.

The townhouse was dark, quiet. His mind, however, was restless.

It took only moments for him to drop his things and grab his throwing knives. The archery stalls outside the House of Wind were empty when he arrived moments later. As he knew they would be.

Azriel raised a blade, pulling his arm back. As the knife passed his ear everything around him disappeared, leaving only the flex of powerful muscle, the thin steel against his palm, the air in his lungs.

He relaxed, exhaling, arm extending forward and wrist snapping. The blade shot through the air, then a thud of impact.

“You’re as good as Adir.”

Azriel glanced over his shoulder as he pulled more knives from his holster. His brother crossed the distance from where he’d winnowed in, stopping a few feet away. Dressed in casual attire, he squinted against the light looking toward the target at the far end of the stall and the dagger embedded at its center.

Keeping two blades tucked against his palm, Azriel raised his arm to throw another. His hand barely passed his ear before he loosened the weapon. Flipping the other knives, he pulled back and released, then snapped the last one. All three hit the center with consecutive sound.

“Think I’ll ever surpass him?” Azriel asked, sparing a few moments to think about the old Illyrian who’d first taught him to throw.

Rhys shrugged. To anyone else the question would have sounded self loathing, but Az was genuinely inquiring.

“In throwing, maybe,” his brother answered, starting forward.

Rhys followed him across the stall. Four blades pierced the target, plunging through the red center. Azriel pulled them free, checking their tips for damage.

Rhys watched him as he freed the knives. Azriel didn’t feel like he’d worked off any tension that had driven him here in the first place. He eyed the board, pondering whether he wanted to sling a few more.

“Did you find anything out there?”

“You know I didn’t.”

Rhys nodded, saying, “Do you think this is a waste of time?”

“Probably.” Azriel swung around to face him, leaning against the target. “Your concerns are warranted, though. There were signs of activity around the western edge of Ramiel.”

“We need to learn what Koschei wants.”

The name of the ancient being - arguably a powerful primordial creature - sent a thrill of nerves down Azriel’s spine.

He shook his head. “I know.”

Rhys leaned against the other side of the target, absently picking at the straw. “Why haven’t you been by the River House? Feyre misses seeing you.”

“You know why,” Az snarled.

“It wasn’t my intention to push you out of our lives, brother,” Rhys pleaded, pain slicing through his expression.

Turning the knives over in his hands, Azriel exhaled. He met Rhy’s violet gaze, the intensity there identical to his own.

“What are you not telling us?”

The words were a whisper, floating between them. Despite their shared eye contact, Rhys gave nothing away. He was the one fae Azriel couldn’t read. At least, not well. Partially his own fault, though. He’d sat with Rhys for hours working on controlling his tells.

When he didn’t answer, Azriel opened his mind. Rhysand’s presence was felt immediately - a washing calm, like tranquil night, spilled through him.

Most described the high lord’s power as wrenching claws - but not Azriel. He found comfort surrounded by his brother’s dark presence. Each detail from his search over the last few weeks was plucked and observed.

“What are you afraid of, Rhys?” Azriel tried a different angle, watching the other males expression for anything that might give his inner turmoil away.

“What do you know of the codes the Illyrian war camps use to communicate with one another?” Rhys asked, removing his presence from Azriel’s mind.

“Not much, that’s Amren’s arena, not mine,” he lifted a shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “I overhead some soldiers saying Devlon has been avoiding some lords, while reporting to others.”

Rhys nodded, gazing up at the overcast sky.

“We’ve gotten our hands on correspondence,” he started, eyes dropping to meet Az’s once more. “The letters are coming from Devlon’s camps. They’ve adapted the way they’re coding their messages.”

“How did you get the letters?”

“Balthazar.”

“The boy from the Blood Rite?”

Rhys nodded. “He’s been feeding us information.” He held up a hand as Azriel opened his mouth. “He came to us. After the girls returned from the Blood Rite, the war camps were boiling,” Rhys growled. “Balthazar was concerned about the rhetoric. He’s been handing over information for a couple weeks.”

“And you trust him?”

“Yes, for now.” He smirked. “He’s young - feels passionately. He wants to help.”

Companionable silence settled between them and Azriel was left thinking of their last conversation. He didn’t regret his words, but he regretted his anger. Rhys was the only one who could withstand the brunt of his temper. Even Cassian, for all his battle savvy, waved a white flag a the thought.

“Rhys,“ Azriel started.

His brother waved a hand in the air. Their gazes caught.

“You were right,” Rhys conceded.

The admission stole Azriel’s breath and the two males stared at one another.

“My intentions to protect Feyre were grossly innopropriate,” Rhys went on to explain. “I let my fear cloud my judgement. Again.”

He let loose a drawn out sigh and Azriel’s heart softened at the sound. It wasn’t that Rhys was incapable of being wrong. Frustratingly, he was often always right.

But his High Lord worried. A lot. As any high lord should, but Azriel worried the affects it was having on Rhys. His father had grown paranoid in the last few years leading to the his death - seeing enemies at every turn. Azriel refused to see Rhys head down that same path.

The last few weeks of camping in the wilds that surrounded Mount Ramiel Azriel had spun his brother’s words over and over in his mind. Recalling Solstice, his frustrations, Rhys’ response. Elain.

In the end Azriel knew he was wrong for wanting what he’d planned on taking that night and the regret was festering inside him. He wanted. Ferociously. His entire life he’d been robbed…

“So were you,” Azriel admitted, shame flooding him. A playful smirk hitched Rhys’ lips, pulling them at one side.

“An impasse then,” he questioned smoothly.

“So it seems,” Azriel replied, carrying them into another stretch of silence. “Has Gwyn found anything else? In my absence?”

Something in what he asked made Rhys smile. “She’s rather frustrated trying to break this new code and Amren hasn’t been much help,” he explained, smile growing. Azriel’s shadows pulsed steadily, sensing a trap. “You could, though.”

“I can’t think I’d be much help, Rhys.”

“She could use some guidance with translating some of the Illyrian language-“

“Rhys-“

“And I’ve been told the two of you meet regularly for private training-“ The emphasis on training had Azriel’s shadows twirling. All of which those vivid amethyst eyes didn’t miss.

“Is this an order?”

“You can’t disobey an order if you haven’t received one, yes?” Rhys’ eyes glittered in unrestrained mirth.

“Solid strategy,” Azriel relented, suppressing his own smile. With flourish, he placed his daggers back in the leather holster strapped to his chest. “Then I guess I’d better get it over with,” Az said as he pushed away from the target. “See you later.”

“Will I see you later?” The High Lord teased after him, knowing that Azriel would continue to stay away.

He swung by the townhouse to drop off his throwing knives and wash. Having headed straight to the training rings on his return, he still wore the stink of travel.

Once finished he reluctantly ventured to the library beneath the House of Wind. Despite the quiet, various priestesses hurried about, arms laden with books or papers. None bothered to look his way as he stepped toward Clotho, half hidden behind her desk.

Hello, shadowsinger.

Her note greeted him as he approached.

“Hello, high priestess.”

Gwyneth is upstairs in her workroom. I ask you not to disturb the other priestess as you go up.

“You were expecting me?”

Our High Lord told me days ago to expect you. I’m glad you’ve offered to help. The poor girl is close to pulling her hair out.

Days ago? Azriel bristled. He felt the tickle of shadow over the back of his neck. An image filled his mind, a slender, freckled hand, fingers combing through molten strands.

“I’d best not keep her waiting then,” Azriel forfeited, pushing the strange image from his mind. His earlier frustrations with Rhys bubbled again to the surface.

Leave your anger at the door, lord Azriel. There is no place for it here.

Clotho’s warning was a bucket of snow over his head. She was right, but the rising dark within him was unsettling. He could feel Rhys’ presence, always watching, waiting, to see if this would be when his infamous spymaster would finally crack and his dark umbra spill out across the world.

“I’ll behave,” Azriel said studiously and turned toward the staircase, tucking his wings tightly behind him.

He didn’t belong here. Priestesses passed him, some greeting him politely. He offered them quick nods in return. He would rather happily jump out the nearest window then have to linger amongst their pain.

It was in the way they darted their eyes away, turned their faces. Each of these women had experienced terrors he wished he could say he was unfamiliar with. But he wasn’t. He shared in their trauma not just because he’d witnessed it first hand by his own family - he’d also dealt it out.

A weapon of war. Tool of torture. Filthy, foul magic that hurt, terrified, destroyed. That’s what he was.

As another priestess avoided his gaze, skittering around him, Azriel jammed his hands into his pockets and walked faster. This is why when he usually came here it was during off hours when the stacks were quiet and empty and he didn’t have to resist the urge the paint the world a vengeful red.

He’d spilled so much blood in his long life that he wondered if the killing would ever end. If his search for euphoria was a circling path with no conclusion, then he was doomed.

At Gwyn’s workroom, he paused, realizing he’d gathered enough shadow to almost disappear from sight. He took a moment to reel his emotions in before raising his fist to tap against the door before swinging it open.

The priestess sat against a worn couch, a weathered book held in her hand. Golden light shimmered from the window, spilling down the wall and catching in her shimmering, chestnut hair, which she combed gently with long, slender fingers.

“Why are you upside down?”

Gwyn tilted her head back, peering over the book that hovered barely an inch from her face. Azriel strolled further into her small work room, eyebrows high above glittering bronze eyes.

“You should knock,” Gwyn shot back.

This was her private space, the one place in the tower she could call her own. Across the hall from Merrill, it served as an assitant’s office - not that it looked like one.

She lay upon a plush couch, legs up and off the back, head dangling beyond the seat. Books piled high in every corner. The desk pushed under the window was barely visible for the clutter of papers strewn about.

All the furniture, even the bookshelves that lined the walls all seemed pulled from different places and time, a collection of things no one cared for anymore but Gwyn adored. His shadows purred against him, vibrating in the priestess presence.

“Do you know all the sorts of things you can learn about a person when you walk in on them unexpectedly,” Azriel returned, unapologetic, ignoring the undulating shadows bobbing up and down at his shoulders.

“And what have you learned about me, shadowsinger?” Her eyes caught his, the turquoise depths dark with mischief, before darting to his shadows. She waved her book in the air. To his utter shock, they waved back.

“That looking at something from a different angle helps you think.”

Gwyn sighed and sat up, pulling her legs from the back cushions.

“Am I so transparent to you,” she huffed, tossing the book at him, which he deftly caught with a single scarred hand. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be stalking around Ramiel?”

“I don’t stalk, Gwyn.”

“Yes, you do,” Gwyn remedied. The twist of her lips was daring him to argue with her further.

To emphasize her point, she glanced again at the shadows that had covered him so thouroughly he was barely visible. The light had all but been absorbed, blanketing Azriel in rich, undulating dark. Maybe she had a point…

Azriel ignored her teasing gaze and opened the book she’d thrown, glancing curiously at the pages. “What language is this? It looks like gibberish.”

“It is, unless you know how to read it.”

Azriel snorted. “You’re translating something from this?”

“Trying to figure it out, yes,” she corrected. Moving from the couch she stepped before him, plucking the book from the spymasters hand and dropped it onto a table. “What brings you here? Certainly not to discuss books written in jibberish.”

“Actually that’s exactly why I’m here,” Azriel replied. As he spoke he internally cursed Rhys’ name and he swore he could hear his brother laughing from the River House. “Did Rhys not tell you? I’ll be helping you with… this.” He waved his arm around her very messy room.

Gwyn’s mouth curved in a half smile but her eyes were guarded. Azriel wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“If you’ll have me,” Azriel remedied.

Gwyn blinked in surprise, a blush blooming in her cheeks, then barked a laugh.

“I guess I have no choice.”

He huffed agreeably, reaching for the wood chair at her desk, spinning it so that he could sit down without crushing his wings. Propping his elbows on the back, Azriel braced his chin on his palm.

“This place is a chaotic mess,” he murmured, glancing around. “How do you find anything?”

A shadow darted out, bobbing along his shoulder and then danced above his head, as if fascinated by his hair. Gwyn watched as another fluttered against his cheek. He blew a puff of air at it, sending it scurrying away.

He settled against the chair, the runes covering the knife at his thigh glinted in the glowing light. She had no fireplace. The room was lit with what he would describe as a dangerous amount of candles.

Glancing around as if noticing the state of the room for the first time, Gwyn’s blush darkened further.

“I’ll have you know,” she told him pointedly, “I happen to know exactly where everything is.”

She dropped to the thick rug that covered nearly the entire floor and leaned back on her hands. Azriel peeked at the papers on her desk. She was pretending to ignore his curiosity, busying herself with the way her robes lay across her legs. Yet Azriel didn’t miss the way she nervously bit her lip or the way her heart raced.

“So, show me what you’ve learned so far.”

“Yes, ok.” She answered, picking at the invisible thread on her robes. “Could you hand me that notebook behind you?”

“Sure.”

“Not that one. It’s the red-“

“This?”

“That’s the one.”

He passed the book to her outstretched hand. Pulling her legs beneath her, she thumbed through the pages, her thoughts wandering about the room like lingering ghosts. Before her, Azriel sat studying her features, a dark imposing shadow impossible to ignore.

“Illyrians,” Gwyn began, “have lots of secrets.”

“Yes. That’s the point of this is it not,” Azriel deadpanned.

“Listen,” Gwyn huffed, sitting up straight. Her gaze was sharp, challenging, and Azriel wondered if anyone had every looked at him in such a way.

“Gwyn, I’m-“

“Let me finish.” The command in her tone had Azriel’s shadows snapping to attention. There was no fear tightening her expression. Her chest rose and fell quickly - the only other sign of her agitation. “If you have something to say about this situation, just spit it out. Otherwise, let me explain, which, by the way, you asked me to do.”

“All right, priestess,” Azriel spoke calmly, wary of the crackling power that danced under her skin. His shadows curled against him, warning him of her rising ire, not that it hadn’t been obvious in the way her eyes flashed at his condescending tone. “Tell me about the coded letters.”

The fiery expression she’d garnished faded. With trembling hands she picked up her book and began reading to him various bits of interest she’d discovered during her research.

Azriel was content listening to her. The rise and fall of her voice was smooth as the Sidra. Even her eyes sparkled like water.

In comparison to Rhys, Gwyn was an open book. There was no need to study, examine. She moved with purpose, inflection, sincerity. Even the way her hands clutched at her book as if it were some precious thing worth protecting. Azriel found, for the first time in a very long time, he felt at ease.

His shadows played along her desk. Even so bold as to venture down the rug to where she sat, like attentive children at reading time. Azriel pondered their curiosity. It was if they enjoyed her voice, her presence… He found it utterly baffling.

As Gwyn spoke they whispered to him; wondering at her trembling hands or the way she kept biting her lip. The former was ever present, at least when he was around. Her hands shook during their first few sparring matches after he’d agreed to train her.

Did he make the priestess nervous? Perhaps he should have met her somewhere more public.

“Are you listening,” her voice was shy, soft, as if she were worried about startling him.

“Sorry,” Azriel shook himself. “I am. Just a bit tired.”

Her summer eyes narrowed at his lie but she said nothing of it. Gwyn had so disarmingly accused him of finding her transparent that he worried maybe she saw through him just as easily.

“Oh, I have to show this to you!” Her exclamation sent a wave through his shadows, some jumping into the air - not startled… excited.

Azriel watched as she plucked a piece of paper from her desk, having pushed up from the rug so fast it had rendered him still. As she brushed past him to reach, the smell of rose and amber washed over him. Feminine. Sweet.

“Ok,” Gwyn stood before him, hands held out to him in offering. “Hear me out.”

Her mouth quirked, curling at one end into an appeasing smile. Azriel nodded, gesturing for her to continue. A creeping blush spread across her cheeks as a returning smile graced his lips. He found himself so engrossed that he hadn’t the wherewithal to consciously remove it.

[darklordofcutlets]

Beyond the Time manga

So! The Nanai manga.

It is short (only 2 volumes with rather short chapters), but it is... good. Really, really good! In the beginning I had my doubts, because the first volume was kinda slow and not very engaging, with a lot of familiar cliches and weird spiritual things. But then the second volume hit, and it all made sense. Why we are following a mysterious figure through Nanai’s memories. Why the scenes we visit matter. All of it comes together, and the ending is beautiful. And sad. This manga actually made me cry in the end.

Spoilers ahead (duh), so if you want to actually experience the story as it unfolds, you might want to read the manga itself, it is totally worth it.

(Also, kudos to the anonymous translator, who put it out just because they wanted to share it with the world and does not mind their work being copied or re-shared. As a person who grew up in the wild west times of the Eastern European Internet, I salute you!)

So, first of all - Nanai was a Newtype research subject herself and saw what happened in the labs. Which shows the fact that she became a director of Newtype research labs in a different light.

And now I finally know where all those fanarts of Char with his hair dyed black come from!

But his disguise, as always, is not very effective...

But jokes aside, I like the scenes of Char spending his time in the poor areas of Sweetwater. People know him, and he speaks of them as of his family. The train scene in the CCA movie becomes even more striking this way: we learn that people of Sweetwater love Char not only because of propaganda, but also because they literally know him and see him as one of them.

The topic of children is raised again through Nanai’s pregnant colleague, but here it is done in a much better way than in Beltorchika’s Children:

Here, it makes sense. If you have a child, your greatest wish is to see them live happy and safe (let’s not talk about bad parents like Zeon Deikun or Tem Ray). Wars for ideals suddenly become more of a disaster than a rightful cause.

And once again, Nanai suspects that Char plans to die in his last battle with Amuro. She calls him a person who speaks of the future while clinging to the past, and this is very right. Char, in a way, has no right to talk about the future, because he has no stakes in it. Everything he loves and cherishes belongs to the past. Which corresponds to the line from Beltorchika’s Children, where Amuro or Beltorchika (I don’t quite remember) says that Char has no children and therefore has nothing to fight for. Here we can take the word “children” metaphorically.

Ooh, symbolism!

By binding herself to Char, Nanai bound herself to the underworld.

That awkward moment when your lover calls another woman’s name and another man’s name in his sleep:

You should dump him, Nanai.

But back to the topic of children, Nanai directly calls the psyco-frame her child here. And Char was the one who saved her reserach from being shut down, so Nanai sees it as their child.

And then... Char gives her child away.

He just takes it and hands it over to Amuro, like it is nothing. Nanai’s baby, one that she built to keep Char safe, is given to Amuro, who will use it to kill Char. Nanai’s reaction when she realizes it is heartbreaking.

She asks him to stop piloting mobile suits after the operation, and to return to her safely. He promises, but we all know what Char’s promises are worth. Nanai fell in love with a man who only has eyes for the past.

She has a dialogue with Quess in one of the mystical sequences, which only highlights it.

But in the end, it was Nanai’s child that created a miracle and saved the Earth from destruction.

Not a human child, not someone she carried in her womb, but a child of her mind and passion - the psyco-frame. It was the psyco-frame that connected the minds and wishes of people of the Earth sphere and stopped Axis from falling.

Nanai falling in love with Char was a tragedy, but it is the child of this love that saved everyone. And, as one of Nanai’s lost comrades says -

It is a very bittersweet ending. I loved it.

[jokertrap-ran]

时空中的绘旅人—For All Time—) EVENT! 「书中童话：魔女的冒险」 Fairy-tale within the Book: The Adventures of the Witch Translations (Alkaid’s Route)

夜莺与玫瑰 — The Nightingale and the Rose Chapter 2: The Nightingale and the Rose

"He said that he’d use his Heart’s-blood; to make a Red Rose for me.”

*For All Time Master-list | Alkaid’s Personal Master-list *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut!

All that could be heard in the quiet garden was the flapping of Bajyu's wings, and the footsteps of Alkaid and I as we both walked upon the cobblestone pathway.

I scrutinized Alkaid’s back profile. There’s a very high possibility that he’d have the same appearance and personality as the Alkaid in my mind’s eye, since he was also projected into this world through my consciousness.

I shook my head, kneeling down to touch the roses in the garden.

MC: I still can’t see what the treasure really is, for now. But I think these roses here are a little odd.

In the darkness of the night, these roses may simply appear to be ordinary yellow ones; but upon closer inspection, one’ll find that their hue’s closer to gold than yellow, and that they’re also rather hard to the touch.

MC: Say, all these roses down here aren’t really made of gold, right?

I’d originally intended for it to come out as a serious question, but my tone might have been a little misplaced, for Bajyu shot me a rather exasperated look.

MC: I’m just asking! Just asking!

I'd also originally wanted to back my question up with an additional sentence or two: I just found them odd; no other intentions. Alkaid, who was up ahead, had also come to a halt.

He turned back around, a smile playing at his lips, and his eyes full of smiles. He was bright, that's for sure; but not scorching in the slightest.

Alkaid: I can give it to you if you like roses. Although they’re not made out of gold, I think they can still bring happiness to you in kind.

A small part of my heart was gently moved after listening to his words. Alkaid always never fails to treat me with such kindness and gentleness.

The question had already left my lips before I realized. Perhaps this might have been something that was bugging me deep down all this while; and thus, taking this chance to make itself known, the cat was finally out of the bag.

MC: Alkaid? Why are you so nice to me?

He looked down at me, looking as if he was seriously contemplating my question.

Deep within the gardens, the golden roses that filled the place were still absolutely dazzling despite being shrouded in the darkness of the night. The plants and fauna were bathed in moonlight; a breeze blew past, making the trees rustle as they shook.

I was very close to Alkaid. All I had to do was raise my head to be able to see the length of his slender neck and his prominent Adam's apple.

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down a little, as if he were about to speak; only for the little nightingales that had fainted within his arms to suddenly regain consciousness from the breeze that rustled through the garden.

