#given that’d be a pretty big deal at that point in time. god forbid they make the chairman of the tojo clan have a boyfriend in the year of

[designernishiki]

I think one of the things that bothers me the most about mine being killed off at the end of y3 is like… you get little tiny looks here and there into his mind and at who he is, but overall because his intentions are so mysterious most of the game, he seems like a relatively 2-dimensional villain pretty much up until the very end when he monologues and reveals his worldview, background, relationship with daigo, etc. and then right after they establish him as being complex and interesting by revealing all that info AND having him take kiryu’s hand and start changing his mindset for the better– they kill him off. so it kinda feels like truly introducing a character right at the end and then getting rid of him like thirty seconds later just Destroying all the potential they just gave him. like. he was just at the start of his development basically and it just sucks to not be able to see that through and see what he could’ve become.

as much as I do totally understand the dilemma brought on by daigo waking up and the crushing guilt that’d immediately bring mine, and I totally agree that he’d absolutely TRY to dramatically kill himself in an act of self-sacrifice over it, I don’t think they particularly should’ve let him– for the sake of his potential as a recurring character, but moreover because we’ve already been through this before with nishiki and ending this incident with the same result despite kiryu actually doing things right this time and daigo showing immediate care and concern for mine upon waking up (unlike kiryu with nishiki, who got ignored and basically forgotten). I think it would’ve been more powerful and interesting and applicable to kiryu’s development in the long run to have had mine saved, both literally/physically and emotionally in the sense that he actually accepts, even if he doesn’t believe he’s worthy of it, that people truly care about him and there isn’t only evil in the world and that if he can’t live for himself he can live for the sake of those he loves. he’s been self-centered for so long and kiryu calls him out on it, so he considers that maybe, for once, he should put his fate and trust into the hands of others rather than believing himself to have the clearest judgement on what he deserves or how he should repent. and that’d mean something to kiryu, who’s at that point already grappling with a similar dilemma when it comes to stubbornly sacrificing himself for others despite those who love him telling him it’s not always necessary and that he can accept help. it’so mean something to have kiryu see that self sacrifice isn’t the only option, and even in the worst of situations a person’s life can be saved through compassion.

[exper-i]

original content wtf

this is a rather cliche horror story thats trying to disguise itself as a humorous telling in the beginning, but i had fun and thats what matters

Most plants, as a rule, are fairly good things to have around. They create oxygen, they’re a nice green colour, they have pretty flowers on occasion. They grow along the back fence so I don’t have to talk to my back neighbour who decides that every time he locks eyes with me he has to enter a long-winded conversation on his kids, whom I really do not care about in the slightest. Keeping me from having to see him is really one of the nicer things plants have ever done for me. Some plants produce things you can eat. The ones that produce poison are generally pretty avoidable-- you don’t eat them, they won’t make you puke. You don’t touch poison ivy, it won’t make you itch. Pretty straightforward.

Suffice to say, plants are, if not pretty good, neutral at minimum. I like plants.

There is one plant, however, that I do not like. If a plant could be evil, this is one I would give as example.

It sits, squat and unpleasant, on the left-hand corner of the tiny front yard my house possesses. Other than this plant, my yard is very pleasant. I’ve cultivated its tiny space carefully with bushes, flowering plants near the door, and even a maple tree I’ve managed to squish into the right-hand corner. (I did most of this under the impression I could put enough non-grass plants down in order to prevent having to mow. It did, but in exchange I have to trim them and I’m no longer entirely sure which is more of an ordeal.) The yard is perfectly presented in order to balance being pretty with being manageable. Most people think it’s nice.

The goddamn palm is the only thing I cannot control.

It was there when I moved in, and judging from how it resists every single attempt I make to kill it, it will be there when I move out. Or die. Probably it’ll outlive me. And I could respect that resilience, leave the plant to its own devices, were it not such a pain in the ass.

It’s ugly, first of all, and completely unkillable. Short of hiring an excavator to remove it, I have done everything imaginable to kill it. I have poured bottles of plant killer on that thing’s roots. I have cut its leaves to the point that any less annoying plant would have given up and wilted on the spot. But this one? This plant stays exactly where it is, regenerating after anything I do to it as fast as any plant can possibly grow.

