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[inkhornism]

WITH FRIENDLY CONNECTIONS ESTABLISHED ONCE MORE AND A DORMANT RIVALRY NOW BROUGHT BACK, SEEING THE TWO TEAMS PRACTISE TOGETHER EVERY FEW MONTHS BECOMES THE NORM. Bristled fur and ruffled feathers are a too common sight as the most energetic players of both schools get too into the match they are playing, sending the ball back and forth with such force and excitement one may even think of it as a meteor on fire hurtling through space. It's an atmosphere well-deserved, the scores tight and the sets long, hard won battles celebrated with ( too ) loud yahoo's! before they get right back into it for another round.

Free practice sees a decent drop in attendants, most players deciding they've had enough for the day and that their hunger and tiredness take priority over 'tossing one more' and 'please please please, show me that one move one last time'. Even though some cave in, do whatever is asked of them once more and leave before the ball can hit the ground.

Kuroo's laughter bounces off the walls unmistakably in the wake of the silence that has fallen after the earlier ruckus has died down considerably. A sharp sound of a heavy hand hitting a back ( accompanied by a most likely unintended guh noise and a cough to cover it up ) follows it and then more laughter. Tsukishima's grumbling echoes the gesture as he wiggles to escape the arm slung over his shoulders, hoping that the taller captain loses his balance and falls over. ( No such luck, however. )

To be completely honest, it's still a major surprise to Yamaguchi that his childhood friend agreed to extra practice. Not only that, but that he's involving himself with boys from other teams and actually putting in the effort to play well together even if all they've been doing so far is practise a few blocks before it devolved into teasing. But he's glad for it, more than words can express, no only because the blond is bonding with others, but also because it gives him himself a chance to do the same.

His company is a lot quieter, curtain of golden bangs hiding his face though more than once he's caught him glancing up from his game whenever something happens on the court that results in laughter, a sarcastic quip and the sound of the ball being passed around again. Kenma is the quiet type who stands back and observes before speaking up, but he doesn't mind. Yamaguchi is used to filling in the silence himself or keeping quiet and entertaining himself as needed. So far, he's been keeping a comfortable balance between peeking at the game his friend is playing and watching the others practise their spikes.

❝ Nice kill, Tsukki! ❞ carried through the air by a hand semi-curled next to his mouth. Kenma hmms next to him, cat-like eyes set on Kuroo. He mouths something that seems to get the other to straighten from his slouching position, grin in place. Whatever it is that he's said, the following spike goes down spinning then shoots to the side after making contact with the ground.

❝ Show off. ❞ but the fond smile audible in his voice is nigh palpable. Unlike Kenma, Kuroo enjoys putting on a show, especially if he gets to piss others ( Tsukishima ) off with it, chance that he'll never pass over in a million years. And that's good, all of them need somebody on another team to motivate them to get better, to stand on equal foot, to eventually surpass.

And so late evening slowly creeps into late night, what's meant to be some extra practice becoming a gaggle of boys just having fun. But… it's nice, it really is. All this treating each other constantly like opponents can get extremely tiring very fast.

( And if Yamaguchi leans a little bit more into Kenma's space while Tuskishima and Kuroo have another one of their play fights, well, there's nobody to see them. )

[inkhornism]

THE QUIET NOISE OF FANS IS ALL THAT BREAKS THE SILENCE IN FUTABA’S ROOM BESIDES THE OCCASIONAL HUM. Mindlessly browsing the recordings from when she bugged Leblanc forever ago is more done out of habit, able to easily filter out Sojiro’s voice ( and now Akira’s as well ) unless it changes to reflect something happening in which moment she slows the recording down and listens more carefully. Most of the time nothing happens and she eventually just lets them run their course in the background before moving them to an external storage as to keep her computer light. On and on, each folder gets scanned and moved until she comes across one she hasn’t opened in almost a year at this point, maybe more.

Bugging Goro’s phone was almost too easy. One would have expected that the Detective Prince ( psh, what a title ) would be a lot more careful with something that could contain information he’d rather not leak out. Maybe, in the end, he underestimated her despite knowing what he did once he joined the team if he hadn’t already put two and two together before that. A slight misstep in his oh-so-grand plan to get rid of their Leader and then get revenge before doing gods know what afterwards, she’s been simmering in her negativity regarding him for so long she’s not sure of the details.

( Only that she is. Too aware of what his plan entailed. Far too aware of a lot more things part of her wishes she’d never known. )

Even just opening the folder and seeing the files, she can pinpoint what each of them is about with accuracy – day to day plans, conversations with the Thieves, the plan that he was so sure would work out as well as the… She left the file as it was automatically named, not wanting to bring attention to it, but knowing that she won’t forget its contents either despite the generic name.