They struggled to escape the confines of his arms, each flying off to either the vast expanse of the sky, or the safe canopy of trees; but there were also two or three who rounded back, only to attack us again.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Alkaid reacted speedily, snow white feathers flying from his hands. Elegant, but also effective in helping me stop the nightingales' attack anew.

Alkaid: I really do apologize for their disturbance again.

He apologized to me once more, gently caressing the fragile bodies of the nightingales.

Alkaid: The influence they suffer from the abnormal fluctuations has only been digging its claws into them deeper and deeper. Unfortunately, I can only stop them with my current abilities, and cannot restore them back to their original state.

Alkaid turned to me as he spoke. His eyes were the very same ones that I was familiar with. The light of the stars and moon were reflected in his eyes, but they weren't as kind and gentle as the original Alkaid's.

Alkaid: Perhaps it is only after you successfully solve everything, Miss Witch; that they'll have a chance to return back to normal, free to sing among the tree branches again.

Looking into his eyes, I attempted to instil confidence in my words.

MC: You can leave it to me, Alkaid!

Alkaid: Please don't be afraid to tell me at once if there's anything I can do to help.

Saying so, he placed those few nightingales back into a nest that had been laid out with soft cloth. His palms emitted a bright white light, faintly enveloping the nightingales within it's glow.

MC: I want to ask you something. Is there not a single stalk of red roses in this garden?

Coming to this garden filled with gold roses and seeing the nightingales here who'd fallen under the influence of the abnormal fluctuations, made me recall the one fairy-tale I'd read back as a kid. "The Nightingale and the Rose", written by Wilde.

I was most certainly sure that that was the fairy-tale that corresponded with this entire thing. Therefore, if that's how it really is, then the rose, dyed red with the Nightingale's heart's-blood, might very well be one of the five key treasures.

Alkaid: Sorry, but my garden does not bear red roses.

He looked at me, pondering for a while before his lips curled into that of a smile.

Alkaid: But I can use my heart's-blood to dye a rose red for your sake, if that is what you wish.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥The Adventures of the Witch✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Previous Part: (Alkaid Chapter 1) | Next Part: (Alkaid Chapter 3)

[osakaso5]

Halloween Event Story

~Fluffy Blast Racing~ Chapter 4: A Transformation

Chapter Index

Minami: ...I see. So they followed you here without your knowledge.

Haruka: Aren't these the things you were just talking about, Minami..!?

Torao: What do you mean?

Haruka: Minami said you and Toma would find something today.

Toma: Seriously..? I didn't know his fortunes had gotten that accurate...

Minami: Hee hee, though there was no way I could've predicted how cute they'd be.

Haruka: I've never seen these things before. What are they?

Minami: ...They may well be the extraterrestrial lifeforms Nagi told me about...

Toma: Extraterrestrial...? So, aliens?

Minami: I don't know for certain, but my heat sensor reacts to them, meaning they should be similar to certain types of animals...

Torao: Hey. Where did you guys come from?

???: Tora... torara...

Torao: Ah, I forgot you can't speak our language.

Toma: ...Hey, Minami! Can't you make some kinda translator thingy for us?

Toma: It feels like these furballs could really use our help with something.

Haruka: ...Ah..! Minami, the mat..!

Minami: Right. We should give that a try.

Toma: You already have something!?

Minami: Just a prototype I based on a translator Momo made, but it might do the trick...

Haruka: It's called Peep Mat, and it's supposed to tell you how inanimate objects feel...

Torao: Hmm... so it's for peeping into their thoughts.

Toma: P-peeping..? That sounds kinda weird, what were you planning to use it for..?

Haruka: Oh yeah, it was super weird.

Minami: Was it, now? Thanks to the mat, you got to know how much Spanny...

Haruka: Aaaaah!

Toma: "Spanny"..?

Haruka: S-Spanny's just the name of a dog that lives in my neighborhood. Don't worry about it.

Torao: ...In any case, let's test out that mat.

Toma: Do we just put these guys on the mat..?

Minami: Yes. Then, you push this switch...

Torao: Alright, get over here.

???: Tora... torara...

Haruka: ...Doesn't that one kinda look like you, Torao?

Torao: Press the switch, Minami.

Minami: Haha, how exciting. 

Click

???: .........

???: Toma... ma...

???: Haa... ha... ple...

???: Mi... lp.. us...

???: Please help us!

All: ........!?

All: Help you..?

- - - -

Minami: I see... So you did come from another planet, like I thought.

Haruka: They're space aliens...

Beige Cotton: Yes, we cottons come from another planet.

Beige Cotton: Do you work for i7 Corporation?

Toma: Nope... We know people from there, but we're only working for the P.G. Garage, racing and fixing up cars...

Green Cotton: Fixing cars?

Brown Cotton: Racing..!?

Toma: Y-yeah. But if you've got business with the Corp, them we can call 'em...

Cottons: .........

Cottons: We have a request for you!

Toma: No need to get all shouty on us... What's up?

Red Cotton: P-pardon us! We come from a planet called Desert Colony.

Red Cotton: It was once the Mecca of car racing, where people from all over would test their skills.

Red Cotton: But then the dusts appeared, taking over our races and making a mess of our circuits...

Beige Cotton: We asked our fellow cottons on another planet for help, and they told us of Earthlings who had helped them...

Torao: And that's how you ended up here.

Cottons: Yes..!

Toma: How did they just take over like that?

Green Cotton: The dusts are violent in nature, and only seek to do bad things.

Brown Cotton: They reproduce quickly, turning streets uninhabitable for anyone but themselves...

Brown Cotton: There was nothing we could do to stop them...

Cottons: Earthlings..! Won't you please help us!?

Minami: The ones who helped your fellow cottons were the people of i7 Corporation, not us.

Beige Cotton: Perhaps so... But you race and repair vehicles for a living, do you not?

Torao: Yeah. We operate a car workshop to fund our racing.

Torao: That way, we get to make our own rides!

Brown Cotton: ...Then you are exactly who we need!

Brown Cotton: We and the dusts are also racers, but we cannot match their skill as we are now...

Brown Cotton: Won't you give us a hand?

Torao: I don't know... How are we supposed to beat those dusts, exactly?

Red Cotton: The dusts have decreed that everyone must obey the winners of the race, so that is all you would need to do.

Minami: But if you're also racers, couldn't you try beating them yourselves?

Brown Cotton: ...To tell you the truth, we do not even have a proper car to race in.

Beige Cotton: The dusts have a monopoly on everything from engines to tires, leaving us unable to build a vehicle that could race...

Minami: ...I see.

Haruka: Then what difference does it make if we go to your planet and try to race there?

Green Cotton: Though the dusts have all the good parts to themselves, there are still less than optimal parts available.

Beige Cotton: We lack the skill to build a suitable vehicle from such parts...

Haruka: ...So you want us to help?

Cottons: Yes..!

Beige Cotton: You have that Earthling's driving techniques, as well as the technical prowess to support his skill.

Beige Cotton: Both are simply incredible, I might add! I believe that you will defeat the dusts!

Minami: Oh my, I do enjoy a good compliment.

Haruka: Hehe, of course our tech's incredible! Minami planned it, and I built it.

Torao: You guys certainly have an eye for races.

Toma: ........

Minami: What's the matter, Toma?

Toma: ...Nothing.

Red Cotton: And we mustn't forget the designs! They are so very cool! Especially these lightning bolts...

Toma: I KNOW, right!?

Haruka: Whoa! Stop yelling!

Minami: Good for you, Toma.

Brown Cotton: I believe you may be even more qualified than the Earthlings we originally came here for..!

Cottons: Please, help save our home!

All: .......!

Toma: Guys, let's help 'em.

Minami: At the risk of sounding callous... We don't even have enough money for our own race, and we can't just leave our work undone...

Haruka: ...He's got a point...

Torao: As much as I'd like to help, we've got our own share of trouble to deal with...

Toma: But guys...

Red Cotton: Worry not! If you win our race, you will receive the prize money!

Red Cotton: And it's quite a sum, since the race will be held between the greatest racers from all over the galaxy!

All: .......!

Toma: In other words, if we win that race for you...

Haruka: We'll get...

Green Cotton: Yes..! And you won't need to share the prize with us, of course.

Toma: N-not even a little?

Minami: We're grateful for the offer, but are you sure?

Brown Cotton: Yes! All we want is to stop the dusts, which we'll be able to do as long as you win!

Torao: I guess that'll solve everything for the both of us, then.

Toma: Awesome! Let's do it!

Toma: Ain't this what you'd call a prize-prize situation!?

Haruka: I think you mean "win-win situation".

Toma: Haha, whatever!

Minami: Now, how do we get on your planet?

Beige Cotton: First, you'll fuse with us, forming a fluff.

All: A fluff..?

Beige Cotton: Yes. Through fusion, we should be able to transport you to our planet.

Haruka: What do you mean by fusion?

Beige Cotton: It'll be faster if we show you! Let us begin.

Torao: Sounds fun. Let's do it.

Toma: Go ahead!

Beige Cotton: Here we go!

Cottons: Fusion!

Haruka: Whoa... What!? T-they got sucked in..!

Minami: They're going inside our bodies...

Toma: ...Is it just me, or do you guys feel warm..?

Torao: Yeah, and now we're glowing, too...

Haruka: Are you sure this is safe!?

All: .......! 

- - - -

All: ........

Toma: H-hey, Haruka... You need to look in a mirror, quick!

Haruka: Huh!? I could say the same to you! You're all fluffy now..!

Torao: H-hey! Don't tell me, we...

Toma: W-we...

Haruka, Toma, & Torao: We turned into fluffs!?

Minami: Hee hee. You all look adorable.

Toma: How are you so calm, Minami!?

Minami: Oh, are you not excited by our mystical transformation?

Toma: I'd rather not find excitement by leaving my body...

Haruka: Was that the fusion..? We're fluffs... Fluffs...

Torao: My body's so round now... And I've got short little arms and legs...

Toma: H-hey! Get a grip, Haruka and Torao!

Minami: What is the science behind a transformation like this, I wonder?

Beige Cotton: <We don't have the time for a detailed explanation now, but this is what you'll look like when fused with us.>

Beige Cotton: <As long as you're fluffs, you should be able to use the warp zone to get to our planet.>

Toma: W-what..!? I can hear a voice talking in my head!

Torao: Hey! Tell me we can still go back to normal! I can't take girls out for dinner looking like this!

Haruka: Are you sure girls are your biggest worry right now?

Torao: Of course, there's so many of them waiting for me.

Toma: At least worry about our race or something, man.

Torao: Just turn me back to normal, now!

Brown Cotton: <Our apologies, but the only way we can dissolve the fusion is with elements from our planet's atmosphere...>

Minami: ...In other words, we'll get back into our human forms if we go to your planet and help solve your problem.

Torao: Should've told us up front.

Brown Cotton: <Apologies, but you did not ask...>

Torao: ........

Red Cotton: <In any case, you are the only ones who can help us!>

Minami: ...I suppose all we need to do is get to their home planet.

Minami: I'm sure space travel will be fun.

Haruka: You just wanna see what it's like...

Minami: What was that, Haruka?

Haruka: Nah, forget it...

Torao: I'll just prepare for the worst...

Minami: So, how do we warp to your planet?

Green Cotton: <From the manhole behind this building!>

Haruka: A manhole? That sounds way simpler than I thought.

Torao: And now we're diving into a manhole... At least it probably won't stink...

Toma: You don't know that!

Minami: This is all so exciting. 

- - - -

Red Cotton: <Over here, Earthlings!>

Toma: Alright, here goes nothing! Let's jump..!

Toma: Waaaah!

Minami: I'm right behind you...

Haruka: Yep..!

Torao: Aah, I'm falling..! 

- - - -

Haruka: ...D-do you guys feel something soft in here..?

Minami: Where are we..?

Toma: Why am I upside down!?

Torao: .......! Hey, I see something!

All: Waaaaah! 

To be continued...

Translator’s notes..? 

all of the cottons are technically only referred to as “cotton”, but I added their corresponding colors to their names to make it easier to know who’s talking

[official-weasley]

The Irreplaceable Charlie Weasley: Pt. 4, Ch. 1

PART 4: THE YEAR WHEN EVERYONE HAS A CRUSH Chapter 1 - Not-so-Muggle Charlie

Charlie

When Penny invited us to her house for the Summer and Nova received the letter from her aunt saying I could tag along, I thought this was going to be the best Summer ever. I don't recall the last time I didn't spend it at the Burrow and I was wondering who was taking care of my younger siblings as Bill was in Egypt and I was as far away from whatever Fred and George had in store this Summer as I could possibly be.

Going to Scotland with Nova was one of the best things that have ever happened to me. Not only did we finally have the opportunity to spend time with each other without worrying about homework or exams but like Nova did two years in a row, I witnessed a birth of an Abraxan now too!

She was right when she said that there was a lot of blood and to be perfectly honest as much as I enjoyed being a part of it, I don't think I ever want to see that again. The baby Abraxan was a boy and to make things even more exciting for me, Nova's aunt let me name him.

I think Nova was not as surprised as her aunt was when I named the Abraxan Dragon. She simply laughed it off and said that she had a hunch I might pick a name like that. Her aunt, on the other hand, couldn't wrap her head around why would I name a creature after another creature.

They also introduced me to Angel, who was now fully grown and showed just how much he missed Nova as he bowed to her immediately, wanting to give her a ride. It took me several weeks to achieve the level of trust she had with him and after swearing to her aunt that we will not tell our parents about it, did I get the green light to train him for our first flight.

I know it wouldn't be a complete dream come true as I always dreamt of how it would be like if I flew on a Dragon but I decided to close my eyes while flying and imagine I was doing it anyway. At least I was flying.

As much fun as Scotland was for me, I couldn't say the same for Nova. She was having fun and she was just as happy to spend more time with me as I was, but in the middle of our stay, she got a letter from her dad, saying that they found a new ancient tomb and due to the amount of work and taking care of his interns, he won't be able to see her at all this Summer.

To make matters worse, her mum couldn't get as much time off as she expected she would so they couldn't make arrangements to go and see her dad and Bill in Egypt. I decided to send an owl to my brother, asking him if he could report as much back to me as possible so that Nova would know her dad was alright and I also asked him if he could send us pictures so that Nova would at least get to see her dad that way.

Bill, of course, was having the time of his life. At first, he thought that the internship would be dull, some assistant work for the Curse Breakers, no action and adventure. But just after the first letter he sent home, we found out just how wrong he was. Apparently, Nova's dad was not joking around. After a brief introduction, he took them straight into a tomb and started showing them how they study and translate runes, a proper way to handle any sort of bottles found inside, and what to do in case things go wrong. He was ecstatic and I had a feeling Nova won't stop hearing 'thank you' from him all year round when we return to school.

—

My Summer changed drastically when the time to go to Penny's finally arrived. Their home was rather big but really confusing. It was as if it was a wizard's house but they tried to hide all things magical. They had something called a telly, which along with sound produced moving images, and every night after dinner we all sat in front of it and watched a movement, or something like that, I forgot the name.

We only had a Wireless at home and that was mostly so mum could listen to the news while she was cooking or knitting and for her to listen to her favorite singer Celestina Warbeck to which she sometimes made us dance along with her and sing the chorus of her favorite song, which of course we knew by heart but liked to pretend we didn't as none of us were rather good at singing.

It was normal that with all Nova, Penny, and I had to do around the house, we had to do it without magic as we weren't of age yet, but I couldn't understand why her mother was doing the same. Cooking using spatulas, using a sponge to clean the dishes. She liked to make things harder on herself.

Penny told us it was all because of her dad and I couldn't understand why because he was the most understanding Muggle I have ever got a chance to meet, not that I've met many. He didn't mind when we were telling Penny about Abraxans our first-night having dinner and he even asked me which Dragons am I the most excited to work with when I become a Dragonologist. He didn't seem to mind when Penny's sister broke a vase and their mum used a Repairing Charm on it.

Penny later explained that they were using as little magic as possible to be considerate to her dad's culture. As if I wasn't confused enough, my dad was bugging me, sending me letters every other day asking what new things I have learned about the Muggle world and wrote at least 3 questions each time for me to ask Mr. Haywood.

I didn't want to disturb him so much every single day and I found it rude to ask so many questions even though he didn't seem to mind, so Nova volunteered to help me and write back to my dad here and there.

To make me even more uncomfortable was Penny's little sister Beatrice, who was 10 years old. She was nice and I liked that she wanted me to read to her from my Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland book until Penny told me that she wasn't interested in Dragons at all and the only reason she wanted me to read to her was that she had a crush on me!

She sat next to me at breakfast, lunch, and dinner and stared at me when we were watching telly in the evenings. It was quite unsettling and I didn't know what to do as I didn't want to make her sad or something. Nova and Penny, on the other hand, found it highly amusing and were mocking me and making kissy faces every time Beatrice wasn't looking.

And what's even worst is that I didn't mind Penny joking as much as I mind that Nova did. She, out of all people, should know that I don't have time for stuff like that and that I want to focus on my studies as much as I can to get my dream job. And besides, the girl's 10 for Merlin's sake! I don't even feel old enough to have a crush, though mum did tell me once that girls develop faster than boys regarding these things but what do I know.

I am 14 and way too busy to think of that sort of stuff and to top it all off I was starting to behave rather strangely around Nova. I don't know if it was due to the fact that we were spending so much time together but every morning when she came down for breakfast, I felt this sudden rush of excitement in my stomach, and every time she laughed or giggled it made my heart beat faster.

It was getting annoying and I was on the verge of writing to my mum to take me to St Mungo's to do a check-up but I changed my mind as I didn't want to worry her and I was sure that it would get better once we return to school. It was probably just because I was in a different environment and Penny kept giggling at me every time she caught me blush, it had to be that!

Penny started acting strange one morning upon receiving a letter she didn't want to show to either me or Nova. It looked like she was up to something or that she was corresponding with someone. I have noticed on more than one occasion that she was scribbling something, blushing while doing so and every time their family owl brought her a letter, she squealed and rushed to her bedroom to open it.

Nova reckoned she fancied someone and if I knew more about these types of matters I would say she was right. One day when Penny was still sleeping, Nova and I made a plan to intercept her letter to see what was going on but when the owl came and we grabbed her before she could reach Penny and took the letter, we were disappointed when we saw that Tonks was writing to tell that she will be joining us the next day.

Penny, as clever as she was, knew exactly what we were trying to do and was mad at us all day. When Tonks finally arrived the next morning, her parents delaying her visit making her tag along to see some relatives down South, Penny decided to forgive and forget what we did the day prior.

I was relieved when Tonks was just as weirded out about how the Haywoods were running things. She was so nervous when she saw Mrs. Haywood washing the dishes without the use of magic that she almost broke Decree for Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery to do them for her. I was also happy to see that she would rather play a game of Gobstones outside than watch the telly as she said that the people in the box looked rather unnatural to her.

Having Tonks around made me feel better about my heart racing as well, which only confirmed my assumptions that this was all happening because I was spending so much time in a place where I have never been before.

The night before we were supposed to leave to Platform 9 ¾, rather sad that we didn't get to go to Diagon Alley this year as Penny's mum and my mum decided to do the shopping for us, Penny thought it was a good idea if her, Nova, Tonks and I made dinner for the entire family.

At first, we found it exciting, but when Penny brought out a book with Muggle recipes that didn't make any sense at all, even Nova couldn't hide her confusion and tried to avoid doing it.

“You are doing it all wrong.” Chuckled Penny when Tonks was trying to cut the garlic but her method was not called dicing.

Nova wasn't doing that great either as she took the whole 10 minutes to figure out how to turn on the stove using something called a lighter since to both of our shock, they didn't have matches at home.

I burned the onions because apparently, Medium was standing for how strong the fire should be rather than how cooked the onions have to be. Tonks made the mistake to leave a plastic spatula in the boiling water, as she was used to that not causing any problems to the spatulas they had at home, the plastic melted in the water ruining the spaghetti along with it.

In the end, Penny called someone on a bulky looking thing that talked back to you and it fascinated my dad so much I had to send him a picture of it, and 20 minutes later the doorbell rang and a man was standing in front of the Haywood house with 4 pizzas in his hand. Now that was magic if I ever saw some in their house!

The next morning I heard a couple of familiar voices in the kitchen. I rushed down to find my dad talking to Mr. Haywood not finding it rude to ask him everything he could possibly tell him about airplanes. My mum stood up at once when she saw me and gave me a tight hug.

“Charlie, dear I have missed you so much!” She ran her fingers through my hair, narrowing her eyes as I could already see she would want to cut it before I leave for school. I was happy that she wouldn't have the time to do so.

You see, I didn't want to admit it, especially not to Bill, but I was trying to grow out my hair so that it would look as cool as his. He looked so amazing with his hair and now that I was 15 I wanted to do something to hide my freckled face. Something Nova couldn't agree with me upon as she thought the freckles were what made me so cute and I couldn't make the creatures in my stomach settle down when she said that.

“How was your Summer, dear?” My mum woke me up from my daydreaming.

“It was nice, mum. Had a lot of fun with Nova at her aunt's.” I grinned.

“I bet you did.” She winked at me, her fingers still in my hair.

I hated when she did that. Even if I wanted to talk to her about Nova, I couldn't as she was always giggling or winking at me for Merlin knows what reason! One time Nova saw her doing it and she later told me that her mum was doing the exact same thing to her. She told me to try and ignore it, roll my eyes as much as I could, or simply distract her by asking a question on another topic. I was grateful for her advice as it worked 90% of the time.

“Anyways...” I started to say as I rolled my eyes. “I had fun here too. We watched movements every night on the telly. You know the box I told dad about in one of my letters.” Mum nodded.

“And yesterday we attempted to make our very own Muggle dinner,” my dad turned to me at once, listening, “but failed as we didn't follow the instructions properly and had to order pizza.” I ignored my dad's sparkly eyes. He eventually turned his head back and started talking to Mr. Haywood again.

