#she would be content to just scavenge around the city and have a warm home to go back too | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

adarlingwrites · 3 years

Text

Dormouse

Summary:

After playing a game with two of The Beach's most dangerous members, the dormouse gets her tail caught by a tiger's paw.

He’ll make a wildcat out of her.

Author’s Notes: A character study for my AiB OC, Minami Yamane. The story takes place months before the main events of the series.

Edit 4/27/2021: I edited the chapter and added a few more paragraphs to highlight how desperate Yamane's living conditions were before the Borderlands. Some of the changes include more scenes of her happily pillaging stores because she never had plenty of groceries before, and changing her apartment into a 1R apartment.

everybody's looking for something / some of them want to use you / some of them want to get used by you

Mice and rats are vermin.

They are filthy, scurrying little creatures that will take anything they can lay their little paws on. In an urban city such as Tokyo, they thrive outside the human view, in the dank, dark underbelly of the bustling city.

They have no place in polite society, and neither does the girl running from an accessory shop in the populated streets of Harajuku.

It was just supposed to be a simple swipe. She had been shoplifting for quite a while now, ever since her parents threw her out and cut all her access to their money.

Yes, this little mouse wasn’t always one.

This happened all because she no longer wanted their control on her life anymore.

“You’re going to take Business Administration and take over the family business,” they would always remind her, drilling it into her thick skull since she can remember. But screw that, she’s not about to let them decide what she will be any further.

Now, look where that got her.

Scurrying, panting, and her feet skidding against the sidewalk, she ran into a busy boutique, blending in with the crowd. She almost ran into a baby carriage, muttering a quick apology to the annoyed mother pushing it. Eyes alert, she spotted an open storage closet an employee had left open. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, she slipped inside, and shut the door.

Outside, the police are asking around if they had seen a girl with her description. Heart in her throat and pulse rapid, the mouse bit back a curse when the woman with the baby carriage pointed at the storage closet she’s in. Their footsteps approaching, she was bracing herself to slam the doors open once they’re within range.

But the lights flickered, and the officers never came.

Dark, damp, and musty, she’s a rat in a cage. Her only source of light was the faint sunlight that streamed through the glass storefront, seeping into the corners of the door. It was so quiet; too quiet. She swore she can hear her own heartbeat and the sweat rolling off of her skin.

With caution, she slowly opens the door, and the previously populated boutique is deserted. Not a single soul was in sight. Anxiety and bewilderment made her pulse quicken even more.

“Where the hell is everyone,” she mumbles to no one.

Confused, she runs out of the store, to the streets. The city is bustling no more. Everyone vanished.

If this was some kind of sick joke, this little mouse was not having it. She takes out her cell phone from her bag, only to see that it’s dead. Cursing, she runs back to the store to find an outlet, and plugs her flip phone in, to no avail. It’s still dead. She looks around and sees that all the displays are powered down.

Electricity is gone, and so is the water, she found out when she went to the bathroom in plans of dousing herself awake. All utilities had been cut. Taking a moment to compose herself, the mouse left the store once more to walk around. The streets are deserted, cars lining up in the desolate roads. Some of the windows are rolled down, and the mouse reaches in to unlock the door.

Turning the keys, she tried to get it to run, but to no avail. With a baffled look, she looks around in the car. Beside her was a plastic bag, still warm to the touch. A fried chicken sandwich is nestled inside, along with the receipt, a half-eaten bag of fries, and a few packets of ketchup.

She takes that, steps out of the vehicle, and begins eating while making her way back to her apartment, occasionally checking inside cars to see if anyone’s inside.

Everyone is gone, and no one is watching.

Relief replaces the little mouse’s horror upon realizing that among those gone are her landlady. “If she’s gone, I don’t have to pay rent anymore,” she gasps to no one in particular, and a smile slowly spreads on her lips.

“I don’t even have to pay bills anymore. I don’t have to watch out for security guards and cops.” The mouse starts laughing at that point, palming at her forehead.

“Ha! I can finally do what I want now.” Her laughter was equal parts bitter, and cathartic.

Upon arriving to her apartment, she realizes that the chicken sandwich would probably stave off her hunger for the afternoon. She still had her bike and her delivery bag with her from work, and an idea forms in her head. She doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but if no one is around to watch her… she might as well do the thing she’s best at: take.

She will need to survive while waiting this out, after all.

Riding her way to the nearest convenience store, the mouse stuffed her bag with canned and non-perishable goods, filling it to the brim with groceries she normally couldn’t afford. From behind the counter, she takes several plastic bags and fills it with frozen goods, and dumps that in the front basket of her bike. The food probably needed to be heated up, so she made it a point to check for a butane stove. Luckily for her, there was one in the back, along with a few canisters of fuel.

Giddy, she bikes her way back to her apartment, unloads her haul, and comes back for more.

She targeted the water next, but found it too heavy for the bike. Not willing to leave the goods behind, she grabbed a shopping cart and filled it to her heart’s desire, until it was almost too heavy for her to push. The mouse carted the goods back to her apartment, exhausted, but genuinely relieved for the first time in months.

By the time that the sun is down, the mouse is sitting happily in her apartment, sorting through groceries that would last her weeks, if she’s careful with them. The mini fridge was still cold despite the lack of electricity, so she stuffed the frozen goods inside, the door barely closing due to the amount of content inside. Once littered with cobwebs, her pantry is now full with various dry goods and snacks. Some of them couldn’t even fit in the shelves, so she put them in the bedroom instead, which doubles as her living space, separated by a divider from the kitchen.

A contented grin on her face, she takes a breather and opens one of the snack cakes she took, and a box of coated biscuits.

The mouse finished her snacks blissfully, not one care in the world as she devoured them.

When she was walking back to fetch her bike from the convenience store, a billboard lights up, catching her attention.

She was in for a world of danger.

Two weeks later, the mouse stays in her apartment, her nest in this strange new world, tending a shoulder she bruised days ago. She quietly thanked herself for scouring the pharmacy after her first game.

The last one she participated in was a Three of Diamonds, and she almost didn’t make it out. It was good to see other people, but she had witnessed them die right before her eyes because of a wrong answer, and plain selfishness.

It was a game held in an abandoned variety show set. Get the answer right, you get to live to answer the next. Get it wrong, you have to work with the other contestants to survive a game of hole in the wall... or fall in a pool of acid. Contestants will take turns answering questions, and they weren’t allowed to coach each other.

The contestants were Mugi Nakamura, a high school girl in a swim team, Taro Kobayashi, a salaryman and father of two, and the mouse herself, Minami Yamane, a part-time seamstress in a factory by day, food courier by sundown, and a full-time troublemaker.

It was going so well. Yamane had gotten all of the questions right, and so did Nakamura, but Kobayashi made a mistake. The curtains drew back, and the wall revealed a single, round hole near the bottom. Time was running out.

Eyes haunted, Yamane looked at her reflection in the mirror as she pressed the compress against her shoulder, the dark circles under her eyes deepening, and so did her frown. There are some things she wished she could scour from her memory.

Kobayashi was willing to throw the two girls under the bus, despite Yamane insisting that they can all survive it if they formed a straight line and curled into a deep bow. Disgusted by his selfishness, Yamane shoves the salaryman aside and dives through the circle. She turned around to see if Nakamura followed suit, but the only thing she saw was her body dissolving in the pool.

Their pained, agonized cries filled the room, and Yamane couldn’t tear her eyes away. The last thing she saw before she got a “game clear'' was Nakamura’s faux fingernail floating to the surface before getting eaten away by the acid.

Around her, makeup and trinkets that she couldn’t afford on her salary littered the desk, her small sources of comfort and joy. Empty packages of frozen foods lined neatly up in her trash can, and so did the empty cans and bottles. Yamane was beginning to run low on her supplies. She will have to scavenge farther from home. That wouldn’t be a problem. On days that she isn’t risking her life on a game, she started working out to improve her stamina, and improve her odds of surviving these games. Spade games were the most physically demanding ones.

The little mouse is starting to get used to this life. There are no parents to tell her what to do, and no expectations from society, but in return, she will have to risk her life playing these treacherous games.

After tending to her shoulder, it was time for Yamane’s nightly routine. With make up wipes, she’d wipe off the makeup off of her face. She undoes her twin buns, and brushes her hair down; thankfully, it wasn’t time to wash them yet, and her shoulder hurts. Cleaning herself off with a towel and a little water, Yamane changed into cleaner clothes and went to bed, nestled in pillows and sheets she snatched from a nearby mall’s home section on the way home from the Diamond game.

There were other people loitering about when she made her haul. The initial relief she had upon meeting people in the games were replaced by paranoia after that game with the salaryman. Purging the mental image of their dissolving bodies off of her mind, she pulls the covers over her head and curls into a fetal position.

Her ears perked up when she heard footsteps in the kitchen.

“Shit, did I forget to lock the door?” Yamane thought to herself.

Listening intently, she approximated the size of the person intruding her home through their footsteps, something she learned to do while living under the scrutiny of her family. They were light.

Like a child’s.

Carefully getting out of bed, Yamane tiptoes her way to the kitchen, and clamps her hand over the intruder’s mouth.

“Don’t make a sound,” she hissed, and she can sense the fear coming from the small body. Yamane spins the intruder around only to see a young girl. Judging from her height and prepubescent looks, she might be in early middle school. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“Oneesan, I’m so sorry for trespassing, but please, I’m starving. I saw you walking away from the grocery store with a huge haul a few days ago-”

“Great,” she thought. People are starting to notice her hauls.

“Out. Get out now.”

“B-but please! I don’t know what else to do. I’m not a thief, but I’m so desperate… I’m so hungry.”

Taking a deep inhale, Yamane eyes the girl. She’s rail-thin, her uniform is soiled, and her hair is a tangled mess. Her lips are dry from the lack of water, and her hair is dull from the lack of proper nutrition. Groaning and rubbing her face, Yamane relents.

“Fine, take what you need and go.”

“Can I please stay with you?”

Yamane scoffs. “What? I don’t have time to look after a kid.”

“I can’t find my parents. I have no friends to talk to. It gets scary at night without all the lights too. Please, let me stay.”

Yamane should be kicking this girl out. Instead, she’s now handing her a pillow over as the kid ate dinner on the floor couch in her room. It was nothing special, but Yamane went through the trouble of preparing something somewhat healthy for the girl, despite her reluctance in letting her stay. Begrudgingly, Yamane tosses her a blanket too.

“This help’s not for free. You’re going to have to make yourself useful if you want to stay with me. And if you try to steal from me, I won’t hesitate to hurt you,” Yamane says, sitting on her mattress right across the couch.

“I promise I’ll be good.”

“What’s your name? How old are you?”

“Fumiko Sato. I’m twelve years old.”

The mouse’s expression softens against her will. Yamane thought someone that young shouldn’t be in a world such as this. Sure, it suited her, but it didn’t suit the preteen sitting on her couch. A girl her age’s problems should be about school, crushes, and which accessories she should wear tomorrow, not a brutal survival game.

“I’m Minami Yamane. Twenty three. How many days do you have left on your visa?”

“Two.”

“Shit”, Yamane thought. “I’ll have to bring her to a game soon.”

“Go to sleep. You’ll help me scavenge tomorrow, then we’ll go to a game.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best!”

Without uttering another word, Yamane goes to bed, pulling the covers over her head. It’s been a long time since she looked after someone else. Exhaling slowly, her mind wanders back to home.

“I wonder how Mai and Riku are doing”, she thought.

A photograph of her and Mai, her little sister, sits on a desk, with a picture of an infant boy attached to it. Mai would have been nineteen now, and Riku would have been three. Such a huge age difference between the siblings, a result of her father remarrying after her and Mai’s mother died.

Yamane didn’t even visit her funeral.

Not wanting to waste precious minutes she could’ve used to rest on thinking about the life she left behind, Yamane got back in bed and closed her eyes.

The next morning, she woke up to the smell of food.

“Good morning, oneesan,” Sato greeted, setting rice balls and two cups of instant miso soup on the table. Yamane checks out the stove, and the butane is almost out. They’ll have to look for more. Without electricity, it’s a precious commodity, especially if they want to continue having hot meals.

Sato says her grace, and without saying a word, Yamane sits and eats the food prepared for her. The middle schooler was looking at her with expectant eyes as she chewed on her rice ball.

“These are good. Thanks. I hope you rested well. We’re going to the train station to get you a bike, then we’ll go to a grocery store father from here for goods.”

Sato nodded and they spent the rest of the meal in peace. After freshening up and getting dressed, Yamane tosses Sato her thermal bag. “Be alert around strangers and stay close to me.” Yamane instructed her as Sato strapped the bag on. “For now, you’ll be riding on the backseat.”

Nodding, Sato follows her down the apartment complex’s stairs, feeling secure for the first time in days. She gets on the bike, and wraps her arms around Yamane’s waist as they ride to the train station.

Meanwhile, Yamane’s mind wanders back to her little sister. They used to ride like this when she was a little younger, before her parents forced her to go to university for Business Administration. Five years ago, on her eighteenth birthday, she and Mai snuck out of the house to celebrate with her friends. They ate shabu shabu together and Yamane had her first taste of liquor.

They never heard the end of it when they got back, and Yamane got a few bruises from the beating she had to endure, but it was a precious memory.

Yamane and Sato arrived at the train station, and took a bike from the rental booth. This one had a child’s seat at the back, which was decent for groceries too. The bike is Sato’s bike now.

Today’s haul was bountiful. Aside from necessities, Yamane even managed to score some box dye. Her highlights were fading out. Sato also found clothes her size, and a mild, fruity cologne for teenagers, then she placed those in the front basket of her bike, along with some sweets she was previously wasn’t allowed to eat too much of.

After sorting the groceries and having dinner, Yamane and Sato sat in the older girl’s room, where the younger girl helped the older one dye the fading red streaks of hair, just like her friends did.

“Maybe having this kid around isn’t so bad”, Yamane thought to herself. She’ll have an extra pair of eyes to watch her back now. Sato helped her rinse her hair in the bathroom sink and they laughed together.

“Alright. Time for some rest,” Yamane says, running a towel through her hair, sitting on her mattress. “We need to participate in a game tomorrow to extend your visa.”

“Okay. Thanks again for everything, Minami-neesan.”

Secretly, Yamane’s heart leapt from being called older sister again. But she would never admit it. She convinced herself that she’s only using her as a pack mule.

The next night, they arrived at a game venue. An arcade. A laser tag arena, to be precise.

The two of them took phones from the table, and waited for other participants. There was a rowdy group of four boys, all high school age, and judging from their appearances, they must be delinquents. Or perhaps, in this world, they have the freedom to act tough now. Sato stepped a little closer to Yamane, feeling uneasy.

Then, two men arrived.

The group of boys fell into a hush at their arrival. Yamane kept her head straight on, but she was looking at them from the corner of her eyes, her field of vision obscured by her shades. Sato, on the other hand, was trembling beside her.

One of the men was wearing a black patterned shirt, part of his shoulder-length hair tied, and on his face were various piercings. He was toting a gun, and he shoved one of the highschool boys aside, brusquely telling them to get out of his way.

The other was the quiet type. He was taller than the other man, shoulders broad despite his wiry build and bad posture. This one had tattoos on his face, wearing a sleeveless cloak with the hood up, and he carries a katana.

“Where did he find a fucking katana,” Yamane thought to herself. If there’s one thing she couldn’t find on her hauls, it was decent weapons to defend herself with.

Yamane pretends not to notice them, but Sato is staring at the two men outright. The younger girl pulls at Yamane’s sleeve urgently.

“Oneesan, they’re scary.”

“Don’t give them any attention. Focus on the game.”

Sato keeps quiet, fidgeting and sweating. The preteen made the mistake of looking at them again, and she tugs on Yamane’s sleeves once more.

“Oh God, they’re looking at you!” Sato whispers urgently, wrapping an arm around Yamane’s.

Yamane tilts her head, and sees that they are indeed looking at her. The one with piercings is openly leering, his tongue slipping out of his mouth, revealing another piercing. The one with the tattooed face was harder to read. His mouth was slightly open, twitching on one side.

“Let them stare,” she tells the younger girl.

“Just what I needed,” Yamane muttered, a wave of discomfort washing over her. “They look dangerous. I hope they’re not perverts,” she adds, shielding the younger girl, and Sato couldn’t help but take another peek.

“Ew, they do kind of look like perverts, oneesan. Especially that one with the piercings.”

“Then let’s not attract their attention.”

Yamane pulls her jacket’s hood over her head, then she folds her arms and looks away. She knew better than to provoke them.

A third man catches up with the two. Then, Yamane notices it; the tag on their wrists with numbers. The other two had them too. Were they a team?

Yamane had no time to think when the final contestant arrived, a balding middle-aged man. He took the last phone, and the synthetic voice flooded the room.

“Please proceed further into the arena.”

Instead of the usual laser tag equipment, they were met with real firearms, along with some melee weapons. The sight of them made Sato squirm, and Yamane herself was disturbed. There are written instructions to take as many weapons as they desire.

The delinquent boys eagerly reached for the guns, leaving Yamane and Sato with none. The two intimidating men and their third companion didn’t need them, and stayed in their spots, watching the two girls pick a weapon. Sato sheepishly opted for a pocket knife, while Yamane quickly reached for the daggers. They came with leg holsters which she strapped on her thighs.

She can feel the two’s gaze burning her back as she bent over to adjust the straps.

“Great. They are perverts,” she thinks to herself, straightening and looking over her shoulder to give them a chastising look.

The monitor comes to life, and the synthetic voice crackles through the speakers. The participants’ faces were on the screen, where they are divided into two teams. Team A consisted of the four delinquent boys, and the middle-aged man. Team B consisted of Yamane, Sato, and the three men with the bracelets.

“Please sort yourselves accordingly and proceed to your team’s base.”

Yamane didn’t know if she should be relieved or concerned that she got sorted with those two. She stands next to the one with tattoos. Her shades obscured her eyes, which trailed on his arms, observing the ink. A muscle flexes as he unsheaths his katana; he looks like he possesses a wiry strength. Then, he turns to her, slowly, and Sato squirms beside her. Yamane only pulled her shades down slightly and stared back, raising an eyebrow.

The tense moment was shattered by the synthetic voice once more.

“Registration closed. There are currently ten players. Difficulty: Seven of Clubs.”

“Seven? That’s difficult, isn’t it?” Sato asks Yamane, and she hushes her.

“Game: Elimination. Rules: Work with your team to eliminate the opposing team. Clear condition: Team with the most number of members left by the end of the time limit wins. If there are equal numbers of participants from each team, everyone loses. Time limit: thirty minutes.”

“Wait, wait! Elimination? We’re supposed to kill the other team? Minami-neesan this is bad!” Sato exclaims, pulling on Yamane’s sleeve again.

“Calm down, calm down! We just need to survive until the thirty minutes is up,” Yamane hushes her, pulling her closer.

“That’s right little mice, you two better hide,” the man with the pierced face interrupts them. “Don’t get in our way.”

“We have no intentions to,” Yamane replied sharply, before whisking Sato away to look for a hiding spot.

Yamane looks over her shoulder one last time, and the tattooed man gives her one last curious look before walking towards the arena.

“These thirty minutes are going to be hell.”

#alice in borderland #imawa no kuni no alice #fanfic: dormouse #oc: minami yamane #last boss #takatora samura #suguru niragi #fanfiction #character study

34 notes · View notes

raitrolling · 3 years

Text

No more worlds like this, no more days like that

[Easy reading version on Toyhou.se]

Katrin woke from her ‘nap’ on the couch, one that she thinks was just meant to be a twenty minute thing that turned into sleeping through the entire day. She never intended to make the couch her typical sleeping location when she had a perfectly fine recuperacoon in her respiteblock, but she always just… Ended up staying here. It was her nightly routine by now; leave her hive for either a night working at Barsho’s boutique or wandering around the city with a vague aim to do some pickpocketing, try to sneak her way into a bar, get caught, then go home to finish off whatever drinks that still happened to be lying around. It was genuinely not a way to live, she knew that very well. But, she just felt… Stuck. Certainly getting through each night fine and meeting the minimum requirements for socialising before people started openly worrying about her, but not making any sort of progress. A monotonous loop of drunkenness and misery.

She wasn’t rostered on to work tonight, and she didn’t feel the motivation to leave the hive. The drive to write had been gone for a long time, the tales of Rirsan Katish had become too unbelievably over-the-top in her desperate attempts for escapism that the life of her self-insert character was no longer appealing. There wasn’t much left for her to do, aside from locate the remote and an unopened alcoholic beverage...

However, as she moved to sit up, Katrin caught a glimpse of something she had forgotten that she still owned: An old keyboard propped up against the wall.

It was a gift from her kismesis, although Katrin couldn’t recall exactly which 12th Perigees it was. Of course Klavir would buy her something related to his own hobbies, it was his way of sharing a part of himself with his quadrant. Katrin had given him some books she’d stolen in return, her way of telling him to get better hobbies than playing piano and being depressed. He retorted that it was better than her hobby of drinking and being depressed, to which she couldn’t argue with. He was right, as much as she hated to admit it.

She recalled a conversation she had with her neighbour one night. Soroll had invited her over to listen to the latest song he had been practicing on his drum set - which was a homemade mishmash of discarded rubbish bins and some actual drums he had scavenged from the local garbage dump. It sounded horrible, as expected, but whenever he hit the bass drum and crash cymbal (which accounted for half of the proper equipment he owned), she could recognise the alt-rock song he was trying to play. She had asked him why he likes to play, despite not being able to play properly and gain any sort of recognition or money from it. He shrugged.

“I dunno. Its jus fun.”

He was probably right about that too. Soroll and Klavir spoke of playing music as just something you do whenever you feel troubled. Klavir was never away from the piano for too long, it was equally his career and his down time, and he’d mentioned the therapeutic undercurrent behind each note and key change. The same could be said about Soroll; Katrin didn’t know much about his “job” in the gang as he didn’t like to talk about it, but late into the night after he’d gotten home from whatever he did, she could sometimes hear him practicing his drumming.

Perhaps there is something about hitting things in a non-destructive way that can be beneficial. It’d be healthier than opening another bottle of cheap wine, and safer than breaking into someone’s hive, at the very least. Katrin lazily rolled off the couch, getting to her feet and then wandering over to the keyboard.

