#took me to his warehouse sized flower shop

[cheerfullycatholic]

Taking melatonin knowing I'm going to have some wild dreams tonight like

[petri808]

Nalu Yakuza Au *cover art by @jmoart214 💜

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The tit for tat game was well known to both of their top confidants and lieutenants because it had been going on ever since Natsu and Lucy broke up. Plus, it was hard to get around such knowledge considering most of them came from the same neighborhoods. These intrigues ebbed and flowed like waves. Months could pass by without any interactions between the two, at other times they’d go back and forth continuously until one of them finally gave up, and on the odd occasion ended in a huge fight that led to another round of ignoring each other. Up until now, it had been kind of amusing to watch them torture each other because it was better than a drama shows on television. But that didn’t mean Natsu, and Lucy’s friends didn’t worry about one or both being truly hurt one day because of it.

“It’s fine,” Natsu rolled his eyes as Gray chastised him after the soapland incident. The two men were at Natsu’s home after work hours and supposed to be relaxing. But clearly his friend didn’t want to drop the subject. “What’s the big deal?”

“Dude, you let yourself be blindfolded in a public space! Have you forgotten what kind of business we’re in? What if it had been an assassin instead?”

“Oh, that’s just ridiculous. We’re talking about Lucy’s company, and I trust their security measures because she has just as much to lose if a hit took place there.”

“Still, you should be more careful, at least take a bodyguard with you…”

Natsu’s eyebrow twitched in irritation. “And what, so they can watch the show? We got any voyeurs on the payroll? Cause I can’t think of anyone here who’d wanna see another guy getting his balls fondled!”

Gray ran a hand down his face. “So not the mental image I wanted. You’re missing the point.” He sighed. “Natsu you are the head of this clan, and your safety is my top priority.”

“I get it, I get it,” Natsu drawled.

“And frankly,” Gray continued, “you’ve become distracted by her lately.”

“Tch! No, I haven’t!”

“Yeah, you are. You think I haven’t noticed? I know you drive by her place sometimes. I know you’ve followed her to that coffee shop she likes to frequent. But ever since her employee was robbed, things have escalated again.”

“You’re imagining things and apparently spying on me. I’m just keeping an eye on the competition.”

“Watching over you is my job! That’s not spying.” Gray crossed his arms. “And oh, it’s no doubt that you’re keeping an eye on her. That’s why you went to Katsunuma’s party and to soapland too. The problem is you’re getting sloppy and sloppy gets people killed.”

Natsu groaned. “Are you done yet? We’re supposed to be enjoying the baseball game, not psychoanalyzing my life.”

“Almost.” Gray placed a hand on his friends’ knee and leaned in. “Natsu, you’ve been chasing that tail since high school, just lock her down and convince her to work together already.”

Natsu snorted a laugh. “Gray we all grew up together, so what in all these years makes you think that’s a possibility? You know damn well Lucy’s not a woman you can control without her consent.” Natsu knew that, and frankly he loved that part of her. In fact, it made him even more fired up whenever he thought about it, just like a treasure you don’t just find but must win at the end of a game. “I’ll find a way, some day.”

“Well until that day arrives, could you promise me you’ll be more cautious?”

“Fine, fine,” Natsu waved his hand. “I’ll back off of Lucy for now.”

“Good.” Gray relaxed back onto his recliner thinking the drama was over.

“However, there is a new guy I want surveillance placed on.”

“Who?”

“The bartender from the party.”

Gray groaned. “Seriously? Why? He’s just a bartender!”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Was he spiking the drinks or something? Dealing drugs at the party?”

“Maybe.”

Gray huffed. “You really gonna try that? Do I look like an idiot? This is just straight jealousy talking.”

“I don’t care! I want someone to dig up what they can on the guy!”

“No, what you wanna know is if he fucked Lucy that night!”

Natsu jumped up with his fists clenched. “Fuck you!”

“Fuck you too!” Gray stood up and matched his boss’s energy. “Unless you give me a damn good reason to check into him, I’m not wasting my guy’s time! You might be the boss, but don’t you fucking forget who you’re talking to! I’m not some punk off the streets!”

Realizing he was taking things too far, Natsu sat back down. “Sorry.”

Gray sighed and plopped back down too. “I only joined because you asked me to and you’re my best friend, then I helped you build this new empire, so I’m just as invested in protecting it as you are. But Natsu, personal emotions have led to the downfall of many in this business, and as a friend, I’ll check you any time I think you’re going to far.”

“You’re right…” Natsu sighed too. “She just gets me so worked up.”

“Don’t I know it,” Gray laughed, but stopped when Natsu glared at him. “Sorry, it slipped out.”

“But I swear, there’s something suspicious about him. When he saw me, I thought he just reacted because he thought I was Lucy’s boyfriend or something, but the more I think about it, he might have recognized me.”

“Well, that wouldn’t necessarily be suspicious either.”

“True. But the look in his eyes just made me wonder.”

“Alright…” Gray groaned, “if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have someone do some digging. So, you said he has orange hair and glasses, and the name on his tag was Loke?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s an unusual name, shouldn’t be too hard to check on.”

Over the course of a couple of weeks, Gray sent out feelers for any information on this Loke guy. Katsunuma junior gave them their first small lead that the bartender had worked the party through a local food catering company. That catering company was a legitimate business who had both full-time staff as well as independent contractors brought in per event as needed. Loke had been one of the latter. From there Gray obtained a last name, de Lioncourt.

According to his sources at the local precinct, Loke de Lioncourt had no rap sheet, no prior dealings with police, and for all they knew was an average citizen. The man’s Line blog profile listed him as a 28-year-old, Japanese/French American, model and bartender, and it was filled with pictures from events, parties, as well as many gorgeous women— none of which contained Lucy. But as Gray trolled through the man’s feed, he did come across one person he recognized and passed the information along to Natsu.

“Wow, she’s in a bunch of photos,” Natsu mumbled as he scrolled through the blog.

“Well, considering Cana’s reputation are you surprised. Parties and alcohol are the two things that woman lives for.” Gray laughed. “Now see, this makes sense to me. Lucy and him, not so much.”

“Tch… still pisses me off he even tried.”

“Lucy’s a free woman, she can go out with whoever she wants to.”

“We’ll see about that,” Natsu mumbled low.

“What was that?” Gray asked with a raised brow.

“Nothing.”

“Better be nothing, cause this is a dead end. He’s just a flirty bartender. It’s how they make tips.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Natsu sat back in his chair. “So, back to business. What this I heard about some missing stock?”

“Oh, right. One of the warehouse clerks noticed a shortage, but when I checked with Yura, he said the books were fine. I had him show it to me, and it appears the numbers were just inverted by accident. So, instead of 185 kilos, it’s supposed to be 158 kilos.”

“Did you talk to the clerk again? Does he have any history of messing up like this?”

“Nah, he’s one of our better clerks.”

“Just keep an eye on it.”

“Sure thing, boss. By the way, have you seen Gajeel today?” Gray questioned. “I haven’t seen him.”

“He called me this morning said he wasn’t feeling well, thinks he ate something bad for dinner last night.”

“Tch, seriously? Thought he had an iron stomach?”

Natsu shrugged. “Must’a been some bad sushi or something. We ain’t got much happening today, so it’s fine. Anything else? I got some stuff I need to finish.”

Gray tapped his chin. “Just a reminder you have an appointment with our tech guy dropping by later this week to go over some upgrades on the system.”

“Like I’m supposed to know anything about that stuff, it’s what I pay him for.”

“You still gotta approve it,” Gray shrugged and took his leave.

Once the man was completely out of the office, Natsu opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a nondescript box he’d hidden inside. He grinned to himself. It was time to make another special delivery. Even though he’d told Gray he was backing off the whole Lucy and Loke subject, there was no way he was gonna let it slide. Natsu didn’t care if the man seemed legit, and he wasn’t the first nor would probably be the last that he’d eventually scared away. And besides, being a Yakuza boss had a lot of down times too, easily filled with having a little fun.

Today’s little care package was being sent to Lucy by a courier service and Natsu just had to drop it off to the delivery company. Just a normal company like Kuroneko Yamato so it wouldn’t rouse too many suspicions. It was turning into a fun game for him just coming up with ideas of what he could do to rile Lucy up or irritate this Loke guy. Natsu chuckled to himself. So far, his favorite prank was a box of small sized condoms and a bottle of enhancement pills that he’d had delivered to Loke while on the job at another party. He’d even snuck in to watch it delivered, gaining a good laugh when the man took a peek in the box and frowned at its contents.

It was childish, but Natsu didn’t care. Every day for two weeks now, something new was sent to Loke. Random gifts like children’s candy to a toy gun, a big bottle of lubricant wrapped in a bow, a week’s worth of meals sent for lunch one day, even an empty box with rocks inside it just to drive the man crazy wondering who in the world was sending them. Lucy too wasn’t immune to his pranks, though hers had a different feel to them. Flowers with no note attached. Tickets to a canceled show he made up. A supposed dinner invite from Loke that wasn’t real— okay that was to test her, but she didn’t fall for it. And today’s little care package fit right into his prank scheme.

Natsu dropped off the package at a Kuroneko Yamato office with the address instructions already filled out and paid the company’s employee extra to keep their mouths shut. ‘She’s gonna kill me one day,’ he laughed to himself as he rode back to his office. ‘If it’s suffocation by her boobs it wouldn’t be a bad way to go!’

“Anymore stops sir?” The driver asked Natsu.

“Nope. Back to the office.”

He looked at his watch. The package should be arriving at Lucy’s office within the hour. Give or take another to open it, and by 4pm he would be receiving another phone call. Maybe he won’t answer it. Oh, that would piss her off even more! ‘Well, if she’d just take the hint...’

The afternoon was supposed to be mellow at headquarters that day. No shipments, and no appointments. But when Natsu got back, another general in the organization named Jellal Fernandez came to his office to inform him of a problem. One of the new local restaurants in their territory was refusing to cooperate and he wanted to know how Natsu wanted it handled. They were right in the middle of discussing it, when Natsu’s office door flew open with a loud bang!

In stomped Lucy who immediately threw a box at his head, causing Natsu to duck and Jellal to pull his gun.

“Don’t!” Natsu screamed at his general and motioned for him to stand down, to which the man complied. “Do you have a death wish Lucy!”

“Get. Out.” She snapped at the general. “Get out! This is between me and your boss!”

Jellal looked to Natsu, who nodded his head to scram. “I got this, don’t worry.” The man holstered his gun and left, but Natsu could see he’d stayed right outside of the now closed door.

“I take it you didn’t like the gift,” Natsu pretended to stay calm.

“Gee, me throwing it at you give you that impression? I know it’s you sending all these damn deliveries to me and Loke. That needs to stop now!”

He crossed his arms and scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Play dumb all you want. Just stop! Why are you even doing this?!”

“Take a guess,” he sneered back.

“I could’ve sworn we were adults now, but apparently I’m the only one who grew up. Stay out of my love life Natsu!”

“So, you admit you’re sleeping with the guy!”

“That’s none of your damn business! I can fuck whoever I want!”

“Not as long as I’m alive,” Natsu growled back.

Lucy crossed her arms. “That could be arranged.”

“Is that a threat?!”

“Yes! If you don’t stay out of my love life!”

“A woman shouldn’t be sleepi—”

“Don’t you finish that sentence!” Lucy grabbed a stapler that was within reach and chucked it at Natsu’s head. “Stop trying to control me!”

“Are you crazy?!”

At that moment, Gray barged into the room. He’d heard the screaming from the other side of the office, and when he got close enough to see Jellal standing outside the door, he became alarmed. Why would a general leave Natsu vulnerable! The man told him their boss told him to leave, but as the sounds inside escalated, Gray couldn’t wait anymore.

“Stop it!!” Gray got between them. “What are you two doing! Lucy you shouldn’t be here!”

“Then tell your damn boss to leave me the fuck alone!” Lucy spat back. “Ask him how he’s been harassing Loke and me!”

Gray turned to his boss with a groan. “Natsu, we talked about this!”

“Tell Gray what you been doing!” Lucy pressed. “Show him the stupid packages you send!”

“What packages?” Gray looked to Lucy, then repeated the question as he stared at his boss. “What packages?”

“Tch,” Natsu crossed his arms, “it’s not even that bad.”

Lucy stomped over to where the box fell and picked it up, pulling the contents out. “Bullshit!” She snapped as she held up a very racy, red nightie with flame prints, a pair of fluffy handcuffs, and a large dildo. “See this shit?!” Lucy shook the floppy latex toy at Gray before chucking it to the ground again. “He includes messages too,” then handed the man a folded piece of paper.

Gray read it aloud, “to make up for what playboy lacks. Had it custom made to my size wink wink. Ugh, seriously man,” he tossed the letter.

Natsu shrugged. “I was just having fun.”

“This is the yakuza, not a daycare!” Gray snaps. “I’m not here to babysit the boss so he stops harassing the competition! There’s more important business to worry about!”

“That’s right listen to Gray,” Lucy sneered.

Gray turned to her. “Oh, you ain’t innocent either, so don’t even try it. You both do things to purposely rile the other up and get mad when there’s consequences. Stop it!” He looked back and forth between the two. “Just stop it already!”

Natsu and Lucy looked away from the man with scowls on their faces. Neither wanted to admit he was right.

“Jellal,” Gray called out. When the man entered, he instructed him to escort Lucy out of there. “Next time, just call me instead. It’s best you two just stay away from each other. Got it?!”

“Yeah,” Lucy grumped.

“Got it?!” Gray questioned his boss.

“Yeah,” Natsu mumbled.

“Fucking like high school,” Gray ran a hand down his face in irritation. “You two need therapy.”

[cynthiyaayaana]

Bullets and Pollen.

Hey!! This is a story I had written long before but never had the courage to post until now. I came across this very interesting writing prompt on tumblr and just had to write something on it. Any kind of appreciation or constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy!! 

Ayanna found herself in a flower shop that was very conveniently located a few blocks away from the cemetery. It was more like a meadow enclosed in the tall glass windows that displayed a vibgyor of flowers. The odor of flowers was like a thick perfumed layer that engulfed everything in the shop. It was uncomfortably congested. She wondered how the fragile flowers were able to bear its immensity which was almost overpowering her.

The sunlight bounced off each petal reflecting its colors like a prism capturing light and releasing a rainbow. She was tempted to catch it but obviously they were intangible. She therefore reconciled with touching the soft velvety petals of the orchids that stood arrogantly in the confines of their plastic buckets. There long stalk upholding the delicate white blooms like the slender neck of a swan supporting a snappy mouth.

The clear ringing of the bells alerted the intrusion of another customer. She turned around to see the culprit who had disrupted the quaint solitude of the ambience. Her complaint disappeared as soon as she thought it. The man standing in front her stood out in his black attire like death in the Garden of Eden. Before she had time to register his appearance accurately he strode towards her with quick but calculated steps. She realized the answer to her question was hazel but now they appeared murky green because of the sun rays they took hostage.

 In one swift movement he took out his bulky wallet and slapped a few crumpled bills on the counter. She flinched as his hands dropped on the teak table’s sleek surface with a loud thud. He gritted his teeth and flexed his jaws agitatedly, emitting a sickening sound of bones cracking. Although his attempt to control his temper was admirable, she was afraid that he would pop a vein any minute now.

 “Excuse me…” She was rudely interrupted as he jeered at her for some unknown reason. She had to confess as terrifying and alarmingly red the visage of this stranger was, she was thoroughly entertained by his attempt to restrain his fury. She only hoped she didn’t offend him any further by losing her self-control. Unfortunately, she slipped when she heard the next sentence that he spoke.

“How do I passive aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flowers?”

 Ayanna coughed to suppress her laughter. This was by far the most noteworthy conversation starter she had ever heard. Although she should have rectified his misunderstanding, she stood rooted in her spot, looking at this inhumanly tall and infuriated man who wanted flowers to translate an extremely hackneyed and handy insult like ‘fuck you’.

 Flowers!

She should have been cowering at the mere size of this man and also the way he had “bloody murder” written all over his rugged face. It didn’t require a keen observer to see how positively threatening he was in the way he carried himself. He radiated danger and not in the ‘what-you-read –in-a-dark-romance kind of way’. It was more like a ‘cross-me-and-I-will-not-hesitate-to-cut-you’ vibe he gave off. If they had been out in the streets or in some dingy warehouse, in this small proximity, she would definitely be fearful for her dear life.

 However, the fact that he had just entered a flower shop and asked for flowers to express his aversion for someone or something made it hard for her to feel intimidated by him. This was an interesting and obscure way of looking at flora. Like a blunt expression of disdain. It did trigger her imagination and help her writers block that had led her here in the first place.

Weren’t flowers and tacky bouquets used by unfaithful husbands to give their naïve wives to convince them of their deceitful affections? Isn’t it supposed to disguise the smell of musk cologne and infidelity?  And eventually end up in the trash the following week when the flowers were dead and smelt like decay?

 A bad habit instantaneously made her concoct how she could include this plot and this sample of character into the bulk of paper and fiction she was working on. It would make great material for a romance but that’s too predictable. Maybe a crime fiction. Where the antagonist leaves behind clues of his felony in a cryptic language of flowers. Perhaps something more brooding and introspective. The possibilities were endless. She must have zoned out because the facial expressions of her envisioned muse was getting more agitated and distorted with each passing second.

 “Nevermi…”

 Before he could wave his hand in dismissal, she stood to her full diminutive height, solemnly perched her black rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose and bustled around the shop collecting stalks of flowers and commenting in a very proper voice like she would if she actually was a florist.

 “What you need is a bouquet with geraniums signifying idiocy, foxgloves for dishonesty, meadowsweet for incompetence, yellow carnations meaning disappointment and finally orange lilies for unadulterated hatred. It would be quiet remarkable. And full of repugnance.”

 She bundled them together between her nimble thumb and forefingers, looked at the oppressively colorful bunch and brought it to him for scrutiny. He cocked his dark eyebrow and looked down at her scrawny stature and then at the chaotic assortment of flowers.  He had to admit it looked quiet hideous with its harsh dyes and mismatched contours. And totally unsuitable for the girl’s dainty hands.

Weren’t florist supposed to have arduous hands? Their nails short and their nailbeds caked with brown dirt and green stuff? These manicured hands looked like they couldn’t bear the weight of a coffee cup. They could barely keep the bouquet from falling apart. They were so small and fragile and looked so soft. He could hardly believe she did anything at all with those hands let alone cut and tame stems with rebellious thorns. The fact that she was dressed in a casual white shirt and black ripped jeans with a worn-out leather bag dangling from her frail shoulders and not a soiled apron confirmed his suspicion.

 “Here is your ‘bundle of loathing’.”  She handed it to him with extra caution. Obviously she wasn’t a professional florist. No professional florist talks like that.

 He looked at her and then at the unassembled flowers as confusion took over his dark features. Not because he had finally realized that he had made a mistake. No that bit was as clear as day to him.

 He was perplexed as to why she had helped him when she didn’t need to? Moreover, how did she know exactly what he wanted? Was she spying on him? Was she she sent for him?

 “You didn’t give me a chance to explain myself” She said in her soft voice as if she sensed his unspoken question.

 His unfaltering stare never left her. She squirmed self-consciously under his gaze and lowered her eyes to stare at her sensible flats. The change in her demeanor eased him a little. He wasn’t looking forward to conducting an interrogation in the middle of a god- forsaken flower-shop. He also didn’t want to go around terrorizing unassuming civilians, especially the pretty ones. Besides she had piqued his curiosity when she went about the shop cataloging flowers for his “bundle of loathing”.

 “You seem to know a lot about flowers.” His voice was in sharp contrast to the dreadful glare he was directing at her moments ago.

She looked at him with smile bordering between relief and wariness. Before he could here an answer they were interrupted by an aged voice of a woman. A tuff of grey hair emerged from the interiors of the shop.

 “Here is your bouquet, child.” The elderly owner finally came out with her flowers and Ayanna was grateful for the interruption. She nodded slightly at her, relieved for the intrusion.

 He vaguely entertained the idea of going after her as she scurried out of the modest store with hasty steps but decided against it. He was a busy man.  He had more important matters to take care of before thinking about enchanting some stranger who had impressed him with her off-handed knowledge in horticulture. The most urgent undertaking right now was to deliver the bouquet to the person who deserved it. Then, as per protocol, he had to notify them, with utmost patience, what they had done to deserve it. And consequently, give them a forewarning and a suitable penalty for their offensive conduct.

 “How can I help you, Sir?”. The elderly lady asked the man who was holding the green stalks of flowers in his hands tenderly. One would have never guessed these were lethal.

 “Please wrap these flowers for me” He politely asked the elderly shopkeeper. He didn’t mind her ignorance.

“Is it for someone special?” The lady smiled warmly like clueless old ladies often do.

 He could feel his lips forming a sick conniving smirk.

 “Very special.”