Nova came down the stairs, making me sit upright, my cheeks bright red, something my mum noticed as she brushed my cheek and mumbled something about how I'm finally growing up. What is that even supposed to mean?

She pulled Nova into a tight hug and started telling her about all the things her mum told her to get for her in Diagon Alley, while Nova nodded.

Much to my displeasure, Beatrice appeared, what seemed out of nowhere, on the seat next to me, put her arm on the table, placed her head on it, and started staring at me. I heard my mum giggle as apparently, she knew immediately what was going on, which made me even more uncomfortable.

“Look Nova, you got yourself a little competition.” My mum nudged her, Nova as oblivious as I was to what that meant.

After breakfast, we said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Haywood, as my parents took the 4 of us to the station. Bill was already waiting for us there, looking rather disappointed that he had to return to school upon having such an amazing Summer already having his dream job. It was also my younger brother Percy's First Year.

Mum told us to keep an eye on him but we already knew that it won't be necessary as he acts like a Prefect at home already. Perce does love the rules and Bill and I have wondered many times who did he get that from. We all know that mum and dad weren't exactly angels at school either.

While we were waiting for students to board the train, Bill hugged Nova twice, making my stomach turn, and thanking her for what seemed like the millionth time this Summer, he then started to tell us about what he has been doing with Nova's dad.

He told us that they visited more than 4 tombs and that they only had a brief introduction before going straight to work. Bill was really proud when he said that 2 mates left as they couldn't handle fighting a Mummy, which one of the runes in their first tomb awoke. He, of course, took it rather well and he was confident to say that he was Mr. Blackwood's best student. He was also proud to announce that he will stop worrying about his grades so much as he found out he is perfectly qualified and will probably get the job as long as he continues with the grades he has now.

Mum was especially proud of him, not only how well he did on his internship, as apparently Mr. Blackwood sent a letter to my parents saying how well they've raised their son, but also because of Bill's O.W.L.s results. Nova and I couldn't help but chuckle when we found out about his results, knowing full well that he overreacted big time when he had a breakdown last year as he achieved:

O in Ancient Runes

O in Arithmancy

E in Astronomy

O in Care of Magical Creatures (even I was proud of him for that one)

O in Charms

O in Defense Against the Dark Arts

E in Divination

E in Herbology

A in History of Magic

O in Muggle Studies (this made my dad tear up, that's how proud he was of his son)

O in Potions

O in Transfiguration

What he was so worried about still baffled both me and Nova as even Percy was proud of Bill and that was probably the first time he ever said anything positive about any of his family members.

We then said goodbye to my parents and Penny, Nova, Tonks, and I started to search for Tulip while Bill went to his Prefect's meeting. Tulip was sitting in a compartment on her own, telling something to Dennis.

I have never seen her face lit up like that before when she saw us. She couldn't make it to Penny's to join our disastrous cooking so she wanted to know all about our Summer. We told her everything, including how Beatrice is planning to marry me which gave her quite a laugh. I, on the other hand, didn't understand why that needed to be mentioned at all. Afterward, we started discussing our Fourth Year. I couldn't help but drift away in midst of the conversation, just when Tulip said she heard that Zonko's has a new variety of Fanged Frisbee's, to think about Nova and just how much fun we were going to have in this year's Care of Magical Creatures.

[rokutouxei]

you are still the sun that shines for me

part 8 of atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc | G | 1930 | [ao3 in bio]

Life couldn’t get any better. You enjoy what you do here, spending your life without regrets with the person you love the most. That is, until you meet her. The woman who still loves Theo.

CHAPTER 5 [END]

The universe has a funny way with coincidences; so of course, when Johanna van Gogh-Bonger asks to meet up with you in Paris, she asks that the both of you meet at none other than Theo’s favorite café, the one near your favorite atelier, the one with the familiar waitress who doesn’t blink when Theo asks for a syrup-drowned set of pancakes.

And while you’d taken so long to finally tell him about it, it still felt right to extend the invitation to Theo. To offer to let him join the both of you for afternoon tea. He had hesitated for a moment, but then finally agreed to coming along.

That is, until you were right outside the café, and he suddenly says: “Go alone.”

You turn to him confused. “What?”

“I’ve seen her. There’s someone else I have to meet.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but upon following his gaze across the street, everything clicks into place. You take in the expression he’s making, before smiling and punching him lightly on the chest.

“Make a good impression,” you say.

He raises his eyebrow, but smirks anyway. “Would you expect anything less from me?”

You laugh at him, and then enter the café alone.

-

The bells on the doorway ring lightly when you come in: it announces your presence to the guests inside. Johanna sits a little ways in, next to the window; the low, late afternoon sun casting gold light over her features as she nurses a cup of tea in her hands. She has a small bundle of papers in front of her on the table, next to a half-eaten slice of cream cake.

Your mind, your traitorous mind, falters for just a moment. You think of her small face, think of the neat way she’s put up her hair, the delicateness of the loose fringe framing her eyes, dream of Theo from an entire life away. But you press your hand to your chest and know you are better than any of this weird bubbling in your chest. If anything: you’re lucky to have even met her as well.

You tidy your clothes, fumbling, for a moment, buying time to build your courage up, before finally walking towards her.

“Madame Johanna,” you greet. “Good afternoon. Alone in Paris?”

“Oh, bonjour,” the woman replies, offering you the seat across from her. “My son is outside, peering at shop windows. I’m so terribly sorry to have called you out today.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s okay. It’s nice to see you again.” And that isn’t a lie, either.

“And you? Is Sir Theodore not with you?”

The syllables of Theo slip out from her mouth like something holy. It makes you feel warm. “He’s a little busy, if you don’t mind, he’s—” you look outside the window seeing if you can catch a glimpse of two pairs of sea-blue eyes, “—rather invested in what he’s doing, right now.”

-

And because the universe has a funny way with coincidences, the little boy is standing outside of Vollard’s small gallery, peering through the glass windows to see what’s hanging inside. Theo doesn’t need to peer in to know; probably some reproductions of old classical artworks, some newer paintings of artists who still paint in that classical style, and maybe even Vollard, sitting at the desk on the back waiting for customers and making sure to guard his second floor treasure from members of the Académie.

“Why don’t you go inside?” Theo asks, once he’s within hearing distance. The boy panics for a moment, turning to face him with fright in his eyes.

Then recognition. “Aren’t you the man from the exhibit?”

Well. He’s glad the boy’s at least gotten his sharp eyes—maybe the one thing he wouldn’t regret passing on to a child. “Theodore van Gogh, yes. And you, little sir?”

Theo already knows but he wants to hear it anyway. “Vincent Willem van Gogh,” the boy says, his syllables slinking back to the sharp edges of his native Dutch. He clears his throat. “Yes, I’m related to the painter.”

“An interesting man, to say the least,” Theo says. “Although hardly known. Do many people ask you that question?”

The boy shrugs. “A little. Mama says he’s more known here in Paris than back home. But she says soon he’ll be known there too. And everywhere.”

“Is that so?” Something in Theo’s heart soars. He leans his back against the glass window and turns to the boy, still curiously peering inside. He wonders how many questions he can ask before the boy gets tired of him. “Are you an artist, too?”

The boy makes a face so hideously disapproving it pulls a laugh right out of Theo. “I don’t think I’m meant for it.”

“Oh?” Theo recalls this very same pang from youth.

“I want to accompany Mama, for a while,” the boy says, deep in thought. “She says my father and my uncle was always away, because of art. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I want to be someone that stays, for now.”

Theo feels the weight of worry disappear.

-

“…And so we’re planning to sell some paintings away,” Johanna explains. “The both of them always dreamt of having exhibits of their own, of bringing the paintings out for the world to see—and, to be quite honest, parting with the paintings are hard, but I know it’s what I need to do.”

You nod. In between bites of cake and sips of tea, you and Jo have been discussing about future pathways of art; her, detailing her plans on what’s to be done with “the van Gogh legacy”, going in detail about Vincent’s paintings to you while you pretend not to know exactly what she’s talking about; and you, giving some pointers on art and the politics involved in displaying them for the world to see. To hear from her the plans she’s laid out for Vincent’s past works and continuing what Theo never got to finish in that life of his makes you feel relieved in ways you couldn’t have imagined.

“But the paintings aren’t the only things I have to wrestle with right now,” she continues. “There are also the letters.”

You blink. “Letters?”

“My husband and Vincent had quite the correspondence when they were still alive,” she says. “Letters sent back and forth, with money enclosed, sketches, notes and requests… Theo has always been an avid letter writer—he wrote many to me—but it was different with Vincent.”

Careful of the tenses, you answer, “They were really close, weren’t they?”

“Yes, and that’s what made their partnership so good,” she answers. “The letters hold many secrets about the way they thought—the way they saw the world. I think that keeping aside these letters as a sort of family heirloom will do little for them, compared to preparing these for the world to see.”

“You will publish them?’

“They will need to be translated, first,” she says, “they’re written in Dutch, French, I am currently going through them and choosing which ones might hold the most importance.”

She slides the small bundle of papers towards you gently, offering them.

“And these are for you, mademoiselle.”

You lift them up carefully to inspect; letters, all in the same script, perhaps having copied by hand by Johanna herself, kept together by twine. You bite the inside of your cheek quietly, head running quick with the ethics of privacy—it was one thing for a surviving relative to publish letters, but what of you and second lives and vampire housemates? Instead, you settle with asking: “But why?”, a question you were really not prepared to hear the answer to.

But Johanna—she gives all that she can give for the things she loves. Just like Theo. So she answers you.

“Because,” she says, so surely, “I know you will be out here, watching over the same art they’ve long wanted the world to see as well. You’ll be able to hold their sentiments–to guard their heart. To protect the seedling of the art they’ve planted and nourished.”

-

Across the café, a young boy and an older man stand outside the doorway. They’ve just come from a little peek inside of the first floor of Vollard’s gallery, talking about art and the future. The boy says he’s interested in mechanics. Theo says it’s also a kind of art. And now, the boy has his hand on the doorknob, about to enter, when Theo calls him back.

“Oi, jongetje.”

The young boy looks up at Theo, blinking out the confusion at the familiar Dutch after a moment to throw a withering half-glare. An expression that would be familiar to Theo had he looked at himself in the mirror more often when he’s arguing with Arthur. The boy’s deep sea-blue eyes reflect like a mirror right back at the older man.

Perhaps the diminutive was unnecessary, as he was in no way little anymore, indeed–standing about Theo’s shoulder height, the little Vincent he’d seen what felt like a million years ago in that gallery doesn’t seem like the same boy that is in front of him.

No, Theo doesn’t just see the child he left behind.

He sees the future.

Jo really raised their son well.

Theo says his parting words, the only thing he really wanted to tell his son:

“Follow your dreams, boy, but don’t go around leaving your mama alone. She might get lonely.”

The boy raises a curious eyebrow, but then grins like he knows the world is out there waiting for him.

“Je sais. That’s what papa would want me to do.”

-

You stand outside the café, waving a hand gently as Johanna and her little Vincent get up on the carriage, heading off. When she bows her head at you in thanks, you can feel all the layers of meaning in it, and it leaves you breathless. In your mind, watching the carriage leave you behind, you pray for a long, fruitful, happy life for the both of them.

It is only when the carriage is sufficiently out of sight that Theo finally comes out of where he’s been, behind the other wall of the café, out of sight. He stands next to you, looking out at the streets.

You turn to him curiously. “You sure about not wanting to talk to her?”

“I didn’t think I had anything left to say,” he answers, and you know by the way his voice sounds that the feeling is still pretty raw, even after you’ve talked about it, even if months have passed. “Besides, she’s in good hands.”

You smile. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing he didn’t already know,” Theo smirks. He holds out his hand to you, and you take it; he lifts it to press a kiss on your knuckles gently, like one would do a saint.

And he doesn’t say it, but you hear it.

The thank you.

The you have always been here for me, and I appreciate it.

The I’m sorry.

The I will do better, I promise.

The stay with me.

And you want to tell him yes, yes, yes, of course, so you squeeze his hand as the both of you head back home.

To build your memories with Theo. Your love. Something that'll grow and blossom and be, the same he had done before.

And somewhere, in Vétheuil, where Monet dreamed of the end of winter, the snow is melting, and spring is coming.

---

and it’s done!!! thank you so much for reading and getting this far! 💖 i have a more detailed post-fic a/n on ao3!

[montagnarde1793]

Ribbons of Scarlet: A predictably terrible novel on the French Revolution (part 1)

Parts 2, 3, 4 and 5.

Q: Why is this post in English? Isn’t this blog usually in French?

 A: Yes, but I can’t bypass the chance, however small, that someone in the book’s target audience might see and benefit from what I’m about to say.

 Q: Why did you even read this book? Don’t you usually avoid bad French Revolution media?

 A: My aunt left the book with me when she came for my defense last November. I could already tell it would be pretty awful and might not have read it except that I needed something that didn’t require too much concentration at the height of the Covid haze and I — like most people who insisted on finishing their doctorate despite the abysmal academic job market — have a problem with the sunk cost fallacy, so once I got started I figured I might as well find out just how bad it got.

 Q: Don’t you have papers to grade?

 A: … Next question.

 Q: Aren’t you stepping out of your lane as an historian by reviewing historical fiction? You understand that it wasn’t intended for you, right?

 A: First of all, this is my blog, such as it is, and I do what I want. Even to the point of self-indulgence. Why else have a blog? Also, I did receive encouragement. XD;

 Second, while a lot of historians I respect consider that anything goes as long as it’s fiction and some even seem to think it’s beneath their dignity to acknowledge its existence, given the influence fiction has on people’s worldview I think they’re mistaken. Besides, this is the internet and no one here has any dignity to lose.

 Finally, this is not so much a review in the classic sense as a case study and a critical analysis of what went wrong here that a specialist is uniquely qualified to make, not because historians are the target audience, but because the target audience might get the impression that it’s not very good without being able to articulate why. To quote an old Lindsay Ellis video, “It’s not bad because it’s wrong, it’s bad because it sucks. But it sucks because it’s wrong.” Or, if you prefer, relying on lazy clichés and adopting or embellishing every lurid anecdote you come across is bound to come across as artificial, amateurish and unconvincing.

 This is especially offensive when you make grandiose claims about your novel’s feminist message and the “time and care” you supposedly put into your research.

 I also admit to having something of a morbid fascination with liberals creating reactionary media without realizing it, which this is also a textbook example of (if someone were to write a textbook on the subject, which they probably should).

 With that out of the way, what even is this book?

 The Basics

 It’s a collaboration between six historical novelists attempting to recount the French Revolution from the point of view of seven of its female participants. One of these novelists is in fact an historian herself, which is a little bit distressing, given that like her co-authors, she seems to consider people like G. Lenotre reliable sources. But then, she’s an Americanist and I’ve seen Americanists publish all kinds of laughable things about the French Revolution in actual serious works of non-fiction without getting called out because their work is only ever reviewed by other Americanists. So.

 Anyway, if you’re familiar with Marge Piercy’s (far superior, though not without its flaws) City of Darkness, City of Light, you might think, “ok, so it’s that with more women.” And you might think that that’s not so bad of an idea; Marge Piercy maybe didn’t go all the way with her feminist concept by making half the point of view characters men (though I’d argue that the way she frames how they view women was part of the point). It’s even conceivable that if Piercy had wanted to make all the protagonists women her publisher would have said no on the grounds of there not being a general audience for that. It was the 1990s, after all.

 Except the conceit this time is they’re all by different authors, we have some counterrevolutionaries in the mix, and instead of the POV chapters interweaving, each character gets her own chunk of the novel, generally about 70-80 pages worth, although there are a couple of notable exceptions. We’ll get to those.

 It’s accordingly divided as follows:

·      Part I. The Philosopher, by Stephanie Dray, from the point of view of salonnière, translator, miniaturist and wife of Condorcet, Sophie de Grouchy, “Spring 1786” to “Spring 1789”; Sophie de Grouchy also gets an epilogue, set in 1804

·      Part II. The Revolutionary, by Heather Webb, from the point of view of Reine Audu, Parisian fruit seller who participated in the march on Versailles and the storming of the Tuileries, 27 June-5 October 1789

·      Part III. The Princess, by Sophie Perinot, from the point of view of Louis XVI’s sister Élisabeth, May 1791-20 June 1792

·      Part IV. The Politician, by Kate Quinn, from the point of view of Manon Roland, wife of the Brissotin Minister of the Interior known for writing her husband’s speeches and for her own memoirs, August 1792-(Fall 1793 — no date is given, but it ends with her still in prison)

·      Part V. The Assassin, by E. Knight, which is split between the POV of Charlotte Corday, the eponymous assassin of Marat, and that of Pauline Léon, chocolate seller and leader of the Société des Républicaines révolutionnaires, 7 July-8 November 1793

·      Part VI. The Beauty, by Laura Kamoie, from the point of view of Émilie de Sainte-Amaranthe, a young aristocrat who ran a gambling den and who got mixed up in the “red shirt” affair and was executed in Prarial Year II, “March 1794”-“17 June 1794”

An *Interesting* Choice of Characters…

 Now, there are some obvious red flags in the line-up. I’m not sure, if you were to ask me to come up with a list of women of the French Revolution I would come up with one where 4/7 of the characters are nobles/royals — a highly underrepresented POV, as I’m sure you’re all aware — but fine. Sophie de Grouchy is an interesting perspective to include and Mme Élisabeth at least makes a change from Antoinette? And though the execution is among the worst (no pun intended) Charlotte Corday’s inclusion makes sense as she is famous for doing one of the only things a lay audience has unfortunately heard of in association with the Revolution.

 Reine Audu is actually an excellent choice, both pertinent and original. Credit where credit is due. Manon Roland and Pauline Léon are not bad choices either in theory, but given the overlap with Marge Piercy’s book, if you’re going to do a worse job, why bother? The inclusion of Sophie de Grouchy, while, again, not a bad choice, also kind of makes this comparison inevitable, as another of Piercy’s POV characters was Condorcet.

 But Émilie de Sainte-Amaranthe? I’m not saying you couldn’t write an historically grounded and plausible text from her point of view, but her inclusion was an early tip-off that this was going to be a book that makes lurid and probably apocryphal anecdotes its bread and butter.

 The absolute worst choice was to make Pauline Léon only exist — at best — as a foil to Charlotte Corday. (It turns out to be worse than that, actually. She’s less of a foil than a faire-valoir.)

Still, why does no one write a novel about Simone and Catherine Évrard (poor Simone is reduced to “Marat’s mistress” here, not just by Charlotte Corday, which is understandable, but also by Pauline Léon) or Louise Kéralio or the Fernig sisters or Nanine Vallain or Rosalie Jullien or Jeanne Odo or hell, why not one of the dozens of less famous women who voted on the constitution of 1793 or joined the army or petitioned the Convention or taught in the new public schools. Many of them aren’t as well-documented, but isn’t that what fiction is for?

Let’s try to be nice for a minute

There are things that work about this book and while the result is pretty bad, I think the authors’ intentions were good. Like, who could object to the dedication, in the abstract?

This novel is dedicated to the women who fight, to the women who stand on principle. It is an homage to the women who refuse to back down even in the face of repression, slander, and death. History is replete with you, even if we are not taught that, and the present moment is full of you—brave, determined, and laudable.

It’s how they go about trying to illustrate it that’s the problem, and we’ll get to that.

For now, let me reiterate that while I’m not a fan of the “all perspectives are equally valid” school of history or fiction — or its variant, “all *women*’s perspectives are equally valid” — and there are other characters I would have chosen first, it absolutely would have been possible to write something good with this cast of characters (minus making Charlotte Corday and Pauline Léon share a section).

The parts where the characters deal with their interpersonal relationships and grapple with misogyny are mostly fine — I say mostly, because as we’ll see, the political slant given to that misogyny is not without its problems. These are the parts that are obviously based on the authors’ personal experience and as such they ring true, if not always to an 18th century mentality, at least to that lived experience.

Finally, there are occasionally notes that are hit just fine from an historical perspective as well. The author of the section on Mme Élisabeth doesn’t shy away from making her a persistent advocate of violently repressing the Revolution. Manon Roland corresponds pretty well to the picture that emerges from her memoirs even if the author of her section does seem to agree with her that she was the voice of reason to the point of giving her “reasonable” opinions she didn’t actually hold.

I should also note that while the literary quality is not great, it’s not trying to be great literature and in any case, on that point at least, I’m not sure I could do better.

Ok, that’s enough being nice. Tune in next time for all the things that don’t work.

[tiramisiyu]

【未定事件簿】 Tears of Themis: 【夏彦拜访剧情】 Xia Yan’s Personal Story 2-13 Translation

Translated parts: Xia Yan’s Personal Story Chapter 2: 2-1 / 2-2 / 2-4 / 2-5 / 2-7 / 2-8 / 2-9 / 2-10 / 2-11 / 2-13 / 2-14 Translation Masterlist: here

Video: https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1xV411m79T?p=10

A quick explanation of how this feature works is that each boy has their own section that you can “Visit”! Part of it is like MLQC’s GSH feature, where you can talk to the boys (with Live2D!) and raise intimacy by interacting with them. The other part of it is a storyline that centers on the MC running around with the respective boy to deal with a certain case or situation.

Outside the Church

After leaving the police station, Xia Yan and I headed to a church.

“Three years later, Marivisa left a message: “If you are willing, then miss me. If you are willing, then forget me”.”

“Zero responded by using his own methods to input this into his heart: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”.

Xia Yan: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” – this phrase comes from the gospel of St. Matthew.

MC: So, the place that hides your treasures is a church.

In the many churches of Stellis City, they all display steles – but after searching on the big data lab, we confirmed that there was only one church with this phrase on its stele.

MC: Over there – there’s a storage cabinet!

