#average rivulet player moment

[slug-gore-bug]

neck of noodle, body of forty'-yr'-old man

[thehuggamugcafe]

The Charlatan: Transfer Student I

This story is a work of fiction.

Similarities between characters or events to persons living or dead in your world are purely coincidental.

Only those who have agreed to the above have the privilege of partaking in this game.                  

You found yourself floating in an endless abyss, a void of eternal nothingness spread out before you.

You felt nothing. You saw nothing. You sensed nothing. Tendrils of shadows filtered through your fingers, empty and yet familiar, similar to the very air you drew in. Nonexistent. Meaningless. Empty.

Surprisingly, a large part of you didn’t care as to why you were here, in the never-ending expanse of nonexistence that stretched out before your “sight”, or what could pass for your vision.

And yet...

The feeling of apathy was encompassed, surrounded with and soundly defeated by a quiet, barely-there emotion as it rose up inside you.

Curiosity. A hint of vague interest.

Honestly, you felt a sense of macabre amusement at your current circumstances, however foreboding they may be. Indeed, you felt similar to a chess piece across a spacious chessboard. A random, average player, one of many sitting atop a grand board game, forced to partake in a situation of unfortunate circumstances that were beyond your current understanding.

If you were capable of smirking, hell, even laughing at the situation you found yourself in, a smile would have certainly curled your lips. A laugh would have left your mouth as it curled to form a small, tooth-filled grin, a chuckle that would’ve echoed into the abysmal horizon that didn’t seem to end.

An empty, hollow, and meaningless chuckle. A snicker that bellied the apathetic amusement you were feeling, and yet...

The curiosity persisted.

It pricked at your subconscious, demanding to be satiated. Your mouth opened, but no words rolled off of your tongue. Suddenly, you quietly realized just how stifling the unseen presence was. The silent entity, whatever it may be, had temporarily robbed you of your ability to reason, to argue, to disagree at all.

However...

Your unvoiced intrigue remained.

You were a player, a player unwittingly thrust into a game.

A game where you had to undoubtedly play by the rules, or face severe consequences.

A game overseen by a faceless developer.

A developer who, for all intents and purposes, you had no intention—or desire—of knowing.

In the empty abyss, you couldn’t help but smile as you mulled over the pros versus the cons.

Finally, you were compelled to accept.

Two words left your mouth, pulled back to form a faint grin full of pearly whites.

“I agree.”

...The contract has been sealed.

The world is not as it should be, and “ruin” can no longer be avoided.

Those who oppose fate and desire change...

From time to time, they were referred to as Tricksters and Charlatans.

You are the Trickster; you are the Charlatan.

Now is the time to rise up against the abyss of distortion.

A question formed at the back of your throat, rising up to roll off of your tongue. However, before your inquisitive thoughts could be spoken, a hand wrapped around your throat, stifling your curiosity, and cutting off your voice that desired to make its thoughts—your thoughts—known to the unseen entity.

...No, in fact, that assessment was incorrect.

The hand wasn’t clutching your throat; it had an ironclad grip on your soul. Your ethereal essence seemed to fit into the being’s hand, threatening to rob you of every speck of life you possessed. You felt like a puppet connected to strings that you couldn’t cut, being unwittingly controlled by a master puppeteer.

Slowly, everything around you began to fade back into non-being, dissolving into a deeper, more hellish abyss as it encroached upon you.

Your head shot up as a gasp left your mouth, short and breathless, as your eyes snapped open. Your irises remained dilated for a few moments, readjusting to the glaring light of the late afternoon sunlight from the windows. The lumpy seat of the booth seat you sat in cradled your clothed bottom, and a weary frown pursed your lips, blinking your sleepy eyes as a yawn pulled on your mouth.

The sore, uncomfortable feeling that dominated your stationary form reminded you how long you’d been sitting, riding the subway train to your destination. You blinked, raising both hands and rubbing the bridge of your knuckles over your eyes as they closed. The slim edge of the fake glasses you wore bounced over your digits, pausing only to daintily readjust them before, finally, you seemed satisfied.

The vibrations of the subway train as it clicked and clacked on the railway woke you up, wrestled you free of the daytime terror’s jaws. Indeed, you felt the ice cold sweat still forming on your forehead, trailing its cool, salty trails down your skin. You spared a glance down at your hands, folded in your lap. You took notice of how they shook, trembled as your fingers clutched at the plaid skirt you wore.

A dream? you mused mentally, pursing your lips as your fingers relinquished their tight grip on the plaid skirt.

But... What was the dream about...?

The silent question didn’t come with an answer, and no recollections smacked you across the face, bringing a fresh hit of awe-filled intrigue along with it. It was something you were grateful for, not being able to recall what the dream had been about.

For a moment, you rode a quiet wave of relaxation, leaning back where you sat, feeling the hard edge of the seat digging into your back. You were content to remain as an observer, riding the train to your new destination. There were other passengers aboard the train, each minding his or her own business.

