#(Part 3!)

[yourangle-yuordevil]

Don't embarass him or he'll go full snake 🐍

[howlerbat]

[somewhatsentientspellbook]

What the McFuck am I featuring the ExU Calamity characters that I thought of when the combination came up

[cupids-cringe]

IT IS A LOVELY WONDERFUL EARLY FEBRUARY NIGHT AND YOUR LOCAL VIRTUAL VIRUS HAS RETURNED WITH PART 3 OF MY SILLY HEADCANON IDEAS FOR SOME OF THE MULTIVERSE TRAVELLERS FAVORITE SIDE CHARACTER S skrunklys- is it is it too late to call a character a skrunkly?-

working on Worldstop & Polite Benry posed a BIT of difficulty because they're SO similar!- BUT i'm quite happy with how they turned out

AS ALWAYS, NOTES BELOW!

Dr Sleepless!

• went a bit heavier on the makeup

• ze has a heck ton of glitter in their hair and a slight purple tint at the ends simply because i think it would be fun and becuase originally it started as him using glitter in his Late Late Late Late Late Show and then ze started doing it intentionally

• changed his coat! the stars and glitter are now on the inner part but its fine since ze spends so much time posing dramatically that it can always be seem flowing like a cape

• this isn't visual but since i'm talking about them i'm adding this: Sleepless' coat has cartoony physics pockets. ze can pull ANYTHING out of them. no matter how big or how much,,, he can pull 2000 rubber ducks out of completely flat looking pockets if ze wanted to.

Darnold!

• gave him a bag for all his potions, it stores both complete potions and the items he may need to craft new ones on the spot

• slightly changed his visor but kept it mostly, removed the coded binary from Kittles hacks during the events of the Worldstop AU

• slightly upgraded rocket boots

• FLAME TROUSERS!! i wasn't sure if i should add [potion] bubbles or flames, flames felt a bit that they were stepping on Bubbys flame motifs buuuut with the rocket boots i quite like it-

• return of the lightning shaped grey hair streaks

Mailman! + Bot(rey)

• added a couple heart and pin stickers which were DEFINITELY slapped there by LB- along with the writing on his bag which is 100% glitter gel pen.

• HAIR TUFTS! i just can't help myself, Mailman has some of the fluffiest (but kinda greasy) hair of all

• slightly simplified his Bot forms vest design & nametag, & included the slot where he can print his own little notes (canon)

• both of them have a friendship necklace that Loverboy made with craft beads so that they can match (i like to think that he absolutely BUGGED Spork to make Benrys virtual model a necklace like the one he'd made for the tiny Bot) (ALSO Gordon B would probably maybe make him another when hes uninfected?-)

• minor change to his heart badge on his vest

Da Boss!

• didn't do much, his designs brilliant (i LOVE the Admins matching tron outfits so much!!) all i really did was add a bit of a cape to it to match with the other Admins long coats + bit more blue in places

• subtle earrings & some changes to his boots

• NOT PICTURED BUT HE & FREEMAN HAVE MATCHING PLASTIC RINGS THAT THEY GOT FROM AN ARCADE

+ return of his Episode 1 visor cos i think hes the Benry most comfortable with showing his hair/not having his helmet (in my opinion it goes Boss, Polite, Worldstop & then Y2KVR- i will elaborate my reasons if you want)

Polite Benry!

• the MOST. NORMAL. Person you will ever know!

• his badge says "RESTRICTED RESEARCH" after the department that the Mad Science Team work in and it was handmade by their Tommy, its sort of his new security badge and he will flash it to people when hes guarding the science team

• his helmet has been through hell - it has a green sludge splash that stained and will never come out, it has a patch of metal becuase it had to be fixed after a LASER cut through it (Polite Benry was completely unharmed, it was a cartoony moment where he dodged the laser and his helmet fell off but stayed in place midair and started spinning as the laser cut into it), its got some scratches and a patch where it got struck by Bubbys electrokinisis on accident but its still a very important item to him :]

• I STOLE THIS IDEA FROM MERKLINS BUT THE COLLAR BEING POPPED UP TO MATCH THE OTHERS!! I HAD TO ITS JUST SO!! !!!!!!!!!!

• just such a normal fella

• bit of hair always visible out the helmet, occasionally he tries to tuck it back but it falls back over his eye again

Worldstop Benry!