The bug hasn’t been active since back then. No new recordings have been made.

She still feels the way her stomach twists into knots.

Yet she can’t bring herself to delete it.

Despite supplying the team with what she heard via the bug, there are plenty of things she’s told only Akira on a hunch that he’d go out and do something stupid ( stupider ) if left to his own devices as he always does whenever the guy is involved. There are plenty more that she’s never told anybody that shook her conviction to never forgive him no matter what for taking her mother away from her so unfairly, for trying to do the same to the glue that kept the team united unlike anything else. It made her falter in her hatred, not enough to consider changing her stance, but enough to shed light at another angle over the whole situation.

While she was already inside a tomb, he was doing nothing, but digging his own grave. But while she managed to reach out, he never had the chance to do it before it was too late.

With a sigh, she reaches to turn the PC off and kicks the ground so the chair spins around. That’s enough deep cleaning for today, not that she has anywhere else to move the files since the last external storage just hit maximum capacity. Time to get a new one. Preferably one with more space.

[inkhornism]

DESPITE HIS FOOL DESIGNATION, AKIRA ISN’T STUPID BY ANY MEANS. He’s more than aware that coming to Mementos with only the crow for company can’t spell anything good, not with what he knows, but curiosity, little regard for himself and a constant bleeding heart are a too terrible combination hanging heavily on his already fractured soul for him to turn down such a request. They’ve explored just the two of them before, when they’d occasionally split into pairs in order to cover more ground a lot quicker, so he’s not worried about Shadows possibly getting the better of them – after all, there are safe rooms every five floors or so and he has a multitude of Personas he can call upon for any kind of situation ( as one does when running solo trips ).

A big, spacious room that until recently housed only a lonely Shadow and two chests is where all pretences are dropped similar to the way a chill suddenly turns the air around them frigid. Trickster senses are a lot sharper than even the other Thieves think they are, help him narrowly avoid being skewered by a bright lightsaber ironically bought by the raven himself. So long Goro is accompanying them, Akira is responsible for making sure that his gear is up to snuff ( though, always, the highest quality ) no matter how many times he tries to stop him from spending all that money on ‘things that aren’t necessary’. And always, always, Akira only shakes his head and just hands the stuff over, saying that the only way to repay him is to make good use of the items; no doubt pissing the other off considerably.

In the darkness only illuminated by the odd stray light and red wisps, the sparks flying off every time they cross weapons are the only way to reliably follow the fight. Two steps forward, a step backward, a long swipe that would normally leave him open, but he’s nimble and the gymnastics learnt from Kasumi have come in handy more times than not. His opponent moves to mirror his approach, elegantly avoiding even letting the knife graze him, quickly slashing at any opportunity should he catch the dancing shadow on the wrong foot. This back and forth of theirs feels wrong, feels right, feels strangely familiar in ways Akira doesn’t want to think about because thinking about it means inviting the scrapes he’s already acquired to end up as permanent marks on his heart instead.

( It’s far too late, a voice whispers bitterly at the back of his mind. )

But Akira started the fight already exhausted from a previous run through Mementos by himself and this confrontation is starting to wear what little energy ( and confidence to not let the pain he’s in show on his face ) wear thin. Equally matched by their temporary ally, blows traded almost one for one, he still finds himself somehow cornered in spite of the space chosen to be their one-off arena. Backed against the wall, this surely must be the end of their little scuffle – whatever it is that Goro wanted to test for himself, to see in opposing the Leader of the Phantom Thieves, he must have certainly gotten it by now.

Or not.

Definitely not.

It’s impossible to not feel his heart skip a beat, then, when the barrel of a gun is pressed against his chest. Goro is an excellent shot, he’d already known this from back when they played that game at the arcade for the first time and he wiped the floor with him flawlessly. He’d seen it in the Metaverse as well, how calmly he wields such a weapon, firing it with a precision that even he doesn’t quite have yet – and only makes up for by being as extra about it as possible.

Strangely enough, Akira doesn’t fear death. Or, rather, it would be more accurate to say that Joker doesn’t. Joker would gladly die for his friends if it meant that they escape alive. After all, it’s his own fault that they are in this situation to begin with, that they are risking their lives every day for something that may or may not work, for something that may fail them one day, for somebody who they fully believe in as if he were incapable of making any mistakes – why don’t they hate him? They have every reason to do so, to leave the team, to back out and never return. And he’d never blame them for any of it, would probably, quite honestly, quietly thank them for it.

Why is the boy currently pinning him against the wall, a gun they both know is fake, but not, pressed firmly in the center of his chest also listening to him? Because Akira Joker is the leader? Because Akira Joker can be trusted to make the right call no matter the situation?

