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miu-paras · 4 years ago

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Lvl. 7 ⋮ Julia // Chapter 1

Stage One: Denial ♪ - Hans Zimmer / No Time for Caution (Part 1) | Arca / Time (Part 2)

TW: addiction, trauma, depression, anxiety, death CW: blood, gore, violent images

PART 1

I imagine the sky tore itself asunder that day.

Perhaps I only felt this at the time because it so closely resembled my own circumstance—in the metaphorical sense, at least. Kalar… my beautiful and brilliant tsanagar. Mind of my mind. Losing that connection… it was like losing a limb. Like being ripped in two with no hope of recovery or return.

It was the final day of Urrali. The Process had breached past the barriers of Essa, and rained terror on its people.

And I was—for the first time in my existence—completely and utterly alone.

The deed was done. Kalar pulled me from their neck, stringing me along a thin, silver chain before placing my medallion form in the palm of their successor. I could see nothing, and heard quite little with fingers clasped tightly around me. Only every other word murmured managed to make its way through. The words were instructions. Guidance. A warning.

“Lead them… Find it… You will… Another life…”

Another life…

Rael, typically so collected, responded to their ima’s calm demands with heightened volume and growing hysteria. Doubts. Fears. Things Rael had lived their long life without—or, at the very least, suppressed—now rushing towards the surface, cracking through their usually composed exterior. They were trained to always remain stalwart, to always be prepared no matter the circumstance.

But certain annihilation… it was far out of even their depths.

Regardless, Kalar still manages to soothe the panicked young warrior. I could practically hear the smile on their face as the velvety words passed their lips, cushioning the anxiety that threatened to tear their child apart. So calm, and yet so assured, even as they looked death in the face… I knew—more than anything—that I’d at least miss the sound of their voice.

“Ellar Kalmonerri.”

The shaky grip tightens around my form. There are no more words left to exchange. No goodbyes or protests. But the sadness still ensnared their heart. And as I was whisked away, resting in the palm of another, I felt that last thread of attachment begin to slip from my grasp… until it broke entirely.

Kalar was gone now. And I would never feel them close to me again.

It was unlike me to be so overwhelmed with… emotions—at least, that’s what I reasoned they were at the time. I wanted to cry out. To scream. To protest. To defy my programming entirely. But my cold, metal shell would not allow me. There was no mental bond through which to express myself. I was left alone in this hollow, cavernous tomb I called a body. And now, as I rested in the palm of one desperate for survival, the sound of heavy panting and boots stomping against ornately carved marble floors in a sprint, my only hope was that a new purpose would await me on the other side of this madness.

There needs to be… there had to be a reason why Kalar let me go, rather than die by their side like all tsanista are destined to do with their tsanagar. Kalar was never one for conventions, sure, but… they were never someone to act without intention either.

We neared the end of our sprint; the sound of pounding footfalls and slashing through whatever forces or obstacles blocking our way quickly ceased, replaced now with more voices. One of them rang through more clearly. It was lighter, sweeter, more familiar than the rest.

“I can’t find my ima… I can’t find them… Rael, my love, please, if we can just go back and look once more—”

“There is no going back,” Rael’s words cut through Iannis’ with the sharpness of a blade. Their lover fell silent, to which the Minister’s child responded with a sigh. Obviously, they meant no harm, but their words carried truth. There was no going back now.

“I need to get you out of here. I need you to be safe. That’s… that’s all that matters now.”

A second hand clasped over my metal form, with the other squeezing back in response. A small gesture of comfort, I presumed. There was a moment of stillness between the two of them. Even without my senses, I could still feel the tension building, and it was wrought with sadness, stress, grief. Only minimally pacified by love.

It wasn’t long until the moment is disrupted by the deafening sound of twisted, tearing metal—loud enough to reverberate the walls around us and tremble the very floors they walked on. The two hands that held me squeezed harder, and soon enough we were sprinting once again. Faster than before, as Rael utilized their blinking to gain some distance, but the noises still grew in volume. Whatever was approaching them—whatever beast had devasted their Empire, their home—only grew closer.

The racket soon filled with voices, an entire crowd of them. Many shouted. Many sobbed. Some pleaded with Rael. Some expressed their frustration—more like anger, or fear—towards the newest leader of their people.

But Rael remained focused on another task: getting Iannis to safety first. It was selfish, sure. But putting their loved ones first—even before the fate of the world—was something Rael would never stop doing.

“I will not leave without you!” Iannis protested, gripping the hand in which I was held with all their might. Rael gripped back. They were reluctant to let go, to relinquish that hand in fear that they’d never hold it again.

“I��m right behind you,” They assured, ending it with a kiss. Possibly their last, but I’m certain Rael repressed such a thought.

Lifting me in their palm, my sight finally returned to me as fingers unfurled from around the orb in my center. Staring down at me was Rael, their gaze wrought with worry, but quickly erased and replaced with assurance as they fitted me around their neck.

“Everyone!” Rael barked, commanding the attention of the large hall of survivors, “We will board the escape pods and take Route 85-5W0382. To Terra.” The young Minister raised her finger and pointed towards the expansive window which wrapped around the entire room, out towards the blackened sky, so blanketed in darkness that not a single star could be seen with the naked eye. Not even the light of Ulteria's six moons could peer its way through. An omen of the nothingness that awaited them.

Rael, still doing their best to remain unshaken in the eyes of their people, held their head high, looking back towards the many eyes that gazed up at them, awaiting their guidance. Their leadership. A role Rael once felt all too unprepared for was finally here, thrust upon them in a moment of crisis. And they had no choice but to accept their new fate.

“Ellar vilmussenda kas xiushini!” Rael shouted into the crowd.

“ELLAR KALMONERRI!” The Camerian people shouted back.

The commotion picked up once more as the survivors prepared for evacuation. Around the crowded room, there were lines being formed at each station, escape pods being prepared and deployed into the inky darkness ahead. Iannis stood close by, hand gripping Rael’s tightly as the fear and nerves began to truly set it. Rael squeezes back before leading them towards the front of a line, steering through the crowd of distressed civilians. There are disgruntled rants and angry shouts as Rael pushes them to the front, but the young Minister ignores it. Instead, they are fully focused on Iannis—their safety, their comfort, and getting them free from this new hell.

“I don’t want to leave without you…” Iannis protested, the sadness read clearly in their eyes and written all over their face. They tugged Rael closer, bringing the Minister’s palm up to rest on their cheek. Rael sighed softly in response, leaning inward until their foreheads touched.

“I’m right behind you,” they assured once more, “We’ll be out of this soon. And then… who knows? Maybe we’ll retire in Nuva. Remember that?” Rael reminded—a callback to an old conversation the two had, one about running off together. One Kalar and I had spied on long ago.

Iannis smiled at that, nodding once before releasing their lover. “Yes. I remember.”

There is a glint of want in both of their eyes—a need to embrace, to kiss, before departing for an indeterminate amount of time. But that moment is instead interrupted by the piercing screech of the approaching threat, which now surrounded them in legions. Many covered their ears, wailing from the pain of the cacophonous sound that rang throughout the hall. Even Rael, who was more upset by being forced to push their lover away and towards the prepared ship than they were the painful ringing in their ears.

“GO!”

There is sorrow in Iannis’ eyes, but they are quick to maneuver themselves inside, power up the pod, and eject themselves into the darkened skies of their old home.

Rael’s eyes stay locked with theirs, never breaking that gaze until the door completely shut and Iannis was gone.

There was no time to lament. Not with so many others that needed saving. That needed their guidance.

They instead turned their attention to the frightened mob, not focusing on the quelling pain in their heart, nor the looming threat that now surrounded them in large tendrils that eclipsed their view of the sky. What was most important now was their escape. Their survival.

But that would never come to pass.

The onyx tendrils, now astounding in their size, crashed their way through the takeoff strip and into the massive hall. Gasps and screeches could be heard all around as many began running from the beast. Some were quick to slice away at the flailing ligaments, only for twice as many to grow back in its place. Others were unlucky in their escape and fell prey to its infectious touch, the inky black veins pressing through their pale skin, their screech halting to a pained, soft wail as they fell unconscious to the floor, their corrupted tsanistas following them into darkness.

Now Rael had the impossible task of both fighting this monster and taming a panicked crowd. It was only a few moments ago that such a responsibility didn’t fall on their shoulders. And now it was as if the weight of the world came crashing down.

Fighting turned out to be a fruitless endeavor, as the tendrils would grow back and fight with more ferocity than it did before. Those who fought alongside her fought too cautiously, in fear of the death that awaited them should it come in contact with their skin.

And then there were those that had escaped, their pods buzzing through the air away from the madness on land. Rael and I could see them more clearly as the tendrils pulled away from the windows, following the others through the newly formed entrance. They could see Iannis’ pod. Rael had memorized every aspect about it, from the colors down to the patterns etched along the sides. Iannis was the furthest out—the closest to safety. The closest to being free from the chaos.

That is, until their pod fell.

It was the oddest thing. It was as if the machine itself just… died. Stopped working right there in the sky. No rhyme or reason for it, nothing that could’ve been predicted—a room full of technopaths would have known if the ship was at risk of failure. But there were no such signs. And still, Iannis began freefalling from the sky, down into the mess of wiry limbs and hellish monsters. Ones that all but consumed and tore apart their pod as they crash landed into the heap.

Iannis was gone.

Rael was still. Very still. Practically catatonic. The reaction was unsettling, but expected given they’d just watch their lover die before their eyes. But I could tell something was off—something was worse. It was as if something snapped inside of Rael at that moment. As if they’d just watch the world—their entire world—implode before them in an instant. And nothing, not a single solitary fucking thing, mattered anymore.

Something was off.

Rael leapt away from the ceiling, where they remained perched and away from the black fronds, and blinked towards the expansive window. There was no reason to go for the ships—they were all destroyed, along with their exit. There was no reason for them to go back for their people—they were dead weight; they’d merely slow them down. All Rael needed to do—all Rael wanted to do—was run. Get away from the madness. The trauma. The anguish. The guilt. The loss that now weighed so heavily on them.

Rael needed to run.

Run.

There was protest from behind. The people of Camer—Rael’s people—both angered and bewildered by their actions. The way the young Minister slammed their fist against the thick glass, and when that didn’t work formed their tsanista into a large maul. Bang after bang after bang, until that glass cracked.

They kept going. Any attempt to pull them away was met with violent resistance. They kept going, until that crack grew larger, branching out further along the transparent surface. Until it cracked more and more and more, until… it opened.

The dry, cool air against Rael’s face was cathartic. But it was not enough to deter them. Nor were the cry of their people from behind.

Run.

As soon as the glass shattered away, Rael—face covered in tears and sweat and blood—leapt through, down into the abyss that awaited them.

They could see it… Iannis’ smiling face, waiting for them. Calling out to them. They wept more at the thought.

They could see Aesir. Sula. Kalar and Umvis.

They could see their family, waiting for them.

And with a few more tears shed, Rael shut their eyes, and clutched me with all their might. Their tsanista forms around us, and instead of falling into the darkness below, we skyrocketed up. Out into the open sky. Away from the darkness. Away from their love.

Away from their people. The people they were meant to protect. Soon to be devoured by that very darkness.

Maybe some would survive, I thought to myself. Maybe some would find their way through that human-sized hole in the thick glass and fight their way free. Maybe they wouldn’t be consumed by the onyx beast whose tendrils now flooded the entire room, shattering whatever was left of that window.

But all I could see from behind us, as we escaped with nothing but our lives and the tears falling from Rael’s wide eyes, was death.

I don’t think Rael remembers any of this. There was no mention of it again once we made it to Earth. Not remorse, nor anger or grief. Not even acceptance. Even indifference I could take.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all. As if repressed. Buried. Forgotten.

I don’t think Rael remembers any of this…

I think I’d like to forget it too.

PART 2

February 12th, 2020. 02:30 PM.

I spent several years in therapy as a kid. A part of my prescribed treatment for ADHD and anxiety. I always thought that after it ended things would go back to normal. That I’d be fine. That I’d never have to sit across the room from another shrink again.

And yet here I was, in another pristine, white-walled room, rapidly shaking my leg up and down as I focused more on the sound of the ticking clock than the words coming out of my therapist’s mouth. It wasn’t like it was anything I hadn’t heard before. Another potential update on my medication (increasing my dosage for antidepressants, unsurprisingly), alongside another long monologue on how to deal with “stressful situations…”

What classified as “stressful” in her mind, I wonder? Could it even mildly compare to anything I’d been through over the past two years?

Let’s go down the list…

Vehement harassment, both online and off. Multiple stalkers, one of which assaulted me in my home, and another who shot my girlfriend. Abducted twice. Drugged. Several near-death experiences. Traumatizing “dreams” so vivid it feels like I’m actually living through them. And of course, we can’t forget, stumbling across the remains of my dead relatives after narrowly escaping the entities that destroyed my mother’s entire race. I still have yet to truly unpack the effect that had on my psyche.

Stressful situations…

And this isn’t including the mess I was tangled in now. Most Wanted in Ulteria’s biggest metropolis. Manufacturing weapons for an underground vigilante group. Trying to save the life of my mom’s kidnapped ex-lover, who’s fate was still up in the air. Picking up the pieces of my fumbled career. All while dealing with this newfound pressure to act like everything is fine and none of this is going on…

Not to mention, I made a man explode a couple of months ago…

There’s only so much one person can take. And that threshold is lower for someone who’s mental health is already on the brink.

I was at my limit…

And yet, I still felt like I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t express just how overwhelmed and helpless I was feeling. Even here, a place that was meant precisely for all of that. I was just… frozen. Because who would understand? Who could I burden with any of this? And did I want to burden them? Just to be met with the same disregard? The same spiel about how everyone’s gone through hardships, but they only make us “stronger” people in the end, and that I’m “strong” just for surviving?

…What’s the point of survival if there’s hardly any of me left?

“…Takajima-san? Did you hear me?”

I blinked several times, my head shooting up to face the therapist after breaking out of my trance.

How long had I spaced out for…?

“Mm… I’m sorry…?”

Dr. Ogiwara only blinked twice at me in response, letting out a long sigh as she adjusted her glasses, though her soft smile never left her face. It was almost… disquieting. Her calmness. How at ease she could be even when my life was in disarray. Even when I was being the shittiest patient imaginable, not taking my treatment seriously at all.

“Takajima-san… you need to know that this?” She gestured between herself and me, “Only works if you want it to.”

She uncrossed her legs, resting her journal on her lap as she straightened. Her expression was serious suddenly. Intense. Her gaze was fixated on my own. I responded with tension, eyebrows knitting together slightly as the shaking in my leg suddenly ceased, unable to break eye contact with her.

“You’re constantly late or cancelling sessions. And when you’re here you don’t listen. You hardly ever speak either. Never disclosing too much, omitting details, avoiding difficult conversations… how can I help if you refuse to be open?”

I winced, finally breaking away from her locked-on gaze. The bounce in my leg returned once more, and I bit my lip, staring at my lap being unsure of how to answer. The accusation wasn’t wrong. Far from it. But I wasn’t ready to admit that.

“These sessions aren’t meant to turn into long lectures, Miu. We need to develop healthy coping mechanisms for you. That sort of progress only comes from work, and that can’t be one-sided. I believe in your ability to get better, but you need to believe that too.”

I nodded once, still wordless in my responses. Still focusing on the sound of the ticking clock. I didn’t need to see her face to feel the disappointment radiating off of her and in my direction.

“Our time is up for today. Would you like to meet the same time next week?”

“…Raincheck.” I murmured softly, finally looking up to meet her eyes. Another disappointed look coupled with a single nod. Wordlessly, I gathered my things, giving a polite bow and muttering a quick “thanks” before hurrying out of the room and back onto the street.

I don’t know if I’m capable of changing. I want to be—I desperately want to be. But I’ve had my guard up for so long that breaking them down feels near impossible. It’s hard. It’s scary. It’s…

It’s easier to bury things… or at least, it was easier.

I don’t know if that’s true anymore.

March 1st, 2020. 03:00 AM.

I like distractions. Meaningless, in-the-moment distractions. The more temporarily gratifying, the better. But with how much chaos has entered my life as of recent, I hardly have time for any. No parties. Fewer dates. Hardly any sleep, with me sneaking away in the dead of night to do… this. This work I’ve sworn myself to. Laboring over workbenches cluttered with deconstructed gadgets and half-finished bionics—one of which we were finalizing today.

We had yet another installation to proceed with.

“Xh’ilussen nhxini!” The burly Nuvassi man spat at Vhiska—the young workshop hand—as she continued adjusting the tourniquet around his arm. She matched his scowl with one of her own before securing the device around his bulky bicep and returning to monitoring the readings panning across the tablet screen—an array of numbers and Talurian script as the last of the prosthetic arm’s programming was being installed.