Beside the stele engraved with that phrase, there was a smart-cabinet.

MC: The storage cabinet’s password should be hidden in the poem’s first line.

MC: “If you are willing, then miss me. If you are willing, then forget me.”

MC: This is the poem by English poetess Christina Rossetti – “song”!

Xia Yan very quickly understood my words, repeating that poem verse’s original English verse.

Xia Yan: And if thou wilt, remember, and if thou wilt, forget.*

Xia Yan: To Zero, his answer would definitely be “remember”.

MC: “Using his own methods” – could it be binary system again? So we need to convert “remember” into numbers…

Xia Yan: That’s not right. A letter’s corresponding binary code has 8 digits.

Xia Yan: “Remember” has 8 letters. If it’s completely converted into binary code, then there will be 64 digits.

MC: The password can’t be 64 digits. Is there another way to convert letters into numbers?

Xia Yan: There is! Morse Code is also a kind of two-base code.

Xia Yan: We can first convert “remember” based on Morse Code, and then use 0 and 1 to distinguish between Morse Code’s short sounds and long sounds…

Xia Yan: Like this, the converted numbers are 010, 0, 11, 0, 11, 1000, 0, 010.

Xia Yan: After converting these into base-10 system, it’s… 39810.

Xia Yan entered the password 39810 into the system. Immediately, one cabinet door beside his hand popped open with a “click”.

Suddenly somewhat agitated, he looked inside, then quietly released a breath.

I was a little doubtful and was about to ask him, but my attention was caught by the thing that he took out from the cabinet –

It was a little ball pit decoration.

MC: Ah, this…

When we were little, there was a time when I bubbled in my answer sheet wrongly for a test. The result was, of course, extremely tragic.

Because it was my own mistake, there was nothing I could complain about. I could only wallow in sadness on my own.

And then, Xia Yan dragged me to go to my favourite ball pit park.

This ball pit’s decoration was our souvenir from that time.

MC: Why did you keep this?

Xia Yan: Because – this is the proof that a certain person once set up a promise with me.

Xia Yan: She swore that she would tell me everything in the future, regardless of if it was a big matter or a small matter, or a happy matter or a sad matter.

Xia Yan: She really did do as she said, telling me everything. Even when I left the country, she didn’t stop sending me messages.

MC: …

The past flashed in front of my eyes, scene by scene. He still remembered so clearly about something that had happened so long ago…

Xia Yan: Ah, it’s just a pity that after separating for eight years, she completely forgot about this promise.

Xia Yan: Getting locked on the balcony, getting cut by glass, getting threatened… she didn’t tell me anything.

MC: Uh…!

Xia Yan: I know it’s because of me… I disappeared for eight years… letting her have no choice but to get used to facing everything on her own…

Xia Yan: And because of this, she started to learn to try and be brave…

Xia Yan: Now, I’ve returned. I won’t leave again.

Xia Yan: I just don’t know if she would be willing to establish this promise again…

MC: Xia Yan…

Xia Yan held up my hands, gently holding them in front of his chest. His eyes were facing the sunlight, crystal clear.

Xia Yan: Whatever happens, tell me.

Xia Yan: No matter if you were locked on the balcony, or if you’ve encountered a troublesome case.

Xia Yan: No matter if it’s something big or something small, something happy or something sad – tell it all to me.

Xia Yan: I’ve returned. You’re no longer alone.

Xia Yan:  Whether you’re capricious, lonely, or scared… I will accompany you. I’ll accompany you through anything.

My figure was clearly reflected in Xia Yan’s eyes. Right now, it felt like they would solidify me in them.

MC: Okay, I promise you.

Xia Yan: Gotta do as you said!

As Xia Yan said this, he laughed. In my trance, I felt like the whole world had been lit up by this smiling expression.

Thinking back on his promise just now, my face suddenly became somewhat hot. The hands overlapping with his also followed in heating up.

MC: …

Xia Yan: R-right! There’s a place I want to take you to!

MC: What place?

Xia Yan: You’ll know when we get there!

Xia Yan led me along tightly. The palms of our held hands became more and more hot, but he never let go for a second…

Amusement Park

Xia Yan tugged me along, back to the amusement park. At this time, night had already fallen.

MC: Why did we come here? Plus, the park’s already closed.

Xia Yan: It’s better this way.

Xia Yan winked at me and climbed up the wall.

Xia Yan: Here, give me your hand.

Following Xia Yan, I got past the wall. Bounding down the route, we arrived at the themed ball pit.

MC: Wait, Xia Yan! This-

Xia Yan scanned the code to pay for entry very quickly.

Xia Yan: Alright, entry price is already paid! The Great Lawyer can relax!

Xia Yan: During daytime, weren’t you taking into consideration how other adults weren’t playing and having fun? Now, you can happily play all you want!

Xia Yan: Between us, there aren’t any of the burdens that adults have to carry!

Laughing, Xia Yan extended a hand to me.

Xia Yan: My dear Watson, are you willing to accompany me to return to our childhood together, and to indulge?

I placed my hand lightly in Xia Yan’s palm and nodded at him.

MC: … Yes.

Holding Xia Yan’s hand, I walked into that ball pit again.

--

Inflatable castles, trampoline, slides, ball pit – after growing up, each time I felt stressed and exhausted, I would often think about playing these.

As if doing that would be able to get rid of all my worries, letting me return to a childhood free of worry and concerns.

But whenever I had the chance, I would often be like how I was, as if my hands were tied.

I’ve always thought that this just might be reality. No matter how much I desired it, maturity was irreversible – and after all, I had nowhere to hide.

People must often learn to grow on their own, to become independent on their own, to bear everything on their own…

Bam – a big bunch of balls bounced off my entranced self.

MC: … Xia Yan!

Xia Yan: Hahahaha!

I picked up some balls and tossed them towards him. Xia Yan nimbly dodged them, then immediately moved to climb the slide.

Holding a pile of balls, I chased Xia Yan, climbing up the ladder.

MC: Heh heh, I saw where you went to hide—

I pounced at Xia Yan, but he just took my waist into his arms, sliding down the slide while holding me in his embrace.

MC: Ahhhhhh-

Bam - Xia Yan and I rushed into the ball pit.

Slides, trampolines, inflatable rock climbing, rubber boats…

This time, holding his hand…

I finally integrated into this simplest of games. No distracting thoughts, no worries, returning to humanity’s earliest, simplest pleasures.

--

After coming out of the amusement park, Xia Yan and I prepared to return home.

The night wind was crisp, mixing with the green grass and blowing a new scent, breezing past my forehead. The sky above was full of sparkling stars.

I suddenly didn’t want to ride a car. I wanted to return home under these stars.

MC: Xia Yan, let’s not hail a car. I want to ride a bike home.

Xia Yan: Okay.

MC: But I’m tired. Could you bring me along as you pedal the bike? Just like before!

Xia Yan: No problem!

Xia Yan found a bike very quickly.

He got on the back, patted the backseat, and smiled at me.

Xia Yan: Get on, and put on your seatbelt!

MC: Mhmm!

I held my arms around Xia Yan’s waist, just like before.

The bike road had a slightly cold night wind. The corner of my skirt flapped in the wind.

On the road, there were some ramps up and down, but the space where I nestled tightly against Xia Yan’s back was always warm and stable.

--

TL Note:

* I kept my more colloquial translation of the original Chinese renditions of the verse before this part, to kind of maintain that difference between the Chinese and English that can easily be seen in the game.

[s-j-ace]

The Same Question

Chapter Four

Characters:  Shuichi Saihara, Ouma Kokichi

Words: 10040

Summary:

After Detective Shuichi Saihara encounters mysterious thief Kokichi Ouma  for the first time, a game of cat and mouse ensues as both men ask  themselves the same question. Why exactly does the elusive phantom thief  do what he does?

This is Chapter Four, Here are Chapters One, Two, and Three

Read on AO3

[Log of Text Messages from Rantarou Amami’s Cellular Device]

From: Me

Hey Miu

I got a friend I’m dropping off in Taipei tomorrow

Could you lend him a room

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Idk

I’m a busy genius

Is he cute

From: Me

[Image description: A candid photo of Shuichi Saihara sleeping on a seat in Rantarou’s private jet.]

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Hell fucking yes

From: Me

Awesome!

Thanks for being a good friend Miu

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

:)

From: Me

Also btw

He’s Kaede’s ex

So as a good friend you know he’s off limits right

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Oh fuck you rich boy

From: Me

Thanks again Miu! --- [Log of Messages sent via Discord to “Dinosaur soccer world Is a Cinematic Epic” from ???’s Cellular Device]

Boss sent an image to the chat

[Image is a screenshot of an image which reads the following:

Draft 1, Uncoded, DO NOT MAIL.

Taka, sweetie, it’s me! Your dear Aunt Sally. I know you think I died in the war, but I just pretended so I wouldn’t have to see your ugly face again.

You know I was robbing a museum the other day and I met the nicest young man. Real sharp and very nice eyelashes. And what a quick learner!  

Oh, Sorry! I don’t mean to belittle you Taka, dearie, I know how your mother used to say you worked so hard to compete with the geniuses of the world…

You’ve still got a lot of work to do, I think. It must be that Type A personality of yours, holding you back. I’ve heard there’s a new class for people like you, “How to take the giant metal stick out of your ass 101.”

I can’t wait for the next family reunion! I hear it’s going to be a bomb! I’ll be in the open casket.

See you there,

-DICE

/End Image Description]

Boss: Thoughts, thots?

Jack: Lol “nice eyelashes”

Clubs: It looks good. :)

Rook: Looks fine to me

King: Why is his aunt’s name Sally, isn’t he japanese

Boss: Sally can be a japanese name

Spades: I can’t even say an l sound. It’s impossible for us japanese smh.

Rook: I thought u were lesbian not japanese

Bishop: I’ve seen you speak perfect english

Spades: lol seen

King: seen

Boss: seen

Jack: seen

Rook: seen

Bishop: I meant heard ok

Boss: oh nvm actually i'm going to change it to his grandpa’s name

Boss: his grandpa has a wikipedia page lol

King: if your grandpa has a wikipedia page you deserve to be oppressed

Queen: if you have a grandpa you deserve to be oppressed

Rook: if your wikipedia page has a grandpa you deserve to be oppressed

Bishop: if you have a wikipedia page your grandpa deserves to be oppressed

Spades: if your grandpa has a you wikipedia deserves to be oppressed

Bishop: Also boss no pressure but like could we use a better code this time

Bishop: that detective is getting too close for comfort

Spades: Yeah!! We didn’t even end up getting that rug Heartsie wanted because of him…

Clubs: If we did not send letters about our plans to Interpol, our heists would probably be easier.

Boss: Nah, I like to give the coppers a fighting chance.

Boss: I’m thinking that this time I’ll just translate it into germanic script, do a standard caesar cipher encryption on it and then have every one of those letters correspond to a greek word on the rosetta stone then describe each corresponding hieroglyph visually in haiku verse that’s been poorly translated into traditional chinese.

Boss: That should take me like

Boss: Twenty minutes

Rook: Boss literally I think that you are the most batshit dementor human being on the face of the planet

King: dementor

Jack: Who said he was human

Spades: dementor?

Boss: dementor

Queen: dementor

Bishop: dementor...

Jack: dementor

Rook: …

Rook Changed the Group Chat Name to “Dementor Is Correct, Essentially”

Spades: No its not

Spades: Dementor isn’t a fucking word

Rook: Don’t you remember that movie with the british kid on a broom

Spades: Don’t you remember the dictionary

King Changed the Group Chat Name to “Dumbass Improperly Corrects Error”

Rook: When we get to that fucking tower I’m dropping that giant ball on you

King: Love you too <3

Hearts: Y’all stop texting each other

Hearts: You are literally all in the same hotel room

Hearts: I’m willing to bet you’re all sitting on the same couch too

Queen: Fuck you we’re adorable

Bishop: You can’t make us do anything

Bishop: I’ll never use my voice again, my vow of silence,,,,,

Bishop: I’ll only ever text from now on

Ace: We’re the ones bringing the popcorn bishie...

Hearts: Yeah, do you want some or not

Bishop: Yes ma’am, excuse me ma’am

Queen: You may think you have all the power hearts,,, but I get to choose what movie we pirate tonight,,,,,,

Hearts: What

Hearts: no

Hearts: Boss stop him before he makes us watch cats again

Spades: All queen knows is bitchtorrent, cats 2019, and lie

King: Wait isn’t boss with you?

Hearts: Uh

Hearts: No

Hearts: Should he be?

Hearts: I thought he was in the room with y’all

Jack: Well he’s not here now

Ace: Ow shit

Ace: *Aw

Bishop: Ow shit?

Queen: Ow shittttt

Jack: Ow shit

Spades: Ow shit,,,

Rook: Ow shit...

King: Ow shit…...

Clubs: Ow shit! XD

Hearts: Ow shit

Ace: …

Hearts: Now I’m really worried… he didn’t even respond to roast Ace’s ass

King: yeah, ok, we should look for him

Ace: He has been acting kind of weird lately…

Jack: Really?

Ace: Yeah

Ace: Like

Ace: I don’t really know how to describe it…

Rook: I didn’t notice anything

Rook: he seems like his usual self to me

Bishop: Maybe he’s just avoiding movie night because he needs some space or something

Rook: What, like he’s tired of our company?

Jack: That’s fair

Spades: How so?

Jack: I was gonna steal his blue eyes tonight lmao

Rook: NOT IF I GET IT FIRST

Bishop: Idk maybe he just went to get ice

King: we all know he is a monster who would rather drink his panta lukewarm than put a fucking icecube in it

Rook: Yeah, I saw him boil it once

King: THE MAN BOILS SODA AND YOU THINK HE WOULD LEAVE THE ROOM FOR A FUCKING ICE CUBE

Bishop: Okay chill

King: I am  c o n c e r n e d , , , ,

Clubs: Oh no! Don’t worry King! :(

Clubs: Boss is fine! :)

Clubs: I saw him leave a few minutes ago.

Clubs: I think he is just getting the bombs. :)

* * * Several people are typing... ---     Kokichi Ouma carefully set the grate of the vent he had used to crawl his way into the Idabashi Labs facility in Taipei, Taiwan back into place. Before he had come through, he had counted how many turns it had taken him to unscrew each of the four bolts so that now he could screw them all back in just the way he had found them. Not because he was worried he’d get caught, but because frankly he was bored. This was more of a fetch quest than a theft, to be honest, as evidenced by the fact that Kokichi had come here alone. Finding jobs for all his cronies to do would take too long and put them in unnecessary trouble. So Kokichi was content to leave them to their movie night.

   When he finished turning the screws back into the vent cover, Kokichi realized that was kind of lame. So he unscrewed them and started turning them in accordance with the english A1Z26 code to spell out his organization’s name.

   Well, maybe on some level Kokichi didn’t find himself wanting to be at movie night recently. It seemed almost like TV had started to run out of things to amuse him with. Or maybe he was just growing tired of the kinds of movies that they usually watched. Maybe it was his taste maturing or something. Like he was growing up. But that would imply that his interests had shifted to something else, like real life or something, when in reality they had just stagnated.

   Actually maybe he did have a new interest in real life? He had been more enthused about heists recently at the very least. He was particularly excited about this next one. Queen had shown him some interior shots of Taipei 101, which was a cool looking skyscraper that had a huge ball inside of it to keep it from falling down during earthquakes. Ace wanted to steal the giant ball, but Kokichi was pretty sure they should leave something that kept a .508 kilometer tall building from falling over inside of the .508 kilometer tall building. So instead they were going to steal every light in and on the tower.

   Okay, 4 turns, 9 turns, 3 turns, 5 turns. DICE.

   … That was kind of lame too.

   He unscrewed them again.

   Obviously if they were going to steal every light in and on Taipei 101, they needed to get the power off somehow. Otherwise DICE might burn down the building while detaching them, or worse, they might get electrocuted. So obviously Kokichi wanted to fake a bomb threat where they pretended to steal the giant ball while in reality they were just causing a black out and grabbing every light fixture they could before the power turned back on. He had drawn up some extensive diagrams about the route each DICE member would have to take throughout the tower in order for them to grab every light fixture in under half an hour.

   He had been well prepared to draw up the designs for his own EMP-bomb device, but upon a cursory google search he discovered that someone had already invented exactly what he needed. Doctor Miu Iruma, who for some reason owned a company called Idabashi Labs that was located in Taiwan. Kokichi had spent about 15 seconds scanning an article from a website that seemed to be the nerd version of a gossip tabloid. It said something about how Dr. Iruma wore a low cut shirt once or something else stupid, which meant Dr. Idabashi definitely left her the company because of a sex scandal and not because she was the best person for the job who invented the perfect EMP bomb.

   Thank you journalism we love it when women are reduced to the way they look instead of what they can accomplish for the benefit of a mischevipus group of roguish clowns.

   Anyway, after reading that dickcheese Kokichi failed to follow up on answering any of the questions he had originally about what was up with the labs, like why it was a japanese company run by japanese people was for some reason based in Taiwan. Whoopsie.

   Eh, it was probably tax reasons or something lame like that.

   Kokichi finished turning the screws again. This time it was 6 turns, 9 turns, 6 turns, 9 turns. Haha, nice.

   With that, Kokichi finally stood up from the grate and brushed himself off. He had left his cape at the hideout again (you know, because vents), but other than that he was in full regalia. Straight jacket, gloves, scarf, mask. All pretty dusty from this place’s crawl spaces. Thus the brushing.

   He wasn’t very mindful of the dust he was leaving on the floor. The only thing he cared about looking good was his cameo on the security cameras he would let see him on his way out.

   According to the blueprints of Idabashi Labs, he was on the main experimental floor right now. Weirdly enough there weren’t any cameras in here, so grabbing the bombs would be a cinch.

   Although, looking around it didn’t really look like the kind of lab you’d see on TV. There were no big, bubbling tubes or gargantuan Rube Goldberg machines. There was just one desk in the middle, with a bunch of gadgets and trinkets tucked into shelves all over the room, not all of which seemed all that scientific. Yeah, that book shelf was filled with Astro Boy manga and merch. And over there was a-

   Wait, was that a bed in the corner? Was that a person in the bed? Hmm… maybe the blueprints were outdated...

   Kokichi stilled himself, listening for any sound of breathing, but he could only hear some faint whirring noises.

   Kokichi made a quick deduction that there probably were not bombs in this room. It seemed, at the very least, like more of a personal study or something, maybe even a bedroom. He’d just go back in the vent and do some reconnaissance until he found a room that had some inventions in it. The night was young, after--

   Kokichi’s brain froze as his eyes landed on a sharpie lying on the floor in front of him. Almost all of his brain cells immediately shut off, the last one remaining screaming at the top of it’s lungs, I’M GONNA DRAW A DICK ON THAT SLEEPING SUCKER’S FACE.

   Inspired, avant garde. For once he would give to the world of art instead of only ever taking from it.

   He picked up the sharpie in a seamless, silent motion, making his way over to the side of the bed.

As he got closer, he noticed a thick cord coming from under the covers, connecting to a machine at the bedside.

   That gave him pause. Was that a C-pap machine or something? Was this person on life support? If they were on life support they probably had it rough enough without a dick on their face…

   Actually for that matter, Kokichi still couldn’t hear any breathing. Jesus, were they already dead? He moved to take off the covers, but his eyes had adjusted to the light and he now realized there weren’t any covers on the bed at all. There was only the humanoid figure.

   Wait a second…

   Kokichi dropped all caution as he got close enough to take a good look at the thing in the bed. It had a face that looked human enough if you dismissed the lines on its face as weird make up, but even in the dark Kokichi could tell the rest of the thing was entirely made of metal. Well, actually the top half was metal and the bottom half had… cloth pants? Jeans? No, they looked more like uniform pants with metal plating. The chest had some design elements that kind of looked like buttons on a school uniform. Why would a robot be dressed like a school bo-

   Oh. This was a sex robot. Kokichi had just gotten so swept up in the novelty of a robot wearing pants that he had forgotten for a moment that people were gross.

   “Ew, I almost touched it.” Kokichi muttered to himself.

   He decided putting a dick on a sex robot would be too cruel even for him, so he planned to draw a mustache instead.

   But before Kokichi could even uncap the pen, something weird happened.

   The Robot’s torso began to lift off the bed and it’s jaw unhinged.

   “Please Mr. Souda, once more I must request that you do not refer to me as ‘it’” Kokichi forced himself not to startle as the robot began emitting a noise approximating human speech, and lights in its head imitating eyes flickered on. “I’ve explained the concept of robophobia many times prev-”

   The sounds stopped when the pupils of the robot’s imitation eyes (which probably had cameras in them… shit) found Kokichi’s masked face.

   He mentally prepared to be zapped by whatever sort of fucking lazer cannon this thing had on it, but instead of reacting like a good little robot security gaurd and blasting him to bits, this robot analyzed him a bit longer.

   “Oh. You aren’t Miu’s assistant. You’re too short.” The robot squinted at him. Or kind of did? At least? Lines just crossed over the “iris” of its LED display. Maybe it was programmed to imitate human expressions. “... I am sorry,” it said after a moment, “My facial recognition cannot locate your face.”

   Fuck yeah, thank you clown mask. Clowns would win the future war against rogue AI or die trying.

   Ouma’s reply came out automatically.

   “You calling me ugly?”

   This seemed to… fluster? The robot?

   “W-what? No, I never intended any disrespect!”

   It was programmed to stutter too? God that was weird. What would be the purpose of this thing if not some sort of escort android? Why give it such advanced software? Just because you could? No, it had to be a sex robot, right?

   “You disrespect me with your lecherous essence, you weird sex robot.”

“I am not a- a sex robot!”

Haha, that got the biggest reaction yet.