Eichio had gifted her a couple books for learning the keyboard after he noticed it when he came over one time: A few simple sheet music collections for beginners that allows one to play classic tunes with just one octave, and one slightly more advanced one to play some famous pop songs. If she put her mind to it, she could probably play the latter ones with ease. Klavir had given her countless lessons, but over time had given up trying to teach her when she either became too discouraged from not being able to keep up with him, or their lessons would devolve into some sort of black-fuelled flirting session. Needless to say, whenever Katrin attempted to recall the times she did play decently, her mind would wander to the way she would slip under Klavir’s arms while he was performing to sit on his lap in an attempt to distract him from his music, only to get flustered herself when he would grab her wrists and guide her to play for him. He was much too good at turning the tables on her.

… Right, the books. Katrin picked up the keyboard and one of the simple sheet music collections, using the weight of the instrument to push numerous empty cans and clutter off the coffee table for it to rest on top. She never bothered to buy a proper stand for it, nor a chair to sit on. Pulling the couch cushions off onto the floor and stacking them on top of one another will have to suffice. It’s not like there’s any foot pedals to worry about. Without any room under the coffee table for her legs, Katrin opted to kneel on the cushions as she flicks through the pages of the piano book.

She settles on one short song: My Favourite Things. The sheet music only covers two pages and three verses of the song, and the keys don’t go beyond the centre of the keyboard. The book is propped up on the music stand attached to the keyboard. Katrin rests her hands on the keys, right thumb on middle C as she remembers Klavir teaching her, and plays.

E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E

Rain - drops on | rose - es and | whis - kers on | kit - tens

E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E

Bright cop - per | ket - tles and | warm woo - len | mit - tens

E - B - A | E - F - D | D - A - G | C

Brown pa - per | pack - a - ges | tied up with | strings

B - C - D | E - F - G | A - B - A | D#

These are a | few of my | fav - our - ite | things

She plays slow the first time, trying to get a feel for the keys again. There’s no metronome to keep time, but she’s heard the original song enough for her to recall how it should sound. This melody is simple, there’s only one sharp for her to keep track of and only one note is played at a time. There’s a small sense of accomplishment when she completes the first verse without any mistakes, such a thing doesn’t happen often to her. If she hadn’t sat through those lessons with Klavir and was trying solely on her own, she probably would have given up immediately when things didn’t go perfectly. But she at least knows something, and not some fantastic idea straight from her imagination that she could immediately discover that she’s a prodigy who will make millions performing for others. She should probably give her kismesis credit, if it wasn’t for him she wouldn’t be here right now. She begins the second verse.

E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E

Cream co - loured | pon - ies and | crisp ap - ple | stru - dels

E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E

Door - bells and | sleigh - bells and | schitz - el with | noo - dles

E - B - A | E - F - D | D - A - G | C

Wild geese that | fly with the | moon on their | wings

B - C - D | E - F - G | A - B - A | D#

These are a | few of my | fav - our - ite | things

The pace picks up, and rather than singing the lyrics listed in the book, Katrin finds it easier to repeat the name of the note as she plays it. Nothing any of her friends could teach her - Soroll and Eichio don’t know how to read sheet music, and Klavir is such a natural he struggled to dumb anything down to her level. It was her own way of playing, and a way that felt right to her.

E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E

Girls in white | dress - es with | sat - in white | sa - shes

E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E

Snow - flakes that | stay on my | nose and eye - | las - shes

E - B - A | E - F - D | D - A - G | C

Sil - ver white | win - ters that | melt in - to | spring

B - C - D | E - F - G | A - B - A | D#

These are a | few of my | fav - our - ite | things

If the book of sheet music continued to the next verse, Katrin would have kept playing. It felt good to play, to make the instrument make sounds that were pleasing to the ear, even if they were much simpler to the music other people would make. It even felt a little fun, for reasons she nor her neighbour could elaborate when she first posed that question to him all that time ago. She thinks she understands it now, and plays the song over from the beginning. Her pace continues to quicken, until finally reaching the tempo of which the song is meant to be played. When she vocalises the notes, it stops being a mnemonic tool and turns into an accompanying harmony. E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E. E - B - B | G - E - E | B - E - E | F - E. E - B - A | E - F - D | D - A - G | C. B - C - D | E - F - G | A - B - A | D.

Again and again she plays, until if anyone could hear the song from outside of her hive they would undoubtedly be sick of it. She could flip the page and try a different song, but something about this one just feels right. There’s a calming rhythm to the repetition of the notes, and a sense of progress as she scales the keys in the final line of each verse. Progression. Another thing that doesn’t happen often to her, but here it feels doable. Maybe tomorrow she’ll try another song in the book, and maybe she’ll keep going until she feels ready to try the more difficult piano book later on. For now, she’s content - perhaps another emotion that feels foreign to her - to play whatever she feels like because to feel something at all is an improvement to her current lifestyle. And unlike everything else, she has no reason to play, there’s no monetary gain from playing alone in her lounge room, no reason to impress anyone, no skills that can be carried on into any career or useful activity. It’s just fun.

#drabble #katrin rissah #also mentioning #soroll delfim #eichio maccau #sharp knives #inspired by the song ive taken the title from and the piano scene from eva 3.33 LMAO #also i nabbed the sheet music off this rly shit copy i found on google images that the website required u to make an account #to get a high-quality scan and I Aint Doing That #i did try it out on an online keyboard cuz i cbf getting my old one out and idk if its just me but that D sharp sounds rancid as hell #but idk enough about music to know what the note should be so rip

6 notes · View notes

buirbaby · 3 years

Text

The Wardens: The First Trial

Rating : M + Mature content, language, and violence

Masterlist | First | Next

The only thing that had been instant in this world was her rebirth alongside Balerion. Otherwise, learning anything was an atrocious, long winded affair. Tabitha knew a few things, like how to tell differences between plants and combine them into salves, but there were a plethora of other flora that Fang warned her about, vegetation that didn't exist in her world. Additionally, given their sub-zero location within a mountain, there were little to no plants that grew amongst the permafrost. Thus, one of her skills was rendered nearly useless, paled in comparison to all that she didn't know, in addition to the fact that she'd lived a rather lofty life after leaving her job in the military. She'd been decent with a rifle, but there were no guns here and a bow could only get her so far. The weapon chosen for her was Fate, the Valyrian steel legacy sword of the Wardens.

Now, Tabitha wasn't out of shape. She climbed and hiked mountains for fun, her muscles honed from suspending herself on cliffaces, her tactile grip strength surpassing most humans. However, given that she now had a griffin, climbing wasn't particularly necessary unless she had to keep Balerion at a distance. Still, the fact she was athletic and tall for a woman did aid in the training that Fang billeted her with. She had to learn how to use the sword or she'd die with it in her inexperienced palm.

Never had she thought there'd be so much to surviving in a medieval world, taking for granted everything she had back home. From the gross pit she had to utilize to go to the bathroom-which froze her ass off when she did pull down her pants-to the fact that they didn't have food readily available, she had to relearn everything. How to hunt, how to track, how to map topography, how to tell the time by the position of the sun in the sky which was also dependent on where she was and what time of year it was. There was so much. Riding Balerion was no easy feat either. While her partner had a perfect nook to slide into to ride between his shoulder blades, the lack of a saddle meant that she rode bareback. Only, unlike a horse, a griffin was a much more perilous ride. By the end of their first ride, her legs were throbbing from being clenched so tightly, Fang bemused by her harrowed expression and near fainting from when Balerion had turned 90 degrees to sail up a current in the wind flanking the mountain.

The north was cold. There had been placed where Tabitha had been nearly frostbitten, but she'd never embarked on a journey into the tundra, which was basically what she'd compare the Frostfangs. Unironically, there was more territory to the North East that hadn't been officially mapped by men, but Tabitha knew what laid there: a desolate icescape with few living creatures roaming the white, featureless plains. She wondered if the Night King would come from there or further north, descending from the Thenn. Either way, she suspected she had time, but the wind continued to nip at her in a reminder that it could become much colder.

She remembered a rough quote about the place that had become her home, that there were giants, wargs, and worse things in the Frostfangs. That's what she was, wasn't it? Warden was a fancy title, but truthfully, she was a warg.

The abilities seemed complicated at first and she drew upon her knowledge from the books and chapters in Bran's perspective. Even with that as a guideline, she found her expectations were a mere shadow of what it truly meant to be bonded to an animal. She had known Balerion since he had been a kitten, raising him, taking him everywhere with her until their paths became this and he was no longer just feline in nature. There was an innate bond, the ability to sense each other's emotions without making much effort, their beings interlaced together like fingers holding one another. She always could sense how he felt, just as in turn, he could sense her disquiet or a ripple of emotion.

Sometimes, she would dream of his midnight hunts, viewing the world from above as he went in search of large game to sate his hunger. Under the cover of night, his dark feathers and fur made him a shadow against the sky, nearly impossible to see when the stars were blotted out by clouds.

Under Fang's guidance, there had been a few instances where she had forced the switch, taking control of Balerion. However, she found that she did not like the feeling, thrusting his own sentience to the side, when she trusted the griffin's judgement just as much as her own. While there would undoubtedly be benefits to this ability, she found no use in it now.

Days bled into one another, becoming weeks and months under the tutelage of Fang. Daily sword practice, bi-weekly hunts and trapping, lessons in the True Language and of the intricacies of the Others, Fang knew not where she would be needed first, but he wanted to be certain that she would not get herself killed and could survive even in the most inhospitable of environments.

"I've been to a lot of places," Tabitha told him, savoring the fresh venison from the successful hunt that morning. Dressing the beast had become second nature and the rest had been preserved, some being smoked now to turn to jerky. Thankfully, given the frigid temperatures, she could utilize it to save the meat for later. "Mountains, oceans, jungles, deserts. Of course, I had more supplies and equipment than I do here, but I did manage to survive out there."

"If you can survive in the two extremes the world has to throw at you, you're well off," Fang commented.

"Mm, but I'll need to go into cities, mingle with people..." It had been a long time since Tabitha had any company aside from just Fang and Balerion. The idea of trying not to stick out like a sore thumb in a major city made her heart flutter, stomach churning as she thought of high society and how ill prepared she was to face any sort of nobility or royalty. She had a callous mouth, cursed worse than a sailor, and knew that while she had a sharp enough tongue to elicit chuckles at her quips, that might as well get her killed for being impudent with the wrong person.

"That was always a possibility," Fang shrugged, wrapped in a thick shadowskin where he sat against the wall. "But at least you can carry that sword well enough now to fend for yourself. A couple of years ago?" He let her oafish swinging come back to the forefront.

"Hey, I didn't know how to use those muscles. I told you I'd never lifted a sword in my life," Tabitha snorted indignantly, jabbing a gloved finger in his direction. "And for as good as I 'might' be with it, I've yet to fight anyone other than you, pipsqueak. If I were to come face to face with someone like Jaime Lannister, I know I'm like to get myself killed. A few years of steadfast practice doesn't make a master."

"At least you're not arrogant enough to think so," Fang pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I'd like to not die," she huffed. Not die, again. With her luck, she'd go on the first task laid out before her and get murdered. She had a rather cynical outlook on life, given that her second chance was albeit shoddy, riddled with clauses, and was forcing her to play a role she'd rather neglect. Honestly, she could've flown out to Essos and found a city to explore and enjoy or other natural features she could witness with Balerion beside her, but somehow she knew that the magic that had brought her here wouldn't allow it. She was bound by it, a fiery contract that she had not willingly signed. She knew not the details of the contract, only that Fang insisted that she had to do what she was told to.

A good soldier could take orders, but Tabitha had left those years in the army behind her, and it wasn't as if she had great rapport with her commander--which she was beginning to suspect more and more was somehow tied with the Lord of Light.

A west wind blew, biting through the layers that she wore. Despite the thick bundles in which she was swaddled in, there were some chills she could not chase. Groaning, Tabitha drew her cloak in and continued to trudge through the snow. A new blanket had fallen, making it a bit more difficult to traverse through the woods to check her snares. Better to be overprepared with food in the case there was a dry spell of hunting, but she hated leaving the warmth of the forge behind. She hoped her first task was someplace south and warm, not amongst the ice and stone.

Throwing back her cloak as she dug through the snow to check the snare, she heard a soft scittering beneath the white blanket. Had a scavenger gotten to whatever had been frozen beneath? Sighing, she removed her dagger and began to peel away the layers. What she hadn't been expecting was the rabbit to still be alive.

No, it was not alive, but it continued to move. Lashing at the rope snare that had snapped its neck, the head cocked at an unnatural angle as it twisted around. The eyes were a piercing blue, burning around the edges of the fur as it set those blazing irises on her and tried to pounce on her. This was the first creature she'd seen that had been turned into a wight and the implications disturbed her. Didn't an Other need to be within a certain proximity for the wighting to happen? They were coming and still, she had yet to be given a task. What had already occurred in the books that she could have prevented?

She drew her sword, killing the undead rabbit a second time, aware that the steel would stop it from rising again. No longer would traps suffice if they'd just rise again and she wasn't keen on trying wight meat or discovering its side effects. There was enough meat back in the Roost for her to wait for another big hunt. With Balerion to take it back up into the mountain, she wouldn't need to worry about it coming back to life, especially if she finished it with her sword.

The Haunted Forest was a bit of a flight from the mountains where the Roost was situated, but it was the biggest range for food. The Frostfangs had more shadowcats than worthy game. Laden with snow and icicles, the trees were depressed beneath the weight of the world around them. Daylight was fading and she knew she ought to call Balerion to head back to the safety of their home. But she was drawn in by the winter wonderland around her, to include a white mist, her steaming breath more noticable behind the thick fold of her fabric of her scarf that helped keep her face warm.

A warning flag raised in her head, recalling Fang's warnings, in tandem with the rabbit she'd found. It was time to go. It was time to-

"Who goes there?" A gruff voice asked, the audible crunching of noise taking her aback.

She swung toward the nearest tree, pinning her back to it, fingers grazing the hilt of her sword. Straining, she could hear men nearby, but couldn't say if they were wildling or Crows, she hadn't seen them. Of course there might be rangers. Thus far she'd not crossed anyone, but nor had she been exceptionally careful aside from being wary of the Others. Regardless of who it was, they probably wouldn't care for her.

Two, three, four... five? No, there were more. Call Balerion and risk him getting hurt or make a dash for it?

"You!"

But the voice that called wasn't gesturing toward her, she saw the mangled furs bundling up a figure and wondered what a lone wildling was doing. From their lumbering gait, she didn't have to puzzle for long. Just as there had been an undead rabbit, the wildling was definitely not alive. Rooted to her spot, metal sang out of scabbards.

"They don't look right," a different voice commented.

"There's another over there."

"And there. What's with their eyes?"

Crows. They learn the hard way that these bastards wouldn't go down easy, but it was not her job to help them. Until this point, she'd not been given any guidance on what to do. Hopefully, they'd survive and escape back toward the Wall. Time to go. While they were distracted she could escape whence she had come and pretend this had never happened.

Yet, as Tabitha rounded, her stomach dropped and she noticed that there were many wights lumbering from out of the fog that had thickened to a dense wall that was nearly impenetrable. They cared naught if she was a brother of the Watch of a wildling. She was alive and thus, a target. Her movement caught their attention and she had no choice but to rip her own sword out from where she'd sheathed it.

"Fine, bout time I killed a few wights," Tabitha commented to no one in particular. Originally, she had thought they'd be slow, but the ice zombies were feral and quick if their limbs were intact. Despite the encumbering snow, they lurched forward like a pack of wild dogs and she raised Fate to cut down the first attacker. The vibrant blue eyes flickered like a light switch being turned on and off, before fading entirely. There was no time to admire the success of her blow as she turned the sword, taking a step back and rooting herself before parrying the next and hacking down upon the neck, severing the head clean off. "Fuck," there were too many. She was forced back, step by step, toward the Night's Watch men that she did not want to encounter.

If they cared who she was, they did not voice it, because she was another sword amongst the horde and her sword seemed to be putting them down. Tabitha suspected it had to do with how she was dressed, in midnight blue and grey, obviously not a wildling. Perhaps they even mistook her for one of their own, her face obscured so they could not see she was a woman. Given her lean, tall stature, she could have easily passed for a man if she did not speak.

"First Ranger, what do we do? There's no end to them-ERG!" Beside her, one of the Crows was staked through with a roughly hewn spear, the undead wildling twisting the stone deeper, blood frothing to the man's lips.

Tabitha hissed and darted forward, but it was no use. Even as she killed the wight, the man would die from the wound in his chest. The light was fading and she knew that he too would turn. Rather, she spared him a pitiful glance before taking her sword and driving it down to deliver him quick mercy.

"What are you doing?!" A hand gripped her bicep, tightening painfully, as she was forced to gaze up into slate grey eyes.

"He'll turn! He was dead anyways," she snarled, ripping her arm away and glancing amidst the crowd drawing in.

"A woman-"

She'd betrayed herself, but didn't care at that moment. Two of the seven Crows were dead, but the strangest bit was that the wights had paused, forming a semi-circle around them where they panted, steaming hot breath in front of them. With the pause in the slaughter, two of the men exchanged tremulous glances and before anyone had so much as lowered their weapons, they turned heel and ran, cutting through the small gap between the wights and plunging into the wilderness to abandon the other three of their brothers that had survived.

The man that he gripped her snarled, his brows furrowing in frustration, but he did not call after them, too preoccupied with what was going on.

"Why have they stopped?" The question hung open in the air and Tabitha had a very bad feeling, her stomach nearly in her toes as she licked her lips.

"They were commanded to," she answered, the only logical explanation as to why the mindless hive would relent their assault.

"By what?" Tension was high, a stodgier Crow snapping at her, his eyes wide with terror.

"What do you think, chuckle-fuck? What controls wights?" Tabitha snapped back.

"The Others," the ranger beside him was quiet, voice barely above a whisper as the four of them contemplated their options.

"We need to get out of here. We can't fight them," Tabitha told them, her hands shaking. The Others were expert swordsmen, where she was just a novice. Even with three years beneath her belt, she didn't think she was even close to a match for them. "They had the right idea. We need to run-"

But the horses they'd come with had fled and the gap that once existed had closed. Tabitha knew she could flee, but not without condemning these men. Despite owing them nothing, she couldn't help but think 'no soldier left behind'. She was not their friend, perhaps they would have simply killed her had the wights not interrupted, but in this moment they were temporary allies.

Before them, the wights parted and an ethereal figure stepped out. Tabitha was shocked, finding not the zombie-esc being depicted in the show, but a strangely elegant, alien creature. He was made entirely of ice, glistening in the low light of dusk from the greyed sky. Eyes brilliantly, devilishly blue, another flaming pair dancing amongst the crowd that followed him. Each step refracted off his armor, which picked up the images around it, appearing see through. Gripped fast in its hand was a pale, wicked sword of crystal that would shatter any steel aside from that forged by dragon fire.

There was no moment for her to warn them, to say not to attack, but all logic had been tossed out the window. The stout ranger roared and charged forward before she could open her mouth. If they killed the Other, then the wights would stop, wouldn't they? No, not unless this was the Night King. But he did not know this and Tabitha's words were lost amongst the screeching of the crystal sword as it collided effortlessly with the ranger's. Her ears balked, the high pitched wailing of crystal to steel sounding like an animal being tortured. Then it stopped, all time ceasing as the steel shattered into a rain of silver fragments and the ranger's eyes widened in astonishment.

All of them stared in horror as the Other spoke, no one could comprehend the noises, akin to the cracking of ice in a winter lake. Even Tabitha, who knew the True Tongue, had no idea what he said. Given the mocking tone of it, she suspected he was condemning them all to death or challenging them to be as foolish as the first.

"Will killing it save us?" the man who'd grabbed her earlier asked.

"If we can kill it? No, probably not," she conceded.

The moment the sinewy ranger heard this, his fingers tightened on his sword and he spun on his heel, cloak flapping like a bird's wing as he tried to run toward the largest gap he could find. But they had all closed, thus he tried to force his way through, hacking and slashing, until the wights stirred and fought back. The flurry of activity halted, the man falling to his knees as he was punched through the stomach with an axe, cold hands tearing him apart.

"What's your name?" the man asked her, expecting that these fleeting moments might very well be their last.

"Tabitha Flores," she answered, calling for Balerion, wondering if they could escape into the sky without him being injured.

"I wish I could say it's an honor to meet you, but at least it was an honor to fight beside you. I am Benjen Stark, First Ranger to Castle Black of the Night's Watch," he introduced, a sad, but whimsical edge to his tone.

"Hey, don't be counting the daisies you'll be pushing before you've stopped breathing," Tabitha muttered, realizing now what she'd ignored at first. First Ranger. This was where Benjen disappeared and never returned. He was supposed to die here. Or maybe he wasn't. "Who knows, maybe killing this fucker will solve our problems." Hopeful thinking, but she was the one with the Valyrian steel. She needed to at least distract him enough that Balerion could sweep in unimpeded.

Her body screamed against it, instinct telling her to turn tail and run, dash herself to death into the wights just as the other ranger had done. Instead, she leveled her sword and prepared herself. A few minutes. If she could survive just a few minutes.

The chilling laughter of the Other ripped through her, clenching her heart, as he entertained her. Until this point, she'd not traded blades with anyone other than Fang. The wights were clumsy and unskilled, despite how fast they could be. But the Other was fluid, graceful, and did not strike without fully intending on killing. The first blow jarred her shoulder, her nerves twinging as she wondered if her sword would break beneath the crystal, but it held true. The Other noticed this, gaunt face drawing pensively, as her muscles quivered from holding the parry.

He shoved off, sending her a few feet back. Catching her balance, Tabitha raised her sword in the nick of time, struggling to keep up with the relentless hail of blows. Until she couldn't. Her slowing down had left an opening, the crystal blade cutting as true as any steel would, slicing into the meat of her left hand. She jerked back, her spasming hand tossing the sword behind her and into the snow, droplets of crimson splattering in the white to create a blooming of tiny bloody buds. He raised the sword, intending on spearing her through, but she had enough energy to roll out of the way, panting as she clutched her injured hand.

The sword had plunged into the earth where she had once been, her eyes widening as she scrambled back trying to find her feet and the only sword that would protect them against the Other. Rounding on her again, Tabitha still scrambled, unable to get back up as she pressed her palm to her chest and tried to stand. Again, he aimed for her and this time she knew she had nowhere to roll, lest she wanted to tuck right into a throng of wights.