( He wants to crumble to dust, but he feels as if he’s been affixed to the wall by a giant metal pin. )

He’s not sure when he finds his voice again, nor is he sure who is talking; ❝ This is not the most efficient way and you know it, darling. ❞ accompanied by a hand heavy as lead and yet moving as if it doesn’t belong to him reaching to correct the gun’s aim ❝ You know that the most vulnerable spot, especially in the Metaverse, is the heart. ❞ the Phantom Thieves’ heart, hisheart. Shoot him and watch everything fold onto itself akin to a house of cards that never stood a chance against the wind’s howl.

❝ Just pull the trigger, ❞ Crow Akechi ❝ Goro. ❞

[inkhornism]

WITH NOBODY TO REFLECT IN THE MIRROR, AKIRA FADES TO THE BACK OF HIS MIND IN FAVOUR OF THE WORLD AROUND HIM REFLECTING IN HIM. Unassuming silhouette that he is, he easily blends into his surroundings thus allowing sharp greys hidden by thick frames to observe those he holds dear.

( Gaze continously returns to a mop of warm, brown curls and the frown imprinted in that pretty visage they frame. )

He remembers a day in November, the unrelenting heat of the studio lights making him feel akin to a melting candle. Akechi stood so perfectly in his spot as if unaffected that it feels ridiculous. But the reason he isn’t affected is simple, the mask he wears is far too thick and sturdy to be melted by such things as artifical lights.

He remembers a day in January, the chilling shivers of freshly fallen snow sneaking their way inside Leblanc despite the heat being cranked so high up already. Akechi’s crisp presence felt like being blown by cutting winds, pale expression even paler ( because of the cold, because of the realization, because Akira can’t decide whether he’s still wearing makeup or not ) and rosy lips moving to say something.

He remembers a day in July, heatwave back in full force that he tries to combat with a paper fan while attempting to keep himself from sliding off the bench. Akechi appeared in the doorway in such an unobtrusive way that it looked like even the weak summer breeze might blow him away if he didn’t hold on the doorknob for dear life.

❝ I was just thinking. ❞ he says, unsure what to do with itchy and restless hands that only want to bury themselves in soft fabrics and touch, touch, touch to make sure that he’s not imagining things.

Maybe he should. Damn his discomfort at the proximity and damn the chance that he might be pushed away or worse.

So he does. Akechi is beyond beautiful from a distance, but up close and personal he’s absolutely gorgeous and Akira loses himself in those ruby red eyes with black flecks swimming in them. Idly, he wonders if it’s possible that their Personas may influence their appearance the tiniest bit, if Loki’s call of the chaos has bled through. Maybe he’s just imagining things now that he can take such a close look, lost in his own world of thoughts tumbling about his mind.

There are other things he notices this close. The way brown hair reflects the light and looks oh-so-soft to the touch, the fact that he’s pretty sure it’s grown longer, the way it frames a face that looks both still so youthful yet shadowed by a lifetime’s worth of tragedy. He takes in the little things that peer through lighter makeup like the faint dusting of freckles he’s very tempted to individually poke until he’s told off, the darker tone beneath eyes staring intently back at him, the little imperfections seared into his skin that makes him more the teenager he’s supposed to be than the idol put on a pedestal.

Although his hands have been hovering around the other’s hips as a possible resting place, he has yet to set them down anywhere. If not afraid that they’d just pass through the crow, he’s worried that he may cause him pain instead, unknowingly press on where he got shot in that blasted room behind the damned metal shutters. Sure, it’s been a good while since then, but ever the worrier and bleeding heart that he is, he doesn’t want to ruin everything. Despite the fact that this whole thing is already risky enough.

Akira is suddenly extremely glad their reunion takes place during summer because he’s pretty sure he’s never seen Akechi not covered up from head to toes. Perhaps once or twice in T-shirts, but never had the opportunity to just… look at him. To take in the muscles that have resulted from bouldering in his limited free time and likely from running through Mementos and Palaces all on his own. That and the scars he can pick up, the little nicks and the bigger gashes, all long healed up by now, but that they’ve left their mark upon once fair skin. He can’t help, but wonder how somebody who clearly doesn’t possess healing skills nor connections to people in the medical field managed to traverse such dangerous places and come back worse for wear, but alive nonetheless. Not for the first time is he beyond concerned about what Akechi must have done and learnt to do in order to drag himself out of the danger and to the nearest safe room and from there to the entry point so he can leave. Palaces are one thing, they have a static layout and the rulers likely didn’t try to interfere with him if they knew what was good for them, but Mementos? Another story entirely. The public’s opinion is so fickle, he’s learnt that the hard way when it turned on the Phantom Thieves in the blink of an eye. One thing is for certain, though. He’s good at being angry, at wielding anger akin to a knife, at making it expand and swallow things, even himself. Anger is a good way to keep the mind off worse things, to focus on what needs to get done now and without delay.