[rhetoricalrogue]

Wayhaven Week, Day 7

For Wayhaven Week 2020, hosted by @otomefandomevents. Thanks for having this week, it’s been so much fun seeing what everyone comes up with and getting back to knocking the rust off my own writing.  I haven’t completed a fandom event in some time and it feels really nice to contribute to all seven days!

Prompt: Mend Pairing: Mason/Zoe Dawson Warnings: in-book level violence, slight injury mention, tiny Book 2 villain spoilers Word Count: 1,662 Summary: Take a hike in the woods, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Worst. Date. Ever.

There was something to be said about a warm shower after being soaked to the bone from getting caught in the rain. Zoe curled up in her bed at the Warehouse, the duvet draped over her shoulders like a cape, and concentrated on the material in her hands.  Rain still pounded against the windows, but she was grateful to be indoors instead of out in it.

There was a sharp knock on her door and she turned her head in time to see Mason come in, a mug of something in his hands. “Thought you might need it,” he offered, handing it out to her.

She took a deep inhale, enjoying the scent of freshly brewed coffee as the warmth of the mug seeped into her hands. “Thanks.” She pat the side of the bed. “There’s room enough for two over here, you know.”

Mason smirked, but didn’t hesitate to slide into bed with her. “Just can’t wait to get me in bed with you, could you, Sweetheart?”

Zoe rolled her eyes and set the mug on the bedside table to concentrate on what she had been doing. “That is such a tired line, Sunshine.”

“And yet it still manages to work.” He rested his chin on her shoulder and looked down at the material in her lap. “Is that my shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing with it?”

She held up the needle and thread. “Well,” she started, continuing to stitch as she talked, “you have a hole in your shirt where a hole doesn’t belong and I’m patching it up for you.”

“Didn’t know you knew how to sew.”

“Brace yourself: I also know how to embroider.” She smiled at his soft snort of laughter, his arms casually draping around her to bring her back flush to his chest, his legs bracketing her hips. “You should check out my Etsy shop.”

“I really don’t see you as the type to do those Live, Laugh, Love or Home Sweet Home type samplers.”

“No, but do you see me being the type to do elaborately done flowers surrounding Fuck this Shit or Don’t be a Dick on it?”

His arms tightened around her waist. “Yeah. Yeah, I totally see something like that coming from you.”  He silently watched as the long gash on his shirt’s sleeve was mended, Zoe making stitches so small that he had a hard time trying to see where it had been cut in the first place. “I’m okay.”

She froze, hands reaching for the travel sized pair of scissors in her mini-sewing kit she had brought along with her in an overnight bag once that had managed to just eventually stay at the Warehouse. “I know you are.” Her fingers smoothed over the mended material. It was drying, but she had scrubbed the sleeve to make sure she got all his blood off before she started sewing. “Why wouldn’t you be?” She closed her eyes, desperately trying to tamp down on the fear that had seized her earlier that evening.  She and Mason had been on patrol on the outskirts of town, following up on a tip that some leftover Trappers had made a temporary base of operations somewhere in one of the many abandoned industrial buildings that dotted the countryside.  It was supposed to be a quick reconnaissance only mission, just observe and take note of their whereabouts and then report back so the entire unit could go neutralize them.

And the evening had been incredibly quiet too. The two of them had made their usual banter as they hiked, but Zoe had stopped to simply enjoy the peaceful look on Mason’s face the further they got from town. 

And then the bottom had dropped out of the sky. It had looked like rain all day long, but then again, it had looked like rain for the past week without anything to speak of, so neither of them had expected the sudden thunderstorm to hit.  Luckily, they had been close to the old abandoned steelworks that hadn’t seen anyone in it since probably the seventies. Zoe’s foot had slipped in the softening dirt and while she had wrenched her ankle pretty badly, at least Mason had saved her from a face full of mud by catching her and slinging her over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes as he sprinted the last few feet towards shelter.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t been the only ones to find the steelworks. Zoe was hopping on one foot while cursing her ankle when she realized that Mason had gone absolutely still, the sound of his warning snarl warring with the rumbling thunder outside. She’d barely had a second to unholster the Volt from her hip before the Trappers they’d accidentally discovered attacked.  Luckily, even as outnumbered as they were, they’d had the slight advantage of being on their feet where most of the Trappers had been seated around a makeshift fire.  Mason had made quick work of most of them while Zoe had taken down her share, adrenaline making her forget about her twisted ankle.

She had been in the middle of cuffing the unconscious Trappers with their own supply of zip ties when she noticed Mason inspecting his forearm, his free hand digging into his back pocket for a cigarette before realizing that the rain had ruined what was left in the pack.  She wouldn’t have said anything, except she happened to catch the way blood dripped down his arm to spatter on the dusty concrete at his feet.  She’d hobbled to his side as fast as she could, hands ready to rip her own shirt to act as a makeshift bandage before Mason had shoved his sleeve up to his elbow, showing her that while the skin underneath was bloody, it was whole.

One quick phone call to Adam had the rest of Unit Bravo, accompanied by several other agents to transport their quarry, at their location within minutes. She’d protested, but Mason hadn’t listened to her as he scooped her up in his arms and settled her into the back of the SUV Adam had been driving. To his credit, he hadn’t argued when she plucked the cigarette from his lips that he had lit from the pack he found in the back seat console to smoke for herself, he merely sparked up a second one and reached out to grab her foot and keep it elevated on his lap for the remainder of the ride back to the Warehouse.

The debriefing had been quick, both of them tired of being soaked to the bone and their replies snippier than they probably both meant for them to be.  Blessedly, Nate had been the one to suggest calling it a night, seeing that they had gotten enough details for a preliminary report and they’d get back to it after a change of clothes and a good night’s sleep.  For her part, Zoe had shot Adam an apologetic glance before limping towards her room.  There was a silent sorry for being grouchy that was left unsaid between them, but she felt better when he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly and his eyes softening as he nodded in understanding.

Mason had surprisingly left her alone to shower once he was satisfied that she was able to put weight on her ankle and move around by herself.  Luckily it hadn’t swelled much and after using a wrap from the first aid kit she found underneath the bathroom sink, felt a lot better than it had earlier.

“At least no one died this time,” Mason told her, his mouth muffled by her shoulder and bringing her back to the present.

“No one died the last time,” she countered, turning her head to look at him.  “Though you came damn close.”

“Still here, aren’t I?”  He held her closer, his chin nudging her oversized shirt’s neckline out of the way so he could press a kiss to her exposed shoulder, then another to the side of her neck. “You can’t let one time get to you.”

She exhaled. “I know. Letting things get to me means I become a liability.”  She frowned. “But I didn’t freeze.” In the moment, she had channeled all her fear at the possibility of Mason making a repeat performance of being overwhelmed with no one around to help them into pure rage, attacking hard and fast so the Trappers wouldn’t have an opportunity to hurt him.

“No, you didn’t.” There was a thread of pride in his voice as he shifted closer.  “You did good, Zo.”

“You weren’t too shabby yourself, Mason.” She held up his finished shirt. “Even if you did get tagged in the end.”

He made a dismissive noise against her skin. “Better me than you. At least I heal up without needing stitches.” Mason reached out and took the shirt from her hands.  “Damn, this is good work.”

“You think? I tried to make the stitches small so you wouldn’t feel them against your arm.”

Mason put his hand into the mended sleeve and try as he might, he couldn’t even tell where the rip had happened. “Can’t feel a thing.  I wish we’d teamed up earlier, you could have saved a bunch of my clothes from getting trashed after missions.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “Well, I can’t have that. You look damn hot in this shirt.” She moved so she could set her sewing materials on the nightstand next to the now-abandoned mug of coffee. “Though you look damn hot out of it too.”

Mason chuckled. “You flirting with me, Sweetheart?”

“Fucking trying to, Sunshine.”  Zoe laughed when Mason tumbled them both across the bed, somehow pulling the duvet out from between them in the process.  He grinned against her mouth as she tangled her hands in his hair and it wasn’t long before the two of them were lost in the other, the thunder and rain outside muting the world around them.

[casual-eumetazoa]

thanks for the prompt @confused-android​ ! oof, took me longer to write this than i thought (or actually it took me like an hour but i postponed it till my exams were almost over). first - the word “enthralled”? i vibe with it. second - this kinda turned into a vaguely brotzly piece with some autism acceptance on the side, hope that’s okay. third… hope you like this! so here goes

———————

The Case of the Stolen Flower Basket (as dubbed, unofficially, by Dirk) started out on a more relaxed note than most of their cases: in a flowershop, with a stolen basket. A basket, mind you, that was stolen in broad daylight from a closed room, under mysterious circumstances.

It also started with Dirk ending up in a flowershop, accidentally, while he was trying to find an ice-cream place. And it wasn’t even a case then, as much as Dirk’s brief but intense obsession with closed room mysteries, but I digress.

Point is, a basket was missing, a basket thief was at large, and the holistic crew of the holistic detective agency found themselves in a huge abandoned storing space, following up on a “lead”. Todd, Dirk and Farah walked the damp bleak corridors, opening any block that seemed suspicious. Most of them did, and most contained a truly bizarre collection of items.

One was filled up entirely with broken IKEA furniture. One was stuffed to the brim with an assortment of left shoes. And, perhaps most unsettling, one consisted of nothing but headless dolls of various shapes and sizes, along with some disfigured plush animals.

-What the hell was this place? – Todd wondered, prying open yet another door.

Behind it was an empty space, containing exactly one chair with exactly one empty jar perched on the edge of its seat.

-The warehouse of a profoundly odd collector. – Dirk proclaimed. – He… had an excess of money, and wanted to collect things, but the normal things people collect like stamps or candy wrappers were too boring for him, so he did this instead.

-Found anything important? – Farah’s voice echoed against the crumbling walls.

-Yes! – Dirk yelled back.

-No. – Todd corrected, then turned back to Dirk. – An eccentric collector then huh? – Evidently, he had decided to entertain Dirk’s guess. – What about this one then?

He pointed at the nearest door and immediately proceeded to kick it down. It was meant to be a slight push, but instead the door caved in completely, slipping off its hinges and crashing against the floor with a deafening metal rumble.

-Sorry! – Todd bit his lip.

He saw Dirk wince and then almost shrivel up at the sound, arms pulled suddenly towards his chest, as if trying to protect himself from the noise.

Noises. Dirk did not do well with them. And Todd knew that all too well.

-Sorry. – He repeated. – I didn’t mean to do… that.

-It’s fine. – Dirk mumbled, trying his best to shake off the feeling and get back into investigative mood. – What’s in it then?

They stepped over the dilapidated door and into the tight storage space. Inside it were a few pieces of old furniture, half a dozen sealed boxes, at least a whole heap of sawdust, and…

-Todd! – Dirk really did try to tone down the enthusiasm, but alas. – Look!

First, Todd noticed Dirk’s flapping arms, and the smile on his face, and felt his own lips stretch into a grin. Only then he turned to check what was in there, and realized that the wall of the storage space was lined up with various musical instruments. Guitars, mostly; electric, acoustic, even toy ones…

-It’s your thing! – Dirk beamed.

-Yeah. – Todd agreed. – It’s my thing.

He approached the wall and picked up one of the guitars.

-It’s expensive. – He declared, and checked the instrument for any signs of wear and tear. – And new. Damn. – He went slowly through the collection. – Well, these aren’t the very top of the chain, but they’re fancier than I used to have.

He took one of the electric guitars – a slick, bright red beauty – and held it gently in his hands. He hadn’t played guitar since he bashed his last one against the wall of the Ridgley building… that happened less than a year prior, and yet it seemed a lifetime away.

-Can we take some? – Dirk asked, then, not waiting for a reply, picked out one of the guitars at random. – They’re no-ones so it doesn’t count as stealing.

-I guess I could take one or two. – Todd agreed. – They’re as good as thrown out at this point. No use for them collecting dust in here.

-Where the hell are you two? – Farah’s voice chimed through the corridor.

-Over here! – Dirk shouted back.

-Ugh. – Todd muttered. – I have to pick now. Wait. Actually… - He looked at the guitar he had in his hands, then the one Dirk was still holding, and smiled with the corner of his mouth. – Those two are good. Let’s go.

-Guys. – Farah nearly avoided a collision with the broken door as she entered the storage space. – You should see this. Now. – She paused. – I think I found a skeleton.

The guitars were then stashed in the corner, and waited patiently for their new owner to crawl on all fours into a basement, poke some human bones with a stick, and emerge – dusty, exhausted, and deeply confused.

*

The evening was slow and peaceful. While Farah was busy making phone calls and trying to arrange for someone to examine, discretely and unofficially, a mysterious unidentified skeleton, Todd and Dirk stayed in Todd’s apartment. Or, rather, at the apartment that used to be Todd’s. He didn’t remember the last time he had a dinner there, and besides, Dirk spent more nights than not in the guest bedroom, so it was really their apartment.

-Do you have any ideas about how the basket connects to the skeleton yet? – Todd asked, placing two cups of tea on the table.

He didn’t have to ask Dirk what he wanted; he knew his (rather narrow) range of food and drink preferences by heart.

-Not a clue. – Dirk admitted, and raised his gaze to the ceiling, staring attentively at some smudge. – I think we should go to Claire’s house.

-Why the owner’s house? – Todd asked.

-Feels relevant. – Dirk shrugged, eyes still focused on the smudge. – Oh. – He turned in his seat suddenly. – The guitars! Can you play for me?

Todd sighed. He anticipated this happening.

-Well, - he said, - I can’t play the electric one cause you need equipment for it and we didn’t steal any, and I haven’t played an acoustic guitar in like two years, but…

-I don’t care if it’s not your best or some equally stupid excuse. – Dirk interrupted him. – You know I’ll be impressed no matter what.

Todd laughed shortly, and nodded. It was true – Dirk was impressed and excited by seemingly everything, from the fluffy blanket assortment at Walmart (he had to touch every. single. one.) to the Sacred Wisdom shared with him by Todd that the number on the package of pasta tells you how long it will take to cook it. Dirk was also somehow oblivious to his own talents, insisting that connecting eleven entirely unrelated pieces of information into a complete narrative was “simple” and “obvious”.

-Fine. – Todd caved in, and got up to fetch the acoustic guitar. – But I probably won’t know the cords of the songs you like.

Considering that Dirk mostly listened to obscure European rock music, 80s pop, and Disney soundtracks, it was hardly surprising.

-Not tuned at all, probably. – Todd, the guitar now in hands, returned to his seat and gave the strings a test stroke. – Yep. – He nodded. – Gimme a few minutes.

He tuned the guitar as best as he could, and tapped his fingers on the table, trying to decide what to play. Dirk had watched him with curiosity and was now sipping his tea, waiting for the music to start. Todd paused, took a deep breath in, and began to play the first song that he was sure he remembered – “Behind Blue Eyes”.

The music flowed; Todd focused on the movement of his fingers, on the vibration of the string, and the metal at his fingertips. He sang the words softly, almost as an afterthought. He had forgotten how good it felt to make music happen. The song was in the air, brought to life by the motion of his hands, and the night was young, and he was lost in the moment. He skipped the electric guitar solo and went straight to the final reprise of the chorus.

Then the music stopped, and silence fell on his shoulders. He kept quiet, not saying anything, waiting for Dirk to react. That is when Todd realized that Dirk wasn’t talking – and Dirk was always talking. He talked over movies, and news on the TV, and shop assistants and, on one memorable occasion, over a talking parrot. It’s not that he was rude - it’s just that his head was so full of words, constantly, that they had to be let out.

But Dirk wasn’t talking now. Now he simply sat in his place, eyes transfixed on Todd’s hands, blinking.

-Are you okay? – Todd asked.

There was a pause.

-Mmm? – Dirk blinked faster and looked up, meeting Todd’s gaze, startled slightly, as if waking up from a pleasant dream. – Yes. Yes of course I’m okay.

-You kinda zoned out a little bit.

-I did?

-Yeah.

-You play really good music. – Dirk smiled softly.

-Thanks. – Todd smiled back.

-It’s nice to not be… attacked by sound for a change. – Dirk added.  – Can you… keep, playing, please?

-Sure. – Todd replied. -I mean, I don’t remember that many songs, and…

He remembered enough songs for a whole mini-at-home concert.

*

It doesn’t end there.

Together, they spend many an evening consumed by music, music brought to life by Todd, for Dirk, specifically for Dirk, and for him only. Todd plays everything – every song he has ever loved, acoustic versions of Mexican Funeral pieces, approximate renditions of whatever is on the radio these days…

Dirk makes requests. Todd googles guitar tabs and practices while Dirk is still asleep, in the ungodly early hours of the morning, sitting on the windowsill of the apartment block while people leave for first shifts at work. He has performed in front of huge crowds, and music journalists, and many girls (and guys…) he was trying to impress – but nothing has ever felt as personal, crucial, tender, as playing for Dirk.

The skeleton is identified, and the stolen basket is discovered. The convoluted twists and turns of the story, which involves a near-extinct flower, a 77-year-old Russian spy and an actual African prince, come to their natural close. The excitement and danger are over, if only for a brief respite, and peace is restored. A new case will arrive soon enough… but until then, they have their tiny apartment, and Todd has his guitars, and music lingers in the air, and Dirk is enthralled with the music, still and speechless in his seat.

They look at each other, and they understand each other precisely, and, for once in his life, Dirk has no words, and needs no words, and wants nothing else but to listen. God knows, his life is never safe or simple, but now Todd is here, and the world is really not that bad, and he is happy.

The Earth continues to spin. New bizarre, perplexing and astonishing things will happen. Songs will be played, and words will be said in time. Maybe, in part at least, because someone ran, and never looked back, and left behind all their belongings, even their very expensive guitars…

Sometimes – most of the times – the Universe wants them to help it. But, on this occasion, it is gracious enough to help them in return.

[creamypudding]

WIP Clack sneak peek

Hi,

I’ve decided to upload a sneak peek of my WIP Clack story. I’m currently on writing chapter 8 and I think the story might have 10 chapters, so I’m sort of nearing the end mark, but also still a fair way off completion because a lot of editing needs to be done. I’m currently re-reading everything that I’ve written so far to get my head around the timeline, which I had no clue about when I first started writing it, so now I’m making minor adjustments (read: major edits) to the previous chapters before moving on to chapter 8. It’s my form of procrastination because chapter 8 is a POV change, which is notoriously difficult on my soul. So, while there is no guarantee that this chapter 1 will look exactly like this when I get to posting the whole story, it should still be a very close approximation once I’m done with everything. I am happy to share this bit and hope to pique your interest in this AU.  This story will explore mental health issues, like PTSD and body dysphoria. The main setting is in a hospital, so set expectations accordingly. Title: Silver Lining (working title) Chapter: 1 Fandom: FFVII - Modern AU Pairing: Cloud/Zack Rated: Teen Word Count: 10,232 Summary: Cloud is a delivery driver and one day gets a very specific job to complete, which sends him to the brink of discomfort, but leaves the door open for something very wonderful to potentially bloom.

CHAPTER 1 - Despite the winter sun being at its low-hanging apex, and this region never getting any snow, it was still cold. The frosty air gnawed and bit into the tip of Cloud’s nose, blasted against and stiffened his glove-covered fingers, and caused shivers to wrack his body. Winter wasn’t the best time of year to ride his motorcycle, but his passion for his vehicle outweighed the seasonal discomfort. He was as rugged up as he could be with his helmet and scarf underneath, multiple shirts, and a sweater under his riding jacket, and thermals under the leather pants to keep his lower limbs warm, yet Cloud looked forward to arriving at work, which he usually did around midday, where he would hop into the familiar white and blue delivery van with its air conditioner, funky smell, worn leather seating, and sticky patches all over the dashboard caused by spilled coffee.

He lived about half an hours ride from work and arrived at the two-story brick warehouse in a business district of the sprawling metropolis. He rode around the back of the large, empty lot, to the garage capable of housing five vans and parked his bike near the wall. He left his helmet hanging on the handlebars and headed through the lofty loading zone, past the only vehicle still reminding (his own) and to the door and into the heated office space beyond. With a relieved sigh he pulled his gloves off and rubbed them together to regain feeling and warmth.  

Tifa gave the usual teasing greeting of, "Hello, Cloud. Sleep well?" which forced a grumbled unintelligible retort from him. He headed straight for the left side of the sparsely decorated rectangular room. A long, mid-chest high cupboard stood along the wall with five color-coded plastic double-letter trays atop of it. This was their duty roster system. The top tray houses his schedule for the day, and the bottom one held his payslips and things of that nature. A large whiteboard hung on the wall right above the cupboard with each employee’s details demarcated to line up with their specific letter-trays.

He grabbed his sheet of paper, listing addresses and delivery times, and stalked off to the van, grabbing the held out travel mug which Tifa had filled with hot coffee. “Thanks,” he muttered while she smiled at him with amusement. Cloud counted his blessings that Tifa was understanding of his late starts to the day and his sporadic-yet-far-too-common absences. 

