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libraryofloveletters · 4 years

Text

‘Till My Last Dying Breath

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Warnings: CM level of violence, guns and the use of, mentions of injures, blood and kidnapping and like one swear word.

Category: Angst

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: Some good old 3am Hotch angst, very on brand for me :)

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Love was like alcohol. Some people have the occasional drink and they’re happy. Others prefer to stay away from it for various reasons while others need it. Need it to function, to get through the day, to feel something.

An addiction.

He was an addiction and one you’d have ‘till your dying breath.

His face, his hands, his touch, his smile, you needed him in every sense of the word. Aaron was the one thing holding you in place and he didn’t even know it. For someone whose job it was to notice the little details, he was oblivious to his own life and your feelings.

You clung onto his hand as he leaned over you, “hold on, the medics are almost here” his other hand was pressed to your side, covering the gaping bullet wound in your side. “Aaron” you breathe, “y/n, don’t. Save your strength”

“You can't save everyone Aaron” you whisper, your grip beginning to loosen on his hand.

The panic in his eyes isn't as well hidden as he hoped, the red liquid staining his shirt sleeve and his hand. Your breathing slow and weak, you were slipping and slipping fast.

“I can save you. It's my job” he breathed, his words barely coming out, he worried if he spoke any louder he’d hurt you more than you were already hurt. Seeing that it was his fault that you were in this position anyways.

It should have been him.

An Hour Prior

“Did you find anything ?” Hotch’s voice carried across the room as you walked back in with Spencer. Spencer shook his head and you opted to actually answer him, “lead was a bust, there isn't even a house there”

“What do you mean there’s no house?” Derek spat, “Didn’t Garica say there was?”

“Okay relax, I know she did but there isn't so what do you want me to do?” you rolled your eyes and sat down at the table.

“Cut the attitude l/n, we’re all tired. Get it together” Hotch said, harsher then he’s ever spoken to you.

The case was getting to everyone, the team had spent the last five days in a small town in Colorado. They had been looking for three missing women, one had turned up dead and the other was alive but not without signs of trauma and abuse. The third one is still missing and the girl who had survived didn't seem to have answers or remember where she was coming from. The frustration began to set in and everyone just wanted to go home already. Derek was on the phone with Penelope trying to figure out where the missing house really was. The room was quiet other than JJ and Emily going over the theories at the end of the table. “Hotch, Garica’s sending you another address” Derek told him, he nodded.

“L/n you’re with me, let’s go.”

You held back the urge to roll your eyes as you followed him out of the station, the two of you drove in silence. You wanted to know why he spoke to you that way, no matter how upset he was, he never did so what changed today? “Seriously, what’s your issue ?” looking towards the man in the driver’s seat. His permanent look of seriousness on his face, his brows furrowed slightly. “What issue ?”

“Why’d you tell me to cut the attitude? Derek started it”

“Derek is a grown man, he’s been a part of this team longer than you. Know your place”

“My place ? Are you fuckin-”

“Be quiet, we’re here and there’s someone outside” he stopped half way down the street on the other side. The two of you looked at the house that Garica sent the address too. There was a man outside, smoking on the porch, his clothes covered in blood. “Do you think-” “yeah, we go in on my count” Aaron told you, strapping his vest on.

You weren’t one to wait for directions, hence why Aaron was upset to begin with. He wasn't exactly pleased when you got out of the SUV and sprinted to the house. Gun drawn and pointed at the man, he dropped the cigarette and ran into the house, following after him.

“FBI! Stop!” you sprinted up the stairs as he ran. The sound of a door slamming and Aaron’s voice in the background were the only sounds you were hearing until a woman screamed. You pushed on the door but it was locked. You tried slamming into it with your shoulder but it wouldn't budge, taking a step back before you kicked the door with everything in you and the door swung open and slammed into the wall. The man’s head shot up, he leant over the girl who was strapped to the chair.

“Let her go” you tell him, your gun pointed directly at him as you slowly make your way into the room. You take in the room, the smell of old blood and rotting flesh fills your nose, enough to make your eyes water and make you gag. You held yourself together, looking over at the girl. She was strapped to the chair, the rope around her soaked in blood and every inch of exposed skin was now hues of purple, blue and black. There were gashes in various parts of her body, no doubt she had taken the brunt of the beatings as none of the other girls looked as wounded as her.

“I can't” he whispered, his hand brushed across her cheek, she whimpered.

“She’s innocent, she didn’t do anything to you” you take a step closer, lowering your gun. Aaron’s heavy footsteps echoed through the house. “What was that?” the man’s head whipped in your direction, his eyes flickering back and forth through the doorway. “Nothing, you stepped on the loose board” your heart pounding in your chest as the man made his way towards you. No matter how many times you did this, it didn't get any less scary. Your gun raised again, pointed at the man who was in front of you, your eyes flickering to the woman in the chair.

“Any closer and I will shoot you.”

“I’m not scared of you” he smiled mischievously at you

“And I'm not scared of you” you reply, deadpan.

“You shouldn’t be. I would never hurt a beautiful person like you.” His words sent chills down your spine, not the good kind either. Aaron appeared behind you, his sudden presence startling the man, his reflexes kicking in as he grabs your gun and pulling you towards him.

“What are you doing here? You aren't supposed to be here” the man had your gun pressed to your head, right against your temple. Aaron’s gun was pointed at the man. “Let them go” he tells the man, who again, does not do as he’s told. “Move,” he waves the gun in a sideways motion, “let me go and you can take the girl” he steps forward, pushing your body as he moves.

“I don’t want the girl, I want agent l/n back”

The man froze, he was evaluating his options. Let you go and he gets to keep the girl and the other option is to die. There was no way in hell he was going to give up without a fight, “I'll give you the girl and your agent, if and only if you let me go”

Aaron’s face twisted before it relaxed, almost like he had given in. You knew Aaron better than the unsub did, hence why your beating heart settled when he gave you a look. A look of certainty, of trust.

“Go,” he stepped from the doorway, “let them go and you can go”

“Nuh uh, I'm taking them down with me, that’s the only way I know you’ll let me go”

Aaron nodded, the man pushed you down the stairs with him. “Why are you doing this?” you ask him, the gun was still pressed against your temple it was surely going to leave a mark.

“Doing what sweetheart?” he breathed, his breath hot against your ear making you feel disgusting and uncomfortable.

“Why did you take those girls? I need to know” you didn't care, you were buying Aaron time. Time to check on the girl, to get back up to the house, to get you out of there. You trusted that man with your life although he was the biggest pain in your ass.

“I needed them” he gives you a simple answer.

“Needed them for what?”

“To satisfy my needs”

“And what needs are those ?” you question him again.

“You sure are a nosy bitch” he grumbles.

Aaron’s steps shake the house and he runs down - basically jumps down the stairs. His gun pointed again at the man behind you. “I gave you a chance, you’re still here. Let them go or I will shoot you” Aaron says, the man laughed wickedly.

“No thanks agent”

“I’m not asking you again”

Aaron's gun clicked, the trigger pressed slightly. The man loosens his grip on you slightly, your gun is now pointed at Aaron.

It all happened so fast, the sound of the trigger being pressed behind you was enough to make you move to the side, the bullet went in through your back and out the front of your stomach. Aaron’s gun goes off next, the sound of multiple shots ringing through the house and the man behind you falling to the ground, the gun dropping from his hand. You were in shock, your hand pressed to your side, Aaron’s gun still pointed at the man as he stepped towards him, kicking the gun from beside him.

Aaron’s gun clicked once more, a single shot echoes through the house before you fall to the ground with a thud. He turns and you’re on the ground, hand clinging to your side as the blood slips through your fingers. Aaron’s hand replaces yours, his other hand coming up speaking into the coms, calling for medical backup. Your vision blurry and your body weak, you reach for Aaron’s hand. Your blood soaked one wrapping around his. You clung onto his hand as he leaned over you, “hold on, the medics are almost here” his other hand was pressed to your side, covering the gaping bullet wound in your side.

“Aaron” you breathe,

“Y/n, don’t. Save your strength”

“You can't save everyone Aaron” you whisper, your grip beginning to loosen on his hand.The panic in his eyes isn't as well hidden as he hoped, the red liquid staining his shirt sleeve and his hand. Your breathing slow and weak, you were slipping and slipping fast. “I can save you. It's my job” he breathed, his words barely coming out, he worried if he spoke any louder he’d hurt you more than you were already hurt. Seeing that it was his fault that you were in this position anyways.

It should have been him.

“Hey, you know I-” you start, his other hand brushes your hair away from your forehead. “No, I know.” he breathes, a small smile on your face. If this was your time, so be it. At least you’d go looking at the man you loved.

Your eyes felt heavy, fluttering close. Aaron’s hand patted your face a few times, “hey, stay with me. Hear that ?” the sirens blared but they sounded far, you knew you wouldn't be able to hold on much longer.

You knew you weren't going to make it.

This was it.

“Aaron,” you mutter, a cough cutting off your words and the blood spattered onto your cheek. “Y/n?” Aaron called, his eyes glued to you. “I- I,” your breathing was heavy, it hurt to speak. “What is it?” Aaron’s look hurt, the sadness visible on his face, it hurt you to know that you’d be leaving him shortly.

“I love you” you admit, the last words you’d speak to him.

Aaron’s expression softened, a faint gasp leaving his throat. You look at him one last time. The way his hair flopped over his face, his blood soaked hands, the way his hand felt pressed against you and lastly, the expression on his face when you told him what you had been dying to tell him since you met him. Aaron’s voice rings through your ears, “I love you too” the last words he’d ever speak to you and the last words you’d ever hear.

A dying confession of love seemed a fitting way to end things.

You love him and you always will, you loved him until your last dying breath.

Your love for him was an addiction.

He was an addiction and one you couldn’t seem to quit, one that was with you ‘till your last dying breath.

---

Taglist: @mac99martin @aaron-hotchner187 @fanofalltheficsx @luke-alvez @iconicc @lieberhers @pumpkin-reads @katexrichardson @sluttytears @thelukealvez @scandinavian-punk @pagetsimp @morcias @shotarosleftpinky @mrs-dr-reid @hqtchner @averyhotchner @willlemonheadsupremacy @mggsprettygirl @simxican @ssa-autumn-hotchner @potter-reid

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bestworstcase · 4 years

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A while back you mentioned how Cathay is revered as a protector of the dead, could you give us any more details about how the notion of an afterlife is approached within the various Bitter Snow religions? (especially curious on how understandings about death/afterlife within the Saporian Ternary intersects with the ritualistic necromancy aspect of Cathay's cult)

so in the… functional sense, i think the way death and afterlifes work in the bitter snow universe is that the souls of the dead pass into the care of whatever deity has the strongest claim on them, and what happens after that is dependent on the tenets of contracts or decisions made by the deity in question. so in a sense, your beliefs while you’re alive shape what happens to you after you die. (and i figure souls that are unaffiliated / unclaimed tend to just kinda. decay, disperse, and get recycled in a manner similar to the physical cycle of decomposition and renewal; ghosts occur when a soul is anchored in the physical plane somehow, whether by religious practices or simply having a strong enough will to endure without the vessel of a physical body, ie the “unfinished business” case.)

anyway.

within the ternary, things get a bit complicated because you have three different patrons all of whom technically have an afterlife option; and the one thing you absolutely want to avoid is having multiple deities squabbling over custody of your soul once you die. i think there are probably layers and layers of rules and religious traditions that at their core exist to prevent divine custody battles. especially between zhan tiri and cathay, who (a) hate each other and (b) have domains that overlap because cathay’s dominion is over the dead while part of zhan tiri’s sphere is death.

so.

actually wait let me zoom out a little and say first: broadly speaking, what unites the faiths of the ternary into a single religion is pursuit of a philosophical concept called choimghē, which is… mingling of the profane/mundane and sublime/divine. the word itself literally means “cusp” or “threshold,” and the philosophical idea here is that there is this irreconcilable tension between the profane and the sublime; both exist in a perpetual state of fascination/repulsion with each other; to achieve choimghē is to achieve balance between the two, resolving the fascinated/repulsed tension into peaceful coexistence. the three cults of the ternary are all founded upon this concept, but they pursue it in different ways: cathay’s cult through a repudiation of things anchoring a person to the profane in order to make room for the sublime, char malách’s through creation and spirituality that seeks to bring the profane closer to the sublime, and zhan tiri’s through this almost symbiotic relationship between the profane and the sublime where the end goal is to converge the two into a new blended whole. and of course, since the average religious saporian keeps the tenets of all three cults to some degree, you get blended versions of this philosophy also.

& the point of that digression is to say that the way the cults, and the ternary overall, conceptualize death is as the moment when true choimghē becomes possible. your soul is freed from its profane/mortal/physical body and can now achieve full communion or harmony with the sublime/divine. and as i said, there are three options for this:

cathay. in… a sense, cathay is the dead. she is said to rule over the realm of the dead, but this is also typically understood to be metaphorical rather than literal: there is no “realm” where the dead live after death, there is just cathay, and when she claims your soul after you die you become a part of cathay too; your individual existence is the final tether anchoring you to the profane and in the moment of death you shed that and find perfect union with the sublime, in the form of cathay. this overlaps with her role as a protector of the dead; she gives them peace, and rest, and solace from whatever suffering they may have endured in life, while also preserving them for eternity, and she does that by making them a part of herself.

the ritualistic necromancy practiced by her cult is actually quite removed from this, because a clear dividing line is drawn between “the dead” and “the bodies the dead leave behind.” there’s no… real cultural concept in saporia of desecrating a corpse, except insofar as the corpse may be regarded as a shrine to a god. (by a similar token i think saporians find burial practices that focus on the body as a representation of the dead person rather distasteful: why are you using this slab of meat and bones as an icon of the deceased.) so the use of animated bodies by cathay’s cult is for the edification of cathay herself (…and by extension all the dead who joined her…) and is seen as having nothing whatsoever to do with the person to whom that body once belonged. they have vacated the premises. the body isn’t them.

anyway, second option: char malách. i think of the gods of the ternary his “afterlife” is the most nebulous, because he isn’t especially interesting in collecting souls or incorporating them into his being but he does respect the arrangements between himself and his disciples so he’ll accept them if they’re offered; and i think what he would tend to do with them is weave them into something new. it isn’t reincarnation per se, it’s more… as if the souls of the dead are clay he shapes into new forms that please him; into metal ores or stars or fires or gemstones or whatever strikes his fancy. you get woven into the fabric of the universe. there is some overlap here with the cathay option where you’re shedding your individuality to become part of a collective, but the key difference is that rather than becoming part of the sublime/divine you are instead contributing to the lifting of the profane into the level of the sublime. i think in general this is the rarest path for people to take, because the uncertainty of precisely what will happen to you is frightening, and for close adherents of char malách there isn’t really a downside to going to cathay when you die, because one of the key tenets of the cult is that the destruction and disaster she embodies are just as cherished and valuable a facet of the cosmos as any other.

and third option: zhan tiri. i think hers is unique in that it is available only to those who dedicate themselves to her above the rest of the ternary; casual adherents of her cult who also participate in the practices of the other two tend to go to cathay, or occasionally to char malách, because zhan tiri simply is not interested in keeping you around if you don’t put her first. and it’s also a little unique in that her form of afterlife features a continual cycle of reincarnation, into trees or her huge assortment of sacred animals or on occasion when she feels like it into a human again. or for her hand-picked favorites there is also the scion option, which is like… soul-grafting; her scions are basically human souls anchored into new physical vessels formed from her. anything she can do, they can do on a smaller scale. it’s considered an immense honor for her to even offer.

and there is some tension between cathay’s cult and zhan tiri’s on the matter of burial practices, because zhan tiri’s cult has a set of traditions that involve the preparation and burial of corpses in places sacred to zhan tiri—again, for the edification of zhan tiri rather than for the dead, who are memorialized in other ways—and so there’s this long-standing grudge based on the “bodies should be interred in barrows and available for necromancy to pay respects to cathay” vs “bodies should be buried in forests or bogs so they can decompose and rejuvenate the soil to pay respects to zhan tiri” argument. also, when zhan tiri is feeling especially petty, she is absolutely not above poaching cathay’s wights and filling them with plants and letting them rot until they fall apart. church-sanctioned graverobbing.

ANYWAY.

coronans find all of this to be exceptionally disturbing. almost every form of traditional saporian burial or death ritual involves what coronans perceive as arbitrary mutilation of the corpse, and the concept of choimghē that underlies all saporian beliefs about death and the afterlife flies directly in the face of the coronan cultural view that magic (ie what saporians refer to as the sublime) and humanity (is the profane) are not ever meant to touch and that pursuit of magic or consorting with magical beings is never desirable.

i think coronans, esp religious ones, tend to conceptualize an afterlife that is a real, physical place beyond the western horizon, in the sun, or among the stars. the funeral barge tradition of sailing pyres into the sunset is a symbolic sending off of the dead to that physical realm, and i think there are also probably various legends/folktales about living people traveling to the afterlife for various reasons. (i have some vague ideas about a common variation on the sundrop myth that involves The First Healer traveling into the realm of the dead and bringing back a magical flower that taught him the secrets of medicine, though that’s vanishingly unlikely to ever show up in the story itself.)

#bitter snow

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worstfruit · 5 years

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Okay so i reworked this using bastardized doric, which i intend to lessen over time but i think its still a bit much

The tower wasn’t anything like what Gwen had anticipated. It was far too kempt for starters, and though it was deep within the woods outside of town, it was still just sitting out in a clearing. A bit too obvious for her liking.

And yet, on the opposite end of the spectrum it was far too subtle. There were no twisting vines or dead trees. No heads on pikes, no ribcages or femurs strung up on display. In her experience, that meant a trap. Dazzle camouflage—hiding in plain sight with how garishly cute the garden was. She’d never met a wizard who grew chamomile. But even after waiting and watching and sneaking around every angle, Gwen hadn’t triggered any sort of trip wire nor spotted even an open archere in the stone. There was a locked cellar just around the back, next to the small plot of tilled soil. The lock looked rusted to hell, likely from disuse. The garden, though brimming with wildflowers, was a bit out of order as well, and Gwen had to wonder if anyone even lived inside the tower. Still, it did meet the description the locals gave her (an unassuming but old stone pillar erected in the forests southeast of Backwater), and was exactly where the bandits said it would be (a clearing found left of a fresh deer carcass a short distance off the path’s second fork, the side with the big boulder).

She’d been a paladin long enough to learn that if it walked like a duck, and sounded like a duck, then it was probably a duck. Besides, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at the moment, Gwen was in quite the pickle. Not three weeks prior had she been ousted from her Temple and indefinitely suspended of knighthood by her order. Taking down a necromancer, one that had alluded authorities for over 6 months, would be just the kind of deed she needed to get back in good graces.

Gwen readied her sword and stepped towards the stone structure, still anticipating some sort of magical barrage. An explosion, maybe even just a ‘hey you!’ But as she made her way up to the dry rotted entrance door, there was nothing.

Based off reports, she was half expecting hell itself. A fortnight prior to her expulsion, the temple formally briefed a number of paladins on the mission, recounted ongoing complaints of dug up graves, missing corpses, and robberies from the town of Backwater. It was a small and poor little stop along the way to Capitol; one of the few human villages between the Mission and High Elf territory, mostly used as a last minute night’s stay or provision pick up.