• now. i really tried- i tried to make him look a bit more boxey than the rest because he is a Gmod NPC from the 2000s hes a bit more blocky hes a bit squared

• MISSING TEXTURE HAIR. BECAUSE I CAN. i said in a post before i didn't want to go too overboard with the missing texture motif since its part of Kittle (& Trips) designs but i wanted to do a bit more than just his helmet inside having the texture- hes a glitched NPC, he has access to a lot of the Gmod assets, hes in place of the Nihilanth & his original model probably wasn't even a Barney so hes ALLOWED to have a couple hidden fucked up textures-

• his uniform is also just slightly more purple just slightly (mainly because i wanted him and Polite Benry to not look identical (they both went through several changes & redraws since i started drawing these becuase they did at one point look like the exact same just minus 1 helmet & minus 1 vest))

• the blue in his eyes is (i'm pretty sure unless i changed it slightly) directly ripped from the Gmod logo

• helmets a bit damaged and dented

• ALSO ALSO BEFORE I FORGET i made his hair just slightly longer to kind of resemble Forzens? just slightly

[vsnotresponding]

CHAPTER 21 - THE FRAGMENT - KARMA

masterpost

The text on the page I turn blurs with the next one, the words familiar and set in my brain after many rereads of the tome. It’s a heavy one, long and old, the pages loose and brown with time, the title on the cover faded into nothingness, and the insides filled with scribbles and notes of past owners as well as mine. The language, ilan, is old, as are the stories found in it: of and from the island, of the ancient times before creators, of their era and their myths. Their birth, their miracles, and the doom of those that followed the path of Zaeaf instead of Ila.

And then, what this book calls The Eternal One, the first creator: Jhai, or Khitji, the khithi that gave their life for their people, who came back as a creator with gifts never seen before: healing, healing and power and life. It's one of the many versions of the story: in some they don’t come back, in some they are named, in some, they even had their gifts before Ila gave them.

There’s just one thing that stays constant across all the versions I’ve read across the years: their sacrifice, and the problem they were trying to solve when they talked to the goddess. Just like ours. A sick island, a deathly land, with useless soil and poisonous water. Desperate, they called to Ila, and Ila answered. She birthed the Core and the Iria and the fragments. She gave creators their gifts to communicate with them and to use the dima in the land to light and heat. And then, not long after, she vanished, just like Zaeaf did. Now they are just the wind.

But first, first she demanded a sacrifice in her conditions. There was not only worship and temples to be erected in her honor. There was blood to be spilled, too.

I know myths and legends aren’t always fully true, but the resemblance of what once happened to the situation we find ourselves in now makes me uneasy. I meant what I said to Ira. I fully intend to do anything in my power to keep my promise. And yet, here’s History, telling me that it might not be possible. That I am wrong. That the cure is a sacrifice I don’t even want to think about.

The book closes with a thud, specks of dust flying around the empty library, dawn’s light just coming in through the glass dome two stories above my head. Some of the windows just over the second story, which is barely anything more than a walkway around the perimeter of the room, are open, letting in what little breeze there is to cool the hexagonal room. Piles of books surround me, both in ilan and gair, some even from Derya, which I’m slowly making my way through. Sahare gave them to me before we left. She thought I might find them useful, or at the very least interesting. They deal in coal and how they use steam to fuel their machines, as well as new research the continent has been doing on other sources of energy completely unheard of in here.

We have our Iria, and our imitations, and with the gold and copper we find in our mines, we have access to the power the island lends us. Like creators were meant to once, we light and we heat. Efficiently, precisely, restlessly... until the sickness came.

I stretch my legs before me, head full of how they use energy and how we use our dima, and History, and failure. My back is to the side of a bookshelf that borders the center of the room, clear from shelves to create a reading space, the rows and rows of books going from the center to the outside of the room. The light of the imitations carved into the wood blends in with the golden light coming from outside, and I know that in a few minutes one of the deryan guards that came with us will knock at the door and that the day will start.

Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the one before that one too. 

We arrived at my mother’s house three days ago, surrounded by the heat, and the oppressive weight of Ira’s silence since I told her what it would cost us—what it would cost her—to come here.

I don’t blame her for it. I can’t. I blame myself. In my fear, in my panic to get out of that room, I bargained with her life without even realizing it until it was too late. She took it better than I expected, once I explained. Her shoulders sagged, and she freed her wrist from my grip. She wouldn’t look into my eyes when she nodded.