( He’s gotten distracted, fallen too far inside his own head. Vaguely, he wonders what Sophia would think of unconventional emotions use. Wonders what she thinks about the boy whose only fault was to exist in a world that hated him for seemingly little to no reason. )

Hands around his wrists shock him back into the present, the here and now, and before he can gather his surroundings, he instinctively pulls away with a pained noise, heart lodged in his throat. And then the sky feels like it’s rushing to crush him down when greys meet reds widened in just as much surprise, heart dislodged in a beat only to drop in the pit of his stomach instead. ( He needs to be more careful, he can’t go and make others worry about him. That will only lead to questions he’s not ready to answer yet. )

❝ I was just thinking… ❞ he repeats as if he hasn’t just stared in silence for probably an uncomfortable amount of time ❝ … that I like this you a lot better. ❞

[inkhornism]

WHY ARE THEY HERE? Because as much as they hate depending on others, the doctor is the only one capable of undoing the seals their creator has put on their powers. Too fragile she deemed them and thus decided that rather than getting rid of them, she would put them in a deep slumber and then drop them in their pretty house, never to see or be seen by anybody else. Long were the days ( months, years… ) in which nothing happened, in which existence was a mere flicker of eyes opening and closing, in which time didn’t flow in a dusty eternity of its own kind.

Do they trust him? Not at all for this exchange of theirs is nothing, but wolves in sheep’s clothing. They are using each other, one in search of reaching their full potential that was taken from them wrongfully while the other only sees the whole process as a large-scale project. A parasitic relationship in which they are both the host and the parasite, continuously pushing the deal they struck back and forth while at the same time awfully aware of how much they can’t stand one another. But that’s not going to matter in the end when both will have what they’ve been looking for for so long.

The laboratory is a familiar sight, one they’ve already memorized with how often they’ve been inside. It’s dark save for one window letting some bleak light inside, bookshelves cover an entire wall from top to bottom, a long desk against another that has an endless random assortment of items spread across in an organized disorganization fashion and, although they can’t see it from their current position, they know the wall they can barely peek at by rolling their eyes back contains no shortage of sketches of various beings he’d encountered across Teyvat and a frankly disturbing if they cared enough amount of details neatly written on each one.

In the middle of the spacious room sits an operation table above which a lone light dangles. On said operation table, the Sixth of the Harbingers lies motionless, lips set into an impossibly straight line and gaze lost somewhere past the artificial light that would likely blind a normal person with its intensity. Even when Dottore appears at their side, mask obscuring all, but the unnatural way his own mouth twists do they not show any signs that they are thrilled to be here, cold leather and metal beginning to warm beneath them from how long they’ve been waiting. If anything, they prepare to snap at him to get a move on already, they don’t have all day for him to play doctor on them as he takes them apart piece by agonizingly slow piece.

And so it begins.

He never works in the same order. If last time he started working on their lower half following an incident that left their legs in a less than stellar state ( crushed and bent at such awkward angles, yet still functional ), this time he takes his time in unscrewing the screws holding the metal plate that covers their chest. When he pulls it back, they already know what he’s looking for. Mockingly gentle hand traces the form of an anatomically correct heart across the wires, tubes and smaller components that make up their body. Once, he whispered sweet nothings in their ear about how he could transplant them a heart if they wished – all they had to do was ask. But such flimsy wishes are nothing more than the weakness of a puppet who knew nothing of the world and its cruelty, who thought that it could live among humans as if the differences between them weren’t like day and night. No, the only ‘heart’ they wish for now is the one rightfully theirs – the Electro Gnosis.

But it isn’t enough for him to try to get under their skin both metaphorically and literally, it’s never that simple. He proceeds to tinker with their insides methodically, bringing tools into view with exaggerated gestures ( scissors, scalpels, syringes with various liquids in them ) as if presenting an educational piece on the anatomy of eternity itself to an invisible audience. How he takes each instrument and brings it down to aid him in his research, wires and tubes snapping, components clanging loudly as they are forcefully interrupted from their monotonous work, Electro itself slithers about and zaps him a few times. Scaramouche merely makes a noise in the back of their throat, all too used to such eccentricity despite the disgust that drips inside them akin to an hourglass turned upside down. Each touch, each brush of fingers against the inside of their ribcage, each quiet hum and sound that tints the other’s reactions with each 'new’ discovery.