Cloud sank into his familiar seat, leaving the bright pink folder on his lap and cradled his mug. It warmed his icy hands and as he slowly sipped the liquid it gave him the energy to recuperate from the arduous task of having woken up this morning and gotten himself out of bed. He skimmed over his list of jobs for the day at a casual pace, set his GPS and then headed off to get his workday underway.

His day consisted of a sizeable amount of pick-ups and drop-offs. Small and large parcels and goods alike. Usually, he’d radio Gavin or Therone to see if he could get more jobs, but today he felt extra drained so just stuck to what was on his sheet. He drove to familiar businesses and places, and some new locations. One of these was somewhat out of the way. Cloud took a left turn onto the freeway and headed out of the metropolitan area. The scenery grew ever more rural and then downright quaint; cows and horses dotted fields, small bakeries and one-pump gas stations came and went.

The road, though no less busy, lacked maintenance and pot-holes great and small peppered it. The place he was after was on the main road and turned out to be a giant greenhouse. He pulled into the large expansive gravel forecourt, and to his surprise found the car park almost completely full. People came and went, carrying gardening equipment and flowers of all sorts of shapes and colors. He pulled into a parking space, and got out, heading for the large glass structure. For being so out-of-the-way of the major population centers, it sure was bustling. 

As Cloud entered through a set of glazed double doors, and then another set of automated sliding doors to get into the building proper, he was instantly accosted by the perfuming fragrant smell of flowers, as well as a very comfortable warmth. Winter didn’t touch this botanist’s wet dream and it almost felt tropical. Cloud sneezed. Repeatedly.

He was reminded that flowers weren’t his friends, though he could still appreciate the botanical marvel he found himself in. Flowers and plants of all shapes, sizes, species, and colors grew absolutely everywhere. A lot were set in pots, but an equal number were also growing seemingly right from out of the soiled and mulched ground. It smelled like earth and damp. Not a wholly unpleasant smell. It's just the flowers that got Cloud sniffling like crazy.

He still sneezed when a friendly voice sounded next to him, “Here. My flowers have that effect on some people.”

Cloud turned and took the held out tissue with a, “Thanks,” and blew his nose. Once back in control of his body's reflexes he looked at the short-in-stature woman who had spoken to him; her brunette hair was tied in a ponytail, with wavy bangs falling wall past her shoulders. Her eyes, a vibrant green, sparkle and seemed enhanced by the rusty red of her mid-waist length cardigan, which sat over the top of a blue and white striped blouse. Her look of a homey farm-girl was completed by the soiled, three-quarter denim trousers and big brown boots. “Your flowers?' Cloud asked, "Are you the owner?”

The woman grinned brightly and gave a curt nod. She looked around, with a lot of pride. “This place is my life’s work. Growing and cultivating plants of all types has always been my dream. And of course, sharing the joy this life brings with it.” Green eyes returned to settle on Cloud once more. 

Cloud thought her rather pretty. He wasn’t sure if it was her features or her passion for her work. Whichever the case, she seemed rather too cheerful. “For a profit though,” he said, not caring to disguise the sardonic tone.

“Well of course. Girl’s gotta eat, right?” she laughed. “Name’s Aerith Gainsborough. Welcome to my greenhouse. How can I help you?” 

She stuck out her hand and Cloud took it. “Cloud Strife. I’m here to pick up a delivery,” he said with little expression to his face. Being around jovial people exhausted him. He could already feel his energy draining away and mentally scanned his brain to see if he had passed any coffee shops on the way here.

“Oh, wonderful! I’ve been expecting you. Come this way.” She turned on a dime, her ponytail swinging wildly and marched with a slight bounce to her step. 

Cloud followed.

“It’s such awful news what happened to Zack,” she began, rather worriedly. “I absolutely hate not being able to go see him, but I’m flat out here. So many weddings and government ceremonies to plan for. My own delivery guys are all booked up for the next few months, and the hospital is too far away for me to get to on such short notice,” she muttered somewhat defeated.

Despite not knowing what she was talking about, he reveled in seeing some of that cheer strip away from the woman. He possessed an inherent distrust of cheerful people, for cheer was a disguise best reserved for shop-front clerks who wanted to flog you something. It wasn’t for real-life, flesh-and-blood people. Real people had their own shit lives and problems to deal with. That’s what he told himself at least. He had always found it paid off to be wary of the too happy and enthusiastic. He could relate to the woman more in her slightly soured state though. Yet not too much to engage in actual conversation with her.

They made their way into a large shipping container, housed off to the side. This was apparently the office area if the desk with a computer sitting on it, and the various cork boards and whiteboards propped up on portable stands, meant anything. The other thing that Cloud spotted was the very elaborate bouquet sitting on the desk.

“Besides, I’m sure he’ll have far too many visitors for me to be able to spend any quality time with him.” Aerith reached the desk with the bouquet sitting on top of it and came to pause before it. She stretched out an arm as if steadying herself against the table.

The quiet which followed unsettled Cloud somewhat. The bubbly energy seemed depleted.

“Uh, is everything alright?” he tried, merely as a courtesy.

Cloud heard the sniffle, and saw the motion which could only be a wipe at eyes. Aerith turned around, cheeks ruddy and eyes glassy. She gave a weepy smile. “No. It’s not, but I hope it will be very soon. I really wish I could go be with him. He needs someone to look after him.” “I thought you said he was in hospital. Isn’t that—”

“He needs some love. Some care. From people who genuinely care about him. I know the hospital staff do their best, but they’re just staff.” She sniffled some more, grabbed the bouquet and walked it over to Cloud. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like for you to make regular flower deliveries for me. I don’t know if he’s conscious or not, but I want his room to be full of color. I want him to not feel alone. So please bring this to him.” She handed the surprisingly heavy item over. “And I’d also like for you to be my regular delivery guy. I don’t want Zack to have to put up with not getting to know you.”

Cloud grunted and pulled a face. “Getting to know me?”

“Yes. You’ll be my proxy.”

“I'm just a delivery guy. Not an… escort, or… friend for hire,” he said with unease. Cloud definitely hadn’t signed up for this.

“I know that. I'm not asking you to do anything other than deliver my flowers to him. But when you meet him I'm sure you won't be able to avoid having conversations with him.” Aerith’s growing smile faltered, and sadness swept through, robbing her of any mirth which might have burgeoned. “Oh gosh, let him be alright,” she said to no one in particular. “Tifa said it would be alright for you to check in on him regularly and to give me updates when you come to pick up the flowers.” 

“Did she now?” Cloud said with derision and barely kept the eye roll at bay.

Aerith nodded and started walking back out into the main building, and Cloud continued to follow.

The pungent smell of flowers accosted Cloud once more as they made their way back to the front of the greenhouse. A sinking feeling grew. “You know Tifa personally?” 

“Oh yes. We’ve been friends for years. She’s told me lots about you.” Aerith threw a cheeky smile over her shoulder, back at Cloud.

Without a doubt, this had all been an elaborate set-up. He let a defeated sigh slip out and wondered if this Zack guy was even an actual patient. “More like she complains about me to you.”

“Oh no. Nothing like that.” Her laugh was like the tinkling of bells. 

Cloud still knew that it was exactly like that. “Well, she’s never made mention of you,” he sulked.

His remark made Aerith spin around. Her smile radiated ever so brightly. “I’m pretty sure she has and you just never listen to her,” she giggled and gently pushed her palm against his shoulder.

Cloud couldn’t refute that. It seemed like a very reasonable assumption.

“Anyway, can you just wait here a moment. This bouquet is missing something.” Aerith dashed off, leaving Cloud’s nose to develop another irritating tickle.

The pungent flower smells aside, he also knew this whole situation reeked of something, but he didn’t know what. Well, perhaps he did know. Of course Tifa purposefully sent him on this delivery run. She was always trying to get him to be more social and make friends. Something which Cloud had no interest in doing. He thought it cruel to force friendship upon him with some guy who sounded bedridden. And to be fair, he felt it equally awful to force himself onto other people. Cloud hoped that if this Zack guy truly was sick that he would get well soon. That way Cloud wouldn’t have to visit for very long, saving them both the agony of playing at a fake friendship.

Aerith returned holding a few brilliantly vibrant yellow flowers. She stuck them into the bouquet, which mostly consisted of blues and purples.

“There. Some much needed complementary opposites.” She stepped back from her creation and admired it. “I hope he’ll love it.” Worry returned to her face. “I hope he’s okay. Please tell him I’ll visit as soon as I can if he’s awake.” Aerith looked like she was going to say more but clapped her mouth shut and shook her head. “No. I won’t bombard you with any more. Everything I need to tell him is in the card. Please see to it that he receives the flowers, and I look forward to seeing you next time.”

Cloud gave her a courteous nod. “Next time, then.” He knew that no amount of complaining to Tifa would get him off this roster duty. She probably had also talked to everyone else at work to make sure he couldn’t swap delivery duties, that’s how crafty she was.

_____________

The hospital Cloud drove to was a familiar destination. He parked around the loading bay, avoiding the large conglomerate of media stationed out the front of the main entrance. The hustle and bustle out the front of the hospital, though not completely foreign, was still a little strange. Cloud wondered for all of two seconds what famous or newsworthy person had ended up inside before he refocused on his job. He grabbed the bouquet and marched himself inside, making his way to the nurses station, as Aerith apparently hadn’t known the exact location of the recipient of her gift. He had done a fair few deliveries to the different wards in the past, which was why a fair few of the regular staff knew him by sight and gave him acknowledging nods as he passed.

“Oh, those are lovely. Who are they for, darl?” an elderly and a rather plump woman greeted Cloud warmly as he stood by the imposing desk.

“Evening, Barbara.” Cloud didn't have many friends to speak of, but most people he came into somewhat regulate contact with were friendly enough with him, and he reciprocated as much as possible. It's not like he hated people. It had more to do with him being too tired and exhausted most of the time to exert energy into keeping friends around. “They are for a—” he looked at the attached card for the last name. “Zack Fair.”

“Oh. He’s a right popular chap. I wish they would have sent him to a different hospital, to be honest with you. Maybe Golden Oak or Edgewater. That media pack out the front is driving everyone here crazy.”

“What? All those people out there are here for him?” A sinking feeling swept through Cloud. He didn’t deal well with being in the limelight, not even via loose association.

The head nurse gave a sullen nod. “Them out the front aren’t even half of it. Military folks have been in and out of the ICU all day. Day shift have had it up to here,” she gestured well above her head, “with all the kafuffle.”

Barbara’s words caused a rush of irritation to flurry inside of Cloud. He wrinkled his nose. “Military?”

She hummed in the back of her throat and shuffled through some papers at her station. “Mr. Fair is military personnel, or I guess that should be Corporal Fair? Is that how those titles are supposed to work?”

It took everything in Cloud’s power not to dump the flowers and leave. “Don’t they have a military hospital for this kind of stuff?” he grumbled through grit teeth, already knowing that the answer was ‘yes’.

“Apparently it wasn’t good enough for the injuries he’s sustained. He’ll be needing long term care and rehabilitation, and they aren’t cut out for that.” 

“Ah—that bad, huh?” Some of the irritation quelled with a wash of sympathy.

Barbara gave a solemn nod. “Here, darl. There has been nothing else on the news all day.” She directed her gaze toward a television mounted on the wall to the right of the desk and turned the volume up a little.

Cloud hadn’t watched the news in what felt like months. It was always too depressing. “They let you watch TV?”

“Only the news channels, so we can be atop of any breaking disasters or crisis as they unfold.”

“Ah. Seems sensible enough.” Cloud turned his attention toward the news coverage. It was a lot of body cam footage from a battlefield. People running, gunfire, all in a vastly ambiguous and completely rubble-filled landscape. Cloud didn’t know which war this was, or where it was. He tried his hardest to not pay attention to things of that nature.

The footage went on. Shaking imagery, snaps of stillness, the bottom of the screen covered in scrolling text. Images of fallen soldiers bombarded the screen, but amongst all of it someone came charging in and pulled the fallen out and to safety. Cloud couldn’t make out what was happening exactly, but he got the idea that it was always the same guy darting in and out of cover, to collect the fallen.

Cloud keyed into the faint sound of the news reporter saying something about bravery and selfless acts of courage.

The footage eventually cut to the outside of a familiar building; Phoenix Dessert Downs; the hospital Cloud was currently in.

“Poor fool got himself riddled with more bullets and shrapnel than all of the other men and women he saved. The field hospital got most of it out, and he’s had more blood transfusions than I’ve ever seen anyone else get, but they can’t give him the long term care he needs. Oh, Cloud. Don’t look so glum.”

Cloud startled somewhat and felt his face return to a more neutral position. “I’ll most likely be coming here often, to deliver flowers to him.”

“He’s got a sweetheart, hmm?” Barbara smiled. “Here, take this pass. It will get you through to ICU and past all the military,” she said, sounding exhausted.

“Military personnel can be a right handful,” he observed and gratefully took the pass.

“It’s what day shift have been complaining about the most,” she sighed deeply.

“Bet they’re glad to hand it over to you and your crew, huh.”

“You know night shift handles pressure and unwanted riff-raff better,” she winked.

“That you do,” he gave a small smile.

Cloud took his leave of the nurses station, feeling exhausted from the exchange, and wandered the halls toward ICU. He observed that there were indeed a lot of military personnel mingling around the halls; mostly camped out at the vending machines, which made Cloud realize just how run down and in need of something caffeinated he felt.

He detoured to a coffee machine and drank the burnt, bitter and old tasting brew with a scowl as he forged ahead. He showed his pass to the appropriate authorities and was let through to the ward. 

Evening had fallen, and though the interior was brightly lit, the ward was rather hushed. Nursing staff came and went, tending to all the critical patients. Machines beeped and whirred. Quiet murmurs ran through the place like an electric undercurrent.

Cloud went in the direction he saw the most amount of people, confident that it was the room he was after. He stopped across the way and looked in through the glass windows, which lined the wall facing the ward. He recognized the high ranking officials uniforms. A lot of Sergeants of varying degrees. It was kind of impressive, but it also irritated Cloud. This whole situation was irritating and he didn’t think he’d like to make these flower deliveries a staple thing of his working day if this was what he had to walk into every time..

He finished his coffee, tossed it in the trash, breathed deep, and went into the room to get his delivery sorted.

The buzzing murmur of conversation grew marginally louder as he opened the door and let himself in, but then it ceased in a flash, as all eyes turned onto him. 

Cloud hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since his last family get together. He swallowed down the nerves. “Delivery for Zack Fair, from a Miss Gainsborough.”

“Ah, Aerith, the sweet thing. Just put them over there. Zack will be happy to see them if he eventually wakes up,” someone, who appeared to be a Sergeant Major, said to him.

The ‘if’ wasn't lost on Cloud. He gave a curt nod and weaved through the small crowd toward the bed at the center of the room. He could make out a seemingly sleeping figure in the bed. His head was bandaged up and gauze was plastered to his cheek. Wires and tubes were attached all over the man and ran in all manner of directions; some hooked up to monitoring equipment and all kinds of drips filled with clear fluids, but also bags of blood. 

Cloud looked for somewhere to put the flowers. Here was a small tray table next to the bed, which was covered in bouquets and cards. More bouquets sat on a chair, and others lined the wall to the left of the bed. Clearly, this guy wouldn’t need any more flowers. He wondered if he could convince Aerith that the hospital room was colorful enough already, and could thus spare himself the trip out here and most of all back here.

He supposed he would have no such luck, and instead busied himself making room on the small tray table for Aerith’s flower arrangement (which, if Cloud had to admit, was one of the nicest in the room). He positioned the card so it would also be seen if this guy ever woke up. Cloud figured himself lucky to get out of conversing with him today. Was it cruel to hope he’d never have to make conversation with this guy?

Probably. 

He looked back at the broken man lying in the bed. The bandaged head slumped toward Cloud’s direction and the man’s eyes seemed to be open a small crack.

Cloud looked back toward everyone else in the room, but no one was paying attention; too busy talking about tactical information; what to do about the remaining company and what honors to bestow upon the survivors, because Cloud was apparently not important enough to not talk about that kind of stuff in front of.

Cloud didn’t get what everyone was in here for if it wasn’t to help support a fallen comrade. So he decided that they probably just wanted to feel important and were here for some other self-serving purpose. 

He turned back toward Zack and quietly murmured, “From Aerith. She’s worried about you, and is sorry that she can’t be here right now.”

Eyes slipped shut and it was barely visible, but Cloud thought he saw the ghost of a smile.

He turned and left, wondering if it would be a problem that he didn’t get the delivery signed off. He didn’t care enough about it to get one from any of the Sergeants in the room, especially not when he heard a faint, “Does General Strife have a kid?" pass through the gap in the door just as he shut it.

He got out of there as fast as possible, finished his other jobs through fatigue gnawing at him. Tifa asked how his day had been when he came back to delivery the van and invoices. He didn’t give her more than a grunting reply before heading back out, hopping on his bike and racing back home so he could collapse on his bed and sleep.

_____________

Aerith asked for a flower arrangement to be sent every second day, which at least gave Cloud rest in between to not stress about having to be in a wholly unpalatable environment. Despite only passing through and lingering in the place for 20 minutes at most, those were still 20 minutes he would rather never have to endure in the first place. But when he saw Aerith again to pick up the next delivery, her gratitude melted Cloud’s displeasure. His heart grew heavier with each passing day that he couldn’t tell her that the man she was so worried about still hadn’t woken up yet, both for her and himself.

He detested the hospital run. It stressed him out and stress legitimately was no good for him. As the first week of doing this job passed, Cloud could feel himself becoming unwell. He always got sick when he was highly stressed, and going to the hospital was a toxic cocktail of stress for him. It didn’t matter how well he organized himself; going in at 6 o’clock at night when there were fewer media and military sleazeballs lurking about. The late deliveries didn’t let him completely escape run-ins with the military. He took to wearing a baseball cap, pulled down over his face, but he could still feel the lingering eyes and hear the too-loud whispering rumors that he was who they all thought he was and everything that came with that territory.

Each day he heard something else; ‘Did you hear he couldn't even finish basic training?’; in the hallway; ‘Did you hear he got special treatment?’; the elevator; ‘Did you hear his parents pulled strings?’; the coffee station; ‘Did you hear he slept with a General?’; passing the door into the bedridden man’s room; ‘Did you hear he got spoon-fed the entrance exam questions?’.

Each day the well of his resentment grew exponentially deeper.

He tried to ignore, to not hear, to pretend he imagined it all. He went about his job, hurrying in and out of the hospital, sometimes seeking refuge at the hot coffee dispenser to refocus himself and get a caffeine hit to stop him from falling asleep behind the wheel, especially as these hospital visits completely drained him. Cloud hated having to be here. Hated the military. Himself. The bed-ridden source of his misery.

Why, out of all the hospitals in the world and in particular this city, did apparent poster boy have to land in this one? Not that Cloud supposed it mattered much since Tifa somehow knew Aerith and both ladies apparently loved pushing their own agendas onto himself.

He kept doing his assigned job though because Tifa (predictably) had put an embargo on anyone taking or swapping that particular job off Cloud. It did not help his mood or physical health. He could feel the onset of the cold and the day after having been stuck in an elevator with 3 military goons who had recognized him, as he had done basic training with two of them close to a decade ago, he crashed and couldn’t get out of his bed when his alarm went off at 11 in the morning. He couldn’t face another day of doing that job, even though today, most likely, he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. The weeklong process of going through the hospital halls, seeing uniformed personnel, had completely sapped him of his already minimal pool of energy and it crescendoed today, so he slept the day and the next away. 

Tifa rang several times, checking in on Cloud, which he appreciated.

"I'm sorry, am I pushing you too hard? I can reduce your workload to five runs a day."

"Do I still need to cover the hospital?"

Silence greeted him for a few beats, "Is it really stressful for you?"

Cloud felt like such a pathetic weakling. Suddenly a surge of needing to ‘suck it up’ raced through him. "No. I think being around all the sick people is just making me sick. I’ll be okay in another day… I think.”

“Take as long as you need. Felix is doing the hospital runs for now. If you think it would be better for your health not to—” “No, really. I’ll be fine. Just give me back my usual runs when I’m back.”

“Okay.” Cloud hated his strong sense of duty.

_____________

Cloud returned to work and did his best to ignore the people around him. He went even later to the hospital, just to be on the safe side and as much as possible hid behind the flower arrangements he carried, especially when it came to the guard who was stationed at the door. Cloud still felt worn out by the almost daily ordeal but, with a sardonic huff, decided to soldier on.

As the weeks passed, he learned more about his comatose burden through the media. Nothing about the operation he had been involved in though, as that was deemed highly sensitive. He wasn’t one to watch the news, but found himself watching it now, just to get some information, especially when he heard conversations with phrases like 'such a shame’, 'cut down in his prime, ‘it's all too bad’, as he passed by people in the hospital.