When I tried to talk to her about it, when I struggled to find the words to apologize for it all, she glanced at me, and went back into the guts of the palace.

She hasn't really talked to me since.

I was so confident that coming here would help, that the fragment would prove useful. And now we are here, being as unsuccessful as we were in the palace, her connecting without any real useful results, silent as she was on our way here when she’s not explaining what she sees in her connections. She can’t get to the Core from here, hitting the wall the Iria is again and again; she can’t see anything wrong with the fragment at the house or those close by she reaches from here.

Yet there’s a wrongness on the island, the weakness of the illness, and the pain that’s always been there. The earth is sick and dying, the soil is arid and dry like I’ve never seen it before. The glow of the sea at night seems brighter, threatening with his poison. The air feels heavy with the heat, with our fear, with my guilt, and with her silence. And on them echoes her anger in the Iria.

How she starved, how the island wouldn’t let her die, how she blames us for the sickness. How we, the énna, brought it to the island.

I keep going back to her words every time I close my eyes, to her tear-stained face and clenched jaw and fisted hands. I’ve gone over old and new records of the island, trying to find out when this sickness really started, but it’s been here for so long, and there’s so little left from before our arrival here, that I’ve come empty-handed.

The knock comes then, jolting me away from my thoughts, but instead of a guard, it’s Garvan’s voice that fills the room, looking for me. I let out one last sigh, and wait for him to find me.

He’s the one who came here with us to help, or to babysit, as he’d say. Áine didn’t want to, and Emhi was needed at the palace, both to train the rookies and to manage the situation in the city.

They are organized now and have been joined by some citizens. They aren’t énna, khithi, or aldamu, though they were, once. Emhi explained they were attempting to negotiate some resources, not only for the khithi, but for the lower classes of the city too. But the palace’s answer is always the same: the khithi have the process, and the rest of the people have their work. She told us, in a whisper, that the attacks on the factories had increased, and that they were still trying to figure out how they'd done it, machines rendered useless and no option to repair them even if there was no outward damage to be found.

“Hey.” Garvan raises his eyebrows and looks down from where he stops right in front of me once he makes it through the rows of books. He looks at the piles around me, at my tunic crumpled on the floor, and at my boots haphazardly thrown to one side.

“Hey,” I answer. There's a pause as he looks around the room and at me, amused, for some reason.

“Everything alright?” 

"Why?" I take the hand he offers to stand up, and brush the dust out of my pants and shirt without really looking at him. He’s usually the last one to be up, maybe because I barely sleep, and I don’t think Ira does either, so I don't know what he's doing here at the crack of dawn.

“You’ve been cooped up here every second we haven’t been watching Ira hit another wall with the fragment” he picks up my tunic from the floor and I struggle to catch it when he throws it to me “, reading the books we’ve already gone over countless times, thinking the gods know what.”

“Yeah. Well.” I shrug, trying to find the correct sleeve. “Ira?” His look tells me he knows I’m avoiding his unasked questions. I ignore him by putting on and righting my tunic.

“In her room, eerie silent like she’s been since we got here.” I make a noncommittal sound as we walk to the double doors and exit into the hallways of the mansion.

I appreciate the contrast they provide with the glaring white and gray of the palace, built in the ilan style, the tones warm and welcoming even in the sections that have been rebuilt across the years with énna materials.

“So, you aren’t going to say anything?”

“Is there anything to say?”

“You’d know.” He grabs my arm to stop me, and I look at him. “Karma.”

“Garvan.”

“I know you argued.” His words make me fidget in place.

“We didn’t argue.” It's true. He snorts.

“Sure. But something happened.” A glance shot down the hallway. “You are not talking.”

"We talk." Also true.

"Yeah, you talk about the fragment, and different ways she can approach connecting, and the latest maybe useful but most likely useless thing you've read about the island and the Core. She nods back."

"So?" I know what he's referring to. We don't talk like we used to before, or at least she doesn't listen to me ramble like before, because once the work's done, she just leaves, her guards on her trail. 

Garvan and I started walking again at some point, and he grabs my arm to stop me again.

"So?" he echoes back, mimicking my higher pitch of voice. "Something happened."

"You already said that."