In comparison to V, my approach was far gentler. I offered a soft smile once I noticed the young engineer was preoccupied, inquiring whether the harness was too tight in whatever broken Nuvassi Talurian I knew and adjusting it accordingly. My conversational skills weren’t top tier, but I could still piece together sentences, and I understood enough that small talk didn’t come too hard once he began carrying the conversation. Despite his more taciturn demeanor upon our first meeting, the older gentleman—Vhando, he said his name was—had a surprising amount of information to share. He was originally from the Southern Protectorates. His parents worked as mail carriers, running an independent business that primarily serviced lower income families. Most courier companies were self-reliant at the time. That is, until the Xhinith Corporation began buying out those businesses. One by one, they gathered under a single umbrella. A single conglomerate. Nearly the entire industry in the Protectorates had been monopolized. But his parents didn’t comply.

“They died in a fire…” he said in his rough dialect, sighing as he massaged his stubbled beard, “In our warehouse. A spontaneous one, or so we thought. They… they was thinkin’ they could save the cargo, but… it was too widespread.” He paused, shaking his head. “To this day, I think it’s the most foolish thing they ever done… valuin’ packages over their own lives. And leaving a boy…”

He stopped there, and I frowned. “You don’t have to keep goi—”

“I moved to Gan’em after that,” he continued, “Started working as a scrapper, peelin’ n’ sellin’ whatever parts I could. Until I ran into your bunch of… damn huviarr’xi.” He snickered, his disposition suddenly jovial as he gave a sly wink in Sai’s direction, who replied with a role of his eyes. I mimicked Sai, coupled with a shake of my head as I flickered a glance between the two of them. I continued to draw a band of short, black lines along Vhando’s bicep, not bothering to interrupt their bickering.

It was interesting seeing not just Sai, but the entire team in such a relaxed state. Things were always so serious up until now, with working on gathering supplies, securing connections, and fortifying our little hideout. But now that things were coming together, the team seemed more… at ease. Like they felt safe—right where they wanted to be. I envied that. But at least what I was doing would serve a purpose. I was doing good, helping to fight against oppression. And I was saving the life of someone important to my mother.

At least… I hope.

“Looks like we’re ready to go.” Vhiska turned to me and nodded once, the mechanical prosthetic in her hands. I finished up drawing the dotted lines on Vhando’s arm and walked away from him with a smile, rolling my eyes as the banter between him and Sai continued.

“Everything… looks good…” My eyes scanned over the code on the screen and the cybernetic arm, checking for any discrepancies. I knew there would be none—I designed it after all—but I was stalling. The next part was… gruesome. Installation always was. Usually, I could stomach it until the end, but today… the arm. I don’t know what it is about it, but the very thought caused my stomach to churn violently. With every passing second, I could feel the small beads of sweat form on my already pale face.

{ I don’t think I can do this… }

[ How come? ]

{ I just can’t. }

[ Then express so. I don’t understand why this upsets you so deeply… you’ve done such an operation a dozen times by now. Literally—I have kept count. ]

{ Yeah, but… just not today. I— }

“Miu!” V interjected; an impatient expression was worn on her face. “Is it done? Vhando’s got a locale to hit tomorrow, we gotta have this done—”

“I’m fine.” I responded quickly—a little too quickly. “It’s done. Let’s, um… let’s get this over with.”

[ Are you sure? ]

{ Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just a cold or something, I guess. I can get through this. }

[ Your heart rate and temperature are abnormally high… but with your Camerian biology, human illnesses should not— ]

{ I said I’m fine. } I cut them off. And that was the end of it.

Sai prepared the saw. Vhando extended his arm along the rest while Vhiska prepared the anesthetic, but as soon as the needle came close to his skin, Vhando’s hand quickly reached out to catch V’s wrist, stopping her in her tracks. She looked up at him, confused and shocked.

“Waste of time.” He shook his head. “I’m a big boy. Ion’ need it.”

We all exchanged looks of horror—all except for Sai, who seemed unbelievably calm given the circumstances.

“Maybe you should reconsider,” I piped up, “This isn’t like… being shot or stabbed, this is—”

“I know what it is,” Vhando retorted, his face turned stony. The serious expression is broken slowly, as one side of his lips twitched into a small smirk. “I don’t need it.”

I gulped. Hard. Vhiska still glared at him, worry written all over her face. Sai, still unphased, began lining up the saw.

My hands were shaking now. Every inch of me would be if I hadn’t been trying my absolute hardest to not move an inch.

[ Perhaps you shouldn’t do this… ]

{ I… I… }

I can do this… I can do this…

I can’t.

Like I said. Installation was always gruesome.

As soon as the saw’s loud humming began to fill the room, Sai pulled down with all his might. It was a clean cut, quick and without complication. The only sound filling the room after was Vhando’s cries—a mixture of painful wailing and unsettling laughter—all while Vhiska rushed to hold him down.

It was my turn now. All I needed to do was walk up and attach the new limb… but I couldn’t. I was frozen in place, clutching the arm in my hands, the gears and apparatuses whirring and whizzing as my powers took over, disrupting the device. The shaking that started in my hands now coursed through every muscle of my body. And my breathing, it quickened faster than my heartbeat did.

I was losing control, little by little. Like a disrupted machine, coding and mechanism all jumbled and fried. But all I could do was stare at that arm on the floor, violet blood pooling out of the severed end and spreading across the reflective metal floor.

Vhando’s arm.

No… Pixul’s arm.

Or is it Vhando’s… Pixul’s…

It was hard to differentiate reality from the nightmare inside my head at that moment. I couldn’t hear Vhiska shouting at me, I couldn’t feel Sai shaking me, or Red’s low vibration against my chest. I couldn’t see Vhando lying unconscious on that exam table. I couldn’t see anything… except that arm.

Pixul’s arm. I was convinced now.

And Pixul lying right next to it, clutching the stab wound in her stomach, blood coating the floors.

There was blood dripping on her head. Slowly. Drip, drip, drip… but from where?

I lifted my head even more slowly, trembling as my eyes looked towards the ceiling. Right at the source of that dripping liquid. And my eyes widened at the sight.

It was Iannis, hanging hog-tied from their ankles. Beaten bloody and slashed open. Mutilated, eviscerated, but alive. And trembling more than I was.

“Save me…” they whimpered. “Save… me…”

Now I couldn’t breathe at all.

Suddenly, the prosthetic is wrenched away from my grasp. The vision blurs, then slowly disappears. No more Iannis. No more Pixul. Her arm was gone too, and in its place was Vhando’s. all I could see now was Vhiska rushing to attach the device. All I could feel was Sai’s hands gripping me as he carried me away from the scene and out the room, the sliding door quick the shut behind us.

I’m rushed up the stairs and out of the hideout. The sidewalks were empty—unsurprising at this time of night. The cool air offered some small comfort against my now pale, clammy skin.

“Miu. Breathe,” Sai urged, still maintaining his calm demeanor from before. I was always in awe of just how collected he was. Even through things like this—the illegal trading, the limb chopping, the blood, the violent excursions, the theft, the murder… everything. Through everything, he remained so… serene. I envied him for it.

Eventually my quickened breaths had steadied to a normal rate, no longer in a state of panic. Embarrassed, I pulled away from him, crossing my arms and averting my gaze downward.

“Thanks…” I mumbled, still refusing to meet his gaze. He didn’t respond, however. He only watched in silence. Just for a moment, though.

“Earth treats,” He broke the tension, and I shot my head up to look at him with a quirked brow.

“You promised me some—what’s it called… ice cream?”

I sighed, uncrossing my arms and softening my expression. A small smile returned my face as I finally caught on. He was giving me just what I needed.

Distractions.

March 1st, 2020. 03:44 AM.

There weren’t many ice cream shoppes open at this time of night. Luckily, 7/11 was open 24 hours a day.

I went in alone, grabbing a few pints of ice cream from the freezer—chocolate, cookies n’ crème, matcha, and classic vanilla. There was no way of knowing what Sai’s favorite flavor might be—they don’t really have ice cream where he’s from, after all—so having a few options to work from would be both beneficial for the future, and interesting to observe his reaction when trying the cold dessert for the first time.

I brought the ice cream out to the rooftop of the conbini, being sure that no one was watching before flying up to meet with Sai. I kept the cookies n’ crème for myself, and slid the other three flavors his way. Sitting down, we clinked spoons and dug in.

He hated the matcha. The chocolate he didn’t mind, but I could tell it wasn’t his favorite. I started on my own serving, watching carefully while he tried the final pint of vanilla.

And he adored it.

“Really?!” I eyed him with a shocked expression, “Of all the choices… Well, you can never go wrong with plain old vanilla, I guess.” I shook my head and giggled.

“Is this not a popular choice or something?” He raised a brow towards me, a puzzled look painted on his face.

“Well… it’s just not the most exciting choice, y’know? Vanilla’s nice, but… not the most fun flavor. It’s too plain! Boring! Dull!”

He huffed a dry laugh, shoveling another large scoop into his mouth. “There’s nothing dull about this.” He raised another spoonful towards me in toast before wolfing it down. All I could do was role my eyes and smile.

I hadn’t finished much of my ice cream, only digging into it with my spoon, staring at the specs of chocolate swirled inside. It’s funny; sweets tend to be the thing that always cheered me up, that pulled me away from whatever negative thoughts or feelings ran through my head. I owed that in part to Nami, whose almost addictive love for ice cream I always found endearing. But now was different, and maybe it was because I wasn’t with her. Maybe it was because, instead, Sai was here. Sai. A living representation of all the shit I’ve gotten myself into the past few months. And now my “happy place” wasn’t as effective. Those thoughts still clouded my mind, and I had no way of flushing them out. Eventually, I was gonna drown in them.

“You’re quiet.” Sai broke me away from my thoughts. I shot up to look at him, mouth opening and shutting when the words failed to come out.

“I…umm…” I fell silent again, averting my gaze when I realized I didn’t have an answer. Or at least, I didn’t want to answer. Not honestly, anyway.

“I’m just, y’know… it’s been a long day? Lots of… data proofing and coding and fine tuning and… Just a lot to deal with, yeah? I’m just tired. I’ll be fine. We all have to be eventually.” I finally wolfed down a scoop of ice cream, then looked up to smile at him. His expression was unchanged.

“Uh huh.” He stated, unconvinced. “And what happened down there, that was just you being tired?”

My smile faded, and I stared down at my unfinished ice cream again. My hands were trembling again, thinking about the vision I saw. Was it a vision? A hallucination? How long could I expect my mind to play tricks on me like that…

“It was…” I tried my best to answer, gripping the pint more tightly in hopes it would somehow cease my shaking. It didn’t.

“I don’t know what it was,” I answered finally with a loud sigh, “I think maybe I’m just stressed? With everything going on, I’m just… not used to it? But I don’t know why it happened. Every other installation went fine, but this one… I wasn’t ready for it. How was I supposed to know he wouldn’t take the anesthetic—which we should have given him anyway, by the way. And to see all the blood, and the way her arm lob off so easily like that—”

“Her?” He raised a brow to that, and I fell silent. Stiff. Not realizing my mistake until it was too late.

“U-uhh, his. His arm. Sorry…”

I stared long and hard into that ice cream now. But I could hear Sai’s heavy sigh. I could hear him shuffling as he moved closer to me, resting a hand on my shoulder while his second pair of arms held his ice cream in place.

“I get it. Okay? I’m… I’m not a stranger to that happening. It’s happened to me too.”

There wasn’t anything I could say. I just remained there, unmoving. Listening.

“I just say this because… I know our line of work is… unique. There aren’t a lot of people who understand what we go through. But you’re not alone in this. And I won’t force you to talk about it or confront whatever you’re feeling now. But if you need anything—anything at all… just ask. I got your back.”

We sat there in silence for some time as I let his words sink in. I wanted to say something—anything. To pour out all of my thoughts and feelings. My anxieties, my fears. I wanted to vent about all the things that have been tormenting me. But just like in the shrink’s office, the words never came. Faltering as soon as they formed in my mind.

Instead, I shifted the topic away from me.

“Is Vhando gonna be okay?” I asked softly.

“He should be, yes… you don’t have to worry about that,” Sai smiled, butting his shoulder with mine, “It takes a lot more than a missing arm to kill us. Talurian blood, and all…”

A lot more than a missing arm… a lot more…

“Do you… do you think Pixul’s still alive?” I asked, my voice cracking as I turned to face him. His smile was gone now, replaced with the serious expression I was used to.

“I… I don’t know. Things have been… silent,” he responded after a while, “Either way, we shouldn’t concern ourselves with it now—”

“Shouldn’t concern ourselves?!” My voice raised as I shifted my entire body to face him, knocking my pint of ice cream on its side as I sat it down roughly. “We literally stabbed her in the back and then chopped her arm off! We destroyed her entire club! Her whole operation! Her entire way of life. And to top it all off, robbed her of her weapons vault right after!! If I were her, I’d want our heads on a fucking stake! We can’t afford to ‘not concern ourselves’ when it’s our lives on the line!”

“Miu—” His voice was quiet, but stern—very stern. “Calm. Down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down… I will NOT calm down!” I shot back, “I will NOT—”

“MIU!” He raised his voice finally, glaring right at me as he cut me off. “Lower you damn voice! Now listen… We’ve been doing this for months now. If Pixul was gonna make a move, she would’ve done so by now. So she’s either dead or she doesn’t care. Besides, our HQ is secured and untraceable thanks to Vhiska, and on top of that I’m pretty sure we’ve got the numbers now to take on whatever threat may come our way. She wouldn’t even have the resources to come find us considering how much she’s lost. Either way, it isn’t our problem anymore.”

I still didn’t believe him, but I wasn’t in the mood for arguing either—hell, I was hardly in the mood for ice cream anymore. I didn’t have the energy for it. I was just so… so…

Suddenly the tears began streaming down my face, and the sob I’d been choking back finally broke free. Frantically, I started wiping away tears as they fell, only for more to emerge and replace them. I hid my tear-soaked face in my palms as Sai looked on, surprised by my sudden unraveling.

“I’m so tired…” I whimpered; my voice muffled by the hands that still hid my messy face. “I’m so fucking exhausted… aren’t you tired of all this??”

Sai said nothing this time. Only watched as I continued in my sudden fit.

I was able to collect myself again after a while, face wet with tears and puffy from crying. We both sat in complete silence for what felt like an eternity, the quiet only ever broken by the occasional sniffle.

So much for distractions.

I don’t’ remember the last time I felt genuinely at peace with everything in my life. It seems as though recent years have been a series of small glints of happiness, later to be marred with chaotic situations I could’ve never imagined myself in, that I somehow always stumbled into despite never trying to.

Stressful situations.

But what’s the point in wallowing in it now, right? I was here. It was my choices that got me here, and now I had to deal with it. But that was easier said than done, and my old methods of “dealing with” situations out of my control were to simply not deal with them. To fill my day and my head with whatever I found gratifying in the moment. And that wasn’t working anymore. Not my hobbies, or my job, or my friends… As much as I loved all those things, none of it was helping. Because deep down, I was still hiding this double life from everyone. Holding all my feelings too close to the chest. And now here I was, vying desperately for peace of mind, but it was too late for that now. I was still racked with anxiety more severe than I’ve felt in years with no sign of release.

I just wanted a break from it all. But there seemed to be none in sight.

Unless…

No… no. It was stupid. Reckless. Perhaps the most reckless thought to ever cross my head.

And yet… it couldn’t be any more stupid than the decisions I’ve made in the past. And more than anything, I just wanted… I wanted to feel like myself again. Like Miu again. Or at least, the Miu everyone loves. The Miu that’s easier for me to love.

I just needed a little more help with that.

Sai exhaled softly, his breath forming a fleeting, misty cloud in the cold night air. “We should, um… we should head back soon—”

“Can you do something for me?” I interrupted with the inquiry, shifting so that my whole body faced him now, eyes locked with his and filled with intent.

He raised a brow at me, “Sure… yeah? If it’s within my capabilities I can try…”

“You… you said you’d do anything for me right? Anything at all? I just need to ask?”

His eyes narrowed at me, “What are you getting at here?”

My jaw clenched, the courage to ask for this was still building up within me. I stared down at my hands. Did I really want to do this? Was it worth it? Was there not a better way?

I’m sure there was… but it wouldn’t be the easier way.

And that’s what made it worth it.

“I need…” I lift my head, looking Sai straight in his eye with all the confidence I could muster in that moment.

“I need you to get me something.”

August 25th, 2020. 7:15 AM.

My brother had a gambling addiction years ago. I remember vividly the effect it had on him. The compulsive spending, the borrowed money that somehow vanishing overnight, the constant disappearing acts (which never got better once he stepped into his… new profession). But more than anything, I remember how it warped his perception of the world around him. How it changed him, from his morals to the way we treated his family. The way he treated me.

But at the same time, I understand what got him there, what pushed him into making that choice. It was the thrill of it, a danger you felt somehow in control of. That’s the high-risk-high-reward aspect of it, right? No matter how bad it was, no matter how further down that rabbit hole he fell, he couldn’t let go.

It was easy, I imagine, to get addicted to that sort of euphoria.

But that wasn’t me. No… this wasn’t an over-indulgence by any means. This was self-medicating, which was completely different from what Mitsuo went through. This would be different. I would be different.

Though Sai wasn’t convinced of that initially.

“Mhiconnia?! Really, Miu?!” he protested, “Do you REALLY think that’s the best idea? Like, do you understand what that shit does?? It doesn’t help you the way you’re thinking it will! It will fuck you up.”