He learned about all the honors, achievements, and military pursuits of the spirited young man who now lay unmoving and in a critical condition in a sterile hospital bed with intubators, drips, catheters and various other devices attached to himself. Cloud could appreciate the sadness of it, the tragedy of what had befallen this man, especially since the reports said he had worked tirelessly at saving his comrades and single-handedly kept the squad’s Sergeant alive. 

It dawned on him one day while standing there in the empty darkened room, surrounded by the staggering amount of flowers, that it almost felt like he was visiting a crypt. Yet there also sat awe in this place, because he bore witness to this barely-there military man, fighting and struggling for his life, even in this perfect stillness, which was punctured by the rasping breath through the oxygen mask and the soft sound of machinery in the background. The monument of decaying flowers, deflating balloons, knocked over 'get well's cards all spoke of one thing: the love of the people; those he had saved, those who knew him, the general public; they adored him and what he represented. Unwavering spirit, devotion, sacrifice, martyrdom. It was like the flowers were a farewell. 

Cloud stared at that physically manifested concept every time he stood in the room, trying to find a place for one more flower arrangement. One more tribute to lay at the foot of the living memorial. It left a sour taste in Cloud’s mouth. He understood that this man had been deemed a 'go-getter’ by his superiors. A real 'people person’ by his peers. Someone who had always joked and make sure all his comrades and anyone under and even above himself had been okay, which was what had made him such a great Corporal—had made him. All those things were now relegated to the past, a memory, a dream. And all for what…. Cloud got stuck on that thought and with pure derision, muttered, “Look where all that love and affection has gotten you. You’re stuck here, all alone, in a room full of dead things. And the public and military can’t even wait for you to be properly dead before turning your room into a grave.” Admittedly Cloud was having a rather glum sort of a pensive day.

He kept delivering flowers, kept watching the news late at night when he couldn’t sleep, despite being utterly physically and mentally exhausted. And he listened on the radio while driving his van. It was never anything terribly meaningful or insightful. All events from the battlefield, reports on casualties, and anything pertaining to the mission which had landed the man Cloud visited on an almost daily basis in the hospital, was barely forthcoming. The operation was still deemed too sensitive and top secret. So all the media could report on was Zack Fair.

Cloud felt somewhat entrapped by the man he had been made to visit. Zack Fair turned into a morbid oddity and curiosity; a form of Stockholm Syndrome perhaps. A trainwreck Cloud was glued to witnessing. He wondered if Zack would ever wake up. He wondered what the man was actually really like. He doubted anyone would ever speak badly of the man or call him out on any asshole-ish behavior while he was in such an in-between life and death state of existence. He couldn’t buy that this guy was so amazing, wonderful, kind, fun.  Sure, he sounded nice and like the exact type of person, Cloud avoided in his life. It sounded like a real shame for Corporal Fair to not recover from this. But maybe it also really wasn’t. Who knew? Cloud sure as hell didn’t, and wouldn’t know what the actual reality of the matter was unless the dead rose from his coma.

Cloud tried to not lose any more sleep over it and pushed his wonderings away, focusing on the job at hand, which in the end led him right back to the hospital, standing before his charge, staring down at him, thinking a myriad of conflicting thoughts. In the end, he always decided he didn’t care. He was getting paid. It was just the damn military personnel that got under his skin and made this the worst part of his day. He resented coming here. Hated that the comatose guy didn't just wake up, freeing Cloud of his obligations.

"You're one hell of a selfish son of a bitch," Cloud muttered another day, after having caught a half-heard conversation between the military personnel stationed outside of the door, bemoaning their station over having to watch and guard against media entry. "But keep giving them Hell out there," Cloud finished with a smile, liking the discomfort being inflicted on people who resented having to look after someone who apparently did crazy brave things, like sticking his neck out for other people. Cloud supposed the extra resentment outside might have something to do with a new spate of news that he had caught last night.

"You know you got a bunch of medals? I don't know if anyone's been in to inform you, but… congratulations," Cloud said with bitter amusement as he set the flowers down on the tray table. "You got a Medal of Honor, a Distinguished Service Cross, and a Silver Star Medal. You're one impressive guy, Corporal Fair." He bent down to look Zack in his more-akin-to-dead-than-alive face. His eyes trailed over the bandaged forehead, the patch over his left cheek, the mask covering his nose and mouth to help him breathe. 

"Hope it was worth being like this, man." Cloud was greeted with the even breathing, the whirring of machines, and the faint beep of the heart rate monitor.

He stood back up and left the room.

_____________

There came a point, somewhere around the 1-month mark of Cloud having started on his hospital delivery route, that things seemed to change a little. He arrived at the comatose man’s room to find the oxygen mask off and a considerable amount of equipment gone. The mountain of flowers also looked smaller and a more sensible amount. Cloud tested the room with a faint, “Hello?” but received no reply. He went over to the bed, warily inspecting the other man, who looked gaunt and pale, but a lot better for not having all that equipment and tubing attached to himself.

There was no motion, other than an even fall of the chest, and generally speaking, the man looked like he had always done while lying in this bed. Cloud left the flowers and headed out, catching Barbara before leaving. 

“How is Zack doing? He’s no longer on the oxygen mask.” “He is doing a lot better, yes. His independent breathing improved so he doesn't need the respirator.” She wasn’t willing to give much more information than that, so Cloud left to return the van and go home to sleep, which came a little easier to him that night.

It was also roughly around the 1-month mark that Cloud began enjoying his trips to the hospital a little, especially on rough days because an almost comatose person couldn't give him any flack for not arriving precisely, to the second, on time. They weren’t going to back-chat or give him the stink-eye. Other than the military being everywhere, Cloud relaxed considerably when coming here every second day. The walk through the hall was uncomfortable but he would grab an awful cup of coffee, hurry to his target’s location, not even be acknowledged by the security anymore as Cloud was as good as the bland decor around the hospital, and dumped the flowers wherever he found space. He then sat down in the uncomfortable guest chair and peacefully drank his burnt coffee. 

That routine and place almost became like a sanctuary. Sure, he had to traverse Hell to get to it, but it was pleasant when he got there. He found it nice to not be in a mad rush, nice not having to do small talk. And then two weeks after the respirator had come out, the military finally, for the most part, departed. Things were getting even better for Cloud.

One day, he had been in a frantic rush the entire day due to massive traffic congestions absolutely everywhere he had to get to. Exhausted and starved he grabbed whatever looked least offensive at the hospital cafeteria and made his way to the ICU. Once he had deposited yet another exquisite bouquet, he slumped into the guest chair, which had been cleared of flowers a while ago, and relaxed with a deep sigh. 

“God, what a day from hell,” he bemoaned and after a few beats of breathing and quiet, he sat up straight and opened his styrofoam food container. 

“I’m sure you don’t mind me eating in here, right?” Cloud glanced at the only other occupant of the room. “I mean, I do bring you all these flowers, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who regularly visits. So, if you’re not going to thank me, the least you could afford me is to let me use you like a tray table, huh.”

Cloud looked at the way the body in the bed lay almost lifeless. A steady beating and shallow rise and fall of the chest were the only signs of life.

Taking the prolonged silence as permission, Cloud dug into his meal. Was it strange talking to an unconscious person? It didn’t feel any stranger than talking to himself late at night. It was about as enlightening, but he weirdly enough did enjoy the idea of another set of ears listening, without receiving dumb and pointless input.

“You’re not missing out on much with this food,” Cloud informed as he chewed. “Too dry and rubbery. But food’s food. And bad burnt coffee is still caffeine.” He took a sip, scrunched up his face and placed the cup carefully onto the bed before himself.

He ate the rest of his meal in silence, mulling over his schedule. When he was done he tidied up and got up. “Well, it was fun, Zack. It’s okay if I call you Zack, right? Or you prefer Sergeant Fair? All your new fancy medals aside, you also got a promotion, y’know?” Cloud looked and got no response. “Zack it is then. See ya later.” And with that he left, feeling far more energized after a meal and some liquid energy.

_____________

Cloud kept coming because Aerith kept ordering flower arrangements to be delivered. He lingered ever longer in that room, finding it oddly meditative. Zack's silent company reminded Cloud of his old family dog, and as Cloud sat in the chair, thinking about it, he almost reached over to pay the comatose man's head. He caught himself though and chuckled about it.

He wondered more and more about the man he was tasked with 'keeping company,' for he did keep him company more often than not. With the military gone, bar for a patrol here and there and the occasional door check, the hospital had a far more relaxed atmosphere, and Cloud found himself less drained and ready to crash by the time he got home. He figured if he was going to stay up anyway, he might as well do it whilst in someone's company.

Cloud sat and used this hospital room as his private dining hall, eating evening meals he had picked up from the cafeteria or from a fast food joint outside. He also sometimes checked his phone while he ate, reading articles, playing games. It was nice and quiet, just how he liked it. And while he did these things he also cast glances over to the sleeping man. The glances turned to gazes, where he studied the man's face and the way his chest rose and fell, shallow and at rest. 

Sometimes he got stuck in his head, replaying all that he knew of the other man and all he had seen on the TV. It was a peaceful, quiet evening in early spring. He had a tray of hospital food in his lap, his phone in one hand and a spork in the other when the thoughts that bothered him the most fell out of his mouth in a hushed tone, “What kind of food do you like, Zack? Bet the answer isn't hospital food,” he muttered whilst putting another forkful of green mush into his mouth. 

Predictably, there was no response.

“I know what school you went to. I know how hard you worked to get to where you were. I vaguely know about the mission you were on when this happened to you—that’s all the news talks about. Well, they also talk about how whatever you were involved with is still highly top secret so the public isn’t allowed to know the specific details of it. It's been nearly 2 months now since you landed here, and who knows how much time you spent in the field hospital before you were brought here. Smells like a cover-up, if you ask me. I hope you’re not gonna be like some scapegoat for them,” that thought riled Cloud up, but he tried to relax and changed the subject, “But anyway, all that stuff in the media doesn’t actually answer the real questions I have, like what’s your favorite color? Why did you think that mullet was a good look for you in high school? Yeah, the news channels love pulling out that photo of you in your yearbook.”

More silence greeted him and Cloud also fell silent again.

He kept his visitations up, he kept asking Zack random things, but got bored of not having anything answered and soon ran out of things he wondered about without repeating himself. So instead, he used Zack as a way to vent his frustrations with work, and some of the people he had to engage with. 

“Did you know that Mr. Storgeno wanted all blue cocktail umbrellas? Well, I didn't either, until he opened up the box right in front of me and started complaining about it. Like I packed that box myself and purposefully put green and red umbrellas into the packet, just to spite him. Kinda wish I had,” he finished in a mutter.

He had many more stories to tell about how he—the messenger—got shot, in the proverbial sense. Venting like this made Cloud feel lighter every time he left the hospital at the end of his day.

That was Cloud’s life; struggle to wake in the mornings, struggle to stay awake in the day during work, dealing with pleasant and unpleasant people alike, and then dropping by the hospital on the days it was on his roster, to chill out before going home where he’d have a battle to shut off in order to get a good night’s sleep.

The days and weeks passed. The military continued their stance of keeping quiet to protect national interests, and so, public interest diminished. The media in front of the hospital dwindled, there were no more sensational headlines, and news of Zack Fair faded into the background and complete obscurity as the months Zack spent in hospital turned to 3.

Cloud still caught sight of the occasional military uniform, much to his chagrin. He managed to avoid them mostly, and came and went undetected as Zack’s security didn’t seem very dedicated to their job, especially as the public no longer had any interest in the man stuck in the ICU ward.

It was one unremarkable evening; Cloud had finished all his deliveries, bar one. Exhaustion clung to him, weighing him down. He went to the coffee station on his way to Zack’s room, pulling his hat over his face as he passed the goons, who stood near the coffee station, cups in hands.

“Did ya hear that they’re gonna continue paying him an on-active-duty wage? The guy’s barely alive from what I’ve seen,” grumbled a burly military man into his cup of coffee.

“And here we are, gettin’ paid less than the guy we are here to guard. Just makes ya wanna spit,” the smaller of the two men responded. 

“I’ll tell ya what, Biggs, if I were in charge of the budget I’d find better things to spend it on. Why’s he even need all this special attention? Stick him in the public sector. My sister-in-law’s a nurse over at the fifth district. Says they have all the same equipment.” “The big wiggs gotta put on a show. Make it look like they actually give a shit about their employees. Makes for a hella PR stunt.”

“Ya don’t think the whole thing was a setup to begin with, do ya?”

"No clue. They tell us jack shit."

Cloud had enough. He slapped on a lid for his coffee rather violently and spilling nearly half his drink. Hissing, he grabbed for napkins to mop up the mess and dry himself off a little. He felt eyes on himself and lowered his head, as well as turning away slightly. He unfortunately still heard it though—

"Ya heard the rumors that General Strife’s son doing deliveries around here, haven’t ya?"

Cloud's nostrils flared.

"Deliveries…” a derisive laugh followed. "Is that the only thing that kid's good for? If that was my son I’d be disappointed. I heard everyone in that family has some foot in the army. To be doing deliveries," disappointed tutting followed.

"I know what ya mean." 

The voices sounded louder as if directed at Cloud. He threw the soiled napkins in the bin and rushed off, coffee and bouquet in each hand, heading down the hall and away from the muttonheads.

He barged into Zack’s room, dumped the bouquet at the foot of the bed and started pacing.

“How dare those jerks talk about you like that. After all you did. This is what I hate. The backstabbing, two-faced bullshit. Being treated like a number and a burden!" 

He was in full swing—pacing around the room and fuming. “I can see it in their smug, douchey faces, you know. The derision. The pity. I don't need anyone's pity. I never asked for anyone's pity. And they throw that same shit at you. At least you can't see or hear it. You're a national hero, but they try to brush you off like you don't exist. Like you're broken. That's what they all do, you know. If you don't cut it they cut you off, and let you go." Cloud stomped, his hands flew around wildly gesticulating as he kept ranting, "They love nothing more than to hammer home what an epic disappointment you are to the whole fucking family,” he slammed his fist into the wall with a low growl. The pain radiated up his arm. It helped to sober him up and cool him off a little. He breathed furiously and stared at the wall, which had become rather blurry through the tears welling up in his eyes. 

He listened to the buzzing of machinery in the room. His ragged breathing and the steady beeping of Zack’s heart rate monitor cut through the slight ringing in his ears. Yet the beeping sounded a fraction faster than what it had been before.

“Sorry,” Cloud muttered and turned back to face the room. He stared at Zack's unchanging body for a while before he shuffled back toward the comatose man. Picking up the bouquet as he went, he sank down into the now-familiar chair and placed the flowers on the table where he should have put them to begin with. “I hate it, y’know. I hate what you do and the organization you work for. And if you were to wake up right now—well, I'd hate to think that I’d probably hate you too.” His heart felt heavy. Most of all he hated that it was the truth. As upset as he felt right now, he wasn’t saying this to be vindictive; nothing but honesty left his mouth.

He gave a hard stare at the man on the bed before him. His face was turned away, and Cloud thought it for the best as he spoke in a slow, semi-whisper, “A part of me hopes you won’t pull through.” He cast eyes to the floor. He felt awful admitting it. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be doing this. And most of all, I don’t wanna know you because… because if I got to actually know you through something other than the media, I'd probably end up really liking you. It's easy to hate you when they espouse you to be the poster child of the military. I don't want to like you. I don't want to hate you. Fuck, I don't know." Cloud clutched his head, flinging off his hat and rubbing at his hair furiously. "I don't mean that. I'd rather think the best of you, really. But…" he sighed, "you also don't seem like someone I would ever get along with. Everyone seems to love you—I mean, I don't think I've ever seen a room so full of flowers and get-well wishes on cards. You know, the cleaners have to clear out your room once a week to stop this place from becoming a jungle? That's how much people like you. I mean, I don't know if they are from personal friends and family, but… it doesn't even matter. It’s been three months and you still get so much love showered your way. You're like an amazing poster child. The media made it sound like you were a prodigy; super good at your job; such a bright future ahead of you. That's what I hear the shitheads outside say about you too—the ones who envy you. That's what it is, you know, jealousy and envy. And I know  because…” he huffed. “But here you are, nearly dead. Bet no one envies that.. Bet they wouldn't have the guts to be the kind of guy you were—are. I don't even know whether you're dead or alive. All I know is that you're everything I hate in a person. You're everything I wish I could have been. Shit. I don't know. I'm just ranting, ignore me." Cloud sat up straight and replaced his hat.

With a heavy sigh, he continued, “It’s a pretty shit way to feel about someone, especially since I don't even know you. Look, I guess all I know is that from everything I've seen and heard, you sound… really irritating. I guess it’s not the fairest assessment to be making about a person.” Cloud, leaning back down to rest his forearms on his thighs, knit his fingers together and stared at his hands. “I probably sound like a real asshole. I guess I am. And to be honest, if you woke up and I found out you were somewhat of an asshole, that would make me like you more. It would give you a redeemable quality.” Cloud huffed out some sad amusement and looked up at the man he had just admonished. “Or maybe I want you to be an ass so I can feel better about myself.”

He righted himself from where he had slumped. “But all that being said… I actually kind of do hope you pull through. I’m not evil. Or maybe I am.” Cloud cast a glance toward the currently frosted-over privacy windows that looked into the ICU ward. “I want you to prove everyone out there wrong. It’s disgusting the derisive pity and platitudes they all spout. I'm sure you deserve better than that. I'm sure you don't need their shit.” Cloud sighed and picked up the coffee cup he had set down amongst the bouquets. He took a sip and grimaced. “And I'm also pretty sure I deserve better coffee than this.” He aimed and threw the cup toward the bin near the door. He hit his mark and collected himself so he could walk out of the room with an air of aloofness.

“Anyway, good chat, I guess. See you later.”

_____________

Deciding he didn't want to take on his colleagues workload, as he felt rather run down, he arrived very early in the afternoon at the hospital. Cloud wandered down the hospital hall, carrying another bouquet to its usual destination and felt rather anxious. The thought of how long it had actually been since  his delivery recipient had landed in the ICU began bothering him. The fact that Zack was still in the same state as the first day Cloud had done his delivery grew disconcerting for him. Yes, the man didn’t need a machine anymore to help him breathe; yes, several more of the intensive care equipment had slowly been moved out of the room, but Zack was still there. Was he brain-dead? Was he improving? Cloud tried to not think about the other man too much, but lately it ate into his sleep and he could feel the onset of another unwell period settling in. He hated how he could practically feel himself slipping into the prodromal phase of his condition. He needed to get some good sleep tonight if he hoped to not crash and burn in the morning. So he stopped by the nurse's station to see if he could get some information.

“Evening Simon,” he said of the man dressed in dark scrubs and a hazel complexion.

“Hi, Cloud. That's another very lovely bouquet you got there.”

“Aerith is a master when it comes to this stuff. I don't think any of the ones I've brought in have been the same.”

“I think you're right. But what can I do for you? You don't make a habit of stopping by for a chat.”

“Ah, just wanted to know how Zack was doing. He's still in the ICU after all this time. That doesn't seem right. Will he be okay?”

Simon looked past Cloud to where Zack's room was. “Considering how on a knife's edge he was, he's doing remarkably well. He's been such a delight, it's almost a shame that we'll be moving him next week.”

Cloud stared, baffled by everything the other man has just said. “He's being moved?”

“Yeah. Getting his own private area, up on the fifth floor of the residential rehabilitation wing. It’s pretty nice up there.”

“Wouldn't he be better off staying down here?”

“No. He's out of imminent danger. Plus, he’s been asking to be moved for the last two weeks.”

“A-asking? But he's out cold.” A sinking feeling grew.

Simon looked confused. “He's been pretty vocal. For someone in his shape, he's been remarkably upbeat these past few weeks. You don’t know that he’s awake?”

If it were possible to feel sea-sick on land, Cloud experienced it at that moment. “No.” The nurse hummed. “Maybe you keep coming in when he's sleeping?”

Cloud really hoped that was what was going on, but his brain went to the worst-case scenario; mocking betrayal. “Yeah. Must be it.”

Cloud took his leave and headed to the room. The windows were frosted over for privacy. As he approached a man with raven hair, and a woman with ebony curls, and an olive complexion, exit the room. They didn't appear to be the regular military personnel; wearing casual clothes as the sting of winter had gone. 

As the parties passed each other the woman stopped Cloud in his tracks. “Excuse me, are those for my son?”

Cloud looked toward Zack's room and back at the couple, both of which were a good five inches taller than himself. “A delivery for Zack Fair.”

The man and woman gave him big, good-natured smiles.

“So you must be Cloud,” she said.

Strangers knowing his name always unnerved him. “Ahhh, yeah—that's me,” he answered warily. Cloud had his hand taken and shaken in turn by both of them.

“We can't thank you enough for keeping our son company. We know that it means a lot to him.”

Indignation started to build, but he kept his cool. “There's nothing to thank me for.”

“Oh, come now. Don't be so modest,” the rather-fit-for-a-middle-aged man said, smiling broadly. He clapped Cloud on the shoulder.