"You do realize that your grumpiness isn't helping your case here, right?" I frown and look away, immediately unfolding my arms when I become aware that I've crossed them. 

He smirks at me. I give up.

"She won't talk to me."

"I gathered as much." I frown at him, and his expression softens, his arm falling over my shoulders for a second. "I'm here to talk, you know that?"

"There's nothing to say." His eyes don't leave my face, and I lean back into the wall. "I made a mistake." Silence fills the hallway. "I'm just... giving her space, I guess."

"I think you should talk to her."

"We've established that she doesn't want to talk to me, Garvan."

"I'm just saying," his shrug is playful. "I told you, she's scary when she's silent like that." My frown in response amuses him even more. He claps my back, gently pushing me forward towards the dining room. "Let's get some food into you before you make me endure another awkward fragment session."

The heat is worse in the fragment.

At least in the palace, the Iria's chamber was fully underground and kept cool and protected from the sun. Here, though, the tower where the fragment can be found is open to the hot air outside, which gathers on the lower part as we walk down the stairs to where the glowing orange light meets us.

He's big, as tall as Garvan and as wide as the room allows him to be, half buried in the dirt that stains our shoes in the middle of space. The stairs and the structure are made of stone from the mountains, dark and slightly red, and over us there's a wooden ceiling that makes up the floor of the first floor.

The guards stayed behind on the surface, so it's just us three here. The imitator sits himself on the stairs against the wall to watch the proceedings, and Ira positions herself in front of the fragment. She hasn't said a word on the way here, not that I expected her to. Garvan tried to joke around with her, and she only looked at him and moved faster to lead the way.

I move to the board Garvan and another guard hauled down here, and erase some chalk to rewrite the half-blurred text to avoid looking at her. The note isn't extremely important, just some notes on the words Ira's used to describe what she's seen, but the process helps me distract myself while she prepares, even if I can't help myself from looking at her from the corner of my eyes when she takes a deep breath.

There's no need for words. She knows she needs to connect, to try to get to the Core from here, again, and then if that doesn't work, like it hasn't so far, try to search the parts of the island the fragment gives her access to for signs of the illness, again.

The air fizzles when she gets ready to connect, and the imitations on the wall turn off when she does, suddenly dimming when her hand touches the stone, to then come back to ebb with whatever rhythm Ira's imposing on her connections. We wait for what seems like hours, when in reality it's just a few minutes. I turn the chalk in my hands, dirtying my fingers and then clothes when I try to wipe them, and my thoughts drift away.

Back to her words, and Khitji's sacrifice, and the island wanting her back. They go back to all our efforts these past few months, to the heat and storms of a too long summer, to the times we've gone over the same facts, again and again and again. I'm tired of it all: of failure, which started even before I met her, of going back to the theory because we find ourselves lost, of the hopelessness I need to keep fighting daily because we have to find a cure.

This was our last chance, and we've wasted it.

Realization hits me, finally. There’s nothing I can do to fix this. We have no cause, only symptoms, and without that, there's no cure we can create.

But I don't want to give up. In between the hopelessness and fear and doom, there's the anger that arose at Ira's words in the Iria. It stirs inside me. This, what we do, it isn't fair.

Then she grunts, her shoulders fall, and her left hand comes away from the stone. The light on the imitations settles, the air loses its static, and Ira turns, cleaning the drop of blood that starts to fall from her nose with the back of her scarred hand.

I look at her, she looks at the floor, and Garvan looks at the both of us.

"And?" he asks. She shakes her head in answer.

"Anything new?" My voice sounds strange even to me. Thin, higher than it usually is. She glances at me for an instant, then looks back down at her hands and the blood on them. Another shake.

"Same as yesterday." She talks in Garvan's direction. Their eyes stay on each other for a long second, then the imitator stands up and lets her pass upstairs, her steps silent.

Once we hear the guards leave, he sighs, and I lean backwards, hitting the back of my head with the board.

tag list (ask to be added or removed): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon @aquil-writes @e-klair

[flecks-of-stardust]

Reminiscence of Wisdom — A Rain World Short Story

Devotion comes in many forms, and it will follow its sibling wherever its sibling goes.

Monk goes looking for Survivor and thinks a lot about their sibling as they go about it.

No formal content warnings for this piece of writing.