They had thought themselves lucky to not have pain receptors when they rushed into the burning furnace – they were going to be alright. None of the tools used elicit any kind of reaction out of them, but perhaps that’s the thing. They won’t scream in pain and agony, but the discomfort of not knowing where exactly he’s working weighs all the heavier. Something bursts open, they note dully at the sight of liquid suddenly splashing him and staining his white clothes a deep colour. It’s not blood, another thing their body hadn’t been blessed with, but rather something viscous, kind of like oil, but not really. Serves him right for poking around so carelessly, a small victory to distract themselves from the repulsion that coats every fibre of their very being. Prodding hands that leave not one inch of their body unchecked, pushing even past obvious boundaries as if he’s going to discover some hidden compartment. As if their creator put that much thought into them and as if she wasn’t planning to abandon them the moment she made a good enough prototype. In hindsight, she was never going to look at them for more than a few moments after their creation – the only thing they share with her is her face. She’d made that damned thing that parades in her place in her own exact likeness, after all.

In a flash, Dottore looms over them instead of being elbows deep inside their chest cavity. The sudden change almost has them recoil only that all they can do is a weird startled jump in place as if electrocuted ( and maybe they were, he’s been tinkering dangerously close to their power source ) before their gaze finds his. Deep crimsons peer against dull indigos as if looking for something, the answer to some long forgotten question or a certain flicker of emotion. The only thing that’s going to be found is burning anger only smothered by the boredom of such song and dance repeated over and over again. But if he looks for long enough, if he somehow manages to look behind the way light shines even in those depths only lit up by Electro and a sadistic streak then he might see something else. He might see the barely restrained loathing towards both him and themselves, might hear the way teeth grind against each other and how tightly clenched their jaw is. If he stares for long enough, he might take notice of how their entire being oozes hatred at merely being in his presence.

The intimacy of literally being known inside out by the man they detest the most makes them want to throw up. Even when he’s not actively working on them, merely standing there and watching, they can still feel the ghosts of too curious digits with no regard to how they are feeling trailing all over their skin. Just a ( rare ) specimen spread willingly before him for him to dissect as many times as he wants in the pursuit of satisfying his own interests.

The rest of their visit goes in a blur; being patched back up after whatever he ended up 'accidentally’ breaking, adjusting the power caps yet not fully taking them off and having various substances injected into their body just for them to have next to no effect on them. They don’t even hear what he says as they leave the laboratory although it’s doubtful that it’s anything useful. The only thing that’s on their mind right now is just getting as far away as possible. Maybe even take a walk outside, much as they hate trudging through the knee-high snow that only seems to come back with a vengeance whenever it’s shovelled away which is exactly why it stopped being done unless some low-level grunt gets stuck with it as a punishment or a cruel prank. Maybe the snow and cold will numb them enough to shake off wandering hands searching every nook and cranny of their body with no regard to their privacy.

[inkhornism]

YOU… exist. It’s a concept you’re vaguely aware of as you open your eyes for the very first time. The place where you find yourself is an unfamiliar room, as is everything else to your pure, untouched mind. Sound reaches your ears and you instinctively turn your head until you spot its source – somebody is talking to you, telling you things. You don’t understand, but you feel compelled to pay attention, to listen and commit to memory, to obey. Just as suddenly as you’ve been thrust into this strange world, you find yourself plunged back into darkness. Unbeknownst to you, a single tear rolls down your cheek and thus seals your fate.

You are… a nameless puppet. You don’t know for how long you’ve been in your new home. You don’t know if time has passed at all. Every day is more of the same, more of the golden light filtering through the clean windows despite the hazy surroundings if you get closer in order to look outside. It never moves, always falling onto the same spot and… it’s not warm although you think it should be. Nor are the dust motes gathering everywhere, growing by the… day? and only disturbed by yourself when you remember that you can get up and move. Although even that becomes a memory of the past as, instead, you sit beneath the maple tree. Your eyes close and open, the darkness means nothing, the passage of time means nothing, everything means nothing.

You are… the kabukimono. Picked up from the rubble and brought to a place you don’t recognize, surrounded by people you’ve never seen before. They all look at you, make comments about you before, at last, they turn and address you properly. You have no idea what they want from you, you can’t answer any of their questions and it soon becomes apparent to them as well. Even so, they welcome you with open arms and teach you everything with so much care and patience. Soon enough, you begin living among them, helping them with tasks however you can, even taking part in their strange gatherings; a cup of bitter tea always ends up in your hands. It feels… strangely warm, so unlike where you were before. No longer are you drifting while waiting, now you have friends and a family.

You are… Kunikuzushi. At long last, you now have a proper name although it’s not something to be celebrated. You picked it yourself in the wake of having been betrayed a third time. The last time, you vow, for your nonexistent heart has turned to stone and nothing and nobody is ever going to make a home in it anymore. No, the only thing that you’ll accept to put inside is the power that is rightfully yours, the power that your divine selfish creator decided to steal from your very hands before casting you away in the guise of mercy. Everything will burn until there is going to be nothing left of it under your gaze, you’re going to make sure of it. Mortal, divinity, mechanism, the very powers themselves are going to bow to you, to your power, lightning bent to your will so you can make yourself a crown out of it.