“You have been such a great help to our Zack. Thank you,” the woman looked to want to pull Cloud into a hug, but the flowers he held seemed to dissuade her, to Cloud’s relief.

“If we can ever repay you for the kindness, please let us know,” the man said.

“Oh, n-no, that’s not… I’m just doing my job,” Cloud stammers lightly.

He received more warm smiles an ‘thank you’s before the woman urged, “Dear, we should be leaving, and let Cloud get on with his work.”

“Right, right. Thank you again for looking after our son.”

With that the couple hurried off, leaving Cloud staring at the now offending room before himself. He thought about not going in. He'd obviously been played. But he had a job to do, so he inhaled sharply and ventured forward.

On opening the door he was greeted by a wholly unfamiliar voice, “Hey, mom, pop did you—”

Cloud stood in the doorway, glaring daggers

The bright smile vanished even before the sheets were flung over the bedridden man's head and the lump under the blanket shuffled flat against the mattress. Faux snoring sounded moments later.

Cloud stood and his hard-as-steel glare broke at the ridiculousness of the scene playing out before him. It might have been amusing if Cloud wasn’t getting red hot with anger and embarrassment.

He closed the door behind himself and moved toward the bed, a frown playing on his lips. He went to the bed and dropped the flowers on the tray table, making the flimsy plastic rattle. “Another bouquet from Aerith,” was his business-as-usual greeting.

Cloud received no response other than the snoring quieting down a little. He glared and made a snap decision. “I’m not coming back here.” Humiliation burned. Cloud turned to flee the situation and feelings. He’d rather quit his job than make one more delivery to this place. He was going to tell Tifa as much.

“No, Cloud. I’m sorry. I’m an asshole, I know. But that’s why you should stay,” came the hasty and guilty admission in a low, rusty timbre.

Cloud stopped before he reached the door. Without turning back he agreed with the man, “You are an asshole.”

“But it’s my redeemable feature, right?” Zack laid out gently.

It took all of Cloud’s energy to keep his body from trembling with outrage and mortification. How long had this bastard been faking it? “Does Aerith know that you’re awake?” he got out through grit teeth, wanting to know how deep this farcical ruse went.

A few beats of silence. And then, “She visited last week,” came the muttered response.

The outrage erupted. An actual growl rumbled in the back of CLoud’s throat. Through grit teeth, he snapped, “And?”

“Aaaand—we talked and had a really nice time,” came the small, chastened voice.

Cloud huffed, sharply. His clenched fist trembled and his heart hammered. The flash of heat inside his body sprang to his cheeks. He thought he could die from embarrassment. She had known. He had seen her this late morning and she had said nothing to him. He didn’t know who he was madder at. “Good luck with your life,” he spat over his shoulder, without looking at the bane of his existence, and marched to the door.

“I’m so sorry,” came the plea. “Please don’t leave. Let me ex—”

Cloud slammed the door behind himself and hurried out, ignoring any looks or questions of concern he received. His whole body trembled with burning outrage by the time he got to the car. He couldn’t go back to work to drop the van off. He couldn’t face Tifa without snapping at her and unleashing all his anger at her, because she must have known as well. 

Cloud went home and passed out in his bed.

[purpleswans1]

Izuku’s Feud with the Yakuza

Another addition to my Villain!Izuku AU. For Villain Month day 11. The prompt is redemption, but I think I used the prompt very liberally... BTW this is the second time I’ve posted this section, I wasn’t able to format the original correctly, and my computer complained every time I tried to edit it to add links.

Read also on FF and AO3

It all started with what was supposed to be an easy robbery.

Izuku had noticed a certain casino with an unusual security system. He’d suspected that it had some less-than-legal activities going on behind closed doors, but didn’t consider the implications of that until it was too late.

A couple of days before they planned to rob the casino, Toga had stealthily extracted blood from a random businessman. It was just a small syringe, small enough that the target wouldn’t notice what the girl who bumped into him was doing, but large enough to get the blood Toga would need for 2 hours of transformation.

Now, Toga was walking towards the seedy casino disguised as the businessman, pretending that she was stressed and wanted to gamble.

“Just got my paycheck, now all I need is to play the odds and I’ll get enough to retire!” She gruffly told the man in line behind her.

“I thought I told her to stay inconspicuous,” Izuku said even though there was no way for Toga to hear him. “We don't want them to notice anything is different, and we definitely don’t want them paying attention to her.”

“She’ll be fine,” Uraraka insisted. “Toga’s used to this kind of stuff.”

“I know, I know.” Izuku said. “Just remind me to get her some inconspicuous communication device for her to wear so I can give her instructions when she’s on missions like this.”

Dabi raised his eyebrows. “You mean like a cell phone? We’re already using that.”

He was right. The audio Izuku was currently hearing came from Toga’s phone, which she had called Izuku with before they started. Izuku’s phone was currently on mute.

“I mean like an earpiece,” Izuku explained. “I may make one hidden as an earring, but I’d prefer one that was either invisible or flesh-colored.”

Around that time, Toga wandered into the casino and started to scope out the place. Izuku had told her to find the security room, where all the security and bank information would be. There wasn’t a door directly in the back, but there was a side door that wasn’t as well decorated as the other doors, so she decided to start with that one.

The door opened to stairs leading down. Toga followed the stairs to the bottom, where she saw a crowd of people surrounding a large metal cage. She couldn’t see what was going on, but there were a lot of growling sounds. To the side, she saw several dogs packed into too-small cages, covered in matted fur, flees, and blood.

Poor puppies. They look so cute covered in blood, but they also look miserable, Toga thought. I’ll ask Izuku if I could release them as a distraction.

On the other side of the room, she saw another door. None of the patrons where passing through it, but she did see a security guard use a keycard to open it.

Bingo.

Near a side wall, Toga found a broom closet. She grabbed one of the brooms and went to linger in the shadows on one side. After a few minutes, another security guard came her way.

As soon as he’d passed her, Toga hit him on the head with the broom handle. Swiftly, she caught the unconscious guard and dragged him into the broom closet, shutting the door behind her.

It was a cramped, dark space, but at least it was private.

She pulled out her phone to give Izuku and update. “I’ve knocked out one of the security guards. I’ll take some of his blood and his security card, which should let me in the back room.”

On his end, Izuku turned off mute. “Good job. Find some way to clear out the room, then put us on speaker.”

“I will,” She confirmed.

Toga emptied the contents of her fake-clothes pockets, including a trusty pocket knife. She used the knife to make a small cut in the guard’s arm. Several drops of blood decorated the cut, and she was quick to lap them up.

A few moments later, Toga left the broom closet, now looking like a security guard in this place. She easily slipped the security card in the slot and opened the door to a room filled with computers.

Two other security guards were watching monitors in the room. Well, no big deal.

Toga pretended to be relieved. “I’m so glad I found you guys! The boss is upstairs, he wants to speak to you.”

The two others looked up with wide eyes. “Overhall is here?” one asked.

Toga had no idea who that was, but nodded anyway.

The other security guard stood up. “Come on Kaname, I’ll show you to the private rooms. I only hope that he’s in a forgiving mood.”

Once the two had left the room, Toga sat down at one of the monitors and pulled out her phone.

“Okay Izuku, you’re on speaker,” she said after putting it on speaker.

“Good. Put the flashdrive I gave you in any of the desktops. If there are multiple computers there, you may have to try several, but I’ll be able to check each of them individually.”

Toga took the flashdrive out and did as she was asked. Shortly afterwards, the mouse on her monitor started moving on its own, bypassing passwords and opening programs all over the place.

Izuku’s tech skills are really great, Toga thought.

Eventually, Izuku spoke through the phone once again. “Okay, I’ve found the accounts. Let me just transfer the money, shouldn’t take more than a minute. By the way, do you know anything about these “kennels” that have cameras?”

“Oh, that must be for the doggies being kept here. That reminds me, can I try to free them as a distraction before I get away?”

“Did you say that there are dogs being kept there?” Uraraka asked. “Why would they…”

“They were all covered in blood, but looked really miserable. Can I, Izuku?” Toga asked again.

“Dogfighting,” Izuku said. He sounded like he was seething, something she’d only seen him do around Shigaraki before. “That’s what they’re doing behind closed doors. Don’t worry Toga, we’ll help the dogs escape. I think I can unlock their cages from here.”

“Yay!” Toga said. She spun around in her chair, which led to her eyes catching something on the floor in the corner of the room. “Hey guys? I think I found a safe.”

“What kind of safe is it?” Izuku asked.

Toga walked over to the safe and kneeled down. “Just a standard turning dial. Should I try to open it?”

“Leave it. We don’t know the combination, and I don’t want you to make noise trying to break it.”

Toga looked at a little slip of yellow she saw on the side of the safe. “There’s a sticky note here with the number 5, 15, 25 on it.”

“...In that case, go ahead and try it.”

Toga tried it. The safe opened.

“Well, there’s a few stacks of cash in here, as well as a gun with amo. Want me to take it all?”

“Wow, yeah, please do.”

Toga grabbed an empty briefcase from the floor and started shoving the money in it. “You got it, Izuku.”

“Good. Okay, the money has finished transferring. I’m going to open the kennels in a moment. Get the flashdrive, get out quickly, and take the long way to our hideout. Got it?”

Toga closed the briefcase, stood up, and grabbed her phone. “Got it.”

Outside the door, she could hear the clang of metal, followed by loud barks and screams. She pulled out the flashdrive and calmly power-walked out of the casino. When she passed the broom closet, she stealthily dropped the access card so her victim could find it later.

She got away scot-free, or so they thought.

--------

The next day, Izuku pulled out the new gun and ammo Toga had brought back. He wanted to sit on their new funds for a couple of days, but Toga had demanded a present for completing the job, so he gave her some cash to go shopping. Spinner had decided to join her and get some fresh air. Dabi had gone out to find another place they could make their hideout, since Izuku didn’t want to stay in someplace that All For One technically owned any longer than necessary. The only people still in the hideout were Uraraka and Izuku.

Izuku studied the gun. It was very similar to what he was used to: semi-automatic pistol with 12 in the clip and 1 in the chamber. The bullet size wasn’t the 9mm he used with his usual gun, so he’d have to keep a couple on hand to compare when he restocked. Still, there were enough in the box that once he’d loaded the clip half the box was still left.

He pushed the clip in and made sure the safety was on before walking away with the gun. “Uraraka, I’m going to shoot in the basement,” he shouted to the only other person in the house.

Uraraka looked up from the computer she’d been watching videos on. “Oh, okay. Want me to come with you?”

Izuku shook his head. “It’ll be loud, and all I’m doing is shooting at tin cans. Not the most interesting training, to be honest.”

Uraraka shrugged. “If you say so.”

Izuku descended the steps to the basement. He wasn’t sure why this particular warehouse had a basement, especially one this big, but he was grateful for it. The basement stretched out far beyond the boundaries of the building and probably even several blocks, giving Izuku a long concrete tunnel that suited him just fine as a shooting gallery.

He’d already set up makeshift targets from old tin cans about 10 feet from the entrance, so all he had to do was aim and shoot.

Bang!

The first bullet missed, significantly to the right of the target. Izuku was about to shoot another round, but he noticed some discoloration on the ground where the bullet hit.

He walked up to the target. The trajectory of the bullet was marked by a deep read, similar to blood. The bullet had traveled quite a distance, but it wasn’t hard for Izuku to find it on the ground several feet from the target. The bullet had split along the sides and squished on impact, opening up like a metallic flower.

Along the splits, Izuku found a thick, red liquid.

It it is blood, Toga will be able to tell.

Izuku decided to store the bullet in a plastic bag so Toga could look at it later. He was walking up the stairs to store it when he heard a loud noise from upstairs.

Izuku ran up to see what was going on.

Two men were standing in the entranceway, having thrown the front door off its hinges. They were both wearing plague masks. One was a large wall of muscles with long white hair. The other had black hair, but didn’t look particularly imposing. Izuku knew enough about the world of villains to know the smaller man was probably the greater threat, especially with his air of superiority.

Uraraka was standing in front of the unexpected guests. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Who do you think you are?”

The smaller man spoke first. “I am Overhaul, the leader of the Eight Precepts of Death.”

Izuku had heard that name before and laughed. “The Yakuza? Come on, you don’t seriously think anyone is scared of you gangsters anymore!”

Overhaul’s eyes jumped to Izuku and narrowed. “You’re going to regret that. We originally came for retribution and to return the items you stole from our casino, but now you’ve insulted our honor.”

Izuku only rolled his eyes and laughed harder. “You really need to increase your security there, by the way. A sticky note with the lock combination right next to the safe? Really?”

Overhaul turned to his companion. “Kendo, teach him a lesson.”

Kendo, the larger man, nodded. “Sure thing, boss.”

Kendo took off running towards Izuku, but he only took a couple of steps before Uraraka flew towards him and knocked him back. Her air-powered jet shoes shot both her and Kendo into the opposite wall.

Izuku was glad he’d gotten her into the habit of wearing her support equipment all the time, even when resting.

A single hand hold followed by throwing the large man into the air ensured that Uraraka had the upper hand in the fight. It was hard for people with physical quirks to attack with zero gravity.

“Tck,” Overhaul turned to Izuku again. “I’ll just do it myself then.” He then took off running towards Izuku.

Shit, Izuku realized. I have no idea what their quirks are.

He turned and led his attacker to the other side of the room. Overhaul followed, gradually gaining distance. Considering how much Izuku had trained this was rather impressive, but not impressive enough to be his quirk.

When Overhaul was a few seconds from touching Izuku, he snagged Toga’s favorite pillow from a nearby bed and blocked Overhaul’s touch with it.

The pillow scattered into a million fragments, feathers and threads flying everywhere and hindering both fighter’s views. Izuku took the opportunity to jump on top of a table and climb up a shelf just out of Overhaul’s reach.

It’s a good thing he did, since a few seconds later the pillow miracuously came together again.

“Ah, so that’s how your quirk works,” Izuku said. “You’re able to deconstruct and reconstruct things you touch, correct?”

Overhaul glared at Izuku. “Yes, but you should know that’s not my only trick.”

Quick as a flash, Overhaul pulled a gun out of his jacket and fired at Uraraka. Right after impact, she fell.

“URARAKA!”

“Don’t worry, she should recover with time.” Overhaul said.

Izuku didn’t care. He’d forgotten until now, but he was still holding the new gun. Without thinking, he fired it at Overhaul.

It missed the heart by a wide margin, but still hit the Yakuza boss’s side.

Overhaul winced in pain, but surged forward to touch the shelf Izuku was standing on.

Nothing happened.

Overhaul raised his eyebrows. “Oh? So you’re already using those bullets?”

Izuku had no idea what he was talking about, but pretended he did and said, “Yes. They’re very useful.”

Overhaul gave Izuku a calculating gaze.

“Oi! What happened here? Get away from my friends!”

A flash of blue flames shot across the room and forced Overhaul to back away.

Dabi was standing in the destroyed entranceway, looking as effortlessly casual as usual.

Overhaul’s eyes shifted between Izuku, Uraraka (who had started to stand up again), Dabi, and Kendo. He must have realized he’d lost the advantage.

“Kendo, we’re leaving.”

“But Boss, I wanted to rough them up more!” Kendo said.

“You’ll get another chance,” Overhaul said, “But for now, we have more important things to do.”

Izuku couldn’t resist the urge to snort.

Overhaul gave him one last look. “You’re getting away with it now, but don’t you dare consider stealing from the Eight Precepts of Death again. You will regret it.”

He then turned and led Kendo out the door, brushing shoulders with Dabi on the way out.

Once they were out of sight, Izuku climbed down from the shelf.

“I’m gone for a few hours and you guys manage to get in a fight,” Dabi said. “Seriously, who were those thugs?”

“The Eight Precepts of Death, the Yakuza organization that owned the casino from yesterday,” Izuku explained.

Dabi sighed. “Only you could accidentally piss off he Yakuza. I thought those organizations had lost power with the age of quirks?”

“You and me both,” Izuku walked over where Uraraka was clutching her calf. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad, at least, I think.” Uraraka said, biting her lip “It’s just a graze, but something still feels off…” She leaned down and touched her shoes. “My quirk… It’s not getting lighter. I think my quirk stopped working!”

Izuku frowned. That was worrying, but might explain why Overhaul wasn’t able to finish the job after Izuku shot him. If the bullets these Yakuza used were the same as the ones Toga picked up yesterday, then Overhaul must have lost his quirk when Izuku shot him. The fact that Overhaul didn’t seem too worried about this meant that Uraraka was probably going to be okay eventually.

“Come on, let’s get that bandaged up.” Izuku lead her over to the couch. “Dabi, did you find a new place?”

“Yeah, there’s an old house for sale about 10 minutes from here. It’s not in the best shape, but should only cost us about half of what we got from the casino job,” Dabi explained. “I guess you want to move sooner rather than later?”

“Yes. I’ll move the money through a couple of dummy accounts to make sure they can’t trace it, but we should be able to buy the new place by this evening.” Izuku said, pulling out some bandages to wrap up Uraraka’s leg.

“Well, you should make sure they can’t track us there with whatever they used to find us here,” Dabi said. He noticed the box of bullets on the table. “Hey, are those from yesterday?”

Izuku looked at what Dabi was talking about. “Yes. I was trying out the gun this morning, but I’m starting to think there’s something special about those bullets.”

Dabi emptied the box onto the table. Bullets rolled around the table and fell on the floor, but Dabi was only interested in the empty box.

He shoved the empty bullet box under Izuku’s nose. “Doesn’t that look like an electronic tracker?”

A small red light was blinking at the bottom of the box. There wasn’t much encasing it, but it should be enough for a little circuitry.

Izuku scowled. “You’re right. Do me a favor and destroy it?”

A puff of blue flames later and it was done.

------

Izuku had planned a while ago on meeting with a local support gear supplier to refill Uraraka’s air canisters, order more syringes for Toga, and get more bullets for himself. However, the morning after they moved hideouts he didn’t start the meeting with any of those requests.

Instead, he slapped a wad of cash on the table. “I’ll give you all this right now if you can tell me the location of the Eight Precepts of Death’s headquarters.

The supplier raised an eyebrow, but was more than happy to provide that information.

----------

“You know, all this sneaking around is more of Toga’s thing,” Dagi said. “Why didn’t we bring her?”

“She wanted to look after Uraraka,” Izuku reminded him. “Besides, we shouldn’t need her quirk for this.”

About a week after the confrontation with Overhaul in the old warehouse, Uraraka had gotten her quirk back but still wasn’t in fighting shape. Izuku would never say how relieved he was when she made her blanket float by accident, but getting shot in the leg would put her out of condition for a while longer. Toga had felt so guilty for not checking for trackers when she brought stuff home, so she’d gone above and beyond to make Uraraka’s recovery as comfortable as possible.

Izuku, though, had thrown himself into getting revenge on the Eight Precepts of Death and Overhaul. A few innocent questions to the local small-time villains and Izuku had gathered plenty of information on both the major members and their business practices. Apparently they were trying to dominate the underground again using drugs that enhanced and removed quirks, and held a monopoly on both quirk enhancers and the quirk-erasing bullets.

To be honest, it kind of reminded Izuku of how All For One had maintained a stranglehold on villain society for so many years by taking and giving quirks as he saw fit. Izuku knew how much power that could potentially bring, and wanted to make sure the Yakuza couldn't keep it.

Or, better yet, he wanted to take it for himself.

That was why Dabi, Spinner, and Izuku were here now, sneaking into the Eight Precepts of Death’s compound. Toga had given all three of them training on hiding their presence, so they should be able to slip in undetected and destroy the supply of drugs and special bullets. Hopefully they'd get some critical manufacturing equipment as well. Even better, Izuku was hoping to take pictures of their bullet-making process so he could reverse-engineer it.

Spinner, who had been crawling on the ceiling until now, dropped down in front of Izuku and Dabi. “There’s a door to the left,” he whispered.

Izuku nodded. “Let’s check it out.”

Just around the corner where spinner had said, Izuku found a closed door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it, but what he saw made him stop in his tracks.

It was a little girl’s room. Izuku had expected to find a stockpile of weapons, drugs, or the labs they’d use to make those things. Instead, he saw a rainbow painting, dolls strewn all over the floor, and a pink bed.

On the bed, a little girl with a horn looked at Izuku with fear in her eyes.

“A-are you… Is he…” The girl was trembling, but tried to voice her question. “Does he need to unmake and remake me again?”

Unmake and remake? Izuku wondered. That sounds like Overhaul’s quirk...

Suddenly, what she was saying clicked in Izuku’s mind.

“Dabi, Spinner, go on ahead. Take pictures of anything you think I’d be interested in, and destroy any stockpiles you can find.” He said.

Izuku heard the two of them leave, but didn’t take his eyes off the girl. He walked slowly towards her, holding out his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’m not with Overhaul,” he said. “My name’s Izuku, what’s yours?”