Tangent reports of missing cattle, children, and even the infirm were lumped together due to how small the townships outside of Backwater were. The bandits, who had tried to ambush her during her initial trek through the woods, informed Gwen of an elderly spell caster who conjured demons and brimstone from his own hands. The Backwater locals’ descriptions varied from vampiric in nature, down to common thugs, but all stories had a few principle things in common: he was old, he was in the woods, he worked with fire, he lived in a tower, and was evil. Taking in the scenery before her, Gwen sized it up. She certainly was at a tower in the woods.

For a moment, her manners almost got the better of her and she raised a gloved hand to knock. Thinking better, she gently pushed against the arched door to find it unlocked. It was ill fitted for the doorway, shrunken with age and it glided without touching the threshold.

Generally, necromancers were known to have a penchant for decay, dilapidation, just a general unkemptness that this tower absolutely did not have. The interior was lackluster to say the least; a bit old but otherwise rather mild in all regards. The floors were rugged with some dust in the corners, the stairs narrow but clearly well used, and there was even a small boiler with a little shitty kettle atop. Keeping her hands on the hilt of her blade, Gwen continued onwards, taking gentle steps so that her sabatons did not clack too loudly against the cobbled floors. She used to rugs to muffle her steps, stretching her short gait to match their haphazard patterns. She noticed a number of odds and ends befitting of her grandmother more so than a necromancer; things like doilies and little dried out gourds with sad little faces painted on them, a cracked tea cup here and there, some with tea leaves wet at the bottom. Still—Gwen had been spurned too many times to assume, perhaps the wizard was an elderly woman, or perhaps it was all a ruse. Cute or not, she had a job to do and a reputation to save.

Doing her best to ignore all the warning signs (or, lack thereof), Gwen pressed onwards, towards the spiraling stairwell. There were a few tomes laying about. She stooped to flip through one, noting that while the contents weren’t strictly of a necromantic nature, they were still damning nonetheless. Poison herbs and writing on anatomy, charts of stars and moon phases, a grimoire here and there and even one on exotic animals.

The stairs were lined with melted wax, an odd wick here and there sticking out like stray hairs on a bald man’s head. The tower, save the open door and natural sunlight pouring in from the top, was poorly lit and only so large; though there was no apparent latch door-- there may have been a basement along with the cellar; there was really nowhere else to go quietly but up. Even the archeres were boarded up with odd bits of rays poking through and spilling onto the bumpy walls and cracked wood; it made her ascent a bit difficult but Gwen was nothing in not cautious. She waited long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadows before pressing onwards.

The next level was even more cramped than the first, and more of a resting area than an actual floor. Gwen froze just as her line of sight passed over a step and into the room—just around the curved corner of the tower’s central support pillar (a massive, cylindrical oak beam), there was a chair. Tartan fabric, frayed, with feather filling coming out about the seams and around the corners, but atop the chair sat…something. It was small, maybe the size of a medium hound, greenish skin and a shock of red hair and cloth curled around itself. She couldn’t quite understand the anatomy if it from the glimpse she got before concealing herself behind the beam, just that it was alive and likely asleep.

Gwen peaked back around just to confirm her suspicions. The beast was tiny and most definitely asleep. Oddly enough, it was also clothed in what appeared to be a little cloak, fit for a child. She could identify its head, its long and pointed nose, two bat like ears and two giant, but closed eyes. It breathed in a gentle rhythm, clawed paws and feet tucked by its side much the way the temple’s pet cat curled up on Gwen’s bed some nights. It resembled a sand imp, ghastly little creatures all wrinkles and teeth. She didn’t want to wake it up to find out if it had the very same fangs.

Next to the chair was a small rickety stool with a book atop, and on top of the book was a half-eaten apple, already yellowing. She looked as far as she could upwards. There was enough of a ceiling for her to guess the third floor was a bit more substantial. As quietly as she could, Gwen moved her foot upwards. She hesitated placing it down unto the next step; if the creature was anything like a sand imp, she did not wish to wake it. Even before she finished her step, she saw its ears twitch. Perhaps this was the warlock’s familiar, and perhaps she was lucky to have caught it sleeping on guard duty.

Rather than continuing upwards, Gwen considered her options. The thing was small. It would be a but a stain on her long sword. But, if it really was some sort of fucked up, green sand imp (perhaps it was rabid or jaundiced), then it was probably fast. Their claws were nasty and they were just intelligent enough to know exactly were to slide them between the seams of plate armor. It’s almost as if they were completely willing to die, just so long as they could make you bleed, even just a little. They had zero regard for their own safety, no sense of reasoning, and no hesitation. It would be like a setting off an alarm bell for sure; loud creatures they were. She hated them more than feral, rabid rats, and while she would surely be able to take one (yet alone a puny, runty, sleeping one), she would rather not.

Which brought her to the next option. The creature all but confirmed the identity of the tower’s primary inhabitant. What sort of old woman would live with a pet sand imp? And, by law, familiars and death magick were strictly prohibited and punishable by, well, death. Love or hate the elves, they had a moral code she could agree with.

Gwen didn’t like to play executioner often, but for her own sake, she was strongly considering the alternative to continuing forward to confront the villain-- which was to go back to town, rile up the locals, gather a shit ton of wood and hay and oil and slow burning lards, and light the sucker up.

Nodding resolutely to herself, Gwen slowly, ever so carefully turned to head back down the stairs. She was feeling pretty pleased with her decision making, a bit clever too (she had found the tower after all, and could report the deed back to her temple even if she wasn’t the one to personally kill the necromancer. The townspeople would think her a hero and she would be allowed back into the Order, surely), until the very same little, shitty kettle she had spotted earlier flew right past her head. Gwen didn’t even have a chance to duck. It clattered against the stone wall loudly, spewing scalding hot water and steam all about. Thankfully, her armor caught the brunt of it, though a few flecks nipped at the nape of her exposed neck and she felt a painful flush of wet air blossom against her cheek and eye. Without hesitating she lunged forward and tackled the offender. She didn’t have of a chance to get much of a glimpse besides a hunched cloak and some white hair.

Her shoulder made contact and the two hit the floor, Gwen’s plate and mail pealing against the stone like a muffled bell. She flipped herself over to throw him to the side so she could land face up. Whoever had attacked her fell by her side with a dull thud. She used the pause to grab at her sword and roll over so that it was against them in a warning. Gwen miscalculated this move, however, and instead of holding the sword to their throat, her adrenaline and weight forced her forward much more quickly than she had intended. The blade plunged into the figure’s middle like a paring knife into a mushy peach. She heard a weak ‘oof’, before she felt the give of steel against flesh. It took a moment for it to register that both of them had stopped moving.

She clambered away and regained her footing using the boiler to stand fully. The ‘necromancer’ was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy, bloodshot eyes. It was an impossibly old man, clean shaven and white like porridge. He wore a fuzzy purple cloak and a blue, linen nightgown beneath. His middle was a burgeoning blossom of bright red, two sinewy legs poking out from beneath his sheer gown and thick robe, twitching in a way that reminded Gwen, once again, of the little black cat that slept at the foot of her bed back at the temple.

Remembering the sand imp, Gwen gasped and turned towards the stairs waiting for another attack. Instead, she saw the green thing poking its head around the corner, clutching the empty tea kettle to its chest and staring at Gwen with big, yellow eyes. Just like the temple cat, Pitch.

Neither she nor the creature moved. Instead it moved it’s eyes from Gwen to the dead old man and back a few times, before finally opening its mouth (to which Gwen could see that it indeed had sand imp teeth) and saying “Is ye the witch?”

The last thing Gwen expected to hear was a voice. Words, intelligible common! It even cocked its head, clearly surprised, clearly afraid, clearly upset but otherwise completely unmoving.

She didn’t answer. She was stooped, breathing heavy, and unsure how to even answer the question. So instead she stood up straight and opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked to the freshly dead man on the floor for an answer. Receiving none, she looked back to the imp and cocked her own head back it. “What?” was all she could muster, though the incredulity in her voice certainly carried other questions. The imp, a he based off the voice, which was scratchy and a bit high (yet so clearly NOT a child, she would have to hear it again to confirm how oddly inhuman yet…human it sounded) adjusted its stance in a way that suggested he was reminding himself of where he was.

“Ah. Er, Ah mean ye. He.” The imp pointed to the man with a shaky claw and let out a short, desperate kind of laugh, and then spoke so quickly that Gwen almost didn’t catch it, “Vern aye says the witch he mairriet fair go cum ben back fur his heid een day, sae, is ye her? The witch?” He retracted his hand and used it to clutch the kettle even tighter to his chest. “Ye're gonnae kill me neist? Gonnae get me head too!?”

Gwen didn’t get the chance to answer or even ask for clarification; the imp seemed to realize his own words and swallowed them faster than he had said them, and without any warning, he chucked the kettle, as hard as his little twiggy arms could, directly at Gwen.

This time she didn’t have the chance to duck.

Gwen saw stars. The kettle was cast iron, and the imp was stronger than she gave it credit for. It connected with her forehead and sent her sprawling back against the tower’s wall with another clang. Gwen threw her hands to her face, cursing loudly and sliding senselessly against the wall and floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. The wet rugs bunched at her sabatons and the tea kettle kept getting caught underfoot and rolling her backwards. She heard, rather than saw, all four of his clawed feet scuttling up the stairs like a frightened dog beneath the sounds of her own struggle. With a scream, Gwen kicked the rugs free of her feet and the kettle clean across the room, shoving herself upright. The paladin screwed her eyes shut and threw her sword down.

“Come back down here!” she screamed, stepping over ‘Vern’s’ body so she could reach the stairs. She wasn’t expecting an answer. “I won’t hurt you!” Gwen added in a much quieter voice. That was partially true, she wanted to ask the thing questions, and generally liked to refrain from violence if it could be helped. Unfortunately for Gwendoline, it could rarely be helped, and her entire face was smarting. She waited a beat for a response and then began trudging up the stairs, ignoring the dull throb emanating from the impact zone throughout her entire head.

The chair she had seen earlier was empty, and she continued upwards to the third level, all the while speaking in as calm but loud a voice she could manage through grit teeth; “I need to know more about Vern, he may have been a very bad man! Let me ask you some questions, please, and I won’t take anyone’s head!”

The third floor was a bit less boring than the first two. The walls were covered by a bookcase, the wooden panels following the curve of the stone walls behind them. Each shelf was full of knick knacks and dust. Jagged chunks of crystal and spindly plant stems with fuzzy leaves, bird and fish and rat bones, metal instruments and trinkets and tubes set up in between all of the books. The shelves broke in the center of the room, an arched little cove cut into them where an oil lamp hung unlit. Beneath was a small table with various, incriminating things on it, like mortars and pestles and scales, all kinds of little glass vials and broken bottles, quills in dried inkwells. Enough to convince any layman of Vern’s profession, surely.

There was a latch door on the ceiling, but the rope ladder attached to it hadn’t been completely unfurled; instead it hung limply so that the rope was in a loose coil, stuck against the nail lock. The thing was still in the room.

Next to the stair entrance on Gwen’s right was a sad little bedroll, not even a cot, with bits of hay sticking out bellow the fur blanket on top of it. The blanket had a lump beneath it, and the lump seemed to have a long, pointed nose attached.

Even assuming it was out of tea kettles, Gwen didn’t want to alarm it. Instead of addressing the lump, she simply spoke with a steady, but softer voice, to the room at large.

“I am sorry if he was your friend, imp. I. I did not intend to…end his life. Honestly. He caught me by surprise. I am a paladin from the Order of Fragan’s Templar, to the north of Backwater. I was tasked to…investigate reports of a necromancer terrorizing the woods surrounding Backwater and the road to Capitol. I truly mean you no harm, so long as you intend none in return.”

The lump stirred, poking a claw out so that the fur could be pulled back to reveal a narrowed, yellow eye. This time, his voice was more level, accusatory even, than afraid.

“Seems like a gayand quick in-inspectigation.”

“Investigation. I was attacked.” Gwen bit back.

“Ah didnae hear ye cum ben in. Didnae hear anyain let ye in.”

“You were asleep. The door was open; I didn’t hear anyone behind me!” Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, “I entered just to talk, but since it was dark I was on alert. I was told this man was very dangerous. I saw you and. Well, I became frightened!” She paced forward and stood before the bedroll, using a foot to kick the fur clean away from the imp. He remained bent over, looking up at her. “So, you are Vern’s…familiar? He was a practitioner of some sort, I see.” Gwen gestured to the room around her.

The imp sat up onto its knees, still staring up all small and pathetic.

“A wis his slae.” He said, simply. He seemed to chew the rest of her words over but remained silent otherwise.

“Slae-slave? Was he practicing the dark path?” She asked after a moment. The imp shot her a questioning look. “Necromancy! A wicked pact with some malignant force?” Gwen pressed.

“Uh, he. Ye mean, the witch? Fit path? The wids?”

“Did he raise the dead? Was your master some sort of evil wizard, or otherwise unlawful caster? Did he rob graves, steal towns children and sacrifice animals, consort with the spirits and the like? And please, annunciate this time.”

The imp seemed to understand this and nodded slowly, placing a claw to his lower lip.

“Nay, Ah dinnae think sae.” He adjusted himself to stand and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were self-conscious in regards to what he was about to say, “He mostly wrote mince doon in, uh, in books fur fowk fa couldnae reid. They’d pey him tae scrieve a lot, or make tae make queer balms an sic, stuff thon smellit odd or brunt bricht in jars, an sometimes he e’en conjured portals!” He relaxed a bit as he explained, seemingly distracted with his own tale, moving his hands about, “Or skin a coney--”

“A coney?” She had to pause this time around, though she initially noticed he talked a bit oddly, she hadn’t heard him say enough to catch the accent. Even still, it wasn’t familiar. Mostly understandable, when he talked slow. Perhaps similar to the Northerly elves at most, but very off.

“Jumpy fur craiter, wit the lang lugs an sic.” Fizzle mimicked whatever a coney was by grabbing at his large ears and making an unidentifiable face.

Gwen just shrugged, signaling the imp to continue.

“Deer too, but then he fair hae me skin it an take aw the coin an fur an then!? Guess on whit he dae. He’d gae an send it off tae the witch! He aye talkit aboot her! The witch! The witch I thoucht ye wis. But yer’re no? Yer’re no gyan…tae kill me, richt?” He finished, seeming to remember he wasn’t alone and looked up at Gwen like he’d just spilt milk.

Gwen found herself leaning in, even squinting as she tried to decipher just what the little creature was saying. She caught the gist of it all, up until this point, but he spoke so fast, and all of his words had a way of melting into each other, stumbling and lilting at the oddest moments. She almost wasn’t sure if it was common tongue.

She put her hand to her mouth and rubbed her upper lip. So. The man hadn’t been a necromancer. She eyed the imp a bit as it spoke. It could be lying, or perhaps not know the difference between a portal mage and a necromancer. She let his question linger in the air for a moment before regarding the creature with a sigh. Gwen at least understood that he did not want to die.

“No imp. I will spare your life.” She said, with a bit more monotony than she had intended. Had she not been so distracted with the current predicament, she might’ve found the way he perked up endearing, in a pitiful way. Like a pig spared the slaughter. But, instead, Gwen sunk to floor next to the imp (even when seated, it barely met her eye line) and pressed both hands over her mouth once more, staring straight ahead. “Vern. Vern was his name, you said?” The imp nodded. “Vern…did he have family? Friends, the like?” she asked from beneath her gauntlets.

“No…I dunno aboot the witch, bit, aside frae me an a puckle fowk, nae a body comes bi affen.”

“Fowk? Do you mean folk? The people. Like, towns people, from Backwater? Do they come often asking for things like portals and potions?”

The imp thought for a moment, his red irises rolling up to the side to regard a stray cobweb floating down in a beam of sunlight.

“Na, no anymore. Ah actually cannae remember fin we haed ane. Mebbe aroon lest hairst.”

“Huh?”

“Hairst! Neeps n pumpkins, ye ken?”

“Pumpkins.” She was losing patience. Luckily, Gwen dealt with her fair share of Northerners while posted at the wall, though the conversations were often limited to work related issues. “H-harvest? You mean the autumn, when the leaves fall?” Fizzle nodded excitedly. And in turn, Gwen nodded solemnly, then stood to pace in front of the imp. His head trailed after her movements. “Okay. Yes. We are getting somewhere, despite the clear barrier of tongues. And you, what is your name?”

“Fizzle.”

“Fizzle. Good. Yes. Were you, fond? Of Vern?”

Fizzle simply shook his head, a definite ‘NO’.

“He enslaved you, you said? Made you do things against your will and skin rabbits for no pay?��

“He foond me innae tree stump ane day an pit me innae sack! Ah was hidin an he still foond me. Ah dunno how! Ilky time Ah triit tae scowp awa faet, he wad aye track me doon an 'en dunk me intae the river till Ah cooldn’t stain it na mair!” Fizzle crossed his arms and huffed, looking away for a moment to consider his words before looking back up to the woman. “Aye, he did bad magick. But nae daith magicks.”

Gwen leaned forward excitedly, latching onto one of Fizzle’s words. “Okay, okay, so…would you perhaps say that he was a bad man? A mean man?” she asked, eyeing one of the many decorative squashes peppering the tower. It stared back at her.

“He wis mean an he lovit tae zap fin ah let kettle fussle afore fly cup. Een time he gart me boo like a bench, ower on ma hands an knees an he dane putten his feet on ma back, aw kis ah accidentally brunt his favourite stool!”

Gwen nodded eagerly as she walked around the room, and continued shaking her head to herself well after Fizzle had finished speaking. There was ample evidence supporting Vern’s ‘treachery’. From his choice in literature to the indentured servitude of a sick sand imp! Gwen was smiling to herself as she considered this: he probably enchanted the poor beast to make it sentient (and green)! She was sure the Order would not be pleased about that in the least. Truly a vile, vile man!

“Okay! Great.” She clapped her gloved hands together with a metallic smack, startling Fizzle; “Well, there we have it, my little friend! I came to investigate Vern. I followed the tips of the towns people, and two unscrupulous bandits who tried to accost me on the road here! They told me of his ways, how he had devils shooting fire from their hands. I entered his tower in search of him, just to talk! To confront him, and yet the coward attacked me without warning.” She paused her theatrics to turn and look at Fizzle, eliciting a nod from him which made her assume he was following along and compliant. “So I defended myself! And rightfully so, as I come to find, he’s put some sort of evil enchantment on you, to make you walk upright and wear clothes and speak as if you’re a regular halfling! What other forest critters he must have tortured!” Fizzle raised a brow ridge at this, but Gwen continued on, “The townsfolk will be happy to be rid of that man, of this I am certain.”

“Fit div ye mean, enhancement? On me?” he looked himself over, but saw nothing awry.

Gwen bit her lip. Was it cruel to tell a donkey it’s true nature? Certainly not if it, as donkeys ordinarily cannot understand you. But a talking donkey? Who ever heard of such a thing. Informing poor Fizzle as to what he was seemed akin to kicking a puppy begging for scraps. Needless cruelty (and Gwen had her fill of that for the day). But the imp just looked up to her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself relenting. She figured he deserved to know, and besides, she liked animals quite a lot.