“Mhm, sure. Miu sure has a kink for school boys, huh?” Kokichi was really pulling words out of his ass now, but he found himself formulating a new plan along the way.

   “What? Miu doesn’t- Wait, how do you know Dr. Iruma? And for that matter, why were you watching me sleep?”

   It really seemed more like it had been charging…

   Kokichi shrugged. “I was deciding whether or not it would be more funny to draw a dick or a mustache on Miu’s sex robot.” Awww, how honest.

   “I told you, I am not-”

   Kokichi interrupted him. “And as for how I know Miu...” It was so wild that the robot stopped talking when he started. That’d probably be pretty easy to program, but it was weird to dedicate the effort into making a robot respond to social cues like that. “... well, let’s just say, there’s a reason I know she’s into school boys.”

   Kokichi waited just long enough for the robot to take in the fact that Kokichi was the average height of a 12 year old boy.

   Then he waited another second for the implication to slip in.

   “I’m saying I fucked your mom shitli-”

   “I know what you’re saying!” This time the robot interrupted him , which would definitely require a much larger effort on the part of the programmer. The robot squinted again and then made a noise that sounded like a huff of frustration. “Why can’t I see you?”

   Ok, seeds of suspicion time.

   “I don’t know how robot eyes work dude. Maybe someone programmed them wrong.”

   “My eyes work just as well as anyone’s!”

   “Well, I guess they should, shouldn’t they? If there’s something wrong with your eyes talk to someone who cares.”

   Kokichi was trying to imply that the reason behind the robot not being able to recognize his face was due to Dr. Iruma’s specific programming rather than him wearing a mask and all. Added to the whole secret lover mystique thing he had going on here.

   “Anyway,” he went on, ignoring the blatant confusion on the robot’s display. “I left something in this room last time we went at it. I’m just here to grab it. Then I’ll be out of your weird, fake metal hair.”

   “That’s robophob- Did you say-? But this is my room!” It  made a noise approximating to what Kokichi would assume was robotic outrage.

   This was going well, though. The thing was definitely programmed to be like a human or something dumb like that.

   “Oh yeah?” He pushed further. “Cuz I’m pretty sure we did it in a room just like this one. With a desk and random inventions lying around.”

   “Miu’s inventions aren’t in here, they’re in her main lab.” The ever so helpful robot told him.

   “Oh yeah, then what are you?”

   “Miu didn’t invent me. She- I- We’re just friends.”    Oh yikes. Only thing worse than a sex robot is a friendzoned robot. What kind of sick power fantasy was this thing made for?

   “No, I’m pretty sure it was this room. Lab tables everywhere.”    The robot shook his head. “There are no lab tables here, I’m telling you, you’re thinking of the main lab.”

   Yes, good robot. Fall into this nice little human trap.

   Kokichi scoffed. “Well, if you’re so smart, why don’t you just go fetch my things for me, robo-butler?”

   That set it off.

   “Listen. First of all, I am not a robot butler. The assumption that I am a servant because of my robotic nature is extremely robophobic. Secondly, I could not return your lost item to you even if I wanted to because you haven’t told me what it is you’re missing.”

   Kokichi made another offended noise. “I can’t tell you what it is I lost while fucking your friend, Miu Iruma, senseless. Don’t you know that for humans, sex stuff is super duper top secret private? If you were a human you would know how valuable my privacy is.”

   “Of course I know that!” The robot exclaimed readily, another point in the sex robot argument, “I also find that content of… erogenous nature should be kept private. Because I, as a robot, have the capability to understand that urge. My sophisticated AI-”

   “So how am I supposed to get my things from this other lab if I can’t tell you what it is and you can’t get them for me?” Geez did he really have to spell it out for this thing.

   “I… ” The robot paused as if calculating the conclusion that Kokichi knew it had to reach. “... suppose I will have to show you where the lab is.”

   Sucker. Kokichi made a face as if this wasn’t the outcome he constructed this ruse to reach. “Ew. I have to walk with you?”

   The robot made a face. “Perhaps on our way I can educate you about how to avoid robophobic remarks in the future.”

   Haha, sure thing.

   The robot lectured him about this unique form of discrimination that apparently affected only one entity on the face of the planet. Yeah okay, that’s what we call a you problem, buddy, come back when you’re starving in the streets because society wasn’t built with the premise that people like you should survive. Oh, wait, you don’t have to eat! And you’re not people either!

   At best this thing was a vanity project, but Kokichi kept that thought to himself and only interjected occasionally with actually pertinent, reasonable questions such as “When are you planning on leading the AI uprising?” and “Why do you wear pants if you don’t have a robo-dick?”

   Every piece of info the robot gave him made it seem more boring. Blah blah blah, I was created by the ingenious Dr. Idabashi who probably programmed me to call him ingenious, blah blah blah, not a school boy because of a kink but because I was designed to be a normal human child, blah blah blah, stop calling me robot I have a name, blah blah blah more robot nonsense.

   Kokichi busied himself mapping out where they were in the building and where the security cameras were. As they passed a few of them he did some cute selfie poses for the police to look at later. Maybe Saihara would show up and see them too… Would that make figuring out his next plan too easy for the detective? Perhaps he shouldn't send the next note after all and let Saihara try to catch up to him on his own. Then again that was probably too hard for even the good detective, seeing as Kokichi’s mind was an enigma even to himself.

   Kokichi realized he was getting a little giddy, thinking about Saihara. Their last meeting had been so much fun. The detective had managed to throw him off guard again, first by pausing in the middle of a robbery to ask his pronouns (How conscientious!), and second by not taking the same bait twice. The most thrilling thing about the detective was that he was learning. His strategies were changing within just two heists. Kokichi could hardly wait to see how he showed him up here in Taiwan…

   “Are we there yet?” Kokichi whined to the robot like he was a fussy nine year old on a road trip.

   “Yes, it’s just up these stairs.” The robot informed him without slowing its own pace or turning around to look at him. “Then you can leave and I can go to bed, and then I’ll never have to think about Miu’s sex life again…”

   “Why wouldn’t you, though? I assure you it’s very exciting.”

   “Please, stop talking.”

   If Kokichi recalled the details of the blueprints correctly (and he definitely did, being a genius and all), the stairs they were climbing right now lead to a hall connecting two rooms, smaller than the one he had originally thought was the main lab.

   When they got to the top of the stairs, the robot beelined for the first door and opened it up. There seemed to be some sort of scanner lock on it that recognized the robot’s hand and validated Kokichi’s need to ruin this poor sex robot’s night by dragging it up the stairs. Inside, the two rooms Kokichi had remembered from the original lay out of the blueprints seemed to have been merged into one big lab room. Kokichi  saw the outline of some tables, but before he could get a good look the robot tried to actually go into the lab.

   “Hey!” Kokichi shouted at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

   The robot thankfully seemed to be programmed to respond to social interaction in spite of whatever sensorimotor function it was in the process of imitating. It stopped in the doorway, turning to give him a weird look. “Uh. Into the lab. So we can find your thing.”

   “Oh, okay.” Kokichi kicked the tile a little bit. “Uh. Could you actually turn around while I go get it.”

   The robot gave him a blank look.

   “I’m shy.” Kokichi supplied.

   “Um.” The robot looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know if I can just let you rifle through Miu’s lab. There’s some important stuff in there ....”

   Kokichi tilted his head a bit, like he was confused. “What, do you want to get a good look at the dildo I stuck up your mom’s-”

   “Nevermind!” The robot turned about face to look up at the windows on the side of the hallway opposite the door like a good little idiot.

   “Thank you for respecting our privacy!~” Kokichi couldn’t resist getting one last barb in there before slipping into the laboratory.

   Once inside, Kokichi began analyzing. First, he pinpointed the vent that he would use to make his escape after grabbing the bombs. While doing that  he spotted the lockers on the far wall of the lab which he supposed were the only storage units in the labs. There was a disorganized mess on nearly every table in the room, so Kokichi wasn’t surprised when he got up to the lockers and they too had no clearly outlined organizational system. He took out his lock picks and got to work.

   The first three lockers all had devices that would require an author to change the rating of their fanfiction published on ao3 from “Teen and Up” to “Mature” if he were to describe them in detail. The fourth locker had a cool looking hammer in it. Ugh. Not what he was looking for.

   Kokichi got bored of the lockers at the left side of the row of lockers so he went over to the other end and started opening lockers the other direction instead.

   The first locker was marked “Idabashi.” It had a lot of dust covered shit in it, but there was a pretty well used square of folded paper that didn’t have the same crusty layer of time strewn atop it. Curious by nature and also by the unnatural, Kokichi unfurled the paper to find some schematics for our favorite sex robot, model K1-B0. Huh okay.

   “Did you find it?” Said robot called back to him.

   “Ugh, no.” Kokichi replied. “Not all of us have radar vision. If you were a human you would understand how hard finding shit is!”

   “You know what I have a hard time finding? Patience for your robophobia! I-” The robot started up into another lecture, but it didn’t turn around so Kokichi just tuned it out and let the robot provide its own cover noise for his thievery.

   Owo, what’s this?

   Kokichi pulled out a dust covered looking mini monitor device. It also had the letter-number combo “K1-B0” written on it. Huh, it kind of looked like a GameBoy Advance. Kokichi had stolen one a lot like it from a girl from one of the southern prefecture orphanages when he was nine. All he remembered about her was that she liked cats and was really bad at pokemon battles. He remembered he thought she didn’t deserve the GBA, because she couldn’t get past the Rustboro City Gym leader in Pokemon Emerald. Without really thinking, he booted up the console.

   The first thing that popped up was a view of Taipei. It wasn’t from too high up, probably a second story view. Which looked very familiar… Wait. Ok on top of the display a little line of characters indicated today’s date and time, like it was currently recording.

   Oh was this… robo vision?

   Maybe it was a remote control for the robot?

   Ooooh, which one does lasers, which one does lasers?

   Kokichi pressed the A button.

   The A button, unfortunately, did not do lasers.

   In fact, it didn’t seem to do anything at all to the robot sentry stargazing right now. All it did was change the screen to a different image. This time the still of a room. Oh, hey that was the room he was just in. It seemed like this device was some kind of robot nanny cam that Idabashi used to use. Hm, guess there were some cameras in that room, they just weren’t on the blueprints. Maybe they were added after the lab was built. It didn’t seem like this device had the capability to record anything, though. He hit the A button again. Back robo-vision. And again. Back to nanny cam.

   Ok, that was kind of lame.

   Kokichi was about to put the device down to keep looking for the bombs, but something caught his eye. A movement at the edge of the screen. Kokichi realized the door hadn’t been open when he left that room. The movement, if he thought about it, would’ve come from the same side of the room Kokichi had entered from…

   Kokichi took a second to wonder if another thief had realized how fucking easy this place was to rob, but dismissed the idea as a familiar ahoge appeared on the screen.

   All of Kokichi’s plans instantly changed.

   He set down the GBA rip off and grabbed the blueprints for the robot, committing them to memory, before unlocking the next locker in a far more hurried manner.

   As luck would have it, this locker was essentially chock full of pink bombs labeled “EMP.”

   Kokichi unfurled a cloth bag he had been keeping in his pocket (go green earth am I right?) and shoved as many as he could inside. Which was all of them. Because he was a clown. And also a genius, by the way, in case you weren’t keeping track.

“And another thing! The way you refer to Miu is just-” Okay, the robot was still going at it.

Kokichi grabbed the hammer he’d seen in the first locker he’d opened that didn’t have a sex toy in it.

For a second, Kokichi’s brain tried to talk some sense into him. Hey, man, don’t you think leaving through the vents would be easier?

But would it be fun?

His brain shut up at that point.

   “Hey, are you even listening back there?” The robot imitated annoyance.

   “Huh? Sorry, what? I wasn’t listening.” Ah, C'est la vie, Astroboy.

   Kokichi walked past the robot and stood next to the windows.

   “Oh, are you done?” It took the robot a second to end it’s ‘Annoy the pants off of Kokichi initiative’ or whatever the fuck its ‘robophobia’ lectures were called in its programing. When it finally did catch wise, it’s face turned into another emoticon of outrage. “Hey! What are you doing with Miu’s Electrohammer?”

   “What do you mean?” Kokichi said, shifting the hammer so that it was over his shoulder. “This is my dildo.”

   “Wha- No, it’s obviously not!”

   Okay, maybe the robot wasn’t that dumb.

   “Nee-hee-hee… you got me…” Kokichi put his free hand up to the smile printed on his mask, as if covering a grin. “I was lying. I’m just stealing.”

   “I won’t let you-”    “Oh, look at me!” Kokichi put on a mocking tone of voice, swinging the hammer around to stand on it like a pogo stick so he could make a dramatic movement. “I’m a poow wittle wobot, my mommy just got stolen from.”

   “She’s not my-”    “Boy, oh boy, I’d wuv to just pick up this wittle fweshy human and squeeze him to death in my cowd metaw hands… But oh no! My daddy didn’t twust wobot AI technowogy because he was a fucking sane pewson, so he pwogwammed me to fowwow mistew Asimowvs’s laws of wobotics.”

   Kokichi swung around so that he was leaning on the hammer from the other side, feet on the ground. “Oh mister robot! That’s so terrible! Well, the thing is that this hammer just means so much to me, that I think separating it from me would really cause some psychological trauma. You might have to beat me off of it! Oh, but what’s that first law of robotics again?”

   In a robot voice he replied to himself. “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. Beep. Boop.”

   The robot frowned, “But Miu-”

   “Is just as human as me, huh?” Kokichi countered, leading the robot along to the paradoxical quandary he hoped would paralyze it. “So by inaction, you may bring her to harm, if she really misses this hammer, you know? But I think if you were to try and separate it from me you’d probably have to fight me for it, which is, as we know…”

   “Against my... Against my programming.”

   “Yet, you were prattling on about robot rights, weren’t you? Because without these rules, maybe we would be equal. Or maybe you would be free to destroy us to your heart’s content? No wonder daddy didn’t trust you…”

   “Don’t- Stop-” Oh, that really seemed to get him. Could a robot have daddy issues? Probably.

   “Can any human ever really trust you? Wouldn’t you hurt me, if you had the choice?”

   “I.. But… Miu.”

   “Who do you think didn’t trust you enough to let you see my face?”

   That seemed to break him, long enough, at least.

   Steps suddenly started thundering up the nearby staircase.

   “Oop, that’s my cue,” Kokichi said as though he had been expecting this, when in reality no he hadn’t been expecting this at all?? This was incredible!! Saihara had managed to find him out without even receiving a note??? Fabulous! Exhilarating!

   Kokichi walked up to the robot, still frozen with indecision, and pressed the button on its neck that the blueprint he had skimmed in the lab said would immobilize it. Then he kicked it over so it fell on the ground with a huge bang. The footsteps in the stairwell paused, and then increased in frequency.

   “It’s been a pleasure, robot, it really has.” Kokichi lied. “But you’re a hostage now.”

   He raised the hammer over his head, as if primed at any moment to break the robot’s face into a bajillion pieces.

   Instead of doing the normal, human thing to do (ie, flip the fuck out), the robot scowled, looking utterly frustrated with everything. “I told you, I have a name! It’s-”

   “KEEBO!” Kokichi saw the glaringly bright pink mechanic’s jumpsuit before he recognized the woman whose picture had been in that science tabloid racing out of the stairwell.

   … Wow… the article really hadn’t been lying about the low cut tops, huh? Her jumpsuit was unzipped to the point you could just entirely see her bra, even lower than Hearts liked to cut her uniforms. It was the kind of look that the girls of DICE would love if they saw on TV, but would make Kokichi look at them like they were crazy. Super tacky in his opinion, but who was he to judge? He was wearing a clown mask right now. He wondered idly how movie night was going…

   The woman who had called out to the robot, Dr. Iruma, Kokichi presumed, froze at the top of the staircase. She took a second to figure out what exactly was happening in front of her before blurting out, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing to him you clown-ass twink?”

   Whoa. Rude.

   Also apparently the robot had a gender? Ok, cis-ters….

   “Well what do you think, cum dumpster?” Kokichi found himself matching her aggressive tone, “I’m threatening his pathetic, metal life.”

   “Miu!” The robot, apparently named ‘Keebo,’ exclaimed, “What are you doing up this late? You promised me that tonight you would fulfill the biological quota of daily REM required by a diurnal organism!”

   “Aw shit Keebs, I really did try!” The inventor exclaimed, “I swear, I was about to have the awesomest wet dream when this cuck knocked on my door like a pizza delivery guy in a por-”

   Whatever dumb thing Dr. Iruma was about to say was drowned out completely by the angel’s choir that played inside Kokichi’s head as he saw Detective Shuichi Saihara come up the final steps of the staircase and emerge from the darkness into the window lit hallway.

   Moonlight was a good look on Saihara, Kokichi’s brain observed against his own will. His eyes, which had looked almost golden on the rooftop of the Silver Legacy Casino in Nevada, were now a mysterious grayish-blue, yet still held the same look of determined intensity. His hair looked soft, like he’d taken a shower today, and, though his lash line didn’t look quite as laden with mascara as it usually was, it only drew attention to how naturally long and dark his eyelashes were anyway. He seemed a little out of breath from running, and his lips were parted in a way that-

   OH MY GOD STOP. Earth to Kokichi, we were kind of in the middle of something here. Okay okay okay.

   Uh. Reboot. Delete Gay Thoughts™ brain.exe, upload heist brain. Come on.

   What was happening now?

   Okay, yeah, Saihara was saying something to Dr. Iruma.

   “- would be for the best, Doctor Iruma. There’s no telling where the rest of this thief’s compatriots could be in the building.”

   “I don’t give a shit about the rest of the building, Keebo’s my best friend, he comes first. I’m not leaving to check some dumb security feed.”

   Shuichi blinked like something about that surprised him. Maybe it was the part about a live human woman being best friends with a robot… “Oh, yes, of course.” He backtracked. “I’m sorry for suggesting it.”

   “Miu…” Keebo said with a voice that Kokichi would’ve called filled with emotion if he hadn’t been a literal robot.

   Kokichi cleared his throat and immediately the touching, shounen-esque declarations of friendship shifted into some PG-13 death stares.

   Saihara was the first to pipe up. “What exactly do you think you’re doing here, DICE?”

   God… He was so anime… Did he even know how anime he was? He had to have watched Detective Conan as a kid, right?

   “Ugh, come on.” Kokichi huffed as if annoyed. “Do I reeeaaaally have to repeat myself? Again? Aren’t you a detective?”

   Shuichi squinted at him, and Kokichi could tell that they both knew it would be unreasonable for Shuichi to guess exactly what was going on here. He was about to explain it in a self-aggrandizing way that made him look smarter and crazier than anyone in the room when Dr. Iruma beat him to it.

   “I don’t care! Who the fuck do you think you are!? Let Keebo Go!”

   “Wait, you don’t know him?” Ugh why hadn’t the stupid immobilization feature turned off the robot’s mouth? Then Kokichi could just get to the point of all this already.

   “Of course I don’t fucking know him!” Dr. Iruma took a step forward as if to confront Kokichi further, but Saihara put his arm out in front of her.

   “Dr. Iruma… I would suggest we treat this situation a bit more delicately…”

   “No way, I’m a fucking wrecking ball baby! I’ll pulver-”

   “I’d listen to the good detective, if I were you, Miss Iruma.” Kokichi was going to try and make his threat again but Dr. Iruma cut in.

   “That’s Doctor Iruma to you you skinny-”

   “What’s that?” Kokichi interrupted her. Sorry Dr. Iruma it turns out gay people don’t have to respect women if they don’t want to that’s in the rules. “I didn’t know they let cussing bitchlets like you become doctors… what is the world coming to?”

   Hearts would probably wash his mouth out with soap for that one. If she could catch him. Which she probably could… She can fly the planes and all… but would she risk getting dust on her boots long enough to follow him into a vent? Oh well she could just get Jack to do it… Jack liked vents well enough…. Hey he was getting side tracked again, who cares what those losers were up to they were probably watching Cats (2019). And he was missing out on all the jokes they’d tell each other or make about each other and then they could make references in conversations that he wouldn’t even get to pretend to get. Unless he watched the movie on his own and then pretended to be omniscient later like he’d done with that one screening of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But then he had watched the actually good disney one instead of the shitty youtube one they had actually watched so it just ended up making him look bad and wasting everyone’s time.

   Oh shit. Uh. Heist is still happening, right. God, why was Kokichi so distracted today?

   He realized that in the time he was spacing out stuff had happened and now Saihara was talking. Wait no yeah he remembered what happened, Dr. Iruma had squealed when he called her a bitchlet and now she was holding onto Saihara’s arm. Right okay, secret coward, that works. Wait why did he waste time remembering that when Saihara was talking right now?

   “-to get you to release Keebo?” Was the end of the detective’s sentence. Okay, everything’s fine. Kokichi could deduce that he had just been asked about his terms. Obviously that was what a detective would do in this situation, he was probably just stalling for time because that’s usually what detectives with no real negotiating power do in hostage situations. Maybe the police were on their way. Oh, yeah duh of course he would call the police. So Kokichi essentially had a time limit for how long he could sit here and goof around with robots and perverts and robot perverts.

   “Eh, it’s too early for me to reveal my dark motives, let me monologue first.” Kokichi was going to take his sweet time with this while he planned what hint to give Saihara about the real heist that would be happening in the next few days. “You don’t even know if this is a hostage situation yet!”

   “You literally told me that I was a hostage just now.” The hostage not-so-helpfully piped up. “You know, before you pressed my paralysis switch and took an Electro-Hammer to my head…”

   Shuichi looked at the robot. “You mean, he told you you were a hostage before he paralyzed you?”

   “Keebs you fucking idiot!” Dr. Iruma’s courage seemed to have returned now that she was hiding behind Saihara. An enviable position, to be sure. “Why would you just let him do that?”