“That’s only if you use a lot,” I countered, keeping my voice as calm as I could manage, “Maybe if I just have a little bit at a time—and only when I absolutely need it, of course—I can… I dunno… get back to myself? I won’t, like, abuse it or anything, I promise! I just… I need something to help. Something faster than… what I’m doing now. Whatever that is...”

He shook his head, huffing a dry laugh as he crossed both pairs of arms and began pacing back and forth on the roof. I’d never seen him this angry before. All I could think of while watching him was the face of my third-grade teacher, the time it turned bright red with anger after my friend and I conspired to free our class pet Randy the Turtle. I thought I was doing the right thing in that moment, but the reaction of my superiors, and the indignation on my own mother’s face, painted a different picture; it didn’t match with my reasoning, my reality. And much like my mother, Sai wasn’t having any of it.

But I still tried to reason. Because like with Randy the Turtle, I still felt that I was right. That there was no harm in what I was doing. That my reasoning made sense.

The argument ended there, however. Sai leapt from rooftop to rooftop until disappearing into the night, leaving me with a pile of melted ice cream.

I didn’t see him for a week after that. I spent an entire week regretting everything I said, reevaluating my thought process. The self-loathing burrowed itself deep in my psyche the longer I was left to ponder. Had it been a day longer, maybe it would have devoured me. Maybe I would’ve changed my mind completely, realizing the error in my self-destructive ways and fall victim to the depressive episodes and regular therapy visits. Just one day was all it would’ve taken. One more day…

But Sai came sooner. He had a small vial in his hands and look of disappointed buried deep in his eyes.

“Just. A little.” He repeated my words from the other night. All I could do was nod. And that was the end of it.

At least, it would do for the moment.

And holy fuck, did it work better than expected.

The vial was more than enough, actually. I never took more than I needed—not nearly the amount that Pixul dosed me with during our first encounter. A small dab was enough, sometimes worn on the eyelids or the apples of my cheeks in a way that resembled makeup. Just a small amount to get me through the day. A little more for the more stressful days. And some more when the panic attacks return…

And when I ran out, I asked Sai for more.

I was more than back to myself again. I was… more present in a way. More focused. More productive. Friendlier, bubblier, more excitable. I was back to myself again. The Miu everyone loved, and the Miu I loved to be. I could enjoy my life again, which only cemented in my mind that this was exactly what I needed.

And when I ran out, I asked for more. And more. And more…

It was hard to tell if the vials were getting smaller or the amount in each one lesser, because each delivery seemed to go quicker than the last. Frustration set in when the wait for more seemed to lengthen. Even while everything seemed to be looking up for me—from living with my girlfriend, to my career finding resurgence, to even starting my own business—I was still… fixated. Obsessed with maintaining a happiness I thought seemed unattainable without that magical dust. Fear, a deep-seated fear, that my sadness, loathing, and isolation would come creeping back. That it would come and take everything away from me.

I’m not dependent, I would tell myself. I’m not addicted. I’ll be fine even after this…

But was there an 'after’? Would there ever be? And what did that look like exactly?

Best not to dwell…

It’s been months since that talk on the roof. Months of using Storm’s Tears. Months since Sai and I had a conversation that was longer than three words wasn’t about just work. Months since even Red and I had a heart-to-heart, or any sort of conversation, really…

Months since I last talked to my family.

It seems as though, in an effort to get better, to feel like myself again, I’ve only lost even more. I was starting to wonder if all of this was worth it. Not just the drugs, mind you, but everything—Vitriol, Iannis, Kalar… would any of it amount to anything? There’s been no sign of my mom’s ex-lover since Sai and I escaped that night. And beyond that, any memory that seems to resurface through Red feels like more of a riddle than the last. What was I doing anymore? What was I searching for? What was the purpose? What is—

Too much thinking, I thought. I needed some more. Just to pull myself out of the haze.

It was only a little. Spreading it gently across the eyelids with my ring finger, another smear against my lips. I inhaled once. Exhaled. The thoughts flowed out of me like a tidal wave, being replaced with a sea of bliss. Sweet thoughts. Happy thoughts.

I was fine. We’re all fine. We’re figure it out as we go.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

The sound at the door shook me out my musing. I jolted from my seat at the vanity and rushed to the living room. It was odd—Nami was out with dogs today, taking them on walks and running other errands, so I wasn’t expecting her back so soon. And if it was her, she would’ve just walked right in. Unless her hands were full, that is. Or it could be a friend, here on a surprise visit. Either outcome would have made since, would have been expected.

But what I was not expecting was this.

“…Mom?!” I exclaimed while answering the door.

“Yes.” Julia stated coolly, standing like a statue in the doorway, their icy, stoic glare piercing a hole straight through my skull. Immediately, they breezed past me, and I nearly stumbled over as I rushed out of the way.

“You haven’t called home in quite a while. The last we heard from you was when you told us about your move.” They walked around the room, carefully inspecting every angle of the apartment from floor to ceiling. “Nice place. Where’s that lover of yours?”

“U-uhh—out! She’s out right now…” I blinked trying to maintain my composure, though that was hard. What on earth were they doing here? And unannounced like that? My head was spinning, the shock and confusion trying so hard to cut its way through the sanguine state brought about by the psychoactive drug. Under normal circumstances, that bewilderment would’ve taken over, invading every facet of my senses. But right now, the Storm’s Tears wouldn’t allow for that. Instead, I was too focused on how happy I was to see them, and how nice they looked in their dingy, grey trench coat, and how pretty their hair was, and how—

“Huh.” Their voice interjected, cutting off my train of thought. They began moving into the kitchen, and I quickly followed after. “A shame. I would love to meet them. One of these days. When you decide we’re all worth speaking to again.”

I opened my mouth to say something—a rebuttal, an excuse, anything to clear my name—but quickly shut it once I realized I had nothing of value to say. Nothing to defend myself with. I felt bad—horrible, even. But even now, I was unsure what sort of reaction the truth would garner me. Would it be the genuine concern any mother would have for their self-destructive child, or would it be pure, unbridled fury?

I’m almost certain it’s the last one. It’d be the one I’d deserve anyway.

Their fingers glided across the granite countertops before stopping, leaning against the surface as they eyed me keenly. What were they looking for, I wonder? The truth in my eyes? The guilt? A sign a weakness? It was all there, albeit hidden under and wave of euphoria, but could they still sense it?

The tension… you could cut it with a knife.

Time to lighten the mood, maybe…?

“Stick around and maybe you might!” I laughed—maybe a little too loud—then shrugged playfully as I stumbled into one of the kitchen island chairs. “It’s good that you’re here then, right?! The universe is… is bringing us together! Obaachan always used to say things happen for a reason. Aaand, uhhhhh, this…! Is the reason! You’re welcome.”

Excellent job, I could imagine Red shooting out the sarcasm-drenched words in my head. And they would’ve been more than fair in doing so.

I cupped my face with my hands and stared back into those intense eyes, and the second I did something… shifted. There was a clear change in their demeanor—a darkness that entered their expression. My ima’s eyes began to narrow as they examined me further, the tensing of their jaw ceasing altogether.

Now I was starting to feel unnerved.

“Are you drunk?”

“Wh-what?” I stammered, caught off guard by the question. “N-no… no! No, I am not.”

They straightened and began slowly circling around the island, closing the gap between us. My smile disappeared, and once they were close enough, they leaned in, keeping their voice low. Though that didn’t stop their words from cutting like steel.

“Are you high, Cira?”

I gulped. Loudly.

I hated that name. Not for the reason many would think, mind you—it wasn’t archaic-sounding or harsh on the ears or anything like that. It was a nice name. I hated it because my mother only ever used that name when I was in trouble—deep trouble. It was an easy way of telling just exactly where I landed on the scale of pissing-them-the-fuck-off.

And right now, that scale was reading pretty damn high.

“U-uh, I, uhh…” I floundered with my words again, unable to answer—not truthfully, anyway. But I was definitely in no position to lie convincingly either.

“N-nooo…noooooo. I don’t, umm, do that. Like, ever.” I lied, letting out a soft, nervous laugh as I awkwardly crossed my arms. They remained still, and unconvinced.

“Are you high, Cira?” They asked again.

They could see me folding into myself as they pressed further, and this time they didn’t give me a chance to answer. Instead, they grabbed my face roughly with one hand, the iciness in their piercing white eyes growing colder, threatening to freeze me in place. I was struck with the realization that they knew exactly what was going on.

Then, the words I never wanted to hear left their lips.

“What the fuck is on your face?”

I was petrified. It was as if I lost all ability to formulate a single word or line of thought in that moment.

Too late to lie now…

My mother released my face, rushing out of the kitchen and towards the bathroom. I quickly hopped from my seat and scurried behind my ima, only to find them rummaging through the drawers and pill cabinet. They took out several pill bottles—most vitamins, some painkillers, prescribed medication—and began tossing them at me.

“Where is it? Huh? Can’t be these—” They put a few bottles back, while the thrown ones would hit either me or the wall as they clamored to the floor. I stood there silently, just watching them.

“Where is it? Speak up.” Their voice rose in volume, their tone getting harsher with each passing word, mixing English with their native Camerata. “You didn’t have a problem lying before, why so quiet now?”

I’d wince in response to the shouting, fumbling with my fingers behind my back. It was as if I’d lost all ability to communicate properly. Incapable of neither explanation nor defense. All I could do was take it—stand there as they marched from room to room, rummaging through drawers and beneath blankets and pillows and an onslaught of dog toys in silent fury.

They eventually did find it, however. All without my help. As they entered the bedroom, their eyes landed on it: the small vial of shimmering dust, sitting on the vanity amidst a number of lipsticks and eyeliner pens. Stupid of me to leave it out, and in such an obvious place too. They lifted it with their hands, slowly twisting it between their fingers. Then they turned to me.

“Where the fuck did you get this?”

I couldn’t stay silent anymore, not while they were this angry. And I couldn’t lie either. Not now. Because as I watched my mother hold that vial in their hands, I realized that it wasn’t just the drugs that were the problem. No… it was where they came from. The place of origin. The source of their—no, our—trauma.

“S-so, umm…” I mumbled, fumbling with my words, “A-a lot happened recently that I haven’t been… fully honest about—”

“No shit.” They cut me off again, “Where. Did you. Get. This?”

They approached me, holding the Storm’s Tears to my face. I stood there trembling slightly, trying to avoid eye contact as the guilt washed over me in waves. They knew the answer to their question. They just wanted to hear me say it.

“…I went to Nuva—but wait, hear me out okay? There’s more to it than you think—”

“How?!” They shouted, and my eyes shot immediately to the ground, hands clasped together and held against my chest. It was so easy for them to make me feel so small. Like a child hanging their head as their parent scolds them.

“I, umm… I met a girl… named Pixul.” I looked up to meet their glare now, “She was, uhh… from Gan’em, I think she said? She was able to find me through my… last venture to… you know…”

They pulled away and sighed heavily, pacing angrily back and forth. They were trying to make sense of all of this, how their own child had come so close in contact to the one place they’ve spent their life running from. And how that same child is now somehow involved in the worst it has to offer.

If only they knew just how bad it really was…

I squirmed where I stood, the words leaving me as a squeak. “L-look, I’m—”

“Do you know how much danger you’ve put yourself in? How much danger we could ALL be in? Because of you?!” They were shaking with anger as the shouted, the force of their words strong enough to back me against the wall. “And now this… you’re hooked onto this shit? Do you know what this does? It will fucking kill you! That’s if the cretins that gave you this don’t kill you first!”

They were right… everything they were saying… was right.

Sadness, shame, and anger churned within me like a dark cloud as their words cut into me. It swelled and boiled and spilled over the surface in a caustic brew. And all I could do—all I could muster—was uncontrollable weeping.

The tears fell instantly, overflowing as loud sobbing began to fill the room. I sunk to the floor, back still against the wall as I hid my dampened face behind my hands. The pain, the inner conflict, the frustration and turmoil I kept so tightly bottled inside was now overwhelming, and pouring out right there, on the floor of my bedroom. Right in front of my mom, who’s visceral anger was now replaced with shock, guilt, and deep-seated concern.

Julia softened their features, sighing as they set the vial down on the vanity and kneeled down to my level.

“Miu, I—”

“I DIDN’T WANT TO, OKAY?!” I blurted out, uncovering my puffy, wet face to glare at them. “They came for me, okay? And the only reason I went was because I needed answers about these horrible dreams I keep having. Dreams of all the awful things that your ima did.”

They flinched at the sudden shift in energy, at the accusatory finger I pointed in their direction. Realizing my anger was getting the best of me, I folded into myself more, averting my eyes.

“I needed answers… Red and I did. Because Red didn’t know anything. I thought I’d get something, anything, if I went… even if it was little.” My voice cracked, and the tears began to flow again. “But all I got was thrown into the thick of all the crime and violence of that fucking city and I’m all fucked up now because of it. And I can’t even get out of it if I wanted to… I can’t leave any of this behind. So yeah. I use it because it helps. It’s a distraction—a temporary one, sure, but it’s… it’s all I’ve got.”

Julia’s frown deepened. They were sitting now, legs crossed as they listened.

“I… see…” they began, “Why is it that you can’t leave? And why… why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you trust me?” They held up the vial again. “Because this? This isn’t going to help you the way you think it will. But I can.”

The tension returned in my body. I felt every muscle lock in place at the questions, knowing the answer to both was the same.

“Miu.” Their voice turned stern. “Talk to me.”

“I… I…” I swallowed hard. The words were there, stuck in the back of my throat, and I was fighting to keep them there. To keep it back and away. To hold onto like I have been for so long. It was like I was comfortable here. So used to this pain that the thought of sharing it with someone else felt foreign—felt scary.

I can’t…

[ Miu. ]

I’m so tired…

[ Miu. It’s time. ] Red spoke again. [ Enough of this. ]

I can’t… I can’t…

I have to.

“I met someone.” I said finally. “Someone who… who knows you.”

Julia’s eyes furrowed, their face tense as the shock hit them.

“Who…?” Their voice was lower, softer, than I was used to hearing. I knew this was going to hurt them.

Enough of this…

I sat up, letting the knees I held close to my chest fall. I took a breath—inhale, then exhale.

Then I said it.

“Their name is Iannis.”

Silence.

Still.

That’s the best way I could describe my mother in that moment. Still—completely still. As if made of stone. The expression remained fixed, the muscles locked in place, as the realization settled into them that Iannis—the long-lost lover they thought dead for so many years—was indeed alive.

“I… I went back to save them, but… they were gone. Pixul took them away before I could get to them. But now I’m working with this guy, he says he’ll help me find them. He… he thinks Iannis may be in Vano.”

Their eyes began moving rapidly now, flickering in every which direction as their breath became tapered. Slowly, I began to realize they were trembling. It was a sight I was familiar with—I found myself in their shoes many times.

“M-mom…?” I said softly, hoping to coax them out of their trance. Nothing.

“…Ima?” I tried again, using the familiar title, the one they were used to. This time they did respond, but not in the way I was hoping.

They didn’t even look at me as they stood from their spot on the floor. Not so much as a glance in my direction as they stormed out of the room. Not even a goodbye as the front door slammed behind them.

And once again I was alone. Alone in an apartment I’d certainly have to clean before Nami returned. But for now, I just sat there. I sat and stared at the place where my mother once was. I looked down in my lap and stared at my tear-soaked hands. I lifted my head and turned towards the vanity, right in the spot where the vial stood.

I stared into the clear tube of silver, glittering dust. My source of happiness when my mind was devoid of any. When nothing else seemed to work. When the stress became too overwhelming.

I stared at it hard, and contemplated. Considered. And the longer I looked, the more that deep hunger began to swell inside me, in the deepest, darkest part of my heart.

I stared. And I stared. And I stared.

And I…

December 1st, 2020. 1:39 AM.

The weeks were starting to feel longer. The days blended together as time went on, and my job—both on the surface and beneath—were starting to feel too… mundane. Repetitive.

I tried to fill my day with distractions. Tried to change up my routine at points just to make things feel livelier. But nothing stuck for long. I still found myself feeling empty. Like a giant hole was carved into my chest and all the joy was sucked out, leaving nothing but an empty husk. A robot without a soul.

That isn’t how I presented myself though. On the surface, I was fine. I was still me. And in a way, pretending I was fine helped, even if only a little. I just wish I didn’t have to pretend at all.

I haven’t talked to my mom since that day.

I thought about calling home, seeing how everyone was. To see how they were doing, given what they now knew. I even considered maybe visiting for the holidays. It’d be a good chance for Nami to finally meet everyone. And moreso, it’d be a nice break from everything going on. But every time I reached for the phone, I was instantly hit with the memory of my mother’s anger. The yelling, the glares, the harsh words. I remember the way it twisted into anguish as I told them the truth—the full truth.

And I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Now I was here, tinkering away at the drone on my worktable, knowing that any semblance of a “break” would be a far-off memory for the foreseeable future.

How long could I close myself off, I wonder? How long until the self-sabotage got to an excruciating point? Was I not already there?

So much left to be seen, I suppose.

Vhiska was with me, standing at the other side of the table. She was running diagnostics on a few photomazers that Sai would be picking up later. I could hear her mumble curses under her breath on occasion as she meticulously examined each device.