Her eyes scrunched shut, but there was no pain, only the high pitched wailing of steel against crystal. When she peeked from out of her narrowed eyes, she saw that Benjen stood above her with Fate in his hands, holding back the swing that should have killed her. He forced the Other back, the harkening of Balerion above the trees reminding her that they needed to flee. Her hand was throbbing, blood staining her doublet as she managed to finally get up and whip her head towards the sky. Her eyes came back down and she saw Benjen continue to fight the Other, his own skill with the sword out matching her own as he was a more formidable match for the creature.

But it would not be an easy victory. The Valyrian steel bit against the Other's arm, hissing as it marred the brittle flesh. For that, he snaked past Benjen's defenses and caught him hard along his left side before he could turn the blade.

" No !" Tabitha knew that it had cut deep, even if the black fabric betrayed nothing.

He still stood, parrying the next and staggering back as he clutched at his flank. The Other was smug in his supposed victory, snatched only when Balerion bellowed again and nose dived between the branches, seeping from the night sky like a shadowed hellion. Talons outstretched, he caught the Other by its armor and flung it across the field and into a tree. It was not dead, but stunned, leaving them with a few fleeting seconds as Benjen crumpled to his knees, leaning upon the pommel of Fate as he panted.

Tabitha ran, the griffin encircling them and expressing his dismay loudly and with reproach, as if to challenge her. Why hadn't she called him sooner? "Get up, we need to go," Tabitha told Benjen, uncertain if Balerion could fly the entire distance back to the Roost with the both of them. She had to hope that he could. Her own injury seemed trivial in light of the Stark's, her hand flying to the gash to apply additional pressure.

Balerion knelt as she helped her charge onto his back, mounting behind him and keeping her arm pressed into his wound. No words needed to be spoken between them, onyx wings beating as he launched them off the forest floor and into the sky. He was dead weight, sagging slightly in front of her, threatening to slide right off. Balerion steadied himself, trying to keep as even as possible as Tabitha fought to keep him up.

"Stay awake. Stark!"

#game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #a song of ice and fire fanfic #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #reincarnation insert #added lore #freeform #the ability to change the future but with a twist #romance is not the main theme #BAMF female OC #benjen stark #buirbaby writes #the wardens

5 notes · View notes

plumpromises · 3 years

Text

TUA S1e2 novelization snippet

Five clenched his fists around the recognizable spatial threads and butted his head against the universe’s framework, but it didn’t budge. He couldn’t penetrate it.

“Shit!” He hissed. “Come on!”

But he was out of time as shots rang out. He ran again, this time making a beeline for the front exit in spite of the exposure it would risk. He vaulted over a display shelf, the structure almost giving way as the assassins tore through where he’d been just a nanosecond prior. Then he was over, stumbling forward to find balance as he hung onto Delores’ bag with all he had.

Then came the sirens, and Five stopped in his tracks. He was trapped. His breath lodged in his throat as he stood in indecision. Move! He had to move! Standing there frozen was a death sentence! Police cars screeched to a halt on the road outside, sliding on the slick asphalt, and Five dove to the side and squeezed himself behind a checkout counter.

He was panting, sweating, and his heart was beating wild against his ribcage. Pressing his back against the counter behind him, Five hugged Delores to his chest as she poked out of the bag. He had to think. Had to clear his mind. The assassins wouldn’t risk further assault. It was against standard procedure. He’d have to sneak past the cops or risk arrest. Arrest would be a death sentence. He’d be trapped there until he could recharge. If they found him before that, he was done.

His eyes fell to Delores. She was intact. That’s what mattered most. She was okay.

“It’ll be okay, Five.” She whispered, trying to calm him down. “The police are barely a hassle compared to Hazel and Cha-Cha. Get us out of here and we’ll figure out what to do next.”

She was right. He knew it. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how close to dying they’d come. He couldn’t stop thinking about having two of the best assassins on his ass. He couldn’t stop thinking about how fucked everything was.

As police flanked the building, Five’s eyes darted around the checkout counter interior. He spotted something reflect in the dim light, and when he looked closer, he saw it was a candy bar. Maybe there was a God. He reached for it. Didn’t matter what it was at this point. Ripping it open with his teeth, he took a bite and chewed like he was on a mission, the taste passing him by altogether. Heart still thudding, he finished the bar and waited for the cops to get close enough so that he could jump past them.

Delores, of course, had been right. The sugar had given him enough energy for a couple jumps, and he’d only needed one to get by the swarm of police. Once outside, Five glanced back at the store, then made a hasty retreat for the main road. He used his second jump to steal a few bottles of rum from the liquor store across the street.

As he made for a phone booth, he unzipped the duffle and tucked them inside beside Delores.

“Don’t give me that look.” He mumbled. “It’s been a shit day.”

She didn’t argue.

He called a cab then and made the commute back to his childhood home, taking sips of liquor whenever he felt shaky again, his fingers taking every opportunity to brush against Delores for further comfort.

Then he was back.

As he climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, he saw Allison and Luther walk by.

“Five?” His sister called out, and he slowed to look at them. “What the hell happened to you?”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t drunk enough to engage with anyone else today. What was there to even say?

“Are you okay?” Luther asked. “Can we help?” He was reaching out then, and Five’s jaw clenched.

Luther’s dead face flashed in front of him. His skin had been cold, even in the hot wind. Was he reaching for the bag? For Delores? It didn’t matter. He thought of how incredibly heavy the body had been – too heavy to bury beneath the ground – and Five grabbed his brother by the wrist, stopping his grasp midair. He didn’t need their help. Didn’t want it. He hadn’t gotten their help then. They were already dead. There was nothing—

“There’s nothing you can do.” He croaked, voice as drained as his spirit. He was exhausted. “There’s nothing any of you can do.”

He dropped Luther’s wrist and turned, walking away from them as memories clawed their way through the old mental defenses he’d erected. He couldn’t repel the images as they rose behind his eyes, crashing over him and pressing him down with wave after wave until he could barely breathe.

As he trudged down the hall and the stairs to his bedroom, he could feel loose rubble slide under his feet. The buildings burning nearby were hot against his skin. It was still his first couple weeks in the apocalypse, and he’d left the husk of his home behind, nothing and nobody to be found above the ruins. His fingers were bloody and blistered from digging. He’d sheltered where he could, a shivering, frightened mess of a boy, marching down what seemed to once be a main street with no destination in mind. Every time the bricks of a building would shift under their own weight he’d investigate, praying for a survivor, digging and clawing at the dirt and rocks until his hands hurt too badly and he had to stop.

At night, the bodies he found would whisper to him. He couldn’t understand what they said, but he pictured their dead fingers pushing away the stones that they were buried beneath. He’d passed by Gimble Brothers then. Mom had taken them there once, he’d thought. His feet followed the memory.

He picked through the remains of the store. It had been the first time in days he realized that he had to do more than walk aimlessly. An echo of Dad’s stupid records carried on the wind, and Five looked around for a second, wild with hope. Had he just – was that real? He blinked, but the sound didn’t return. The records though… He remembered bits of the survival information they had narrated over breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Survive. That’s what he had to do.

Five walked into his bedroom and stood in the doorway, and when he walked inside it was to approach a shelf that had been knocked sideways, its contents strewn across broken bits of wall and ceiling. He saw a canteen and grabbed it. There was a flashlight there too, and a warm cap that could protect his ears. He spotted a bandana, and soon enough his arms were laden with supplies. He was looking for something to carry it all in when he saw her for the first time.

Her torso was laid out on top of other mannequin parts, but at the angle she sat, it looked like she was staring right at him and smiling. Five stared back. He took a step forward, then paused and looked around, looking for somebody that might laugh at him for doing what he wanted to do next. But there was nobody. Five’s lip quivered, and his eyes stung as tears sprouted. He dropped everything in his arms and wiped at his eyes with the back of a hand before approaching the mannequin.

He crouched down and examined her face. It was a nice face. Pretty. She stared up at him, just as sightless as all the other faces he’d come across, but hers didn’t hurt to look at in the same way. She looked friendly, and he needed a friendly face.

“Hi.” He said, feeling a little embarrassed.

It was the first time he’d talked in more than twenty-four hours, and his voice came out as a rasp, rusty with disuse and still sore from the days he’d spent screaming out for his family – for anybody – while he searched.

“I’m looking for my… for anyone.” He confessed softly. “You haven’t seen anybody, have you?”

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t think she would, even though he hoped for it. His eyes moved from her face and down her slender neck, then followed the single arm she had as it pointed elsewhere. He looked to where she was pointing, and that’s when he spotted the wagon. It was just what he needed.

“Good eye.” He told her. “Thanks.”

After Five grabbed the wagon and piled in the equipment he’d scavenged, he looked at the pretty mannequin one more time. Inadvertently or not, she had helped him out. He knew she wasn’t real, but the thought of leaving her behind gave him a twinge of guilt. It felt good too, talking out loud, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it when he was all alone. Before putting too much thought into it, Five picked her up and planted her on top of his gear.

“You can come with.” He said. “While I look for them.”

As Five walked to his bed and set the duffle bag down, he could hear the crackle of fire as he sat by a pile of burning debris with his new companion. He stared at her in the firelight, and it was less lonely than sitting by himself. Just having a face to look at made the darkness less awful. He wondered what her name would be if she were real.

“Mom would have a good option for you.” He told her. “She helped name everyone. Gave us a book. Helped us pick. I didn’t like any of them though.” He added, wistful. “I mean, she tried, but I…”

His throat tightened as he remembered the callous choice to forego the name his Mom had suggested. She’d looked so hurt by his decision, but she hadn’t argued. Two – Diego – had called him selfish.

“But it doesn’t matter anymore.” He said, fighting back tears. “Does it?”

Five sat on the edge of his bed as the sun rose in his mind, as he carted the yet unnamed Delores through the city. He’d been walking by a ruined building like any other and had noticed a hand stuck out from the wreckage. That wasn’t unusual, but the eye gripped tight between its fingers was. Letting go of the wagon, he neared the hand and knelt to take a closer look. The eye was covered in bright red blood.

He pried it out of the dead man’s grip and rolled it in his fingers. It was fake; made of glass. Bizarre, to say the least. Despite his ongoing shock and the numbness that came in waves, he felt a pang of curiosity. What kind of man plucked out eyes? He leaned up and looked over the fallen stones that the arm protruded from. He spotted a face and stared. It was oddly well preserved compared to the others he’d found. And it looked… familiar. He wasn’t sure how, but it did, and that familiarity made his heart begin to pound.

Something in his stomach twisted painfully.

Unable to put a name to the face, Five looked around the rest of the destroyed building from where he crouched, trying to figure out what it might have been before. It was impossible to tell, but as he looked, he spotted another corpse. It too looked familiar, and too fresh for how long it must have sat there. He tried to blink it away. It didn’t disappear though, and with his heart jackhammering, Five ran over to it.

Eyes damp as the memories assaulted him, Five unzipped Delores out of the duffle bag and set her on the bed. He stared at her, then leaned forward and rested his head against hers, his feet pounding against the ground until he was within reach of the next body. The flash of recognition made it hard to breathe, and Five could only think one word as he reached down to shake the corpse’s shoulder.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no…

There was no movement. He was dead. As dead as everyone else despite the lack of decomposition. Five fell backwards amidst the chunks of steel and concrete, unable to look away as tears fell, his body already aware of what his brain refused to accept. Something unique had happened here. Ripping his gaze sideways, it was only to find another familiar cadaver. No! He swallowed then stumbled away, desperate to put space between himself and the truth and the dead and even more desperate to find somebody living. Instead, he blundered across one more recognizable face that would never smile again.

No, no, no, no…

But his denials were useless. He could see the tattoo sitting below a clenched fist. He could see the tattoo on the dead man’s wrist and his spirit crumpled. It was an umbrella. Same as his. The same one that his family…

Five squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed a bottle out of the duffle bag. As he twisted the top off he stared at Delores, his eyes bright and damp and wide as they bounced between the present, the past, the future. Everything was fucked. And he couldn’t get out of his head. Taking a long swig, he looked away, letting the comfort of her company keep him sane until he could pass out. She couldn’t make the memories go away. She couldn’t make the nightmares stop. But she could stay with him through it all and be there when he resurfaced.

From: Hello Apocalypse, Goodbye 2019

#the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #number five #tua season one #novelization #tua delores #five pov

7 notes · View notes

implexedactions · 4 years

Text

I will protect you

You are a citizen of Dunwall, under the reign of Corvo Attano, the ruthless emperor. He lost everyone who mattered to him, and turned cold as a result. What happens when he stumbles upon you?

(A/N): Just played through the first game recently, and now I'm in love with the game (and also Corvo). I watched someone play through the 2nd game AGES ago and read about the Emperor Corvo ending and got very excited, so I wrote this! This does feature kidnapping, although nothing sexual happens, but the non-con tag didn't feel right, so this is just a warning if you're not one for possessive behaviour, protectiveness or things like that.

If there is a Tag/Content Warning I forgot to add, PLEASE tell me!

Find me and the fic on Ao3

It was a dark, stormy night in Dunwall. The city was in ruins, which seemed to be the status quo. You were scavenging a ruined building, close to the royal district. You could hear music and party coming from inside. You envied them, a lot. As a child you always imagined being in the royal district, living the life of a noble person. Emily was a kind and wise ruler then, after Corvo had silently and mercifully changed the course of history, Dunwall grew brighter every day.

Then a usurper almost killed Emily, and something within Corvo broke. He ruthlessly killed everyone, civilian or enemy alike, on his way back to the throne. He didn’t even free Emily, saying that, at least when she was in stone, he could always protect her. Almost losing everything for a second time really changes a person, you guessed. He became the new emperor of Dunwall and a dark age settled upon the land. The city was falling down around him, with brute force and dark power replacing the subtle and wise ways of Emily.

He was renowned for retaking the throne for Emily after her mother’s death with not a drop of blood spilled on either side. In retaking the throne a second time, it appeared as if he was trying to make up for lost time, the blood of civilians, guards, and nobles, all spilt through the land. It wasn’t even that bad in Dunwall, Karnaca had been thrown into disarray and was essentially a ghost town.

You realised it was probably late, and decided to just walk home, leaving the shell of the house to wither away another day. The storm raged as you walked home, staring up at the walls to the throne room. You failed to notice the man staring down at you.

---

The next morning, you awoke to your slum-like apartment. With Corvo in charge, the nobles were all thrown out, so basically everyone was living in cold, dreary, apartments. The sense of karma from seeing nobles starve to death did little to help your disposition though. You moved around the apartment, eating a meagre breakfast, before closing the window that blew open during the storm while you were sleeping. Emerging onto the damp street, you walked to the market stalls, hoping to sell or barter the stolen goods you collected the previous night.

The marketplace was busy, even the now passed storm hadn’t dissuaded many people from coming. Then someone called out to you. A man wearing an almost skull like mechanical mask walked up to you. It seemed familiar but you couldn’t place a finger on it.

“You have a gold pendant? Stole it from that blue apartment near the royal district, 3rd floor, bedroom, red jewel in the centre? 10pm yesterday?” he said, bluntly

“So what if I do?” you responded, cautious of anyone who knew your exact movements. He was correct of course, but you didn’t need him knowing that.

“200 gold”

You gasped, 200 gold was more than you expected, you could eat well for weeks with that much. Safety be damned, you needed that money!

“Deal, thank you so much! You have no idea what this means to me”

“Oh, I think I do, my little jewel” he said handing you the money, his hand lingering in yours before he stepped back into the madness of the street, gone from your sight.

With the rather rich creep gone, you bought a few rations from the stalls then walked home. Fingers on the money in your pocket constantly, determined to not lose it.

---

The window was open again. That was the first thing you noticed as you walked in. You put the money in your safe, then walked over, cautious to inspect it. The lock was forced open, that much was clear, there were signs of someone trying to get in.

You froze, the window was open, if someone was trying to get in, then they HAD gotten-

Suddenly, two hands grabbed you from behind, and as if aided by magic, you passed out almost instantly.

---

You awoke to chains around your ankles and wrists. A noble room, with a roaring fire across from the room. It seemed to have a double bed, with a large window behind it. It was night, and there were large shadows being cast by the fire. Crawling as far as you could to the window, you looked outside. There was a new storm raging outside, so visibility was low. You were high up however, very high up.

“Hello! Is anyone there? Help!” you shouted

No one replied. You walked as far as your chains allowed. Which wasn’t very far, there wasn’t anything within your reach. Above the fire was a very large painting of Corvo Attano. Honestly, you hated him at this rate. If he didn’t go on that bloody rampage in Karnaca, things could’ve been so much better for Dunwall. If Emily was queen again things would be so much better

“Fucking bastard…” you say to the painting.

“Now that’s not a nice way to speak to your kind host, is it?”

Your blood ran cold. That reply could only mean one thing, you weren’t an idiot. You turned to the shadowy corner where Corvo Attano stood, seemingly invisible unless you knew he was there, like you unfortunately did.

He stepped out of the corner and walked over to you.

“What do you want with me?!”

“Oh a lot of things, all of them good. Right now just one thing, your hand in marriage” he said, like it wasn’t the weirdest request imaginable

“What?! No? Of course not! Are you an idiot?” you screamed in response, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

“Oh, it wasn’t really a question, more a statement. You see, since I am the emperor, the abbey will basically do whatever I like, including allowing the forced marriage of two people…” he trailed off.

“If it makes you feel better, my sweet jewel, you’ll have the best life. The nicest things in the empire, every whim catered to, people will have to obey you”, he continued sweetly, “otherwise they’d have to answer to me, and not many people stand up to me and live” he said with a sudden change in tone, the threat in the air apparent as all hell.

“Why me?”

“Well, your fine looks are part of your charm, of course. But your kindness is the main reason. When I was on the run, helping Emily to retake the throne, I got trapped by those guards near the estate district. You helped me, remember? You looked at me hiding, about to be found by the guards, then ran up and told them you saw a weeper attacking one of their hounds. They ran off, determined to save the bloodthirsty hound. You saved me, and at the time, I was merely grateful, it was just another reason of why I should save and protect this accursed city.”

“You see, the empress was always so kind, it was the reason I fell in love with her. And one of the many reasons I tried to encourage the trait in Emily. I was so naïve then, thinking kindness and compassion could win out. Then Delilah Copperspoon happened, and I had to face reality”. He paused and looked away.

“Everyone I love would be ripped away from me. It was just a fact. My kindness only let others kill those I loved. My desire for a less chaotic world forced me away from the empress for the six months that led to her being killed. And then Emily…”

He starts choking up a bit, and you’re taken aback. The evil emperor Corvo has a heart…well a twisted one admittedly. You ARE currently being kidnapped, and he’s done horrible things to the empire. It’s not really an excuse.

“Emily was still so…. I had to leave her in the stone, it was the only way I could protect her, by becoming as ruthless as I needed to”

You prod a bit. “Couldn’t you free her from the stone, it's not like she’s gone forever. Things can still go back to normal, right?”

His fist slams into the wall as he stares at you with fire in his eyes.

“NO! Things can never go back to normal! The world is cruel and unkind, and it will only keep taking from those who find themselves caught in its sights! This is the only way I can protect her!”

You back yourself into a corner, huddling and hoping he doesn’t hurt you.

“But when I saw you the other day, I was reminded of your act of kindness. I wanted to help you, to protect you. I broke into your house that night, while you slept to figure out how to best help you. I only meant to help you, that was all it was at first. As I stared at you while you slept, well, I couldn’t help but wonder if you could eventually warm up to me…”

“But then after I gave you that money, at the markets? That was me by the way. A man saw, and he tried to follow you with a knife… I stopped him, of course, his body now litters the sidewalk. But it showed me that you wouldn’t be safe out there, I couldn’t just help you by giving you gold and gifts. I HAD to protect you, to save you from the storm the world had become. And from there I think you can guess what happened.”

You stare at him, shocked at the events unfolding in front of you. You try to reason with him

“Please, I’ll give the money back, just let me go! I don’t want this!”

“Oh my sweet jewel, I don’t care what you think, really. I know how the world is, and I know I must protect you above everything else. When it comes down to it, my desire to protect you overrides your feelings about the matter. It is safe in here, where I can protect you. It is not safe out there, where I cannot protect you. It’s not that complicated of an idea.”

“But, surely the empress wouldn’t want you to kidnap-”

He suddenly appears by your side, a knife against your throat.

“If you value your life, you will never speak of her again. She was- is important to me, she did so much for me and the empire only for the empire to double-cross her. I made the mistake of being forgiving once, and after Emily, I vowed to never make that same mistake again. I have powers far beyond your comprehension, jewel, it would be unwise to cross me. I adore you, but that will only get you so far”

You try not to move, his sudden teleporting across the room was shocking. It was like he froze time.

“Okay, I won’t mention…her again, okay? Just, get that knife away from my neck, please?”

“Of course, my jewel. Now, I can’t trust you right away, as explained by the chains. But I swear they are a temporary measure if you behave. I have to go meet with, and then kill, some nobles requesting aid, okay? But I’ll be back in an hour. Okay, my sweet jewel? I will protect you, that is my promise”

#corvo attano #yandere corvo attano #reader insert #gender-neutral reader #possessive behavior #protective behaviour #yandere #dishonored #dishonored 2 #kidnapping #corvo the black #emperor corvo the black #implexedactions #Long Fic #ImplexedWriting

22 notes · View notes

theflashdriver · 5 years

Text

Scars

This is a short Silvaze bedsharing oneshot which, as the name suggests, contains a touch of angst. The idea behind this fic came from the very different lives they were reborn into, Silver being trapped in another destroyed future while Blaze had a lonely but relatively healthy upbringing as a Princess, and how their bodies might have changed as a result of that. This is a shorter story, clocking in at only 1,811 words, but I hope you will enjoy!

Oh how wonderfully things had started but Blaze just had to ruin this for herself, didn't she? She was in her bedchamber, laid in bed, but she wasn't alone; teal light ate away at the darkness and tinted her room. Silver lay facing her, his dopey sleeping smile mere centimetres away. They'd only become a couple a few weeks ago but tonight he'd stayed much too late and she'd extended the offer to stay. She watched how his fluffy chest gently rose and fell, oh how she'd love to place her head atop it and drift to sleep. But with a touch, she'd torn herself from peaceful rest to embrace a fitful feeling of guilt that held her consciousness captive. She was casting her hand across his body, gently reaching deep into his fur, and finding scars she could not recognise. Scars that, had she been present throughout his second life, he might not have today.