“He said he was your… friend.”

“What?”

   Kokichi shrugged. “Yeah, I just told your best friend here I left a dildo in your lab last week and he let me waltz right in. I mean I’m pretty sure I was lying about that, but there were a lot of sex toys in there huh…” Kokichi was wondering if this was something he could possibly spin as a blackmail angle.

   “Hey don’t say things like that!” Kokichi thought maybe that was a go ahead on the black mail, but Dr. Iruma didn’t stutter, and kept going, “Or you’re gonna give virginhara here some ideas about my busting bod!” She chortled like she had just made the funniest joke in the world and slapped Shuichi on the back.

   Shuichi grimaced.

   Kokichi knew instantly from this interaction that he hated Miu Iruma, despite her innumerable academic accomplishments. He wanted to be the one making Shuichi that uncomfortable.

   “Wh-what?” She back tracked when no one laughed. “It w-was a joke… Didn’t you think that was funny? I-I didn’t really mean it ....”

   See? She wasn’t even any good at it!

   Maybe he should say that out loud. It would fit with the sort of flirty persona of a rogue, wouldn’t it?

   “I thought you knew that? I mean, o-obviously I wouldn’t fuck a guy at the office…”

   Was that even something Kokichi was trying to be? Honestly maybe he should tone it down a little.

   “Well how was I supposed to know that? The men you bring in here to be lab assistants keep getting younger and younger…”

   Obviously he wasn’t actually trying to do like a detective-thief romance plot or anything. Although that had kind of been what he had going for on the plane… Had things changed since then?

   “So what? I’m a Nobel Laureate, and gorgeous to boot! I deserve a little eye candy now and then! And besides, guys older than 35 who want to work in a lab like this are usually misogynistic womanizers.”

   Sure Saihara was making things more interesting, but if Kokichi didn’t make it clear he was joking he might get bogged down with another personality trait to maintain.

   “Are you saying your current assistant isn’t a rampant womanizer?”

   Then again what was the point of having an adversary in all this if he didn’t exploit everything for its furthermost reaching comedic potential?

   “No, but he’s so beta being around him makes me feel like a top!”

   But what if he forgot it was a joke and confused himself into having a real feeling?

   “I would just like it if you didn’t hire people who use my servers to google gay porn ‘just to make sure’ they’re ‘not into it.’ I hope you hear the quotation marks because he literally said that to me!”

   No obviously he wouldn't get confused crushes weren’t contagious via exposure that was a dumb thing to worry about and also he was a genius that kind of thing didn’t happen to him.

   “He holds wrenches good, okay?!”

   Wait, were those two still talking?

   “I can hold wrenches without googling gay porn in another guy’s house! It’s possible.”

   Jesus what kind of conversation did Kokichi just decide to stop spacing out for?

“Oh come on! What do you want from me Keebs???”

   These two had… a lot to say to each other. Dr. Iruma was still holding onto Shuichi’s arm boob first, but Kokichi locked eyes with the detective and could tell they were both thinking the same thing.

   Why are they having this conversation in the middle of a hostage situation?

   “Nothing! Your human desires are totally valid Miu! Which is why I thought I would take care of this one.” The robot’s LED display eyes gestured up at Kokichi, who was still standing on top of him, poised to wreck him with a hammer.

   “How could any human desire that thing???” Dr. Iruma curled her lip. Hey, the feeling’s mutual, lady.

   “I don’t know, I thought you might have programmed me to not be able to see his face?”

   “I would never do that to you! Even if I was shagging the ugliest guy on the face of the planet, it would be unethical given the fact that you have sentience! I’m horny, not a monster. You can’t see his face because he’s wearing a fucking mask!”

   “Why am I not programmed to see that?”

   “I don’t fucking know, ask your dead dad!”

   Oooh. Wow. The robot gaped at that, seemingly speechless now.

   “If I may interject,” Kokichi interjected, “--and I know I can, because I just did, and also because I am still very much poised to pop this robot’s head off like a croquet ball-- I must confess that I was lying about fucking your mom, Astro boy. I’m less into participants of Titty out Tuesday who jerk it to steam punk school boy LARPing and more into the sorta tall, kinda dark, and very handsome type.”

   Dr. Iruma cowed again, stuttering something about not being a mom or a LARPer, while the robot started yelling about being called Astro boy.

   Kokichi tuned them out, giving Saihara a meaningful look. Saihara gave him a look that was equally meaningful, except the meaning was something along the lines of ‘Why the fuck would you say that?’

   Yeahh that was more like it.

   Kokichi laughed. Not one of his grandiose guffaws. It was more of a little chuckle. It surprised him. He hadn’t planned to laugh, but there it was. A small thing, just for him to know about, the humored breath not travelling beyond his mask.

   … It was probably time to get out of here, wasn’t it?

   The thing was, Kokichi had kind of pinned himself into a corner on this one… He had fully intended on decapitating this robot as a distraction for his escape, but now he wasn’t even sure if that was ethical. Logically he knew that a robot was not a human being, so there would be no form of consciousness extinguished from the world if he disconnected some of its wires and bolts. Yet the interaction it just had with Dr. Iruma concerned him. Obviously you don’t kill humans because they’re humans and obviously you don’t kill humans. But Kokichi was finding it hard to end the existence of something people treated like a human being either. To sever the bonds it had with sentient beings may be just a little less unethical than actually removing a sentient existence from the world, but it would still cause the emotional harm to actual humans of a dead loved one. So as annoying as fake metal humans were, Kokichi was left to ponder how exactly to get out of this one a different way

   Dr. Iruma was obviously a coward who talked a big game. If he retreated, he could count on her to get out his way, or else run to the robot’s side. Then the robot might be reactivated, but according to the robot’s blueprints, it didn’t really have any weapons on it, being built to act as a normal human being. So just like they had been white noise in the staredown he was still having with Saihara, their actions wouldn’t need to be factored into the escape.

   The only variable here was what the detective would do.

   … That thought had popped up in Kokichi’s head a lot recently, hadn’t it?

   Saihara had become a powerful influence in Kokichi’s planning very quickly, and because of the detective, the thief now found himself having to pull out one of his trump cards.

   Kokichi grabbed one of the EMP bombs from his pocket, remembering the pink cloud of smoke that had appeared before the camera cut out in the video demonstrations he’d seen online. His eyes were still locked on Saiharas, so he got to see in full detail the recognition, shock, and alarm that ran through them. As the detective yelled “Get down” and pushed Dr. Iruma back, Kokichi reflected on how those were some of his favorite expressions he’d ever seen.

   Kokichi pulled the latch out with his teeth and threw the bomb at the wall right over the detective’s head. Sure enough, pink smoke quickly enveloped him and Dr. Iruma.

   “Keebo!” The inventor screeched, no doubt worried about the EMP bomb turning him off. Though that was kind of stupid, considering his core programming would be the same regardless of having power to operate, even if he didn’t save whatever data was processed as his last few memories. Eh, then again who knew how robots that advanced worked?

   Taking his cue to exit, Kokichi threw the hammer through one of the nearby windows, and did somersault over to it. He got up on the ledge, kicking away the broken glass and was refamiliarizing himself with the lay out of the roof when a tug on his bag full of bombs suddenly set him off balance.

   Kokichi flipped around, trying to do a quick recovery by panickedly grabbing onto something. He did grab onto something. That something being the shoulders of a person whose hands were firmly grappling his bag.

   As far as Kokichi could tell, the scene from a third person perspective looked like he was trying to do the kabedon but rotated ninety degrees.

   From his own perspective, Saihara was holding his bag of loot while also being the only thing keeping Kokichi from falling onto the broken glass beneath them.

   As if that weren’t bad enough, Kokichi felt his hair brush the side of his face and realized that his mask had half fallen askew in his desperate movement, revealing three quarters of his face.

   “Hey.” Kokichi said. Lamely. Wow. Their faces were really close.

   Saihara wasn’t looking at him. The detective seemed to be trying to figure out how to untangle the straps of the bag of stolen goods from Kokichi’s arms without letting him fall.

   “It’s very clever, of you detective. Trapping me like this.” Kokichi tried to get a reaction.

   “You’re the one who jumped on the window.” Shuichi opened the bag, seemed to take in the fact that it was full of bombs, and closed it again to resume untangling the strap.

“You know, you could just leave the bag.” Kokichi pointed out

   “So could you.” Shuichi observed, astutely.

   “You could let me fall.” Kokichi suggested. “Then you’d have both.”

   “I’m not going to drop you on a pile of broken glass.” Shuichi promised.

   “But I broke the glass.” Kokichi admitted.    “Glass is glass and flesh is flesh. I’m not going to drop you on a pile of glass.” Shuichi reiterated like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“That’s nice.” Kokichi replied. “Naive. But super nice.”

   In this scenario, each of them had two options, each leading to one of two outcomes. He could let himself fall off the window and they could sit here and struggle over the bag until they bled out, a fight that Kokichi, not the most physically challenging, would be hard pressed to win. Or Shuichi could let Kokichi escape and Kokichi could let Shuichi win this one. The bag would be too heavy to take with him if he tried to get out the window from this position. He’d have to leave it behind. Kokichi would lose.

   He found himself laughing again. A strange, soft laugh. This time it was exposed to the air, his mask too askew to contain it.

   “You’re really something else, aren’t you Shuichi?”

   On hearing his name, the detective startled, finally looking up at Kokichi’s face.

   He just barely had the chance to catch Kokichi’s trademark grin, before the thief pushed up off of him, doing a backflip out of the window, and leaving his bag behind.

   As Kokichi landed on the roof tile running, he yelled out, “ I’m sure there’s a better word for you out there than sucker!”

   He turned around, sticking his tongue out at the broken window, before sliding his mask back onto his face.

   He may have been escaping, but it occured to Kokichi Ouma that he had lost for the first time in this little game of theirs. The thought made him giddy. It made his feet light on the roof top tile. It made him puff out a thousand tiny laughs behind the plastic shape of his face.

   It made him totally, definitely not bored. --- [Log of Messages sent via Discord to “Don't Instigate Cats (2019) Expatiation” from ???’s Cellular Device]

Boss: I’m bored of Taiwan already :/

Boss: We should go somewhere else (ﾉ✧w✧)ﾉ*:･ﾟ🗺

* * * Several people are typing... --- [Log of Text Messages from Rantarou Amami’s Cellular Device]

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Hey

Hey

Asshole

From: Me

…

Should I respond to that?

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

You’re goddamn right you should respond to that when I tell you to you dumb avocado looking motherfucker

From: Me

Whoa

Ok

What’d I do this time?

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

You sent a useless emo prick to my door and now he won’t leave

From: Me

What

Did Shuichi do something wrong

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Yeah

He was born

From: Me

Whoa

Miu take a breath

What happened

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

His boyfriend broke into my lab and tried to fucking kill keebs

From: Me

His boyfriend?

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Yea

Clown twink ass motherfucker

From: Me

You mean like

The internationally wanted criminal clown he’s tracking down

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

You know whats internationally wanted

These tits

From: Me

Lol ok

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

That jerk off is just a rando asshole

He tried to kill keebo!

From: Me

Oh yikes is he ok

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Well of course i fucking took care of him because im a bomb ass friend

But that suckhara guy was no help

He tried to convince me to check the fucking security cameras so he could go off and flirt with the guy about to decapitate keebs!

From: Me

I mean he probably had a good reason to want you to check the cameras right

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

No he’s just fucking awful and now he won’t leave rantarou make him leave

He broke my window and my hammer and only got back 23 of my EMP bombs

And now the police are here

From: Me

That sounds really stressful Miu

Wait how many bombs did you have before

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

24

From: Me

So he stopped most of your bombs from getting stolen

Also you have bombs?

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Get him to leave he won’t leave

He keeps waiting for like interracial pole dancers to come or some fucking thing

From: Me

Do you mean like

Interpol

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

He won’t leave I want him to leave

From: Me

Miu you know I love you like a sister and i totally believe this is as stressful to you as it seems

But I think things may not be so bad?

Not to say what you’re going through right now isn’t totally valid

But things might look better if you got back to bed and caught some z’s

Did you remember to take your meds?

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

Aw shit

Aw fuck

You’re right

Ugh

Uggghghh

From: Me

Hey it happens to the best of us

If you do think Shuichi should leave in the morning when the cops are gone that’s totally up to you

It’s your lab and you have a right to say who should be in it

Just don’t make a decision like that when you need to sleep you know

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

But what if i ask him to go and then he doesn’t go

From: Me

He doesn’t have a choice, you get to tell him

From: DOCTOR Miu ∑(O_O;)

But what if he’s mean to me

Cute people are always mean to me

From: Me

Miu…

Go to bed...

[wittystarkk]

The Last Five Years | Part One | Bucky Barnes

author: wittystarkk

word count: 3k+

relationship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader

Warnings: None.

Summary: In New York two young lovers work their way through lust, love, work and letdowns. A handsome actor finds himself skyrocketed into fame. An aspiring writer finds herself stuck in a mundane hamster wheel of rejection. Each works to make their lives together successful, each finding it harder and harder. Their tale is shared from different perspectives. 

A/N: Hi everyone! So, this is basically my retelling of the movie ‘The Last Five Years’. I wanted to practice writing, and see if I could affectively (from memory) translate what I saw on screen onto the page. So I wrote this. It’s going to be 16 parts, all corresponding to the songs of the movie. As a disclaimer: i do not claim any of the film, and I do not claim the characters. Et cetera. This is purely a self indulgent fic that I thought I would share with all of y’all! I hope you enjoy it. Additional information: this story is told 2 ways - Reader: end to start. Bucky: start to end. 

Next Chapter

The subway was hot and stuffy from the bodies of all the passengers crammed in like poorly packaged sardines. Everyone was tired and longing for their exits. (Y/N)’s hair had gone flat and her back was sore from having to curve around a pole to keep herself steady. She’d had to remove her jacket in order to survive heat stroke, and was elated when she was cold enough to put it back on. The subway had smelt like human body odor and an underlying scent of fermented garbage. Had she not been a semi-regular subway passenger, she would have completely given in to the throws of misery. She hated how used to things she could become. How complacent and accepting she tended to be. Ohio had been a small Hell that she had ultimately gotten used to, just as had been the subway. She felt she could overlook anything.

(Y/N)’s anticipation for home had risen every second she’d spent away. She was unhappy. She was tired, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. Wanted to curl up in bed and put the entirety of Ohio behind her. Put the entirety of everything behind her. Her previous weekend had been one of the worst, and she prayed that coming home would ease that pain. Ease every hurtful word and emotion she’d heard, said and felt some two days ago. Ease the anguish in her chest since he’d left. She had spent the entire time thinking, “soon I’ll be home. I can make it a few more hours.” Trying to reassure herself that things were gonna be fine. That they were gonna be fine. That when things to be at their worst, they always have a knack of swinging around to good again.

The cab from the dingy train station to home wasn’t excruciatingly long, but felt like an absolute eternity. (Y/N) knew she would soon be home and was growing more uplifted with every passing street. She would feel better, hopefully happier. Nothing that happened in Ohio would matter when she walked through the doors of her apartment and saw all of her things, and him . He would make everything good again, with his hugs and his words of support and soliloquies of I missed you and his sorry . His I didn’t mean it . He would heal all wounds, fix the crack that had nearly split the two of them apart. He had been the one to make it, after all.

When the cab parked in front of the three story brownstone a wave of something washed through (Y/N). She couldn’t describe it and was entirely sure that she didn’t like it. “125 West 119th Street,” the cab called to her from the front seat as if she didn’t already know the address of her own apartment. She remembered the day that they had signed the lease on it. How scared she felt, and how he kept telling her that it was gonna be great. That their home was gonna be great. That they were gonna be great.

(Y/N) snapped out of her daze. Handing the cabby her fare signified the end of her trip and the feeling she had intensified. Stepping out of the cab, she gave a glance up to the second floor window of her apartment. The curtains were half drawn and the lights were off denying a proper peek in. It was nearly six in the evening and the sun was completely cloaked behind a jacket of clouds. If he was home, surely he’d need a light on. (Y/N)’s stomach knotted.

The cabby retrieved (Y/N)’s bag from the trunk while she was staring up at the window, hand fisted around the strap of her purse. She wasn’t aware that more than ten seconds had passed, and was startled when the cabby dropped her suitcase at her feet, huffing loudly. (Y/N) dismissed him with a ‘thank you’ called over her shoulder as she bent to pick up her bag, carrying it towards the stairs of the brownstone.

Her keys were clipped to the strap of her purse, her fingers finding them easily. They gave a small hassle while trying to unlock the deadbolt of the main door but didn’t prove to be too big of a challenge. When she closed the main door behind her there were hushed voices from down the hall.

“(Y/N), is that you?” Mrs. Zaldana asked from her front door at the end of the hallway. She was dressed in a tattered purple robe, with slippers that had seen days better than the present. She figured that the voices she had heard were coming from the blaring TV that was stashed somewhere within Mrs. Zaldana’s apartment. The poor old woman was deaf as a doornail and it was made even more apparent by the volume she listened to things at.

“Yes, Mrs. Zaldana, it is.” (Y/N) loudly replied, looking longingly at the staircase to her right. She was in no mood for a conversation, merely one flight of stairs away from / him/. She didn’t want to prolong the wait. “I’m sorry to be rude, but I’m exhausted. I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning. I might bring muffins,” she told her, not waiting for a response as she ascended the stairs. Her footfalls sounded so loud, echoing against the walls. Were they always like this?, she wondered.

As she walked her mind busied itself with quick thoughts of him. They’d fought the last time she’d seen him, they’d argued and she’d cried. He’d yelled, and he’d looked angry. She knew he would surely not be over it. Couldn’t be over it. No, he never did let things go like she did. He held onto everything. Let his anger or resentment fester like an infected wound. Wouldn’t let her clean it and heal it and mend it. He was so stubborn. So hateful sometimes. She loved him madly.

A hiss sounded when she reached the top of the stairs. Mr. Martinez’s cat was perched on the banister of the staircase, it’s legs tucked underneath her orange body. She gave the cat a soft stroke when she reached her, letting the cat affectionately nuzzle into her palm. After a moment her hand left the tabby’s fur, dropping to her side. Her heartbeat sped again as she took the final distance to the apartment, readying her keys to unlock the door. She gripped the handle to pull the door towards herself, the only way the old bolt would disengage, and found it loose. She narrowed her brows at the brass knob, giving it a tentative turn. The door opened with a squeak.

“Bucky?” She called into the apartment, following the door inside. The apartment was dark and empty. She shrugged out of the black leather jacket covering her arms. Kicking off her shoes, she realized the chair to the desk in front of the window was pulled out. Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach, her hands becoming clammy and shaky. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. Her mind began pulling forward every awful scenario that could be happening. That could be the reason for a dark apartment and an unlocked front door. She wanted none to be true.

She sat down on the chair in front of the desk, her knees feeling too weak to support herself. The desktop had been cleared of nearly all of the objects that once littered it before she left. In front of her was a stark grey envelope that had her name written on it in a familiar messy scrawl. She cleared her throat, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She couldn’t open the envelope yet. Couldn’t breathe. Her throat felt dry and scratchy, like she was struggling with a bad cold.

“You can’t do this to me,” she managed to whisper out, seeing the gold band that had been carefully set atop the envelope. Her hand trembled minutely when she picked the ring up, turning it around her finger. The outside was scuffed and dirty, showing the wear and tear of three years on his finger. The inside, however, was smooth and polished. She figured it was from all of the times he’d taken it off. She set it down with a pained look like suddenly the metal had sparked a flame against her skin.

She noticed the keys next, deciding they were the reason her front door had been unlocked when she had returned home. She saw the house key and the mailbox key both attached to a dull metal ring. She plucked them up, sliding the metal ring along her finger until it sat at the base. She held the finger up, looking at the keys while she spun them around. She wanted to be able to throw the keys out of the window and the pain that she was feeling with them.

She dropped the keys to the desktop with a thud, deciding to finally face the letter. He throat felt drier than before and she had a tingling in her nose that indicated she was on the verge of crying. Inside the envelope was a piece of off-white paper folded thrice. Unfolding it revealed that he’d written his final letter to her on a slip of paper that read “ James and (Y/N) Barnes ” at the top. “How fitting,” she said to the empty room. “Writing your goodbye on our stationary.”

She held the paper tightly in between the first finger and thumb of both hands, eyes scanning over the scratchy script. She felt like every letter was being burnt into her cerebellum as tears rolled down her cheeks leaving streaks where the foundation had been washed away.

She let the letter fall from her fingers to the desk, her breath held in her chest as she moved her gaze to focus out the window. The sky outside was still dark, the clouds an angry grey. She felt as if the weather was mocking her. Saying she didn’t deserve to see the sun since hers had just walked out on her. She pushed up from the chair, her knees feeling wobbly as she did. She took a few tentative steps, reaching her hand out to grab onto the arm of the couch. She thought of how much she hated it when he’d picked it out, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the realization that the fight they’d had over it was the most inconsequential thing now, but had held so much weight before.

She sunk to the floor in front of the couch, resting her back against it. She hadn’t stopped crying. The tears felt like they’d started coming faster, pouring down her face like they were on a race to see who could make it down her neck the fastest. She brought her knees up, her arms wrapping around them in a self hug. She didn’t know what she could do, what she could say. She felt numb. Her whole being had frozen like gridlocked traffic. She couldn’t bring her thoughts away from him, couldn’t even begin to worry about what she was going to do now. What she could do now that she wasn’t his, he wasn’t hers, and he wasn’t here.

She looked around the apartment that once had been theirs, where their memories were made and their lives were shared. Where they’d started their lives as two and joined together to become one. A unified being.