You are… Scaramouche. Balladeer, the Sixth Harbinger; your new identity bringing you a step closer to your goals. No longer are you wandering aimlessly in search of a way to put your plan in motion. Now you’re part of an organization, high ranking and only getting stronger as your potential is unlocked little by little. Soon enough, you’ll be back to your full potential. Soon enough, nothing will stand in your path anymore. Soon enough, the world will know that you never forgot nor forgave. Eternity is such a long time, more than enough for your hatred to grow and grow and grow, fester into something ugly and merciless. Nobody will be spared from your anger even if it takes everything in you, even if it takes you. At long last, you’ll see your purpose through, you’ll be what you were destined to be, gods be damned.

You are… Shouki no Kami. You are a mechanical god, divine, starry ink coursing through your body. Though you feel a vague, constant discomfort, it’s nothing in the grand scheme of things. You have a vessel to control at your disposal, the Electro Gnosis acting as its power supply. You have control over the elements far beyond what you imagined it would be like. The process isn’t complete yet, only in its last stages, but that doesn’t matter to you. What matters is the fact that you’ve reached, completed and left behind your purpose. What matters is that you’ve proven yourself superior; to your creator, to that puppet of hers that parades around in her stead. You’re much better than either of them could ever dream of being, you’ll soon have an entire city, an entire nation, under your control. So what if you have to get rid of those pesky things called emotions? They’ve brought you nothing, but pain and suffering. Worthless, absolutely worthless.

You… exist. It’s such a painful thing, such an unfulfilling thing. Here, tethered to the very thing both keeping you alive and sapping you of your life force, you’re nothing more than its battery. Though you don’t feel pain, your body still jerks uselessly with every purple arc from broken wires, with every dose of divine power still pumped into you as if you were nothing more than a convertor for it before returning to the mechanical body and powering it up. So close, yet so far away. This is everything you’ve ever wanted in your long, miserable life and even when it’s in your grasp, you’re not allowed to keep hold of it. Even now, somebody else, somebody better, somebody with divine help has come along to take your purpose from you, leaving you behind broken and useless.

You… don’t exist. Traveller may not have directly answered your question, but the hesitation was enough for you to make up your mind. It’s a strange feeling, being part of Irminsul as you stop existing, your trail little by little erased. Whole events disappear before your very eyes, shortly after being forgotten by yourself as well. It’s… freeing. All the pain, sorrow, anger, grief. Everything that you’ve been carrying with yourself for so long, for centuries, ceasing existing. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel like you’re drowning anymore. Even this river of information feels more akin to a warm blanket wrapped around you. And though it saddens you a little that you’re starting to lose feeling the more of you is gone, you find that you’re oddly at peace with it.

You are… a wanderer. Fleeting existence without name, you travel from place to place, offering to do things for others in order to repay them for their kindness. You don’t need anything and yet people still take care of you with the little they have; a place to hide away from the rain, a warm meal, a bit of Mora for travelling. You’ve tried to politely refuse, finding excuses every time as to why you don’t need any of those, but they keep insisting and so you are left with only one option; to accept and ask to do something in exchange. Sometimes you’re taken advantage of, sometimes you’re chased off on account of suspicion. Although it does fill you with a strange, hollow feeling, you can’t fault humans for finding you odd and even off-putting at times. So you’ve learnt to accept it, bow your head with a small smile and a quiet thank you before departing.

You are… Ayumu. For you wept in your sleep while you dreamt and now you’re walking down the path of your choosing, Traveller has given you this name. You’ve witnessed the memories you willingly erased, seen that the past can’t be changed no matter by what means. Even without you there, everything still happened more or less the same. It makes you sad that you couldn’t give the people you care about so much a better life. If only you were never there. If only you were never created. These are thoughts that have plagued your past life for so long, drove you to the actions you took. Just for it all to be for nothing in the end for the course of events is set in stone. And now you have a seemingly lifelong debt on your hands, one you’re going to do your damnedest to pay. Because this is what you’ve known your whole life, lives. How to be useful for others, show that you can do so much more.

You are… yourself. And that’s that. You’re your own person with flaws and all. Though it’s hard to believe that you aren’t the sum of your sins, that you are a victim as much as a perpetrator of the vicious cycle inflicted on you, you’re working on it. You are a puppet, creation of the Electro Archon who didn’t know how to deal with you in her own grief. You are a wanderer working under the Dendro Archon, running all day in every direction to help with things so she can focus on important matters. You are a ghost of a past that never happened. You are a broken and abandoned thing that has still seen the light of day. Maybe there’s still hope for you to make things right somehow in this unfair second chance you’ve been given.