“Well, you are but an imp, are you not? Never in my days have I encountered a walking, talking imp. Let alone a green one! And so far north.”

Fizzle was shaking his head before Gwen was even finished, “Am fae wye wye up north, past the waa.” Fizzle considered this for a second as he noted Gwen’s confusion, “The big, lang rock. Miekle rocks n sic! Man made.”

“The wall?”

“Aye! The waa. Vern wis buying dwarven wares n fit not, fin he fand me up near the mountains. Aire’s a lot o’ ma kin up aire. The caves an moors are ours. Belong tae us.”

“The north? The Great North, with dwarves?! I’ve never heard of sand imps living anywhere but south! In the salt flats and around the shores with those wild folk.” Now Gwen was shaking her head. “That would explain the accent, however.”

“Nae wi Dwarves, no, jis near tham. We hate dwarves an they hate us, an ah div nae ken fit the fuck an imp is, bit am a goblin, lady. A’ve nivver been faarer sooth nor here.”

“Repeat that last bit, where you just cursed at me.” Gwen asked, impassively. She was staring past the little thing, gears turning in her head trying to work out what he was saying.

“Err, Dwarves, richt? Sae, they hate me, an I hate ‘em. Dunno if they name us ‘imp’, bit Aim tellin ye, Aim a goblin.”

Gwen shook her head dismissively—semantics didn’t matter, and she was certain that whatever a ‘goblin’ called itself didn’t change the fact that it was an imp. She knew there were multiple tribes of elves who looked different enough from one another, and humans and halflings and dwarves had the tendency to range from an alabaster white to deep, rich browns and near blacks depending where they lived. Maybe sand imps weren’t just confined to the sands! Maybe they could be green?

“No matter, Fizzle, let’s just keep this between you and I. Those I answer too are not particularly fond of Northerners, and will have a much easier time understanding sand imps.” She filed away his strange account for later consideration; more important was the matter of staging the scene. Fizzle shrugged and continued to look up to her expectantly. It dawned on her that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. If the town’s excuse for law enforcement came to access the scene, they would surely want to get rid of the little guy. Gwen sort of pitied him. He had been helpful despite the kettle incident, and she didn’t exactly want to send him from his recent slavery straight to death. “But we will worry about that when the time comes. For now, I need your help.”

Gwen was not proud of this talent, no, but she recognized it as a valuable one nonetheless.

Over years of training under Thalodin Lldewig, she had learned many ways to…suggest things. Through dress, body language, gesture, facial expression, choosing words, and perhaps most importantly, through setting up bodies of evidence (as well as literal, dead bodies) to insinuate. Certain things. Many things. In fact, according to Thalodin, you could say just about anything, without actually ever saying a word. Things that may benefit him, and keep any officials outside (or sometimes, even inside) the Order from asking too many unnecessary questions.

Gwen didn’t like to think of this as lying. She detested lying. Every time she muttered even a white lie, she could feel the eyes of her patron saint burning a hole through her, even from a young age before she ever committed herself to the Order. But again, her mentor had the unfortunate habit of stretching the truth to such a degree that he was ‘forced’ to stage the occasional ‘crime scene’ in a way that may have ‘flattered’ him more than it should have.

It was something that took Gwen quite a while to come to terms with, but eventually, it rubbed off on her. She didn’t like to steal, to cheat or lie or kill, yet situations like Vern’s had been requiring her to do just that as of late.

She thought about her recent expulsion. The shame made her stomach sink and cheeks burn bright. But then the anger set in. Gwendoline was far from perfect and she was so keenly aware of this. It didn’t bother her, if anything it was a reminder and motivation to continue striving for grace; to earn redemption and pass it along to others who needed it more. There was nothing she hated more than injustice and while she knew it was not her place to enact revenge, seeing such wild imbalances in power such as the Elven nobility or even among her own temple’s magistrate made her blood boil.

So she killed an elderly man? It was an accident, and it was done. If she was smart, it could benefit her, and even Fizzle (though admittedly, she was far less concerned about that if she were being honest.) It would quell the minds of the townspeople and perhaps scare off whatever else was lurking in the wood.

She considered these things as she dragged Vern out of the tower. Fizzle helped Gwen to locate a wax dipped tarp Vern kept in the cellar. Together, they slid the tarp beneath his body and Gwen had opted to do the heavy lifting while Fizzle focused on cleaning. Once the blood was sufficiently cleaned and the floors decent, he was to collect all of the tea cups and gourds and doilies in the tower and put them in a sack. By then, Gwen would have staged Vern’s body; dressing him up in more practical battle attire and scoring the earth around their supposed fight stage.

#LONG #r

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imdoingthismspaintadventure · 5 years

Text

Worm 1.4 - In which a Worm fights a Wyrm

I felt a chill. A part of me really wished that I had thought to get my hands on a disposable cell phone. I didn’t have a utility belt, but the spade shaped section of armor that hung over my spine hid a set of EpiPens, a pen and notepad, a tube of pepper spray meant to hang off a key chain and a zippered pouch of chalk dust. I could have fit a cell phone back there. With a cell phone, I could have alerted the real heroes about the fact that Lung was planning to take a score of his flunkies to go and shoot kids.

Damn, she really went unprepared didn’t she? All of the objects mentioned there would probably be useless in a real fight, and with a phone she could alert authorities and not have to worry about biting off more than she can chew.

But as she doesn’t have it now she faces a moral dilemma: do I just ignore it and go back from where I came from and leave the kids to die, or do I jump in and try to disrupt the plans of a dangerous and famous crime boss.

That is less of a trolley problem and more like if there was only one track and you could throw yourself in front of it to derail its course. Cause damn. I guess she could blitz them and then run away?

At least, that’s what I had heard. I was in a state of disbelief, turning the words around in my head to think of a different context that would make sense of it. It wasn’t so much the fact that he would do something like that. I just had a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that anyone would.

Oh. Taylor if something is true in the world, is that people are fucked up. Well some of them. There are also shining examples out there. Humanity as a whole is grand, but there are a lot of individuals that defy imagination with their bad deeds

Lung answered a question for one of his gang members, lapsing briefly into another language. He grabbed one of his minion’s arms and twisted it to an angle where he could get a look at the guy’s watch, so I guessed it had something to do with their timing or when they were leaving. The gang member who’d had his arm twisted winced as Lung let it go, but didn’t complain.

Look at this perfect way to see the time! Twist the arm of the person nearest you to see the clock. It’s so petty, I love it. Guess it is also a way to assert his influence and power, if he values those.

What was I supposed to do? I doubted I could find any place in the Docks that would be willing to let me inside to use their phone. If I headed to the Boardwalk, I wasn’t sure I would find any places that were still open, and I didn’t have change for a payphone. That was another oversight I would have to correct for the next time I went out. Cell phone, spare change.

Yeah, I was thinking about that. Her house phone is obviously out of the question, and any other method would probably take too much time, not too mention they would change places and would maybe be impossible to find when security arrives

A car pulled up, and another three guys dressed in gang colors got out and and joined the crowd. Shortly after, the group – twenty or twenty five in total – started walking north, passing below me as they walked down the street.

Oh great, as if things weren’t loopsided enough, reinforcements

I was out of time to consider my options. As much as I didn’t want to face it, there was really only one option that I could have no regrets about. I shut my eyes and focused on every bug on the neighborhood, including the sizable swarm I had gathered on the way into the Docks. I took control of each of them.

Attack.

Oh damn, we are actually going to do it! Best strategy is probably:

1)Take down as much of the goons as possible while also attacking Lung

2)When he starts counterattacking run the fuck away.

I mean, you still would be in danger but his raid would probably be ruined.

It was dark enough that I could only tell where the swarm was with my power. That meant I couldn’t even tune out the swarm if I wanted to have any idea about what was going on. My brain was filled with horrendous amounts of information, as I sensed each bite, each sting. As the thousands of insects and arachnids swarmed over and around the group, I could almost see the outlines of each person, just by sensing the shapes of the surfaces the bugs were crawling on, or the areas the vermin wasn’t occupying. I focused on keeping the more venomous types at bay for the time being – I didn’t need any allergic thugs going into anaphylactic shock from a bee sting or getting serious complications from the bite of a brown recluse spider.

The sensory overload of her power is seriously daunting. Also one of the most powerful aspects of her power if used correctly.

She’s swarming the group, biting and stinging with the softcore bugs. Doesn’t the brown recluse rot the tissue around the bite? A fully monstrous Taylor would be an utter nightmare

I sensed the fire through the swarm before I realized what I was looking at with my eyes. My power told me of the bugs’ recognition of the heat, but I didn’t even have time to devote conscious thought to block out the instincts the fire set in motion before the damage was done. The primitive thought processes of my bugs were reduced to confused impulses to alternately flee and to pursue the heat and the light they so often used for navigation. Many bugs died or were crippled by the heat. From my vantage point, I could see Lung lashing out with streams of fire from his hands, directing them at the sky.

Flamethrower hands! That’s awesome! And also highly lethal to Taylor’s bugs, which seems to not only burn them but also reverts the bugs back to their instincts in the presence of such danger

I suppressed a laugh, feeling heady with adrenaline. Was that all he could do? I directed the swarm to gather, so those who weren’t already biting and stinging were in the midst of the gang. If he wanted to turn his flames on the swarm, he would have to set his own people on fire.

Fuck yes, Taylor thinks smart in a fight! (and for those of you that have watched Code Geass, doesn’t that almost-laugh and feeling of “I can do it!” after testing powers for the first time just scream Lelouch? )

The heated air and the smells gave me enough information, by way of my insects, to tell where Lung was in the crowd. I took a deep breath, and then sent in the reserves. I took a share of the venomous types I’d held at bay and directed them to Lung. A handful of bees, wasps, a number of the more poisonous spiders, like black widows and brown recluses, and dozens of fire ants.

Damn, Taylor is more powerful here than I thought! Black widows and brown recluses, fireants.... that is a powerful army right there. The goons are fucked, but I get the impression Lung won’t be so easy

He healed fast when his power was working. Everything I’d read online said that people with healing abilities would shrug off the effects of poisons or drugs, so I knew I’d have to pump him full of enough venom to overwhelm that aspect of his power. Besides, he was a big guy. I judged he could take it.

Fuck I forgot he had a healing factor! Taylor’s reaction to this seems to be more of a “Let’s up the DPS and override his healing” more than “oh fuck it’s not working”

Full-on with the venom then! That’s the problem with fighting with a power such as this, you have to get a little monstruous

From the information that I could glean from my bugs, Lung already had maybe a quarter of his body covered in armor. Triangular sections of metallic plating were piercing through his skin, where they would continue to grow and overlap until he was nigh impenetrable. If they weren’t already, his fingertips and toes would become like blades or metal claws.

He is really becoming a metal dragon holy shit. I have a really awesome mental image of the grey metal scales draped and surrounded in orange/red flame.

I felt a sadistic glee as I organized the attack on Lung. I directed the flying insects to attack his face. With distaste, I focused the crawling ants and spiders on… other vulnerable areas. I did my best to ignore the feedback that I got from that particular attack, as I most definitely did not want the same kind of topographical map that the swarm had provided just a minute ago. Lung was bad news, and I needed him out of action as soon as possible. That meant delivering the hurt.

Holy hell it must suck being Lung right now. Taylor can be brutal when she needs to be. The problem with fighting with a spoon instead of a knife, you have to go for the soft areas.

Taylor has some blood knight tendencies I see. Getting caught up in the fun of combat are you?

Rationale aside, I did feel a stab of guilt about taking pleasure in someone else’s pain. I quieted that moment’s remorse by reminding myself that Lung had spread tragedy, addiction and death to innumerable families. He had been planning to kill kids.

Taylor seems pretty good in rationalizing and justifying her actions. That is both good and possibly troubling for the future

Lung exploded. No metaphor there. He detonated in a blast of rolling fire that set his clothes, several pieces of litter and one of his gang members alight. Almost every bug in his immediate vicinity died or was crippled by the wave of extreme heat. From my vantage point on the roof, I watched as he turned himself into a human bomb a second time. The second explosion turned his clothes to rags and sent his people fleeing for cover. He stepped out of the smoke with his hands burning like torches, the silvery scales that covered nearly a third of his body reflecting the flame.

He just went fuck it, omnidirectional blazing inferno, scorched earth, and wiped out alll the insects he had on him.

I think you should run, this is a baaad matchup for your abilities

Damn, damn, damn. He was fireproof? Or skilled enough at using fire to superheat the air around him without burning himself? The meager scraps of clothing that covered him were burning away, and fire licked and danced around his hands without him seeming to care.

I think he probably has a power that lets him generate fire very close to his body but without it ever touching it. Either that or he becomes fire wherever he generates it, like a devil fruit elemental power.

He roared. It wasn’t the monstrous roar one might expect, but a very human sound of rage and frustration. As human as it sounded, though, it was loud. All the way down the street neighborhood, lights and flashlights flickered on in response to the explosions and the roar. I even saw a few faces peering through windows to see the action. Idiots. If Lung’s next attack shattered any glass, they could get hurt.

Lung: fucking bugs! what in the fuck?? I go out to do my attack and a goddamn plague falls on top of me. Whoever is responsible for this is already cinders!!

From where I was crouched on the side of the roof, I directed some of the more harmless insects to attack Lung. He lashed out with fire the moment they started crawling on him, which I had more or less expected. He was managing to kill the majority of the bugs with each burst of flame, and knowing what I did about his powers, I knew his flames would only get bigger, hotter and more dangerous.

Are there upper limits to his power? Or does he just, get stronger. Cause that would eventually be both aboslutely OP and a spectacle to behold.

In a typical fight, you figure someone would get weaker as the fight dragged on. They would take their lumps, get tired, exhaust their bag of tricks. With Lung, it was the opposite. I found myself regretting that I had used only a relatively small number of the more venomous bugs, because it was becoming clear that what I’d used wasn’t having much effect. He had no idea where I was, so I figured I still had the upper hand, but my options and the number of bugs in my swarm were running out. Despite my earlier glee, I wasn’t sure I could win this anymore.

Lung thrives in a fight of attrition. As his enemies gets weaker he keeps getting stronger, until you give up and flee

You have probably lost your chance of beating him, or at least you will when he gets completely covered in the scales.

I hissed through my teeth, all too aware that time was running out. Before long, Lung would set fire to the city block, become immune to bites and stings in general, or destroy my entire swarm. I had to get creative. I had to get meaner.

Ooor you just could go 2000% offensive to all his tender bits before he gets the chance to completely transform. Holy shit.

I focused my attention on a lone wasp, and piloted it around Lung’s back, up behind his head and then had it circle around to his face and straight at his eyeball. The wasp touched his eyelash, and he blinked before it could hit the target. As a consequence, the stinger only sank into his eyelid, prompting yet another explosion of fire and a scream of rage.

Again. I thought. A honeybee this time. I wasn’t sure if he eventually got armor plated eyelids, but maybe I could use the stings to make his eyes swell shut? He wouldn’t be able to fight if he couldn’t see.

Go for the fucking eyes. No fucking mercy over here

Maybe I won’t have to hypothesize about ruthless Taylor, she already seems to be there

and it’s great

The bee struck home this time, sinking his stinger into the ball of Lung’s eye. It surprised me in that it didn’t stick or kill the bee, so I had the bee sting again, and this time the barbs let it stick in the skin at the corner of his eye, at the side of his nose. The bee died that time, leaving some tiny organs and a venom sac hanging from the stinger.

Lung could probably regenerate this damage, but still ow ow ow it must suuuck to be him

I expected him to explode again. He didn’t. Instead, he set himself on fire, head to toe. I waited a moment, poised to attack with the next wasp to attack the moment he dropped his guard, but as the seconds passed, I realized he wasn’t planning on extinguishing himself. My heart sank.

Surely he was burning up all of the oxygen in his vicinity. Didn’t he need to breathe? What the hell was the fuel source for his fire?

Oh shit now he’s like a walking demon covered in flame. No need to wait for the scales to fully cover him. He’s already invulnerable

Run

Standing in the street, he turned around, searching for me, with the flames that licked and rolled over his body casting light where there had been only gloom. Abruptly, he hunched over. I wondered if – I hoped – the various toxins and venoms in his system had done the trick. Then his back separated into two. A meaty looking gap appeared along his spine, followed by an eruption of long metallic scales all down the gap. After bristling for a few moments, the scales lay flat like dominoes falling. He stood and stretched, and I could swear he was a foot taller, now with an armor plated spine.

Still on fire, head to toe.

He’s reaching perfect form

Will he be an actual demon/dragon at 100%?

Already he is becoming less human

Aah I wish someone like Murata could draw this, it would be a fucking spectacle

If the ‘constantly on fire’ thing had tipped the balance of the fight to futile, watching Lung grow and look stronger than ever had pushed me to the point of being spooked. I started thinking about an exit strategy. Rationally, I figured, Lung’s men were scattered to the four winds and they were probably in pretty rough shape. Whatever Lung had been planning for tonight, chances were he wasn’t going to be able to carry out whatever plans he’d had after this debacle. I had more or less accomplished what I needed to, and I figured I could run and find a way to contact the PHQ just in case.

Yeaaah time to get the fuck out

His plan is probably fucked, now let’s just pray he doesn’t kill you

That was the rational perspective. Justifications aside, I just wanted to leave, right then. If things dragged on and I stayed put, there was a very real chance that Lung would give evidence to the rumor that he could grow wings, at which point I would be spotted for sure. I wouldn’t be able to beat Lung at this point, anyway, which left only a graceless retreat as the remaining option.

Ooh if he grew wings, you would have nowhere left to escape to anymore. Good thing is he would probably attrack the attention of some hero at least. A flying Wyvern of flame tends to stand out

Lung had his back turned to me, so I lifted myself up, slowly. Crouching, I backed up to retreat to the fire escape, watching Lung carefully as I set foot on the gravel of the roof.

As if a gunshot had gone off, Lung whirled around to stare at me. One of his eyes was just a glowing line behind his mask, but the other was like an orb of molten metal.

A victorious roar filled the air, less human than the outcry he had made earlier, and I felt a kind of resignation. Enhanced hearing. The package of powers the bastard got from his transformation included superhuman hearing.

.....

well fuck

f u u u c k

Lung is OP, he now has super senses and has found you. You better pray someone noticed, cause I don’t think you can do anything right now

Aaaa, and I got cliffhangered! I’ll see you guys on the next part!

I don’t have time to do the homestuck update today, will do it tomorrow!

#parahumans #wildbow #worm parahumans #worm liveblog #parahumans liveblog #worm #arc 1 #Worm 1.4

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sugarcookiesandsins · 5 years

Text

in the end | 1

summary: musings from the end of her time warning: references to self destructive thoughts and behaviors, references to suicide, language

They say that in the end there is light as your life flashes before you. You get to see it all, from the first day to the last and that moment is why you should live life without regrets. However that's not true, in the end, you see what you want to see. And yes I saw black, but it was dotted here and there with every thought that has accumulated over the past 8 years, since my delve into the part of my psyche that thinks far too much for its own good. The black was calming, and for the first time is what seemed like forever I wasn't thinking. That was my goal after all, to have a moment where my mind wasn't occupied with insecurities and concerns, some of which were my own fault and some of which were far beyond my control. But then that peace began to feel weird, like it was unnatural, and to my body, to some degree, it was. Having been preoccupied for so long, being free felt odd. It felt exhilarating, it felt for the first time that I wasn't in a locked room surrounded by files, each one a different person, place or thing that you were sure I was thinking about. I think that room was the reason I tended to forget smaller things here and there, because I felt that it had no room in my own proverbial mind palace.