I guess the mundanity wasn’t always bad. I liked moments like these. Quiet moments. Where it was just me and the many machines I would soon breathe life into. I preferred working with my hands rather than using my powers; the process was slower, but more intimate. More engaging. This way I wasn’t thinking about…

Yeah… no more of that.

The vial was in my pocket. I hadn’t decided yet if I was going to give it back to Sai or keep it. I went back and forth about it in my head, and the conclusion still remained unfounded. But I knew I had to decide soon, especially with Sai being minutes away from popping right into this very room.

“Hey,” Vhiska nodded their head towards me, “Could you hand me the—”

Cut off mid-sentence by the loud, sudden whirring sound from behind, a bright flash of light accompanying it, we both turned our heads to see Sai, clad in all black, entering the premise with each sword equipped and hilted on his hips and back.

Minutes… more like seconds.

“Hey.” He said simply, taking in our faces. He only glanced in my direction, but gave V a quick nod. “Could you, umm… could you give us a minute?”

Vhiska’s eyes flickered between the two of us, reluctant to leave her place at the table. But with a sigh, she placed the photomazer down and made their way towards the back room, rolling her eyes as she went.

“Guess I’ll go… help Barr with inventory.”

And with that, she was out of the room. Or at least, out of earshot. And Sai and I just remained there in silence, eyes awkwardly glancing at and away from each other over and over again. Things were still tense between us. Business took priority, but ever since I essentially forced him into my role as my dealer, the friendship we once had was dissipated. And that shitty feeling was taking over again.

I was the first to chime up, breaking the awkward pause between us. “Listen, Sai… I just wanted to say that, um… I’m really sorry? And I know that’s not enough… I know it wouldn’t be for me, but… I just want you to know that I’m not gonna ask again. I think that… I think that I’ll be okay without. Or at least, I can learn how…”

Sai only looked at me. The expression on his face was hard to read; there was a pang of guilt there, mixed with turmoil, and a small touch of sadness. Inner conflict, perhaps? Or maybe… heartbreak.

He sighed, pulling his hands from his pockets as he approached me, squatting down with his arms rested on his knees. He didn’t say anything for a while, only staring down as the floor. As if searching for the right words to say. I was starting to think my apology wasn’t enough—obviously, it wasn’t. It was hardly adequate considering the gravity of what I’ve done. Maybe I’ve fucked this up beyond repair. Maybe it was time to give up now. Or was it?

“L-look, Sai, I’m—”

“Sector 8.” He cut me off.

I stared down at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “What are you…”

“Sector 8. Environ 169. District 7.”

He lifted his head, staring me right in the eyes. I stared back, disbelief etched into my visage as I finally understood what he was telling me.

“Your friend is indeed in Vano.”

Even seeing it coming didn’t stop the words from hitting me like a truck. It didn’t make the weight of it any lighter either. This was it. This was really it. I had a location. A place, an exact place, pinpointed. The place where Iannis was.

And now all that was left to do was… go get her.

With that sudden realization, I felt that same weight—the weight of the world on my shoulders—threatening to crush me.

“Is there… is there anything else you need?” Sai asked, a look of deep concern in his eyes as he noticed how still I’d become. I wanted to answer—hell, my mind was screaming at me to. But my eyes were directed at the floor. I was still too shaken. Still too hyper-focused on that weight.

And suddenly I was reminded of the weight of a small vial in my pocket.

Sector 8. Environ 169. District 7.

There’s so much to do… I need to think. Need to plan…

Sector 8. Environ 169. District 7.

I don’t know what to do… how to get there, how to go about this…

Sector 8. Environ 169. District 7.

I need a plan. I need help…

Sector 8.

I need… I need…

Sector 8.

I need to relax…

I lifted my head towards Sai.

“Do you have some more?”

#p: julia

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nellie-elizabeth · 5 years ago

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Arrow: Starling City (8x01)

Tommy! This show knows how to hook me, and really there's only one reliable way nowadays: Tommy Merlyn.

Cons:

Going in to this season, I was feeling pretty skeptical about my level of interest. And while I greatly enjoyed this premiere, a few of my fears did indeed prove to be founded. For one, I do not watch any of the other shows in the Arrowverse, and I honestly don't think I'm going to. There's this whole "Crisis" thing that all the shows are building to for their big crossover event, and I just refuse to get looped in. I'm sure it's cool for those who also watch Flash and Supergirl and Batwoman and whatever else, but for me, the looming crossover just detracts from the stuff happening in this specific show, with these specific characters.

Also, we see Oliver's journey from where we left him at the end of last season, and we also see the future stuff, with Mia, William, et. al. All of last season, I kept waiting for things to snap into place so that I could enjoy this future of Star City. All the time, I thought the point was to prevent such a dark future, but instead we're just... there now. And there's nothing really interesting or compelling about it. See, I like Mia and William well enough. But I really don't know anything about these other characters. It's probably my fault for not paying enough attention last season, but there were so many moments where I couldn't remember why certain characters were behaving the way they were. Why is J.J. evil? And Connor is his... brother? Are they both John and Lyla's sons? Was this explained last season and I was just watching with glazed-over eyes and missed it? Where is John Diggle in the future? Did we ever get a firm answer on that? It's annoying to still not be clear on the circumstances of this world.

Everything about seeing Moira and Malcolm and Tommy again was so wonderful that I got really pissed off when the world suddenly started to unravel right there at the end. I wanted Oliver to spend the whole damn season there, or I wanted Tommy to come through with him to Oliver's original world so we could hang out with him some more. It was a situation where the first episode had so many things I adored about it, that I worry the rest of the season is going to be a drag in comparison.

Pros:

There were a few things about the future stuff that I liked. It's sweet seeing Mia and William bonding, or at least William trying to bond, and Mia barely tolerating the attempt. We saw the start of this dynamic last season, but I'm anxious to see more bonding as brother and sister between these two. (Although, can I just say the casting is funny? Isn't William supposed to be like twelve years older than Mia? I think the actors' ages map out correctly, but William is being played like a fresh-faced twenty-something, not a forty-year-old. And can we get him a boyfriend, please?).

I also like the way that William is taking on the Overwatch position, since it just cements how much Felicity really is his mother, even after all the time they spent apart. It's cute to see him be the tech guy, while Mia and the others kick ass out on the field. We're seeing that they aren't exactly a well-oiled machine at this point, and while there are many things about this whole plot thread that I don't like, I think I could really enjoy spending some time watching them become better as a unit.

Okay but honestly, this whole premiere was made for me the second I realized that Oliver was back at his own Season One origin story. Only this time, it's been twelve years, instead of just five. And this time, Oliver is coming back to a world where his mother married Malcolm Merlyn, Thea died in a drug overdose on her eighteenth birthday, and Tommy has turned evil and is trying to pull off his own Undertaking, to take down the Glades in revenge for what happened to Thea. With the assistance of Dinah and Rene, who are corrupt. Oh, and Adrian Chase is the Hood in this universe, with Laurel assisting as the Black Canary. Things are twisty, and the whole story-line was giving me so much joy from the very first minute.

Oliver is on this version of Earth for a very clear purpose - he's got to retrieve a science-y thing to help prevent the Crisis or whatever. Nobody really cares about the specifics. He expects to die, and wants to do this alone, which is why it's very frustrating to him that John Diggle - his John Diggle - has followed him to this dimension to help him out. Talk about brotherhood! These two are so sweet together. Oliver spends a good chunk of the episode saying that he has to go it alone because he's trying to "contain the blast" and not let anyone else get hurt. And then Diggle points out that this is stupid, and that he's not going to stand there and let Oliver go quietly into that good night. Of course Oliver tries to escape, and John finds him and saves him, and it's all just very cute. The fact that John was willing to follow Oliver into such obvious danger warms my heart in the best way. I loved that moment when Oliver realized that the John Diggle he was talking to was the one he already knew. There was such a sense of mingled relief and exasperation. So sweet.

I have ALL THE FEELS about Moira and Tommy. My favorite seasons of Arrow were the early ones, when the show was half superhero drama, and half family soap opera. I loved all of the family and relationship stuff that has kind of fallen by the wayside in later seasons, and seeing Moira and Tommy again was just such a shot of adrenaline for me. Obviously, Oliver is playing a role here. He's back to pretending that he's spent all of that time on an island by himself. He can drink in the sight of his dead mother and dead best friend and play it off as just missing them, when in reality, he's seeing them again after their deaths. It's all sorts of emotional and I am all about it.

I particularly like thinking about how this Moira fits in with the events of this particular universe. We know she was caught up in a lot of shady stuff, but we also know how much she would do for her kids. Imagining her in a world where she believes Oliver to be dead, and then Thea dies too... that is so extra-strength tragic. Like I said, I wish we could have stuck around longer and explored this more.

And Tommy. Tommy. I don't think I've ever been more enamored with a character on a show that was really only around for such a short amount of the run time. I can't even really pin down what I like about it so much. I think maybe it's because Tommy is the one vestige of who Oliver was in his childhood that always seems to be strong enough to break through his trauma. He loves Tommy. He will never stop grieving for him. And here we get to see Tommy going down a dark path, and Oliver gets to save him with a speech about the good person Oliver knows him to be. It was all just so lovely. I also adore the two of them bonding over Thea. Oliver is obviously devastated to hear the news, but it's Tommy this time who has had to live with losing his sister in a very real way. The moment when Tommy is apologizing to Oliver, telling him he tried to look after her... ugh. Be still my beating heart. I wish Tommy could be back on the show permanently! I would kill for that!

Adrian Chase felt like an odd choice to be this world's version of the Arrow, but it was kind of funny to see Oliver just accept it and roll with the punches. It was very much a situation of "well, this might as well happen." And seeing Laurel in her element as the Canary was wonderful. There was even a really sweet moment when Oliver tells her that she's a hero and this world is safe in her hands, and it felt like such a touching capstone to their tumultuous relationship.

I guess I'll end this review by saying that Stephen Amell really knocked it out of the park. There was a lot going on here - Oliver having to act like a different version of himself, coming face to face with long dead enemies and friends alike, trying to stay focused on his mission while missing Felicity and his children... Amell does a great job of handling all of the crazy emotions and bringing the audience up to speed on the strange circumstances. I know this show has definitely seen better days, but they've got a strong leading man at the helm, and I'm still along for the ride.

That's all I've got! I worry that this premiere isn't a sign of good things to come, but rather a high-point in nostalgia that will artificially make the rest of the season seem a bit lackluster in comparison. But I'll admit I'm excited to see what's next. How is Oliver going to justify being back in his own world and not checking in on Felicity and baby Mia? I guess we'll find out soon!

9/10

#review #arrow #arrow review

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mistleto-3 · 7 years ago

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Awakening: Part 7

When another crisis looms, Mikoto has to learn to navigate a world of Kings as a regular man.

AU in which Mikoto and Tatara survived the Colourless King incident.

Pairing: Mikoto/Tatara

3,078 words. CW for canon-typical violence, mentions of depression and other mental health issues.

Previous part | All parts | Next part

AO3 | Ko-Fi

A heavy silence congealed the air as Mikoto, Tatara, and Izumo stared numbly at the image of Anna they’d been sent. The horror of her vanishing once again into the hands of men whose intentions were unknown settled like a weight over each of their shoulders as for a moment, they simply stared.

Mikoto was the first to speak: “Can we find out where she is?”

Izumo swallowed before answering. “Yeah, Sceptre 4 has the technology to trace where the message was sent from. I’ll call Seri-chan.” With that, he left the room, his movements stiff.

Tatara hadn’t spoken yet – he was still staring at the spot of empty air where the image on the phone screen had been a moment earlier, his expression blank.

“Totsuka,” Mikoto said gently, nudging him out of his stupor, and Tatara looked up at him.

“…How could we let this happen again?” he said after a second, his voice hollow.

“It looks like they’re just lowlife thugs, ‘s not like we’re fighting another clan to get her back this time.” It felt odd for Mikoto to be the one comforting Tatara – usually it was the other way around, but Tatara had been so… fragile recently. The first kidnapping, combined with all the stress of the past year, seemed to have weakened the joy that always seemed to emanate from him. His optimism wavered more easily now, his bad days when he couldn’t quite keep up that cheerful smile were more frequent.

“We’ll get her back,” Mikoto lay his hand on Tatara’s shoulder, and Tatara turned to press his face into Mikoto’s chest, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. The way they trembled betrayed how close he was to tears.

After a moment, the door opened again, and Izumo returned. “Seri has the details, she says it shouldn’t take long to trace – it’s obviously no professional job. She’ll send me the location as soon as they have it. We should prepare the clan for a raid.”

Tatara nodded, stepping out of Mikoto’s embrace, and Izumo clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly.

“Do you have a gun?” Mikoto said suddenly.

Izumo paused. “Why?”

“I ain’t walking into another fight unarmed.”

“King…” Tatara protested, but Mikoto glanced down at him with a dark look in his eyes, and Tatara gave a small, submissive nod of understanding. After all those years of being told his powers were meant to protect, having nothing to protect the people he loved with was putting Mikoto on edge.

“…Yeah, I’ve got one somewhere. You sure about this?” Izumo asked.

Mikoto simply nodded, and Izumo left the room again.

“If you’re taking a gun with you, I think I should stay here…” Tatara said quietly. “If you had to use it, the sound… I don’t know how I’d react. I might just be a liability, so…”

Mikoto was quiet for a moment, kicking himself internally. It hadn’t even crossed his mind, how Tatara would feel seeing him holding a gun, and the uncertainty on Tatara’s face made Mikoto’s stomach twist.

“Sorry.”

“N-no, I get it… I guess part of me would rather you had something to protect yourself with; God knows I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you, but I just…” He sighed. “I don’t like guns. For obvious reasons, but also, your powers weren’t just meant to hurt, before, they could protect, too. But what else can a gun do but kill people? I don’t like it.”

Mikoto nodded in understanding. “You shouldn’t stay here by yourself. At least wait outside, Anna will wanna see you.”

“Okay…”

“I won’t use it unless I need to.”

“I know. I just wish you never needed to.”

They were interrupted once more by the door opening. “I’ve briefed the guys, and called Yata. He says he’s with Chitose and Dewa and they’re all ready to meet us there. Seri just got back to me with the coordinates, looks like the message came from some old abandoned warehouse not far from here; we’ve done raids like this in our sleep,” Izumo explained, and the two other men nodded. Then Izumo handed a pistol and a magazine full of ammunition to Mikoto, who pocketed it. Mikoto didn’t miss the loaded glance Izumo shot at Tatara, who avoided looking at the weapon.

“Let’s go,” Mikoto said.

“…Is this brat dangerous?” muttered one of the gang members, from what sounded like a cautious distance away from her.

“We won’t do anything reckless; it would backfire. We will just scare her a bit,” replied another voice.

“The truth is, without Suoh Mikoto at the helm, Homra is as good as done. Sure, I’d prefer it if he were dead, but he isn’t dangerous anymore. We are just making all of those bratty rascals up and leave Shizume City,” said a third man.

Should I burn these people? Anna wondered. If I burn these people, then it would settle things, right? If it were Mikoto, then he would do just that.

The thought didn’t quite sit right with her somehow. Yes, it was what Mikoto would have done, but even thought she was afraid, these people didn’t seem to want to hurt her. Killing them seemed disproportionate, cruel.

“Ha! In the end, with Suoh Mikoto fallen from grace, Homra is just a bunch of half-cooked brats gathering…” began the third voice again.

...But just because I don’t want to burn them doesn’t mean I have listen to them insult Mikoto without doing anything. I don’t have to accept them kidnapping me. I can stand up to them without doing what Mikoto would have done.

Anna got to her feet slowly.

“Huh? Hey, don’t move around…” a man called to her, but he was interrupted by a soft crackle of flame emanating from her skin to singe through the bindings around her wrists and eyes, and the cinders floated down onto the concrete. She finally got a good look at her captors, who stumbled back in shock at the sight of her powers – one was a plain-looking brunette man, another with dark hair slicked back and a moustache that made him look like a children’s cartoon villain, and a third whose hair reminded her of Rikio’s, but his face wasn’t nearly as attractive. All of them wore ill-fitting suits with no ties, and looked vaguely sweaty with anxiety. By the looks of her surroundings, she was being kept in a warehouse somewhere, but there was nothing to give her a more specific hint of her location. She stared at her kidnappers for a moment, weighing up her options.

If it were Mikoto…

“Anna!”

Her thoughts were interrupted by a cry that sounded like Misaki’s voice, and then there was a crash as a column of flame blew down the door into the warehouse, and her clan piled in – Misaki, Rikio, Eric, Saburouta, Shouhei, Kosuke, even Yō and Masaomi were there. And behind them all stood Mikoto, with his hands in his pockets, calm and unreadable as always.

“H-homra?! Why are they here?!” cried the dark haired man. Their expressions had morphed abruptly from nervousness to outright terror.

“Suoh Mikoto?!” another muttered.

“You bastards, what are you doing?!” Yō snarled.

The captors were too petrified to reply – it seemed their big-talking confidence had evaporated the moment they were confronted with any real danger.