The air here is unfamiliar. It shouldn’t be, given how long these smells have been ‘home,’ or whatever home means now, but even still the dense, acrid tone in the air is foreign. The air rests heavy in its nose with every breath, lingering, much as it does itself at every rock, searching for a more familiar scent.

It doesn’t find it here. Huffing the air out of its nose, it turns, scanning the world around it. It’s so bright here, but it’s a sharp brightness, unlike the dozy, soft glimmers of sunlight back home. The light here breaks into shafts that make its eyes hurt whenever it stays out too long. And the air is too warm, but too cold when the rain comes, and the fruit tastes different. It’s never sweet enough. It’s all too different here.

Another rock, a big one. It climbs onto it, paws clumsy and slipping every other step, but it clambers up nonetheless, admiring the view from the top. From here, it can see the path it traced through the dust, the trail twisting and winding around every vaguely interesting thing along the way. It all, disappointingly, had just smelled of dust, and this rock is no different. It gives the stone a test lick to confirm, then coughs, trying to get the horrid taste off its tongue. No, this doesn’t smell or taste anything like Wise.

Wise used to help it with climbing things. With most things. Wise was always better at… everything, anything it can think of. Wise would have got up onto this rock without stumbling and slipping like it had, and then Wise would have turned and helped it up too. Wise always liked being high up anyhow; it remembers, when it was younger, how it had watched Wise scale the tree, effortless and swift, to bring fruit back for it. Even though now, it can do that too, Wise was still better at it.

The scent of a snapper wafts its way into its nose, and it jumps in alarm, whipping its head around to look for the source. There, in the distance, is a big snapper; it dives behind the big rock, breaths quick and shallow. It may have climbed the big rock, but the wall next to it is too high, too smooth for it to climb. Maybe it could run fast enough from the big snapper? No, no, it can’t outrun the snapper, it knows how fast the snappers can be, even the smaller ones. Maybe it could throw a small rock at it to distract it and—no, there’s no rocks here. Just dust and the sound of its own breathing.

It leaps onto the rock again as the big snapper ambles up next to it, hissing and trying to make itself look as threatening or as unappetizing as possible, while also trying to stop itself from shaking. Though the snapper clearly does not seem deterred by its attempts, the snapper only blinks at it mildly, making no move to bite at it; it stares back in confusion. The snapper sniffs at the big rock briefly, as if to confirm the scent is from it, before moving on without so much as a backward glance.

It is only then that it recognizes the kinked tail on the snapper. It has been feeding this snapper, though mostly by accident. It finds strange shiny bugs that make shrill noises every now and then, and while the bugs fill its belly, it dislikes how the shiny bugs crunch in its mouth. Sometimes it finds some that are already dead, and when it doesn’t feel like eating the shiny bugs, it takes the bugs with it so it can toss food at the snappers it comes across. The big snapper with the kinked tail comes the most, and sometimes it finds food just to feed the snapper. It still doesn’t trust the snapper, but at least this time, the snapper doesn’t seem interested in eating it.

Wise would have been quick to attack the snapper. Egg Parent and Other Parent had not had time to teach it much about fighting predators, but Wise had had much more time to learn. Sometimes Wise practiced with it, teaching it how to hold the shiny sharp sticks that Egg Parent brought back. It was never good at throwing the sticks, because the sticks were always too heavy, and it didn’t like how the sticks felt in its hands. But Wise made it look easy. Of course it would rather Wise not attack the snappers; when the snappers aren’t trying to hunt it, the snappers are somewhat cute. But if Wise had to, Wise would take one down with ease.

With the snapper now gone, it creeps out from behind the rock, looking for where to resume its search. It had scoured most of the immediate area already in between the times the rain had come, and it has been slowly making its way forward, towards the tall, dark not-trees in the distance. So far, there has been no trace of Wise; it hasn’t caught wind of Wise’s scent since it started looking for Wise.

It wanders for a while, checking every rock and every pole it finds, but finding nothing. The scant plants around don’t offer any clues to Wise’s whereabouts either. Of course the rain would wash away any scents left behind by Wise, but if Wise were in the area…

It stops in front of a bush, one with scraggly leaves sprouting every which way. The bush is situated underneath a small, jutting bit of rock. The rock has clearly been providing the bush with ample shelter from the rain, since the bush is now sprouting flowers. It’s not the same type of bush that grew near the big tree where Egg Parent, Other Parent, and Young still are, but it’s similar enough to what it is used to seeing.