[inkhornism]

UNFEELING PUPPET, WHAT HURTS MORE? The agony of grasping your long sought out wish or the current still zapping you? The realization that you were never meant to succeed or the tiny arcs jumping between exposed wires? The bitter taste of defeat or the dull ringing in your head? Silly puppet, of course the answer is simple when you can’t feel pain. The heart you have long abandoned, gained back and processed into power bleeds oh so much, it fills your lungs with blood and suffocates you. ( None of it is real. )

The aftermath of the fight is a deafening silence interrupted by ragged breaths. Your body hangs from the few tubes and main plug still attached to your back, arms limply swinging in front of you. A broken marionette with its strings cut once more, kept alive by a life support that is as much life saving as is poisoning. The raw power of the gods still courses through your artificial veins, rivulets of starry violet visible through fake skin. Ink spilled on a parchment given just about enough time to dry that it won’t make a mess before being crumpled up and thrown away.

For, but a moment, your ambition was within your reach; hands grasped it so tightly to make sure it won’t escape. You were powerful, no longer the prototype thrown away by a selfish creator, but rather a god. Potential fully unlocked then pushed beyond its limits a black hole in the making that could only end in collapsing on itself. And yet, even with your purpose having been fulfilled ( however briefly ), the empty space in your chest only felt emptier still; a raging blizzard, a stagnant eternity.

Despite it all, your only remaining feeling is disappointment. Humans are liars through and through whether they have a reason for it or not. They lie the same as they breathe, their hearts as black as the night. And you, like the fool that you are, trusted them regardless. Suppose you only have yourself to blame for your predicament.

( Even though you can’t feel anything, your broken body still jolts periodically as if someone were trying to shock you back alive. )

Tragic puppet, is this how you really want things to end? Strings one step away from snapping completely still tethering you to a presence you’ve long abandoned? Letting the shadow that’s been clinging to you for so long engulf you still?

( Your sight is a blurry mess, making seeing anything in front of you nigh impossible. Sounds come garbled as if you were underwater and words have lost meaning completely. )

You are far too tired to hold on, closing your eyes feels so tempting. Whatever awaits for you on the other side, it’ll probably be better than this meaningless existence.

[inkhornism]

VISION GROWS REDDER AND REDDER WITH EACH SWING OF THE SWORD, EACH BLOW WITH MORE AND MORE FORCE PUT BEHIND IT. The unlucky hilichurl lurches backwards, tries to keep its footing only to end up on its back regardless, feet up in the air and garbled screams in its throat. But it all falls on deaf ears as the traveller closes the gap nigh instantly and mercilessly slashes it until it stops moving, until long its screeching has stopped resounding on the high mountain peaks. He keeps slashing it, making deep and imprecise cuts in it, blood flying in every each direction. He continues the motions as if controlled by invisible strings and all Paimon can do is watch, terrified, as the one she’s been accompanying mutilates the creature’s corpse.

Only when Aether deems it a job well done does he stop, heavy breathing hanging in the air instead of the sound of metal hitting something soft, something that was once alive with dull echoes. But, oh, it’s far from over as he eyes the remaining monsters still gathered around him, unsure whether to approach or not. Uncertainty that doesn’t last for long as the moment they make eye contact, they rise their crudely made clubs and screech in a language only they know before charging towards him, intention clear – get revenge for their fallen comrade.

If the first attack was shocking, the next one is even more brutal. Once golden eyes have all but lost their shine, the smile that usually curls his lips is gone, visage is painted crimson and most of all, he seems to glow as if truly not of this world, as if surrounded by a light so bright that one can’t look at him or they’ll get blinded. Uncoordinated swings now have rhythm, sadistic and without an ounce of pity. He’s wild, a beast that broke through the chains and escaped any and all bindings used to keep it in check, now ravaging everything in its sight. It wouldn’t be wrong to assume that he’s lost his mind.

Just as he skewers another two hilichurl on his sword like they are nothing more than pieces of meat, Paimon cautiously floats closer though not close enough to get caught in the flurry of swings. ❝ Paimon thinks the hilichurls learned their lesson, Aether… ❞ even she is caught off guard by the… by the massacre left behind. There, at their feet, are nothing more but chopped up bodies strewn about as if a child had grown tired of their toys and decided to just toss them to the side after ripping them apart. It’s sickening, but the fear she feels at the sight of it, of the bloodied companion she’s seen through so much has her paralyzed on the spot.

Even just having that blank gaze turned on her makes her float back a few paces, ready to bolt should she need to make a quick escape. Though… Aether wouldn’t hurt her, would he? But then, he never really went to this extent either when fighting in general. For how long has he been holding back? And what has caused him to suddenly let go of this so strictly maintained self-control?