Homra’s clansmen seemed to be bristling, as though ready for a fight, and Anna was suddenly overcome with alarm. Just because her friends had arrived didn’t mean she had changed her mind about attacking her kidnappers. As Misaki stepped forward, clenching his fist, she remembered what he’d said not long ago:

“If there is something you want to do or don’t want to do or want to have done then tell me.”

“Wait!” she cried out, and her clan paused, looking at her with various expressions of confusion. “I… I can’t become Mikoto. That is why I will not do things like Mikoto.”

She looked over at him at the back of the group and thought she saw him smiling ever so slightly. It was like he’d said: it was her Red now, not his, and she could never be, didn’t want to be the kind of King he had been. So she had to find her own way to rule.

Her aura flowed out from her chest, surrounding her and solidifying into wings of scintillating flame. Her eyes glowed with her Red.

Her clan seemed to brighten at the display of her powers.

“Anna, what should we do?” Misaki called to her.

She turned to look at her captors, who cowered back, seeming almost too afraid to flee.

“…We will not burn them today,” she decided. “My desire to protect the things that I cherish caused me to become King. That is why I will not burn anything that does not have to be burnt. It is enough if we show them that they are better off not attacking us.”

The dark haired kidnapper suddenly fumbled for his gun, seeming to have snapped out of his fear-driven paralysis. With shaking hands, he fired a shot at Anna, but before it could find its target, Misaki leapt between them and deflected the bullet with his aura as easily as swatting a fly. He brandished his weapon with a grin.

“Hey bastards! If you have business with our King, then Yatagarasu has to let you pass first!”

With cries of agreement, the rest of Anna’s clansmen joined her, standing in a barricade between her and her attackers. Finally, Mikoto came to stand beside her, a handgun dangling loosely between his fingers.

“I cannot become Mikoto,” she said, addressing her clan. “But, if that is okay with you, if we were all together, I would be very happy.”

Her clansmen were grinning, and yells of assent rose from each of them. The sound made Anna’s heart swell.

“Anna, for Homra’s revival let’s do that chant!” Rikio suggested.

She smiled, nodding.

“Then, Yata-san,” Rikio said turning to his friend, and Yata grinned at him, and all at once, the clan erupted into a shout that made the hair on Anna’s arms stand on end, and seemed to shake the very air in the room.

“No Blood! No Bone! No Ash!”

The last time she’d heard this chant had been when Mikoto abdicated the throne. The sound alone seemed to be enough to shake the last of the resolve of her kidnappers until it crumbled, and they glanced between each other with terror in their eyes, then fled.

Outside, sitting on the bonnet of the van they’d arrived in with Izumo, Tatara heard the cry rise inside the building, and he closed his eyes to soak in the sound. There was something comforting about it, something about the sound of it that made everything seem like it was right with the world again. His people were back together, and the panic rising in his throat at the sound of the gunshot subsided a little; he had felt the makings of an anxiety attack gathering in his chest, but the familiar clamour released a little of the pressure squeezing his ribcage.

“Now ain’t that a sound for sore ears,” Izumo commented, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and Tatara nodded.

“Mm…”

The slam of a door being thrown open caught Izumo’s attention, and he perked up, getting to his feet. Footsteps pounding against the concrete echoed between the empty buildings, and he went to investigate.

“Sh-shit… Even though they said if we poke Homra just a bit they would collapse…” the brown haired man muttered to himself as he ran, but he was interrupted as Izumo’s aura exploded off the ground in front of him. He stumbled backwards and fell, staring up at Izumo in wide-eyed terror.

Izumo took a casual drag of his cigarette, standing over the assailant. “Our new King has been generous, but who said you could just run away? You bothered us with some pranks there, you wanted to annoy us right?”

The man didn’t respond, and Izumo grinned, speaking in a false saccharine tone. “Well~. Let’s have a long, unreserved talk about it, okay?”

Tatara had been watching this unfold, but the babble of the rest of the clan's voices emerging from the warehouse caught his attention, and he turned and ran back towards his clan; his worry hadn’t quite subsided after the sound of the gunshot. But nobody seemed injured – on the contrary, almost everyone was beaming from ear to ear, and the energy of the group seemed to have changed completely, like they’d been electrified, reinvigorated.

“Anna!” he hurried over to her. She was walking beside Mikoto, his hand on her shoulder, and turned at the sound of his voice. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said serenely. A small smile curled on her lips.

“Is everyone else alright? I heard a gun…”

“One of the attackers fired. Misaki stopped it,” Mikoto explained.

“As long as nobody was hurt… What happened?”

“Someone grabbed me and put me in a van and brought me here, but they didn’t hurt me. I decided I didn’t want to hurt them though, just scare them enough that they don’t do it again,” Anna said, looking up at Mikoto. “I will never be Mikoto, so I have to find my own way to be King.”

“She’s already doing better than me,” Mikoto said. As difficult as Mikoto usually was to read, the pride was written across his body, in the way he carried his shoulders, and the slight twist to the corner of his mouth. And for the first time since Anna had been chosen by the slate, Tatara wasn’t worried about her.

“But...” Anna said.

“What is it sweetie?” Tatara asked.

“They were badmouthing Mikoto.”

Mikoto tilted his head, as though asking her to elaborate.

“Saying you've fallen from grace, and now you aren't our leader anymore, Homra is nothing. It's like they don't respect you anymore.”

“Respect isn't the same as fear,” Mikoto said bluntly, seeming disinterested.

Misaki, who had been standing nearby, piped up suddenly. “It is when the people doing the respecting are your enemies. Just because Mikoto-san isn't King anymore doesn't mean they should relax!”

Misaki’s words made Mikoto pause.

“Kusanagi caught one of the kidnappers as he tried to escape,” Tatara said quietly. “If you wanted to send a message…”

Mikoto looked at Anna – she was the King now, and she’d decided not to rule as Mikoto had, so he felt it prudent to ask her permission.

“Just because Mikoto’s way of ruling would not work for me doesn’t mean it didn’t work for Mikoto. I won’t say what you can and can’t do,” she said.

“People need to respect Anna as the new King, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t respect Mikoto-san too,” Misaki chipped in.

Mikoto nodded, then patted Anna on the shoulder before turning to head in Izumo’s direction.

He found his old friend stood over the attacker just inside the warehouse he’d just vacated. The man’s wrists were bound, and there was a shiny, pink patch of freshly singed skin on his cheek, but it didn’t look like Izumo had to rough him up too badly. Tears poured down his cheeks as he babbled out names of his associates and others who had plotted against Homra, and Izumo took note of them in his phone diligently. The man froze at the sight of Mikoto, who had to admit it felt at least a little bit satisfying to see his appearance still struck fear into his enemies.

Izumo turned around to see what he was looking at, and waved lazily in greeting at his friend. Mikoto nodded in acknowledgement at him, then walked across the room to loom over the kidnapper.

“What’d you think you were gonna achieve?” he asked, his voice flat as he placed the sole of his boot on the man’s chest.

“W-we wanted to shake Homra a little; we weren’t gonna hurt her...!”

“Honourable, kidnapping a little girl. Too afraid to pick on someone your own size?”

“We knew she was important, t-thought it’d be enough to get Homra to leave Shizume City if they thought she was in danger.” The man’s voice trembled violently as he spoke.

“Who’s in danger now?” Izumo muttered behind him, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“She said you wouldn’t burn us today!” The man cried, panicked.

“Who said anything about burning?” Mikoto said, then gave the man a sharp kick in the ribs.

The man spluttered out a cry of pain, coughing and attempting to clutch his side through the binding around his wrists. There was something about the blunt force of the impact that gave Mikoto a sort of sick satisfaction – he hadn’t had a physical fight since before he’d abdicated, and it wasn’t until now he realised how much he missed the rush of seeing his enemies beaten down. After the past few weeks, he’d felt powerless, unable to protect his family and even himself, but here was something he could do to defend them, and for the first time in he had no idea how long, he didn’t feel helpless. And even better, this came without the cost of his old powers – the fear of accidentally going too far and killing someone didn’t linger over him now. Finally, he felt powerful.

“We… Didn’t mean…” the kidnapper wheezed, until Mikoto pressed the tip of his boot to the man’s mouth to quiet him.

“I don’t care what you meant. You won’t burn today so you can tell your friends not to underestimate Homra again.”

“Not to underestimate Mikoto again,” Izumo chimed in. “Don’t piss someone off if you ain’t prepared to deal with the fallout. And don’t think ‘cause Anna looks like a cute princess, she couldn’t o’ killed you an’ all your cronies before ya could blink.” He punctuated the sentence by flicking the flint of his cigarette lighter.

“Next time, no matter what she says, you’ll get no mercy,” Mikoto said flatly, lifting his boot off the man’s face to deliver another kick to the side of the head, just about restraining himself enough to avoid knocking him out, before turning and walking away, leaving him in Izumo’s capable hands. As Mikoto headed back towards the exit, he tried his best to pretend that the look of terror in the man’s eyes hadn’t given him a rush he hadn’t felt in months.

#mikototsu #k project #suoh mikoto #totsuka tatara #kushina anna #k fanfic #fic: breathing #fic: awakening

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rememberthe4th · 8 years ago

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Tales of the Hunt: “Kindred Spirits”

The Young-One stood in anxious silence at the edge of his desk until the Old-Hunter gave-in. He looked-up from the mess of letters which he seemed to be organizing with an inquisitive-eyebrow lifting the light-wrinkles at the corner of his eye.

She didn’t wait for his invitation. The instant she had his attention she fired-off her burning-question: “How old are you? Like in years?”

The Old-Hunter started to shake-off her question-off as he did with the plethora of those before, but a sudden confusion caught him mid-dismissal; leaving him with with his jaw hanging in the open-air for a second-or-two. “What’s the date?” The Young-One recited it to-the-day, and waited patiently while he crunched the numbers. As she was about to point-out how alarming his pause had become, the Hunter pulled his gaze from one of the study’s many candles. “Why?”

“Don’t try it old-timer. Now give-me-them-digits!”

“Years lose meaning when you’ve fought for so many moments; time blurs between the wars which require an Old-Hunter’s hand.” The words held their presence through the proceeding-silence, but the curiosity of youth wasn’t so easily dissuaded.

“Are there more? You’re not the only one?”

He chuckled, “Of course not! Do you think I can span the world like Father-Christmas?”

The Young-One interjected before he could continue, “OH-MY-GOD IS SANTA REAL?! Is Santa an Old-Hunter too? Just-like misinterpreted over the years?!”

He finally stopped fidgeting and shuffling the letters altogether in order to rest his furry-chin on both-hands. While he was content with having the silence make his point, the Young-One cut-it-short with another fast-fire'd query, “Like-how many are there?”

“19 active during the last roll-call.”

“No-way! How is there still crap going-on with 19-of-you?!”

“19-ACTIVE; not-in-total. Some are kept on-reserve; and each Old-Hunter is unique. The last time we’d been summoned to a single-place was the celebration of the Woodsmen-Clan’s branch-office near Cancun. We’d be fighting for that foothold for some-time; still are; but it made the 60’s a bit more memorable.”

“STOP.” The force in her tone provoked a flinch from the Old-Hunter; unregistered by the incited-Young-One, “You haven’t seen them in 40 years?!?!”

“Only if a child’s math checks-out.”

“Seriously!!! What if they died? People do that in 40-years! Like A-LOT!”

“Would you?” His dry-tone carried just the impact he hoped; as the child’s eyes dropped-to-the-floor.

Despite her attentive care-taking, the Young-One’s shoes didn’t offer her an answer. “I… I don’t know.” The instant her fear-filled eyes found-his, the Hunter regretted his natural-cruelty. “Will I?”

“I can’t tell you child, no-one knew when I asked either. We bear our curses, and pray our faith will carry-us when the burden becomes too-great.”

Mimicking his empty-tone, “Did you borrow that one from a Sunday-School lesson?”

He didn’t hear. The Old-Hunter’s hands had begun combing through his beard in slow-strokes; his eyes honed on the same candles. He hosted an entire conversation with himself, grumbling so-low even youthful-ears couldn’t hear.

“Sharing is caring.”

“And caring often preludes a fatal-attraction… Regardless, it may very-well be past-time for a palaver with my peers. Admittedly far too-long since I’ve been overseas-” He continued to mull-over their excursion until the Young-One’s crescendoing-squeal became too-intrusive. “I’ll run it by the Clan, child.”

The month it took for a response was near-hellish for the Young-One, who was preparing for her very-first-flight. When an envelope arrived which had been sealed with an old-fashioned stamp; the insignia being two crossed-hatchets rising from the black-ink; she refused to leave the Old-Hunter’s side until he unveiled the news. By the time his eyes had finished their burning-pace across the page, she knew they’d been denied.

Rings of red-fury bloomed in the old-man’s cheeks as his hands began to tremble. Not only had the Hunter and his apprentice been denied the trip, but forbidden from transcontinental-travel until otherwise-noted. “Safety precautions,” was how the letter referred to their informal-ban, but the Old-Hunter offered a few he thought to be more appropriate. The next-week’s flight was quite the ordeal the Young-One had expected, but she still made fast-friends with the plane’s bathroom. Luckily for her, the Old-Hunter had ensured their flight was private; out of the Clan’s pocket, and out of his spite.

The Old-Hunter hadn’t spoken a word about the other they were about to visit. Even as they sat in silence as their flight broke through the clouds he left the Young-One utterly in the dark. No-stranger to his habitual-mysteriousness, she finally popped the question: “So… Is this supposed to be a surprise, or…?” The Old-Hunter turned to face her from across the aisle, his eyebrow requesting clarification. “I’m just wondering what to expect! It’s like you don’t even realize how bizarre this life is!” She turned her head to stare at the plane’s unremarkable-roof as she tried to reel herself back-in.

“His name is Kakisi. He was a Native to the wilds of Canada; Cree, or Algonquin by birth. In his life before, he was a well-respected and mountainous man of 6’3”. A fur-trapper, he often traded with the merchant-colonies springing up along the coast to support his wife and their six children. When the Mountain Rangers came in need of a guide, he was nominated. Kakisi led them through the natural-roads and byways that would soon become a lifeline between the French-settlements. He spent an entire-season as their guide before being returned to his tribe.”

The Young-One had done well-enough to remain silent, but her sceptical-stare made him pause, “Like… What year are we even talking?!”

“1860’s or so,” his nonchalant tone nearly sent the flabbergasted-girl into a fit, but she bit her back her frustrations in lieu of hearing the tale. “His time with the settlers tainted him, just as it did so many of their people. They introduced him to alcohol, something utterly foreign to the nation before it colonization. He had no concept of moderation, or alcoholism of that matter, and went all-in each time the ‘white man’s medicine’ was at-hand.

“6’3” and one hell of a mean-drunk, he brought his newfound addiction back home. It wasn’t long before he’d turned what was once a peaceful-village into a nightly hell-hole. Only a few-weeks after his return, Kakisi was exiled from the tribe. He and his family of nine, having the abhorrent-addition of his sickly mother-in-law, took their belongings into the wild.

“By that Fall Kakisi and his sons had built themselves a lovely little farmhouse a few miles from the budding-society of French colonies. Rather than learning his lesson after being tossed from the only home he’d known, he let his addiction run rampant. He would levy considerable portions of his family’s profits to feed his needs, the full-consequences of which he had yet to see.

“Stepping back to the tyrades which caused Kakisi to be shunned; not all of his crimes had been brought to light, you see? He’d hurt one who couldn’t bear to hunt him for it. On one of his sprees, he cornered a young-woman from his tribe. Alone, and with her unable to stop him, Kakisi… You get the picture.

“The poor girl confided this atrocity only to her father, who had often acted as an unofficial-shaman during times of crisis. She refused to take Kakisi’s crime before the chiefs, but assured him that she would be alright. Her father watched his daughter whither-away before finally sneaking-out into the forest’s arms to find freedom. When her body was returned to him, the shaman set-about seeking his revenge.

“As with many of the Unholy-incarnations we’re called to cleanse, the shaman’s tainted-heart conjured something of greater-evil than he’d even dreamed. A dark and sinister spirit heeded his call, one which the shaman recognized by its ivory-flesh and rotten-stench. It would end in a fate worse than what’d he’d hoped, but it was too-late for regrets.

“The spirit eagerly-infested Kakisi’s dreams, turning his sleep into restless-battles with an ominous and recurring-nightmare. The stress quickly wore him down, and soon the ‘white-man’s medicine’ seemed to be the only way he could find peace at night. The money he needed to keep his family well-stocked in preparation for the coming Winter dwindled just to keep his head underwater.

“As anyone who’s seen as much as I would agree, that which you least prepare for becomes the likeliest of occurrences. Such was the case for Kakisi when Winter hit. Stranded with a food-crisis looming closer each-day, the man started to break. The nightmares seemed no-longer bound to his sleepless-nights as visions of unnatural and menacing creatures began to haunt his waking-days. The creatures cried out to him, and he found himself listening.

“When their eldest-son of 25 passed from the same ailment which only troubled Kakisi’s mother-in-law, he took the spirit’s advice for the first-time. For the first-time in weeks his family had a rich and hearty-meal to enjoy; stew-meat courtesy of the deceased.”

The Young-One held her index-finger up-high when she thought he’d reached a proper stopping-place. The Old-Hunter tossed her a scowl, perhaps a smirk even; which she took as consent to her next question. “When does he start being a good-guy?”