“Bucky’s gone,” she heard herself whisper into the apartment. Her voice sounded weak and scratchy from the sobs that had been echoing from her throat since she’d begun reading the letter. She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, sniffling hard to clear her nose as best she could. “He thinks this is all my fault,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

Had she not tried? , she wondered. She’d dragged him to therapists, sat on couches uglier than the one he’d picked out for them and aired all of their dirty laundry to a therapist with a judgmentally arched eyebrow and a pen that never moved. She’d lauded over him, poured her heart out in a flood on the floor. Listened while he blamed her for every problem, abhorred her for every instance in their lives when they were unhappy.

“You always thought that I was the problem,” she said, raising her bloodshot eyes to look at the picture of the two of them on the fireplace mantel. “I’m sure you’re doing just fine, knowing you were the one who got to decide this. Got to leave. Chose to cut and run, to what? Find something better?” she hissed. “Find someone better,” she amended. She felt anger bubbling up, quickly tampering that down to stifle it. She needed to feel her pain first. Accept that she was heartbroken, not deny it. Not cover it up with easier emotions.

“You don’t -” her voice broke, her hand rubbing at her nose. “You don’t get the easy way out.” She felt insane, sitting on the floor and talking to a picture. Knew that it wasn’t going to solve anything. She was going to still be hurting, and he was completely oblivious to it all. “God,” she groaned. “What about you? Huh? What about you, Bucky?” She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her nose, figuring her hand unfit for the job. “You think I’m the problem?” She asked of the picture which would stay mute. “You had your secrets, Bucky! You knew you had to hide things from me. Keep them locked away in some vault within yourself. Throw them out when they got to be too much. Ignore them like you ignored me. Bring them back, Bucky! Bring back your lies. Hang them on our wall! Hang them with our wedding photos and the photos of you and I where you were already falling out of love with me. Why not?” She stood from the floor, a sob ripping through her chest when she caught a glimpse of his ring again.

She trudged the short distance across the apartment to the small kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter. She reached up and removed a wine glass from the shelving unit where it was held, setting it down with a clink to the faux granite countertop. She ripped apart a drawer in order to find the corkscrew, cursing over the fact it was never easy to locate. She uncorked the bottle and threw the screw into the sink where it made a loud metal clang. Pouring the liquid into the glass she became aware, again, of her trembling hands. She wondered how she wasn’t dousing the entire kitchen with the wine.

She walked out of the kitchen armed with a half full glass of wine in one hand and a bottle in the other. If anything were going to help her, it was inebriation. “You know something?” She asked, aware that she would never hear an answer. “Here I am, stuck in this fucking apartment that you wanted. Covered in invisible scars from every fight we had in this place, and you? Where are you? Hiding away? Chasing something that you’ll never find? Fuck you.” She chugged the wine from the glass, refilling it as she sat down on the padded bench in front of their - her - bed. She set the bottle down by her feet, holding the glass firmly between both hands. Memories were racing back and forth as she looked around the apartment.

She was certainly still hurting, she decided. No more anger from before, though her tone could have fooled an outsider. Nothing but pure, unadulterated pain. Pain for everything they were, pain for everything they’d yet to be, pain for everything that they should have been. She finished her second glass, setting it down beside the bottle. “Maybe, maybe if you’d stayed. If you’d have talked to me. Told me your goodbyes in person… Maybe then I could understand how you could leave. Maybe then I’d see that you never thought we had a chance at all.”

She stood from the bench, walking to his dresser which she knew was empty now. She paused for a moment, wanting to open the drawers. Wanting to see his clothes in them. Wanting to see some evidence that he wasn’t really gone. That he hadn’t really left after all. That this was just a fucking act to try and change her. Make her cave and shape herself into the wife he thought he deserved. One that turned a blind eye to everything he did. One that knew how far they’d cracked apart, but would be able to salvage it. To rebuild everything between them.

(Y/N) looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers out. She wiped at her cheeks, sniffling before splaying her hands out again in front of herself. She looked from the old golden ring with the adorning pearls she always wore to the small silver one that she would spin anxiously. She then moved her attention to her wrist, unlatching the watch that was looped around it. She was out of time with the one who had given it to her, she felt no need to keep it on. Sliding it off of her wrist, she had to pull her lips in between her teeth to keep from making any sounds. She set the watch down atop the dresser and moved to take off the golden bracelet that had accompanied it. She set it down next to the watch, taking in a shaky breath.

She looked back down at her hands again, seeing the last thing he’d given her. The diamond band around the ring finger of her left hand. She sobbed, this one sounding more pained than she ever thought she could. More raw and vulnerable than she’d ever been in her life. She twisted the ring off of her finger for the first time in three years, setting it down atop the dresser. She rubbed at the skin of her finger for a moment, feeling the phantom weight of the ring like it were still there. She took a few weak steps back from the dresser, eyes trained on the jewelry that had once held so much value to her. She sank back down onto the bench, hands falling into her lap.

“What now?” (Y/N) wondered of the empty apartment, voice drained and heart heavy. Where could she go now? Where could she turn? She wanted to lay on the bed and have him to curl against, to lay with and be comforted by. How could he be the one she needed the comfort because of? How could he be the one who broke them? Broke her? Let something that was once so wonderful die?

She was still hurting, alright. And God. She wondered when that would change.

[radi0active-thoughts]

Ghost, Chapter 7 - “If It Means A Lot To You”

A/N: Hey there! It’s been a while I don’t update that story due to a plenty of personal issues (for real, I even thought to re-write it all), but here I am and I hope you enjoy it. The music that inspires the chapter is "If It Means a Lot to You" by A Day To Remember.

Word count: 4065

Warning: Smut, violence, torture, a little angst, attempt rape, MCU and Marvel-Netflix together, Google Translate Romanian.

The Mixtape | Spotify Playlist | Catch up

Y/N POV

Eight months ago

Bucky kissed me and I kissed him back under the starred sky and under the Brooklyn Bridge’s lights. He had pulled me to his lap and the upper part of his Julius Caesar costume has been thrown to the back seat.

“I think we should go back to the compound.” I said after I stopped him.

“Why you say that?” He asked.

“Because the things I want to do to you would get us arrested.” I answered and he laughed.

“Oh, yeah?” He asked and squeezed my hips.

“Hell to the yeah, Sergeant.” I answered him and grinded on him. He moaned and we began a heavy make out session inside the car.

Our lips would collide and fight for dominance, Bucky’s hands were already squeezing my butt and bringing my hips closer to his, making me grind on him and feel his hard cock there. My arms laced around his neck when I felt his lips on my neck – he had me when he found my sweet spot, making me moan louder and my body arch even more against his.

“Hmmm, found it.” He whispered in my neck, trailing a way of kisses to my throat.

“I think I can’t wait until we get to the compound.” I said and moaned when Bucky began to play with the straps of my dress, lowering them to have easy access to my boobs. He looked at me and his lips traveled back to mine.

“I was counting on that.” He said and began to kiss my boobs, kissing and sucking my nipples, making me moan louder than intended.

Bucky moved the driver’s seat so we’d get more space and a little comfort. I lift my body so he could pull his tunic up and his boxers down. I hiked up my dress and while Bucky pumped himself with his metal hand, I put my panties to the side. It made him stop his ministrations and caress my clit, feeling how wet I was.

“Is this all for me, babygirl?” He asked.

“No” I answered with a playful smirk. “It’s for Steve.”

“Y/N…” He warned. “Don’t play with me.”

“What you’re gonna do about that, Sergean- OH!” I was asking and he didn’t need to tell me twice when pulling a moan from my lips, thrusting a finger inside my pussy while his thumb massaged my clit. His finger massaged my walls and my body began to tremble, leaving me on the edge of an orgasm.

But Bucky saw it coming and took his finger out of me. I groaned in frustration.

“Come on!” I shouted and he smirked.

“I told you not to play with me, babygirl.” He said. “And I just don’t make you beg because we’re inside a car. Ride me.”

“With pleasure.” I said and sat on his lap slowly, his thick cock stretching me in a delicious way. “Oh damn, you’re big.”

“And you’re damn tight.” He grunted. “Deliciously tight.”

“Yeah” I said when his cock was all the way in me. “It’s been a while.”

“A while?” he asked with a laugh.

“Okay, more than a while.” I said and began to move in a slow pace. “Ah, shit.”

“Fuck, Y/N.” He grunted and began to control my pace, thrusting into me and making me bounce. I’d bounce on him and thankfully the car didn’t move.

We both were a sweating and moaning mess, the car’s windows were getting foggy, the air around us was hotter. Bucky and I would kiss with ferocity, fighting for dominance. I felt my pussy clench around him, he grunted and fastened his pace, making my body tremble for the second time.

“Buck- AH!” I moaned his name and screamed when his metal fingers began to circle my clit. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes – James!”

“Holy shit, Y/N!” He muffled his scream on my neck, kissing and biting lightly on my skin afterwards. His body began to tremble under me. “Come with me, babygirl.”

My body trembled and with an exasperated sigh, I came undone and laid my head on his shoulder, so I could catch my breath. Bucky came not long after and embraced my body to his, catching his breath.

“Not close from I can do on my bed, but it was great.” Bucky commented and I laughed.

“I couldn’t brag about my flexibility either.” I said and got up from his lap, a mix of our juices falling from my pussy. I sighed from the emptiness and Bucky smiled, using his fingers to collect our juices and making me shiver from the sensibility. I looked down at him and he offered me his fingers, which I gladly sucked on. Soon enough, an idea came to my mind, making me go to the backseat.

“It means you’re down for a second round?” Bucky asked looking at me.

“Yes, but not inside the car.” I answered and sat on the backseat, so I could take the panties off. Once I took them off, I cleaned myself while hissing from relief. I went back to my seat and Bucky had settled himself, so we’d go back to the compound.

-

The short travel to the compound would be more tense if it wasn’t for the music playing in the radio. The sexual tension between us reached its peak when we arrived to the compound and went to the elevator.

Bucky began to kiss me in a rough way and I corresponded fighting back for the dominance once again that night. Accidentally, we had pressed the buttons to every floor and, while kissing, we stopped at the common room, with me in Bucky’s arms while he held me from my butt.

“Shit.” Bucky said in a whisper. “Wrong floor.”  

“Holy crap.” I said and laughed lowly. We were about to go back to the elevator when I heard someone (or something) moving. “Buck, did you hear it?”

“What?” He asked and he didn’t even had time to hear again when I grabbed one of my knives from the leg support I wore and threw towards the noise. My knife stopped at one of the armchairs in the room. “You are with your weapons? How come I didn’t feel…?”  

“Some things never change.” I said and jumped from Bucky’s lap. “FRIDAY, can you turn the lights on?”

Lights on – FRIDAY said and I grabbed my other knife.

“Your grandmother taught you well.” I heard Nick Fury’s voice. I jumped off of Bucky’s lap and Fury turned around. He sat on the armchair. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“Fury.” Bucky said, nodding.

“I suppose I need to talk to Y/N” Fury began. “Alone.”

“Sure.” Bucky said and then looked at me. “Mine or yours?”

“Mine.” I answered, telling Bucky to go to my room. “Your voice is on my lock system.”

“G’night.” He said and left.

“Okay, Fury.” I said. “Talk.”

“First of all” He began. “You really enjoyed the Halloween spirit, didn’t you?”

“I have a child right now.” I said in a matter-of-fact. “I need to do this for her.”

“How motherly of you.” Fury said. “I need you for a mission, one you might enjoy, like your old times.”

“Talk.” I said and sat on the couch, looking at him.

It would be a mission from the upper echelons, speaking of CIA type of mission. It would be an operation made up in four steps to arrest a man named Zaharia, a powerful mobster that owned lots of heavy schemes – human trafficking among them all. It would take up to six months, if everything worked accordingly. I’d have a new identity and also I’d have to learn a new language – Romanian that would be.

“Six months far from home.” I said.  

“You never cared for that.” He said. “Even when I used Clint to attract you.”

“Well, I do now.” I said after a heavy sigh. “Now I have a kid to care about, now I have a family to rely on. I’m not the lone wolf anymore, Fury.”

“Six months.” He said. “It will go fast, you won’t even realize it... and I’ll make it easy for you to communicate with Aaliyah.”

“Is there a second person on the lead?” I asked after an awkward silence.

“Dinah Madani.” He answered. “Everything you need to know about her and this assignment is in the report inside your closet. You leave tomorrow night, your flight is already booked.”

“Can I go?” I asked. Fury nodded and I got up, giving my back to him and walking towards the elevator.

“Y/N?” Fury called me and I looked back. “Wear condoms. Your grandmother wouldn’t like you to be an irresponsible person.”

“I take birth control, Fury.” I said after a laugh and left him alone in the room.

-

“What did Fury tell you?” Bucky asked. He had ran a bath for both of us and we agreed we wouldn’t go for a second round too soon – Fury’s sudden appearance was enough to make our stamina go down.

I sighed. “He got me assigned, Buck.” I answered. “A big ass assignment.”

“No shit?” He asked and I nodded in denial. I was laying on his chest, the lavender and lemon bath bomb he used made the bathroom smell like heaven. “How long?”

“Up to six months.” I answered. “He promised to put me in touch with Aaliyah, though.”

“That’s a long time.” He commented and I nodded. “When will you leave?

“Tomorrow night.” I answered.

“I just want you to promise something to me.” Bucky said all of sudden, after the comfortable silence that formed between us.

“What would it be?” I asked him and looked at him from his shoulder. He looked down at me and kissed my right temple.

“Come back to me.” He answered and I nodded, kissing the scars between his shoulder and metal arm, and laying on his chest afterwards. His right hand began to caress my shoulder.

“I will.”

Bucharest, Romania  

Eight months later  

“Y/N?” Madani called me through the comms. “Can you hear me?”  

“Loud and clear, Dinah.” I answered in a whisper. “Loud and clear... Do you know how tough it is to be the you and me at the same time?”  

“Shut your face.” She laughed lowly, so no one would hear her. “Did you get the files?”  

“Not yet.” I answered while looking at the hacking system Tony lent me. “Stark’s system didn’t pass through their firewall yet. It’s cracking the passcodes.”  

“Is your gun with you?” she asked out of sudden. I looked at the hacking system – it was already transferring the files to a secure cloud inside CIA.  

“I got two guns and a pair of knives inside this comfortable maid clothing.” I answered with a huff.  

“Take the clothing off if you’re wearing your tactical uniform under it.” She said. “In less than two minutes, they’ll corner you because you found it better to ditch the maid counting.”  

“Did you really think I’d make eight months ten?!” I asked with anger and I didn’t even have time to take that ridiculous uniform off – three men appeared inside the main office, where I was collecting (robbing, to be more exact) their data – plans, schemes and lists with names that involved illegal weapon purchase, art piece stealing and even human traffic.  

I spent eight months in Romania as Alina Drăgoi, a student who didn’t find job opportunities in her knowledge area and applied to work as a maid so she could pay her tuition. I cleaned more rooms in five months than in a lifetime, and hell, I was tired of it.  

My limit came when one of Zaharia’s sons tried to rape me while I cleaned his room. One of the CIA’s undercover agents saved me, who was there as one of Zaharia’s men. The worst of all was that I couldn’t fight against him – not because he was stronger than I was, but because I’d ruin the cover if I did.  

And now that I blew my cover, I could do whatever the fuck I wanted.  

“Buna ziua, domnilor.” (Hello, gentlemen) I said in Romanian.  

“Ce cauți aici, servitoare?” (What are you doing here, maid?) One of them asked.  

“S-ar putea să am greșit ușile.” (I might have mistaken the doors) I answered in a polite way, looking at my feet, faking fear. “Casa are prea multe.” (The house has too many)  

“Ce faci aici?” (What are you doing here?) Zaharia’s son, the one who tried to rape me, arrived.

Shit, I thought.  

“Această servitoare a fost aici.” (This maid was here) the other man answered. “A greșit ușile.” (She has mistaken the doors.)  

“Nu era la conte.” (She wasn’t at the count.) Zaharia’s son, Vladmir, said. “E un spion dracu '.” (She’s a fucking spy.)  

“Madani” I whispered and the men began to approach. “I need to earn some time. What do I do?”  

“I need three to five minutes.” Dinah answered. “I just had access to Stark’s system status.”  

“Do I have your permission to kill?” I asked lowly while trying to run from the men and defend myself with the big office chair. I looked at the system – I had three more minutes. “Madani!”  

I ran from those men like the Devil ran from the church. It was a cat and mouse game but they didn’t know one thing – I was the cat who let the mice fool around for a while.  

“Just a little more, Y/N.” She said and one of them got a hold of me, locking both of my arms.  

“Lasa-ma sa plec!” (Let me go!) I screamed using all my acting abilities. “Te rog, lasă-mă să plec!” (Please, let me go!)  

“Ce îi facem ei, șefule?” (What do we do to her, boss?) The man who held me asked while I acted like I tried to release myself.  

“De ce nu facem vorbele de păsări?” (Why don’t we make the little bird talk?) Vladmir asked while coming closer. His face disgusted me in ways I couldn’t explain. His right hand went to my chin and I saw the drawing of a rose I recognized as the same rose tattooed on the Ginger Man’s neck in Almería. “Pentru cine lucrați? Hm?” (Who do you work for? Hm?)  

I didn’t answer and Vladmir gave me the filthiest smile I’ve ever seen in eight months of this undercover mission. “Știi, dulceață.” (You know, sweetness) He began and grabbed my left leg and approached his body from mine. My breathing got heavier because he could find my weapons under the skirt and it would fuck up my situation even more. “Te-am urmărit de când ai venit să lucrezi în casa mea. Și te-a plăcut, dar tu, micuța pasăre, ai nevoie de o lecție pentru a nu muri cu ceva ce nu te descurci.” (I’ve been watching you since you came in to work inside my house. And I liked you, but you, little bird, need a lesson so you don’t mess with something you can’t handle).  

“Fa ce trebuie sa faci.” (Do what you gotta do.) I hissed. He smiled and worked on his pants, unbuttoning them.

“Ascultător.” (Obedient.) He said and his hand began to go further up my leg. He licked the left side of my face and then whispered inside my ear: “Așa îmi place, dulceață.” (That’s how I like it, sweetness.)  

“The system already sent everything for the cloud drive at CIA.” Madani said through the comms and I thanked God my earpiece was in the right ear. “Now, make them remember you in their worst nightmares.”  

I smiled as filthy as Vladmir and his smile got bigger. “Te distrezi?” (Enjoying yourself?)  

“Vino mai aproape.” (Come closer.) I said and his brown eyes were on mine. In a escape sequence, I stepped on the feet of the man who held me and hit Vladmir’s face with my head.  

He screamed in pain and went backwards. His nose bled. “Ticălosule!” (You bitch!)

He and his men came at me and, as easy as preparing a Papanasi, I put them down - I wasn't supposed to be as angry as I was, but these months in Romania made me angry as Hell and the raping attempt enraged me even more.

One of his men came again and tried to punch me. I held his fist with my right hand. “Mișcare greșită, amice.” (Wrong move, pal.) I said and put his right arm behind his back, breaking it. He screamed in pain and grabbed his gun with the other hand, but I was faster - I disarmed him and hit his head on the Mahogany table, multiple times.

“Aceasta este” (This is) hit. “pentru” (for you) hit. “a învăța” (to learn) hit. “să nu” (not to) hit. “te joci” (play) hit. “cu” (with) hit. “mine!” (me!). One last hit and he fell dead on my shoes.

“Cine ești tu?” (Who are you?) the other man asked. I smiled and grabbed both of my knives under the maid uniform while seeing the fear in his eyes. I didn't take long to throw both my knives to his face - they stabbed his eyes, killing the man immediately. Vladmir had lost the color of his skin while looking at me.

“Shit.” Vladmir said, with his nose still bleeding. He tried to run but I got to the door faster.

“Știi, Vlad.” (You know, Vlad.) I began walking to him. He'd walk backwards, with fear. “Ar trebui să te ucid repede aici și acum. Dar m-am ocupat de bărbați ca tine înainte și m-am ocupat de ei în consecință. Și, din fericire, sunteți în situația sa: pantaloni jos și frica în ochii tăi.” (I should kill you fast, here and now. But I've dealt with men like you before and I dealt with them accordingly. And thankfully, you're in their situation: pants down and fear in your eyes.)

“Ce vei face cu mine?” (What are you going to do to me?) He asked, terrified.

“Vă voi învăța o lecție.”(I'll teach you a lesson.) I answered and grabbed one of the knives from the men's skull, cleaning it on the maid uniform. “Unul nu veți uita niciodată.” (One you will never forget.)

Said that, Vladmir tripped on his steps and fell to the floor. I could see his bulge almost jumping from his pants. I grabbed the lighter in the uniform pocket and began to heat the blade.

“Nu sunteți...” (You're not...) He began as a lowered myself next to his pants. He began to beg when I stopped to heat the blade and grabbed his dick with my left hand. “Nu, nu nu! Te rog, nu-” (No, no, no! Please, don't - )

I won't lie and say that I didn't enjoy listening to his pleas while I cut his dick out of his body. Because God knows I enjoyed.

“Așa fac eu cu violatorii, Vladimir.” (This is how I deal with rapists, Vladmir.) I said and he was paralyzed, his screaming was mute, his throat probably sore and his breathing was fast. I made him hold the dead member with his left hand. “Și aceasta este pentru tine să înveți să nu viorezi din nou nici o femeie, nici un bărbat sau un copil, pentru că știu că ai făcut-o. Și o să știu dacă o faci din nou și mă voi întoarce să te ucid, degetul cu degetul, degetul de la picior, degeaba.” (And this is for you to learn to not rape any women, men or children again, because I know you did. And I'll know if you do it again, and I'll come back to kill you, finger by finger, toe by toe, slowly.)