❝ Um… please put the sword down? ❞ try as she may, she can’t keep her voice from wavering. This negative aura she can feel washing over the traveller and dispersing in the air is making her nauseous. But she can’t leave, not when he’s in such a state as this. Even if this is accentuating the fact that she doesn’t really know much about him in spite of all the things they’ve been through.

To her surprise, the sword is lowered. The grip on it is still tight as the motion is gone through though not for long before the weapon disappears out of sight. It honestly does little to put Paimon’s heart at ease what with the blood and bits-of-things-she’d-rather-not-think-about still stuck to the other’s clothes. Regardless, it’s a beginning. He can still hear her. He can still understand her. She has no idea what she’d do if he lost his mind entirely.

Taking a deep breath in, she floats closer once more. ❝ Let’s… let’s get away from here for the time being. We can’t go to Liyue yet with you looking like this so let’s look for a beach where you can wash off. ❞ one as far away from where anybody else might see them as possible.

[inkhornism]

EVEN AFTER SO LONG SPENT TRAVELLING TEYVAT AND LEARNING EVERYTHING THERE IS TO LEARN ABOUT IT, THE FEELING OF THE SUN ON HER SKIN IS STILL AN ALIEN ONE. Hundreds of years spent underground where the only source of light was artificial has given her a pale complexion, almost see-through, and an intense dislike for the fiery orb in the sky shining on them all day long. Were she not pressed for time, she would gladly study and conduct her experiments during the night instead when the air is cold and the only noises are those of wildlife and the wind ruffling trees’ leaves.

Hand comes up to fix her glasses followed by fingers carding through long strands of blonde hair before pushing it back. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep on moving. The day is long and they’ve barely completed a lap around Dragonspine at the base, taking notes of how it appears that at the southeast the temperature is much colder than on any other side, of the broken boats no doubt a tragic consequence of an overconfident crew, of the curious devices that open with a single touch and emit a soft and warm glow.

Her head snaps in the direction of her student, footsteps soon carrying her closer to his form hunched by one of the mechanisms they’ve activated to act as a makeshift campfire to warm their frozen limbs up before continuing upwards this time. With a little hum in the back of her throat she prompts him to speak about his discovery. Upon closer inspection, the small stone pillar appears to be powered by a dormant orb infused with Pyro energy although, curiously, it doesn’t specifically require a reaction from the same element to activate. Instead, any will do. What a strange thing.

[inkhornism]

IT'S HOT BUT WHAT ELSE WOULD ONE EXPECT WHEN THEY ARE IN THE HEART OF A VOLCANO? Even as sweat drips down their face, they continue to watch the battlefield with just as sharp gaze as always. One wrong move and it's over, there's no coming back from this. The operators should always go into battle knowing full well that they may not come out alive. This time, while not different than the others, applies even more pressure on them to succeed or never see the light of day again.

The terrain isn't to their advantage but it's not like it hasn't happened before. Even with the placement of a natural lava fountain getting in the way, they've managed taking care of the flow of enemies pretty well so far. No leaks, no downed pawns. Everything is going well, they are going to be done with this and then they can leave and take a shower. They can stand the stuffy atmosphere for so long. Ideally, they won't reach their limit while still in the middle of the fight.

Before long, the source of the volcano's activity makes its appearance; a giant magma slime so grotesque it'd turn anybody's stomach inside out upon seeing it. The heat it radiates can be felt even by them sitting a good distance away, those in close range must be--

❝ … melting. ❞ the word drips from their lips in a moment of rare sincere horror. Melting, melting, melting, they are set on fire after being shot with magma so hot nothing can stop it and suddenly the air is filled with petrified screams of anguish followed suit by the smell of burnt flesh. It makes them gag, nearly throw up in their mask as they instinctively cover the holes that allow the air to circulate through.

It's a horror show, a car accident they can't tear their eyes from but much worse. Heads turn around towards the cacophony of sounds in an attempt to see what's going on while all they can do is watch, frozen to the spot.

❝ Doctor--! ❞ a voice from somewhere below cries their name before its source collapses, red visible from where the fire ate through the operators protective gear, clothes, skin. The smell is overpowering even with the height difference so they move away, find the edge of the cliff before bellowing as loudly as they can.

❝ ALL FIELD OPERATORS TAKE COVER! RANGED OPERATORS FOCUS YOUR ATTACKS ON THE SLIME! ❞ if things continue at this rate, they'll have to evacuate lest they lose the entire squad. Were it not for bringing their top of the line along for this operation, they couldn't care less. How troublesome.

[inkhornism]

I sometimes write which is scattered everywhere. Currently here mostly to write random snippets and see what sticks

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