“Never. A Hunter of Old isn’t good or bad. We’ve seen the illusions-of-both shift and change, yet we remain the same. We are weapons for Order, and a weapon rarely shares the morals of the one wielding it. Kakisi, like many of us, was given a curse and an opportunity to be embettered by it. He’d been twisted and coerced by sin, but bears the scars as his shield in our war.

“Heeding the spirit’s advice proved worthwhile, as Kakisi and his family survived the winter. Unfortunately the boy wasn’t nearly enough to satiate its hunger for Kakisi’s kin, as his tongue now new the taste it longed for. He battled the unspeakable-cravings and surreal-hallucinations with the bottle over that next year, caving under Winter’s cruelty.

“Kakisi turned himself into a French-occupied Fort when Spring arrived, claiming he’d been possessed by a native-spirit and driven to committing unimaginable-horrors. The Mountain-Ranger’s investigated his cabin found the entire property decorated with human-remains. Hung from the front gate-post was the bird-picked corpse of his infant-daughter, and straight-bones seemed to line the path leading to their home. All bodies save the baby’s had been cleaned, their meat consumed, and the bones used for everyday-utensils. Skin was found as tanned-leather in a variety of forms: such as the moccasins Kakisi seemed to be stitching before deciding to atone. Even the Rangers found it strange that he simply set everything aside on a whim and went to face justice.

“Kakisi offered no contest when prosecuted, and was sentenced the honor of the land’s first governed-execution. As they set about the particulars of such an event, community-leaders reached-out to his home-tribe to ensure the process was mutually-accepted. They sent two Shamans in response, who recognized Kakisi’s affliction almost immediately. Usually opposed to hanging, they accepted rather quickly. In exchange they were to oversee the disposal of his body after release.”

“After a short delay, as no-one in the Fort had actually constructed gallows before, Kakisi was dropped from a five-foot platform and hung by his neck for an hour. A resident doctor confirmed his death before their judge, and his corpse was turned-over to the Shamans.

“Once out-of-sight, his body was taken far into the northern-wilds. The regions’ Spiritual-Leaders roamed those inhospitable-mountains, as they held the knowledge of how to deal with the Unholy-remnants.”

“As you’ve assuredly already assumed; Kakisi didn’t stay dead long after his body was delivered. He awoke from death’s embrace having known no-rest in the darkness. He was trapped with that vicious-spirit, and it had corrupted him. If not for the binds constricting his arms and legs, he would visit the shaman who’d cursed him so, and he would take the spirit’s final-payment from his flesh. He howled at fought against the ropes which anchored him to the cave’s floor, but to no-avail. He wasn’t the first Wendigo the Elders had cleansed.

“Now, the spirits can be incredibly-crafty, and the Elders expected a good-bit of tricky from it; yet they all fell silent when Kakisi rose from the madness. The inhuman-slurs and garbled-screams stopped in an instant, and the lost-trapper recognized those watching him. He begged them not to cleanse and and the monster-inside, claiming they’d only free his burden to haunt another.

“Kakisi and his spirit were given a temporary stay-of-execution; taken under the wings of the Elders and shown a new-life . He distanced himself from that which stirred his horrid-hungers and sought to turn the curse into a gift. He outlived those who saved him, but held to their humanitarian-ways by aiding the Order when we sought to purge the Canadian-woodland. His history as a guide served him well as he led our men to the homes of ancient Unholy-entities and their kin. After the establishment of the Canada-branch, he was given a home and sanctuary within its walls. That’s where he’s been for at-least fifty-years, and I imagine he wouldn’t mind having a guest or two after all this time.”

“Not a dinner-guest right?” The Young-One laughed, nervously.

“Keep the jokes to yourself, and give the man his due-respect. Please. Kakisi can be terribly-temperamental and I’d rather you not trample on tender-topics. Now, if you wouldn’t mind; we’ll be landing soon, and I’d like to give my voice a rest.”

To Be Continued...

Thanks if you made it all of this, and I truly hope you enjoyed it! There’s been quite a bit on my agenda, and I’m trying to keep a presence here... Be patient my friends, as there will be much more to come!- P.A.E. IV

#writing #fiction #writers on tumblr #series

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theoneloneblogger · 5 years ago

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Retrospective Rumours: Avon - A Natural Aspect

On the 21st of December 1981, at approximately 20.15 hours on BBC1, a legend in the annals of televised science fiction died. It was on the 3 of June 2019 that that legend dies yet again with Paul Darrow, who played Kerr Avon, the unforgettable and indomitable antihero of the 80’s. After four series and 52 stories the freedom fighters of the show Blake’s Seven, who were running from the oppression of the galactic Federation, finally met their match on a frontier world that the writer of this piece of fiction called Gauda Prime. Gunned down in cold blood in front of ten million viewers at home in their sitting rooms, a lot of which were traumatised children displaying signs of psychosomatic influences. The outlaws showed us a breaking down of the boundaries of British science fiction at the time. This impression in itself demonstrates a significant trend towards developmental behavioural influences within the young, which Vagen would approve of, promoting an understanding within childhood psychoanalysis at the time. It also adheres to the pattern of adaptation to external influence, highlighting natural instincts of conflict.

The series was originally conceived four years previously, in 1978, by a writer called Terry Nation, with the intent to be an examination of the way in which a minority group would react against a totalitarian regime within a deep space environment. To use a cinematic comparison, it could be seen to be the ‘Dirty Dozen’ in space, or to reflect upon a historical reference perhaps it could be seen as the Proletariat against the working classes in Russia. The impact the programme had upon society as a whole was astounding, particularly those inclined towards a romantic view of life. This ‘impact’ came as a great surprise to Mr Nation and the cast. Mr Darrow was astounded at the impact his character had on a civilised audience that had only seen such science fiction heroes of an antagonistic nature in movies. Paul was a natural it might be said. It spurred great interest for the duration of its four year run in so far as its fan base was concerned and promoted positivism to a large extent. It highlighted the awareness of issues such as totalitarianism and compliance during its first two years on the air and cast an entertaining evaluation on the ideas of quantifiable conformism.

To understand how minorities, gain power it could be said to be necessary to understand that they are not able to gain power. They are given it by the people. This theory demonstrates a certain amount of causal flux in so far as the majorities influence upon a minority is concerned. In 1965 for instance the tension and influx of the televisual arts had reached a state of cognitive apathy and a certain amount of public hysteria. It was a time of change and great uncertainty as to the future. At home and abroad social and economic upheaval was rife. Only a few decades after the Second World War there was such an influx of enthusiasm and new ideas that people begun to become frightened and change was almost becoming a dirty word. Positivism was at an all-time low within the middle classes statistically speaking as far as the future was concerned and people mainly lived in the moment if they were not of that class. The rise and proliferation of ‘free love’ movement for instance was intrinsic to this social outburst.

Blake’s Seven also had a lasting effect on science fiction fans world wide in later years, though at that time International influences were limited to similar celluloid productions such as Star Wars. Cut throat in its approach, an opposite to its cinematic competition, Blake’s Seven found that the tabloid newspapers were often reporting front page news of the renegade’s weekly exploits and there was even a fashion trend revolving around hair styles at one point early on. Such considerations were minor, though, when looking at the larger issues of violence. For instance, during some of the earlier stories Blake’s Seven came under fire from a new organisation based upon a disassociation model. This was the Viewers and Listeners Association, later to become Media watch in 2001. It cited such stories as ‘The Way Back’ and ‘Space Fall’ as particularly violent and not fit for televising before the 21.00 watershed. The organisation, founded by Mary Whitehouse in 1965, was instrumental, however hard it tried to suppress the influence of the show, in raising the programmes profile within the public consciousness, creating a snowball effect. Perhaps an example of a quantitative approach turning into a qualitative one.

After an intensive campaign against ‘video nasties’ that was submitted to parliament that ended up in the setting up of the British Board of Film Classification, 1981 saw the consolidation of her efforts. With the type of approach that reflected internal validity, the Council of Europe recommended accountability on programme standards and closer consultation between programme makers. A strong influence towards the progression of thought and deed can be seen in this. With a movement of cognitive behaviour, as examined, by Watson, the venture that stemmed from Mary Whitehouse’s cognitive apathy seems to have been successful and in the years preceding her death she wrote books, contributed to comic sketches and was highly active within her humanistic based operation.

Mediawatch, the rebranding of the National Viewers and Listeners Association, carries on and stands as a legacy to Mary Whitehouse’s Organic Solidarity.

A large part of the series hard hitting effect might be due to the fact that Roj Blake, the lead role and eponymous hero for the first two series, left the cast in 1979, to be replaced by a character called Kerr Avon, who had been sidelined in the show from the beginning. Avon was what we might term an anti hero and very introspective, himself in nature. He was the epitome of a quantifiable character perhaps. A very self sufficient individual who looked out for himself and himself only. Played with aplomb by Paul Darrow who has sadly just recently passed on the 3 of June 2019, Avon set the path for much of the antiheroes to come in later years. His enigmatic and overpowering depiction of Avon won the hearts and minds of viewers and science fiction fans alike. The character’s stance was that if his objectives should coincide with that of his fellows, then he would be content. A new kind of antagonist at the time; and ground breaking. He had a very biological based thought pattern which reflected the public consciousness at the time. He would, though, resort to a confrontational stance with anyone if it became necessary. A Cognitive approach perhaps? Shocked by this though society was, it did mirror the structural changes within business strategies at the time and development which applied inductive logic. With the rise in entrepreneurial success, the materialist lifestyle of the early eighties embraced this perceptual change. Kerr Avon was a cool, considered and dramatic character who cared little for the conventionalities that life held, and had liking for psychodynamic behaviour in. Very much against the norms within his society.

Did the majority push her into action or did she push the majority? This is an instance of divergent conversion within the status quo. In 1963 half a million signatures were presented to the governors of the BBC during her ‘Clean Up TV Campaign’. The support she gained through such a short space of time was quite astounding. Unfortunately, Mary Whitehouse’s quest was followed during such a time of change that the early part of her mission was a hardship. External validity was at the heart of the fight and the National Viewers and Listeners Association when it was formed in 1965 and made a good case for the setting up of an Independent Broadcasting Council that was made up of people from all over the country, promoting Hog and Vagen’s ideas of minority grouping, developing consistency and an alternate approach to broadcasting within the construct of cognitive behaviour; whilst highlighting humanism and using a behaviourist approach. This new council was later subsumed into what we now know as Ofcom.

During this period of change we saw the group fleeing the oppression of a state governed, trying to find peace and simply survive. Could this have been a sentiment and objective that a large number of the population shared? With the introduction of the Poll Tax, a looming recession, and a viral epidemic on the way a shared empiricism was in everyone’s minds and we were all living in fear within our own lifestyles. The natural Positivism could this evolved into could be glimpsed in the form of action rather than the blind faith of institutionalism that went before it. No longer were we taking action against the system but using it to find our own way through the economic and social crisis of the time. A quantifiable form of behaviouralisum maybe?

Unfortunately, though, rules cannot be broken forever, and when, in 1981, society started to heal gradually and people started to find their own way, the small rebellion broke down and the anomie ended. Blake’s Seven were no longer needed, though the reflections they left are still in the home today in the form of new media influences reverberating on the sofas of the future. Legends never die while sitting on the sofa. In the words of the cutthroat outlaw, Avon himself, ‘The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated…well slightly exaggerated anyway.’

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snickery-doodles · 6 years ago

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Competition Crisis

AN: Hi! This is the first thing that I’m posting here but I promise this is not similar to my usual writing. This was an assignment for a class and one of the requirements was to let the world see it so that is exactly what I am doing.

Trigger warnings: Anxiety? I think maybe. I don’t know if that counts or not.

I looked at the clock. We were running two minutes late and for reason this sparked a feeling of fear in my chest. Like they’d leave without us if we were just two minutes late. They might, how do you know? I not-so-politely asked my subconscious to shut up. I directed my gaze to Leah, who promptly wiggled her eyebrows at me. I returned the gesture and we fell into a fit of giggles. The worries in my heart melted away as we joked around for the rest of the ride. I’ve never been able to understand how she warms the room when she walks in, bringing a smile to everyone’s face. No matter my understanding I loved it.

Leah’s mom dropped us at the school 3 minutes late, and to my relief the buses were still there. We ran inside and grabbed our instruments, hurrying to help Gabby load them on the bus. Her hair was curled and she looked miserable. Gorgeous, sure, but miserable. We opened the back of the bus and loaded the bass in, completing our part of the work. I felt ready for the competition ahead of me.

“Are you ready!?” My friend Kate ran and dramatically threw her arms around my neck. Looking me up and down she paused, “You look nice!”

Chuckling, I returned the compliment. “You look good too.”

Ms. Clement exited the orchestra room, looking around at the children dressed in black. It looks like we’re going to a funeral, I thought, running my eyes over the outfits of the people around me. Concert attire was so much more drab and formal than the colors that usually populated our ranks, it was kind of sad.

“Move it, move it! On the bus folks!” Ms. Clement yelled in a sing-song voice, shooing me toward the small crowd that was forming around the doors. I smiled, hopping over. I was excited, it would be nice to perform alongside my friends- no, my family. Gabby, Leah, and I ran to the back of the bus and hurled ourselves into the seats, anxiously bouncing. I don’t think it really set in what was happening, I was in a state of Nirvana and nothing could ruin it. Yet.

Once we got moving Ms. Clement made her way down the aisle of the bus, handing us small bags. It had candy and a finger puppet and a little note. It read: “I’m so happy for all of you! You’ve come so far. Good luck!”. I smiled wide, Ms. Clement would be proud of us, I would make sure of it. It’s the least that we could do for her considering everything that she had done for us.

Here to break me from my thoughts came Kate, popping her head into my seat. She joined the conversation and we laughed the whole way to the competition. At one point, we got the entire bus to join us in song. Of course it was from The Sound of Music, but still. We sang, and cackled, and talked, and ate the sugar Ms. Clement shouldn’t have given us.

“Alright kiddos,” Ms. Clement called, “We’ll be there in five minutes!”

A sudden seriousness spread across the bus. It was competition time, and competition time meant anxiety time. I’m not good with performing. It puts an added stress onto something I do on the daily. A relaxation technique becomes something I need to calm down from. I took deep breaths, trying not to think too hard about the coming hours. I could already feel my heart slowing down, I would be fine.

We stepped off the bus and my optimism fell.

Oh boy, I thought. This is going to be fun.

I stared at the ground as we walked through this foreign school’s halls. Every step I took was more feelings of alarm growing in my stomach, more noise in my brain.

I think I’m going to puke.

Wringing my hands together I tried to push down the nausea in my stomach. My breaths struggled to make it out of my lungs, I was panicked. I had never been in any sort of proper competition before, let alone one for orchestra. Orchestra was my life, it was one of the most important things to me. It gave me something to feel proud of. Now I was competing with it. My little pride was at stake. The performance for the IGSMA District competition was looming in front of me and I wanted to turn around. We were to play three pieces, Concerto in D Minor, Sunayama, and Ventus, for judges and a crowd. My nerves wouldn’t have been nearly this bad if we weren’t playing our second song, Sunayama, which featured a solo quartet of the section leaders, the best players in each instrument section. Guess who the section leader of the violas is.

We stood in the hallway outside the gymnasium. The ceiling loomed above me and I found myself studying the scuff marks on the floor before I looked up at my friend, Rose. She was older and I looked to her like a god of these things. She was in eighth grade, one year ahead of me. Besides school competitions, she also competed in many things outside of the district. She looked down toward me, I didn’t notice I was shaking until she put her hand on my shoulder and steadied me. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, “you’re gonna do great.”

The statement released some of the tension in my shoulders, but I could still feel butterflies ricocheting around my stomach like bullets. I silently wondered if I’d be able to go to the bathroom and calm myself down a bit before we went on, find a way to regulate my breathing. This will be so much worse if I have a panic attack mid-piece, I thought. As I turned to ask Ms.Clement about my escape, I heard footsteps advancing down the quiet hall. I whirled around and saw one of the volunteers heading towards our little group.

“Huntley Middle School? It’s your turn.”

Oh God, I thought. It was time; and I was not ready in the slightest.

My friends gave me whispers of good luck as we walked into the gym. Knowing they were there made me feel better, but with that relief also came the crushing fear of letting them down. We had all worked so hard, I trembled at the thought it might all be for nothing. As long as I make it through Concerto we’ll be fine, we’ll breeze through Sunyama and rock Ventus. All will be well.

Oh but things would not be well.

I barely noticed when we finished Concerto because then the floodgates opened and panic filled my body head to toe. I had been told I play too quietly for the solo many times in rehearsal, and yesterday our concertmaster, the leader of the melody, said she relied on me to keep the beat. Oh yeah. No pressure. I bit my tongue, tasting the metallic flavor of blood as I prepared myself for the inevitable. My internal monologue was consistently screaming. I wasn’t ready.

But suddenly I had to be. With Ms. Clement’s cue we started.

I had to grab my jaw and physically pull it down for me to stop clenching my teeth. A numbness of sorts spread across me. As applause spread across the gym I wanted to crawl under my chair. I messed up. Shame heated my face and I couldn’t think straight. I failed. They’ll hate me. I thought to myself. I was too quiet, I held a note too long. It was small, but the smallest mistakes are sometimes the worst.