A sign above you listed recent tragedies, some regarding train crashes as a result of sleep-deprived conductors. The constant barrage of accidents and “psychotic breakdowns”, you noted one headline mentioned something about that, were enough to cause a wave of anxiety to be at the forefront of the general public. The public who were seeking, no, demanding answers from the government, to fix the mistakes that caused them to worry, so they could go back to their peaceful, boring day-to-day lives.

You breathed in a sigh. Whatever... It doesn’t concern me; I’m an outsider here in the big city, anyway.

The citizens’ concerns didn’t matter to you, a third-year, eighteen-year-old high school girl, who was also a bona-fide country gal. You, (Y/n) (L/n), with (h/l) (h/c) hair and (e/c) irises, (e/c) irises that stared out from behind a pair of (f/c)-framed spectacles innocently perched on your nose.

You took a moment to spare a glance down at yourself. Your attire consisted of a red-buttoned black blazer with the school’s emblem on the right-hand breast pocket, a white turtleneck shirt with chevron detailing on the collar, a red plaid skirt, (f/c) stockings, and black dress shoes. The small ‘3’ pinned to the folded collar showed that, yes, you were indeed a third-year student.

You took in a breath, slow and deep, releasing it in a steady whoosh of an exhale as you removed a handkerchief from your breast pocket. The feeling of silk touched your fingertips as you raised the handkerchief to your perspiring crown, wiping away all traces of sweat off your crown.

You made a mental note to wash the handkerchief as you folded it, tucking it back into the breast pocket of the black blazer you wore. You glanced up as an announcement came through the subway’s intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for riding with us today. We will be arriving in Shibuya shortly. Please transfer there for all rides. The doors to your left will open.”

As the announcement came to an end, you checked your phone for the time. 4:10. It’s pretty late. You slid your phone back into your pocket, feeling a frown pursing your lips as you thought back to that day.

The event that changed your life forever...

“Please, help!”

You remembered watching as a young woman looked at you, eyes pleading for the aid that she requested of you, begging for help as she was grappled by an intoxicated man. The same man who was trying to force her into the open passenger door of his car.

You recalled the icy chill of hesitation as it washed over you.

The lady had asked you, a high school girl, to help her?

You remembered biting back a sarcastic laugh. What, were you suddenly an armoured maiden on a white horse? Had you arrived just in time to save the damsel in distress from the terrible dragon, ready to devour her as its dinner?

What could you do? Go to the nearest house, bang on the front door, screaming for someone to call the police? For all you knew, the guy would have shoved the helpless, screaming woman into his car and driven off before the cops arrived on the scene!

Still...

You couldn’t just walk away and pretend that the situation had nothing to do with you.

You had to do something, anything. You wouldn’t... No, you couldn’t be an ignorant bystander.

Your mind was set, just as you felt your dominant hand curling to a fist. The heels of your shoes clicked over the asphalt as you approached the struggling woman, and the man snarling intoxicated slurs.

“You think you’re worth causing me trouble, huh? Incompetent fools like you just need to shut your mouths and follow where I steer this country!”

“No! Stop, please!”

“Hey! Lay off of her, you drunk asshole!”

You remembered placing a hand on the inebriated man’s shoulder as you spoke, hoping to divert his attention away from her and on to you. You weren’t sure what you thought beyond that; you just wanted him away from her.

You remembered the man drunkenly swinging an arm, tripping over his feet and hitting the ground. The woman stifled a gasp, her hands covering her mouth as the man slowly sat up, a hand pressed to his head injury as rivulets of red stained his fingers. He glared at you, face lit with an intoxicated flush, eyes full of rage as he spat at you.

“You little bitch... I’ll sue!”

You couldn’t recall what happened beyond that.

The state of shock was quickly replaced by the cold feeling of handcuffs being slapped around your wrists, and being all but shoved into a waiting police car by two officers.

The events of that fateful night weren’t the worst part of your ordeal.

No. The absolute worst part of your tribulation came at your court hearing.

You remembered seeing your mother’s eyes as she stared at you, full of disappointment and shame as she looked away, a frown pursing her lips.

You recalled stiffening, grinding your teeth as your older sister simply smirked at you. Her (e/c) eyes silently rejoiced in seeing you in such a state. You could see it in the way she looked at you, staring triumphantly.

“Failure.”

“Troublemaker.”

“You’ve gone and shamed the family.”

“Seriously... I didn’t think you were this stupid.”

She said nothing, but her gloating aura, her simpering sneer, and the amused glint in her eyes spoke silent volumes for her.

Your little brother, however, was all but hanging over the seat he sat in, (e/c) eyes full of anxiety, worrying for you as he softly hissed, “(Y/n), it’ll be okay.”

Your father was as quiet as your mother and sister were, but like your brother, he was worried for you. Before you were called to stand, to accept whatever charge the judge deemed fit for you, he reached over and placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t worry about a thing, sweetie. Everything will be okay. I’ve hired the best defence for you.”

“Will the defendant, (Y/n) (L/n), please rise?”