But here I am, alive after trying to die twice and what do I have to show for it. Nothing. It seems I can't even get death right. I am locked in that room again, screaming, kicking and crying where no one can see. Some of the cabinets painted red where I hurt myself in my rage to destroy them and the wall that boxes us all in. It suffocating and being back there I now realize that maybe my goal wasn't to rid the room of the file folders it was to be rid of the room itself. I would not mind having these file folders as they give me the ability to care and a friend once said that it is amazing how much I am still able to care despite the injustices that I feel have taken place in my life. But it would be nice to be able to escape them for a while. Why must my mind be limited to a place where it seems like there are more file folders than space for me to walk?

I know where the most commonly used file folders are. They are ones larger than seems possible stocked with information that I have been collecting for a long time, or maybe its a short time but we have grown to be such good friends that I just have that much to think/say about you. And then there are the ones that I know lurk around the edges of my vision but that I don't ever see. These are the ones that are thinner than paper, cutting briefly in the most painful way possible before disappearing again into the depths of my mind. These are the ones I hate the most. The ones I can't control to see, but I know they are there and are a bigger weight than you could ever imagine.

Stuck in this place for 8 years and looking back on it now, I realize that somewhere in the midst of it all, I allowed this to happen to myself. I allowed myself to care this much about what everyone thinks and says and feels. I locked myself in this room to rot and I succeeded. There's one win for Sanika. But realizing that now doesn't change anything. I locked myself in here and lost the key. No i have two options for myself, wait no three. I can stay here forever, unstable, with just my thoughts and maybe end up succeeding. Maybe it's my fear speaking when I say that I am partial to this idea.

The second option is that I find a spot and start chipping away at the wall. Piece by piece, crumb by crumb until my tools break and I wear my fingers down to bloody stubs. It will be painful and trying, but I would escape this way. And maybe my insecurity is speaking when it asks if such as big task someone like me can accomplish. Someone who had given up on herself and who can do no more than play the puppet, can stand on her own two feat and pull of what may be the longest vertical climb in my history.

But then there is the third option, this one I had given up on long ago. Someone breaks me out. This is impossible. I don't need people to see my prison and nor do I need the help. All my live I have been living for someone else, for their lost dreams, for their bragging rights, for them. I don't want to be that weak anymore. I either do this myself or not at all. Perhaps this is the reason I am adverse to using psych therapy. Because I don't need someone examining my brain with a microscope and telling me things that I already know. That I stress. That I am insecure. That I have more anxiety than I should at this age. That I have trauma. The list goes on forever. I don't need someone to add a window to my little room. Someone always being able to look in, but I am never able to look out.

But here I am, faced with one of the biggest decisions of my life, and I feel...nothing. Absolutely nothing, and here is where I think that I am meant to end up. Too tired to live life to the fullest and too tired to try to die again. It would be so easy too. They say that a desperate person will do anything to achieve what they want, and I believe that is true. Guess I'm just not desperate enough. That or I'm weak. One or the other. The right answer doesn't matter. Those who know me just have to take their favorite.

Now we come back to the people in my life. Some I have let down, some I have lost, and some, despite all the bullshit I put them through decided to actually stay through it all.

I want to apologize to them all. For being stubborn as a mule, for not listening, for being too rational to the point that some say I sound like a robot. Friends are confusing and it's a little sad that at 17 I'm still figuring it all out. I'm not perfect in that area, well, not perfect in a lot of areas, but especially not this one so forgive me if I make some mistakes along the way. I am always there to talk, and I'd rather you kick and scream at me than treating me with silence. Silence is all i have in that locked room so a little kicking and screaming actually makes me feel a bit better. I'll accept my mistakes, apologize, and I hope we can move on. But if not, that's fine too. I don't expect such amazing people to stay around me for long anyways. Somehow, someway, I'll fuck something up and the little paradise that I had started to build will collapse and I'll leave. Perhaps to build another castle or perhaps to give up on it all again. Not even I know at this point.

I think the first thing that someone asked me when I came back was How does it feel to be alive? And honestly. I still don't know. Some moments I am happy. I still get to see the people I love succeed in life and some moments I wish for nothing more than the fact that I had cut just a little deeper or taken just a couple more pills. It's sad enough to admit, but the feeling is there.

I think for now, I will be focused on moving forward one day at a time. Patching up broken relationships with as many apologies as it takes and trying to bring myself back to the girl that people mistook me for. I'll succeed, or die trying and at the moment I think that's all I can hope for.

#sugarcookiesandsins #thank you

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pan-princess-levy · 6 years

Text

from across the ocean

for her 15th birthday, levy receives membership to an international pen pal program.

[pen pals/long-distance relationship. 2nd-anniversary gift for my beloved bailey, @blackbloodrose20 ]

also read on ao3 and ffnet!

(although it doesn’t match any of the prompts, this is considered an entry for gajevy week 2019. rejoice with love!)

Membership in an international pen-pal program was not what Levy expected for her 15th birthday, but at this point, she was so lonely she was ready to accept everything.

She struggled to sit down with her broken leg, awkwardly stretching it on the small stool under her computer desk before pulling the box with the documents over. She could still hear the soft murmurs coming from downstairs and considered getting up to close the door.

Then she knocked her toes against the wall.

“Nope, not today. I’ve done enough walking.”

It was hard, to maneuver her fingers into the tight space between her computer and the wall, but after the third attempt, Levy managed to find the start button and turn the machine on. The whirling noise only worried her for a moment. Grandmere had suggested they could get a new computer soon anyway.

If she was even going to need that new computer.

The program had a forum and everything established. Levy looked up the rules and the suggestions of the server then searched up some more things about proper forum etiquette just in case. The registration only took a minute at the most. Finding a proper picture of her took longer and at last, she picked the one she found best from that visit to Paris from Christmas. (Her face looked horribly red from the cold, but it would have to do.)

The forum soon matched her up with her partner. Levy watched the animation process with curiosity. Her picture appeared from a small red dot that was supposed to be her hometown. The same red dot appeared somewhere in North America and a small picture jumped from it. A thin red line connected the two pictures.

A new tab opened, startling her.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard and she narrowed her eyes, urging herself to switch to English. The tab was almost empty, only containing a big box for messages and few small menus to the side with options for adding pictures, emoticons and other things she didn’t really care about.

A green dot by the side meant her partner was online, too.

Levy bit her lip. She could always quit. She could always put everything away and hand the documents down some other kid in town, then wait for her leg to heal up and do her best to be social.

Or she could try to be brave for once in her life.

FlowerLevy: Hello?

The three dots on the screen almost drove her insane. Levy nibbled on her nails.

the_dragon_warrior: hi? i’m gajeel. what’s your name?

FlowerLevy: My name is Levy. It’s nice to meet you!

flowercrown: I want to die.

panthers: who do i have to kill

flowercrown: You can’t just go around killing people, Gajeel.

panthers: i mean

panthers: i can try?

flowercrown: It’s illegal!

panthers: i’m already a criminal you foolish child

flowercrown: Buying a beer that one time doesn’t count.

panthers: but it’s also illegal

flowercrown: You can’t offer murder every time I complain about something.

panthers: i so much can

panthers: fucking watch me tiny one

flowercrown: Stop calling me short.

panthers: but you are short

flowercrown: One day, Gajeel Redfox, your growth spurt will stop.

flowercrown: And then, I’m going to have the upper hand.

flowercrown: Just you wait.

panthers: i’m so scarred. terrified.

flowercrown: I hate you with a burning passion.

panthers: but you love me

Levy blinked for a moment, staring at the screen of her laptop with a mixture of confusion and something she didn’t recognize.

flowercrown: You don’t deserve my love.

panthers: <3

When Levy touched her cheeks, she felt heat radiate from under her fingers. Something strange had settled in her stomach, making her feel as if she was going to throw up any second.

flowercrown: <3

panthers: ha! i got you to send me a heart!

flowercrown: You’re so strange, Gajeel.

panthers: i know tiny

panthers: i know

He was horrible.

actual-disney-princess: um

actual-disney-princess: i might have done something

sunflower: Please tell me you didn’t kill anyone.

actual-disney princess: i did not kill anyone

actual-disney-princess: why do you always assume that?

sunflower: … Really.

actual-disney-princess: touché

actual-disney-princess: but nope

actual-disney-princess: i did something better

actual-disney-princess shared a picture

sunflower: Is this a kitten?

actual-disney-princess: yup

actual-disney-princess: meet lily

actual-disney-princess: i met him today and he stole my heart

actual-disney-princess: he’s my child now

sunflower: Oh dear god, he’s so beautiful!

sunflower: You’re going to be a good dad, Gajeel.

actual-disney-princess: dad?

sunflower: You adopted a little animal. I think that makes you a dad?

actual-disney-princess: oh

actual-disney-princess: i didn’t consider that

actual-disney-princess: that’s cool

actual-disney-princess: does that make you his mom?

sunflower: Why am I the mom?

actual-disney-princess: you’re my best friend dumbass

sunflower: Calling me your cat’s mother implies I’m your wife.

actual-disney-princess: oh

actual-disney-princess: do you wanna marry me?

Levy slammed her head against the library table, startling the small group of first-years on the next table over. Her face was burning as she awkwardly apologized to them and turned her laptop to the side. He was so dumb, it was a wonder she loved him as much as she did.

sunflower: You can’t ask me to marry you just because you want me to be your cat’s mother.

actual-disney-princess: umm rude

actual-disney-princess: are you going to leave poor lily motherless?

actual-disney-princess shared a picture

actual-disney-princess: LOOK AT HIS SAD KITTY EYES

actual-disney-princess: HOW CAN SAY NO TO HIS KITTY EYES

actual-disney-princess: HEARTLESS

sunflower: OKAY I’M GOING TO MARRY YOU

sunflower: Please stop, you’re making me feel like a bad person.

actual-disney-princess: didn’t want to

actual-disney-princess: but at least it worked?

sunflower: You confuse me so much sometimes.

actual-disney-princess: sometimes it’s my intention

actual-disney-princess: now wife

sunflower: ugh

actual-disney-princess: i see how much enthusiasm you have, lev

actual-disney-princess: you wound me

Levy stared at her phone’s screen for a long time, her heart beating like a hummingbird in her chest. She had trouble catching her breath, find it difficult to put her mind in a single, coherent thought.

Be brave, she urged herself. You can’t hold it anymore. It’s enough.

Her classmates had been talking about love and romance. Levy didn’t care about romance. Her grandparents were strict in their care and her school was even stricter. But they were young girls, young girls with dreams of love. And they talked and gossiped and shared.

And she closed her eyes and thought for someone who waited for her across the ocean and it made her heart hurt.

Levy’d been in love with her best friends for a couple of months—maybe more, who knew?—now. And with every day that passed without telling him, it hurt her more. It had needed for her to face her old crush and listen to the girls in her class talk about their relationships for her to realize her feelings, but once she did, keeping them in her heart made her break apart.

Telling Gajeel would, at worst, probably ruin their friendship and make him hate her. But not telling him meant risking souring the warmth she held in her chest for him and truth be true, she preferred losing him and keeping the memories of the joy she had over watching their friendship turn into hate over dark feelings.

Ugh, what am I thinking about? My childish crush isn’t something out of a Shakespearean drama. I should stop the dramatics and focus.

Tell him.

minicat: Gajeel?

bigcat: what up tiny?

minicat: Are you free right now?

minicat: There’s something important I want to talk about.

bigcat: yeah i’m free today

bigcat: what’s wrong?

Her fingers gripped the sheets of her bed. Do it. Tell him.

minicat: I like you.

minicat: I mean, in the romantic sense.

minicat: In the sense that I want to hold your hand.

minicat: And hug you.

minicat: And kiss you.

minicat: I’m sorry.

bigcat: wait what?

bigcat: what are you sorry for?

bigcat: i’ve been into you for like

bigcat: a year or something

minicat: You what?

bigcat: ha

bigcat is calling you…

Levy promptly dropped her phone, her hands shaking. She needed a couple of tries to swipe in the proper direction in order to pick the call.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice shaky and breathy.

“You’re so fucking dumb” came the voice from the other side, cracking just a bit. “I love you so damn much, dumbass.”

She stared at her room’s wall in awe, seeing black spots dance in her vision.

“Lev? Levy, fuck, answer—”

It took her only a couple of minutes—and some more of him calling her name— in order to gather her brains enough to form a coherent answer.

“Excuse me, you what?”

Laugh. He was laughing, the arrogant, egoisitic—

“I love you” Gajeel called from the other side of the connection, his voice cracking with laughter. “So damn much, you horrible, horrible, idiot bookworm.”

She covered her mouth to stop the choked sob for escaping, tears running from her eyes. She’d spent months wondering and pondering and torturing herself, and hoping, hoping for a little answer, the smallest hint—

“Say it” he told her. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?” Levy asked, pulling her knees against her chest.

“You know what! Say it!”

She bit her knuckles to hold back another burst of emotion, feeling fear and worry and joy mix into her belly until every breath she took was heavy and ragged.

“I love you” she whispered, gasping.

“I know. But I do more.”

“To Andromeda and back” she added, and laughed, tears of joy trickling down her cheeks.

He stayed up with her for hours, until it was 3 am and the girl next door slammed against the wall and yelled for her to shut the fuck up.

“I suppose I have to say goodnight” Levy whispered as she tucked herself into bed. “Goodnight, Gajeel.”

“Night, Lev. Will you dream of me?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “Talk more tomorrow?”

“Always.”

lionheart: Have you ever considered a double suicide?

black-panther: why are we pulling a romeo and juliet?

lionheart: Remember that exam I told you about?

black-panther: yikes

lionheart: Exactly. Yikes.

black-panther: sorry lev

black-panther: if it calms your heart i have finals too

lionheart: It does not!

lionheart: Why are you texting me instead of studying?

black-panther: i’m already dead inside tiny

black-panther: it won’t be much of a difference if i fail my academic career too

lionheart: I hate you.

black-panther: no you don’t

lionheart: No, I don’t.

black-panther: do you wanna talk?

black-panther: i have a free period in a bit

lionheart: I don’t think I would be able to.

lionheart: You’ve seen my revision schedule.

black-panther: i have

black-panther: it’s ridiculous

black-panther: you’re panicking too much

lionheart: I’m not panicking.

black-panther: you are

black-panther: i mean you’re texting me

black-panther: that means you don’t want to revisit and you want to distract yourself from studying

lionheart: I’m texting you because I’m dating you and I miss you!

black-panther: that’s cute

black-panther: but my point stands

lionheart: Gajeel, I need to pass this.

lionheart: My whole life depends on this.

black-panther: i know lev

black-panther: that’s why i know you’re gonna do this

black-panther: and even if you don’t

black-panther: that doesn’t make you a failure

lionheart: Gajeel…

black-panther: live ain’t just classes and grades and uni

lionheart: Thank you.

black-panther: wait i want to continue my tirade

lionheart: You care about me, don’t you?

black-panther: i’m dating you, dumbass

black-panther: and since don’t have any sort of instinct of self-preservation

black-panther: i gotta fill in

lionheart: I love you, grumpy.

black-panther: love you too dumb woman

lionheart: <3

princess: Gajeel?

dragon: hm?

princess: I might have done something.

dragon: murder?

princess: God be good, no.

princess: But… you might not like it.

dragon: tell me

princess shared a picture

dragon: your

dragon: your hair

princess: … Yes?

dragon: it

dragon: it blue

dragon: it fucking blue

dragon: you dyed your hair???

princess: … Yes?

princess: Is it that bad?

dragon: fuck

dragon is calling you...

“You really should stop doing that and just talk to me, you know” Levy said softly as soon as she picked, leaning into her comfy chair and sticking her legs out.

“Turn on your camera.”

She blinked and tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling.

“Gajeel, I’m not turning on my camera, I look horrible.”

“Levy, love of my life, sun to my moon, turn the fucking camera on and let me see you.”

Levy let out a low hum, barely containing a wave of giggles as he started cursing from the other side. She’d found she loved teasing him—once she’d gotten under his skin, she knew just how to push his buttons in order to have the most fun possible.

“And what if I don’t?” she asked, lowering her voice to a gentle whisper.

“Please?”

Her chest filled with warmth at the sheer feeling in his voice. Levy whispered a soft “okay” and set the phone down by her laptop, then pressed her finger to the small camera button and waited. Her teeth dug into her lip to contain her nerves. It was rare that they talked on camera and dear God, she looked like a mess—

“Hey.”

When she looked at the small screen, Levy saw her chérie and smiled at him. All the worries in her belly came to an end, however, when she met his eyes. She waved shyly at him, pulling the pillow she kept on her desk to her chest and hugging it tightly.

“Hi” she called back, hoping her smile conveyed her joy. She wanted to hide so much.

Gajeel looked almost as much of a mess as she felt. His hair—sweet goodness, it was even longer than she remembered it now!—was tied off into a messy ponytail, his black-framed glasses almost falling off his nose. When she looked hard enough, she noticed he had added another pair of studs to his ears, bringing the total to eight. The eyeliner on his lids was just a bit smudged and from the back of her mind, she wondered when he’d put it on.

More than ever before, Levy wished she could touch him, run her fingers over his cheeks and his jaw and that small uneven bump in his nose he’d told her he’d gotten after breaking his nose when he was little; bury them into his hair and feel the silken strands between her fingers. And then, then she would kiss him, press her mouth to his, feel the warmth of his lips against her own.

“Stop hiding” Gajeel called out, a hint of amusement in his voice, and she looked up from where she’d buried her face into her fluffy pillow. “I want to see you. Please, Lev?”

“O-okay” she said with a bashful smile and lifted her head so she could properly meet his eyes. “Just for you.”

Even through the screen and all the kilometers between them, she could feel his gaze on her, touching her and caressing her as if it were his hands and not his eyes. It filled her with a warmth that not even the cold of the wind blowing outside could put down, that spread from the ends of her hair to the tips of her fingers and made her feel… Loved.

“Beautiful” he breathed out, his eyes soft and gentle. “Fuck—you look like a goddamn angel or something.”

Levy buried her face into the pillow and laughed, laughed until her chest hurt and she could barely breathe. His words, awkward but filled with kindness and affection, were more precious to her than any high praise someone could sing her.

“Do you really think so?” she asked when she finally gathered her breath, her face flushed with warmth. “I was worried you might not like it…”

“I don’t like it” he said, and for a moment her heart fell. “I goddamn love it.”

“Don’t scare me like that! Silly Gajeel…”

Gajeel laughed and it made her heart sing along, a smile coming to her face despite her desire to pout and hide in a corner. Had he been there, with her, she would have pushed him to the ground and tackled him, hitting his stupid beautiful face with her pillow. Alas, he was far, far away, and the only thing she could do was laugh along and stick her tongue out to him in the most childish manner ever.

She loved this idiot so much.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Gajeel asked after some time.

“I was worried you might try to convince me not to” Levy admitted, holding the comfy pillow to her chest and tucking her feet under her thighs. “My grandparents are probably going to have a heart attack when they see me, but honestly… I love the feeling of it.”