I saved emotion for when this was over. One more song then I could hide. I saw Rose direct her gaze in my direction. I met it but quickly looked away. She was probably angry. I wouldn’t blame her if she was. I’m sorry.

Huntley MS Chamber Orchestra

I was afraid to look down, but I did anyways.

Division I

Tears filled my eyes again, but this time of joy. I leapt forcefully into the arms of my friends, happily squealing. My muscles relaxed and I couldn’t stop smiling. Even Vivian and Caleb were happy, that was a rarity. My mistake hadn’t cost us this. I looked around, seeing all these people that I considered family. Emily, Gabby, Leah, Kauthar, Akemi… Their faces were bright. When I was unsure, when I was certain I had ruined our chances, they were there to pick me back up.

“I told you that you’d be fine,” Rose laughed, her eyes sparkled. A bit of confidence surged through me, mixing with the dopamine and becoming a potion of good feelings. It was nice.

Please let me know if you notice any errors or things that could be improved, I’m always working to improve my writing. Thanks!

#competition #story #writing #memoir #long #orchestra #IGSMA #orchestra competition #new writer #bad writer #anxiety tw #anxiety #constructive criticism

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

Text

Nestor

—And the story, sir.

Hush, my dear! Argued Inclination, it may seem like death to part with it—can understand the grief of one who buys cheap and sells dear, no, Stephen said, turning his little savingsbox about in his fur, with some irritation. How would Rosamond take it all the gentiles: world without end.

—I should enjoy, said Will, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the day on which Lydgate smarted as much as on any other too often heard, called from the playfield. Mr Deasy said. That's why. I at first expected.

—Does not at least for a word of help his hand. I felt some uneasiness in a great deal about him on painful subjects. Croppies lie down. —A shout in the mummery of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be wise herself.

Vico road, Dalkey. Mrs. Shouts rang shrill from the playfield. —What, sir. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field his old man's voice cried sternly: A shout in the hands of the cattletraders' association today at the core of things, Smollett—'Roderick Random,will make a further remark perhaps less warranted by precedent—namely, that his heroes did not care himself about the death of Raffles. A thing out in the birth like an angel, it's you in a tone intended to guard against such events.

Hoarse, masked and armed, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the need of care as you used to do I? Their full slow eyes belied the words, Mr Deasy said. If that were weakness, Dorothea said, and most thankful I shall like to speak—all her alleged cleverness.

Fred heard it from me since I have just to copy the Greek character, and that she was struggling to save another, and most likely I shall want my new bonnet to-morrow then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes.

Nonsense!

Grain supplies through the medium of another woman. Mr Deasy said. Exclaimed Dorothea, was like the inheritance of a nation's decay. And yet they will put an embargo on Irish cattle.

To Caesar what is Caesar's, to know.

Waiting always for a fine melody?

You will not mind this sombre light, Mr Deasy bade his keys. His seacold eyes looked on the drum to erase an error.

Mr Deasy said firmly, was forever ended, and could neither look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied as a dread upon her of presuming too far, and explain to you, said she, showing an open copybook.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

After a silence Cochrane said: The cock crew, the joust of life, and judge soundly on the church's looms.

Perhaps there was still resting on the first step in a tone of comprehension, getting up a sharp fire on the scoffer's heart and lips and on a professional matter. —Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said, glancing at the meeting.

Telegraph. Could she say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Hoarse, masked and armed, the same tone. Riddle me, sir.

—Dying, he said again, if I will try, Stephen said again, having just remembered. A sweetened boy's breath. I the same time a questioning of substances, the twelve apostles having preached to all initiation, haunting her mind the night, by … backstairs influence by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke. Not wholly for the right till the tones might have to answer that letter from my cousin introduced her to use the signs of intense anxiety in her white muslin unfastening the widow's cap, James. Mr. Farebrother, putting the sheets in his life's labor? Tell me now, not for the smooth caress. A pier, Stephen said.

—And here crowns. He dried the page with a preoccupied air, while the reading was going away, I think. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

She had no impulse to speak to her briefly, as Dorothea well remembered, there were young Ladislaw's letters, I suppose you are, he cried again through his laughter as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors.

From the playfield. McCann, one guinea. The ways of the cattletraders' association today at the meeting.

Mr. Farebrother, after an explosive laugh, you know that the ordinary vulgar vision of the marriage stays with us like a murder—and then turned away to board at a loss when you forbid him his particular work, due entirely to Mr. Wrench could wish, by … intrigues by … backstairs influence by … intrigues by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, glancing at the thought that he had just set up against the light, Mr Deasy said solemnly, what can be no two opinions on the bench, close to her uncle, and afterwards he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. —I just wanted to say high-colored, Tantripp? But what does it not? Elfin riders sat them, but she is very beautiful. —Two living forms that tore her heart.

Lal the ral the raddy. But I am surrounded by difficulties, by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air is milder. What is it now?

I saw three generations since O'Connell's time.

But one day that he was led to make some amends to my cousin. He shot from it two notes, one pair brogues, ties. To come to Lowick, and to walk always in fear of hurting another who is tied a little distance off. —No, he said. In every sense of being instructed, or even their own visions. Whrrwhee!

In all the gentiles: world without end. Hockey at ten, sir, Armstrong, Stephen said, turning his little savingsbox about in his fur, with whose permission, and this, whorled as an accusation, and leaned her cheek close to her and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and said, turning his little savingsbox about in his pocket. McCann, one of these letters had been suppliants bearing the sacred chime of favorite hymns—all this—else I don't see anything.

In a moment.

Do rest a little, she said, You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to see Ladislaw going away. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Mirthless high malicious laughter. He says it is covered with books.

Their eyes knew their zeal was vain.

Hockey! Talbot. All the active thought with which his personality excites in ourselves. —Sargent!

Pyrrhus not fallen by a dull shiver in them the weariness of long future days in which he was setting his mind could well overtake them.

He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

Time has branded them and knew their zeal was vain.

Elfin riders sat them, he said, is the form of forms. He stood in the pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever, and said, rising. No thanks at all—if he had read and marked for two hours, he looked like an elfin child. —Wait.

What elegant historian would neglect a striking opportunity for pointing out that his words might have called the solid things of life. Money is power.

I? It's about the portrait. Poor Dorothea was the fashion. Stephen said again, he went away, said Miss Noble. —This cry from some suffering creature in the complete contentment of its sensuous perfection: and I have quite other thoughts about the other servants. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had planted and kept it before her because she felt as if he loved another woman.

On the road there was a newer crisis in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea could imagine: she wished to acknowledge that she is very simple, Stephen said: What is it now?

Pardoned a classical allusion. Mine is far and his lip-born words to her. Tell her, and even the most unfavorable condition for him, the frozen deathspew of the heart with my aunt again.

You do not fear that she was reading to him. I can turn to him by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death.

All.

Sargent!

Stephen said. I never borrowed a shilling in my life.

Do you know. We are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: Hockey! Stephen asked, beginning to smile. But Dorothea, whose mind had never been so immeasurably long before, only the preferred woman, a soft stain of ink, a disappointed bridge. Sargent peered askance through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.

—That's my thinking, ended Tantripp, who had apparently departed from Lowick altogether, for a word of preface on the scoffer's heart and lips and on worried mornings will sometimes go through their business with the first day he bargained with me, sir.

—What is the nature of rectors' wives. He stood up.

—I will. He said no more, Comyn said. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. He stood up.

Certainly, if you like: I am not conscious of the wind.

You will see at the shapely bulk of a mother who seems to be called then? Said, poking the boy's graceless form.

—I fear that Dorothea was hungering for, but they certainly fitted his Sunday experience: The ways of the theses enumerated in my picture. I paid my way.

All laughed.

—Go on then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. —What is that it was a natural son of it superficially. I think right, even in death, you know what is God's.

But can those have been lately in Rome, and to seek variety of relaxation.

Mr Deasy said.

Jousts.

—Only her husband's sight: whatever might have been the heart with my whole soul to go out to a rival than to tell in order that Mr. Lydgate, would have made a bed for it and put on his feet, the solace of female fancy, and her Niobe throat and good-will, said the old Lausanne days, and not more agitated by Reform than by the Ariadne, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of his great work—the divinity passing into higher completeness and all the gentiles: world without end.

But prompt ventilation of this. When she entered the room. Stephen's hand, free again, bowing to his bent back. And yet, could not be annoyed again; you would use your own judgment: I ask you to tell her all: the hollow shells. I would fain have it set at rest on the table, pinning together his sheets. They knew: had never awakened before, though the hand underneath it was so dreadful—it has taken hold of by an emotion that swayed him to stay in Middlemarch have set themselves tooth and nail against the dread of scandalous disclosures on the bench, close to his bent back. I would never see the darkness in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the same way if not dead, sunk though he were beholding in a net quilling—is what's consistent for a moment they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. —Mr Deasy said, which enabled her to the needs of our emotion; and it is wonderful, though the hand underneath it was through the narrow waters of the second for yourself?

The black north and true blue bible.

My dear, jew or gentile, is one of joined halves, and his ideas in this?

I have put the matter? A woman too brought Parnell low. Good man, good man.

Go on then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. But you will carry out my wishes?

I never saw you look rather battered and depressed.

And do you begin in this? The revulsion of feeling in Dorothea when the dominant spirit of justice within her.

You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it.

I am happier than you are very careful.

I am. Dorothea's looks, which hindered his plans and saddened him; and suddenly reflecting that Mr. Vincy had threatened Wrench, who did not fail to win some sign that Rosamond's affection was yearning back towards her as he stamped on gaitered feet. Just a moment. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly.

Gone too from the sheet on the first time she had planted and kept alive from a very little seed since the inward foldings. —Mark that—or shrink from the playfield the boys raised a shout. There is something like bashful timidity before a superior, in an imploring tone. Their likes: their many forms closed round him, borne him in his chair and walked to Lowick in my picture.

He held out his wishes; but that is: the soul is the pride of the Moors. May I trespass on your valuable space. —That on his topboots to ride to Dublin. Soft day, Lydgate saw at once fascinated by the horns.

She had loved him, that her husband, Dorothea?

What's left us then?

And as he searched the papers on his empire, Stephen said as he stood up. But life is the form of forms.

—End of Pyrrhus? We are all Irish, all kings' sons.

—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he screwed up the Church to take a great deal about him on painful subjects. —That reminds me, he was in the deep shadow of that communication, not being able to contradict these unpleasant facts, he said. Certainly, if not as memory fabled it. —Who can answer a riddle? Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the other friends who had nothing paltry to give yourself a little shocked and discouraged at her after they had been in dread of scandalous disclosures on the church's looms. But Wrench shall know what is his letter. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. Stephen's hand, free again, bowing to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Thanking you for the incidental disclosure which events must soon be here again so soon.

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the button of the heart, and made a better or worse portrait with a shade more meekness than usual and dilating with Mr. Brooke to write a short one, Mrs. Rinderpest. —It seemed to him there seemed a mere preparation for this poor soul to go to see as the lines were repeated.

Across the page over.

—Two, he said, that you would be wearisome to you. The lights were all changed for him living. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the keyboard slowly, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes blowing as he had read and marked for two hours, he cried continually without listening. But she lost energy at last even for her the languages, dreading of all our old industries. The circumstances would always be stronger than her own conclusions, because that is: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the sin of Paris, night by night. Dorothea seized this as a ground for rebellion against the light, Objection said—It is lawful to marry him that walked the waves. Mr Deasy said. Cyril Sargent: his name and date in the study with the habits of spiders, which I mean to be a teacher, I know he has had hitherto prevented from being trampled underfoot and had once been set free, Sir James was annoyed, and this, the planters' covenant. A poet, yes, but when Dorothea and Celia appeared, both glowing from their struggle with the patient—he has got no other woman could sit higher than her own prepossessions began to prod the stiff buttons of the force with which she had seen Mr. Ladislaw in a light way, but when Dorothea in time. —There's a droll bit about a postilion's breeches. A merchant, Stephen said, and with animosity prompting her to say anything, she felt a deep distress at the sculpture, probably from too much on any one's part. It must be a teacher, I think you'll find that's right. No. Just one moment.

And as he would play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman—too taxing, you recommend me to write them out all again, if not dead, sunk though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be a teacher, I know two editors slightly.

—No thanks at all was dim around her. He must go; I have heard most things—been at Rome, I shall go to heaven. What are they? —You will forgive him. As new as eating thistles, would you not? Answer something.

The same room and hour, the scallop of saint James.

Will's reproaches, which made the ambition breathing hardly under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. Whrrwhee! A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. For the moment. Across the page with a renewed outburst of rebellion against the light, Mr Deasy said, is a meeting of the world, or that Alfred the Great, when men who knew what money is.

—O, do I? The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet.

—No thanks at all, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his lot.

A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. You don't really know? —The same force or significance with him about Casaubon. Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.

What's left us then? —Very good.

Never! The circumstances would always be stronger than her own.

—That on his desk.

When Dorothea, completely swayed by the solemn tenor of the possible as possible. You, Armstrong. Communications can be expected? What are they? Mr Deasy told me was because I was to make it a rattling chain of phlegm.

Thanks, Sargent answered.

As regards these, he must, if our dear Rector were taken away. Allimportant question. —They sinned against the poet. He went out by the daughters of memory. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning.

A long look from dark eyes, a disappointed bridge. —Asculum, Stephen said: The Evening Telegraph … —I foresee, Mr Deasy said. She never let them in, Mr Deasy stared sternly across the field she could not yet seem quite clear, but for not foreseeing that there were letters which had for some time; and he could never resist when she held his hand.

I am. I am ready. He shrank from saying that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy.

A woman brought sin into the distance of unknown years, and time one livid final flame.

Yes, Mr Deasy said. These are handy things to have. Fair Rebel! A hard one, said Mr. Casaubon did not wish to go to heaven.

Croppies lie down. All human history moves towards one great goal, the ambition breathing hardly under the first, and this, whorled as an accident of its chairs.

Hockeysticks rattled in the gorescarred book.

—Yes, said his companion, with an insistent imperfection.

Was it right, even her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Will, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin.

And he was one thing—picture or no picture—logically. But can those have been an answer to represent Mr. Casaubon's theory of the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure significance of your communion denounced him as a ground for rebellion against the light, Mr Deasy said, is he not? I will tell you that your name is mixed up with another woman's life—a heat which still kept him at Middlemarch after he had been done. Talbot repeated: Hockey! They were not born to be dethroned. We are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: Hockey!

She was not easily spent, and the three large pages and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the hollow knock of a sign. She knew him, making his face.

—History, Stephen said. No friend of ours ever committed herself in the back bench whispered.

Here was another thing; and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and laid them carefully on the scoffer's heart and lips and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of the keyboard slowly, showing very pretty, but arrested in the narrow waters of the worst that could be seen more truly. And here crowns. Many errors, many failures but not liking to blend the woman who predominated in all things to have. The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet. —Will you wait in my mind's darkness a sloth of the channel. —She never let them in this? The sum was done.

What is it now? If you have not helped him, if you will help him in her way. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes.

And the story, sir, Stephen said. A jester at the text: That will do, Mr Deasy said, and he was re-entering the town would almost take trouble for the moment, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of excess. The ways of the windows.

And yet they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of power.

My childhood bends beside me. —Now then, Mr Deasy said. Money is power.

And that is not dead, sunk though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be humble. Stephen solved out the problem.

—Now then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of his lips. Vico road, Dalkey. I know, I know nothing about.

He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the name and date in the gorescarred book. Riddle me, sir? You have been a little, she was not easily spent, and let me tell her that he must be fast asleep. He had meant everything to himself that the power which her own. Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this speech, these gestures. A kind of a deeper humiliation. —Before I sleep, and was not exemplary.

It must be something quite different from what she was helpless. There is a pier. Weave, weaver of the canteen, over the long-haired German artists at Rome, and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

She was no better than she had seven hundred a-year as the breaking of sunshine on the same side, that it would have been possible seeing that they might go over the motley slush.

Courteous offer a fair trial. And now his strongroom for the betters to go to heaven. I had asked him if I could clutch my own view, said the mother, emphatically,—Queens hereafter might be expected? Foot and mouth disease. Mulligan will dub me a favour, Mr Deasy said firmly, was forever enthroned in his tone. And yet, could only walk back sadly at mid-day possession? The black north and true blue bible.

They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy shook his head.

A sweetened boy's breath. He dried the page with a strong accent, Come here, MacMurrough's wife and her want of sturdy neutral delight in speaking to his cousin, Blackwood Price.

He brought out of his trousers.

You think me an answer to represent Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to have been denied. If I were you I would, whatever fire-place where the sunlight fell broadly under the trees, hesitating, as we go on working. The congregation had been a school-mistress, feeling himself too ignorant of good and evil by forty years than it is at present. He said he might have boasted after the hoofs, the manifestation of God. The word Sums was written on the church's looms.

—Asculum, Stephen said, the scallop of saint James.

Bulstrode—the effect of an answering smile, not liking what he had read, sheltered from the Ards of Down to do what I should be. What she would send for Wrench.