It had started on his back; she'd shifted her grasp to ease into him when fingers met with coarse and rocky islands in his sea of fur. She'd traced their entirety, a broken line that stretched from the peak of his right shoulder down to the centre of his waist; she could only imagine his attention had been turned elsewhere and some long claw had caught him. This revelation had led to a further search and soon she'd found more scars, most fully healed healing. Second, she'd found an indent to his fur, the type she'd have ignored before this, but plunging to the skin she'd found a dip to his skin; something had pierced him near the spine, an inch to the right and he would have died. Third, she'd uncovered a mark at his hip, where the fur had been thinner and the skin felt rough; perhaps it was a burn… be it by flame or some kind of chemical.

She had pulled her hands away, casting them over her own form; smooth fur and the nigh untouched skin of a princess. She scowled in disgust, she was a guardian and thus a combatant yes but her wounds were tended at the most immediate convenience; no matter how she put others before herself. This body had no scars, at least, none like that of the life she'd lived before. In crisis city things had been terrible, scavenging for food and water just to live another day; fighting monsters for as long as she could remember, and with that had come injuries. She recalled, as a child, her right arm had been caught in a monster’s maw; how she'd had two indents where its burning fangs had pierced flesh, never fully healing. Days later a flaming bird had set about killing her, diving and rending her shoulder with its horrid talons; leaving two lines where fur then refused to properly grow. Blaze exposed that shoulder, running her fingers through the soft fur; not a trace of it remained, lost literally to time. He hadn't let her fight for days after that, insisting she rest and demanding she take more than her share of supplies. She had refused, countering that if he was struck down she'd be unable to protect him and he'd die; that they had to be there for each other. Naturally, they'd come to the begrudging compromise of suffering together; neither of them left their makeshift home for three full days. They’d starved but they’d starved together and she’d got a little better.

Blaze caught herself, was she angry over the good condition of her own body? It was foolishness, bizarre and sadistic foolishness, but despite that understanding, it still ate away at her. It was a manifestation of the difference between their second lives, a lonely repeat in hell and an isolated life of relative safety.

Her hands began to wander again, probing and pushing at his neck. His throat, the lower right side, her fingers hitched. She began to trace another line through his fur; this one a few inches long. The flesh had risen following some kind of laceration, the wound was still a week from fully healing. Would she find them all? Certainly not tonight but undoubtedly eventually, had they matched those of their prior life she'd already know them. Blaze continued to push through that chest fur, feverishly searching for a specific mark. It took what felt like years of padding that one specific spot to accept a certain mark had been lost. Fangs grit and if tears weren’t welling before she could certainly feel them. It had happened when they were so young… he’d foolishly taken a hit for her, despite the fact that she’d surely weather it better. Down the centre of his chest, there was supposed to be a line; a deep crevice hidden only by the thickness of his chest fur.

She could remember the moment as though it happened seconds ago. She couldn't have known him for more than a week back then but, despite that, when an Iblis hound caught them off guard he'd foolishly stood before her. Even that dog, the weakest of Iblis spawn, was far too much for them back then; with a single swing of its horned head his chest had burst open in a spray of blood; he'd been thrown atop her. She'd grabbed him and ran, ran as far and as fast as she could. It was the first wound she'd, very poorly, cauterised; terrified as she did so. It took him a day to reawaken; she'd just gained her first friend and in the blink of an eye thought she'd lost him. When he finally awakened he'd had the gall to ask if she was okay, so naïve. She'd been angry, even that young she'd known what he did was stupid… but they'd both take blow after blow for the other from that day forward. Regardless of how much it worried the other, they knew if the positions were switched that they'd make the same choice.

He'd taken new injuries and lost the ones he'd sustained defending her. She’d lost them all, every reminder of a time she’d saved him. Guilt ebbed through her mind like a feverish pulse, mixed and mired feelings of sadness and anger. What had happened on those days he couldn't fight, when he was unable to rise; had anyone been there to tend his wounds? Had he tended to someone else's? Or had he suffered without her, were things the same he'd have surely died without her but as things were; did he have more scars this time? Her hands slid up to his face, just wanting to hold him somewhere unharmed. Even with these new wounds and without her… he'd been the same. It wasn't as if he'd changed, he was the same naïve idiot who'd smile through that hell and talk about making things better; even if he didn't know how to. He hadn't turned cold from a life so unfair; instead, he'd remained warm. Stupidly trusting and unbelievably kind.

She'd expected death when she made her sacrifice, to traverse realities to some endless void of nothing and explode into flames; the monster killing her but sent somewhere it could never hurt him or anyone else again. Instead what had happened? She'd been reborn into a position of power, she'd been safe and comfortable yet isolate; memories had been stolen. Forces outside their control had severed their bond, she'd had no choice but to abandon him. But, if it was beyond her control, why did these feelings remain? What was this guilt?

"Blaze?" Her eyes snapped up, blurred by tears and tinted teal she could still make out his sunlight yellow eyes. "Are you okay?"

"You're so naïve, asking me that in your state… "She closed her eyes, her whole body tensed; her hand still lay on his cheeks. She felt a pair of arms reach around her; his body pulled closer; when her eyes opened their noses were almost touching. She fought through; "Do you have more scars in this life than you did in the last?"

"Eh?" He blinked, clearly tired and surprised. "I don't know how many I have this time… a couple injuries stand out but I haven't really counted. What’s wrong?”

She wasn't content with that. Her hands traced down from his face to his chest fur, tears were gathering on the pillow; "Thirty-six injuries left lasting scars when we were together; don't make me count the new ones myself."

Silver was still holding her close, he hesitated but eventually replied; "Most aren't as big but… I-I guess more, maybe by a few?" There it was. Her eyes clamped shut, she loosed a sharp breath. She felt the arms tighten around her, "But how many have you got? It has to be less than forty-two, right?"

He couldn't remember his own but of course, he remembered her scars. Her eyes remained closed. "Close to zero. Nothing has left a mark like my life before this one.”

There was no hesitance in his response; she could hear the joy in her voice. "Really? That's great!"

Her eyes opened wide, guilt and anger flowed over; "I sacrificed myself, I chose to give myself up, you should be the one untouched! You should have been safe! I wanted you safe…"

The tears were flowing too fast now, the world a blurred mess of teal, she couldn't make out his face but she felt his forehead pressed against hers. "I wanted to save you but I couldn't do it. The fact that you're not just alive but unharmed i-it… it's great. I'm so glad." Her eyes opened, he was crying too now but beneath his tears was that smile, that broad naïve smile. "You're the one who sealed Iblis, if either of us deserves to be unharmed it's you. L-Life wasn't easy the second time either; but with you safe, I'm so happy. I couldn't want anything more."

Fingers went from his chest fur to clasping wrapping behind his neck; she leant into his forehead. "You say that like you didn't try to seal it yourself… neither of us should have had to suffer that hell, let alone twice."

"Well..." She blinked through the tears, listening intently. He was stuttering; something embarrassing was surely on the way. "I-I'm in heaven now a-and I don't plan to leave o-or let it leave me again." Yes, incredibly embarrassing.

"You’re so naïve." His words hadn't fixed everything, she’d continue to find his scars and with them new regrets, but as she leant in to kiss him she knew it would pass. Whether the scars matched or not he was her Silver. The wounds to show it may have vanished but he clearly still cared. She couldn’t heal those he’d gained, so she’d simply keep him from gaining any more.

#silvaze #Blaze the Cat #Silver the Hedgehog #silver #blaze #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #fanfiction #fanfic #silverxblaze #silver x blaze

54 notes · View notes

salaciouscrumpet · 5 years

Text

Whumptober Day 7

Whumptober Day 7: Prompt “Isolation”

I hadn’t actually planned on writing about this part of Luke’s life. I knew, in a vague sort of way, what had happened to this character prior to the beginning of my story, but it wasn’t ever anything I felt needed to be written down. In writing this -- from the point of view of the child experiencing it -- I got to have a better idea of what Luke went through, how he processed it, and how he internalized it.

The whump in this ficlet is purely emotional/psychological, but it packs a wallop nonetheless.

This one comes with some pretty heavy content warnings in the form of child abuse, child neglect, and sexual grooming of a child -- very non-explicit (and definitely not understood by the POV character), but very obvious if you know what to look for. There are a lot of very strong implications that there is something rotten in the state of Denmark. Absolutely nothing explicit happens in this ficlet but it could be triggering for some readers, so please proceed with caution.

CW: child abuse, child neglect, sexual grooming, inappropriate behaviour of an adult toward a minor (non-graphic)

Character: Luke

He hated it when his parents went away. It was even worse when they took his siblings with them. Danny was away at boarding school, of course, but Mama and Papa could have left Ally and Millie behind to keep him company. He could be a good big brother to them the way Danny was with him. Besides, they weren’t babies, Luke knew how to take care of an 8-year-old and a 4-year-old. He was almost eleven, for goodness sake! Practically a teenager.

Mama and Papa had business in Toronto, though, and while Mama didn’t like being parted from her girls Papa thought it would be good experience for Luke to be alone and in charge of the house. Mr. Sleswick was there, if Luke needed anything; Luke just had to go out to the guest house to find him.

Mr. Sleswick was part of the problem, not that Luke was going to say anything. Everybody liked Mr. Sleswick. He was smart and funny and Papa said he was one of the best Knights in the history of the Order. He gave Ally and Millie airplane rides that made them squeal with laughter and he always had treats in his pockets to give to Danny and Luke, and when he’d first arrived he’d been the first real adult to think Luke was worth paying any attention to. Most adults only ever bothered with Danny, because he was the oldest and he was going to grow up to be the best Knight of Oberon ever, and people were already commenting on how pretty Ally was and how much she took after Mama. And Millie was four, so everything she did was adorable and entertaining. Luke was just … Luke. He was small for his age and kind of clumsy and his father was forever getting angry with him because he couldn’t manage to get his footwork right. “What are you going to do the first time a fomoir charges you, you clumsy idiot? Trip over your own feet? Stab yourself with your own sword? Honestly, Lukas, pay attention!” Luke knew he wasn’t worth the adults’ time, and that made Mr. Sleswick’s interest in him such a warm, welcoming thing, even after Danny had started saying he didn’t like the older man.

At first Luke had been certain that Danny was just jealous. Mr. Sleswick thought Luke was more interesting than him, and that never happened. Then Danny went away to boarding school and Papa and Mama started having to go to Toronto for business, and while most of the time they left their three youngest children behind, more and more often lately it had just been Luke, so that Mr. Sleswick could help him work on his forms. Officially Mr. Sleswick was too important to waste his time teaching the awkward youngest son of the local Order’s secretary, but Mr. Sleswick liked working with Luke. At least, that’s what he always told Papa, when Papa expressed his frustration and amazement at Mr. Sleswick’s patience with Luke.

Now Papa and Mama were gone, and Ally and Millie with them, and Luke was alone in the big old house and there was a storm outside. And he wasn’t scared, exactly. Not of storms, anyway. But the house was creepy, especially at night, and the knowledge that Mr. Sleswick was just in the guest house nearby if he needed him was … not comforting, in the least.

Mama had left him a list of things he needed to do for the two days he was on his own. Luke took care to check off each task as he accomplished it – Work on his handwriting: Check! Do 5 laps around the grounds: Check! Make his bed: Check! – and he was hopeful that when his parents came back he would get a treat for being so diligent. (Hopeful, but he didn’t expect anything. The last time his parents were gone they didn’t check in with him for three days after they got back, and by then they didn’t care whether his chores were done or not. Luke wasn’t even sure they had missed him in their absence.) He had made himself dinner – a sleeve of crackers and an apple, because Mama locked the fridge and cupboards while they were away in case the servants might steal any of their good food. He was still hungry, but he drank a lot of water and that sort of made up for it. Except that it also made him have to pee a lot, and that meant he had to leave his hiding place, which he didn’t like doing. Leaving his hiding place risked Mr. Sleswick finding it, and then he’d have to find a new place to hide, and the servants thought it was just a silly game so they would tell on him to Mr. Sleswick instead of keeping his hiding places secret.

Luke wasn’t allowed to ask the servants for anything. They worked for his parents, not for him. He could make his own bed and his own meals and anyway his parents were only gone for two days, so it’s not like he would be expected to figure out how to use the laundry machines or how to clean the house or anything. Making his bed and scrabbling together whatever food he could scavenge (that wasn’t locked away – he’d meant to hide some things before his parents left, like a can of Alphagetti as a treat and maybe some cookies), that was easy. That was baby stuff. He could do it, no problem. He didn’t need Mr. Sleswick’s help for any of it.

He didn’t think he needed Mr. Sleswick’s help for his fighting forms, either. Honestly, Luke didn’t even think Mr. Sleswick was teaching him right. Not like how Papa showed him, or his teachers at school. But Mr. Sleswick was a lot older than him and a lot better at fighting than him – everybody said so – so maybe there was a trick to his methods that Luke just didn’t understand. And while Luke wasn’t entirely comfortable with how hands-on Mr. Sleswick was, at least when Luke messed up his forms – like always – Mr. Sleswick didn’t yell at him or hit him. Luke just couldn’t quite figure out why it made him feel more uncomfortable to have Mr. Sleswick pet him or hug him when he did well than it did when Papa slapped him or hit him with the belt for screwing up.

The storm outside was picking up, and Luke wasn’t scared, but he didn’t like it. The old house creaked and groaned on the best of days, but on the bad weather days the wind made the shutters rattle and the house was extra drafty. He’d spent most of the day tucked up in the linen closet on the second floor, up on the top shelf where Mama kept the good towels. He had a flashlight and a copy of Grimm’s fairy tales (which, in hindsight, was maybe a little too scary for a stormy night, even if he normally loved all the gory bits, like Cinderella’s wicked stepsisters cutting off pieces of their feet so they could fit into the glass slipper or birds pecking their eyes out). He’d eaten his apple slowly, following up each bite with a sip of water, but now he had to pee and that would mean abandoning his hiding spot and hoping neither Mr. Sleswick nor the servants figured out where it was before he could come back to it.

Cautiously Luke climbed down from the closet shelves. His papa was always telling him how clumsy he was, but he had always been really good at climbing. Shelves, jungle gyms, trees, you name it, he could climb it. He poked his head out of the closet and saw that the hallway was dark. His parents only left the night-lights on for his sisters; Luke was a big boy and shouldn’t need them. Closing the door carefully – it had a squeaky hinge that would squeal if you didn’t close it right – he turned and crept down the hallway towards one of the upstairs bathrooms. Technically speaking he was only allowed to use the bathroom attached to his bedroom or the one downstairs, off the kitchen, but the upstairs bathroom was closer to his hiding place, and the less time he spent away from his sanctum the less likely it was anyone would find it.

Luke didn’t bother to turn the light on in the bathroom, he just closed the door quietly behind him and used the flashes of lightning from outside to direct himself to the toilet. Unconsciously he counted the beats between the thunder and the lightning – One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus – and judged the storm to be getting closer. He wondered if it would knock the power out. On the one hand, that would be bad, because it would shut the security off in the house, and then Papa would be mad when he got home. (Luke didn’t know how to reset the security – Papa didn’t think he was old enough or smart enough to learn – but Papa didn’t like it when the security systems shut down and had to be reset because it took a lot of time, time he could spend doing better things.) On the other hand, if the power went out then the house would be even darker, and Luke would have an easier time hiding. Plus there was always something thrilling about a storm so powerful it could knock out the island’s hydro, because Papa always said they had the best system in the county. “Not like the mainlanders, who have to rely on the city utilities to get everything done!” Papa and Mama were both always very proud about how they had the best of everything: the best house, the best cars, the best positions within the Order, the best children. That was why Mr. Sleswick was staying with them, because they had the nicest guest house and the most efficient staff. The fact that he was so gracious as to offer to help teach their sons – well, just the one son, now that Danny was away at school – how to fight like a real warrior was just icing on the cake, as far as Luke’s parents were concerned, because now Luke had the best trainer, too, and all for the inconvenience of having the man stay in their guest house. And that was hardly an inconvenience at all, since Mr. Sleswick mostly took care of himself, and whatever he couldn’t manage, the servants dealt with.

Luke was just finishing up when the bathroom door suddenly burst open with such force that it slammed into the opposite wall, startling Luke so badly he jumped and peed a little on the floor. He yelped, torn between trying to cover himself up, clean up the mess he’d just made, or finish peeing in the bowl as Mr. Sleswick barged into the bathroom. In the end he didn’t have a whole lot of choice: it was either pee in the bowl or continue peeing on his foot, and it was bad enough that he’d already made a mess on the floor like a baby.

“Mr. Sleswick!” he protested, cheeks flaming as the older man turned on the bathroom light, flooding the little room with soft illumination – and highlighting the mess. “You scared me!” Luke tried covering his bare bum with one hand, the other hand still directing his flow into the bowl. He hadn’t yet mastered the art of peeing without dropping his pants onto the floor; Ally made fun of him (as if she was any better – she kept having to change her underwear because of accidents, and she was eight! That was so old!), but it was hard to coordinate the whole affair.

Mr. Sleswick laughed, and it was that laugh that Luke hated, the one that most people thought sounded warm and friendly but was actually kind of mean underneath. “Don’t be silly, Lukas, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.” Then he chuckled and made a show of trying to peek around Luke, as if to peer down at him. “Unless you’ve got some extra bits I don’t know about? Is that it, Lukas? Are you hiding something?”

“N-no, sir!” Luke stammered out, and managed to quickly finished up and tuck himself back into his pants. He realized, with a sort of fragile dismay, that he hadn’t given himself a little shake and he’d probably have a wet spot on the front of his pants later, but he decided a wet spot was preferable to Mr. Sleswick making bad jokes at the sight of his bum.

Mr. Sleswick’s hand came down heavily on Luke’s shoulder, and it took everything in him not to flinch. That would hurt Mr. Sleswick’s feelings, and he would want to know why Luke didn’t like him, or if Luke was afraid of him. And Luke wasn’t. Mr. Sleswick was always really nice to him and paid him so much more attention than Papa or Mama or any of his instructors. He should be grateful to have the attention of an important man like him, not jumping and hiding himself away just because he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with Mr. Sleswick’s interest.

“I’m just teasing you, Lukas,” Mr. Sleswick said, his voice filled with good humour. He squeezed Luke’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be so serious all the time, Gloomy Gus. Now c’mon, I was going to show you how to block that strike I used on you yesterday, remember?”

“Yes, sir,” Luke said obediently. He started to head for the door, then turned and used some toilet paper to mop up the spill on the floor. He peeled off his sock, the one he’d accidentally peed on, and shoved it and its mate down the laundry chute, hoping the servants wouldn’t notice that his socks smelled like pee. Then Luke quickly washed his hands. He did want to learn how to block Mr. Sleswick’s strike; it had been some weird overhand hit that had left Luke sprawled on his bum on the ground, which he hadn’t enjoyed at all. If he could learn how to block it, then maybe he could apply that learning to other similar hits, and then maybe he wouldn’t always get knocked down. And then maybe Papa wouldn’t be so angry about what a bad fighter he was. Maybe he’d even learn something new that he could show Papa and Mama, to make them proud of him!

“Good boy, Lukas,” Mr. Sleswick said, giving Luke’s shoulder another, longer squeeze. Something about that made Luke’s tummy twist, but he didn’t know whether it was the touch or the way Mr. Sleswick seemed to linger over his name. The apple he’d savoured while hidden away inside the closet suddenly felt leaden and heavy inside his stomach, and Luke thought he tasted bile in the back of his throat but he tried to dismiss the sensation.

There was another brilliant flash of lightning followed by a huge crash that made Luke jump. The bathroom light flickered and there was a slight buzzing sound, as if the lights were about to go out. Mr. Sleswick gave Luke a comforting pat on the back as he ushered him out into the hallway, in the direction of the training room.

“Maybe if the power goes out we can build a fort in the living room,” Mr. Sleswick suggested, and Luke smiled at that, thinking of all the times he and his older brother Danny had done that very thing. Mr. Sleswick continued, “We could make popcorn in the fireplace and tell scary ghost stories and huddle together in the fort. Wouldn’t that be fun, Lukas?”

“Yes sir,” Luke said again, even as his stomach gave another painful twist. He let Mr. Sleswick lead him away, but a part of him was thinking that maybe it would have been better if he’d just stayed hidden up inside the linen closet. He’d thought, back when Mr. Sleswick started paying attention to him, that it would be nice to have an adult make a fuss over him the way they all did for his siblings, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was better to be alone and ignored.

#whumptober2019 #no. 7 isolation #tw in note #original fiction

3 notes · View notes

togafukagiftexchange · 6 years

Text

Making Miles

Written by @otomegrandma for @death-to-nekos, using the prompt Touko being loved + appreciated by Togami and introducing him to Komaru

(1 gift of 3)

Touko is far from acclimated to the feeling of sharing a bed with another person, and so when she wakes up to an empty bed, she does not register it as strange. She would have been right to, though, considering it was not her bed that she had slept in.

“Get up. You’ve had twenty-three minutes.”

Her eyes split wide as if she’s been doused in cold water, and a primal noise erupts from the back of her throat. She rips the blanket off of her head as she shoots into a sitting position. Byakuya’s voice is lower in the early morning, but no less clear and precise, lacking any hint of lethargy. Touko can barely make out his expression through her own bleary vision, but his posture is unmistakable.

Squinting, she rubs some of the crust from her eyes and wets her dry lips. Byakuya’s arms uncross, and one reaches for the nightstand beside the bed. When he holds something out to her, it takes a moment for Touko to realize it’s her glasses.

“O-oh,” she says, croaky, and takes it from him and places it over the ridge of her nose. His blurry form coalesces into stark clarity, a hundred different fine details from the stray hairs tucked under the frame of his glasses to his long eyelashes lining his half-lidded eyes to the unbuttoned slot at the top of his dress shirt all materialize at once. She clears her throat. “Thank you.”

Byakuya’s own lips press together. After a moment, “The coffee is still warm.”

She’s grateful. At work, it’s typically Touko who makes coffee for Byakuya, but they both consume an unholy amount of it on a daily basis. The coffee’s temperature may have cooled, but it was still burnt, and Touko compensates by pouring creamer into the mug until the carton is empty and the liquid inside is as white as alabaster.

Aside from the small table where Touko sits with her drink, Byakuya stands at the stove working on what smells like a western breakfast.