“Well, it certainly loves you. Hell, you look amazing.” His smile made her toes curl with joy. “Like a tiny, sparkly blue diamond.”

“Just because you’re tall doesn’t mean you get to make fun of us small people, giant.”

“Levy, you’re five feet nothing.”

“Five feet and half an inch!” She was exactly five feet, but he didn’t know that. Yet. “I’m exactly 1 meter and 53 centimeters tall! You’re just jealous because I’m the perfect cuddling size!”

“Lev, you’re so tiny I can probably fit you in my pocket.” His smirk only fed her sudden desire to kick him. “So small. Bite-sized.”

Oh, if looks could kill… Gajeel only laughed at her, the sound sending pleasurable shivers all through her body. Levy let out a sound of defeat and buried her face into her pillow, desperately hoping it could silence her cries of anguish. Sadly, it did not.

“You’re so cute when you pretend to hate me” he cooed. “C’mon, blue, look at me.”

Shy, Levy lifted her head met him. Her moon—she’d found she liked calling him that, to match him calling her his sun—had a soft look on him. He wasn’t smiling with his mouth but instead with his eyes, the deep brown-red now filled with warmth and the sort of adoration she’d only read about in her old romance books.

“You called me blue” she mused. “A new nickname?”

“To match your new hair, of course.” His smirk made her shiver. “Do you like it?”

“No, I don’t” Levy admitted with a bashful smile. “To be true, I love it.”

The banner was growing heavy and her arms could barely keep holding it up, but to hell if she was going to put it down.

She'd spent hours upon hours last night to make the best possible welcome banner. In the end, what came out of her desperate attempts was bigger than anything her arms would hold, with “Welcome, Gajeel!” written in the brightest, most neon shade of pink she had been able to find after days of searching around the stores in the Parisian neighborhood her auntie lived in. Flowers and hearts decorated the bright pink letters.

His plane had landed half an hour ago. She saw it touch down and saw the bridge. She saw people coming out, luggage and everything.

He was nowhere to be seen.

Levy did her best to not panic.

She'd arrived at the airport precisely 15 minutes before the plane landed, courtesy to the poor taxi driver she almost drove insane. (She'd left the largest tip her broke student self could afford.) The first part of them was spent in pacing around and muttering to herself in a peculiar combination of french and english. The second contained excitedly bouncing around the entry doors with the banner flying in her arms, unable to contain her joy.

By now, her arms were positively dying down from the weight and the size and the effort it took to keep it up. The neon pink letters glimmered in the harsh Parisian sun. Yet Levy held it up, determined to hold out. Even if it meant muscle fever for the next week.

“You look even tinier in person.”

Levy whipped around, retort on the tip of her tongue. She promptly hit herself in the face with the banner in her haste to fight whoever called her out for her height and their horrible french.

Then her mind registered what was actually said and she squeaked.

The person standing beside her only laughed. They were wearing the widest, happiest grin she'd ever had the courtesy to see, only mirrored by the one she'd noticed on her own face the morning when she woke up. Her eyes saw long hair and gleaming silver and incredibly impractical leather and combat boots. Her hair only saw warm red-brown eyes and a smile.

Gajeel raised one eyebrow at her, crossing his arms.

“Really?”

And then she promptly squealed and threw herself into his arms.

“I can't believe you hit me with the banner” Gajeel complained.

Levy was too happy to remind him why exactly she hit him, her hand tightly gripping his to the point her knuckles were almost white. He didn't seem to mind it, holding her as close as it was socially acceptable. The banner, bright pink letters and flowers and hearts, hung from her other arm, safely tucked against her side.

The sun shone brightly as she led him to the taxis lined just outside the airport. People were rushing in and out of the large building, like ants desperate to follow their High Queen’s orders. She heard a combination of languages all around her. Usually, the loud sounds and the mess and the people pushing against her would have sent her into a state of near panic. Right now however, with Gajeel gripping her as if she was his lifeline, Levy felt oddly calm.

She found she liked that feeling a lot.

His uncle waited for them by one of the larger taxis, arguing with the driver. He was just as tall and his aura just as murderous as she'd seen Gajeel's in one of his bad moods. His choice of language wasn't very far from it, either… The red-faced driver was almost glowing by now, bellowing insults in french and broken english in the same way.

Levy looked at Gajeel and noticed his nose wrinkling like it always did when he saw something funny.

“Should we interrupt?” she whispered, although she was sure even if she'd spoken louder, neither would have heard her.

“Nah.” Gajeel snickered and pulled her closer, his fingers slipping from her grip when his arm wrapped around her. “Lemme watch. It's fun as hell.”

Levy gaped, her mouth opening and closing. He was warm. Despite the searing July heat, she found herself nuzzling into his hold. His other arm followed and soon she was buried into his chest, face pressed into the faded gray shirt he wore. His scent - spice and just a little bit of sweat - made her belly curls and brought out a purr from the back of her throat. His laughter rang against the crown of her heat. Her flesh and bones melted at the warmth of his hold. She felt safe and sound. She never wanted to let him go.

It took time and strength to untangle herself from his hold. Gajeel looked like a kicked puppy and Levy had to cover her mouth to hide her giggles. He pinched her in retaliation and she yelped, pulling back and almost falling. (Again. Would she ever stop embarrassing herself in front of him?)

Just a meter or so away his uncle was still arguing with the driver, their fight growing louder by the minute. The passerby would stop and watch them. Levy felt her cheeks burn with shame. It wasn't something she hadn't seen before - her own family had no less fire—but not for the first time, she felt embarrassed.

Gajeel either noticed her discomfort or felt in a similar situation, because he stepped ahead and grabbed his uncle's shoulder. His voice was a hushed whisper. Levy couldn't help but notice how different it sounded from when he spoke to her—rougher, more natural, with an accent that made something in her tingle. His uncle let out a disappointed huff, yet still turned around and apologized to the red-faced driver about some of the words he'd used.

Levy watched the object of her affection (her silly dragon) with curiosity. To her utter surprise, Gajeel turned to the driver and spoke in clear, if lightly accented, french to him, apologizing further for his uncle's behavior and for not stepping in earlier. His uncle—whose name was Acnologia, it seemed—looked at him with a mixture of shame and annoyance. Gajeel ignored him and smiled with satisfaction when the driver opened the door and welcomed them in his vehicle.

After a particularly long and awkward (Gajeel had taken pity on her and let her sit by the window while he answered all of his uncle's embarrassing questions about their relationship) drive, their taxi stopped at the small square in the middle of the neighborhood. Levy got out immediately and moved her toes in her shoes, eager to take them off and dip them into cold water. Gajeel followed behind, the welcome banner under his arm and with that stupid grin on his stupid face. His uncle helped him get all his luggage.

“You sure you're gonna be okay, brat?” he asked, setting down the last bag. “There's plenty of space at the hotel.”

“Nope. Not gonna miss a single second around Blue.”

Acnologia made a sound that could only be described as gagging and waved him off, then got back into the taxi. Soon enough they took off, the sound reverberating through the relatively empty streets.

Gajeel was frowning.

“What is it?” Levy asked, adjusting the knot of her ribbon.

“I imagined Paris more… “

“More…?”

“Dunno. More… Not empty.”

Levy covered her mouth and giggled. He looked so confused. She wished she could take a photo of him like this. Alas, he would more than not likely finally fulfill his threats tickle her to death if she tried. Her wish would stay a wish.

(Fortunately, she had a whole folder on her laptop saved with embarrassing photos of him. His mother had sent some - “for posterity”, she'd claimed - but the rest were all screenshots from their face times. She would have so much fun finally getting to blackmail him.)

“Well, it’s hot outside” Levy reminded him as she picked some of his bags. “Also, we’re in the suburbs right now. Tomorrow, I’m taking out you to see the city.”

“Taking me out?” Gajeel asked, amusement written over his face. She couldn’t stop staring at him. “Like a date? Or with a sniper gun?”

“We will see” she said, giggling.

Together the three managed to carry all the luggage up the stairs. Aunt Amelie was ecstatic to finally meet the “sweetheart you haven’t stopped talking about for years!”. Levy gaped, torn between utter embarrassment and the urge to scream. Gajeel laughed so much he almost fell on the floor, clutching his stomach. At that point she had to hold back the desire to disappear into the floor.

They set his things in the small guest room by the side. Levy sat on the bed and watched Gajeel rummage through his bags. He was just five minutes in and the whole room already looked like a hurricane went through it. She found it hilarious.

She must have laughed out loud because when she lifted her head Gajeel was staring at her with a peculiar look in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, reaching down to slip off her shoes.

“We’re alone” he muttered. “I just—it’s strange.”

Levy couldn’t quite tell what he was trying to say, so she offered a shy smile. Gajeel looked equal parts confused and amazed, but when she offered her shaking hand, he reached out to grasp it with such eagerness that startled him. Taken by his momentum, she ended falling into his chest, her head knocking against him and sending her glasses somewhere in the floor.

“Sorry for hitting you” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “And for… currently stepping on your feet.”

She tried not to burn as she took a step back, his laughter ringing in her ears.

“No, it’s fine.” His hand dropped from hers, only for seconds later to wrap around her back and pull her closer. “Can I hold you for a bit?”

The question startled her, but Levy nodded her head anyway, shyly curling her arms around his middle and burying her face into his chest. The warmth he seemed to radiate filled her soul, from bottom to top, as if she’d been drained from life for ages and only now got to feel it.

“You feel safe” she whispered, voice muffled by the cotton.

Gajeel let out a humming sound, his grip growing tighter around her. Instead of afraid, she felt as if she wanted to come closer and closer, until there was no space left between them. But perhaps it wasn’t the right time yet.

“So do you.”

#gajevy #gajeel redfox #levy mcgarden #gajeel x levy #gajevyweek #monnywrites #happy anniversary again bailey!#this gets posted on my other media 2 days later and im #me @me: why are you like this

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unfortunate-rp · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations, CLAIRE! You have been accepted as your original character, KITTY OSWALD. Please be sure to complete the steps listed on the NEW MEMBER CHECKLIST and send in your account within the next 24 hours.

Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?

OOC INFORMATION

Name: Claire

Age: REDACTED

Pronouns: she/her

Time zone: cst

Activity Level: 8 (I will endeavor to be on at least once every day.)

Tumblr account (for contact purposes): REDACTED

How did you find us?: search through the tumblr rp tags

Triggers: none

Anything Else?:

IC Information:

Name: Kitty Oswald

FC: Chloe Bennet or Phoebe Tonkin

Date of Birth: September 5th

Age: 24

Character Quote: “She was like the moon – Part of her was always hidden away.”

Pronouns: she/her

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Biromantic

Occupation: waitress at Hungry’s Diner, mechanic, car thief

Affiliation: Civilian

Neighborhood: Downtown, apartments above Black Cat coffee

Personality: (charismatic, resourceful, pragmatic) (Stubborn, tempermental, vindictive)

Biography:

Kitty Oswald was born in the Hinterlands. A place which here is synonmous with prison, or with hell. There were three things she loved about her home. Her mother, her uncle, and a blue toolbox with chipped paint. The first of these boarded a train two week after her tenth birth. The second taught her work a car. The third she took with her when she left home at eighteen. The identity of her father was a mystery her mother never revealed and rarely spoke of. After her passing (as they would come to call it) she became the responsbility of her Uncle Otto.

She grew up with greasy hand, overalls, and a pragmatic head. Work came first, then homework, then dinner, and occasionally (on third sundays and fourth thursdays) there was ice cream. She tutored well under Otto’s instructions, leaning how to fix a car up like new and how to mess up the job just enough that the customer returned one month later. In that junkyard with her uncle, she blossomed. Blossomed is a word that here means grew into a headstrong, occasionally visious, and confident young woman. One that had outgrown the hinterlands. So on her eighteenth birthday she got carrot cake (courtesy of a neighbor), stamps, and a bus ticket to the city.

Ambition was for others. Kitty spent her years waitressing, occasionally searching for her parents, and avoiding drama. She took up rent in a one bedroom apartment, adopted herself a (vicious) cat, and spent her days in Hungry’s Diner. Her nights were spent in a much less noble profession of procuring stolen vehicles for her uncle to sell or breakdown into parts. And, in bed some nights, she could not shake the sensation that she was missing something, something obvious, and it was just out of reach.

Connections:

Daughter of Jefferson Oquassa

This is a fact that is unknown to both father and daughter. They had not even met until Kitty was nineteen and came in Kakao. As a chocolate fiend, she is always splurging at the restaurant and has made passing acquaintance with the owner. If anything his staff finds her a bit annyoing as she loves the food, but does not make enough to tip them well.

Acquaintaince of Farrah Abassi

A regular customer at Hungry’s Diner, Kitty enjoys bantering with the woman and can sense that she’s not your typical late night guest. She makes sure to keep the woman’s coffee topped off and finds time to sneak across the booth and snatch a few minutes of easy conversation with someone who wasn’t born with a silver spoon in their mouth.

Friend of Cassidy Cantrell

Originally a professional arrangement to garner insights into the families in the city and possibly her own heritage, Kitty has grown actually fond of Cassidy. They share a similar thirst and stubborness that endeared her to the woman. When she needs someone to bounce ideas off of, Cassidy is her go to gal.

Headcannons:

She is allergic to bees and once got rushed to the hospital after being stung. Doctors say if she is stung again she could die in less than a minute.

She doesn’t know how to swim. Growing up in the Hinterlands there was little options for swimming lessons. This is a fact she hides and is ashamed to admit.

She can do long division in her head and like her mother has a head for numbers. Multiplication, calculus, whatever it might be she can do without paper or pen. From the age of ten, she managed the books for Otto’s Auto Sales.

Plans: I’d love for Kitty to be recruited into the VFD and have her flirt with the ideals of the firestarters, even join their ranks. She is the daughter of two VFD volunteers, raised literally at their doorstep and I think it will take time for her to find her footing in that world. Eventually I’d like her to be swayed into the status of a volunteeer and to become Jefferson’s protege.

Roleplay: Kitty, despite her pragmatism, is a bit of a loose cannon. She’s smart talking, confident, and yet more vulnerable than most. She has built herself up on quicksand and when the time comes she will find out about her family and her history. I hope to bring someone that evolves over time, that grows and strengthens from being able to access her truths and flex her muscles.

Writing Sample

OO,

Midnight. Orion’s Observatory. Bring chocolate.

Secretly,

She’d found the note pressed between two random pages in Uncle Otto’s books. It was yellowed, worn at the edge, and still bore the marks of being folded twice. At twelve, only two years removed from her mother’s passing, she’d held the message reverently. She’d traced the long dried ink, and felt along the creases. The date on the bottom, written in the man’s spidery scrawl was exactly 365 days before she’d been born. As Oona Oswald had been fond of pointing out, there are no coincedences only people to blind to see the connections.

She’d slipped the note into the back pocket of her overalls and then into a drawer in her bedside table. Uncle Otto would be none the wiser. The books, the numbers, the mathematics of a business were beyond him. He lived for greasy hands, sticky fingers, and warm bathes in the evening. He was always saying his big sister Oona had passed, always collecting sympaty, and never explaining more. In this context, passed meant less death and more packed suitcase, train ticket, and no goodbyes. She’d stuck around long enough to fill Kitty’s head up with something other than gasoline and then made for the hills.

Never one for attachments that Oona Oswald. And yet she’d kept that message.

She rolls back into the Hinterlands that weekend with minestrone soup, oysters, truffles, and vehicle relieved of her plates. (and her previous owner) The shop looks empty, with crows perched on the rusted sign, and dirt encrusted on the front door. But she sees a pair of legs in jeans and mismatched boots poking out from under a car. As she idles to a stop in front of the garage, her Uncle slides out squints in the yellow evening sunlight. She slips out from behind the wheel, gifts in hand, and nods a greeting.

“Uncle.”

“Not much Hinter left in you is there?” He spits and stands. Six years since she left to go live in the city. They haven’t been kind years on him. He’s greyer, fatter, wrinklier. “You look like a posh city girl.”

She snorts. She doubts any of the uptown girls she sees could pop open a cars dashboard and jumpstart it in less than four minutes. “And you look like a rotting piece of fruit,” she bites back.

There’s a pause. She stares and him, he stares back and then …in a flash he tips his head back and laughs. The Oswald laugh. Head tipped skyward, neck bent back, hands on hips, one leg tilted forward. A family trait shared by them all, and offered only sparingly. “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.”

She steps forward, wraps and arm about his shoulders and squeezes. “I’ve brought you gifts you old bastard.”

“You got it all?” She nods. “Soup?” She nods. “Oysters?” She nods. “Chocolate.” Eye roll and a nod. When have I ever forgotten something. “And what about the wheels.”

She tilts her head back. “The owner won’t miss her. She’s got four others just like it.”

“What about her heart?”

She smiles. He means her engine. She took a look last night after stashing the car in an empty parking lot three blocks from her apartment. One hand on the warmth of the battery and she could tell just how young the model was. “Young,” she says. “Strong. Expensive.”

Maybe she should feel bad about stealing cars for her Uncle’s shop, but she doesn’t. Next month when she rolls in for her monthly visits he might have gutted the beauty and tossed her parts into many different cars scattered about the junkyard. He sees dollar signs in every part and she can rattle them off in her head with just as much ease. And yet, she’d much rather take her apart, get at her mechanics and then stich her back together. Uncle Otto would say that’s the city’s influence, making her soft. Or her father’s blood.

“Christmas in July.”

She nods, looking to her boots and the dirt below them. “I spoil you rotten.”

He guides her gaze back to him with a hand beneath the chin. “You ain’t still looking for him are you?”

“No.” But that’s a half-truth. The thing with having a mystery in the place of a parent is that you are always looking for them. Even when you’ve given up, even when you’ve put the puzzle pieces down they are still there. Here’s what she knows:

His initials are JO

He lives/lived in the city

He once snuck into Orion’s Observatory with her mother at midnight.

That’s not much to go on. When she first moved out and into the city she looked up every James O'Brien, Jeffrey Ocasto, and Joseph Owens in the phone books. Now the urge comes to her like a rising tide. She’ll look at some gentleman in uptown with a suit and top hat and think, is that him? It’s not. It never is. It never will be. But still …

“Or for her?”

She huffs under her breath. “She can be eaten by the Lachyrmose Leeches for all I care.”

#mystery rpg #oc rp #oc rpg #city rpg #crime rpg #accepted

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nebulous-frog · 6 years

Text

The Next Night Ch. 3

Summary: Germany in 1937 was a hard place for anyone “different”. Dan just wanted to live his life, fall in love, and die surrounded by family, but his particular community was too “different”. Dan found himself hiding, wishing for a better world, maybe even finding it in the eyes of an unlikely savior.

Chapter 1 Masterlist

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings (this chapter): Homophobia, Panic Attacks, Holocaust, Nazis

Word Count: 3715 (This chapter, 10,336 overall)

Challenge: 20k History Challenge

Genre: Holocaust, Slow Burn, Angst

Author’s Note: Sorry it's been literally over a month since I updated! Life got crazy but I'm still dedicated to finishing this fic, I promise lol Thank you again to @auroraphilealis for betaing!