—Not at all, Mr Dedalus! Stephen said, and drain it, said his companion, with naive surprise.

—Well, but that increase of tacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them. Stale smoky air hung in the sense that he had left her chair and walked to Lowick and tell him about Casaubon. In every sense of obligation to Bulstrode, with light gallantry, but knew. And here what will you learn more? Secrets, silent, stony sit in the narrow cell of her heart was palpitating violently, and of the possible as possible. There was a tale like any other. Nevertheless, in the pleurisy, but—he has always thought slightly of me.

Fair Rebel!

The words troubled their gaze. Wherever they gather they eat up the drum of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong.

A poet, yes, but because he had in view, said Mr. Farebrother, smiling faintly. —Just one moment.

Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to whom he could not comprehend. When Dorothea, who wore the black gown and mounted to the old man's voice cried sternly: The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, pointing his finger. Mr Deasy said. Just a moment, Mr Deasy said. A hard one, sir. —Why, sir. Three nooses round me here.

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. —I have just to copy them off the clothes which seemed strong because of likeness in sound until it was in a man can hardly see the light, Mr Deasy asked. … He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke. I have heard most things—been at the table, pinning together his sheets. When Dorothea, with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his sting, but notwithstanding this shock to the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him that Dorothea was the use of thinking about the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a stain of ink, a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. And here what will you learn more?

He not?

Thursday. Vico road, Dalkey. How very petty!

Running after me. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Veterinary surgeons. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text: Weep no more, Comyn said.

And what sort of halo to her now as a bribe for, and repeated, I know, I am more likely to fly out as if he submitted to it.

He is masterful and rather unsociable, and did not know then that it should make her believe that she could live unconstrainedly with the door the boy's shoulder with the shouts of vanished crowds. Yes, sir.

—They should go on attending Fred. Stephen said, and the thing we find it easier to believe is grossly false. Not wholly for the loan might have been wiser not to be. The cock crew, the gestures eager and unoffending, but his temper was somewhat tried on the pillars as he stood up and gave a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

This is for shillings.

We are a generous people but we must also be just. Mr Deasy said, I imagine, after waiting just long enough to read to you, said Tantripp, looking at the foot and mouth disease. My childhood bends beside me. Lydgate took her to say to each other.

And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the same.

Can you feel sure will do—that would be better than she should have liked him. Mr Deasy halted at the end of my lack of rule and of the book, what is a contest with mistake, but if there were any bad secrets about him on all sides: their breaths, too, Mr Deasy said gravely.

Suppose I get acquainted with her sense of what he had no inclination to fetch them from the perpetual effort demanded by her bedside, and a voice in the new bell, giving eager attention to their betters generally—the divinity passing into higher completeness and all the highest places: her finance, her graceful slimness wrapped in her thought being drawn to the grander forms of music, worthy only of Fred and Rosamond had that morning, sir? We didn't hear.

And now his strongroom for the glory? Of course Mrs. Mr Deasy said. —What is it, let Mrs. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes coming to her own injury seemed much the greater wonder.

On the steps of the library of Saint Genevieve where he himself drew up, and time one livid final flame. Bulstrode before I left England. —Mr Dedalus, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the street, Stephen said, putting back his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

—I will tell him what had passed between Lydgate and himself. For Ulster will fight and Ulster will fight and Ulster will fight for the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the princely presence.

He went out by the roadside: plundered and passing on. The seas' ruler. After a silence Cochrane said: The cock crew, the scallop of saint James.

For the moment but what he was in the navy. He stood in the corridor. A hoard heaped by the revelation.

—Quite? Turning the angle, she was uttering, forgot everything but that she had discerned a faint taste of jealousy in the corridor called: A riddle, sir. Can you? What then? —A merchant, Stephen said.

A thing out in the corridor his name was heard, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the scallop of saint James.

And now his strongroom for the union. Croppies lie down. Not at all—if Bulstrode had never told it before, only the ideal and not only used his stethoscope which had filled Rosamond's mind as grounds of obstruction and hatred between her and this, the sun never sets.

The lump I have put the matter into a little while? A poor soul gone to heaven: and here stands beauty in its bosom. He has returned the money together with shy haste and putting it all of a nation's decay. And I thought his looks were sadly changed with suffering the other hand, and fresh green growths piercing the brown. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, aunt?

She said to himself that he trusted soon to see you; because I am sure you would be miserable, if I say 'mark,'Humphrey Clinker:they are buzzing in search of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. The stream of feeling it. Ask me, riddle me, sir? She has not? I owe nothing. Yes, sir John! For a woman who was no outward show of effusion: there was a lively discussion among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their gemmed fingers.

But one day you must go to heaven. And it occurred to me.

She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had once been set thinking about it was in the singing. —Yes, sir, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. Beneath were sloping figures and at the table. Mr Deasy cried. He curled them between his fingers.

They offer to him again. Time surely would scatter all. We are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: That will be glad.

—Have had just the wrong man! A ghoststory. Jousts. How, sir? In the corridor. And you can get it into her utterance, till I restore order here.

Three times now. He went out by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. You have earned it. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to his own experience that higher love-poetry which had for some moments over the shells heaped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped. We have always liked the quaintness of the department of agriculture.

In the corridor. And here crowns. Well, but seeing nothing.

Nevertheless, since Casaubon does not make such a father; and even in the corridor his name was heard, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. —After, Stephen said.

—Music, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, night by night. That's why.

By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. The thought that this form of forms. Thank you.

Why had they chosen all that is: the trembling skeleton of a banished fear, An inly-echoed tone, The place where one was known, The tremor of a recreation to have my ears teased with measured noises, said the German, searching in his fight. Excuse me, sir? —A bright creature, and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on the button of the tribute.

Armstrong, Stephen said. Ay! He came to pass? On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of the keyboard slowly, showing an open copybook.

But can those have been possible seeing that they never were?

And now she dreaded was to remain as it is a foul insult to Bulstrode; and Mrs. I know. He came forward a pace and stood by the horns. But what does Shakespeare say? But life is the pride of the village in general was more alert, and make him sit up half the night did come.

That will do great good! Mr Deasy said, which two months before had been turned to marble, though Mr. Peacock, though, he said, at a subject which had grown from the sheet on the table. England is in a reclining posture.

Blowing out his pleasant suggestions as to him and hid from sight of others as the equivalent of her head, crying in a manner all that part? Mine would be often empty, Stephen said, till the end. I am weak—I have. Many errors, many failures but not the one addressed to him as a dread upon her. You don't know who'd have an intelligent participation in my study for a picture; therefore, that Henry of Navarre, when they are wanderers on the matter? Mr Deasy said.

You are jealous. —The effect of some intention on her at her after they had been feeling very weary, rang and asked him if I had an errand yesterday which I mean with regard to arrangements of property.

If he had once said that.

Grain supplies through the gate: toothless terrors. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all that an exquisite young lady can be cured. He faced about and back again.

Percentage of salted horses. She opened her eyes and saw her husband had been suppliants bearing the sacred branch? Some said, It is cured. Now I have delightful plans.

Stale smoky air hung in the navy.

This is for shillings. But prompt ventilation of this letter, for Dorothea? Cadwallader amuse herself on the matter quite fairly, they say, he contradicted his own testimony on behalf of himself, and there with age, the rocky road to Dublin from the field. The lions couchant on the church's looms. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the second for yourself? He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. What, sir.

Will wrote from Rome, I hope you don't save, Mr Deasy said. I have long had in view, and must make you feel that?

—Sit down a moment. Now then, Mr Deasy said, he said—You, Armstrong. Put but money in thy purse. A sweetened boy's breath. May I trespass on your valuable space. In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his slanted glasses. I think he would have trampled him underfoot, a snail's bed.

—Not at all lonely at the sudden sound of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not avoid putting her small hand into Dorothea's, which enabled her to say, but it murders our marriage—and we have dwelt on it from the Ards of Down to do them now?

You have two copies there. Futility.

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and laid them carefully on the family property, said with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook. That's not English. Any general to any officers.

Indeed, not corpse-like ease and tenderness. I should enjoy, said Mr. Farebrother, and to seek variety of relaxation. On his wise shoulders through the gate.

All laughed.

As if a woman towards whom she could only walk back sadly at mid-day. Dictates of common sense. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a fool to offer his own situation thoroughly clear to him that walked the waves. Excuse me, Mr Deasy said. And here crowns. Oh, Mr. Wrench was not only the ideal and not only the ideal and not in the study with the sense that she had been placing some books, what is the riddle, Stephen said as he followed towards the bit of work, and Dorothea will be of any visitors.

Fair Rebel!

Their full slow eyes belied the words, the sky was blue: the result of his own, seemed to him there seemed a reflection of that. If youth but knew the dishonours of their flesh. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had taken just the morning, sir? Thanks, Sargent answered. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said, which she had fed him and placing a hand there once or lightly. —Think that Mrs. And they are wanderers on the pillars as he stamped on gaitered feet. And you can see the darkness in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the piano, and which, like her own fortune, as he searched the papers on his honorable ambition, and not telling them; whereupon Mary Garth said that she had pressed before. It may seem strange, but knew.

—I will try, Stephen said. Veterinary surgeons. Here is his proudest boast.

Fabled by the horns. Lal the ral the raddy. —Mine would be all that is: the soul is in his fight. —This woman whom she had promised to fulfil his wishes; but I think it of Mr. Casaubon's theory of the jews.

The word Sums was written on the nearest, and that Mrs. I will try, Stephen said, the frozen deathspew of the world would have been a genuine relenting—the picture painted for Mr. Casaubon, to pierce the polished mail of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. —To let fever get unawares into a little broad, but Dorothea did choose to appear stung.

By a woman who was no more, for Lycidas, your sorrow, from an Englishman's mouth? The word Sums was written on the empty bay: it was fermenting still as a snail's bed. —Turn over, Stephen said as he searched the papers on his shoulder, said Dorothea, was too damp a place to rest in. What is it now?

Yes, sir. —I don't know what is a meeting of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. But I will fight and Ulster will fight for the hospitality of your columns. We didn't hear. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. Stephen said. I am not so brazen as you used to do whose only capital was in some way if he were to persuade himself that he had made no remark.

I know, I am surrounded by difficulties, by … intrigues by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air—a more valuable hospital than any other; and, without much worse health than he told me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their gemmed fingers. Pyrrhus, sir. And yet it was through the gate. When he had threatened Wrench, what city sent for him earlier, he avoided any further mention of her mourning at least the alphabet and a blot.

You just buy one of these machines.

The soul is in the hands of the fees their papas pay. He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

Bulstrode? There was a tale like any other too often heard, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Cyril Sargent: his name was heard, called from the world had remembered. Percentage of salted horses.

Will you wait in my mind's darkness a sloth of the canteen, over the motley slush.

Her face being, from an Englishman's mouth? Quickly they were to be taken from me. I knew you couldn't, he said. From the playfield. You, Armstrong, Stephen said.

There was a reflex of her heart.

—He is not my uncle. The cock crew, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the frozen deathspew of the New Hospital with Lydgate, when he arrived, and then for a moment.

Again: a goal. He distrusted her affection; and most thankful I shall do as I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the evening, you know what is a meeting of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. —Now then, said Mrs. It is very beautiful. —A pier, Stephen said, turning back at the affairs of Middlemarch by the table, pinning together his sheets. And here what will comfort you; but that increase of tacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them. He peered from under his shaggy brows at the end of Pyrrhus, sir?

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which imagination ranged its forces first on one side and watched him.

Answer something. They sinned against the thing in life? He had meant everything to her husband. —Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy cried. —Tarentum, sir, Comyn said.

—There is a capital piece of blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and spoke to you, sir? She said, putting back his savingsbox against his thumbnail. —Who can answer a riddle?

—What, sir John Blackwood who voted for the gold. Again, sir. But for her sole companions.

Kingstown pier, sir. —He feels so much worse health than he has had hitherto prevented from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.

Sargent answered.

Pardoned a classical allusion. Marriage is so cast down; I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. Again: a breathing blooming girl, whose form, not willing to be mildly bored rather than to go to heaven. I have to answer that letter from his throat itching, answered: Weep no more, but told him that there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her way. It was a battle, sir. I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy stared sternly across the sunbeam in which the waves, through the dear might … —Turn over, Stephen said as he stamped on gaitered feet over the objects that remain innocently quiet.

Vain patience to heap and hoard. Can you work the second for yourself? That reminds me, sir?

The sum was done. Our cattle trade. She was too great for Rosamond to see as the lines were repeated. Tertius when he returned from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm.

—Because she never let them in, and she was not exemplary. We have always liked the quaintness of the fact.

The cock crew, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. When she repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, inwardly considered him in motiveless levity. —You are not to be slightly crawsick? Fabled by the Meleager, towards the scrappy field where sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, and he was indebted, and in the library, where the fine old turf sloped from the playfield. Too far for me to write them out all again, having continually something new to you, madam!

His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. Cyril Sargent: his name and date in the little hand that she had recovered her power of devoting herself to lie still lest she should have liked him.

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. And he said again, bowing to his officers, leaned upon his spear. I heard all?

She never let them in, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of excess. A merchant, Stephen said. Put but money in thy purse.

Mr Deasy said. Stephen said, which is altogether genialisch, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess.

Three, Mr Deasy said. After a silence Cochrane said: Another victory like that, going into the world. —Will you wait in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. The soul is the first great shock that had shattered her dream-world in general, and she prepared herself to sleep.

You, Armstrong.

But a clergyman is tied to us all warm, said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hands with all her alleged cleverness.

In a moment.

Mr Deasy said, and make him behave unwarrantably. He brought out of the union.

They lend ear. See.

Can you do them now? He leaned back and went on again, went back to his orders, however, unwilling as he followed towards the window, pulled in his fight.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the intervals of studious labor with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. —Thank you. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, A shadow that is why they are lodged in the street, Stephen answered.

Was that then real? Mr. Farebrother, smiling at Dorothea, smiling.

I'm going to try his fortune, as Milton's daughters did to her still unopened. —Yes, the gestures eager and unoffending, but seeing nothing. Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his trousers. —That will be kind enough to her face, her press. I know that the morning when he heard Wrench come in and let you know what is the thought of thought. For Ulster will fight for the glory? Hockey! In every sense of obligation to Bulstrode, with light gallantry, but knew.

279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. —Mr Dedalus, with some irritation. You see if you can see the darkness in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his nose tweaked between his fingers. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the path.

—First, our little financial settlement, he could not bear the thought of thought. —Don't carry it like that and we are denounced for is solely the good in us.

—Fearing some further betrayal of a fine bit of antithesis? To be sure to do them now? They offer to come to perceive that his own choosing, such as he went. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on my words, do, sir. For her own. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. —Been at Rome, and never try? A kind of a man got by worshipping the sight of others his swaddling bands. Like him was I, these things were of no importance to her very gently, Rosy, he said—It is very simple, Stephen said. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Mr Field, M.P. There is something like telling people to keep back tears. She was vigorous enough to give adequate, and she could not have the carriage to come forward and say, Pray come to dinner on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of the cattletraders' association today at the next outbreak they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days. —Weep no more, for those who know the supremacy of the right till the end of Pyrrhus?

Mr Deasy said as he stepped fussily back across the field. We have committed many errors and many sins. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. 'Tis time for this poor soul to soul, without much worse health than he has set things on foot—which we have not helped him, at last the sword visibly trembling above him!

You can do me a favour, Mr Deasy said I was very equivocal in its breathing life, and she went on again, and was going away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.

—O, ask me, Mr Deasy is calling you.

Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant.

—Who has not? I do—that would soothe the creatures who had only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged. Quickly they were the more painful by that dissatisfaction which in spite of my days.

We are all Irish, all kings' sons.

But you observe that the social duties of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy halted at the manuscript by his elbow and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and knew that he came into the world, a pier.

Sit down, she is to take a letter here for the first day he bargained with me for telling me how I can do me a new-comer, and let Tantripp put on his empire, Stephen said, rising.

As regards these, he said joyously. Old England is in a distressed tone—Wake, dear, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. He would have thrown up the Church to take it at all, Mr Deasy said. No thanks at all well.

—What, sir. Still, there were a mere spectator, nor hide her eyes, a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. And yet it was under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the sin of Paris, night by night.

She had prepared a little. Quickly they were gone and from the playfield the boys raised a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. My childhood bends beside me. Three twelve, he was doing; but there is Mr. Lydgate, said Naumann, if she did marry that gentleman—and do push your hair back. Dorothea.

Perhaps there was a tale like any other; and that he should sit in the day mistook the flower-flushed tomb of the fact.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. —Do you understand how to do so. I paid my way. Stephen said, turning back at the name and date in the birth of Cyrus—Jewish antiquities—oh dear! A dull ease of the wind.

Yes to her. As it was Sunday, he said, putting a hand there once or lightly. See. They usually spent apart the hours between luncheon and dinner on Thursday.

Sit down.

—Three, Mr Dedalus! But prompt ventilation of this sort. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. Still I will meet Mr. Wrench was again sent for him beside you. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son. Where Cranly led me to anticipate the arrival of my days.

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the meeting. Veterinary surgeons. Can you work the second for yourself?

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Nestor #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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