Picking up three of the leaves, it stares down at its hands uncertainly. Whenever Wise found one of these bushes, Wise would braid the leaves together. It had questioned, once, why Wise was doing this, because there was no purpose to doing it. Wise had merely agreed. There was never a bush that Wise passed by that Wise didn’t braid the leaves of.

It tries to mimic what Wise does, fingers fumbling with the leaves. A crude knot forms in its hands before it accidentally tears one of the leaves off. Disappointed, it drops the leaves, watching the torn strand drift to the ground forlornly. If the bush is untouched, then Wise hasn’t been here. Or maybe Wise just hasn’t been to this part of the area? It would hardly know if that were the case.

It steps out into the open again, gazing at the far away not-trees that loom above it, framed by the perpetually grey clouds behind them. Where could Wise be? This world is so much bigger than how it had felt when it and Wise were both still at the big tree—when it and Wise were both home. It couldn’t just cry out for Wise, because Wise is too far away to hear it now. And all this time it has been searching, finding only empty air…

It misses home. It misses the warmth of home, it misses the watchful gaze of Egg Parent, it misses how Other Parent would carry it back to the tree when it was too tired to walk. It misses the way Young would jump excitedly whenever food was brought back. It misses the lightness and the freshness of the air when it was still at the tree.

But most of all, it misses Wise. The warmth, the safety, the clarity Wise brought, all of it. After all, that was why it had jumped after Wise.

Turning back to the bush briefly, it plucks off one of the flowers and tucks it behind one ear. The faint scent of the flower pushes back the sourness that hangs in the air, and it draws in a deep breath before continuing. Sooner or later, one way or another, it will find Wise. The world may be big, but it isn’t infinite. As long as it keeps trying, keeps searching, it will find its way to Wise. It just has to keep going.

[kumeko]

The business card looked the same on her tiny kitchen table as it had in her hand last night. Tifa ran a finger along an embossed side, over the raised gold letters that said Mystery Soldier. Her other hand curled around a warm mug, the bitter scent of coffee wafting through the air as she took a sip.

Cloud had a business card.

It made sense. In the years that had passed since they’d last seen each other, they’d grown from teenager to adult. Just looking at him had made it obvious. Cloud looked good. His wiry frame now had muscle and he towered over her. When he had left the bar in a rush, there had been a sense of power in his steps.

Had he noticed the same? She wasn’t the lanky teen she used to be either, all limbs and no grace.

“This is stupid,” Tifa sighed, running a hand through her thick hair and winding a lock around a finger contemplatively.

It had been years. The long silence since he’d disappeared was enough for her to know that he hadn’t considered them friends, not in the same way she had. Or, if he had, that had changed now—no one ran from an acquaintance like that, let alone a friend.

She gripped her mug tightly. What had been with his reaction last night? While she had talked, Cloud had not once met her eyes, his gaze distant as he avoided her. There had been bags under his eyes and his skin had looked almost sickly pale. And when he had finally looked at her, his expression had been…haunted.

Like he’d seen a ghost.

There was nothing of his old smile in that expression—nothing of the boy who used to duck his head at compliments and fiddled with his fingers when the silence got too long. That boy had been human. The man last night looked like he had been chiseled from rock. If Tifa didn’t know better, she would have thought he was someone else.

A truck honked. Tifa sipped her coffee as she stood up, letting the warmth flood through her body. The caffeine was just what she needed to wake her senses. Her tiny window afforded a nice view of the street below and Tifa leaned against it as she peeked down at the tiny, dirty neighbourhood she called home.

The truck all but crawled through the neighbourhood. Painted on its white sides was a giant-sized picture of Mayor Shinra, smiling greasily like the polished politician he was. His slogan, For a better tomorrow, was scrawled under him in blue. Most pedestrians glanced at it as they passed by. One pumped her fist in excitement. Another sighed in disappointment.

With only a week to go, it was impossible to escape from the election. Tifa didn’t like her options. Shinra was a slime, to put it lightly, but his opponents were paper thin, cardboard cut-outs. A single breath and Shinra could wipe them out. Part of her wondered if they were just running so Shinra could claim the election was fair.

Tifa glanced over her shoulder, at the still folded newspaper on her table. The headline was cut up but the imagine of a smirking Rufus Shinra remained clearly visible. If the rumours were anything to go by, corruption ran in the family. In fact, the mayor’s son sounded even worse with allegations of illegal labour practices and experimentation.