Link to AO3 Fics Masterlist

I was anxious and afraid, as I had been for so long already, but now I was also venturing out alone into the perilous night for the first time since the raid began. There was nowhere to hide until I got to the alley. I was in the open, exposed, liable to arrest at any moment for any reason an officer could think of. It still astounds me to think of how lucky I was that night...

In the poorer quarter of the city, the government never bothered to use taxes to pay for street lamps, especially when that money could be used for the rich, or for the military, or really anyone but the people who needed it the most. As a result, there was very little light on the street. Only a few lamps were lit, but they were old and far-between, the burning kerosene providing no resistance against the blanket of darkness. Pockets of shadows remained nearly entirely unbroken, and it made it nearly impossible to see a threat before it was too late.

It made Dan walk slowly, his eyes darting around anxiously for any signs of trouble.

He vaguely saw what he assumed was a police officer (surely no one else would be out here this late) walking towards the bar on the opposite side of the street and felt his hands tremble violently in his pockets, but he kept his head down and tried to maintain an indifferent air.

Just keep walking, Dan. Don’t look him in the eyes because then he’ll really notice you. Remember what Phil said- no one will know you were in the bar unless you’re captured, so don’t do anything to get yourself captured.

The officer turned the corner to enter the bar, and Dan let out a shaky breath, some of the tension in his shoulders releasing.

See? You’re fine. Keep going. This is the second street here, I think.

Dan carefully looked back the way he’d come to confirm how far he’d gone.

Definitely the second street. Only two more after this, and then you’ll see the alley where you can wait for Phil. You can do this.

The farther he walked, the closer Dan got to a chance to hide again.The farther he walked, the closer Dan got to whatever the next step in his journey was.

Would he go home? Return to his life as if nothing had happened? Would that even be possible?

But hiding was almost a comforting thought. It had worked well enough for him so far tonight, after all. On the other hand, it was still just as terrifying as the rest of the night had been. When he hid in the alley, he would have nothing to do but sit and wait for some cop to come save him yet again.

How long has it been? Three minutes? Five? When Phil said it would be fifteen minutes, did he mean from the time I get to the alley, or from the time I left? What do I do if he’s not there in fifteen minutes?

What do I do if he is there?

As Dan crossed the third street, he felt himself begin to dread arriving at the alley. He wanted to slow his pace so he would arrive as late as possible, but he also knew that the longer he was out in the open, the more likely he was to be caught. But the alley meant there was nothing he could do but wait. It meant he was at the mercy of Phil’s schedule, which didn’t seem all that stable at the moment.

Why should I even trust him? He got me out of the bar, sure, but what will he do with me next? He knows my face and my first name, but nothing else, so maybe I should just go home. But he must know something I don’t. Maybe there are officers sweeping this area of the city and they arrest anyone they see.

Dan had seen raids before. Usually they happened during the day, and it was usually a raid on the Jews, but the police always seemed to set up a perimeter to question anyone who left the area during the raid. It was obvious they were looking for anyone who might try and sneak away. Dan was terrified that without Phil, he’d be caught at one of these perimeters. At least with Phil, there would be that extra level of protection for him.

Dan felt the frustration and fear building in him again. There was nothing he could do to save himself without following the instructions of a police officer, of all people. Someone who was supposed to arrest him was somehow the only man that Dan could trust right now, but there was no evidence that Dan should trust him. And if Dan didn’t trust this officer, he was likely to be arrested, anyway. Surely, no one would believe he hadn’t been at the bar if they caught him in the perimeter alone.

Nothing felt like a good option, but Dan had to stick with the one that had proven reliable so far.

He crossed the fourth street, and began looking for an alley.

A few meters away from the curb, an opening appeared to Dan’s right.

The alley was narrow, only about a meter wide, and almost no light was going into the space. There were no gas lamps to keep away the darkness, so what little light could be found came from the sky.

Dan glanced back the way he’d come, but saw no one.

Back to hiding, now. Phil should be here soon.

He stepped into the alley and immediately gagged at the stench.

He did say to hide behind some rubbish. I suppose I found it.

A few careful steps later and Dan found the source of the smell: a huge, rotting pile of garbage blocking the path to the end of the alley. Flies buzzed around food wrappers and glass bottles, and Dan was fairly certain he could faintly see a puddle of liquid oozing out of the bottom of the pile that smelled suspiciously like vomit.

Lovely, he thought sarcastically, gagging again. He covered his nose and began breathing through his mouth to try to protect himself from the smell.

Glancing back at the opening of the alley, Dan decided he’d gone far enough to stay hidden, since he hadn’t been able to see the rubbish from the entrance, so he crouched down to wait for Phil.

How long has it been now? It must have been at least ten minutes since I left the bar, I’m sure. But I still don’t know if that means Phil will be here in five, or if I still need to wait the full fifteen. If he’s not here in fifteen minutes, what do I do? Is it the same as when he left me in the closet and he told me to just keep waiting? And when he gets here, what will happen then? He said something about taking me to his flat for the night, but what about after that? The officers that saw my face might recognize me if I try to go back to my life, even if I can make it to my own flat.

Dan sighed quietly.

If only I hadn’t come to this awful bar.

The wait for Phil passed by agonizingly slowly. The minutes crawled by as Dan worried and wondered, leaving him with no sense of how long had really passed. It could have been five minutes, ten minutes, a full half hour, but it felt never-ending.

Dan worried that the smell from the rubbish would attach to his clothes and make him suspicious when Phil took him away. He worried that Phil wouldn’t come back, or that Phil would lead him somewhere just as horrible as if he’d been arrested.

He worried what his life was about to become.

Maybe I’ll be alright. I have to avoid a few police officers, but they have no proof of my behavior. I haven’t actually been sleeping around, and nobody saw me kissing Grant, so they’d have no reason to arrest me. I have to make it through tonight, then I can return to my own flat and my own life and pretend women hold my interest like men do, just like a good German man would. I’ll be alright, if I can just avoid the-

A soft sound broke through Dan’s thoughts.

Scuff-click, scuff-click, scuff-click…

Dan felt his heart start to race again.

Those footsteps sound like they’re from the boots of the police, but do they belong to Phil, or some man who’s going to find me and drag me away to die?

Dan glanced around himself, trying to find something to pick up to be able to fight should the need arise, but there was nothing. His only hope would come from his own fists and the darkness of the alleyway.

The footsteps got louder as they approached, and Dan felt himself tensing, coiling into himself like a spring ready to jump at whoever might find him.

Scuff-click, scuff-click, scuff-

“Dan?” whispered a voice as a vague figure appeared in the entrance to the alley.

Dan held his breath. He thought it was Phil, finally here to take him somewhere safe, but he couldn’t be sure; Dan had only heard Phil talk a few times, and he had been under a substantial amount of stress every time he’d heard Phil’s voice so far.

So Dan waited for further proof that it really was Phil rather than someone trying to arrest him.

But what if Phil still is trying to arrest me? He could look like a hero if he catches a stray that ran away, even if he technically let me go at first. Maybe this is all just a ruse for Phil to get a promotion.

The figure’s head turned slightly, checking both sides of the street once more, then shuffled into the alley.

“It’s alright, it’s Phil.”

The figure finally got close enough for Dan to make out the pale skin reflecting off the face just well enough for him to confirm that it was, in fact, Phil.

Dan heaved a deep breath, partially in relief and partially to prepare himself for the next stage in his journey.

“What now?” Dan asked, slowly standing up from next to the rubbish.

Now that Phil could tell where Dan was, he walked more purposefully to stand in front of Dan.

Dan took an involuntary step backwards because of Phil’s pace and sudden proximity, feeling the pressure of a wall pressing into his back.

“I’ve completed the work assigned to me, so I’m free to go home. There are still officers patrolling the perimeter to catch anyone who might have run away before we arrived, so it would be safest for you to come with me. I know how to avoid them.” Phil glanced back down the alley as if to make sure no one was about to enter at the other end. “I’ll take you to my flat, at least for the night, because I don’t want you to walk anywhere else alone tonight. Alright?”

Dan nodded carefully, eyes shifting between Phil’s face, nightstick, and the entrance of the alley.

I really don’t have a choice. I just have to hope that this will end up in my favor.

“Good.” Phil nodded once. He took a step back towards the entrance of the alley, looking around for signs of life on the street. Apparently he found none, as he turned back to Dan and waved him forward.

“Come on, then. The sooner we get moving, the better.”

The sooner we get moving, the sooner I can put this all behind me.

Dan took a deep breath, and walked towards Phil, the street, and freedom.

The street was empty when they stepped out together, side by side, although that wasn’t really a surprise. It must have been the early hours of morning by now, for one, and the raid of the bar would have chased away any remaining traffic.

Dan still found himself relieved that they were alone.

Should I be relieved? This man could still do anything he wants to me.

“Stop looking around so much. Keep your head facing forward or tilted towards me like we’re having a conversation,” Phil instructed.

Dan’s head snapped forward.

Have I been looking around? I hadn’t noticed…

“Glancing around like that is suspicious. You’re clearly checking to see if anyone else is around constantly, and you look paranoid. I know you’re anxious and afraid, but you have to trust me. I will get you through the night.”

Dan could feel Phil’s eyes on his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet them.

Trust. “Trust me,” he says. I don’t even know him.

Dan’s anxiety couldn’t be contained. He managed to keep his head facing forward rather than on a constant swivel, managed to keep his shaking hands hidden in his pockets as casually as possible, managed not to break out into a run as his brain screamed at him to get out.

But his brain would not be quieted.

With every step, Dan was reminded of where he was and who he was with. The sound of his own footsteps next to the constant scuff-click scuff-click he had begun to associate with police officers, danger, and an unknown, horrible death filled his ears and fueled the anxiety, the panic.

Eyes forward, keep walking, he thought to himself. It can’t be that much farther.

They walked in silence, not wanting to alert anyone in the area of their presence.

Dan so wished that this wasn’t his life. That he hadn’t decided to go to The Bird’s Nest tonight, that he hadn’t been born a defect, an outcast, an abomination. That he had fallen in love with an Aryan woman. That he could be a good German, just like everyone expected, demanded, of him.

That he didn’t have to live in fear of the unknown, facing the consequences of his own decisions and actions at the side of a man who still might arrest him.

That he didn’t have to walk silently down a street next to a dangerous stranger, trembling in fear and running from his own identity.

His heart ached for a better world, a better life. A simpler life.

Why couldn’t I have just been normal?

The silence beat down heavily on Dan’s mind, forcing him to keep worrying, worrying, worrying as they walked by street after street.

Time seemed to have disappeared somewhere between when Dan had arrived at The Bird’s Nest and now. Dan had no way of knowing how long he and Phil walked, how long he’d hid, or how long since the raid had begun, but it felt like he’d walked into the bar days ago. The Dan that had walked into The Bird’s Nest earlier that night already seemed a lifetime away from the Dan trudging along, the stench of garbage practically attached to his skin, desperate for a redo.

“Keep your head down; you’re crying again,” muttered Phil.

Dan flinched at the sound, but did as he was told and trained his eyes on the ground. He pulled a shaky hand from the pocket of his trousers and wiped at his cheeks, frustrated to find the wetness there.

Stop crying, dammit, it won’t help! It will only make things worse for you if you’re spotted!

Berating himself only served to cause more tears to fall, although Dan was conscious of them this time.

No, Dan, stop! They’ll find you! They’ll know! Stop crying, you piece of shit, this is going to get you killed!

When a sob bubbled its way out of Dan’s throat, he felt a hand latch onto his arm and pull, dragging him to the side. Another hand slapped over Dan’s mouth, muffling his instinctive cry of fear.

His back met the wall at the corner of a dark building, and he whimpered.

Phil’s eyes burned into Dan’s own, a slight panic flaring up in Phil’s expression.

Dan felt himself cringing backwards, trying to put as much distance between him and the officer as he could. He flailed his arms and legs in an attempt to break free, but there was no escaping the man’s grasp.

No, no, no, this is it. This is what I was afraid of, what I knew would happen if I came with him! I should have let them arrest me. I need to get away-

Dan thrashed violently, cries and shouts rising up in his throat again.

Phil roughly caught both of Dan’s wrists and pinned them to the wall above Dan’s head with one hand, then slapped his other back across Dan’s mouth.

“Dan, I need you to stop fighting me, and I need you to calm down,” Phil whispered frantically.

Stop fighting? Calm down? Like fucking hell, you lying, evil bastard! Dan thought, jerking his arms again. He remained pinned to the wall, but glared defiantly into the officer’s eyes.

Phil stared back with wide, honest eyes. Dan couldn’t tell if the colorful irises comforted him or disturbed him. Phil’s brows were wrinkled in concern, and he spoke in an earnest whisper.

“I will not hurt you. I know you’re scared, and I know you don’t think you can trust me. There’s nothing I can do to make you feel better right now, and there’s nothing I can do to make you trust me beyond what I’ve already tried to do for you. But if you let your emotions run wild, this will not end well for either of us. We’re almost to my flat. It’s only two streets away, alright? Please let me help you,” Phil pleaded desperately.

Dan stopped thrashing, realizing it would do him no good anyway, but stood firm, his muscles taut. He scanned Phil’s face skeptically in an attempt to determine the man’s true intentions.

He hasn’t hurt me yet. He was rough, but he hasn’t hurt me.

Dan stared into Phil’s eyes, but still only found sincerity.

I don’t know him well enough to know for certain, but he might be telling the truth. He might really want to help me, after all of this. Either way, I can’t get home without running the risk of getting caught, so I have to calm down.

The tears were still streaming out of Dan’s eyes, worsened by the stress Phil had just added by pulling him aside so suddenly, but Dan made an effort to steady his breathing. He closed his eyes and focused on clearing his mind, only thinking about the immediate future.

He would indicate to Phil that he was calm, then they would continue walking. They’d arrive at Phil’s flat, Dan would stay for one night, and then leave for his own flat the next morning.

But then what? What about the officers who saw your face?

Dan shook his head to himself, clearing the doubts and concerns.

Walk to the flat. Get out of the open. Walk to the flat. Get out of the open.

Finally, Dan opened his eyes and nodded at Phil.

Tentatively, Phil released Dan and slowly backed away.

Dan wiped the remaining moisture from his face, then let his arms fall to his sides.

Walk to the flat. Get out of the open.

He nodded again, then made eye contact with Phil again.

“Let’s go,” Dan mumbled, voice shaking.

Phil’s eyes scanned his face as if to make sure Dan wouldn’t have another outburst, then gave a curt nod, features hard and determined. He turned and continued walking down the street. Dan took a deep breath, and followed close behind.

Walk to the flat. Get out of the open. They’ll have a harder time catching you if you’re hiding.

Dan trained his eyes on the ground and counted his steps in the hopes that it would distract him from the flurry of thoughts threatening to overpower him yet again.

Don’t think about it. Stop thinking about the bar. Stop thinking about the screams, and the waiting, and the fear, and the unknown-

Stop it. Find a distraction. Dan closed his eyes and breathed for a moment, still walking.

One, two, three, four, …

He made it to 23 before his thoughts crept back in.

What will happen next? Will I sleep at his flat and go home in the morning? What if it’s still not safe? How will I know when it’s safe?

Dan shook his head.

Walk to the flat.

One, two, three, four, …

Scuff-click, scuff-click, scuff-click, …

Phil’s footsteps echoed in Dan’s brain, and Dan shuddered.

Get out of the open.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, …

Dan forced himself to focus on his own footsteps, since anything else would send him spiraling into a fear-induced panic again. He kept his head bent and his hands stuffed into his pockets, creating as few distractions from his count as possible.

Within a few short strides, he was so engaged in counting his steps that he almost didn’t realize that Phil had stopped walking.

“We’re here,” Phil muttered, pulling out a key from his pocket.

Dan jumped, then turned to his right to see the building Phil had led him to.

In the darkness of the night, it was hard to see much of the architecture, but Dan could tell that the building was worn and run-down. The brick seemed to be crumbling in more places than not, and the windows above were cracked.

Despite its uninviting exterior, Dan found himself itching to get inside.

Inside would be hidden, private, and maybe even safe - at least for a short time.

Phil unlocked the door, then stepped aside, gesturing for Dan to enter.

“Go on,” Phil whispered tiredly. “We can talk inside.”

Dan swallowed heavily, hesitating. He still wasn’t sure he could trust Phil.

Go inside. Get out of the open. You don’t know what he might do to you, but he’s taken you this far. You have to trust him.

With one last glance up and down the street, Dan nodded once to himself in determination, then carefully stepped past Phil and into the flat.

#phan #phanfic #holocaust au #angst #panic attacks #the next night

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redux-pain · 6 years

Text

chapter 18: classroom

[note: there are just a few issues in here, mostly in the Sigma sequences rather than the conversation.]

「よう、西条。　ちょっといいかな？」

”Ｈｅｙ，　Ｓａｉｊｏ．Ｇｏｔ　ａ　ｍｉｎｕｔｅ？”

[Akira, off screen:] “Hey, Saijou. Got a minute?”

あのさ……俺どう見える？こう、どっか変に見えないか？

変なんだ…ずっと頭が……、ポワ～とした感じなんだ。

夢見学の話、本当かもしれない。

Ｈｏｗ　ｄｏ　Ｉ　ｌｏｏｋ　ｔｏ　ｙｏｕ？Ｄｏ　Ｉ　ｌｏｏｋ　ｓｔｒａｎｇｅ　ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ？

Ｍｙ　ｈｅａｄ　ｆｅｅｌｓ　ｗｅｉｒｄ．．．Ｌｉｋｅ　ｉｔ’ｓ　ａｌｌ　ｆｕｚｚｙ．

Ｍａｙｂｅ　Ｒｕｉ　ｗａｓ　ｒｉｇｈｔ．．．

[Akira:] Um... How do I look? Do I look weird at all?

It’s weird... my head’s been feeling all... fuzzy.

Maybe that stuff about dream traveling was true.

ルイに止められたから、昨日は夢を見ないようにって、

筋トレのセット数を増やして疲れて熟睡できるようにしたんだ。

Ｓｈｅ　ｓａｉｄ　Ｉ　ｓｈｏｕｌｄｎ’ｔ　ｐｌａｙｗｉｔｈ　ｌｕｃｉｄ　ｄｒｅａｍｉｎｇ，　ｓｏ

Ｉ　ｗｏｒｋｅｄ　ｏｕｔ　ｍｏｒｅ　ｉｎ　ｏｒｄｅｒｔｏ　ｓｌｅｅｐ　ｄｅｅｐｌｙ＆ｎｏｔ　ｄｒｅａｍ．

[Akira:] Rui told me not to do it, so yesterday...

I added more sets to my muscle training so I’d sleep sounder and not dream.

だけどさ、またあの夢を見た。

ああ、まだ頭がぼんやりしている。

Ｂｕｔ　Ｉ　ｓａｗ　ｔｈａｔ　ｄｒｅａｍ　ａｇａｉｎ．

Ｍｙ　ｈｅａｄ　ｓｔｉｌｌ　ｆｅｅｌｓ　ｆｕｚｚｙ．

[Akira:] But I had that dream again.

Ugh, my head’s still all spaced out.

{OPTION: MEMORY > DREAMWORLD}

やっぱまだぼんやりするな…。

なんか、体の感覚がどんどん広がっていっているみたいだ。

Ｉ’ｍ　ｓｔｉｌｌ　ｋｉｎｄ　ｏｆ　ｓｐａｃｉｎｇｏｕｔ．．．

Ｉ　ｆｅｅｌ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｍｙ　ｓｅｎｓｅｓ　ａｒｅｓｐｒｅａｄｉｎｇ　ｗａｙ　ｏｕｔ．

[Akira:] I still feel spaced out...