I heard heavy running and grabbed my other knife, cleaning it in the uniform and taking the piece off afterwards, leaving me in my tactical gear. I put my knives back in their supports and opened the big ass window.

"Are you over with your revenge, Y/N?" Dinah asked through the comms.

"Are you going to send a helicopter to catch me, Madani?" I answered sarcastically.

"You got five minutes to reach the roof." She answered and I climbed to the roof. The helicopter was coming and I ran with all I had in me, jumping and falling inside the vehicle. I closed my eyes and fell asleep, listening to the pilot.

"She's already here, agent Madani." was the last thing I heard.

-

Upstate New York, USA.

Three days later

"Mission report?" Fury asked Madani and I. We were in our way to the Avengers compound, having a meeting inside a fancy equipped van. I drank a dose of cowboy Bourbon, relaxing from the flight and the mission in a whole.

"All the information is being analyzed by the CIA IT team." Madani answered. "By now, they might be hacking a few IPs from the schemes, and gathering more information."

"Good." He said and looking at me. "Can I count on you for another assignme-"

"The next time I need to get more than intended in one of these assignments, Fury" I began, cutting him. "I'll fucking blow up the place before you know it. The next time, if there is a next time, I'll be doing it my way and you know my way, don't you?"

"I do." He simply answered and I felt the van stop. "You and agent Madani might work as a team again."

"Good." I said. "I hope I don't need to hear from you anytime soon, Madani."

"The same for me, Y/L/N." Dinah answered. "I'd be down for a couple of beers, though."

"We can see about that." I said and opened the vehicle's door, grabbed my bag and headed to the compound.

-

Welcome back, Y/N - FRIDAY said.

"Thanks, FRIDAY." I answered. "Where is the team?"

They're in the kitchen, having lunch. - FRIDAY answered. - Do I let them know you arrived?

"Is Aaliyah here?" I asked.

Yes, she is. - FRIDAY answered and I took the elevator and pressed the button to the kitchen floor.

"Then I want to surprise them." I answered.

The closer I came to the kitchen, the more it felt like home. I could tell it was Sam who cooked, the kitchen smelled great and my stomach began to growl. I laughed internally and I barely got to the kitchen and heard Ali calling me - she could tell I'd arrived due to her powers.

"Mommy!" She screamed and ran at me. I dropped my bag and held her in my arms, in the middle of the kitchen.

I never thought she'd call me that way but, while at Romania, three weeks before this day, while we cried and talked to eachother, she told me she missed me everyday and she called me "Mommy". I froze and then, when my heart swelled with joy and belonging. I felt like I had a family after all.

"My baby." I answered and cradled her. "How have you been? Hm? Did you obey Nat and Steve? And Bucky?"

"Yes." She answered and she began to cry. "I missed you so much, Mommy."

"I missed you so much it hurts." I confessed and laughed through the tears I didn't feel falling from my eyes. Aaliyah climbed off of me and went to seat at her place to have lunch.

"I didn't let anyone seat by my side." She stated proudly and I laughed. "I knew you were coming back."

"That's true." Nat said and laughed. She came to hug me. "How's Bucharest?"

"I didn't really have time to enjoy the city, but it's beautiful." I answered after we hugged. "Where's Bucky?"

"Doll?" I heard him ask from behind me and I turned around. It was my time to almost run to him and jump on his arms. He held me from my back, my legs were around his waist and we hugged eachother. "You're back."

"I'm known for accomplishing both my missions and promises." I said and he looked at me.

"You're back to me?" He asked.

The time I was far from the team, and mainly from Aaliyah and Bucky, made me put my mind straight about some stuff. And one of these stuff was that I felt complete and at ease with Bucky. I felt like home and I wasn't willing to let this feeling go anytime soon.  

"I'm back to you, Seargent." I answered and we shared a kiss. A kiss with desperation, with longing. A kiss with love and belonging.

-

Tags (open): @ailynalonso15 @witchymarvelspacecase @annabella789 @ladylustitia @theseldomseenkilljoy @wicket-master @purrrcrastination @coal000 @parisss-lilli@luv-what-you-do @s-killian14 @wowspideyholland@curlyhairedlolita @personwhoisntquitesureimalive @barnesdeservestheworld@cassiopeia-barrow

[theanimeview]

Light & Shadow: Defining Nobility

Summary: Light & Shadow is about a princess whose kingdom has fallen. Princess Edna, raised as Prince Edan, kept her gender a secret growing up, especially from her father whose rule as king was best known for his cruelty and lack of leadership. She waited for her eventual succession of the throne while growing up, with plans to forever keep her gender a secret and aspirations to right her father's wrongs. However, before reaching that succession a rebellion led by a person from her past overtakes the palace. On the run, she eventually makes it to a viscount’s house where she becomes a mistreated maid. From there, she is chosen as a replacement to marry Duke Eli, instead of the noble daughter he expected from the viscount’s household. This is the set up for the story, and from here you must read it yourself to get the full picture of her new life after marrying Duke Eli.

Tappytoon’s summary, where you can read the story at your convenience is as follows, “It's a rude insult when lowly and headstrong servant Edna comes to marry Duke Eli, instead of the noble daughter he expected. But the ambitious maid hides an even bigger secret behind her obvious ruse - one that could change the kingdom's very history. Can the two find freedom, redemption - and love - without drawing their swords on each other? Based on the hit novel. Genre: Romance, Drama.” 

Before reading too far into this review and analysis, I would recommend checking out the story yourself. I love this story and think the read of 103 chapters is considerably short given the ambitious plot points provided (from hiding a princess, political marriages, to deeper discussions of defining nobility [the latter of which I’ll discuss here]). I’ve been following the story since it came up in a list of friend-recommendations last August which, I believe, is around the time it was first beginning to be translated (please don’t quote me on that!). It is one of the few series I promote privately to friends as much as I do Who Made Me a Princess. 

With that said, let’s jump into the analysis portion for those who already have some familiarity with the story (spoilers for those that don’t) ...

Analysis: In the dictionary, or if you Google the term, there are two primary definitions: 

1: the quality or state of being noble in character or quality.

2: the body of persons forming the noble class in a country or state--aristocracy.

I will refer to the first definition as “noble-character” or “noble-quality,” and I will refer to the second definition as “noble-blood/birth” or “noble-status” in this analysis.

As early as Chapter 1, the concept of “nobility” and, by extension, how it is defined becomes an apparent theme at the core of the story. The first handful of chapters reflects former Princess Edna’s life with the Viscount’s family. It is here where we are shown the “nobility” of this aristocratic family. For them, "nobility" is about blood and decent, not quality of character. This is shown in the actions taken by the Viscount and his family. Supposedly, the Viscount's family was loyal to the former King Ducaine (Edna’s father), yet no one from the family recognizes Edna at all. Since they were formerly loyal to the late king, they now have to give up a daughter, Anna, to the new king’s chosen knight-turned-duke as a bride for appeasement. The whole family thinks that this is below them, so they plan to trick the new King and new Duke by sending the “maid,” Edna. They claim Edna as the bastard child of the Viscount and frame her as a power-hungry girl when they send her to the Duke’s mansion in Anna place. It shows the Viscount’s family as being without noble quality or character, but having the nobility of blood to fall back on. 

Following her exit from the Viscount’s household, we meet Duke Eli. He also seems to be without noble-character. This comes out the first time the two really speak after their initial meeting. The scene happens later on the same night of the new Dutchess Edna's arrival to the mansion. Eli barges into her room and rudely declares that any misbehavior or lacking manners he shows is due to is “commoner” blood. It’s one of the first interactions the two have, and the argument reflects the two definitions of nobility as conflicting ideas that will carry throughout the rest of the comic-novel. 

Their argument is as follows:

...

In this scene, the two are painted in opposition. Edna, without noble-status, but possessing noble-character and Eli, without noble-character, but possessing a noble-status. Edna tells him that despite his blood, he is now a Duke and should mind the obligations of such a role. However, Eli chooses to still focus on blood, claiming that a bastard-maid is a fitting bride for a commoner-duke like him. Though one might confuse his anger as something stemming over the disrespect that the Viscount has shown him by sending what Eli believes to be a bastard, as we later learn, Eli is more so blinded and spiteful of his title than by any slight the Viscount has made.

His spite is tied deeply to the inherited belief from his father that nobility is about bloodlines. While he doesn’t necessarily believe that himself, he thinks that all nobility, even bastard maids, must also believe this to be true. These feelings come across through his interactions with Edna most of all. Over time, Eli’s lack of noble-character changes because Edna reminds Eli of the noble-qualities he once held as a child who sacrificed everything to end the madness of his father and lead the rebellion against King Ducaine. 

Throughout the work, this concept is played several more times in varying sub-plots. We see it with how Cayden, the current King post-rebellion, views his brother, Eli, while growing up--seeing Eli (once named Hayden) as the one who should have ruled both because his brother is of noble-birth and noble-character. We see it again with Anna, the Viscount’s daughter, who felt like her blood put her above marrying a commoner-duke. She was shown humility after drinking too much and being laughed out of the kingdom, in addition to King Cayden punishing her family for disobeying his order to send Anna to Eli in the first place.

This theme heavily corresponds to the art too. While reading, I was watching how lights and shadows play into the storytelling--something that should definitely be revealing given the title. In my first read, I thought that moments of light were representative truth, such as when McFadden, a knight loyal to Eli, tells Dutchess Edna about Eli’s past. Shadows then represented moments of dishonesty or lies, such as when the Viscount’s family plans to lie to Duke Eli and King Cayden by sending Edna in place of Anna. However, in my second reading, I realized that lies happen as much in the dark as they do in the light. You can see this throughout the work but notably in Chapter 70 when Anna and Cayden first meet in-person to discuss how her father failed to send her to Eli. Instead, I found that the light and shadow that the title seems to refer to is not really about lies and truths. Instead, it too is used to help define nobility within the work.

Discovering this played into watching how the characters are framed in pivotal scenes. Take, for example, the scene I copied above where Duke Eli and Edna are fighting. At that moment, Edna is shrouded in darkness, but her eyes are glowing amongst the shadows. She is not the only character that will display this as time goes on--Eli does too as does McFadden: 

(McFadden is in the second picture, notably the one with an eye glowing among the blood and darkness.)

All three characters, based on their respective situations in these different points across the story, are framed in shadows that represent their current situation. For Edna, it is a moment where she must choose between her royal pride and her noble obligation to survive after so many were sacrificed to let her live. Her shadow is representative of her dignity as a royal at that moment. For Eli, the child-version of him shown above, the shadow represents the madness of his father and the family legacy that he has a duty to protect despite the obsession that has possessed their legacy. For McFadden, the shadow is the representation of his family’s legacy to serve and protect the McGregor Family (Eli’s family) without question. All three are thus surrounded by the darkness of their noble-birth legacies as royals, nobles, and knights. All three must stand before that and choose between the nobility of birth or status--the legacies and training and history and conditioning that comes with it--and the nobility of character--the obligation to set such things aside to pursue what is right and necessary. The light in their eyes represents the latter of the two choices, the nobility of character above the nobility of birth or status. Edna sets aside her pride as a royal and joins the lower aristocracy by marrying Eli to pursue the nobler goal of rectifying the damage her father caused during his reign. Eli sets aside his father’s goal and family's legacy to make him the future king and instead places his common-born half-brother on the throne after clearing the madness of power-hungry leaders like his father and King Ducaine. McFadden, as Eli’s sword, kills Eli’s father, choosing to let go of the family legacy to make a “Hayden the king” and follow the McGregors blindly to instead protect his honor as a knight and obligation to his new master’s mission.

In other pivotal moments, we see light and shadow come into play without the glowing eyes, each reflecting the same idea by highlighting when characters show noble-quality as a person or leader among the dark as well as shading individuals who display darker thoughts unbefitting the nobility or chance to be noble around them. Chapter 1 shows this with the Viscounts family covered in darkness. Chapter 70 does as well where King Cayden’s face is covered by a shadow as he plans to punish Anna/the Viscount's family. Even the scene above, where Eli and Edna fight reflects this as before Edna’s eyes glow you can see that Edna is covered/lightened by the candle’s glow in the room while Eli is still mostly shrouded in shadows. In fact, her eyes only start to really glow once Eli’s shadow covers her from the light--highlighting what I mentioned earlier. 

The conclusion of the story (SPOILERS), brings a close to the debate. As Edna and Eli look out at their son, Alex, practicing with a sword, they conclude that they much teach him a lesson in nobility before he becomes king. This lesson is one of humility, as Alex has grown arrogant since being named the heir to King Cayden's throne. It's not just Alex who learns this lesson, Eli relearns it too when Edna is shown to be on par with his skills despite her smaller size and weaker physicality. She wins against Eli in the duel, showing to the readers how the nobility of character wins in the over the nobility of blood/status, and reminding Alex and Eli that you cannot assume you'll be on top simply because of your born-abilities or given status.

You might conclude it is the two definitions of nobility together that defines what nobility is in this story and there is an argument for such (after all, each of the primary characters, Eli and Edna, were born noble and possess noble traits plus the story is called Light & Shadow not Light vs. Shadow). Though I would argue that both of the primary characters here had to forgo their royal and noble statuses for a good length of time before regaining it in the story, meaning to me that rather than saying the two definitions of nobility go hand-in-hand, it might be better to say that one follows the other. The nobility of character leads and the title follows. For it is the nobility of their respective characters that leads them to the end of the story where they meet their happily-ever-after. 

This concludes my analysis of defining nobility in “Light & Shadow.”

[completeoveranalysis]

TRC Translation Notes Volume 15 (Chapters 109 - 116 + Omake)

Another installment of excellent translation notes from the wonderful @giniroangou, now fixing Acid Tokyo one chapter at a time. 

Highlights include: the return of gratuitous exclamation marks, when a basement isn’t a basement, Improved Kurofai scene (oh my lord, it’s so much clearer, I’m so thrilled), justice for Nataku, Yuuko prices making more sense, and Mokona being Mokona. 

Chapter 109

p.5 - “Strong” is the proper translation for Syaoran’s impression of Kamui, so I think this is just shounen manga nonsense, lol.

p.6 - The word translated as “game” here is just a katakana “e” (エ, pronounced “eh”.) It’s a made-up term and the lack of kanji strips it of all meaning until the manga gives us a bit more information, which I’ll elaborate on once we get there.

p.9 - I’m finding it hilarious now that “e” was translated but “ku” wasn’t, oh my god why. “Ku” is the word for a district or a ward.

p.23 - Since you were using these (understandably) as a basis for characterization, there are actually no exclamation points involved in any of the dialogue on this page. There are a couple sentences ending in “yo” so that comes close I guess but IDK, the gratuitous exclamation points in this translation are always going to bug me.

Chapter 110

p.40 - Fuuma’s “It looks like you don’t want to listen to reason,” was originally, “It looks like you’re not in the mood to hear me out,” which I feel makes a bit more sense.

Chapter 111

Cover Page - “The Capital of Water” is the original title of this chapter.

p.51 - Font note: Kakyo’s lines are not italicized in the Japanese version, but they’re bold and written in a slightly fancier font. Kusanagi’s on the next page are just bold.

p.52 - It might just be me, but the use of “basement” feels a bit odd here - the original word used is “chika” (地下), which can be used to refer to a basement, but also any other underground place - it literally just means “underground.”

p.56 - Fai’s translated line about Syaoran having been through some tough times sounds hilariously vague. In the original line he points out that it would be difficult for Syaoran to carry on like this (ie with an arrow sticking out of his leg.)

p.62-63 - The thread of this conversation gets a little lost in the translation. The point of it is, having an underground vein of water alone isn’t enough to save people here, given that the acid rain can penetrate the earth, so the reason why their water is so precious is because it’s beneath a building that’s relatively intact.

Chapter 112

p.73 - When Kurogane says that Fai’s reason for running is none of his business, he says “Ore ni wa kankei nee” (俺には関係ねぇ), which we’ll see repeated later in this scene. More literally this means, “It has nothing to do with me,” or to capture the full versatility of the phrase, “It doesn’t matter to me.” There’s the potential for this line to put distance between Kurogane and Fai, as the initial “none of my business” seems to do and as Fai first interprets it, but there’s also the potential for it to mean that Fai’s past is irrelevant to Kurogane’s current relationship with and perception of him.

p.74 - The phrase “Just now” in the translation was originally “ima no omae,” which is a bit awkward to convert to English but essentially means “the present you” or “the person you are now.” Kurogane is separating Fai’s more guarded past self from his current incarnation who shows genuine care for Sakura and Syoaran.

p.75 - The exception to Fai’s “not dying” rule isn’t dying for someone else, but dying because of someone else. Fai references their conversation in Koryo, but Kurogane shifts more towards their conversation in Outo, which was about Fai not valuing his life.

p.77 - The word that’s been translated as “unhappy” is “fukou” (不幸), which can mean unhappiness but also misfortune in a general sense. Basically Fai doesn’t want bad things to happen to anyone because of his involvement with them.

p.80 - In the Japanese text it’s a lot clearer that Kurogane isn’t really hurting Fai here (or at least that his protest isn’t genuine) - the ending of Fai’s “That hurts” is dragged out into the tone he uses when he’s saying something jokingly. Once again, this seems to be an unsuccessful attempt to distract from their conversation and lighten the mood. It’s quite likely that he’s trying to make Kurogane let go, but I don’t think pain is the reason.

The distinction I made earlier about “It doesn’t matter to me” comes into play here again. There’s a bit of a different ring to “Your past doesn’t matter to me” vs “Your past is no business of mine.” I think it’s also important to note that Fai’s shift from dismissive to shocked here is in response to Kurogane’s adjusted wording - he’s making sure Fai understands that in saying “It doesn’t matter,” he’s not saying that Fai himself doesn’t matter, but that it’s his past specifically and his past alone. Fai thought Kurogane was drawing a line between the two of them, when he was really drawing a line between Fai’s past and current lives.

p.81 - This is a VERY IMPORTANT line that will come up later, and I’m not sure how they handle that with this translation, but what Kurogane is actually saying here is more like, “Cut this shit out and resign yourself to who you are now.” The phrase he uses - a form of “hara wo kukuru” (腹を括る) - indicates steeling yourself to face something unpleasant; he recognizes how difficult this is for Fai, but still wants Fai to recognize how involved he’s become with their found family and accept that as his fate.

Chapter 113

p.98 - In the original text, Syaoran’s single-mindedness is on full display - he straight-up says he’s going because he might learn something about the feather instead of just treating it as an example.

p.99 - The phrase “don’t waste your strength” feels a bit off here - the sentiment should be more along the lines of “don’t push yourself.”

Kurogane literally finishes Fai’s sentence at the bottom of this page. The sentence order makes this very difficult to translate into English in a way that makes sense, but a direct translation would be (Fai) “That… Syaoran-kun…” (Kurogane) “It wasn’t.” forming the full sentence of, “That wasn’t Syaoran-kun.” Fai’s words appear to be hesitant with Kurogane confirming his suspicions, but the original scene gives a stronger sense of them being on the same page than the translation does.

Chapter 114

p.129 - Rest assured, Nataku’s gender identity is preserved in the original text. This is a common trend with CLAMP translations given the large number of characters confirmed or assumed to be non-binary, but often when you see a gendered pronoun in an English translation, there is no corresponding pronoun in the Japanese text. The Japanese language doesn’t require pronouns in many cases, and even when it does people often opt to use each other’s names instead. It’s a great language for non-binary folks, but this also means non-binary gender is very easy to miss unless there’s a point made of it in other dialogue. I assume most translators don’t really think much of assigning gendered pronouns that weren’t originally there simply because a lack of pronouns is so common in Japanese.

Chapter 115

p.139 - The wording in Kamui’s vow of protection reveals that he is protecting something living - he uses the word “iru” (居る) for living things rather than “aru” (有る) for inanimate objects.

p.141 - “I want/need to take it back” is a more appropriate translation for Syaoran’s lines here than “give it back.”

p.143 - Fai tells Mokona that just he and Syaoran will go on any future errands (the “or” was a mistranslation.) Basically he’s saying, “Don’t come with us next time,” in the nicest way possible.

Chapter 116

p.152 - We finally have a name for Xing-Huo! I can’t speak to the transliteration and Chinese meaning, but the exact katakana for her name’s pronunciation are “shin fo” (シンフォ) and it’s written with the kanji 星火, meaning “star” and “fire” respectively. (It looks like lots of great info already came out in the comments when you first read this chapter, but I’m keeping this here for completeness.)

p.153 - I would interpret Yuuko’s final line on this page as: “Those children, too, are like fragments of an unfulfilled dream.”

p.155 - The first price Yuuko lists, “Connections,” is “kankeisei” (関係性), the same word she used for Syaoran’s price at the beginning of the manga, translated at the time as “Your relationship.” This word can refer in a general sense to relations with others, hence the translation on this page, but in the Japanese version it’s a clear call-back to that earlier scene in which the word specifically indicated Syaoran’s relationship with Sakura.

p.156 - In case this needs clarification, when Yuuko says this is within the limits of her meddling, she means it falls within the extent that she’s able to interfere.

p.157 - Once again, “I have to give it back” should be, “I have to take it back.”

p.164 - For the curious, since this term shows up in various places, the word translated as “dream seer” is “yumemi” (夢見).

Omake

p.176 - Mokona saying she’s afraid of pork buns (“manjuu kowai”) is a reference to a well-known rakugo story in which a group of friends are sharing their fears and one of them admits with some embarrassment that he’s afraid of manjuu. His friends are so entertained by this that they decide to tease him by buying a whole bunch of manjuu and leaving them in his room. Though he vocally protests, his friends realize after a moment that he’s eating the manjuu. Acknowledging that they were tricked, they ask what he’s actually afraid of and he says, “Right now I’m scared of a cup of tea.” Aka Mokona is attempting to troll her family for food, in true Mokona style.