The truck turned a right, leaving her street. Tifa gulped down the last of her coffee and set down the mug. She only had ten minutes left before she had to catch her bus. There was no time to waste.

Besides, the longer she lazed about at home, the longer Barret was alone in their office. And that spelled trouble for everyone.

-x-

As it turned out, Tifa didn’t have to worry. She opened their office door to find only Barret there. Lounging on the sofa, he leaned back and rested his feet on the wooden coffee table. His trademark glower was directed at the ceiling, his left hand tapping on his chest.

He didn’t bother to look when she greeted him. Barret grunted, annoyed. “I hate waiting like this.”

Tifa sighed as she took off her coat. This wasn’t an unusual sight but it was nonetheless disappointing every time she saw it. Their clientele were inconsistent at best and on a good week, they spent only half of it idling. “We’ll have to drum up business again soon.”

Barret scowled. “Every fricking time.”

No curse words today. The swear jar must be filled up. Tifa sat down next to him and leaned against his arm. He shifted slightly so she was comfortable. Barret was as warm as a heater, a boon on a winter day and a curse in the summer.  On a middling day like today, it was tolerable. She said, “We’ll have to put up flyers again.”

“There’s so much shit going on in this town, you’d think someone would need us.” Barret turned his glare to the window now. Warm sunlight streamed in through the blinds and pooled on the padded white carpet below. The window was slightly open and a cool breeze wafted in, bringing with it the sounds of the crowds thronging below. Gesturing at the bright blue sky, he complained, “I could be in the park with Marlene now!”

Tifa rubbed her wrist. Did shit count for the swear jar? “It’s a nice day,” she agreed reluctantly.

“It’s a freakin’ great day,” Barret corrected, still miffed. Part of her wondered if he’d one day say ‘fudge’ instead of fuck and ‘sugar’ instead of ‘shit’. It painted a funny image.

Still, he wasn’t wrong. It was a quiet day of a quiet week. If everything kept to pattern, they wouldn’t get a single client today. And even if they did, Barret’s grumpy scowl and barked questions would scare them away anyways. Better to just take a break and regroup.

Besides, it was nice outside.

“Let’s close up early and just take her. No one’s going to miss us today,” Tifa suggested. She straightened up, about to call for Marlene when she realized none of the usual sounds were coming from the side rooms. There was no cheerful humming as Marlene drew, no sounds of dolls and paper cups hitting one another as she played. The office was overly empty. “Where is she?”

“Playing hopscotch out back.” Barret finally smiled, his tension easing as he relaxed. Taking a break had been the right idea. “She’s really good at it too. She can even double dutch!”

Those weren’t even from the same type of game. Tifa nodded regardless. The most important lesson she’d learned was to just agree with Barret whenever he talked about Marlene. If she encouraged him, he could talk for hours about his daughter. It had been cute at first. By the tenth time she’d heard the same stories over and over again, Tifa had enough.

“Sounds like she’s liking school,” Tifa said, directing the conversation to safer topic.

“Yeah.” Barret’s expression softened. “Helps she’s not the only werewolf there either.”

Tifa remembered the help books they’d both paged through over the years, trying to figure out everything about werewolves from lunar cycles to puberty. Even now she wasn’t sure if what they’d read was correct. “How’s the adoption going?”

“Shitty.” Barret scowled again, like a thunder cloud rolling in. Another nickel for the swear jar. “They’re saying I’m too human. I told ‘em to look at my arm and say that again.”

He wasn’t wrong. Tifa glanced at his right arm, at the marvel of technology and alchemy combined. At first glance, it was like someone had welded a machine gun to his arm, the line between flesh and metal obvious. It seemed clunky and awkward, impractical for ordinary use. A gun was only useful in combat, after all.

Yet, if one looked closer, they’d see the alchemical markings on the metal. The black, elegant writing kept the weapon light enough to lift and even allowed Barret to transform it into a metal hand instead. A hand that could effortlessly pick up his daughter. A hand that could grip a mug properly, despite what excuses he gave.

“I can come with you next time,” Tifa offered, resting her hands on her knees. “Maybe with another reference—”

The door cracked open and Tifa cut herself off. She could offer again after the customer left. Forcing a smile, she called out, “You can come in.”