Touko smiles into the rim of her mug, a pleasant warmth filling her chest different from the one that fills her stomach. The mug is half-empty when Byakuya places two plates and two sets of utensils on the table, one in front of her and the other at the nearest seat rather than the one across from her. She eyes the set of eggs on her plate, one with the yolk intact and the other not, both with edges burnt like the contents of her drink.

“I-it smells really good, Byakuya-sama,” she sighs, bubbly. “I feel honored… Getting to eat food made by your hands…”

Byakuya pulls out his seat before sitting down. “Thanks are unnecessary. This is my home, which makes me your host.”

He rebuked her, but her smile widens. “My host…” Touko pokes her fork into a sausage on her plate, which breaks into two when she tries to lift it. She picks up one of the crumbly halves with her fingers and pops it into her mouth. “I don’t eat complete breakfast meals often…” she says, covering her mouth as she chews.

“You should,” he replies, as he cuts one of his eggs into pieces.

“I know.” She made many meals for and with Komaru when they were stationed in Towa City, but she still lacks the energy in the morning to prepare something if she’s the only one that’s going to be eating it. “M-maybe…” her mouth splits into a green smile, “I-I would, if I could eat your cooking more often…”

Byakuya looks at her out of the corner of his eye. When he replies, it’s after his mouth is hidden behind the rim of an empty mug. “We’ll see.”

They eat the remainder of their breakfast wordlessly. Byakuya focuses on his plate, mostly, as Touko watches him, but sometimes he will look back at her as he chews. There’s little examination in his glimpses at her, no judgment, and no hesitance in the meeting of their eyes. This isn’t routine, but these days they can spend the night together and Byakuya won’t feel compelled to emotionally hide himself from her the morning after. When Touko’s hand rests on the table, Byakuya’s hand eventually comes to rest on top of it.

She has to leave soon, though, as they are both busy people. Touko tells him this, and he says “hmm,” and gets out of his seat and takes both of their dishes. She doesn’t leave immediately, though, and instead waits while Byakuya scrubs away the excess food off their plates and forks, soaps and rinses them, dries and puts them away.

“Byakuya?” she asks, this time without the honorific.

He hums again in response, and rinses and dries his own hands before approaching her where she’s waited. Their eyes meet again, Touko looking up at him and him looking down at her. Byakuya’s wrinkled hands come to wrap around her waist and pull her close.

She tilts her head up and closes her eyes, but Byakuya’s lips only press against her forehead. “Touko,” he says in return, and her heart quivers in her chest.

——

The smell of spices and meat permeate the Naegis’ kitchen, just as the sound of scraping and cutting and sizzling becomes background noise to casual conversation. It’s an aroma and atmosphere Touko has come to appreciate as familiar, and as she and Komaru work through the motions in their established roles and turns, her mind sinks away from the harsh buzzing and stress of work.

Before, Touko would never have expected to find being with other people relaxing.

“Touko-chan, does this look okay?”

Touko looks over. The pot Komaru looms over and stirs is filled with chopped potatoes, carrots, apples, and fish, all simmering in chicken stock.

“I would call it done… I don’t like it when they’re too soft.”

Komaru tilts her head, continuing to stir the pot. “I’m not sure… You always make them really hard…”

“W-why did you ask if you were going to second guess me?!”

Komaru hums thoughtfully. With a fork, she tries poking one of the potato cubes. Instead of being speared, it gets pushed along the side of the pot. “A minute longer, I think. It won’t get mushy, don’t worry.”

Curry was something they both had a taste for, they’d discovered back in Towa City, and whenever they had the ingredients for it they could agree upon it easily. That circumstance was rare, though, and normally they’d make their meals with what they could find.

Touko had learned when she was younger how to make meals with sparse ingredients, which became useful in Towa City when she and Komaru had to make do with what they could scavenge. But sometimes, if they were lucky, they would come across something that could make for more than just a bare meal. After the battle in Towa Tower, Touko and Komaru had occasional bouts of free time in between missions, and when the stars aligned they’d use it to make nicer meals for themselves.

The food didn’t always turn out, but they both enjoyed it, and gradually they improved. During their regular communications with Future Foundation, Komaru often told Makoto what they last made, which - again, when Touko and Komaru were lucky - resulted in more than just rations and medical supplies being sent in their next supply drop.

The pot scrapes against the counter as Komaru pulls the it off the heat. “It already smells good,” says Makoto, who had been standing against the sink mostly idle since everything that needed to be cut up had been taken care of. He smiles. “Thanks for joining us for dinner, Fukawa-san.”

Touko smiles back, a bit smugly. “O-of course. I have a short weekend this week, so I want to make the most of it before I go back to work.”

Makoto scratches the back of his neck. “We’re honored.”

“Don’t be so bashful, niichan. We’re just eating dinner together, and Touko-chan and I used to do that every night. You’ll make her feel awkward.”

“H-hey, don’t put words in my mouth…” mumbles Touko.

Komaru rolls her shoulders, and puts the wooden spoon she was stirring with on a towel to avoid getting broth on the counter. She turns to the den of ingredients they’d gathered and picks out what she needs to finish make the roux. There’s flour, and she knows that there’s butter in the fridge, but there’s one ingredient she can’t find in the pile.

“Touko-chan, did you take the ginger already?”

She gets a confused look in return. “Why would I need that?”

Komaru lets go of the flour and moves to the cupboard where she and Makoto keep their spices. When it’s not there, she looks through some of the other cupboards because she knows she and Makoto aren’t exactly on top of keeping their kitchen organized. It’s not in any of them, either.

“What are you looking for?” Makoto asks.

Komaru scratches her neck as she closes the compartments. “Eh… do we really need ginger for this?”

Touko almost bites her nail before she stops herself. “I don’t -”

“I’ll get it,” Makoto interrupts enthusiastically. ”The store isn’t that far away, and I’m not really contributing right now, so it’s no problem.”

There’s a pensive look on Touko’s face, but Komaru doesn’t wait to be relieved. “Thanks, niichan! I’ll start on the roux now, so you better hurry!”

Makoto laughs nervously as he heads towards the door, making a detour for his coat on his way out. With a put-upon sigh of relief, Komaru smiles and goes digging for a sauce pan.

“H-he’s so obedient,” Touko says, once he’s out of earshot, or she figures he is, “… l-like a dog…”

Komaru grunts as she rises to her feet with her pan. “I… wouldn’t go that far…” She puts the pan over the heat, lowering one of the nobs before she leaves it to grab butter from the fridge. “I’m almost an adult now, but he’s still the older brother, so he’s really the one that’s supposed to be making dinners and stuff. Even if he’s not, he still wants to be the responsible one.”

Touko didn’t grow up with any siblings, older or younger. Her parents rarely looked after her, and were more often a hindrance than people she could rely on. Even if she understood Komaru and Makoto’s relationship, she didn’t have any experiences of her own to relate it to.

Unless Touko counted Komaru, which sometimes, she did.

The sound of the door opening could easily be heard from the kitchen in their small apartment, but Touko wouldn’t have noticed it if it wasn’t followed by Makoto’s voice. “Ah, Togami-kun?”

It’s followed by Komaru’s, who’s head instantly turns. “Togami-san?!”

And who was followed again by a much less surprised “Byakuya-sama!”

A knife clinks against the counter as Touko darts out of the kitchen and towards the door. Komaru is extremely confused, and she quickly spreads butter to sizzle over the pan before stepping away. At the door, Byakuya peels a tan jacket off of his shoulders as he makes what looks to be small talk with Makoto, who smiles amiably while rubbing the back of his neck.

Though Komaru knew he and Byakuya were teammates at work and that he and Touko were becoming closer (something her friend feverishly reiterated), she still knows the man as the mysterious, cold-mannered agent of the Future Foundation. Seeing him in her home hanging his coat on her apartment’s coat rack was like something out of a fever dream.

His eyes shifts away from her brother and towards Touko as she approaches him, wringing her hands seemingly to restrain herself. Komaru could see the corners of his lips twitch - inward or outward, she couldn’t make out.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Touko happily sighs.

“I don’t miss appointments.”

The cold response makes Komaru cringe. She looks between the three of them. “I didn’t know he was coming over,” she calls out.

Makoto’s wide eyes dart over to her. “Oh! That’s my bad, ha… we talked about it at work - or, Fukawa-san brought it up, but I thought it sounded good. Togami-kun and I don’t meet often outside of work, so I was really surprised he agreed to come.” His brows furrow apologetically. “I didn’t think to give you a heads up, ah… sorry.”

Even if it was on accident, being left out of the loop still annoyed Komaru. It would be rude to object now, of course, so she doesn’t.

After an I’ll be right back, Makoto leaves for the store. Touko and Byakuya talk by the door for a while longer, standing almost awkwardly close to each other. Komaru remembers the pan she left on the stove and heads back, but it’s another two minutes before she’s joined by a very rejuvenated Touko.

The corners of her mouth stretch into a wide, tightly-closed smile. Touko’s eyes are clearly not trained on the food, instead glazed over as one hand drapes over the edge of the counter and the other grips pointlessly at a utensil. What’s on her mind is obvious to Komaru, but even though she’s watched Touko think and talk about Byakuya hundreds of times since they first met, it’s never looked exactly like this.

Byakuya situates himself a few feet away from them, near the sink.

He doesn’t seem to plan on striking up a conversation anytime soon.

Komaru looks away. “Touko-chan,” she starts, working a smile onto her face. “How is that… project you were talking about going?”

The delirious smile on Touko’s face snaps into something more personable. “W-what project?”

“You know, the one with, um… you were talking about it earlier, it had…”

Touko catches on to what Komaru’s referring to, but her eyebrows knit together. “Were you listening to me or weren’t you?”

“I was!” Komaru insists. “I was, but you brought up so many different things that I’m not really sure how I could refer to it… it’s not like it had a name.”

For a moment, Touko chews on her lip. It’s easy for her to assume when someone brings up her interests that they’re going to make fun of her, or are just being formal, but she’s resolved herself to trust in Komaru’s intentions. “I’m… still working on it. I’m at the writing stage, b-because I prefer to put things in motion rather than wait on a detailed plan, but the more I think about my outline the more unsure I am of it… I’ll probably have to re-write it all later.”

Komaru nods. “You write fast though, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah, on good days…” The words leave a bitter look on her face. “But I don’t have as much time to write as I used to.”

In contrast, Komaru smiles. “It’s your passion, right? Even though you have such an important job, you still make time to write. I think that’s really admirable.”

“Well…” Touko’s lips press into a tight line. “As long as I get inspired, I-I’ll write. I can’t… not do it.”

That part doesn’t leave as sour a look on her face. Komaru nods understandingly.

Byakuya speaks up from behind them. “I recall that you’d lost your inspiration.”

His choice of words seemed almost accusatory, but his tone bellied something more like passive interest. They both turn their heads. “Ah,” Touko sounds. Her eyes widen as she regards Byakuya, before hooding over. “F-for a while, I did… I told you about the I-novel that I shared with Naegi-kun, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to continue writing romance novels.”

Byakuya’s face is passive, merely making a single nod, but after a moment he doesn’t prod her to elaborate. Komaru fills the air. “What changed?”

“Well,” she continues, this time smiling, “some… things happened, and I tried experimenting some more… before, when I first started writing, my inspiration came from me wanting to fill holes in my life. When I was young, I could create stories where I expressed some of my desires, and then h-have those desires fulfilled, or…”

Even though she’s smiling, there’s still an anxiety in her voice, and her fingers link and unlink habitually. Her eyes dart between Byakuya and Komaru, and after a moment, she frowns.

“Don’t look at me like I’m some sort of gross creep… I-it’s just how I made it through things back then. B-but I don’t really get inspiration that way anymore. Or, I don’t… need to. Instead of trying to use writing just to get catharsis, I have to create things that are… new. Draw from the world around me instead of just myself. There’s still s-some wish fulfillment, but… I have to do more.”

Her fingers tie together and squeeze.

“That sounded dumb,” she says.

“It does not,” Byakuya says immediately. “Objectively, you are an accomplished writer. When faced with a creative roadblock, you chose to innovate rather than stagnate and wither.”

Like a spell, Touko’s hesitance is immediately lifted. She smiles.

The three of them continue to talk over the sound of scraping and stirring and whirring fans. Touko goes into more detail about her book, the setting she’s imagined so far and how it connects to the stories core themes - all sounding incredibly dark to Komaru, but she’s told by Touko that she never writes anything pointlessly bleak. Komaru talks about school, the friends she’s been able to make despite the circumstances - things the younger girl thought would seem utterly banal to a former billionaire heir like Byakuya, so she’s surprised when he makes occasional comments.

He’s still cold, but seeing Byakuya actually… talk - about something other than Future Foundation work - is new to Komaru.

With a whoosh of air that could be heard from the kitchen, Makoto returns with a grocery bag bearing a single item. Touko and Komaru finish preparing the curry, and with Makoto’s help they set the table with four sets of plates and utensils surrounding a pot of curry and a pot of rice, as well as some side dishes Touko had made. A warm collage of smells filled the room, no single ingredient standing out from the source.

The dinner atmosphere Komaru and Makoto were used to was tempered somewhat by the presence of their two guests. Komaru noticed that Makoto ate a bit slower when he was among people other than just family - a long time ago, back when that counted for more than just her. Similarly, Touko took much more care with the way she ate, though that might have had less to do with either of the Naegi siblings.

Conforming seamlessly with Komaru’s impression of him, Byakuya eats meticulously, his posture stiffly upright. She glances at him occasionally as he eats, but even though he takes so much time with his food, he hardly reacts to it at all.

Touko covers her mouth as she chews, and for a while longer when she speaks. “D-do… you like it?”

“It tastes really good,” Makoto says. “You two did a really god job.”

Touko hadn’t been looking at Makoto.

Byakuya swallows cleanly before he speaks. “I’ve tasted your cooking before,” he replies, “though, not yours, I suppose,” this time regarding Komaru.

He spoke so seriously. Komaru feels like laughing, but it would have come out just as stiff as Byakuya’s words. Touko. though looks like she’s on the edge of her seat. Just watching her makes Komaru feel a little nervous.

“It’s adequate. I prefer this to the constant ordering out at work.”

The tension in Touko’s face snaps instantly into an eruption of giggles, her clinging hands going back to rowing her utensil against the rice on her plate. “M-meals made like this are so much better t-than the greasy slop they make at chains…”

“We only eat it so much of it because Hagakure-san keeps ordering out,” Makoto points out.

“And you enable him by paying for his cut whenever he insists that he left his wallet in some inconvenient crevice,” Togami says. “Which has been every time, by the way. You are easily deceived.”

Komaru’s mouth makes an ‘o’, while Touko smirks. Makoto doesn’t look particularly taken aback by Byakuya’s insinuation, instead smiling meekly and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Wow,” Komaru says, stuffing a bit of rice into her mouth. She chews quickly and then swallows. “You really need to stand up for yourself, niichan.”

“Komaru,” Makoto laughs.

Even if Komaru hadn’t known what Byakuya and her brother had gone through together, she would still be able to tell just by watching them that Makoto had a lot of experience dealing with Byakuya’s personality, and that Byakuya afforded him in turn more humor than she had received as a relative stranger. Not that he had been outright mean to her, but around his friends, he seemed… lighter. Comparatively.

“So, um,” Komaru starts, rearranging bits of rice and meat on her plate as she focuses on the space just to the right of Togami’s eyes. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you and Touko-chan get together?”

Byakuya blinks at her, halting mid-chew.

Komaru tries to keep a affable smile, but the way it pinches at her cheeks tells her it comes across as forced. “I mean, Touko-chan mentions you a lot whenever we get together, but it’s a little, uhm, flowery? And you and I didn’t talk one-on-one a lot while we were in Towa City, so I might not have a very clear impression of you… ha.”

To Byakuya’s side, Touko cringes. “Byakuya is a very p-private person, he doesn’t -”

“I can speak for myself,” he interrupts.

Promptly, Touko closes her mouth. Her fingers quickly find each other and lock into place. Komaru thinks to herself that he could have been gentler.

“… Fukawa was correct,” he says carefully. He maintains strict eye contact, as if he were giving Komaru a job interview. “The details of our relationship are private, as they concern only us.”

It occurs to Komaru that he wasn’t even using her first name. Fukawa was how he had always referred to her, only marginally more familiar than being called Naegi’s sister, so she was used to it - but they were dating.

“However.” He regards her seriously. “Even if our relationship is a private one, it is still a relationship, and that is not private.”

Makoto’s utensil clinks against his plate. “Togami-kun,” he trails off.

“Nothing that stays between us is hidden because I think it is a threat. I am not… ashamed of her.”

“No one is saying you’re ashamed, Togami-kun,” Makoto says.

He faces Makoto only to turn up his nose. “You didn’t have to. Someone else did.”

Makoto blinks. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter who she is, what’s important is -”

“It wasn’t Asahina-chan, was it?”

Byakuya pulls a face.

“… Well,” Makoto scratches his jaw, “I can see why she might be… concerned…”

“What’s important,” Byakuya continues forcefully, “is that our relationship is not a point of weakness. Anyone who assumes as such is severely underestimating me. Rather, for me to hide my… relationship, would itself be a display of weakness.”

Touko stares at her lap, her head dipping down far enough to hide most of her face. One of her hands clings to a utensil, held frozen over her plate, the other trailing off at a slight angle to her side towards Byakuya. Komaru can tell that this wasn’t the first time Touko had heard this from him.

“You still didn’t, um, explain how you got together,” Komaru points out.

“Oh.” Byakuya lips contort, and he takes a sip from an empty glass. “Hm. That detail is private.”

Komaru scratches her chin. “Really? I really doubt it’s that strange…”

“I didn’t say it was - strange,” replies Byakuya, firmly.

Touko looks up. “Would it… you mind if I told it?” Although the tone of her voice is demure, her lips curl into a smile as she speaks.

“No,” he says immediately. There’s a pause, during which Komaru swears she can see Byakuya’s face getting redder. He swallows. “No. I will tell the story,” he corrects.

Touko’s eyes flicker away. Komaru notices Byakuya’s arm shifting just slightly.

——

The sink’s faucet hisses on and off periodically, punctuated by the sound of scrubbing and scraping. Soapy suds cling to the rim of the sink, as does water soak the sleeves of Makoto’s shirt from before he’d thought to roll them up to his elbow.

It was late into the night, now, and everything that they could have talked about had already been said, so Makoto fills the silence with intermittent humming. Makoto rinses the plates, utensils, and pots, and Komaru dries and puts them away. This is how they have always worked, mostly because Komaru thought drying was easier than washing.

From the window above their sink, Komaru can make out the ground level outside their apartment. The angle from where she stands puts a line of street lamps just within her view, and her eyes flicker to and from it as she mindlessly dries off everything Makoto hands her.

Beneath one of the lights, two figures stand together, one short and one tall, and for a long time they just stay like that. From this distance, Komaru can’t tell if they’re talking or not.

One rocks on the heels of their feet and fiddles with their fingers. There are no buses running at this hour, so they have to be talking.

“I’ll check in with you next time,” Makoto says, without looking at her.

“It’s okay,” replies Komaru. “I mean, do that, but I’m not annoyed or anything.”

The taller one places their hand on the other’s shoulder, and the shorter one stops fidgeting. A moment later, there’s another hand, this time placed lower, and they are pulled into an embrace. For a while, they’re frozen in place like that.

“That’s good,” Makoto says, and hands Komaru a pot.

#togafuka #otomegrandma #danganronpa #touko fukawa #byakuya togami #2018 #fanfiction #submission

17 notes · View notes

tomjopson · 6 years

Text

Iron Hands, Iron Skin Ch. 3

Rating: T-M

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V / Skyrim

Characters: Original character, Male bosmer dovakhiin, Ghorbash gro-Dushnikh, various minor characters in Windhelm

Relationships: Male Dovakhiin / Ghorbash gro-Dushnikh

Summary: A retired Orcish legionnaire and a Bosmer in self-exile were an unlikely pair to find themselves wandering the roads of Skyrim, always in search of adventure and gold, but mostly gold. Ghorbash the Iron Hand left his stronghold to join ranks with a mage who was talented but far too cocky for Ghorbash's taste. Theirs was a companionship that worked well, however, with one providing brawn and the other providing wit--or at the very least, successful distractions. What started as an uneasy balance turned to friendship and an even stronger bond as the two found common ground and constant danger. At least life was exciting outside of the stronghold.

A collection of tales, following the misadventures of Ghorbash and Kaj--two idiots who make memories, discover love, and wreak havoc along the way.

Notes: The chapters aren’t in any order and don’t have to be read in order to make sense.

[Previous Chapter]

[Read on Ao3]

Chapter 3: A Rare Thing, Compassion

Kaj’s voice rose higher and louder as he argued with the shopkeeper about the prices. The dark elf behind the counter of Sadri’s Used Wares refused to budge. Ghorbash watched from the doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

“Thirty gold for an amethyst?” Kaj nearly shouted. “I could get over a hundred in Solitude for this!”

“Well, you’re not in Solitude,” Sadri said, his own voice rising to match Kaj’s.

“It’s near the size of my fist.” Kaj slammed his palm on the counter. “You’re trying to cheat me!”

Sadri leaned dangerously close to Kaj, jabbing a finger at his shoulder. “I don’t know where you got it. Could’ve been from a tomb for all I know. I’m not a fucking fence for your filched goods, bosmer.” He spat the word out like he tasted something foul in the air. “I get enough trouble from the city guard as it is. I don’t want to be dragged to prison for your rubbish.”

Ghorbash remembered the scene that took place when he and Kaj first entered Windhelm that evening, when they arrived right before nightfall. A dunmer woman was being harassed by a large group of town folk who were quick to accuse her of every catastrophe that had befallen Skyrim in the past few years. There were a couple guardsmen up the stairs by the tavern who watched all of this without intervening. The men only dispersed when Ghorbash got between them and the woman, telling them to back off.

The men had grumbled to themselves and skulked away, but Ghorbash knew in his gut that he had made some enemies that night. He would sleep better the sooner he and Kaj left Windhelm behind them.

At first, the dunmer woman had snapped at him and Kaj, demanding to know if they hated all her kind as well. Kaj had scoffed before lowering his hood. Seeing his ears, the woman relaxed. She realized that she was among friends. Kaj stepped close to her, asking if this was normal, and she shrugged. Windhelm was not a kind city to outsiders, especially the dark elves in the Gray Quarter and the Argonians on the docks. She suggested that Kaj keep his hood up if he didn’t want trouble.