The girl looked at his hand wearily and didn’t move. Eventually, her quiet voice said, “I’m Eri.”

Izuku gave her a comforting smile. “Hello Eri. Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

Eri did not respond, so Izuku went ahead and sat on the bed.

“Does Overhaul unmake and remake you a lot?” he asked.

Eri looked down at her hands, but eventually nodded.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure it must be painful.” Izuku reached a comforting hand out and gave her a one-armed hug.

Surprisingly, Eri didn’t flinch. She actually started to lean into his arm some more.

“Do you want to leave here?”

Eri looked up at Izuku in surprise. “I.. Can I leave?”

Izuku gave her a comforting smile. “If you want, I can take you away from here. There’s already five people in one house so it might not be as comfortable as you’re used to, but at least Overhaul won’t hurt you anymore.”

Eri clutched his hand, holding onto it with more strength than he thought her small body could muster. Her eyes were wide with hope. “Please, please, please! I don’t want to be unmade anymore!” She was on the edge of sobbing.

Izuku held her close, shushing her. Looking at Eri, he couldn’t help but remember when he was young and All For One had just taken him in. Did he tremble in fear as much as Eri?

No, he probably hadn’t. All For One hadn’t been actively torturing him.

Izuku tightened her arms around Eri and lifted her off the bed. She was so light, Izuku suspected she’d been malnourished.

“Try to be quiet,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone to notice what I’m doing.”

Eri nodded and put a finger to her lips, the universal symbol for “quiet.”

And so, Izuku walked out of the Eight Precepts of Death’s facility with a little girl in tow, leaving Dabi and Spinner to destroy the drugs and bullets.

For some reason, they weren’t able to find the process to make quirk-destroying bullets.

---------

“Aw, aren’t you the cutest thing!” Uraraka squealed at the sight of Eri.

Dabi, on the other hand, gave Izuku a hard look. “Izuku, why did you have to take her home?”

Izuku rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

“Aw, Dabi, you’re just jealous that she’s so cute!” Toga said.

“Umm…” Eri fidgeted with her nightgown. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to be a burden…”

“No, no, no you’re not a burden!” Uraraka said. “Dabi’s just being a stick in the mud. By the way, it doesn't look like Izuku brought any of your clothes with you. Would you like to get some new clothes?”

Eri fiddled with her nightgown some more. “If you want.”

“Hm… you can’t go to the store in that nightgown…” Toga considered. “Oh, I’ve got it! Eri, come with me real quick.”

Toga led the tiny girl up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Once the girl was out of earshot, Izuku turned to Dabi. “Overhaul has been using his quirk on her. Regularly destroying her body and putting it back together. I couldn’t leave here there.”

“I see,” Dabi suddenly turned away from Izuku. “Well, there’s also the fact that she’s a kid growing up in the ‘care’ of a villain organization…”

“Dabi!” Uraraka hissed.

Izuku couldn’t figure out what they were implying, but before he could ask Toga returned with Eri.

“Ta-da!” Toga said, showing off Eri dressed in a black t-shirt that was so much bigger than her it worked like a dress.

Izuku recognized the design. “Isn’t that my shirt?”

“Well, you’re not using it right now,” Uraraka said. “Besides, it looks so much better than that ratty nightgown.”

Eri shuffled over to Uraraka, apparently to show off her clothes. Something made her trip and hit Urarak’s hurt leg.

“Ugh!” Uraraka grunted in pain from the impact.

Eri immediately jumped back. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Oh, no, it’s fine sweety,” Uraraka assured her, sitting up from the couch. “It was an accident, after all…”

Uraraka froze. Something was different. She unwrapped the bandages around her leg. The wound was completely gone.

Somehow, Eri’s bump had healed her.

“Wow Eri! You have a healing quirk?” Toga asked.

“N-no, that’s not it.” Eri was trembling again. “It’s dangerous. I ‘rewind’ people, and it can make people completely disappear by accident…”

“Well, that just means you need to learn to control it,” Uraraka said.

Eri was close to tears now. “But I can’t control it. The only person who can control it is Overhaul, when he uses me to cleanse the world of quirks…”

Izuku’s breath caught. Is she saying…?

Swiftly, Izuku kneeled down so he was eye level with her. “Eri, your quirk is your power, nobody else’s. Overhaul won’t touch you again, and I know you’ll figure out how to control it with time.”

“But… But what if I hurt someone?” Eri asked.

“We’ll be careful, and I’ll help you get a handle on it. Okay?” Izuku said, patting her on the head.

Eri still looked concerned, but didn’t protest.

“Hey Uraraka, since you’re doing better, how about you take Eri and Toga shopping? She needs clothes, after all.” Izuku said.

“Right! That’s a wonderful idea,” Uraraka said, bolting up off the couch. “Come on you two!”

“Yay! It's a girls-only outing!” Toga cheered, taking Eri’s hand and following Uraraka out the door.

With the girls gone, Dabi and Spinner went to their rooms to catch up on sleep. Izuku though, grabbed a particular gun and the corresponding bullets and walked down to the old hideout where his shooting gallery was still set up.

One by one, Izuku emptied clip after clip of the quirk-erasing bullets. They destroyed the cans and stained the whole place red, but Izuku just kept shooting until the last bullet made from a little girl’s suffering had been spent.

This was his redemption.

-------------

The next day, the Mustafu police force received an anonymous tip about the source of illegal quirk enhancing and erasing drugs. They forwarded this information to the Nighteye agency, where All Might’s successor was still interning. This prompted a raid on the Eight Precepts of Death’s facility, where the hero LeMillion defeated the villain Overhaul.

The public at large didn’t think too much of this, but Mirio and Sir Nighteye both thought it was too convenient, especially since none of the Yakuza and tried to use their quirk-erasing bullets. They asked to interrogate Overhaul about this, and the police granted their request.

“Someone took the child. My guess is that green-haired kid with a smart mouth, but I can’t say for sure,” Overhaul said in response to questioning.

"The child?" Mirio asked.

"What green-haired kid?" Nighteye asked instead.

Overhaul scratched the side of his face. "The girl is none of your concern, but if you must know she's the Boss's granddaughter. Now for the green-haired kid, he's apparently the leader of a new small-time group of villains. I don't know his name, and I wouldn't have even concerned myself with him if he hadn't stolen some quirk-erasing bullets from me. He didn't even seem to realize what he'd done, but still made himself a nuisance."

"You still haven't explained what this has to do with your lack of resources," Nighteye pressed.

Mirio want to ask about the girl again, but let his mentor take the lead.

"A few days ago someone broke into our facility and destroyed our entire stash of bullets and drugs. They burned them and scattered the ashes so even I couldn’t reonstruct them. They also took the only source I had for the quirk-erasing bullets. I investigated, and found out that some green-haired boy had been asking about our operations. His description matched someone I’d recently caught stealing from our legitimate businesses, so I planned to track him and his gang down, but you showed up first.”

“You say this boys took your source for the quirk-erasing bullets. Is it possible he’ll try to create his own?” Nighteye asked.

“I doubt it. But if he does, well, that’s your problem isn’t it?” Overhaul responded.

“Would you be willing to tell us what you know about the green-haired boy and his gang?” Mirio asked, “If nothing else, so we can save the girl.”

Overhaul gave Mirio a calculating stare for a few moments. “I’ve only seen three of them. I don’t know what the green-haired boy’s quirk is, but he is skilled with a pistol and has a deep understanding of the underworld and how it works. He’s got this brunette girl in his group, and her quirk somehow lets her and the people she’s fighting float. The last one I only saw a glimpse of, but his body was covered in burn scars that may have been because by his blue-flame quirk. Is that good enough for you?”

“It’s a decent start,” Nighteye said. “Mirio, let’s go.”

As they walked through the walls of Tartarus, Mirio turned to Nighteye. “Did you get enough information?”

“Not even close. Overhaul is definitely hiding something,” Nighteye pulled out his phone and started texting his sidekicks. “There’s a good chance we’ll learn more if we can find that green-haired kid and figure out if he really did destroy the stash and steal the source of those bullets.”

“And the girl?” Mirio asked.

“Again, we need to find the green-haired kid before we can judge.” Nighteye suddenly stopped, a look of shock on his face. “Mirio, did you notice how Overhaul started talking about the girl but quickly changed to talking about the source of the bullets?”

Mirio's heart sunk. “You think that’s because they’re the same thing?”

Nighteye started walking faster. “I don’t know for sure, but we have to find that green-haired boy.”

Unfortunately, the Nighteye Agency’s investigation on this matter proved fruitless for about a month. The most they got were a few rumors about a kid collecting support gear, but they never led anywhere.

That is, until a green-haired boy introduced himself and his friends to the world by attacking Endeavour.

[birdscreeches]

Resting Places | Aisha R.

When somebody lives in Marikina and then dies in Marikina, their body needs to go somewhere. Out on Marcos Highway, there’s Paraiso Memorial Parks, Incorporated. Up in Concepcion Uno, the Iglesia Filipina Independiente Cemetery is nestled between the always-busy streets of J.P. Rizal and J. Molina. Follow J.P. Rizal down past bayan and the surroundings turn into swatches of time. Three-story buildings from the 80s still standing with their peeling paint, old wooden houses with the capiz shell windows riddled with cavities of rot, warehouse surplus stores passed down from generation to generation. Sta. Elena Old Cemetery lives quietly in the middle of these architectural refusals of death. Scattered across the city, resting places sleep soundly among the living.

Backtrack from J.P. Rizal and there’s an intersection with Sumulong Highway, a road that cuts through the city and leads to Marcos Highway, out and away from Marikina. Before that road turns into Sumulong Highway, it first starts as A. Bonifacio Avenue. Along A. Bonifacio Avenue, less than a ten-minute walk away from each other, Loyola Memorial Park and Barangka Municipal Cemetery hold their dead in different worlds.

-

The thing about dying is that it can’t happen without first living. It’s a no-brainer, but when the reality of it actually happens, things aren’t as clear. My Lolo had lived for eighty-two years, but he spent that last year wracked with terminal illness, dying so slowly in our own home that when his heart finally stopped beating, I didn’t notice the difference.  I was there in the room, watching him, when Lolo took his last breath and I couldn’t see the threshold between living and dying.

The wake was held at Loyola Memorial Park. Loyola Memorial Park was established in 1964 and The Loyola Chapel set up its services in 1999. They boasted nine airconditioned chapels complete with a viewing area, a family room, a bathroom, a pantry, a water dispenser, however many monobloc chairs you requested, and, in the super deluxe and premier chapels, a bed, a microwave, and a hot and cold shower. The Loyola Chapel was well known for their crematory services, assuring you that the whole process can be done in under two hours. This, I knew from experience. Three years ago, I slept through forty minutes of those two hours, head leaning against the bone-white wall where, on the other side, a fire burned Lolo’s body to ashes.

A lot can happen in the span of three years. I graduate high school and enter Lolo’s alma mater. Our family gets two dogs. A three-year-old child would have learned how to say its own name.

-

My family and I left for Loyola Memorial at night. Or at the edge of night. We took a trike to the bridge. Another trike to rumble across A. Bonifacio Avenue. By the time the stuttering engine wound through enough homes for me to see of ashen walls of the cemetery, the sky was purpling with dusk.

We get dropped off outside of Tañong High School and the road is already lined pop-up stalls. There’s a Dunkin Donuts stall right next to a PLDT stall that sat across from a Cignal stall that was right across from a stall for St. Peter Chapels, a booth entirely in pink complete with a pink coffin people could enter and take a picture in. Somebody at that booth, under the assumption that I was a lot younger than I actually was, had given me a bag of candy while Tatay had his picture taken.

Past these stalls was the gated entrance to the cemetery. In front of it, two whole streets of flower shops. Inday’s Flower Shop, Ojay’s Flower Shop, Tessie’s Flower Shop. An entire basketball court had been converted into a place to store endless rows upon rows of bouquets. Plaza de las Flores, said a sign on a concrete island dividing the streets. Next to it, a fountain with flower statues painted bright colors, chipped at the edges, only staying vibrant thanks to a coat of new paint every year. Bouquets were lined up on the storefronts, each of them boasting brighter flowers, better arrangements, livelier splashes of color.

In front of the gate, the police stall with a tarp saying OPLAN KALULUWA, and the events room at the mouth of the entrance was a small circular platform. It was raised a few inches above the ground. On it lay a statue of a bronze colored rose. The sign behind it said BULAKLAK NG PAKIKIRAMAY NG MARIKINA SA MGA NAGMAMAHAL.

The pedestal was mostly covered during Undas. Swathes of people lining up to enter the cemetery blocked the view.

As my family and I got inside and walked along the road, the scenes passed by. Near the entrance were the graves of those who had a lot of money. This I knew because there were literal buildings among the graves. Some were a single floor, just enough to house the entire family clan, but others were three storeys high. Through the clear windows, I saw a beds, a fridge, a dining table. A whole house to live in. In one building, I saw an entire chapel inside. The buildings taper off as we walked further, replaced instead by tents and plastic chairs. Kids were running around, in and out of tents, hopping over graves, screaming in delight until one of their family members called them over.

The walk took a few minutes. The park was large, and we were hindered even more by the slowly driving cars looking for a parking area, by the food stalls set up inside---Buko Juice, Yellow Cab, an Andok’s with an entire rotisserie set up, and more---by the rest of the people also walking at a glacial pace. Having just sprained my ankle a day before, my older brother piggybacked me the rest of the way, giving me a view of the large, sprawling lands of Loyola Memorial drowned with people, cars, and lights.

The night had finally set in after minutes of merely loitering about in indigo. The new darkness gave us this; twinkling candles speckled over the flat expanse of land.

My family and I finally reach the grave. We carefully walk over the other graves to make our way to it. We laid a blanket over the grave, bought food and a couple cans of soda, and ate peacefully while Nanay lit candles for our dead. The candles sat next to a bouquet of flowers, flanked on each side.

The flickering flame gave enough light to make the lapida readable. Sesinando M. R. July 16,  1933 - July 28, 2015. Dead for three years after a pretty solid run of eighty two years. Under Lolo’s name was Myren. Michael Lauren V. R. December 29, 1990.

-

I never got to meet Myren. He was the firstborn child that died just minutes after taking his first breath. I never knew why or what he died from. Perhaps I asked at some point, but the answer is lost to the rest of my memories, and so many years after the fact, I didn’t see the point in asking again. I never got to meet him, but I grew up with him. Nanay had told us all about him by calling him our guardian angel, and every year, as a thank you for watching over us, we’d visit him.

Myren wasn’t always in Loyola Memorial. When Lolo died, we had Myren transferred to Lolo’s lot because now we had the money to do so. Myren died three days after Christmas, just a month after Nanay turned twenty one and five months after Tatay had turned nineteen. Both still in college, they couldn’t exactly afford to cash out the tens of thousands of pesos needed to buy a lot in Loyola Memorial. Thankfully, just a ten minute walk away, the price of Barangka Municipal Cemetery was much a more feasible one hundred pesos per year, a fee we paid for twenty five years of the total twenty eight Myren had been dead.

A lot can happen in twenty eight years. Four more children are born. Our family goes through a list of pets, several chickens, some goldfish, a few hamsters, before finally settling on dogs. An eighty two year old man dies.

-

The last time I had been there, I was sixteen years old. And I remember this:

The mass of people breathed in and breathed out. Not all at once, but the crowd teemed with it. Gasps, wheezes, and breathy noises, rattling under the 10am sun. Hot enough to sweat but cool enough that nobody popped open an umbrella. A moment frozen in toleration before the crowd surged into the movement it never stopped, trying to funnel into a small nook at the side of the road.

The entrance to Barangka Municipal cemetery wasn’t big enough for the hundreds of people crowding to come in and it certainly wasn’t big enough for the hundreds crowding to get out. It was an opening just wide enough for a car to enter, its only possible method of leaving being a slow and halting reverse. People bumped into each other, pushed against everybody else, getting lost in the sea of people funneling into this crevice, all to see their dead.

The small road only had one marker dictating it as more than it was. An arched sign held up by metal poles. Three or four steps past that sign, there were a few stores selling candles of all colors and one stall selling small stickers with the year on it.  Quickly, before she could get swept away, Nanay bought one candle and one sticker.

Past these stores, the graves begun, and the crowd pushed its way forth.

It wouldn’t be correct to say that bodies here were buried. Graves here weren’t underground, but over. And when they ran out of space, they just kept building upwards, higher and higher.

Here were concrete towers of graves. A single grave was a box around the size of an oven door, extending longer inwards to just how tall the person was when they passed. Graves near the entrance were as high end as they could get in this cemetery. They had their own space. Sometimes a whole roof and walls built around them, protected with metal bars and a padlock only the living family had. It was a semblance of privacy, however flimsy. The further I walked into the cemetery, those tiny houses whittled away, leaving only the towers.

I called them towers in the most literal sense. A grave began on the ground and then they would stack one over that and another over that, over and over, side by side, until some graves were so high that they had to build a ladder at the side. At the side of some towers, there were pieces of rebar bent into brackets stuck through the concrete, makeshift steps you could climb up to wherever your dead was to light a candle.  Some graves were so high and in the middle of these towers that it would be impossible to get to them without scaling the graves by their tombstones, which some people did, just to stick a few flowers into the metal candle holders wedged into the graves of their beloved. Others would simply stand, look up, and pray.

The main pathway diverged at points. Like arteries that split into veins, smaller, thinner pathways branched out to the side, leading to more graves and towers. There were no signs here. The only landmarks being a certain grave of a certain color that meant that it was time to turn.  It probably would’ve been smart to remember a name of a grave instead of a vague color and the assurance that I’d know where to turn, but it seemed too personal and, more importantly, that I was doing something terrible. A stranger’s life and death turned into a street sign. To remember somebody’s name just to know where to go and where to walk away from them.

Our family managed to traverse the maze twice every year with no trouble. It was easier to navigate in December, when the cemetery was empty and we had the luxury to get lost and take our time, but the flow of the living pushed us, pulled us, and finding the right fork in the pathway was the only way to break free.

These smaller pathways were no longer paved. The ground was a mix of soil, rocks, chunks of concrete and cement, plastic bags now empty of the chips their brand advertised, and graves themselves. In my head, a constant litany of ‘excuse mes’ and ‘I’m sorrys’ rattled off. Some made it past my lips whenever I felt a pronounced curve of a grave digging into the soles of my shoes. Often, I’d trip over a tree root, still surprised after all these years that a few had managed to grow past everything in its way, casting a low shade over a section of the cemetery.

Myren’s grave was in the middle of the tower we got to. It was just about at my eye level, but I knew that slowly, it would sink like it did last time. His grave wasn’t always in this exact spot. It was once located deeper in the cemetery, so deep that even during Undas, it would nearly be nearly empty. There, the grave started at a height taller than I was, but year after year, the ground would get higher. The graves wouldn’t sink so much as stand, frozen and unmoving, unable to do anything as more graves were piled on, as the earth slowly rose and buried them. By the time the ground was touching his grave, our family had to have him exhumed and place him elsewhere. Here.

Nanay put the sticker on my brother’s grave, shiny, new, and right above last year’s sticker. A yearly fee of one hundred pesos for marker that told everybody that people were still visiting him. That he wasn’t allowed to get swallowed up by the earth or destroyed to make way for another lot, because we were still coming. Beneath him, the stickers were old. 2008. 2004. There was a 1999 that barely peeked out of the ground. The graves were faded. The ink of their names and dates weathered away with day or rain and sun. The only reason Myren’s was so bold was because we’d always pay somebody to touch it up, to bolden the letters and wipe the dirt and grime off. Clear as day, both the words and the message we were trying to say: we’re still here.

-

Monuments of our persevering presence had to stay small enough to fit in places so filled with the dead, but big enough to be seen and noticed. I don’t mean this necessarily in size, but more in what it means. The passage of time in cemeteries, afterall, is something that seems to constantly be in flux. Our little stickers on the lapida fade with each year, but one day there’s a new one, and some visitors place their stickers over the previous one, as if those past years had never had happened at all. Barangka Municipal Cemetery marks time by rising dirt and debris, by sinking forgotten loved ones, by footfalls that stamp the ground down as it goes up, obscuring the movement into a slowness that nobody could see until twenty-five years after 1990, and by that point, there was a new body to be buried elsewhere.

Time in Loyola Memorial was different. The land here stayed at the height it always was. The grass stayed green and the horizon was as constant as the dead in foreground. The only real thing to keep track of was how the bouquets by the graves would slowly wilt, then rot, then disappear. Time wasn’t an issue for the deceased. Time was for us, the living, who were bound by it until we didn’t have to care about it anymore.

I guess this meant that all the gifts we left for Myren and Lolo were for as us as much as it was for them.