I don’t know what it is, actually. I’ve checked books, searched online, posted pictures of it in botanist’s forums, and all I’ve ever gotten was a shrug. It looks like some kind of sago palm, but not quite. It sits on a massive, fat trunk, with the triangular layers of bark palms have coming off in oddly thick spikes. The trunk is too big for me to theoretically get my arms around-- if I wanted to do something like that, God forbid-- but short, only coming about three feet up. It’s oblong with a bulge in the middle, a little like an egg. The leaves at the top are almost exactly similar to your average palm leaves, but they’re a bit too spiky too. Especially around the base. The tips are sharp and the base of the leaves has protrusions that have actually drawn blood before, gotten shoved into my hand when I try to prune the tree. Getting them out is awful-- and they’ve made me bleed even while I was wearing work gloves. There’s more spiky protrusions around the top of the trunk, in between leaves. It’s weirdly oily when I touch it; even if the gloves weren’t necessary to prevent getting stabbed, I’d wear them so as to not have to touch it directly. I’ve never gotten a rash or anything from the plant, but I’d rather not risk it.

Here’s the thing, though.

So it’s July, right? Hot as hell out, middle of summer, drought, all that. It hasn’t rained in weeks. Everything in the yard looks terrible. I feel bad for it, but I’m not one of the guys that waters their lawns in the middle of a drought warning because I’m your general law-obeying citizen and winning some hypothetical lawn contest really is not that important. Everything’s looking pretty brown, or at least sad, except the palm. Of course. In fact, it’s looking better than ever, the trunk getting even bigger and rounder.

I know desert plants are adapted to deal with drought, but even the hardiest of cacti show that they suffer with astronomical heat and no rain for three months.

I guess it’s better to have something healthy than nothing healthy.

When I go out to prune it, the dog, Hestia, bothers to come with me for once. She usually just gambols around the front yard and enjoys her lack of responsibilities while I do yard-work, but I guess she’s curious. She watches as I grab one of the palm’s leaves, careful to avoid the pointy spots, and inspect it. It’s been leaning down, looking as if it were wilting, though without losing any of the green colour. Hestia stays a decent distance from it, behind me and with her stubby ears pricked in fixated attention.

The frond is drier than usual, lacking the slightly-sticky texture the plant usually has. Must be because of the drought. So the stupid thing is suffering. Good.

I give it a sharp tug, just to see what happens. What happens is the leaf starts to pull away from the trunk, but the second the base separates, it lets out this nasty, pungent smell. I drop the branch immediately to cover my mouth and cough. Even Hestia back off, scrunching her nose in distaste and chuffing, and dogs are never ones to avoid things that smell as putrid as possible. It smells like rot-- not the earthy kind of plant rot, not the kind you smell when you come across a decomposing tree. It’s flesh-rot, something putrid that’s been sitting in a damp corner and decomposing for a few days. It’s maggots and miasma and madid.

The plant must have caught something and started rotting internally.

If nothing else it makes getting rid of it much more of a priority. Out of something-- curiosity, determination to finish a job, masochism, I don’t know-- I grab the leaf and yank as hard as I can. It pops off reluctantly, another wave of the putrid smell following after it. I drop the leaf to the ground in favour of bending over and coughing, trying my best not to gag. After a minute or so, the smell lessens. I rub at my nose with a forearm and stand up once my head isn’t solely consumed with the stench of rot.

Hestia’s there, sniffing hesitantly at the leaf, her big Rottweiler body all bunched up as if she’s prepared to make the fight or flight decision at any second.

“Pretty fuckin’ weird, huh, Hes?” I cough out at the dog. She glances up at me if to agree, then resumes her sniffing. “Don’t roll in that,” I add on as an afterthought. That’d be even worse than the time I had to de-skunk her. She shows no indication of listening to me, so I’ll just cross my fingers.

This is a problem, more so than just if my dog’s going to smell like a charnelhouse for a week. There’s not many ways to get this plant out of the yard. I don’t have the money to call a landscaper and I don’t have any friends who own backhoes who could dig the stupid thing out. If it’s rotted, with that smell the plant must be sick, and I don’t want it giving whatever nasty infection its got to anything else in my yard, if it’s not too late for that.

The problem ets considered for about ten minutes as i stand, hands on my hips, glaring at the plant as if that would make it understand and regret what an absolute inconvenience it’s been to me.

Glaring at it does not make it grow feet and walk, pinnate leaves bowed in shame. Guess it’s all up to me. My neighbour has a chainsaw, I think. I can work with this.

Thirty minutes and one social interaction with the guy next door later, I’m equipped and ready. Nate did, in fact, have a chainsaw. Couple that with my work gloves and I’m ready. The rotting smell probably is going to be even worse as I cut the tree down, so while I don’t have a gas mask or anything, I do have a facemask left over from painting. That and some Vicks smeared under my nose should be fine. It’s no plague mask or air freshener, but I’ll take menthol over decomposition any day.