Ghorbash had offered to walk her home, a good excuse to have a native show them around. He and Kaj had no food and almost no money on them, and they desperately needed to find someone with whom to trade their goods. Well. Their scavenged items, more like.

Legally obtained.

Most of them.

“The name of your shop is used wares! Do you undersell all your patrons? How do you have any customers?” Kaj’s fists clenched at his side started to glow dangerously.

Ghorbash stepped forward. “Kaj. Calm down.”

Kaj whipped his head around to glare at Ghorbash, but when Sadri pulled a knife from under his counter to place between them, he controlled himself enough to make the orange glow in his knuckles dim.

“Better listen to your friend. Smart man, him.”

Ghorbash placed a hand on Kaj’s shoulders, squeezed, and pulled him back. “Look. We can trade for more than gold. We’ll take your price for the gems if you throw in something else. I, for one, am running low on arrows.”

Sadri’s lip curled, but he stopped himself from making a smart remark. He shook his head, placing his knife back in a cabinet under the counter. “Very well. Maybe then you two will leave me in peace, Azura willing. I’ve got a quiver with different makings in the back. Let me fetch it.”

Sadri disappeared behind a curtained door. Kaj was breathing harshly through his nose, and Ghorbash was still pressing his hand hard on the elf’s shoulder.

“Don’t fight my battles for me,” Kaj muttered.

“That’s why you hired me.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I know. But we don’t need you burning down any buildings. Gray Quarter or not, I don’t want happened in Riften to happen again.”

Kaj snorted. “If I recall, you’re the one who started throwing punches in Riften.”

“Doesn’t matter. The man’s right. We don’t want issue with the guards here.” Ghorbash thought of his sword, with the Imperial crest on it. It would be dangerous to end up in prison with Imperial paraphernalia in a city run by Stormcloaks.

Some of the tension in Kaj’s back loosened. Ghorbash let his hand slide from his shoulder down his back, and—upon realizing the intimacy of the gesture—he gave a Kaj a perfunctory pat before withdrawing his hand. Kaj grabbed his pack from where he had dropped it on the floor at his feet. He rifled through it until he found his meager pouch of gold. He pulled a couple of coins out of the pouch and left them on the counter.

“Here,” he said, waving his fingers at the coins before replacing the pouch in his bag and hoisting the strap around his torso. “You get whatever else you want from him, but make sure he fucking pays what he offered. If I have to look at his face again, I will summon an atronach to shove its flaming arm up his arse, guards be damned.”

Ghorbash raised an eyebrow, not believing the threat at all but letting Kaj make his bluff without comment. “And where are you headed?” he asked.

“To get us food at the tavern.” Kaj rubbed a hand against his cheek, scratching. “I’ll feel better with some food in me. Preferably in a rented room.”

With that, Kaj ducked out of the general goods store. It was dark outside, the braziers were lit along the wall, and snow was falling heavily. Ghorbash seconded the elf’s sentiments about a warm, dry room.

When Sadri returned with the arrows, Ghorbash selected a bundle of dwarven ones. They were the only ones worth taking, though he kept his observation about the rusty points to himself. Sadri parted with some coins for the amethyst and other gemstones with a mutter under his breath, but he seemed far less willing to argue with Ghorbash than he had with Kaj. Ghorbash pocketed the tiny profit and put the new arrows in his own quiver. Pulling his hood up and tightening his cloak around his shoulders, he braced himself for the cold and left the store. The Gray Quarter was dark with the imposing high walls making the alleyways foreboding and claustrophobic. There was some shrieks and laughter coming from the bar, but Ghorbash assumed Kaj had headed to the tavern in the center of town. More likely for them to get a private bunk in the larger inn—for more money, unfortunately, but the two of them preferred their privacy in the cities.

The falling snow hit Ghorbash in the face, making him squint as he trudged up the stairs leading to the town square. He was careful to not slip on the slick rock, worn from centuries of ice freezing on it and feet wearing down its surface. The night was eerily bright as the fresh snow reflected the light of the braziers, and the clouds above were a dusty gray. Nevertheless, the snow blurred his vision, and when he passed the gate for the docks, he bumped into a little girl. She was a strange sight given the part of town. She was neither dunmer nor argonian, but human. She was bundled up for the weather, but her upturned, pink nose poked from above a threadbare scarf, and her eyes were red and watering from the cold. In her gloveless hands, she clutched a basket full of winter greenery and hardy, northern flowers.

She squeaked, hunching her shoulders. “Excuse me! I didn’t see you.”

Ghorbash instinctively put his hands out to push her away but stopped realizing that the girl could not be more than ten years old. He frowned thinking of the lateness of the hour and the increasingly bad storm. He also remembered hearing the rumors of a killer lurking in Windhelm’s streets. It was hardly a safe place for a little girl.

“Are you headed home?” he asked her.

She peeked up at him, but when she saw his shadowy, hooded face, her eyes widened. She dipped her head again. “Soon enough. I was hoping to sell more.”

He looked at the basket, assuming she meant those. “Where are your parents?”

“Dead. I live with Shahvee down by the docks. She’s nice.”

Ghorbash nodded, unsure how to respond to the girl’s candidness. “Well. Get yourself home soon. It’s not safe at night.”

“I can take care of myself.” She defiantly raised her head, though the snotty pink nose took away some of the effectiveness of her bravado. “Say, mister, would you like to buy one of my flowers?”

She held out the basket for him to see the small wreaths of snowberries and the wildflowers. He hesitated. The only gold he had on him was the small amount he had earned for the gems.

“How much?”

Likely used to being ignored like a beggar, the girl perked up, the scarf sliding down her face enough to reveal a gap toothed smile and chapped lips. “Just a copper per flower!”

It was an impulsive decision, and Ghorbash knew in the back of his mind that Kaj would throw a tantrum. But Ghorbash pulled out his coin purse and took a handful of the coins without counting them. To his credit, he didn’t grab the entire contents, but judging by the girl’s clothes, she had probably never held a single gold coin in her life.

Ghorbash held the small fortune in his large palm before her. “I’ll take all you got.”

The girl was stunned into silence before she whooped and jumped on her feet. She thrust her whole basket toward him. With the gold coins filling her small hands, she laughed loudly and jubilantly.

“Thank you, mister! Shahvee will be so happy! Thank you!”

Ghorbash slid the handle of the basket over his arm. “Good. Now go home. You’ll be safer there.”

“I will!” She grinned up at him before running toward the docks gate, pushing open the wicket door with her shoulder.

Ghorbash sighed. He looked into his coin purse, counting what was left. He pocketed it and continued toward the tavern. No guardsmen in sight this time. He opened one of the tavern’s doors, and the warm air wafted over him, the sudden temperature shift making his nostrils sting. Thankfully, the common room was up the stairs, so he was able to approach the bar with no harassment. He asked the owner if a bosmer had been through yet. Without looking up from the mug she was wiping, she said in her nasal voice that the wood elf was in the second room to the left.

“Let yourself in. You’re already paid for.”

Feeling embarrassed, not entirely sure why, Ghorbash grunted a thank you before heading down the hall. He pushed open the door to the room without knocking, and he found Kaj stripped to his trousers and socks sitting cross legged on the rug in the middle of the room. It was a tiny room—one bed, a dresser, and chair—but large enough that Ghorbash figured they could comfortably share the bed. They had slept in worse places.

Kaj was digging through his potions, sorting through the vials and setting aside the ones that had cracked or were missing cork stops.

“So were you successful in not killing our beloved Sir Sedri’s Used Wares?” he asked without looking up.

Ghorbash placed the basket of flowers on the dresser. He took off his cloak and hood, draping them on the lone chair in the corner. He locked the door out of habit before sitting on the bed and removing his shoes.

“He was civil with me. You, on the other hand, enjoy starting arguments.”

“Or,” Kaj said, raising his eyebrows and smirking up at Ghorbash, “people don’t argue with you because you’re terrifying. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

“Not all of us are as vain as you, Kaj.”

The quip earned Ghorbash a delighted laugh, as though Kaj were always a little surprised when Ghorbash joked with him. With Kaj’s attention back to his potions, Ghorbash let himself smile.

Kaj took the abandoned vials and dumped them into one of the dresser drawers for the poor innkeep to find later. He paused when he saw the basket.

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up one of the bundles of flowers.

Ghorbash shrugged. “Found it by the docks. Figured you could use them for your potions.” He conveniently did not mention the gold. Kaj was in a good mood, and he didn’t want to sour it first thing before bed.

Kaj had a strange look in his eyes, confused, almost worried. He tucked the flower back into the basket, but his eyes lingered on it for a few seconds more as if no one had given him something without reason before. He shook his head a little before slyly smiling at Ghorbash.

“Thoughtful,” he said. “You’re full of surprises.”

Ghorbash tossed his boots to the other side of the room before scooting back on the bed until his back hit the wall.

“What did you get for food?”

“Oh.” Kaj stooped to pick up a couple plates that he had lain beside his bag. “Salmon. The meat looked old, but it’s warm.”

He handed Ghorbash one of the plates and joined him on the bed, their shoulders pressed together as they ate. Ghorbash felt the warmth in his chest, and his skin tingled where their bare shoulders touched. He ignored it by eating faster.

Once he finished and wiped the plate clean with a piece of bread torn off the dark loaf Kaj had also bought for them, Ghorbash leaned his head back against the wall.

“Where do you want to go come morning?”

Kaj blinked at him. “In the morning?”

Ghorbash thought of the Gray Quarter, the townspeople harassing the dunmer woman, of the sequestered Argonians, of the dead woman found in the cemetery, and of the little girl selling flowers in the dark.

“What? You love this city enough to stay? Maybe there’s a house for sale, and we can move right in.”

Kaj chuckled, but it withered in his mouth. He was quiet for a few seconds, hesitating before he asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t want to stay here longer than we need to.” Ghorbash bent over to dig his flask out of his bag. “It stinks of the war here.”

Kaj didn’t answer to that, and instead put a fraction more of his weight against Ghorbash’s shoulder. Ghorbash took a swig from his flask before offering it to Kaj. Kaj accepted it, smelling it curiously before sipping. The two of them shared the silence, passing the flask back and forth as the noise from the patrons upstairs filtered through the crooked floorboards. They could hear laughing, singing. A couple men got into a tussle and had to be broken up by the nasally innkeep before she kicked them out.

Ghorbash sighed, and when he held out the flask for Kaj to take, he realized that the elf had fallen asleep against the wall and against Ghorbash’s shoulder. Ghorbash moved slowly, putting the flask on the dresser before sliding Kaj flat onto the bed and covering him with the furs.

As Ghorbash extinguished the lanterns in the room, he moved the basket to sit by Kaj’s bag. In his mind, he was rehearsing his excuse for when Kaj realized that there was less money than there should be. It was a small comfort that the little girl and Shahvee would have plenty to eat for the next week while he and Kaj would have to pilfer from strangers’ gardens.

But as he carefully slid onto the bed beside Kaj, letting Kaj’s body heat and breaths lull him closer to sleep, he remembered the little girl’s laugh. He remembered Kaj’s sad eyes as he looked at the flowers.

He would deal with it in the morning.

#ghorbash the iron #ghorbash gro dushnikh #ghorbash #bosmer oc #bosmer dovakhiin #mage dovakhiin #bosmer mage #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim #The Elder Scrolls #orc #wood elf #orc romance #my writing #iron hands iron skin

9 notes · View notes

shimmersing · 6 years

Text

Something Better

[Tumblr Masterpost] [AO3 Link] [Soundtrack] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

Chapter 4: Uncontrolled Burn

It was the little girl again.

Okay, Erithon thought, maybe I shouldn’t say ‘little.’ She couldn’t have been that much younger than him, but she seemed small, huddled into herself like that.

Last time she’d snuck up on him. He was still kind of embarrassed about that. He’d been crying, which wasn’t really a problem by itself, but he wanted to seem strong to his mom and sister. It seemed like there wasn’t any room left for more tears at home. So he took them elsewhere.

When he was younger, Dad had taken him here to fish. They rarely caught anything, and a few years ago he’d realized it was less about the fishing than about spending time together. He’d gotten bored quickly the last few times, preferring to watch a holo or play with his friends. If he’d known what was going to happen…

Erithon sniffed and straightened up just as the girl turned around. She didn’t seem surprised, gazing calmly at him from her perch above the water. It was the spot he and his father would sit during those long afternoons. They’d spoken little during those visits. The house was always filled to the brim with his family’s voices, so the quiet was welcome.

The girl stared at him for a long time, long enough for the sun on the back of his neck to get hot. When he reached to pull his collar up, she started. Erithon took a hesitant step forward, reaching out with the other hand.

She sprang to her feet, her balance unnaturally steady as she rushed toward the opposite bank and leapt lightly to the ground. She glanced over her shoulder once more before racing toward the Republic camp. It was just over the rise. Mom had told him to stay away.

He watched until the gleam of her hair had passed out of view.

Erithon’s eyes opened to dappled morning sunlight and leafy canopy. Stifling a yawn, he sat up and rolled his shoulders experimentally. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours, but he felt like he’d slept for a week. A good week. On Rishi or someplace nice like that.

Mornings like this too often passed him by. Being in the field, his squad had usually been up and moving well before this time of day – well, depending on what planet you were on, anyway. They were on Taris, right? The air, humid and poisoned as it was, seemed clearer. The light was gentler, the breeze that ruffled his hair was softer.

It reminded him of home. It had been years since he’d set foot on Brentaal. And a while since he’d messaged his mom or his sister, he mused, deciding that he’d make a point of reaching out once this mission was complete.

Still mulling over the contents of the potential message, Erithon looked around to find Aitahea kneeling a few yards away, bright hair aglow in the sunshine. The Jedi didn’t move from what he assumed was some kind of meditation, head bowed and eyes closed. A hazy scrap of dream flickered unbidden through his thoughts, leaving him confused and vaguely bereft. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck where sunlight warmed his skin.

…stared at him for a long time, long enough for the sun on the back of his neck to get hot…

Long moments passed as Aitahea remained immersed in her meditation. Her expression was beatific, and Erithon thought he could detect a shimmer in the air around her, more visible in his peripheral vision than straight on. He admired the gentle radiance until her head lifted, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

…a hesitant step forward, reaching out…

“Lieutenant?” At the sound of her voice, everything came back into sharp focus.

“Huh? Oh, Master Jedi.” Erithon leapt to his feet, a little embarrassed at being caught staring. Maybe not so much staring as lost in thought, but still.

“Good morning,” Aitahea said, flicking back the hem of her robe as she stood. “I hope your sleep was restful,” she added, turning away to gather her few supplies.

“Pretty good, actually.” Taking the cue from her, Erithon started packing up his kit. “Looks like nothing exciting happened while I was out, yeah?”

“You were dreaming.”

He turned back to see her, face obscured in the shadow of her hood once again, expression carefully neutral.

…until the gleam of her hair had passed out of view…

“I…” He hesitated, brows knit, before shaking his head. “If I was, I don’t remember.” His eyes flicked away from hers to the sun-spangled canopy overhead, then back again. “Not really, anyway.”

Aitahea remained silent and still while Erithon packed away his last few belongings and shouldered his cannon. He flashed a quick smile. “Ready to move, Jedi?”

She nodded, still solemn, and stepped to the side. “You have the lead, Lieutenant.”

They edged past a few benign bogstalkers and rounded a crumbling wall, and the Endar Spire came into view. The pair stopped, gazing at the massive wreck in fascination.

“Wow.”

The ship dwarfed the collapsed buildings around it, even in its devastated state. The gigantic thrusters splayed at wild angles, and the hull had cracked open in places allowing vegetation to take root. The entire ship was swathed in vines and climbing plants. Sunk partway into the muck of Taris, in another century or two it might have been lost entirely to the Sinking City. Every meter of it was scorched, whether from the uncontrolled burn through Taris’ atmosphere or the bombing it was impossible to say.

“Yes. It’s amazing that any trace survived, after the crash and then Darth Malak’s bombardment.” Aitahea nodded approvingly. “That it’s still recognizable at all is a testament to the shipbuilders.”

“No kidding.” Erithon pulled out his datapad and brought up the map, followed by the ship schematics. “Childress indicated an entrance here,” he said, passing the pad over to the Jedi.

Aitahea hesitated, grip tightening on the tablet. “Did he seem…”

“Unconcerned with the research team? Yeah. It’s not unusual for some.” Erithon shrugged, but the motion was unhappy. “We lose so many, sometimes it’s easier to think of us as commodities, tools. Expendable; easily restocked. But the data, that you can’t replace.”

“That’s unspeakable.”

“Nice to know I’m appreciated.” Erithon gave the Jedi a charming, lopsided grin. “Come on. Maybe we can bring these folks back.” He inclined his head toward the entry and started the approach.

Aitahea blinked, surprised at his insouciance, and even more at the confidence he projected.

“Ready?”

Aitahea pulled her lightsaber from her hip and snapped the blade alight, the sound sharpening her focus.

“Yes.”

Erithon glanced back at her and with a quick nod shouldered his own weapon. They moved in.

A vague path lead to an open airlock, doors torn away, metal shredded. Like everything else on Taris, the local flora had taken over, winding into cracks and creases. There was evidence of sentient occupation, leaves crushed into the dirt and wheel tracks leading through the mud.

The passage they crept into was dark save for a few flickering emergency lights. Aitahea’s lightsaber created leaping shadows in alcoves and corners until she finally extinguished off the weapon, keeping the hilt gripped tight in her hand. The sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the Endar Spire’s hull brought with it a clammy haze that obscured the more distant hallways and cast a murky gloom throughout the ship.

Erithon cautiously approached a corner and lifted a hand before looking back to Aitahea. She stood motionless, gaze to the side as if listening, but Erithon heard nothing. After long moments, her eyes flickered back to his and she leaned close to speak.

“Lieutenant, I sense someone down this passage. They’re weary and frightened, but friendly.”

“Our people?”

She nodded. “I’m almost certain of it. We should exercise caution approaching them. They’re exhausted and agitated.” She hesitated, then clipped her lightsaber back to her belt.

Following her example, Erithon hauled his cannon back over his shoulder and walked slowly but deliberately into the adjoining hallway. Aitahea followed in silence.

At the far end a soldier stood with his weapon trained on them. Erithon recognized the calm vigilance and made a mental note to congratulate this trooper on his behavior – when they were out of danger.

Aitahea stepped forward as he lowered the cannon, open hands signaling benevolence. “Captain Childress sent us. Are you all right?”

“Lieutenant Karlsu,” he introduced, gratitude soaking every syllable. “I’m all that’s left of Commander Childress’ fifth detail. Please tell me you’re our reinforcements.”

Aitahea nodded, her expression solemn but compassionate as she introduced Erithon and herself. Erithon felt a glow of comfort standing next to her, and even Karlsu seemed to relax a little in her presence.

“Lieutenant,” Erithon greeted. “What’s the situation here?” He saw the signs of a hastily evacuated encampment, but the research team was nowhere in sight. His stomach sank a little before Karlsu turned, leading them deeper into the corridor.

“Give me a moment, sir.” He raised an arm, signaling. “All’s clear, guys. And we’ve got some muscle from back on base.”

A murmur of relief sighed through the hallway, and figures began to creep out from hiding places. They looked ragged and exhausted, but the promise of rescue brightened dark eyes and lifted slumped shoulders.

Karlsu turned back to Erithon, face creased with worry. “This is what’s left of our research team. The others got ambushed while working.”

Aitahea lips pressed into a thin line and she turned to Erithon. “Lieutenant, I’ll see to the researchers if you don’t mind.”

“You do whatever needs doing, Master Jedi,” he replied. “Karlsu and I will talk next steps to get everyone out of here safely.”

Looking relieved at his words, the Jedi nodded firmly and joined the gathered researchers who greeted her eagerly.

Erithon looked back to the fellow soldier. “Well done keeping these people safe. They owe you their lives.”

Karlsu quirked a rueful smile. “Thank you, sir. Scavengers must have guessed we were after something good. They’ve had us pinned down here for a while, as you can see.” He nodded gratefully. “But you made it through, sir, and brought some hope along with you.”

Glancing over Karlsu’s shoulder, Erithon could see Aitahea handing out kolto patches and fresh water to the remaining team members. There were smiles and even a little nervous laughter. “So, you haven’t had the chance to get at those records?”

Karlsu shook his head. “No. We need to hold them off long enough for the research team to recover and download that data.”

Erithon considered the ragged group of researchers, watching as Aitahea spoke soothingly to each of them. She’d pulled off her gloves, slender hands constantly in contact with whoever she was interacting with, each of them visibly calming under her attention.

“Let’s do it,” Erithon said, turning back to the lieutenant. “What do you need from us?”

A Rodian slicer approached, sporting a freshly applied kolto patch on her forearm. “You’ll need to reactivate the generator subsystems as we go so we can grab the data when we hit the main computer.”

Aitahea followed behind the slicer, pulling her gloves back on. “Lieutenant Zale and I can accomplish that.” Her voice and expression were calm, but in her eyes there was a resolve that gave Erithon pause.

Erithon nodded in agreement. “And once we’ve all reached the mainframe, we’ll provide cover for you.” The anxious research team members glanced at each other, but the Rodian slicer nodded with confidence.

“We’ll follow you.”

[Tumblr Masterpost] [AO3 Link] [Soundtrack] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #jedi consular #trooper #erithon/aitahea #trooper/jedi consular #aitahea #erithon #taris #something better #luminous legacy #romance #fic: something better #oc/oc

15 notes · View notes

plaguewrites · 3 years

Photo

BIRTH NAME javier thiago vasquez NICKNAME vas BIOLOGICAL SEX male IDENTIFYING GENDER he/him BIRTHDAY july 24th NATIONALITY mexican ETHNICITY latino BIRTHPLACE mexico city, mexico PARENTS luna fuentez & marco vasquez SIBLINGS none SPOUSE none CHILDREN none known SEXUALITY pansexual ROMANTICISM panromantic

HEIGHT 6'0" WEIGHT 109kg | 240lbs BUILD athletic stocky SKIN COLOUR fair tan ( warm ) EYE COLOUR olive & oak HAIR COLOUR brown - deep SCARS many insignificant TATTOOS none

ALIGNMENT true neutral JUNG estp-a (entrepreneur) ENNEAGRAM 8w9 (diplomat) TAROT the chariot ASTROLOGY leo RELIGION non conceptualized

Javier,

First of all, I’m sorry. I know that will never be enough, but it’s where I’m starting.