For Myren, there were the candles, of course. Fire burning until either the wind blew them out or the wax melted and dripped to the ground below. Flowers were easier to leave in Loyola Memorial because we didn’t have to stick them through a grate stuck into a tower of graves, now happy with the privilege of flat, steady land. On his 18th birthday, back in Barangka Municipal, my older brother left Myren a bottle of Ginebra. Loyola Memorial felt a little more formal than Barangka Memorial, so when Lolo’s ashes were put into the ground, instead of his favorite alcoholic drink, we left him his favorite food--a Jollibee Champ, pristine in its bright red box---on the newly set soil.

I don’t know how long those gifts last. I don’t know who takes them, because eventually, somebody must. I don’t know what we’ll leave next along with our flowers and candles. All I do know is that visiting is implicit in the later act of leaving, and even if it doesn’t matter to the dead, it matters to us that we leave something, anything, as a sign that we were there and that we’d be back. We’d keep coming back for as long as we could.

The last words Lolo heard were actually my own. I was about to leave for school, so I told him “See you later.” His heart stopped beating then, just about as easily as I walked out of the room, oblivious to the fact of his death, something I’d only get told a few minutes later. In a sense, I wasn’t wrong. I did see him later. We all did, year after year.

Three years. Eighty-two years. Twenty-five years. Myren was turning twenty-eight soon. Lolo was turning eighty-six next year. Our new dogs would be turning four at the same time. I was turning twenty in five months. When Tatay was my age, he had a son, and then lost him.  

-

We weren’t the only people in the cemetery. Undas crowded every cemetery in the city with a reminder of this, but Undas wasn’t the only time we’d visit. Myren’s birthday was in December and Lolo’s was in June. In December and June, cemeteries weren’t heaving with every Marikeño seeing their dead. December and June were for visitors like faint gusts of wind and handfuls of people walking around with umbrellas to shield from the afternoon sun.

Robert was always there when we visited in December and June. He was one of the caretakers for the graves, ours one of them, and he never failed to materialize from the distance just as we settled down by our lot. Robert often wore a cap, always brought garden shears, and never did his job the way Nanay wanted him to. Nanay paid him to keep the grass over our lot trimmed before we arrived, but we’d always find the grass unruly and unkempt. Nanay and I would watch him smile, apologize good naturedly, and bend down to cut the grass away. The wind passed by and caught blades of green, blowing it past us, past anything we could see.

Lola came with us in June. Her short cropped hair would always catch the light, revealing the grey close to her scalp, undyed by the brown she usually used. When I asked her how long she and Lolo had been married, she laughed, sound lilting like a bird call, and said she couldn’t remember anymore. We’d bring a little folding chair for Lola, her bones too creaky to sit on the ground, and she’d sit with an air of soft contentment much like how she sat next to Lolo’s bedside that last year as he was hooked up to countless beeping machines until they beeped no longer.

Nanay always visited. Sometimes she’d visit with nobody else. Myren was her son, and Lolo was her father. She was the one who immediately made arrangements for Lolo’s wake a mere hours after his passing. She’d be the one to buy the flowers, to light the candles, to take the pictures. She bought the stickers, but if I remember correctly, the purchase of the lot was between her and Tatay. Once the life was over, the now, she’d take care of the after.

“You know,” she said. I had asked her about the stickers when we visited for this year’s Undas. After talking about the yearly fee, she put her hand to her face, pensive. “When I had Myren moved, I wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I told them we were going to move him but I told them not to open the grave unless I was with them,” she told me. There was an odd smile Nanay would get, sometimes, when she was angry about something but didn’t want to look it. She wore that smile now, frayed around the edges with use. “They didn’t listen to me.”

“Oh.”

“So I’m not actually sure.”

“Of what?”

“If that’s Myren.” Nanay’s smile persisted as she went on. The graves in Barangka Municipal are so close to each other, so crowded. The ground is made of dirt and debris, and the remains of a newborn baby worn down by a decade and a half of time could look like anything. She wasn’t actually sure. “That was all I had left of my baby, and now I’m not sure if the remains are even his.”

The sky was dark. The air was cool. The words stuck in my throat. I didn’t know what to say to that. Twenty-five years, and whoever was tasked to do the moving couldn’t wait a day or two. Before I could ask her anything else, we started walking forward through the crowded sidewalk to leave the cemetery the way we came. The way we kept coming.

She might not have been sure, and was upset at the fact, but yet here she was along with the rest of us.

-

There were a lot of reasons why we kept visiting. There was tradition, of course. A tri-yearly routine ingrained in our minds, in our bodies that kept making the trek to and through the cemetery. But ingrained elsewhere, thrumming with the same energy of heaving crowds and slow driving cars, moving forwards in spite of everything, was some kind of devotion. If anything, dying often meant leaving people behind, and most were never content with staying where they were left, trailing after their dead year after year. A man can die, a baby can die, but the people around him didn’t. Lives take a lot of effort, but after bits held just as much weight. The dead can wake the living, can make us wait for sunrises and sunsets in resting places, can carve out cities in shapes and planes made just for them.

One time in Barangka Municipal Cemetery, the space around Myren’s grave was congested with people. There was a section of the cemetery farther than this, so people walked by, overwhelming in quiet ways. Nanay motioned for me to climb the ladder at the side so I could breathe and avoid an asthma attack. With stilted, awkward hefts, I climbed. I climbed past my own height, past the heads of the passerbys, past the top of a smaller tower, and I wondered how far I could go. How high up. Barangka Municipal cemetery was right against the edge of Marikina, right next to where a sudden incline of land marked the ascent into Quezon City. Huddled here like a shelf, it was being built up, stacking graves and drowning more, and it would go on endlessly so long as people kept living and dying in the way people always did. The dead here were lifting Marikina higher, a watchtower over the city they called home.

[love-takes-work]

Keep Beach City Weird! Outline & Review

The Keep Beach City Weird! book is a little paperback full of Ronaldo's revelations. It's about what you'd expect, with the nuggets of truth that we may not recognize as truth until after the fact!

This volume is a keeper for any Steven Universe fan, but not much about it will be a surprise for anyone who's paid close attention to the show. It's fun, as usual, to watch Ronaldo loudly congratulate himself for uncovering THE TRUTH (you can "hear" his voice throughout, of course), and a bunch of the references are great fun to anyone who knows what he's referring to even if the context isn't spelled out.

Fans will also be treated to some new artwork! The picture of Ronaldo imagining himself in the hand of the Temple Fusion's animated form as a trusted sidekick is particularly interesting.

And since Ronaldo is one of those broken clocks that's right twice a day, fans who know his schtick can't help but wonder what conveniently hidden bits are actually Ronaldo straight-up telling us the future.

The book opens with an intro from Ronaldo Fryman, who declares himself as the weirdest thing in Beach City. (The Gems are a close second, he says.) He shares his frustration over not having been able to sell his book to mainstream publishers (which has led him to self-publish it), and warns you that ads for the family fry shop will be interspersed with the content because his dad helped fund it.

He then goes right into a "Monsters" section (decorated with art of him in his horror movie outfit and Peedee in a version of the Snerson costume).

The list includes Centipeetle, a Giant Bird, the Worm Monster, the Puffer Fish, "Giant Women from the Sea," the Watermelon Stevens, the Fusion Experiments, the Great North monsters, and the Crab Monster.

Most of these are not creatures he should have seen, and he shouldn't have pictures, but whatever, I digress. Ronaldo theorizes that the Centipeetles could be humans bitten by a radioactive centipede or centipedes bitten by a radioactive human. He discusses the story of William Dewey being saved by a giant woman whose image bears a resemblance to the Crystal Gems' temple, and then concludes, "Probably no connection." He mentions having seen Sugilite wreck the beach gym.

He brings up reports of the horrible Fusion Experiments and concludes they are zombies. He suggests the Great North monsters are a function of global warming and praises his own bravery in filming the Crab Monster for a documentary. And he also brings up his debunked "Sneeple" theory, which has been swapped for the Rock People theory. Those dang Rock People who want to kidnap Earth and bring it to the Mud Galaxy.

Ronaldo then goes into weirdness from space, detailing the Red Eye ("Vampire Spaceship"), the Rock People Space Program (based on Pearl's failed ship from "Space Race") the Plug Robonoids (which he thinks are an attempt to play space pinball), the Hand Ship (which he knew exactly what that was), the shirt that hit him in the head from "Shirt Club," and crop circles (like in "Joy Ride").

And then Ronaldo covers "Local Weirdness," starting with a double page about the Crystal Gems and then moving on to outline the Cat Fingers incident (with speculation on what causes "Cat Finger Fever"), the Frybo incident (was it all Ronaldo's fault for exploring tuber-based witchcraft?), the Oldest Man in the World incident (from "So Many Birthdays"), Lion sightings, Lars's fire breath, Guacola, and . . . Onion.

Next, Ronaldo gives you a tour of all the Weird Places, beginning with Funland Arcade (with a handy guide of moves you can use if you play "Teens of Rage"!), and taking you around to Race Mountain, the Abandoned Warehouse, Brooding Hill (with an included guide of things to brood about), the many-holed cliff (which he calls a Gnome City), and the Lighthouse.

And then, the "Times It Got Really Weird" section details the flowers from Rose's moss in "Lars and the Cool Kids" (did you know they were produced by cloud seeding?), the mountain of duplicated G.U.Y.S. from "Onion Trade," the disappearing ocean from "Mirror Gem" and "Ocean Gem," the blackout incident from "Political Power," Peridot's interrupting broadcast, the Great Diamond Authority, and Cluster Quakes.

And he closes everything with a "Weirdilogue" and encourages you to keep your own town weird.

Some gems:

"Like most bad stories, this one started at a farmer's market."

"I guess that's the danger of genetically engineered food: It might punch you in the face."

"Beach Citywalk Fries. We promise to NEVER bring out that Frybo costume again."

"What's scarier than a beach ball? Well, I guess a lot of things. . . ."

Ronaldo discussing an experience that was either food poisoning or accidentally eating deep-fried wood.

The Zombie Apocalypse Flow Chart which always leads to "Lock myself in lighthouse and prepare to watch the world I know crumble before me."

Ronaldo pointing out that the shirt that hit him in the head from an extraterrestrial source should be a size extra large next time, not youth medium.

"They have a cool home base in an ancient magical temple. My base is a lighthouse that I'm not legally allowed to occupy."

After an entire paragraph outlining how gross Guacola is, Ronaldo heartily encourages you to pick up a can of it while visiting Beach City.

"[M]y favorite – Teens of Rage. Probably because I am a teen who is full of rage at a world that doesn't know how to pronounce 'manga.'"

"Race Mountain, AKA the Devil's Backbone, AKA the Devil's Laundry Chute, AKA the Devil's Poorly Planned Highway, AKA Old Man Carwreck's Road, AKA Municipal Maintenance Route 64!!!!"

"I took a picture of it, which Lars really did not want published. Check it out."

Ronaldo speculates that maybe the moon has its own moon.

And here are the things I found notable for fans!

1. The book is dedicated "For Jane, My Ohimesama." I sure hope they're on speaking terms again after what happened in "Restaurant Wars."

2. Ronaldo gives the Crystal Gems his own names, referring to them as Square Head, Princess Nose, and Purple Girl.

3. When covering the fire breath incident from "Joking Victim," Ronaldo refers to Lars as "Local sarcasm dispenser Lars Barriga." This was the first place where Lars's last name was dropped.

4. The page about Onion's weirdness details an interaction that did not happen in the show but explains one that did: The ketchup packets that he famously ran over with his scooter in "Onion Trade" were begged from Ronaldo one day. Onion offered a photo of Ronaldo in third grade in exchange. (???)

5. Funland was apparently established over a century ago under the name Frederick Ulysses Neptune's Land of Mechanical Oddities and Entertainment. The entry also mentions that it contained a future-telling robot, a reference to "Future Boy Zoltron."

6. An apparent contradiction: Ronaldo, while discussing the video game Teens of Rage, identifies with the game because he is a teen who has rage. This would make him at the oldest nineteen if he is a teen. But in the section on the Lighthouse, he refers to the Beach City Explorer Club he had in his childhood with Lars, and claims that "fifteen years later" they had an incident there with the Lighthouse Gem. If it was fifteen years later but he's no older than nineteen, that happened when he was four, and that's impossible; he was far older than four in the flashback scene with Lars.

7. In a note to cover his butt from the Labor Department, Ronaldo suggests his brother is just a really short eighteen-year-old to distract from the fact that the family business is most likely exploiting him in child labor.

8. In his bit about "Teens of Rage," Ronaldo tells you about special moves for his favorite character, Gary Sunglasses. I think this is a contradiction to the episode "Arcade Mania" because while Steven is trying to teach Garnet how to play the game, he narrates that he thinks she's "a Joe Rock kinda gal," and the same character is pictured on the choosing screen.

9. Ronaldo refers to Stevonnie as "the mysterious Racer S." while discussing the greatest race he ever saw at Race Mountain. Not sure where he got "S." from, especially since he appears to have been in attendance at Stevonnie's first appearance at the rave in "Alone Together" and presumably witnessed their unfusion.

10. Other wrestlers besides those shown in the wrestling episodes are introduced in a promo flyer. We now have After School Champion Assistant Principal Gene McCormick, Culinary Tag Team Champions Baste Face and the Iron Saucier, Women's Caped Crusader Champion Tina "Ten Fingers" Gonzales, X-Treme League Champion Presented by Guacola The Ocean Town Kid, Interdimensional Champion of the Multiverse Glossy Wayne, and Old Timey Senior League Tag Team Champions Sarsparilla Frank and the Colonial Terror.

11. When talking about how to brood properly, Ronaldo refers to his hair as his "frylocks." Ha.

12. The lighthouse was apparently constructed two hundred years ago to keep people away from Beach City, not to help the ships be guided in. This might be one of the true things in the book. Who knows?

13. In "explaining" Peridot's broadcast that happened during "Cry For Help," Ronaldo comments that Peridot called herself Peridot, but that it is actually pronounced "Peridot." (It isn't discussed exactly what he means here, but he's surely making reference to the fact that the more common pronunciation of "peridot" does not have the T pronounced, even though the show uses the version where the T IS pronounced.)

14. Ronaldo, while explaining the Great Diamond Authority to us, assigns the Diamonds' underlings into a strict hierarchical society made up of the classes Chalk, Slate & Granite, Rock Candy, and Clods.

15. Ronaldo terms the earthquakes from the beginning of Season 3 to be "Cluster Quakes" because they came in clusters. Fans will know that they actually did come from a giant mutant Gem Fusion buried in the Earth which is called the Cluster.

The book has some new art that isn't just screencaps from the show, and it's a fun ride. I recommend it, and it's cheap!

[SU Book and Comic Reviews]

[ythmir-writes]

Wish Upon A Star ch02

Byron Wagner x MC Fandom: Midnight Cinderella

Summary: princesses can be stubborn when it involves bday gifts. but what do you give a king wanting for nothing?

No warnings

[Happy Birthday King Byron!! (better late than never!)]

A/N: in which i push the extent of how much transitioning i can get away with. also was supposed to be a birthday story but somewhere along the way, it lost that theme. insanely indulgent. but please consider giving it a look anyway.

spare some ko-fi?

Chap 02

Prologue, Chap 01, Chap 03

“Sugar stars!”

She could still remember the first time she had seen sugar stars; how the little girl had beamed at her, shoving a small glass bottle into her hands. “They will help with your wounds! Promise! Papa says they can heal anything!”

It had not been the most awe-inspiring circumstances. She had almost received a broken nose after all, not to mention suffered a few minor injuries. It had been during a routine inspection of the docks. For all that Wysteria boasted of the lowest tariffs and customs duties to the point that it was almost free to import and export wares into their market, there was no shortage of smugglers or illegal trade. The Princess Elect, as part of her campaign to remain aware first-hand of the plight of her people, had joined Alyn and his knights in their patrol, though discreetly, and wearing a helmet besides.

It was simply unfortunate that that had been the time trouble would get out of hand. A sudden commotion by the warehouses. The unmistakable wailing of a little girl being carried far away from her father.

She could never turn a blind eye to that.

Nevertheless, it had turned out to be a fortunate turn. For the daughter. For the merchant named Nithya, who turned out, knew his way around a street fight gone wrong when given a weapon. And for the rest of the merchants who felt safer from then on in using the warehouses to store their goods. But not so much for the sharks, or their unscrupulous members. Not even for most of Nithya’s wares regrettably, which had been collateral damage.

Or to her left hand even, which had suffered a bad cut when she was trying to deflect a strike aimed at Nithya’s youngest daughter.

As if to apologize, the little girl had rushed to thrust the confectionary into her hands - well, hand - while Alyn had been busy tutting beside her and inspecting her wound, murmuring something about Giles and losing his head.

Technically, they were not really stars, or shaped like them even, but if she raised the flask filled against the light, the colors sparkled alive. They had certainly been twinkling then amidst the rubble of the warehouse and the groans of several men echoing through the dark.

She had only been mildly curious about it, offered to her after all by Nithya’s daughter as nothing more than to help grit her teeth against the sting of the salve to her cuts. They looked like any other fancy treat from the eastern kingdoms, nothing more. She had seen more peculiar specimens.

It had been Nithya’s stories, as he offered salve for their wounds, that had gotten to her. Time seemed to have suddenly stopped and all there was his stories and the flicker of something different in his eyes.

Upon tasting the treat, she had confirmed that it was just indeed sugar.

“Balled into tiny clumps.” Alyn’s voice had been sullen as he shook more of the candy into his palm. “I take it back. It’s too perfect to be a clump.”

“You don’t like it?” She had asked.

“Like it? I absolutely despise it.” Alyn had grumbled and then knocked back five into his mouth. “Because I only know of exactly one rumored method you could turn sugar into something like this and it takes days. In front of a very hot pan. Extremely arduous process.”

“Can you do it?” She had tried to avoid the excitement from seeping into her tone. Alyn had made a face that looked like he was already being tortured.

A no, then.

Before Alyn could rattle more of the candies out of the flask, she took it from him. “I was enjoying that.” He had said.

She had turned then to Nithya, a grin already unfurling on her lips, an idea beginning to bud and grow in her mind. “Nithya, can you procure more of these?”

“Of course, your Highness, Although it would take some time. With my shop in its state, I am not sure I can -”

“My knights will see to your shop. And I am willing to pay double. Triple even! But I need three flasks exactly fifteen days from now, not a day later.”

Nithya, whose color was only returning then, had suddenly paled again. “Your Highness - ”

She then motioned to his pottery. “It takes even longer to make these, am I mistaken? Surely, making candy would be easier?”

Alyn had hissed through his teeth. “Arduous process? Remember?”

She had ignored Alyn. “You’re turning down my illustrious offer?”

“But my wares -!”

She then named her final price.

Both Nithya and Alyn had gasped.

“Are you insane?” Alyn had said.

“Princess, your generosity is too much! Even for three flasks! I cannot accept so much of it without feeling as if I have cheated you! This is not -!”

She had waved both of their fussing away with her bandaged hand. “Three flasks. Filled to the brim. You say these grant miracles, yes? Then perhaps this deal is something close enough to it.”

And that had been that.

Or rather, that was supposed to have been that.

The bed was extremely inviting when she had returned to her chambers after her visit to the Crawford manor, laying down face first unto the mattress, not even bothering to remove her coat or boots. Even when the familiar cheery air of Nico Meier, her butler extraordinaire, greeted her as he pushed a tea trolley into the room, she had simply made enough noise to be comprehensible. Thank you, leave it there, I simply need a moment.

But as much as she was physically unmoving, her body like lead sinking deeper into the mattress with each second, her mind was still vacillated,swinging incessantly between her options.

She shouted into her pillow, one obscenity after another.

And that was when Robert Branche had come to visit her.

The esteemed painter had not even bothered to wait for her reply when he knocked, instead opening the door and walking in when others would have waited outside quaking in their shoes.

“I am sure to others this would be a good time to avoid you,” He said. “But I suppose our history has made me somewhat immune to your…” He paused, choosing his words carefully, his eyes misting with nostalgia. “Sudden outbursts of profanity.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She replied with a huff of breath. “At least, not always anyway.”

“I brought tea.” Robert continued as if she had not replied at all, showing her a small box filled with brown bags before he busied himself with the trolley. Soon, the pleasant smell of spice and flowers filled her room.

She hoisted herself up from her bed. “What are you giving Byron?”

“I waived my commission fee for him.” Robert answered.

Apparently, he had been commissioned to make an extensive map of Stein and its new borders, complete with detailed minutiae that even he could not divulge fully. Its size had proved to be a balk to Robert’s studio and he had been forced to move rooms.

“I heard you were having trouble with Byron’s birthday gift.” Robert then said.

“Trouble is an understatement.”

“Tell me about it.”

Perhaps it was the way Robert had said those words, or perhaps the way he planted himself sitting on her sofa with two cups of tea before him. Regardless, Robert was poised to listen.

So she sat across him and told him of what she had learned.

It was not news that sugar was rare in the eastern kingdoms; Wysteria was simply fortunate to be able to import sugar to add to its own supply.  In turn, it was not news that sugar stars were rarer. Not only because of the scarcity of the ingredient but also because making them took an extensive amount of time.