When I walk out in the yard, warfare gear equipped and ready, something’s different. I can’t immediately tell what it is, but something’s not right. I order Hestia to stay near the driveway to avoid an animal getting close to a running chainsaw, and she obediently plops down in the middle, watching me attentively. The thing that’s wrong with the yard is immediately obvious once I get closer to the tree.

The leaf is gone. The one I pulled out. It’s just completely not there anymore. What sits in its place is a pile of brown, sludgy goop. The smell pervades my paint mask protection, but it’s tolerable. The urge to poke the pile of goop is strong, but squashed with the thought that I might have to throw out my sneakers if I can’t get the smell out.

There are things to attend to that are probably nastier, anyways.

Getting the palm down comes first, then I can experiment with poking tree sludge.

The chainsaw takes a bit to rev up, but after a couple tries it’s running healthily in my arms. I glance back at Hestia to ensure she’s in place, still, no danger, and she is. Her hackles are starting to raise distrustfully, but she’s in place. It’s fine, I don’t like the noise much either, and I’m the one with earplugs in.

I hoist up the chainsaw, angle it to what I think is proper, and set it to the palm.

The blades bite in slowly and with effort. I feel it’s making a noise more laborious than most chainsaws would, but my knowledge on them is limited. A couple wood chips fly off the tree’s bark, and what’s underneath is white and fibrous, paler than any tree I’ve ever seen. It reeks. It’s the same contaminated smell the leaf gave, only it’s more subdued than the leaf. There’s little doubt it’ll get worse the deeper in I cut.

I frown, resolute and preparing to squash my retch reflex, and re-angle the chainsaw to make a v-shaped cut.

There’s a very small noise, just barely audible over the chainsaw’s grinding.

A pop where three things immediately follow.

The chainsaw’s grind changes, like it’s suddenly experiencing less resistance.

Hestia starts barking furiously.

Something thin and pointy reaches from inside the tree to bend over the chainsaw blade.

The third one takes my immediate focus. I lean forward, squinting a little. The chainsaw’s still running, but held completely still now. Another little brown thing pokes its way out of the tree, also balancing delicately against the flat of the chainsaw blade.

“What the hell?” I ask it.

There’s a pause where the world seems to quiet down entirely as I notice a thin crack spreading up the length of the palm’s trunk. My mouth opens to ask something, I don’t even know what, and then the crack bursts open.

A cloud of putrescent white bursts out from the trunk. I drop the chainsaw on instinct, just barely avoiding vomiting into the mask. Teeth gritted, I back away, not even minding the chainsaw still running on the grass. Hestia continues her furious barking and I hear her rush over to me. I try to tell her to back off though the coughing and tearing up, but she ignores me. There’s shapes in the dust, growing clearer as it settles, and I reach for the chainsaw. I don’t know what anything is, but I’ll feel much better against a troupe of amorphous collie-size masses with a chainsaw in my hands. Coughing furiously and squinting, I reach out. Hestia stops barking, settling instead for the muffled growl meaning something’s in her mouth.

I lay a hand on the handle of the tool, and something spindly and pointy presses down on the back of my hand.

I look up as the dust settles. A greenish spider the side of a medium dog scuttles towards my arm. The scream is involuntary, loud enough to be heard down the street, and I immediately fling my arm back and move over backwards as fast as I can, still screaming. A seemingly endless amount of the giant spiders are swarming out of the palm tree, scattering in all directions as I glance to a way I can get away from them. Scuttling backwards only makes me trip over my own foot, landing heavily on my back only a few feet away from the palm. I curl up, trying to put my arms over my head to protect my face if nothing else, screaming. I feel Hestia stand over me, fearless in protection, and the tiny spider-feet I’d felt beginning to crawl up my leg are plucked off in her jaws.

My screeching is joined by someone else’s alarm-- probably Nate’s, checking on me. Whoever it is, they get pleaded at to come help me, save me, pull out a flamethrower or something.

I don’t know what he does.

I don’t know what anyone does.

All I know is that I wake up a couple hours later in a hospital room, Hestia sitting next to me, and with nothing in their IV drip that can make me stop hyperventilating.

I hold onto the dog and tell anyone who comes in to see me that I’m not going back to the house.

They tell me that’s fine, but I need to calm down.

Once I get out of the psych ward and get cleared to go to a hotel without supervision, they tell me my house has been fumigated and put on the market for me. About ten other people on the street have also put their houses up for sale at nicely discounted rates.

For a real estate manager who’s good at spin, it’s a blessing. For me, I move to an apartment.