Your mother used to be the love of my life. She was the centre of my world, the brightness on the darkest night. She was the stars, the moon, the sun. I would have done anything for her - and, while it may sound silly, I still would. She was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen… And then you were born and everything changed.

Not to say I stopped loving her, even if that’s what it might have looked like to the two of you. I know I wasn’t around enough, I know I was busy in ways that maybe as a Father I shouldn’t have been. There were more late nights than early ones, more birthdays missed than attended, and eventually she stopped waiting for the cold bed to have warmth beside her and she found that in someone else.

That was all fine, I didn’t even blame her for sleeping with Gregori; he was a good man, and she deserved the kind of happiness I obviously couldn’t give her anymore. And she kept it private, so you were none the wiser - which, in retrospect wasn’t as good as I thought it was.

I convinced myself that you could rationalize it all. I told myself that you understood why I disappeared for three months - that the money I brought back for your future and your present was enough. That the nights I didn’t sleep, the hands that ached, the wife I lost and the loneliness I found was all worth it to make sure you had a better life than we did growing up.

It wasn’t until your 13th birthday that I realized I was impossibly wrong. I watched the way your face sunk when I showed up at the door - I was waiting for a bright beam at the end of the four month long tunnel I’d been stuck in but instead there was only disappointment. Like it would have been easier if I’d just stayed gone, if I’d just never brought this rain cloud onto the doorstep. And now, sitting here writing this… I know I should have turned and never looked back. I should have just sent money home and let you and Eliza move on from me, live a normal life. But Gods was I selfish.

I know you heard us fighting that night - but the arrangement worked out for both of us, ultimately. I could take you for three months, then she would have you for three months, so on so forth. It gave me time to bond with the Son who I hardly knew anymore, and then Eliza would have time with the new love of her life without worrying about you catching them. We were so young, and didn’t know how to be honest with you about it.

Things were rough, I know. You kept a smile as much as you could, and I know you had fun learning the ropes but ultimately you missed her - so much more than I did. I was content, this was the life I ached for. I taught you about the ship and how to handle her, how to find the best scavenges, and you learned how to build magnificent things with those wonderful hands of yours.

For a while I thought things were getting better. Eliza was happy, and you didn’t look as miserable when I showed up - I could feel the resentment, but at least we were starting to find some form of happiness together… weren’t we? I don’t know, maybe I’ve convinced myself I was doing the right thing.

And then it happened. I know I shouldn’t have let you into that building - but you were so excited and I didn’t want to see that look again.

I knew something was wrong, the way it swayed and shook - then my worst fear. It collapsed with you inside. The world shook, the building crumbled, and you were inside.

Three days later I found you - barely breathing, clutching unconsciously to a shred of life – and I knew what I had to do.

It took everything I had and more, I begged and bartered until I struck the right deal; my services for theirs - whenever that favour would be asked, I promised to answer. A heavy price… But Hell, son, I would have given you my own lung if I thought it would work.

I bit my nails to blood, but you came out fine. Artificial lung, twisted metal into your spine, synthetic goo keeping your heart pumping the right way - but fine never the less. Well, I thought so.

She was so scared of you.

You were still unconscious, and would be for the next four months and in those months everything changed. I think she tried at first, but walking into the room and seeing you with all those tubes and that skin growing back… It was all too much for her - but it had to be like nothing happened, so you wouldn’t know how I failed you, so you wouldn’t know you weren’t… as much you anymore. So you wouldn’t judge yourself the way you judged other synths, or the way society did. You deserved to be seen for as much human as you still are.

Eventually she decided she couldn’t take it anymore and left - she packed up and started her new life with Gregori. I couldn’t tell you why, I’d rather you hate me than yourself, so I let you think I drove her away.

The next few years were rough for us - we didn’t talk much, you never smiled at me anymore. I’d ruined everything we’d built together, but you were alive so I took that as a win.

That favour loomed over my head like a guillotine, I knew it would drop one day and I’d be called off to whatever chaos they needed me for - and oh, in all I could have dreamed it would never have ended with me writing this letter.

I’m losing focus, and I can feel my body drifting so I should really get to the important part.

Thank you - and I mean that. Thank you for giving me any time with you, for the short smiles I earned and the ones you forced. Thank you for that hug before I left, at least the last thing I’ll remember is what it felt like to be a father to you. I can’t say I have no regrets because I have many, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done anything differently because I would have. But what I can say, without a single doubt in my mind is that I am proud of you. That I wouldn’t change you for the world, and that if being here means you’re safe back home… I accept that.

Whether or not you’ll ever see this, or know what I feel in my final moments… I hope desperately from the core of me that you know at least one thing…

I love you. So much.

Goodbye, son.

#jvas!bio

1 note · View note

embracetheapocalypsewithme · 6 years

Text

In the Twilight Kingdom - Chapter 2: Sunlight on a Broken Column

Notes: Hey! So, I kind of gave up on this fic for a while...but I’m back! So, hopefully I still got it. After many months, here is part two!

Chapter 1: The Hollow Man

Summary: Negan decides to be a hero and save the people trapped in the corner store from the horde waiting outside. Can he help these strangers without getting himself killed in the process?

Word Count: 2,288

Content Warnings: Negan, Negan being Negan, angst, swearing, and mentions of suicide and death.

Chapter 2: Sunlight on a Broken Column

Negan continued to make his way down the main street which ran across the front of the corner store, leading as many of the dead away with him as he could. He walked backward, forsaking speed for the ability to keep an eye on the horde as it pursued him.

“That’s right, deadies! I am the Pied Fucking Piper of dead fucks today!” he chirped at them defiantly, continuing to lead them toward the city like the Grand Marshal of the worst parade ever conceived.

The street grew wider as he kept moving, lanes multiplying to accommodate the traffic that had once choked these arteries which led to the heart of the city. The dead had begun to fan out, some of the fresher and quicker ones beginning to catch up with him from the sides. Jesus, they could be fast when they had something they really wanted to rip apart from limb to limb!

The large man quickened his pace, turning from the pursuing group to jog slightly ahead and put some distance between them. Once he was satisfied that he was far enough ahead, he turned around once again to track their progress. His eyes scanned over the crowd, which now seemed to contain at least 25 or 30 of the things, all staggering toward him with their jaws clattering together as they prepared to sink their teeth into his flesh.

“Not today, motherfuckers…” he murmured to himself, jogging into the distance once more.

Or he would have, had it not been for the rock that caught his heel as he prepared to spin around. The momentum of his body being suddenly cut from below caused him to go down with his arms pin wheeling, trying to grasp onto something to break his fall. But there was nothing to be done about it. He was going down.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!” were the words that came out of his mouth as he fell for what felt like an eternity. But inside of his head, the only thing he could think was: So, this is how it ends. Not a question, but a statement. A resignation to an end.

Maybe this was for the best. How long could anyone survive in a world where the dead walked and society had ceased to exist? By the time his ass collided with the pavement, he had decided that he was ready to go. He wasn’t sure if he believed in heaven or hell, but he hoped that if there was something after, the first sight he would see would be Lucille’s eyes staring down at him, warm and amber and full of love. He would wrap his arms around her and he would tell her all of the things he never had in life. They would lay in one another’s arms, forgetting that anything existed outside of themselves; a couple of self-indulgent assholes…but happy ones. Finally.

This thought brought him a wave of peace, and he allowed his eyes to close as he waited for the first of the dead to catch up with him, and for the pain that was sure to follow. But instead of gnarled fingers grabbing at him, he was jettisoned from his fantasy by the thunder of semi-automatic rifles taking out the first few rows of dead as they approached him.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get the fuck up and run, asshole!” came a male voice from his left side.

His head whipped in the direction of the sound as another round of fire, this one coming from the right, took out more of the walkers. There was a man crouched behind a fence who wildly gestured at Negan to run toward him, and to the relative safety that the structure provided.

Maybe today wasn’t such a good day to die. Maybe he needed to keep going just a little while longer.

Scrambling to his feet, Negan made his way to the man and climbed over the fence, landing on the grass at an angle that made his bad knee, an injury from his days playing high school basketball, cry out at him in protest. Before he had time to lament the pain, the man was dragging him up and away from the fence.

“Come on. We have to go. They’ll reach us soon.”

The two began to snake through back yards and toward a side street which ran parallel to the main street that Negan had just come from.

“So, what’s the plan, Stan?” Negan asked, still allowing the man to lead him away as the first of the walkers began to pound their fists against the brittle wood that had scarcely concealed the pair moments before. The fence would be down in a matter of minutes, but he hoped that they wouldn’t be there to see it.

“Scott,” came the man’s blunt reply.

“Who’s Scott?”

“I am. Not Stan. Scott,” the man’s voice was clipped an irritated as they reached the edge of the corner store parking lot.

“Well, ‘Scott’ doesn’t rhyme with ‘plan’…” Negan mumbled to himself.

The lot was now mostly free from the walkers, save for a couple of incapacitated stragglers that crawled along the ground in the direction that their comrades had gone. It was almost sad watching them struggle mindlessly to feed; rotting on the pavement as they were reduced to nothing more than teeth and nails always reaching out for more without really understanding why.

“We’ve gotta get back to the meeting point,” Scott informed him, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings, “It’s not too far from here, and most of the rotters are headed in the opposite direction thanks to you.”

“Well, you are so very welcome, Scotty, but I think I’ll be heading home now. Been a hell of a fucking shitty day so far.”

The man’s eyes locked with his before seeming to scan his body, taking in what Negan assumed was his size. He’d always been a tall man, and an athletic one at that. He could handle himself in a fight, so long as he didn’t wind up tripping on any wayward rocks, and he was certain that these were exactly the thoughts going through Scott’s head as he sized him up. Big, scary looking motherfuckers were becoming a resource now that police and emergency services were gone.

“We have food,” Scott replied dispassionately, “And water. And electricity…for now anyway.”

Negan’s ears perked up at this. Since he had wasted precious scavenging time and risked his life saving the man’s ass, the least he was owed was some food. Especially since he was unlikely to find enough time left in the day with which he could still go scavenging. Plus, he hadn’t had a hot shower in at least a month. Not since the power went out in mid-August.

“Ok, Scotty, my friend. I’ll take you up on your kind offer. But just for the night, you understand? I’ve got things to do, ladies to fuck, ping-pong matches to win…You get the idea!”

“Right,” a hint of skepticism had snuck in the smaller man’s voice, “Gotcha. And don’t call me ‘Scotty’. I hate that shit.”

The “meeting point”, as Scott referred to it, was the parking garage of what appeared to be a government office building of some kind. It was largely deserted, except for a few vehicles that had clearly been sitting there since the time of the outbreak. Negan supposed that many of the missing cars had departed along with their owners when the going had gotten real shitty in the beginning of the outbreak. He couldn’t say that he blamed them.

The two men walked tentatively into the structure of concrete and steel, keeping an eye out for any of the dead that might be lurking in the shadows. You could never been too careful in enclosed spaces like this. One careless turn could bring you face-to-face with chomping teeth and clutching hands. And that was if you were lucky. If you weren’t lucky, your ass would get dragged down from behind by one of the dead without any warning whatsoever, and that would be the end of you.

It was these very thoughts that caused Negan’s hand to jump instinctively to the knife hidden in his right pocket at the sight of a vaguely human shadow moving at the far end of the garage between the wall and one of the support pillars. His shoulders squared up and his jaw clenched as his body began to go into fight of flight mode. He could handle one or two; maybe more than that if Scott was any good with his gun in an enclosed space, but more than that and he was getting the fuck out of dodge. No warm shower was worth two swarmings in one day.

“Calm down,” Scott said sternly before calling into the distance, “Sam?”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Negan hissed, taking a step back and preparing to run, “They hunt by sound. Do you want to draw them all to us-“

“Scott?”

A soft female voice cut off Negan’s tirade mid-sentence as the owner of the distant shadow stepped into a beam of light that cut across the asphalt, revealing themselves at last. “Sam”, which he now assumed was short for “Samantha”, was tall and slender, with long limbs and impeccable posture. Her chin-length dark hair fluttered in the breeze as she seemed to almost glide toward them with nearly unnatural grace. Her eyes, a deep brown like his own, were still clear with only the beginnings of the stress of her current circumstances dragging them down with dark circles and worry.

A slight fluttering sensation in his chest tickled him at the sight of her. God she was beautiful. It was almost unbelievable that someone so beautiful was still alive and standing right in front of him. He felt his mouth open and close as he struggled to find the right thing to say to her.

It was only a moment before the grief slammed into him like a wave sweeping him overboard into a cold and dark ocean. The flutter was gone, replaced with that gnawing nothingness at his core where Lucille used to be.

“No.”

The word echoed against the stones that surrounded them, repeating over and over. No. No. No. Who said that? Sam’s brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed at Negan as he felt Scott turn to stare at him. It was at this point that he knew he had been the one that spoken the singular word.

��No what?” Scott asked, his voice taking on a tentative edge that let Negan know he was starting to creep them both out.

“Sorry. My head was somewhere else,” Negan replied, plastering on his most charming smile and chipper voice. He stepped toward the woman, who had stopped walking toward them, and extended his hand, “You must be Sam.”

Though her eyes were still quizzical, Sam’s expression softened a little, “How did you ever guess?”

“Just a hunch, I suppose.”

Scott took this opportunity to step into the conversation, turning his body to more fully face Negan, “So, now you know who we are, but the question remains: Who the fuck are you and what the fuck were you doing out in the street? Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Well, Scotty-boy...” he began, relishing the annoyance that registered on the other man’s face as he once again butchered his name, and “I’m Negan. And if you were one of the jackasses in the corner store earlier, I guess I was out in the street trying to save your ass. You’re fucking welcome!”

Watching Sam out of the corner of his eye, Negan thought that he caught just the hint of a smirk on her lips before she sobered up and let her expression drop back to neutral.

“That doesn’t explain what the fuck you were even doing there,” Scott mumbled.

“I was there to get some fucking food. You two half-wits got yourself surrounded inside of my only supply of canned goods and other fucking non-perishables. Thanks to you, I’ve got no food left at home and no time left in my day to get more. So, yeah. I’ll say it again: You. Are. Fucking. Welcome.”

“Thank you, Negan.”

Sam had stepped closer to the two now and her face seemed sincere as she peered up at him. Negan observed Scott scowling at this as he folded his arms across his chest, but he kept his mouth shut.

“You didn’t need to stick your neck out for us,” she continued, “But you did. And I think we may not have made it without you. So…thanks! Really. From both of us, right Scott?”

“Yeah,” Scott practically pouted, “Thanks, Negan.”

“Well, thanks for the ‘thank you’, Samantha and Scottifred. That’s the formal version of Scott, isn’t it? Scottifred? Any-fucking-way, your thanks is kindly fucking appreciated.”

“Since we sort of ruined your grocery trip, the least we can do is invite you upstairs for dinner tonight.”

“Upstairs?”

“We’ve been living up there,” the woman pointed up at the building that loomed over them, “It’s not much, but it’s relatively safe and we still have power from the back-up generators for now.”

“Well, that sounds just dandy, Sam!” Negan smiled down at her, “And I believe there was talk of a warm shower, was there not, Scott?...Hey! That one rhymed! Heh.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say,” Scott replied, still scowling slightly as he began to lead the way toward the building’s entrance, “Come on up and get your fucking shower on. I’m a man of my word, after all.”

#comicnegan>#negan #twd negan #Negan's thirst squad #negan fanfiction

29 notes · View notes

olicitysecretsanta · 6 years

Text

We Three Queens

Hi Kathi (@smkkbert), I am your Secret Santa! I hope this season has been filled with much love for you and your loved ones. I adore so much of your fanfiction, and for your gift I’ve written you a Queen family holiday fluff fic. I hope that this story brings you some joy! Merry Christmas xo - Shelley (@smoakmonster)

Summary: A look into three Christmas adventures of Oliver, Felicity, and William.

Word Count: 3810

xoxo

2017

“What about this one?”

Oliver adjusts his grip around the eight-foot frasier fir, spinning the tree for inspection, sap sticking to his fingertips and branches prickling his skin.

Yet even as he struggles in the bitter cold–not quite as cold as Lian Yu, but his hands seem to be forgetting that–and feigns more casual control over the tree than he actually feels, the matching frowns both his wife and son are wearing fill his chest with an inexplicable, bubbling warmth and help keep him steady.

“I don’t know.” Felicity tips her head, biting her lower lip as she studies the tree with about as much intensity as she often studies her computers in the bunker, as though the decision were a matter of life and death and not merely a few inches in height preference.

At the rate his family is taking to make a decision, propping up this tree for another five minutes just might be the death of him.

Masked gunmen and Mirakuru soldiers and doppelgangers…and the Green Arrow is going to be undone by a Christmas tree. It’s fitting in a way, he supposes.

“What do you think, William?” she asks.

William shakes his head. “Yeah, this one’s no good. I think we need to go taller.”

“Taller?” Oliver counters.

“I agree,” chimes Felicity, ignoring Oliver’s huff of impatience. “And more poofy at the bottom. More Christmas-y.”

Oliver shoots her a half-irritated-half-amused look as he begrudgingly relinquishes the tree still clinging to his skin and moves into the nine-foot section.

But before he can so much as reach for yet another potential candidate, his wife lets out an excited shriek and darts ahead of him, running with unabashed glee to the large, easily ten-foot display tree standing at the center of the lot.

“William? What is your expert assessment? Should we do the lean test?”

William nods enthusiastically.

Oliver just shakes his head with a slow, contented grin, watching Felicity and William sway from side to side in synchronized fashion and walk the circumference of the base of the tree and run their hands through the long, bristling branches.

“Dad, I think this is the one.”

“I agree,” Felicity nods gleefully under her gray beanie, her face beaming with a smile he’s never had the strength to refuse and her cheeks blooming with a radiant pink from the cold that somehow makes her even more appealing than usual. She’s even more giddy about this endeavor than William.

“And it’s a noble fir, so it’s less likely to shed–not that we’re allergic, but better safe than sorry, right?”

“Felicity,” Oliver practically whines her name.

“Oliver,” she whines right back, matching his deep tone. “Come on, this tree is perfect.”

“This tree is excessive.”

“Says the guy who once told me his friends were participating in a–” she lifts her hands to perform a playful air quote, her ring catching a brief flick of sunlight– “‘scavenger hunt’ using black-ops level security.”

Oliver shuts his eyes, moaning a sigh, feeling the weight of determination drain from his body.

He knows he’s lost. But strangely, it doesn’t feel like a defeat. Surrendering to her is nothing like his battles on the streets or the cosmic battle that used to rage within himself. No, this surrender is peaceful, easy, right. This is why he’s kept fighting his enemies and chasing his fears for so long, for the sake of silly, simple, wonderful little arguments about tree decor. To have gingerbread house competitions that involve more face stuffing and flour throwing than actual crafting. To watch and learn and listen, in awe, as the woman he loves lights eight candles with quiet reverence and dignity and teaches his son to do the same. To delight in storing Queen family heirlooms inside of old MIT moving boxes. To race out of bed in the middle of the night to answer the cries of his son, only to crawl back into bed and curl his body around his wife and press his feet in between fuzzy socks and whisper words of comfort against her neck to help keep her nightmares at bay, too.

As a husband and a father, it’s his job to protect his new family. And yet, they’ve done more to save him than he can ever do to save them in return. He’s used to protecting a city of strangers through violence. While he has the physical training, at times he feels unequipped to lead his family to an emotional safe haven. How does he protect the hearts of the people closest to him?

By savoring the simple pleasures and slower rhythms. By enjoying the little, life-building things. By keeping his promises and coming home to these two remarkable people who grow a little more remarkable every day, the people who’ve taught him how to laugh and love and live again.

Like today.

“Well, if money is a problem, Mr. Mayor,” Felicity continues, pulling him from his thoughts, “then I would be more than happy to contribute to the Christmas fund.” She tips her head at him, giving him the I’ve-never-had-a-real-Christmas-before-and-we-are-doing-this-for-William look. But she’s also teasing him, enticing him.

Exactly like the day they met.

He shakes his head as the warm memory floods his senses like that afternoon cider. He can still see her so clearly, so vibrant, so young and innocent. He can still see that cherry red pen being plucked from neon pink lips. He can still feel himself shaken by the encounter, down to his innermost being. So much so that that was the first day his hand stopped twitching.

But like all old habits, they find a way to wander back. And he feels his hand twitch again now, one last time. Only instead of an incessant nervous tic, his thumb runs in a lazy circle back and forth, just enough to rub against the metal wrapped snugly around his ring finger, the cool texture soothing him deep into his soul.

“Okay,” Oliver concedes. “I think this is the one.”

He lingers on her for an intentionally long time, unguarding his thoughts and pushing his heart out and open onto his sleeve, just for her. When she finally sees that he’s referring to more than just the tree, she smiles and blushes slightly, of course. She still blushes often under his steady gaze, because like him she’s still learning how to be loved. If only he could show her how desirable she remains to him, how being with her feels a bit like waking up Christmas morning every morning, filling him with hope and wonder, as startling as it is settling.

2018

Waking up next to her husband on Christmas morning hits Felicity with unexpected giddiness. For one, she is miraculously up before him. For two, this day marks only the second time she’s really ever experienced Christmas properly. (Vegas showcases and her time in the hospital do not count.) For three, she really cannot wait to give him his Christmas gift.

Hopping out of bed, Felicity makes her way to the kitchen to begin working on breakfast. It’s taken a year of being the wife to a masterchef, but Felicity has finally learned how to make a decent omelette. And by decent, it is literally the barest of minimums. Because nothing can compete with Oliver Queen’s superior cooking skills.

To be honest, not much can compete with Oliver Queen’s skills in general.

“Hey.”

Including the ability to sneak up on her like a big cat.

“Hi,” Felicity breathes, as his hands wrap around her middle, pressing her back against his warm chest. She sinks with ease into his embrace.

“You didn’t have to do this.” He nuzzles her neck, sending small, happy thrills peppering down her spine.

“I wanted to.”

Oliver gives her head a quick kiss, while his left hand slowly meanders underneath her (his) shirt. The cool brush of his ring over her belly button shoots an eager chill straight to her core, and on its own her own left hand comes up to join his on top, their rings clinking against one another like a small toast.