Kinda like my physical senses are gradually spreading out.

ああ、くそっ！おれどうなっちまったんだ…。

恐えぇよ

Ａａｈ，　ｄａｍｎ　ｉｔ！！　Ｗｈａｔ’ｓｗｒｏｎｇ　ｗｉｔｈ　ｍｅ．．．

Ｉ’ｍ　ｓｃａｒｅｄ，　ｍａｎ．．．

[Akira:] Arrgh, dammit! What’s happening to me...

I’m scared...!

何なんだろうな……。俺自分が分からねえ……。

苦しいんだ……。西条……苦しいんだよ……。

Ｗｈａｔ’ｓ　ｇｏｉｎｇ　ｏｎ．．．　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ’ｔｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ　ｍｙｓｅｌｆ．．．

Ｉｔ　ｈｕｒｔｓ．．．Ｓａｉｊｏ．．．　Ｉｔ　ｈｕｒｔｓ．．．

[Akira:] What’s going on...? I don’t understand myself...

This is awful... It’s awful, Saijou...

俺、このまま消えちまうんじゃないか？

なあ、西条、俺ちゃんとここに居るよな？

なあ、居るよな？生きてるよな俺？

Ａｍ　Ｉ　ｊｕｓｔ　ｇｏｎｎａ’　ｆａｄｅａｗａｙ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｔｈｉｓ？

Ｈｅｙ，　Ｓａｉｊｏ，　Ｉ’ｍ　ｓｔｉｌｌ　ｈｅｒｅ，ａｒｅｎ’ｔ　Ｉ？

Ａｒｅｎ’ｔ　Ｉ？　Ｉ’ｍ　ｈｅｒｅ，　ｒｉｇｈｔ？Ｉ’ｍ　ｓｔｉｌｌ　ａｌｉｖｅ，　ｒｉｇｈｔ？

[Akira:] I’m just fading away, aren’t I...

Hey, Saijou, am I actually here?

Hey, am I here? Am I alive?

{OPTION: MEMORY > DREAMWORLD (second time}

夢… あの夢のせいなのか？

Ｔｈｅ　ｄｒｅａｍ．．．Ｉｓ　ｉｔ　ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｄｒｅａｍ？

[Akira:] The dream... is it because of that dream?

{OPTION: TALK}

不思議な感覚なんだ……。

夢の中の方が現実感があるなんて、おかしな話だろ？

Ｉｔ　ｆｅｅｌｓ　ｓｏ　ｗｅｉｒｄ．．．

Ｉｔ　ｓｅｅｍｅｄ　ｍｏｒｅ　ｒｅａｌ　ｉｎｓｉｄｅｍｙ　ｄｒｅａｍ，　ｉｓｎ’ｔ　ｔｈａｔ　ｗｅｉｒｄ？

[Akira:] It’s a strange feeling...

Is it crazy to say the dream felt more real?

だけどな、そこにはおふくろが居た。

心地よい音楽、おふくろが笑っていた。太陽が気持ちよく、暖かい匂いがする。

Ｂｕｔ　ｍｙ　ｍｏｍ　ｗａｓ　ｔｈｅｒｅ．

Ｎｉｃｅ　ｍｕｓｉｃ，　ｍｏｍ　ｌａｕｇｈｉｎｇ，ｔｈｅ　ｓｕｎ　ｗａｓ　ｓｏ　ｗａｒｍ．．．

[Akira:] But my mom was there [in the dream].

There was nice music, and my mom was smiling. The sun felt warm and good.

すべてがうまく行っていて、満ち足りた気分なんだよ……。

だが、起きて現実に戻ると何もない。灰色と絶望の世界に感じるんだ。

Ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ　ｗａｓ　ｇｏｉｎｇ　ｓｏｗｅｌｌ，　Ｉ　ｆｅｌｔ　ｓｏ　ｓａｔｉｓｆｉｅｄ．

Ｗａｋｅ　ｕｐ，　ａｎｄ　ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ．　Ｔｈｅｗｏｒｌｄ　ｆｅｅｌｓ　ｈｏｐｅｌｅｓｓ，　ｇｒａｙ．

[Akira:] Everything was going so well, and I felt happy...

But when I woke up and came back to reality, there was nothing. The world feels gray and hopeless.

通常の思考が出来なくなってるんだよ。

もう、何がどうなっても良いとか平気で考え始めてる。

Ｉ　ｃａｎ’��　ｔｈｉｎｋ　ｐｒｏｐｅｒｌｙ．

Ｉ’ｍ　ｓｔａｒｔｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｆｅｅｌ　ｌｉｋｅ　Ｉｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｃａｒｅ　ｗｈａｔ　ｈａｐｐｅｎｓ．

[Akira:] I can’t think normally.

I’m starting to think I don’t care what happens.

怖いんだよ西条……。俺、おかしくなっちまったのかな？

Ｉ’ｍ　ｓｃａｒｅｄ，　Ｓａｉｊｏ．．．Ａｍ　Ｉ　ｇｏｉｎｇ　ｃｒａｚｙ？

[Akira:] I’m scared, Saijou... Am I going crazy?

{OPTION: TALK (second time)}

……ああもう何か分からなくなってきた。

……休みたい ……そう身体をやすめたいな……。

．．．Ａａｈ，　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｋｎｏｗ　ｗｈａｔ’ｓｇｏｉｎｇ　ｏｎ　ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ．．．

．．．Ｉ　ｗａｎｎａ’　ｔａｋｅ　ａ　ｒｅｓｔ．．．Ｉ　ｗａｎｎａ’　ｒｅｓｔ　ｍｙ　ｂｏｄｙ．．．

[Akira:] ...Ahh, I don’t know anything anymore.

...I wanna rest... Yeah, I wanna rest my body...

{OPTION: TALK (third time)}

……暗い闇……絶望の中……。

俺はもうダメだ……。

Ｄａｒｋｎｅｓｓ．．．　ｔｈｅ　ｄｅｓｐａｉｒ．．．

Ｉｔ’ｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｅｎｄ　ｆｏｒ　ｍｅ．．．

[Akira:] Deep darkness... in despair...

I’m done for...

{SIGMA SEQUENCE}

幸福な日々Ｈａｐｐｙ　Ｄａｙｓ Happy Days

御堂アキラの幼い頃の心温まる思い出。思念には懐かしさと悲しさが満ちている。

Ａｋｉｒａ　Ｍｉｄｏ’ｓ　ｗａｒｍ　ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄｍｅｍｏｒｙ．　Ｉｔ　ｈｏｌｄｓｎｏｓｔａｌｇｉａ　ａｎｄｓａｄｎｅｓｓ．

Midou Akira’s heartwarming memories of childhood. These Thoughts are full of nostalgia and sorrow.

優しいおふくろいちばん幸福だった

暖かい日差し優しい声が聞こえる

なんで死んだんだ

強くなろうと思った誰よりも強く

どこかで待ってるはず

いつか同じ幸せ

Ｇｅｎｔｌｅ　Ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ．

Ｉ　ｗａｓ　ｓｏ　ｈａｐｐｙ

Ｔｈｅ　ｗａｒｍ　ｓｕｎ．

Ｉ　ｈｅａｒ　ａ　ｃａｌｍ　ｖｏｉｃｅ．

Ｗｈｙ’ｄ　ｓｈｅ　ｄｉｅ？

Ｉ　ｓｈｏｕｌｄ　ｇｅｔ　ｓｔｒｏｎｇｅｒ

Ｓｔｒｏｎｇｅｒ　ｔｈａｎ　ａｎｙｏｎｅ

Ｉｔ’ｓ　ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ　ｆｏｒ　ｍｅ

Ｔｈａｔ　ｓａｍｅ　ｈａｐｐｉｎｅｓｓ

Kind mother The happiest I ever was

Warm sunlight I hear a kind voice

Why did she die

Wanted to become strong Stronger than anybody

Must be waiting somewhere Someday, that same happiness

無味乾燥Ｄｕｌｌ　＆　Ｂｏｒｉｎｇ Dull and Boring

昔の事を思い出して悲しんでいる、苦しみに満ちた思念。

Ａ　Ｓｈｉｎｅｎ　ｆｉｌｌｅｄｗｉｔｈ　ｔｈｅ　ｐａｉｎ　ｏｆｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒｉｎｇｐａｓｔ　ｌｏｎｌｉｎｅｓｓ．

Thoughts full of pain, as he sadly remembers the past.

つらいことばかり毎日が嫌だ

虚無感灰色の世界

意味の無い物ばかり憎しみと悲しみ

毎日が同じ偽物の世界

Ｔｈｅｒｅ　ｉｓ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｐａｉｎ

Ｅｖｅｒｙｄａｙ　ｉｓ　ｈｏｒｒｉｂｌｅ

Ｉ　ｆｅｅｌ　ｅｍｐｔｙ

Ａ　ｇｒａｙ　ｗｏｒｌｄ

Ｍｅａｎｉｎｇｌｅｓｓ　ｔｈｉｎｇｓ

Ｈａｔｒｅｄ　ａｎｄ　ｓｏｒｒｏｗ

Ｅｖｅｒｙｄａｙ　ｉｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｓａｍｅ

Ａ　ｆａｋｅ　ｗｏｒｌｄ

Nothing but pain I hate every day

Emptiness Gray world

Everything is meaningless Hate and sorrow

Every day’s the same Fake world

俺の中で眠る暴力

破壊の衝動

死を欲する

暴力の快感

抑制できない

Ｔｈｅ　ｖｉｏｌｅｎｃｅ　ｗｉｔｈｉｎ

Ｔｈｅ　ｕｒｇｅ　ｔｏ　ｄｅｓｔｒｏｙ．

Ｙｅａｒｎ　ｆｏｒ　ｄｅａｔｈ．

Ａｎ　ｏｒｇｙ　ｏｆ　ｖｉｏｌｅｎｃｅ

Ｉ　ｃａｎ’ｔ　ｃｏｎｔａｉｎ　ｉｔ

Violence sleeping inside me Urge to destroy

Wanting death The joy of violence

Can’t hold it in

[note: each of these phrases is repeated four times in the JP script and three times in the EN script, to produce an echoing effect as they dissolve]

二つの世界

偽りと真実

くそ　苦しい

俺は違う絶対に

Ｔｗｏ　ｗｏｒｌｄｓ

Ｉｌｌｕｓｉｏｎ　ａｎｄ　Ｒｅａｌｉｔｙ

Ｄａｍｎ．．．　Ｔｈｉｓ　ｈｕｒｔｓ

Ｉ　ａｍ　ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ

Two worlds

The lie and the truth

Damn it... this hurts

I’m different... I know it

{GET TERM: DOUBLEMIND}

{SILENT BATTLE}

破壊　破壊　破壊　全て壊れろ

血が叫ぶ…全てを破壊せよと……

拒絶する…消滅…朽ち行く……

ＤｅｓｔｒｏｙＤｅｓｔｒｏｙＤｅｓｔｒｏｙ

Ｂｌｏｏｄ　ｓｃｒｅａｍｓ　ＤＥＳＴＲＯＹ

Ｎｏ．．　Ｉ　ｗｉｔｈｅｒ　ａｗａｙ．．．

[Silent:] Destroy Destroy Destroy Destroy everything

Blood calls out... to destroy everything...

Rejection... I rot away.... to extinction...

なんか…少し…楽になった……。

さっきまで頭がぼーっとしてさ。

Ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ．．．　Ｉ　ｆｅｅｌ　ｂｅｔｔｅｒ．．．

Ｉ　ｗａｓ　ｓｏ　ｏｕｔ　ｏｆ　ｉｔ　ｔｉｌ　ｎｏｗ．

[Akira:] I... feel better somehow...

I was so out of it until just now.

なんか一つのことが、ずっと頭の中に響いていた。

簡単に言えば、無性に腹が立って仕方なかったんだ。

Ｔｈｅｒｅ　ｗａｓ　ｏｎｅ　ｔｈｉｎｇ　ｅｃｈｏ－ｉｎｇ　ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ　ｍｙ　ｈｅａｄ．

Ｂａｓｉｃａｌｌｙ，　Ｉ　ｗａｓ　ｊｕｓｔ　ｓｏｔｏｔａｌｌｙ　ｉｒｒｉｔａｔｅｄ．

[Akira:] Like there was just one thing echoing around in my head the whole time.

Put simply, I was overwhelmed with anger.

何に対してかは、わからない……。

ただ何もかもに腹が立って、暴力を振るいたくなったんだ。

Ｂｕｔ　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｋｎｏｗ　ｗｈｙ．．．

Ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ　ａｎｎｏｙｅｄ　ｍｅ，　ａｎｄＩ　ｗａｎｔｅｄ　ｔｏ　ｇｅｔ　ｖｉｏｌｅｎｔ．

[Akira:] At what, I don’t know...

I was just mad at everything, and I wanted to be violent.

こんなことって今までなかった。

やっぱりルイが言っていたこと、本当だったのかもな……。

Ｉｔ’ｓ　ｎｅｖｅｒ　ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ　ｂｅｆｏｒｅ．

Ｉ　ｇｕｅｓｓ　ｍａｙｂｅ　Ｒｕｉ　ｗａｓｒｉｇｈｔ　ａｆｔｅｒ　ａｌｌ．．．

[Akira:] Nothing like this has happened before.

Maybe what Rui said was right after all...

よ～し、いまから噴水のところで、トレーニングしてくるか～！

噴水はマイナスイオンだって、ルイが言っていたんだ。

ＯＫ，　Ｉ’ｍ　ｇｏｎｎａ’　ｇｏ　ｔｒａｉｎｏｖｅｒ　ｂｙ　ｔｈｅ　ｆｏｕｎｔａｉｎ！

Ｒｕｉ　ｓａｉｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｆｏｕｎｔａｉｎ　ｈａｓｍｉｎｕｓ　ｉｏｎｓ．

[Akira:] All right, I guess I’m gonna go do some by the water fountain!

Rui says it gives off negative ions.

噴水は、いやし系なんだって。

だからたまに俺、噴水の近くで立禅をすることにしてるんだよ。

Ｓｈｅ　ｓａｙｓ　ｉｔ’ｌｌ　ｓｏｏｔｈｅ　ｍｅ．

Ｓｏ　Ｉ’ｖｅ　ｂｅｅｎ　ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ　ｏｕｔ　ａｔｔｈｅ　ｆｏｕｎｔａｉｎ　ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ．

[Akira:] She says the fountain is refreshing.

So I make it a rule to do standing exercises over by the fountain every once in a while.

だけどなんかさ、西条に話すと、急に楽になったから不思議だよな。

頭がスッキリして、重みが取れた感じだ。

Ｉｔ’ｓ　ｗｅｉｒｄ，　Ｉ　ｆｅｌｔ　ｍｕｃｈ　ｂｅ－ｔｔｅｒ　ａｆｔｅｒ　ｔａｌｋｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｙｏｕ．

Ｍｙ　ｈｅａｄ’ｓ　ｃｌｅａｒｅｒ　ａｎｄ　Ｉｆｅｅｌ　ｓｏ　ｍｕｃｈ　ｌｉｇｈｔｅｒ．

[Akira:] But y’know, it’s strange how I suddenly felt better from talking to you, Saijou.

I feel like my head’s clearer, and a weight’s been lifted.

あははっ、やっぱ西条ってすげーな。

もしかしてお前さ、何かマイナスイオンとか出てるんじゃないか？

Ａｈａｈａ，　ｙｏｕ　ｒｅａｌｌｙ　ａｒｅａｍａｚｉｎｇ，　Ｓａｉｊｏ．

Ａｒｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｇｉｖｉｎｇ　ｏｆｆ　ｍｉｎｕｓｉｏｎｓ　ｏｒ　ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ？

[Akira:] Ahaha. You really are incredible, Saijou.

Don’t tell me you give off negative ions or something?

うっし！　ちょい身体動かしてくるわ！

ＯＫ！　Ｉ’ｍ　ｇｏｎｎａ’　ｇｏ　ｇｅｔｓｏｍｅ　ｔｒａｉｎｉｎｇ　ｄｏｎｅ！

[Akira:] Awright! I’m gonna get some quick exercise in!

{ALTERNATE BAD ENDING OPTION: using FIX after starting your scrape:}

悪いけど…… いま頭が痛いんだよ……。

すまないけど、一人にしてくれないか。

Ｓｏｒｒｙ．．．Ｍｙ　ｈｅａｄ　ｈｕｒｔｓ　ｒｉｇｈｔ　ｎｏｗ．．．

Ｓｏｒｒｙ，　ｂｕｔ　ｃａｎ　ｙｏｕ　ｌｅａｖｅｍｅ　ａｌｏｎｅ　ｆｏｒ　ａｗｈｉｌｅ？

[Akira:] Sorry, but... my head hurts right now...

Not to be rude, but could you leave me alone?

#chapter 18 #midou akira #sigma sequences #silent battles

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robbyrobinson · 3 years

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GODS AWAKEN (XXIX)

"Wait!" a voice rang out.

Boscha's eyebrows perked up. A snicker rippled through her closed lips. She clamped her fists around the ball of fire and it disintegrated. "So, you actually decided to come out?"

She scanned the crowds with her three eyes. A flash of light came from the glasses of the half-a-witch. Willow exited from the crowd of congested observers and stood before the three-eyed triclops. "Why are you doing this?"

"Is it not obvious already? My hatred for you was what led me here," Boscha explained. "After some nerd like you somehow became popular, ever since that Grudgby game that I won, I couldn't sleep well in a long time."

"Well, if you were maybe nicer, then you would've felt better."

Boscha laughed again. "Whatever; I can at least trust that with your kind nature, you would not let any of these fools die?"

Willow's fists trembled. "I've had enough of you mistreating people as if they were below you."

"That is because they are: you may not realize it now, but I have the power of the gods coursing through my veins and empowering me. I have become the most powerful witch of the Boiling Isles, no not even just the Isles, but the entire realm itself!"

Willow rolled her eyes. "What is the wager?"

"Oh, I will leave that in the hands of my good friend and mentor," Boscha replied.

"Mentor?"

Nyarlathotep materialized in front of the two girls as a blot of pooling ink. Willow looked up to him in a mixture of awe and bewilderment. She could sense his dark aura. Nyarlathotep peered down at her with a smile full of barbed, razor-sharp teeth of varying sizes. He wore a black cloak around his midnight frame. Large, spiraling horns were to the sides of his head.

"Pleasure to meet your acquaintance."

Nyarlathotep bowed deeply before the girl with one hand covering his chest. "So you are the girl I have heard so much about."

"Who are you?" Willow finally asked.

"That is not important as of right now, but you can think of me as a grand spectator who will be hosting your duel with my prized pupil."

Willow winced at the permanent smile plastered across the Crawling Chaos's face. "Are you here to make a bet?"

"In a cosmic sort of way, yes; you see, I have rounded up nearly every witch and demon to experience your little battle if you so please. I will wager with you: you must face Boscha in a one-on-one duel, and I am afraid to inform you that this is not negotiable. For each time you refuse, I am afraid that bad things will happen."

"What do you mean?"