You complied, feeling your legs quivering like jelly as your hands became cold, clammy. Your breath hitched in your chest, and you swallowed a gulp that you swore was the size of a tennis ball. Silence reigned in the courtroom before the judge handed your sentence.

“The defendant, (Y/n) (L/n), is found to be guilty on the charge of assault.”

Your eyes widened as beads of sweat dripped down your forehead, your teeth bit down into the flesh of your lower lip. Your little brother had breathed a shocked gasp of, “No! My sister’s innocent!” as his eyes watered, tears threatening to spill over and down his cheeks.

He was promptly shushed by your mother, whose eyes you could feel glaring into your back.

“Huh?! Guilty?! But... Your Honour, all I did was-!”

“Please be silent, Miss (L/n), or you will be found to be in contempt of court.”

You grit your teeth, clenching a fist as you fell silent. The judge presiding over your case continued to speak.

“Henceforth, she will be sentenced to a year of probation. If she abides by the law by the year’s end, her probation will be lifted. Case dismissed.”

With a resounding bang of the gavel, you’d been escorted out of the courtroom by two officers. You were passed off into the custody of your family. You were immediately enveloped by your little brother, his small arms wrapping around your legs as your father rested a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Come on, sweet pea. Let’s go home. I’ll make your favourite for dinner and dessert for tonight.”

“Tch.” Your sister scoffed once your parents and little brother walked ahead, hissing into your ear as she walked by you. “Daddy’s little girl... Can’t do anything wrong in his eyes, can you? You little bitch!”

Unfortunately, the first thing that welcomed you home wasn’t a warm, home-cooked meal, but a sudden, hard smack to the face by your mother. You recalled how your eyes widened as a sensation of shock washed over you. You remembered the echo of a sharp crack as skin met skin, as a vulnerable cheek met five fully flayed fingers, and an open palm. You recollected the sting as your cheek turned a blotchy pink, already feeling a bruise starting to form.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done, (Y/n)! What in God’s good name were you thinking?!”

“Mom, please, listen to me! I’m innocent!”

“Be quiet! I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit excuses, young lady!”

“Mom! Don’t hit (Y/n)!”

“Go upstairs! Now! (S/n), take (B/n) with you!”

Rounding back on you, your mother continued her angry tirade.

“Do you realize what will happen when word gets out?! My reputation! My career! Years... Years of hard work, gone, wasted! Because of you!”

You remembered how your little brother cried, struggled, and screamed as your older sister carried him upstairs, pausing long enough to give you a smirk.

You remembered how furious your father was as he came to your defence.

“(M/n), do not raise your hand to her again! She is our daughter! Our daughter!”

“We raised our daughter to be better than this, (F/n)! I thought we did, at least!”

Your mother’s enraged words cut into you deep, like a hot knife sliding through a stick of warm butter. To hear your mother say such things about you… Family members were supposed to stick together, support each other! ...Weren’t they?

“...Go tell (S/n) and (B/n) to wash up for dinner. We’ll discuss this before bed tonight.”

“Hmph.”

The telltale scuff-scuff of your mother’s slippers were heard as she made her way upstairs, to deliver the message your father had instructed her to give to your siblings. However, when his (e/c) eyes focused on you, and he raised a hand, you flinched.

You were expecting to be struck again, and you shut your eyes, bracing yourself for an incoming hit.

You missed the glint of pain in his gaze as you shied away from him.

You missed the hint of hurt in his (e/c) irises that you, his child, thought that he would strike you as well.

“...Open your eyes, (Y/n).”

“...Yes, Dad,” you murmured, breathing an exhale as you slowly, carefully opened your eyes. You were surprised when you felt your father resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Dad, I... You believe me, right? I’m... I’m sorry for troubling the family like this.”

“...No, don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong, honey. I know my baby girl would never attack someone mindlessly.”

“...What happens now?”

Your question earned a mournful look as your father breathed a sigh, raising his free hand and running his fingers through his (h/c) hair.

“...We received a call while you were in lock-up... From the principal. You’ve been expelled from your school.”

“What?!”

“And... Stipulations have been added to your sentence as well.”

“...’Stipulations’? Meaning... What, exactly?”

“You’ll be staying with someone your mother and I know for your probation period: Sojiro Sakura. He’s a bit of a hard-ass, but I’ve personally asked him to make sure you’ve got a bed and a roof over your head, at least.”

“...”

You said nothing, but the sour look on your face said it all for you.

“...I’m sorry, angel. I really am. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but... A year will go by before you know it, and then you’ll be able to come home. Just... Please stay out of trouble, alright?”

“...Yes, Dad.”

“There’s my little girl. Now... Let’s not end the evening on a sour note. How about we get started on dinner and dessert, hm?”

Your father paused to spare your bruised cheek a look, his brows furrowing as he spotted the bright pink handprint that still marred your (s/c) cheek.

“...I’ll get some ice for that, sweetie. Come on.”

“Yes, Dad. Thank you.”

As you followed your father into the kitchen, your (e/c) irises darkened as you silently mulled over your current circumstances, furrowing your brows as you frowned.

“...A year of probation, huh?”