There was no response. The door remained open just a crack. Tifa heard tiny feet shuffling outside before a familiar brown-haired girl in a simple pink dress poked her head inside.

“Marlene?” Tifa stared, surprised. It wasn’t like the girl to act so shy when they were alone. “The game’s over?”

“No, um…” Marlene bit her lip nervously. She was still only partially inside and her left hand squeezed her pleated skirt. “Daddy…”

Immediately, Barret turned into overprotective father mode. He got up from his seat quickly and approached his daughter. Kneeling before her, he reached out and cradled her cheek with his good hand. His other hand opened the door wider. “What is it, sweetheart?”

Marlene’s eyes flicked to his, then to the ground. She squeezed her hem one last time. “We need help.”

“We?” Tifa asked, getting up and approaching the door now.

Marlene glanced at the hallway, at something unknown, before tugging her hand forward. An older boy stumbled forward. Despite his ratty clothes and a bird’s nest of a hair, Tifa recognized Denzel. His mother had made Barret’s arm. But the boy she’d met back then had a more open smile.

The one standing awkwardly in front of them now avoided all eye contact, his expression dark, his feet shuffling as though ready to flee. Something heavy sank in Tifa’s stomach. She wasn’t going to like this.

Barret’s eyes narrowed at the two kids’ clasped hands, but thankfully he didn’t bring it up for now. “What happened?”

Denzel opened his mouth, then closed it, clamming up without even waiting for a word.

Marlene patted his arm and smiled kindly. “Please tell them. Daddy will help.”

Barret managed a convincing smile. “Of course I will. No child’s left behind.”

Maybe it was the cheesy line, maybe it was the sincerity behind it, but Denzel nodded. Hesitantly, he muttered, “My mom. She needs help.”

That was a start. Tifa crouched down in front of him too. She reached forward for his hand slowly, giving him enough time to recoil if he wanted to. When he didn’t, she gently squeezed it. “What can we do?”

“It’s…” Denzel still looked cagey, like a cornered animal. Unbidden, Tifa thought of gold, of Cloud—he’d been just like that last night too. Like a terrified child, not sure who to turn to or where to run.

“It’s?” Tifa prompted.

“She’s sick,” Denzel whispered, his voice barely audible. It was though he feared saying it would make it real. “She’s been sick for a while. She’s…” His voice cracked but he didn’t cry. “She’s not getting better.”

His mother had looked so healthy the last time they’d seen her.

Then again, so had Tifa’s before they’d died. Her grip tightened and she directed his attention back to her. What reassuring words had she wanted to hear the most back then? Tifa gently rubbed his hand, keeping Denzel focused on her, on the present. “Don’t worry, we’ll get a doctor. She’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t enough. He pulled away and stepped back, his expression dark. “We can’t afford one.”

“We can,” Barret barked, standing up now. There was no hesitation in his response, just sheer, utter belief. “And we will.”

Marlene nodded eagerly, copying her father’s confident stance. “Uh-huh!”

Denzel glanced at Barret, then down at her. For a second, his expression brightened. Yet, just as quickly, he recoiled, curling into himself. “But…”

She could only imagine how much he had been through.

“No buts.” Tifa wrapped her arms around Denzel, hugging him tight. “We’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

[puppyeared]

filipina miku!! my mom helped me with her outfit ^_^

[zephyrine-gale]

dunmeshi square prints I'll have at ax!

[everchased]

THAT one's goin on the list too now!

[beguilingcorpse]

actually hilarious that colin bridgerton returned to london absolutely determined to be in his slut era. he said if there is one thing i am it is a whore. and then one (1) kiss with penelope later he was like neverMIND i am a MARRIED MAN i am MONOGAMOUS life is about LIFELONG PARTNERSHIP ACTUALLY

[animusrox]

World’s Finest, Part III Superman: The Animated Series

[darks-arts]

[silkysong]

part 1. the hell dimension bus broke sorry

the one who wags ( kamashi ) was baptised under the name of dog by @prince-steele

[cadaverette]

vintage cherub trinket box

[gender-trash]

it was weird living outside california for the first time and learning that in most locations people DON'T have personal beef with their electrical utility??? massachusetts was like "eversource: it's fine? i don't really think about it." meanwhile i'm pretty sure everyone in california loathes pg&e passionately