They spend a long time like that, wrapped around each other, swaying softly in the kitchen. Moment by moment, Felicity realizes she likes the feel of his hands over her belly a lot, especially now since…

“Is this my surprise gift?” he whispers at her ear.

She starts, and for a moment panic floods her veins that he has somehow read her mind or that she’s reverted to old habits of just blurting out her thoughts.

But when he doesn’t elaborate, she sighs in relief, realizing he’s just referring to the omelette. And she knows what he’s doing. The man may have given up torture, but he still knows how to get the information he wants.

“Hm, nice try, mister, but–” She spins around, and her words get caught in her throat at the site that greets her: Oliver wearing a pair of long, Rudolf the Rednosed Reindeer pajama pants, that on anyone else would look absolutely ridiculous but on him are surprisingly adorable.

He was most definitely not wearing those last night.

Or any night.

Where has he been hiding them?

“Felicity.”

She glances upward, nibbling on her lower lip.

“My eyes are up here.”

“Right.”

He’s wearing that annoying charming smirk of his, and normally she would rise to the obligatory marital banter occasion, but right now she is far too preoccupied.

Immediately, his demeanor sobers, matching hers, and he closes what little distance there was between them, running his hands in slow, soothing strokes up and down her arms.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she answers immediately, to try to assuage the fear he wears so openly now, now that he has more to lose, now that they are a real family. “Well, not nothing. Something is going on. Besides just…this.” She waves to the Christmas tree and pile of presents containing a blend of blue and white and red and green wrappings.

He waits for her to continue, staring at her with that intense marksman’s gaze, those deep sea blue eyes pouring into her with so much vigor, the waves of his love crashing into her, slowly eroding away all her haunting self-doubts. She’s never been able to resist this power he has over her heart, a power that he never abandons or abuses.

“I um…I wanted to wait to do this until William was up but–”

“Are we opening presents yet?!” William bursts into the kitchen, full of energy, effectively severing the moment.

“Later,” Felicity mouths.

Oliver nods and lays a soft kiss on her forehead and then leads her into the living room to begin their first annual Christmas morning ritual.

Felicity loses herself for a while in the joy of watching Oliver her husband and mini Oliver her sweet stepson laugh and comment on each other’s wrapping “skills” and stick bows in each other’s hair. William revels in her presents to him, a new video game and Star Wars: The Last Jedi ultra HD blu ray special edition, which he gets her to promise to rewatch with him that night. And she wholeheartedly agrees.

For so long, she’s never known what’s it like to have a normal family. Being an only child raised by a single mom who didn’t fully understand her was a lonely time. She never wants William to feel left out of his own family. Not that she regrets her childhood. She loves her mom. She loves having her dad back in her life.

But she also loves her new family–their family. They’ve always been a kind of family, a mix of broken hearts coming together form a beautiful mosaic; but making it official has given Felicity a renewed sense of peace, filling in the last of the cracks of her insecurities, like cement in between bricks, keeping her grounded, giving her a foundation, a sense of belonging, a home.

She’s loved the slow and steady and chaotic mixing of their lives this past year, the merging of traditions of three legacies and the subtle making of new ones, like Felicity teaching William about the festival of lights and him helping her light the menorah, like Felicity and William volunteering to be the guinea pigs for Oliver’s mayoral holiday party dessert contest, like listening to Oliver and Thea reminisce about extravagant Queen Christmases past.

Of all of them, William has certainly had the most traditional of Christmases growing up. And Oliver and Felicity have tried to treasure and sustain that sense of familiarity in his life, to teach him that it’s okay to celebrate, even after you’ve lost someone you love, to give him everything their own parents never could.

The evidence of William’s sense of security and gentle spirit comes in his own gift giving, in an ugly snowman sweater for his dad that Felicity and William spent an hour searching for at the mall, and in the small sterling silver Star of David necklace he gives her, along with a smile.

Seeing the little star, a piece of her heritage, twinkle against her skin takes her breath away.

“Do you like it?” William asks in a quiet voice, so unsure.

She can only bring herself to give him a wobbly smile in return, barely holding back the happy tears. She knows hormones are partly to blame, but still. It means a lot.

And suddenly, she can’t hold back her secret any longer.

“Wait,” she cries, stopping Oliver and William in the midst of picking up discarded ribbons. Two pairs of blue, searching eyes meet hers, both drawing her in, both filled with such surprising innocence and deep need to protect the innocent.

“How about some coffee?”

“What?” Oliver asks at the same time William says, “I can have coffee?”

“Umm…” Oliver frowns, and she misses whatever else he says to William in Dad Voice, because she’s darting away to the kitchen to find the hidden mugs she stashed away yesterday.

No going back now.

And she doesn’t want to. Keeping this from Oliver for almost a week has been torture. She wanted to tell him right away, but things with the team have been stealing her and her husband’s time and attention, and he’s been so worn from dealing with crime on the mayoral front. They’ve barely seen each other all week, and it’s a Christmas miracle he’s managed to get the day off–

“You’re not having any?” William asks, when she sets down the half-filled coffee mugs.

Felicity sighs a short laugh at just how perceptive her stepson can be. Are all kids his age like this, or is he just super smart and special? Maybe she’s biased, but she likes to believe the latter is true. Maybe she needs to start researching kids in general, all things considered.

“Um…no. Let’s just say I’m giving up coffee in the new year–pretty much all caffeine in general. But I was thinking the two of you could have some for me…for the both of us.”

With a shaking hand and a pounding heart, Felicity runs her fingertips over her stomach just as the two Queen boys examine the mugs in front of them.

When Oliver looks up from his WORLD’S BEST DAD mug, he’s not wearing the jaw-dropping look of shock she was expecting find. In fact, he barely looks surprised at all, more…contented, almost as though…

“You knew? How did you…” she breathes as he stands up and approaches her, her words cut off when he bends down to quickly kiss her stomach.

“I found the pregnancy test in the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs. “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

He runs his hand through her hair, tucking a few strands behind her ear.

“Are we ready for this?” she whispers.

He smiles with his eyes first, her favorite smile, the corners of his eyes boasting deep wrinkles that mark a life filled with so much endurance and recently so much laughter. And just like that, she remembers what she’s always known: Oliver will be the best daddy ever.

“It’s not like we’ve never been parents before,” he replies easily.

“But this is different. Oliver, a baby–”

“I’m going to be a brother?!”

William abandons his one chance at coffee (his own mug stamped with the words Brother, Est. 2018 in baseball jersey cursive white font) to join them.

“Yeah, buddy,” responds Oliver, far too casually, like this sort of thing happens every day, pulling his son into a side hug.

“Is that okay?” Felicity asks in a quiet voice, her own insecurities sounding very much like this young man’s own fears from just a few minutes ago. They share a kindred-spiritedness, her and William, both knowing what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age, both too smart for their own good sometimes, both needing Oliver Queen on a very deep and terrifying level. Their respective loses have bonded them in some ways, while keeping them apart in others.

It’s also one thing to accept being a parent, to accept that this child will call her mom and there may never come a day when William will be able to do the same. She knows he’s happy to have her in her life, and she’s happy just to have the chance to be a part of it. But it’s another thing entirely to ask William to be happy to have a sibling right away. One day, he might. She can wait for someday.

She doesn’t have to wait very long, though. Because the next thing Felicity knows, she’s being swallowed into a group hug as two different arms wrap snugly around her. The Queen boys give the best hugs.

“It’s more than okay,” mumbles William against her side.

The words are simple but profound. Life-changing in the best way.

Suddenly William jumps back. “I’m not hurting it, am I?”

Felicity chuckles. “No. No, the baby’s like the size of your finger right now. It’ll be awhile till I start to…show.”

Felicity glances up at Oliver, who’s beaming at her, his face mirroring the tingling joy spreading through her. She may be the one pregnant, but she’s pretty sure he’s the one glowing.

2019

Another loud wail has his dad calling his name.

“Hey, William, can you come take her for a minute? I need to check the oven.”

Despite her loud cries in protest, William happily accepts the squirming baby into his gangly arms, moving her soft little head upright into the crook of his elbow with practiced ease, like holding a football. A very loud, always wiggling football.

“Shh, it’s okay, Ladybug. It’s just me,” William tries to soothe his baby sister, rocking her gently as he takes her around to look at all the pretty, bright Christmas lights sprinkled on the tree.

His little Ladybug just makes an unamused face, turning as red as her namesake, and lets out another unpleasant scream.

“She’s not hungry, is she?” William calls over his shoulder.

“Felicity just fed her,” Dad hollers from the kitchen.

William groans, wishing he could help but never knowing exactly what to do to calm his wild sister down. Sometimes she just wants mommy, and of course tonight mommy has to work late via a conference call in the bedroom.

“It’s okay,” coos William, over and over, whether to ease her cries or to repress his own anxiety, he doesn’t really know.

For a while, nothing works. None of his dad’s tricks work, no amount of soothing strokes or back pats or half-lullabies or ornament distractions. And he’s pretty sure he’s about to be partiality responsible for this baby crying herself to death, when an idea finally strikes him.

“You don’t mind if I show you your Christmas present early, do you?” he asks gently.

And like magic, her crying slowly subsides, sending the whole loft into an overwhelming, peaceful silence, like the sudden end of a rainstorm. He can tell she’s likely about to start up again and soon, as she throws him a skeptical look, waiting for her promised entertainment.

He smiles brightly, digging with one hand into the box tucked under the far corner of the tree, and then pulling out two rattling objects.

He shakes the first one, a small dreidel covered with soft, fuzzy blue fabric, which captures her fancy immediately. She reaches for it with a gleeful squeal.

“That’s for your mom. Your mom’s Jewish, and every year we celebrate Hanukkah She taught me how to light the menorah, and I can teach you one day, if you want. I know a couple of words in Hebrew, too, but I’m not really good at saying them.”

His baby sis smiles at that, giving him her best toothless grin, shoving one soft corner into her mouth to gnaw on it.

William lets her play with that for awhile, pulling out the second rattle covered in more baby-friendly fabric, this one a deep forest green.

“Dad helped me make this one.”

Her eyes latch onto the little arrowhead rattle, one that looks exactly like the arrows recovered a numerous crime scenes. And he knows that look of wonder and intrigue. It’s the same look he no doubt wore the first time Dad brought him down into the bunker, the first time he officially met the team and watched Dad put on the Green Arrow suit.

“I know it’s hard being the kid of a superhero,” William whispers, softly slipping his index finger into her small open hand, her tiny little fingers curling around his to make a fist. She’s already so strong. Just like her parents. Just like them, their family.

“But I promise, I won’t ever let you end up alone,” William vows, echoing the same promise Dad made to him years ago, back when he tried giving up saving the city to be there for him. But William doesn’t need his dad like he did before. This baby, though, needs him, needs all of them.

She listens to him in rapt attention, like he’s telling one of his classic comic stories.

In the absence of Auntie Thea, and with his dad and stepmom and extended family taking up the mantle of saving the city, William feels it is his job to ensure this very loud, very lovely little human knows how precious she is to this family, to him. He intends to show his sister what it means to be a part of this unpredictable but always loving family. Just like his dad did for Auntie Thea.

“Merry Christmas, Ladybug.” And then he gives the fourth and his favorite Queen a kiss on top of her silky smooth head, snuggling her close, keeping Star City’s most important treasure safe.

101 notes · View notes

newstfionline · 3 years

Text

Thursday, February 11, 2021

Arab spacecraft enters orbit around Mars in historic flight (AP) A spacecraft from the United Arab Emirates swung into orbit around Mars on Tuesday in a triumph for the Arab world’s first interplanetary mission. Ground controllers at the UAE’s space center in Dubai rose to their feet and broke into applause when word came that the craft, called Amal, Arabic for Hope, had reached the end of its seven-month, 300-million-mile journey and had begun circling the red planet, where it will gather data on Mars’ atmosphere. The orbiter fired its main engines for 27 minutes in an intricate, high-stakes maneuver that slowed the craft enough for it to be captured by Mars’ gravity.

Chinese spacecraft enters Mars’ orbit, joining Arab ship (AP) A Chinese spacecraft went into orbit around Mars on Wednesday on an expedition to land a rover on the surface and scout for signs of ancient life, authorities announced in a landmark step in the country’s most ambitious deep-space mission yet. China’s space agency said the five-ton combination orbiter and rover fired its engine to reduce its speed, allowing it to be captured by Mars’ gravity. If all goes as planned, the rover will separate from the spacecraft in a few months and touch down safely on Mars, making China only the second nation to pull off such a feat. The rover, a solar-powered vehicle about the size of a golf cart, will collect data on underground water and look for evidence that the planet may have once harbored microscopic life. Landing a spacecraft on Mars is notoriously difficult. Smashed Russian and European spacecraft litter the landscape along with a failed U.S. lander.

World’s second-oldest person survives COVID-19 at age 116 (AP) A 116-year-old French nun who is believed to be the world’s second-oldest person has survived COVID-19 and is looking forward to celebrating her 117th birthday on Thursday. The Gerontology Research Group, which validates details of people thought to be 110 or older, lists Frenchwoman Lucile Randon—Sister André’s birth name—as the second-oldest known living person in the world. French media report that Sister André tested positive for the virus in mid-January in the southern French city of Toulon. But just three weeks later, the nun is considered recovered. “I didn’t even realize I had it,” she told French newspaper Var-Matin.

Canada beckons again for some Hong Kongers (Reuters) A second generation of Hong Kongers is heading to Canada for refuge from political uncertainty, but unlike their parents in the 1980s and 1990s, this time seems for good. Cities such as Vancouver and Toronto are a magnet for those looking to escape as China tightens its grip on the territory of 7.5 million people. Some 300,000 already have Canadian citizenship after many families initially moved there ahead of Hong Kong’s return from British to Chinese rule in 1997. Back then, many families separated, with one parent staying in Hong Kong for work, usually fathers who were dubbed “astronauts” as they soared through the sky on visits. Among those who went to Canada, many eventually returned, lured by the booming economy and what still seemed to be a relatively free environment. With recent pro-democracy protests virtually snuffed out and Beijing enshrining control last year via a national security law, bags are being packed once more. “Staying in Hong Kong is not an option anymore,” said Maria Law, 39, who moved to Vancouver last year with her two girls ahead of her husband. “I’d rather have a free future for my daughters instead of making money while they have to keep their mouths shut.”

US pandemic surge weakens (WSJ) The most severe surge of the Covid-19 pandemic in the U.S. has weakened significantly, according to key metrics, though public-health experts and epidemiologists urge caution, given the spread of highly contagious new variants. Newly reported cases have dropped 56% over the past month, based on a seven-day average, marking a significantly steeper fall than the U.S. saw after the spring and summer surges. Hospitalizations have declined 38% since Jan 6. The seven-day average of Covid-19 tests returning positive fell over the past week to 6.93%, the lowest since Oct. 31.

Poll: A third of US adults skeptical of COVID shots (AP) About 1 in 3 Americans say they definitely or probably won’t get the COVID-19 vaccine, according to a new poll that some experts say is discouraging news if the U.S. hopes to achieve herd immunity and vanquish the outbreak. The poll from The Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research found that while 67% of Americans plan to get vaccinated or have already done so, 15% are certain they won’t and 17% say probably not. Many expressed doubts about the vaccine’s safety and effectiveness. The poll suggests that substantial skepticism persists more than a month and a half into a U.S. vaccination drive that has encountered few if any serious side effects. It found that resistance runs higher among younger people, people without college degrees, Black Americans and Republicans. Of those who said they definitely will not get the vaccine, 65% cited worries about side effects, despite the shots’ safety record over the past months. About the same percentage said they don’t trust COVID-19 vaccines. And 38% said they don’t believe they need a vaccine, with a similar share saying that they don’t know if a COVID-19 vaccine will work and that they don’t trust the government.

Facebook to temporarily reduce political content for some users (Reuters) Facebook Inc said on Wednesday it would temporarily reduce political content appearing on New Feeds for some users in Canada, Brazil and Indonesia this week and in the United States within the coming weeks. Chief Executive Officer Mark Zuckerberg said in January that he wanted to “turn down the temperature” of political conversations on the social networking site because “people don’t want politics and fighting to take over their experience on our services.” The world’s largest social network, which has received flack for not doing enough to remove hateful content from the platform, last month said it would stop recommending civic and political groups to users. Reducing the frequency of political content will mark initials steps to explore different ways to rank such content in people’s feeds using different signals. Facebook will exempt content from official government agencies and services, as well as COVID-19 information from health organizations from the drill.

For Hungary’s poor it’s wood or food (Reuters) Zoltan Berki usually wakes up before dawn, as his five small children sleep next door, to feed the old iron furnace that stands in a wall cavity to warm up both rooms. This is the only part of his house that he can afford to heat during winter. Come rain or shine, Berki, a stocky 28-year-old Roma man, cycles an hour to work to save on the bus fare, so he is up anyway. But he also has to burn some materials before daylight, to conceal the thick black smoke that billows from his chimney when he uses plastic or rubber. Such household pollution is illegal in Hungary, including in this town near the Slovakian border. People do it anyway. “Firewood is expensive,” Berki said one recent afternoon, as his family played around him, crammed into a small room. “Either I buy wood or food. So I go to the forest, or the junkyard, and if we find plastic or rubber we burn that.” Scavenging for material to burn is common for the poorest people in the small, run-down town of Sajonemeti and those nearby, among the most destitute communities in Europe since Communist-era heavy industry vanished 30 years ago, leaving thousands jobless.

Russia’s vaccine (Washington Post) Not long ago, talk of the Russian-made coronavirus vaccine provoked mockery. “There’s no way in hell the U.S. tries this on monkeys, let alone people,” a Trump administration official told CNN in August, referring to initial reports about Russia’s development of the Sputnik V drug—which bypassed traditional steps in testing before its release. Even at home, where a history of political opacity and bureaucratic incompetence has left a lingering distrust of authority, many ordinary Russians shied away from getting the jab once it was made available to the public in December. But now, Sputnik V—named after the world’s first satellite that saw the Soviets initially outpace the Americans in the space race—is starting to look like it could be a global success story. It got a boost last week after the respected British medical journal the Lancet published a peer-reviewed paper that found the vaccine had 91.6 percent efficacy 21 days after the first shot and 91.8 percent for those over 60 years old, placing it on par with the celebrated Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna vaccines. Sputnik V is considerably cheaper than its Western competitors and does not require the same sort of ultracold storage infrastructure that would complicate distribution of the Pfizer vaccine in much of the developing world. “It does say something about the quality and integrity of the scientific enterprise within Russia, which a lot of people disparage or dismiss as decayed and obsolete and underfinanced and underpowered,” said Stephen Morrison, director of the Global Health Policy Center at the Center for Strategic and International Studies in Washington.

Russia detains Jehovah’s Witnesses, searches properties in new criminal case (Reuters) Russian law enforcement detained a number of Jehovah’s Witnesses and conducted searches at 16 different addresses in Moscow on Wednesday as part of a new criminal investigation against the group, state investigators said. The Investigative Committee, which handles probes into major crimes, said the people had been detained for organising and taking part in the activities of a banned religious group. It said they had met in a flat in northern Moscow and studied the teachings of the religion despite being aware of the ban on the group’s activities. Russia’s Supreme Court branded the Jehovah’s Witnesses an “extremist” organisation in 2017 and ordered it to disband. Since then the authorities have detained dozens of Jehovah’s Witnesses and convicted them on extremism charges.

What quarantine is like in Olympic-host Japan (AP) What’s it like traveling to Japan, six months ahead of the Olympics? Almost impossible, unless you’re a Japanese national or a foreigner with resident status. A state of emergency for a large part of the country means that even those special cases who are allowed in have to take multiple coronavirus tests and stay holed up in quarantine. And what could the entry process be like for thousands of Olympic athletes scheduled to show up ahead of the July games? Plans now call for the athletes to be tested 72 hours before they leave home; then again when they arrive, and then frequently when they are closed off in a “bubble” in the Athletes’ Village alongside Tokyo Bay. All athletes are being asked to arrive only five days before their first competition and leave two days after. They are being told there will be no tourism and little social contact—even in the Athletes’ Village. These will be an Olympics like no other.

Myanmar protesters back on streets despite police violence (AP) Crowds demonstrating against the military takeover in Myanmar again defied a ban on protests Wednesday, even after security forces ratcheted up the use of force against them and raided the headquarters of the political party of ousted leader Aung San Suu Kyi. Fresh protests were reported in Yangon and Mandalay, the country’s two biggest cities, as well as the capital Naypyitaw and elsewhere. The growing protests and the junta’s latest raid suggest there is little room for reconciliation. The military, which held power directly for five decades after a 1962 coup, used deadly force to quash a massive 1988 uprising and a 2007 revolt led by Buddhist monks. In Naypyitaw and Mandalay on Tuesday, police sprayed water cannons and fired warning shots to try to clear away protesters. In Naypyitaw, they shot rubber bullets and apparently live rounds, wounding a woman protester.

More on COVID-19 (Worldcrunch) Ghana parliament shuts down over outbreak that leaves 17 MPs and 151 support staff ill. The U.K. releases new quarantine guidelines that includes possible £10,000 fine or 10 years in prison for unauthorized travelers. South Africa cuts distribution of AstraZeneca after research shows its lack of efficacy on the South African variant. Healthcare workers in Bolivia go on strike to demand stricter lockdown measures, facing an average of 1,000 daily COVID-19 deaths.

Ultrawealthy givers (AP) As the world grappled with COVID-19, a recession and a racial reckoning, the ultrawealthy gave to a broader set of causes than ever before—bestowing multimillion-dollar gifts on food pantries, historically Black colleges and universities and organizations that serve the poor and the homeless, according to the Chronicle of Philanthropy’s annual rankings of the 50 Americans who gave the most to charity last year. “When I look at the events of the last year, there was an awakening for the philanthropic sector,” says Nick Tedesco, president of the National Center for Family Philanthropy. “Donors supported community-led efforts of recovery and resiliency, particularly those led by people of color.” Giving experts say they think the trend toward broader giving is likely to persist. “I don’t think this approach is just a 12-month moment that started with COVID and continued following George Floyd and is going to recede,” says Melissa Berman, president of Rockefeller Philanthropy Advisors, which counsels donors around the world. “There has been change building among private donors.”

#headlines #news

0 notes