Nyarlathotep drew a circle from the air and from the hole came his scepter. He did this without breaking eyesight with the young girl. Clutching the device tightly in his jet-black hands, he raised it and slammed it on the ground. A hollow bang rang through Willow's ears.

"What was that?"

In the arctic regions of the Boiling Isles, Slitherbeasts and other wild fauna frolicked through the land. A flock of these demonic monsters walked through the frosty grounds. Of the group was a female Slitherbeast guiding its two offspring. She trudged along shuffling away the snow to expose some bug demons. She speared them with her long claws and lopped them over to her offspring.

With a roar, the two calves started to bite and tear into the bugs. The mother turned away beckoning her calves to follow. The first calf did so, and the other one also started to walk towards its mother. However, out of the corner of its eye, it spotted a red, spectacled bug bury itself under the snow. It turned to look at its mother before prancing away to catch the tantalizing bug.

Cornering the bug, the calf ejected goo from its body and ensnared it. It shook its body in excitement and opened its mouth to expose the small eyes on his gums. The ground suddenly rumbled causing the demon beast to fall on its chest.

It started off as a small shuffle, but it grew louder and echoed a great distance. Before the Slitherbeast calf could comprehend what was happening, the ground cracked and gave way. The calf tried to run as fast as its legs could take it but the ground was slowly disintegrating under its feet. It did not dare to look down because there was nothing solid underneath, nothing but a deep abyss from which joints of ancient past started to reform. Fleshy ligaments cushioned the joints, and muscles fizzled to the surface.

The wall of flesh rolled onto the surface of the frosty ground assimilating everything in its path. The trees and wild fauna disappeared underneath the weight of the fleshy substance. The calf called out to its family, but there was no sight of them. Its demonic heart beat heavily behind its ribs, but it had to keep going.

The audience trembled from the sound clinging to their seats until the tremors stopped. "Look!"

In their horror, the inhabitants of the Boiling Isles saw that a large knee was blocking the sun. The nerves pulsated against the skin of the body part. Willow stepped back.

"For the Knee to be here...then that means..."

Nyarlathotep snickered. "Thousands of years ago back when I discovered this unsightly, disgusting, rotted corpse you witches and demons called home, I enchanted it with my dark powers, so now it follows my command."

For years, the children of the Isles were fairly aware of where the source of their magic came from, but for the life of them, aside from maybe Belos' asserting that he could speak to the Titan, did they ever seriously consider the prospect of the Titan awakening. And yet, this man of shadows was capable of a power alien to even the Emperor and other powerful witches. Willow recoiled any bravery she had almost dwindling.

"This by itself is just a small sample of my power; for every second you refuse to face Boscha, I will resurrect a body part of the Titan until eventually, the Titan will be reborn and you will all be crushed underneath its massive build, or you could fall into the very sea the Titan fell into as it died. If I remember correctly, the boiling seas can cause even greater pain and burning that you would not even begin to comprehend."

While still conversing with the half-witch, Nyarlathotep waved his scepter in the air creating a portal from Hexside. "Right now, around a hundred little witches and demons are desperately scrambling to find a way out of the school, but alas, my magic is the kind no powerful witch, like your beloved principal, can even dream of shattering."

Willow saw the students trying to open windows or try to use spells to shatter the barrier only for it to bounce back at them. "Their fates are all on your hands, Willow."

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers causing the ceiling to begin caving in again. Principal Bump and the other members of the staff extended their hands to create a shield to keep the debris from falling on the students, but even then, there were small cracks forming determined to give way. "Either the Titan flattens all of them, or I will."

Willow looked down dejected. Either she refuses and the Titan completely destroys the Boiling Isles, or Nyarlathotep will eradicate the school. The thought did occur to her that there could have been some third option, and it wouldn't be foolish to say that she dreamed that there would be a way that did not involve being forced into a fight with a psychotic classmate against her consent, but what more could she do?

"Time is draining away, girl," Nyarlathotep spoke up again. "Make your choice."

"Alright! Alright, I'll do it!"

"Excellent choice."

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers again and the debris was reversed and the ceiling remade. "But if you try to do anything that goes against our arrangement, I'll resurrect the Titan's right arm and have it pulverize Bonesborough."

Willow shook her head affirming that she would not be that foolish to take that chance. She walked down the stairs past the frightened crowd and met Boscha on the coliseum's grand stage. Fire radiated from the three-eyed girl's body, making her appear to be completely engulfed in fire until she was a walking, talking torch.

"I think I'll smash your head in first like a ripe watermelon."

A/N: Keep in mind that the fic was written a few months/year ago before the second season came about. As for things like why Boscha and Willow are not fighting with their palismen, well, in the story, Nyarlathotep had destroyed the source of palismen along with eating every last one of them at least until Owlbert was the only one remaining. So..think of this as a universe where they do not receive them.

For any other developments from the second season, or 2A: the coven heads could potentially appear in this story if I implemented them in it, but no promises there. Hunter, or the Golden Guard...I do have ideas for him, but again, given that the fic was written prior to his formal introduction, there might be some differences. Other than that, an alternate universe.

#owl house #the owl house #cthulhu mythos #nyarlathotep #crossover #crossover fanfiction

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itsbenedict · 8 years

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i’m worried about the future of humanity because of Trump, but not, like, in the usual way.

labor’s going to keep being more and more automated. right now, i’m working on writing medical records and appointment scheduling software, which will reduce the need for bookkeeping personnel at my aunt’s general practice. she has expressed excitement about how she’ll finally be able to fire all these people*.

*(because she is delusional, she’s managed to twist herself into thinking it’ll be good for them, because they’ll be able to get a better job with this on their resume, and hasn’t considered the myriad reasons why they don’t just leave right now if that’s actually the case. in her defense(?) she hasn’t had to apply for any kind of work since presumably residency after medical school, and hasn’t experienced financial insecurity in thirty years, and is just generally disconnected from reality in a lot of ways.)

my job right now is to eliminate the jobs of as many people as possible. in like a month when i’ve finished the project i’m working on, i’ll have gotten at least two people fired as the explicit aim of my employment. this isn’t unusual, it isn’t part of some sci-fi future, it’s a real trend that is actively and earnestly being pursued by every company out there.

this ought to be a good thing. instead of this work taking up hours and hours of people’s time that they could be spending on other things, it gets done automatically. at least two people who get to now live lives of self-actualization!

except instead the result is now that the expired caviar rotting in the back of my aunt’s fridge is going to be moderately fancier.

which, okay, whatever. in principle, there’s nothing wrong with investing in a thing and profiting from it. she doesn’t owe those people anything, they didn’t pay me to build the software, she did. sure. this is just one sorta delusional old lady using her power greedily and wastefully.

my aunt is motivated by an unnecessary sense of frugality borne of an impoverished childhood, by a tragic susceptibility to marketing for fancy gourmet premium rich people food, and by a disconnect from the economic reality of what she’s doing to her workers. she’s not one of the better human beings, but she’s human.

but this isn’t the usual case.

the usual case is a manager needs to protect the bottom line or he’ll get fired, by another manager who needs to protect the bottom line or he’ll get fired, by [...] fired, by a CEO who takes orders from a board of directors (or he’ll get fired) who need to protect the bottom line or else investors will panic and they’ll lose all their money and the company will collapse and die because it was outcompeted by a company that did ruthlessly automate as much labor as possible. the obscene profits companies are pulling in aren’t going into the pockets of wealthy CEOs, they’re being fed into the desperate struggle to keep their numbers going up as fast as is theoretically possible because only the companies with the highest numbers escape destruction.

the human race is currently ruled by the blind desperate “greed” of people who need to do what it takes to survive (plus governments that are basically the same thing except instead of shareholders with money it’s an increasingly unstable mix of lobbyists with money and taxpayers with votes.)

we’re going to reach a point, eventually, where enough labor is automated that the value of most human labor is going to plunge beneath subsistence. it’s already happening, with the whole $15 minimum wage controversy. it’s only going to get worse- working two or three minimum-wage jobs at once is going to go from barely enough to live on to just plain NOT enough to live on, and eventually the unemployed aren’t just going to be a tiny unskilled underclass that looks at a glance like it’s basically the same economic entity as the historical unemployed class.

it’s going to be a voting bloc, and then we’ll have to fall back on Democracy, our last flimsy line of defense that keeps the inhuman, perfectly efficient optimizer that is the Market at bay. we’ll have one last chance to say “we, as humans, are going to decide what human civilization is going to look like.”

i don’t know if we’re going to win that battle.

the inhuman perfectly efficient optimizer doesn’t sit idly by when it’s threatened by democracy. voters can be fooled, can be bought, can be intimidated into silence. Exxon Mobil CEO Rex Tillerson is the United States president-elect’s nominee for Secretary of State. said president-elect is- i mean, it’s Donald god damn Trump, aka the media’s poster child for cartoonish fat cat excess and ruthless profit-optimizing for the past thirty fucking years. the opponent he barely defeated was Hillary Clinton, who’s not exactly known for being tough on big business. the runner-up hail mary third option that gets laughed out of the polls for caring too much about human freedom is the Libertarian Party.

that’s not the end of the world right now, we’re not quite at the stage where we need to once and for all decide whether to be ruled by Moloch... but the fact that it happened is a terrible terrible omen, when it comes to how we’re going to fare in that final fight.

i don’t know how it’s going to go down. i don’t know, once more than half the voting populace is reduced to below subsistence, what the Market is going to pull out of its sleeve to somehow defeat Democracy in its own most desperate hour. i can’t imagine what it could possibly come up with, when backed against the wall and forced to make the tiniest space for the happiness of the human race.

i can’t imagine it, because i’m one guy whose family isn’t about to starve if he doesn’t imagine up a way to subvert democracy and have it on the boss’s desk by yesterday, dammit.

#politics cw #trump cw

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cassidy-malta · 7 years

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April 8-15: Moroccan My Socks Off

“How do I even being to describe Morocco? It was six days in a nation unlike any other I'd ever been. For starters, Morocco has a monarchy, and has a strong Islamic presence. It's a desert climate, with incomes ranging from dirt poor to horrifyingly rich. Some women are completely covered with a black veil whereas others wear jeans and allow their hair to fly in the wind. We had the opportunities to spend our time in three cities- Fes, the historical city, Rabat, the royal city, and Marrakech, the tourist city.

Day 1

We started in Fes. A fitting place to start as Fes is one of the oldest cities in the country and a hub of tradition and culture. Our tour guide took us to the Medina, or fortified portion of the city. Narrow cobbled streets were lined by tall windowless buildings, even narrower alleys jutting off seemingly randomly from the streets. The homes are built uniform to keep everyone safe and reputable despite what the inside of their home might actually look like. There is no way to tell which neighbors and poor and which are rich until you're invited into the homes. We toured an average Moroccan home and collectively our jaws dropped- mosaics covered the floors and walls, plaster and cedar was carved into ornate Islamic symbols and patterns, and the central living room opened up to the sky in a courtyard design.

(the “average” Moroccan home)

(The view of Fes)

The medina of Fes also had a souk. A souk is essentially a market, more of a farmers market. Farmers sell their produce and livestock. Artisans push purses, carvings, paintings, and jewellery at you. Clerks try to convince you that you need a pair of knock off adidas. Vendors shout over each other and offer a massive variety of food- soups, meats, teas, sweets, and pastries. The thousands of shops (no exaggeration) were arranged in a labyrinth of even narrower streets, packed with shoulder-shoulder people. In the midst of the madness, there were schools and mosques- reminders of reality. This was an opportunity to get up close and personal with Moroccan people. Barefoot children looked up at us as stray kittens played around their feet, offering us strange foreigners a cheerful "bonjour!" Women in bright hijabis touched my hair and shirt with big smiles. Men called out "hello lovely!" or "beautiful flower!" as I passed. Blind beggars were frequently reaching to grab my arms. It was an incredible human experience.

(the streets were unbearably crowded, and panic set in when we heard a farmer yelling to clear the way for his donkey or mule. We all squished to the walls of the Souk and hoped to not get knocked over by the burdened animal)

(some of the souk was covered, and while the shade was nice, the sheer number of people made the atmosphere stiff and stuffy, full of the smells of animals and rotting sweets)

(Muslims have to butcher their chickens in order to ensure that it is holy to eat, so farmers were selling live chickens at every corner. We also saw displays of river eel, huge snails, camels, and the Moroccan delicacy- sheep foot)

(the vivid colors of the souk were unforgettable. Most shops were about this size, and every inch of space was occupied by their product)

After the souk, we went on excursions to a traditional rug shop, silk shop, leather tannery and a ceramic workshop. That night we collapsed into bed with bellies full of chicken tajine and heads full of awe.

Day 2

We left the hotel early to take a day trip to Meknes. Meknes is another ancient city, home to kings long past. We toured the stables and graineries, as well as some Roman ruins. We certainly appreciated the slower pace of Meknes, but we got our first real taste of Saharan heat.

While we didn't have to wear head scarves or wear traditional dress, we did choose to respect the culture and blend in as much as possible by keeping knees and elbows covered at all time, especially in more conservative areas like Meknes. We did not want to draw attention to ourselves, as our pale skinned, blonde, and timid group did that enough as is.

(the ruins of the royal stables. Rumor has it that the stables could house hundreds of purebred Arabian horses- a sign of the king’s wealth. Note the long sleeves and pants in 90 degree weather)

(Spirits and heat were high as we roamed the Roman ruins)

(a traditional Moroccan salad- cold veggies including eggplant, beets, lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, corn, and cucumbers, a centerpiece of rice, and a drizzling of an unknown dressing)

(Meknes showed off the Moroccan architecture and ornate detail that I have fallen head-over-heels for)

Day 3

We drove to Rabat next. Rabat is the current royal city as the royal city shifts with the dynasties. It was a long drive but once we finally got settled we toured more Roman ruins and the shell of a very old mosque at Chellah. Storks built their nests atop the pillars of the mosque- their wingspan were easily 6 feet, their massive nests providing shelter to hoards of other birds, and their calls sounding like a clicking deep in their throats. The locals call them "Lak-laks" for that reason.

(Right- behind the mosque was a picturesque garden with bananas, kumquats, oranges, lemons, olives, pomegranites- basically any fruit you could imagine. Left- a stork stands on the wall above the “mihrab”- the holiest place of the mosque)

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(A street performer I filmed outside of the Chellah)

We piled back in the van to tour the magnificent Masoleum of Mohammed V, the final resting place of the King's father, grandfather, and uncle. The young and goofy members of the Kings' royal guard made faces at us as we walked among the graves and through the pillars of the unfinished mosque of Mohammed V.

(top right- the entrance to the masoleum. Top left- the ceiling of the masoleum. Bottom right- I was in total awe of the architecture. Bottom left- I flirted with this guard a little)

The day ended in the Rabat Casbah. I got to see the Atlantic Ocean from the other side, and walk the very cute little village before graciously going home for much needed rest.

Day 4

Day four was unfortunately mostly driving as we trekked from Rabat to Marrakech but we did get to pitstop in Casablanca and tour the third largest Mosque in the world.

The Hassan II Mosque is the only mosque that opens its doors to non-Muslims for tours and its size is only bested by the the Saudi Arabian mosques in Mecca and Medina. The size and detail of this building are completely indescribable. It was a breathtaking work of art that could Hold thousands of praying people. Our tour guide gave us invaluable information about Islam and the Hassan II.

(Top right- the outer view of the Mosque. Top left- the mosaics made awesome selfie-backgrounds. Bottom right- even the ceilings were decked out. Bottom left- EVERY SQUARE INCH WAS DETAILED AND ORNATE. I have so many pictures. If you would like more, shoot me a line!)

The faith is accented by five prayers a day and a strong reliance on symbolism. Five times a day, the Imam's warbling call to prayer blasts through every corner of every city from a loudspeaker at the top of the Mosque's highest point. The calls to prayer penetrate every the air and are hauntingly beautiful- their presence a reminder of how strong the faith is here. The towers of the mosques dot the skyline of every city, each tower having a megaphone, an ornament with three orbs, and what looks like a wooden fallow. The orbs are metal and meant to represent the three monotheistic religions: Judaism, christianity, and Islam. The wooden gallows-looking thing is actually pointing toward Mecca, the direction that all muslims pray. The towers are covered in green mosaics as green is the color of Islam. Seeing the mosques and experiencing the Islamic faith so intimately gave me a massive amount of respect for the people who practice it, anger to those who hinder them or hold prejudices against them, and inspired me to someday make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where Islam, Christianity, and Judaism meet.

(we ended the day by arriving in Marrakech)

Day 5

Another walking tour dominated our second to last day. We experienced the Marrakech souk, more graves (this time of a different royal dynasty), the ocean (again), the Marrakech medina, an herbal apothecary, and botanical gardens.

(an artsy pic from the Botanical gardens- a definite must see if you’re ever in Marrakech)

(directions like this were spread all around the Souk)

(more Moroccan architecture... what’s new?)

(a traditional water man, selling water to Moroccans. He was very excited to have his photo taken!)

(Wandering the king’s prison)

(spices and herbal remedies for sale in the Souk)

When that wasn't enough, my best friend and I ventured out to the city limits- to a desert oasis. The sandy landscape was spotted with palm trees and hearty shrubs. We pulled on traditional robes and headscarves and climbed aboard two camels: Fifi and Shakira. Fifi's baby, Scooby Doo, also graced us with us UTTERY ADORABLE presence. We rode for an hour, struggling to communicate with our tour guide but honestly loving every second of the experience. We watched the sunset and rubbed the rough hair of the camels, Scooby occasionally running beside us to brush our toes with the tuft of hair on his head or to press his nose to our bare ankles. A tranquil, magical, once-in-a-lifetime Moroccan experience.

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(ended the trip with some Moroccan Mint tea- literally to die for. Appropriately nick-named “Moroccan Whiskey”)

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(Shakira was quite vocal- it made Maddie pretty nervous!)

Day 6

Our final day began with one of my favorite things: food.

Unfortunately, it was through this taste testing tour that I discovered that I can not stand Moroccan food. If I had one more chicken Tajine I was going to scream. I tried to get vegetarian options in hopes of satisfying my palette but it simply wasn't enough. The highlight of the taste testing tour was fresh orange juice. Something about orange juice from local Mediterranean oranges is downright magical and borderline addictive. The lowlight was the bean based soup, desserts, and dates. The soup was simply sad, the desserts sickly sweet and too sticky, and you don't even want me to get started on the dates.

(bees swarmed the foods and the men scooped up the various treats with their bare hands. A health inspector would’ve had a hay-day in the market!)

The afternoon was free time so I did what I do best- I shopped. As shallow as it seems, shopping is one of the most culturally enriching experiences when going to a new country. It's an excellent crash course in what the people are proud of and what they feel represents them. Not to mention I got some pretty neat souvenirs and a more time in a souk.

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(the boys so graciously allowed me to twin with them on our final day)

So that’s the best I can do to sum up an experience beyond words with a few words. I can not wait to continue my traveling in the future and hopefully return to this little African paradise. I have fallen hopelessly in love with Morocco and I can not encourage people enough to visit!

#morocco #Cassidy #Study Abroad #Malta #Spring Break #Marrakech #Casablanca #Islam #Rabat #Fes #Medina #Kasbah #Camels #Souk #Markets #NorseAdventures #Norse Adventures

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