It was one thing to harvest and procure the sugar and another to melt, mix, and harden it. Again and again and again.

Perhaps it was the repeating process; it would not be the last time that labor oft-repeated with a singular purpose spawned supernatural results. Perhaps it was the emotion behind the process; unwavering belief, after all, is all that is needed to make known those that were unknown. Or perhaps, it was all three that made the sugar stars so unique.

The rarity. The toil. The orison.

If one looked at it that way, then it was possible that something so austere could bring relief, euphoria, and more.

She had been told that a man had once walked the earth with dreams bigger than he could ever hope to fulfill in a lifetime. That to bring peace he had sacrificed himself, abandoning the world. That in the penultimate moment he had wavered, beseeched as he had been by his beloved. Stay, she had said. There is still so much more to be done. Yet he could not undo his acts. And that in an effort to salvage the pipe dream he had held on for so long, or perhaps to selfishly stay just one moment longer, he had heeded her. And they had taken the sugar stars. And that they had been snatched away from the grip of death to walk the earth in eternity.

Regardless of how or why, some truly believed that sugar stars hold some sort of magical capability. There have been many accounts of sugar stars bolstering morale, of curing unknown maladies, of making lame men walk, of taming even the wildest of beasts. There were tales that superhuman guardians kept sugar stars stored in the center of complex labyrinths, allowing mortals only a scant supply.

Others dismiss the rumors as mere fairy tales. After all, how can something so simple be a source of miracles? They’ve eaten sugar stars before and were no better for it. There was no logical explanation that mere sweets could ever help accomplish superhuman tasks. The rarity of sugar was a legend in itself and it would be no surprise that it had inspired more than one tall tale. Facts swapped for fantastic prose. Identities twisted. Spice and glamor added to create a dizzying concoction.

And yet, in her mind, she could still see Nithya as he had told his tales; the solemness in his voice, the slight quiver in the air, the reverence that was unmistakable in his eyes as he ended.

Wishes.

Miracles.

A second life.

Eternity.

Needless to say and regardless of whether they were as far-fetched as it all sounded, she had no intention of reneging on her deal with Nithya. She had given her word, and her word was her honor; no amount of personal discomfort could ever make her take back what she had promised. If anything, she thought she had made a new friend; one that had blossomed from a chance meeting, her desire to protect her people, and peppered with stories of lands she had never seen, of valiant acts she hoped she could also one day accomplish.

As she summed it up, she wondered out loud if they were true and she admitted that deep in her heart, she wanted them to be. It seemed impossible and there was simply no way of ever finding out, of ever confirming the veracity of his stories.

But she had dreamed of little else since then.

“Do you still intend to give him the sugar stars?” Robert asked.

“Yes.” She said. “I still do want to give him something at least.”

A pause.

“Valeria?” Robert’s tone had been soft. Too soft. And she knew the next line would be far from forgiving. “Why do you regard your gift to be so insignificant that Byron would not like it best?”

She stammered, “Well, I -”

But before she could start Robert had cut her off, “Don’t you think that is something for him to decide? After all, it is his present.”

Silence. Except for the sound of Robert setting down his teacup. And for some reason, it seemed to stretch on forever.

“You should sleep.” Robert finally said. “It’s been an emotional day.”

“Okay.” Her voice was nothing but a whisper and it sounded more like an acquiesce to an order than an affirmation of fact.

“Valeria.” Robert had called out again, but gentler this time. She looked up then to see him looking at her with surprising tenderness on his face. “There are far more precious things in life.” he continued. “Far better things that can’t quite be wrapped up with a bow. Take it from someone who’s seen stranger things.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, unable to find the right words to frame a question that  was creeping in her mind for some time.

“What exactly do you give a King wanting for nothing?” Robert chuckled. And yet it seemed like there was a twinge of pain in it too. “It’s the simple things, isn’t it? Like wishes within a bottle.”

“Robert -”

And then all of a sudden, someone had knocked a her door, interrupting them. “Enter.”

“Your Highness, my lord, forgive the lateness of the hour.” It was Tobias, one of her personal guards. “The merchant, Nithya. He’s here. He has come to deliver the sugar stars, my lady.”

[ecotone99]

[MF] An Impossible Dream

An Impossible Dream

Dreams are scary things. People will sacrifice everything they have in pursuit of a dream. They can both drive people to achieve great things and imprison them in insanity. Some people have dreams that they can follow quietly. Other people have grand dreams that trample over the dreams of others, leaving nothing in their wake. Even after a dream has long since faded away and been tossed into the darkest depths of the mind, it still simmers. And if a dream has completely disappeared from a person’s mind, then they are no longer human, for they have no dreams.

---

Ever since I can remember, my family has lived in poverty. I grew up in a small townhouse in the lower south side of Atlanta and was surrounded by gangs, drugs, and violence growing up. Many mornings I would sneak into my dad’s office cabinet and borrow his old Browning High-Power pistol because I was afraid that someone would jump me on my way to school. I never had to use it, thankfully. But I was still always scared. I would never stay out with friends past sunset. I refused to go to the west side of town. I only went out to shop or run errands when necessary. My friends all called me a coward, but a lot of them died before we graduated high school. I imagine that they would be just as careful as me if they had a second shot at life. I shared a dream with everyone who grew up in neighborhood back then. I wanted to leave this life of poverty. I wanted to grow up and become rich and make something of myself. That was my sincerest dream.

I was nineteen years old when I found out about the organization. My father had been spending late nights outside of the house and our family was suddenly bringing in sums of money that wouldn’t have been possible otherwise. I begged my father to let me go out and earn money as well, but he adamantly refused-- until the day he lost his job at the hardware store. That night, he packed his bags and departed our house at midnight, and when I begged him to let me come along, he finally obliged. I was inducted into the organization by his recommendation that night.

The organization was made of faceless phone numbers. I was assigned an operator who would give me jobs to do every now and then. At first, the jobs were relatively simple. My operator would ask me to deliver a package of drugs to a certain location or help in a looting of some warehouse. They paid me well with each completed job. Eventually, the jobs started to get more dangerous. My father tried to convince me to abandon the job and go back to school, but I refused. I killed political figures, drug lords, rogue agents, and anyone else that troubled the organization. As the intensity of the jobs increased, so did the pay. The first person I ever killed was a young boy who had managed to learn some secrets behind the higher-ups of the organization. I remembered the look in his eyes right before he died—pleading desperately for life. It was the look of someone who knew that all their unfinished hopes, desires, and goals would remain just that—unfinished. He begged me for his life and cried, promising that he wouldn’t use the information against us. I closed my eyes, shot him once, and left him there to bleed to death as I couldn’t stomach to shoot him a second time. I vomited afterwards and I resolved that I would never get used to killing people. I started counting every time I took a life, and eventually it did get easier. I lost track past 100. After every mission I was awarded with thousands of dollars, expensive clothing and jewelry, exotic vacations, and so on. Slowly but surely, my dream was starting to come to fruition.

One day my father took a job to kill some important underworld figure and managed to get himself killed in the process. His funeral had all the makings of a somber moment. My relatives gathered around his grave while my mom knelt next to his coffin, screaming at his corpse to wake up. There was not a dry eye during the procession that evening. The whole funeral, all I could think about was how much of an idiot my father was for taking that job. He should’ve known how risky it was. I really couldn’t feel sad over my father dying. I only felt disappointment. I remember thinking to myself how strange it was. But I knew that I was supposed to feel sad and cry during funerals, so I did. But I knew that regardless of whether my father was alive, my dream still was.

My phone gently vibrated on the nightstand next to me, flashing a notification about an incoming text. I groggily awoke and read the message. It was from my operator. Are you available for a job? There’s a rogue agent near you right now that is suspected of killing an agent named Edward Nuvelle. I stared blankly at my screen for a while, contemplating if this job was worth the risk. I generally avoided jobs where my life was in jeopardy too. Another text message. We can pay $50,000. I immediately texted back to accept the job and got up to put my clothes on as a drop pin was sent to me of the location of the crime scene. I checked the time. It was 1AM, and I could be back before sunrise. I dawned my black coat and set out into the frigid night.

My taxi pulled up to the pin location at around 1:30 AM. It was an extravagant mansion located about 20 minutes from the center of the city. A spiked metal gate loomed over me as I exited the taxi, as if warning me of imposing danger inside. The house itself was ostentatious. It had a large Victorian garden in front of it with immaculately trimmed bushes, well-kept flower gardens, several statues of Renaissance figures, and a giant Lotus fountain at its center, spouting off torrents of water. The grass itself was a bright green and clearly mowed recently. It was picturesque. As I walked through the steel gate, a concrete pathway was laid out for me that cut through the middle of the garden, around the fountain, and straight to the front door of the house. The house itself occupied the size of a football field and was made entirely of white bricks and stucco. It had countless windows and a steeply pitched roof that was sectioned off with different wings of the house. Waiting for me at the front door was a woman in her mid-20s. She was wearing a short red silk nightgown with black lacing around its edges. She had voluminous dirty blonde hair that fell around her pale shoulders and neck like curtains of gold. Her eyes were a shade of deep blue, but they were red and puffy from crying.

“Are you the agent they sent?” She said shakily.

“Yes,” I said. “And you are the spouse of Edward, Emilia Nuvelle?” She nodded and beckoned me inside the house through the two mahogany wooden doors. “Thank you,” I said, and paused before adding “and my sincerest condolences.” The inside of the house was barren. The floor was an ocean of polished marble tiles while a grand chandelier of diamond and gold loomed over the entrance hall, but there was barely any furniture or decorations. It didn’t feel like a home.

“My husband is in the dining room. I left the body untouched.” She said.

I nodded and made my way through the entrance hall and into the dining room, where Edward’s body was slumped in a corner of the room. His blood was spread out across the wall and there was a dark red bullet wound to his chest. His face was twisted in an expression of worry. Edward’s tracking badge was still with him, an instrument which documented every human encounter he had over the past 72 hours. I took out my phone and scanned the badge chip. My phone lit up with a list of names arranged from most to least recent encounters. The list of names had mainly documented encounters with his wife and another person by the name of “Charles Nuvelle,” which I presumed to be his son. The two names that stood out, however, were “Yuri LeBlanc” and “Elise Martritz.” I quickly passed along the information to my operator to locate the last known positions of these two names. As I sent off the request, I heard voices coming from the entrance hall.

I ran over to see Emilia and a young boy. “Charles! Go back to your room. Don’t worry about Daddy, okay? He’s safe.” The boy was on the verge of tears and instantly turned to me as I entered the hallway. He ran up to me, with tears still in his eyes.

“Mr. Agent, is my dad safe? He really is okay right?” he cried.

I hugged him and shed tears, patting the back of his head before facing him with a reassuring smile. “He’s going to be okay. Don’t you worry. Now listen to your mother and go back upstairs.” The boy nodded and ran back up the house’s spiral staircase into his bedroom. As soon as he was out of sight, I wiped the tears from my face and asked Emilia, “What I said wasn’t insensitive, right?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m sure he was very comforted by your words.” She hesitated, opening her mouth for a few seconds as if she had something to say. “How- how long have you been with the organization for?”

“About ten years.”

She laughed and said, “Do all agent of the organization have that look on their face?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You share the same expression that Edward always had. The look of someone who doesn’t care about anyone but themselves,” she said. “I could tell you were faking crying back there. Don’t you have the slightest bit of empathy?”

“My father died when I was young. I-” I hesitated. “I cried at the funeral.”

She scoffed. “None of you are human,” she said, as she walked away.

Her words bit at me. After all, I had a dream, and to chase a dream is the most human thing that one can do. My phone vibrated in my pocket with a text message from my operator. Yuri LeBlanc seems to be the agent who killed Edward. He’s been in the junkyard downtown for the past hour. Elise Martritz seems to be an agent who died a few days ago. I looked up at the room that Emilia had retreated to, and decided against pursuing any further argument.

The sky was dark and even the birds were silent at 2AM in the abandoned junkyard. The junkyard itself was just a large field of dirt and gravel with countless broken-down cars littering the area. The cars were arranged in disorder, with vehicles of all different shapes and sizes being scattered randomly about. Some were tipped over on their sides while others were slammed into each other. A couple of yellow school busses lay abandoned in the junkyard too, towering over the smaller cars like giants. The only signs of life were the weeds growing rampantly around some broken down cars that looked as if they had been sitting in the junkyard for centuries. Empty trash bags and lost toys sat still on the ground, waiting for someone to pick them up.

I closed my eyes and listened to the silence. Several minutes passed by of listening to my heartbeat until I heard the faint sound of a piece of trash being knocked over. I twisted around to the source of the noise and caught a glimpse of a silhouette running past a group of cars. I immediately took off in pursuit. Once I had a clear view of the figure, I steadily aimed my pistol and shot once. Then twice. The figure shrieked and immediately collapsed to the ground. I ran up to see a young man lying on the ground with two bullet wounds to his abdomen. He was dressed in a dirty dress shirt and pants, clearly having had been in the junkyard for some time now. He looked up at me from behind the threads of his long black hair.

“So, you found me,” he said dejectedly.

“Yuri LeBlanc. You killed another agent of the organization.” I said. “I’ve been assigned to kill you.” I raised my gun to his head.

“Before you kill me,” he interrupted, “I want to ask you why.”

“Why?” I questioned.

“Yes,” he said. “You don’t seem hesitant at all. I want to know what drives you.”

“I do what I’m told,” I said. “I-” I paused. “I have a dream that I must see to fruition. A dream to stand above all others. To succeed in life. To escape poverty.”

Yuri laughed. “A dream, huh? I had a dream very similar to yours, once. But… that dream changed. Your dream… it’s very empty.” I lowered my gun. In a raspy voice, he said, “I have a different dream now. And I killed Edward for taking that dream away from me.”

“What was it?”

---

My name is Yuri LeBlanc. I was born in a black box. I was raised by the uncaring hands of uncaring faces to become just that—Uncaring. As a child, I would waste my days away in a cramped, damp, pitch black room watching shows on an old TV set that just barely illuminated a corner with whatever program it was playing that day. Food was delivered to me 3 times a day, through a little doggie door in the far end of the room. I started the counting the amount of meals I got—1,2,3… I eventually lost track. The first time I was taken out of the room I was brought onto a surgical bed and had several operations done on me by strange men with uncaring faces. Something was implanted in my brain that day. I went back to the black box. A few weeks later I was called in for another surgery where something else was implanted in me. This cycle repeated for more surgeries than I could count—1,2,3… I eventually lost track. The day I was finally done with countless surgeries, I was taken out of the black box and greeted by a very enthusiastic man who told me that from that day forward I would be serving the organization. He smiled at me too, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Despite how much he wanted to put on a façade, he was just another uncaring face.

The organization was filled with uncaring faces. Day in and day out I would get sent on missions to kill certain people and no one would ever care. I would find some person who had angered the organization in one way or another and I would kill them, and I never knew why. But a lesson had been ingrained in me from birth—I had to do what I was told, without question. So, I did. And I didn’t care. Maybe something they implanted in my brain stopped me from caring. Maybe I had just become desensitized to it after a lifetime. One day, the enthusiastic man told me about a wonderful thing called a dream. It was a desire that fueled men so deeply in their hearts that they would do anything to accomplish it. So, I imagined that instead of killing for no reason, I could kill for a dream. A dream of success.

I was seventeen when I first met Elise. She had just joined the organization at the time. She had the most determined, blood-thirsty look I had ever seen when I first met her. Perhaps that’s what drew me to her at first. The first job we went on together, I saw that my evaluation of her was right. She knew how to sneak around, how to operate weapons, and how to do everything just as well as any other agent. Yet, she was unique from anyone I had ever worked with in that she always cried after completing a kill. Every time we got sent on a job together, she would always successfully kill our target. And every time we killed anyone she would always cry afterwards. One day I got tired of wondering why.

“Why do you cry after we kill people that you don’t know?” I questioned one afternoon, after she had finished crying from a job.

She looked down. “I can’t help it. I know I should be used to it by know, but I just-” she paused. “I just think about the children, siblings, and parents they’re leaving behind when we kill them. And it gets to me. It doesn’t get to you?”

“No,” I answered. “I guess I can’t relate.” We walked in silence for a while longer. “Then… If you’re so remorseful for our target’s loved ones, why do you kill them at all?”

She frowned. “Because I have a dream.”

“I see,” I said.

I took more jobs with Elise. We would always discuss each other’s lives after we were done. I learned little things about Elise every day. She loved chocolate. She was squirmy around mice. She wanted to go to South Africa one day. She loved drawing with charcoal. She had a best friend named Cece growing up. She was raised in a small apartment in a dangerous part of a city where she worked hard to support her parents. Her mother was a recovering drug addict while her father was a blue-collar worker. She ended up joining the organization because her parents died, and she resolved to work her way out of poverty. She hated school and her boss was strict.

“Are you glad that you left that life?” I questioned her one day.

“No,” Elise quickly answered. “My best memories were with my mom and dad.”

“But they were-” I interrupted.

“I know,” Elise said. “But it was great to have a home to go back to every day. I could come home from a long day of work and my dad would ask me how my day was. My mom would be in the kitchen cooking up something tasty. And we would sit down and have dinner together.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“It wasn’t,” Elise chuckled. “But…” her voice trailed off. “It was nice.” When she remembered that moment, I saw her smile for the first time. A smile that reached her eyes.

Before I knew it, I wanted to spend every day with Elise. I spent every day thinking about her. When we weren’t together, I felt lonely. Whenever I was with her, I felt content, happy even. I started spending time with her outside of missions. Sometimes we would go to observatory and stare up at the stars together—she knew an awful lot about constellations from her time in school. Sometimes we would go to the junkyard and practice shooting bullets into old cars, just to see how accurate we could get our aim. We would rent movies and watch them together. She would always cry at the sad ones. She got scared easily. She would blush every time I called her by her full name. She had the cutest smug smile every time I would treat her to food. She became everything to me. My life was contained in our little moments.

And among the thousands of agents I had worked with over the course of my life, she was the only one who had managed to change my dream.

Elise was killed by Edward Nuvelle two days ago. The report from my operator read that Elise was working for another organization as a spy, and she had recently been commissioned to kill me. Agent Nuvelle took care of her for me. I didn’t know what to think after I read that report. I felt something break inside of me. I did understand that Elise may have been planning to kill me, but for some reason all I wanted at that moment was to see Elise. Why did I long for her like this? Why did I feel pain that someone who was out to harm me had died? Why did I desire the touch of someone who no longer exists? I collected my thoughts and figured that I may find some answers if I went to Agent Nuvelle’s home.

Agent Nuvelle’s wife answered the door for me. She welcomed me inside their lavish home. She told me that she was cooking dinner while her son was fast asleep in his bedroom. They were getting ready to eat dinner together as a family. Agent Nuvelle was seated calmly in the dining room, reading a book.

“Yuri,” Edward said. “So, you heard about Elise’s death?” I nodded. Edward’s face was a deadpan stare, showing no remorse over the fact that he had just taken a life. “It is… regrettable that such a promising young agent ended up being a traitor.”

“Do you have a dream, Edward?” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Everyone has a dream. I had a dream. Elise had a dream. You have a dream. Your wife has a dream. Your son has a dream. Even the biggest, scariest executives of the organization have a dream that’s precious to them, right?” I said.

“I suppose,” Edward said, “I’ve achieved my dream of starting a family.” He smiled as he gestured to his wife in the other room.

“You have achieved that dream by trampling over the dreams of others,” I said. “Does that leave a bitter taste in your mouth? After all, if someone were to take this dream away from you, you would be very upset, right?” Edward nodded. “You ruined my dream, Edward. So I’ll take away yours.” I then raised a gun to his head, and calmly pulled the trigger. As I left the house, I glanced back to see his wife cradling Agent Nuvelle’s dead body. Their son was still fast asleep in a bedroom upstairs. And I begun to shed tears. Maybe, I thought, I’ve become like her.

---

Yuri coughed up blood onto the dirt beneath him. “You asked for my dream?” I nodded. He managed to whisper out his last words. “I wanted… to tell her that I l oved her. I wanted to text her that I missed her when she would leave me, and I wanted to say welcome back and hug her when we saw each other again. I wanted to watch movies together. I wanted to crack jokes with her. I wanted to argue. I wanted to make up. I wanted to start a family together and have a kid. And most of all, I wanted to leave the organization with her and get a normal house and a normal job.” He grinned and said, “And… It was a silly little dream, but… I thought that I could come home from a long day of work. And… she would say, ‘How was your day today?’… and I would say… ‘It was good.’” He died with a smile on his face. One that reached his eyes.

I knelt next to Yuri’s body for a while. Tears finally flowed down my face, for my father who had died so many years ago. And they really wouldn’t stop.

​

--

Hi guys I'm really new to writing and would appreciate any feedback on this story that I've been working on.

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