#I was wondering if maybe there was at least an unused chunk of the city so I was looking above ground this whole time when LO AND BEHOLD

[geoffreymccullum]

JUST DISCOVERED SOMETHING FASCINATING

while messing around out of bounds with NVIDIA Ansel, I noticed this cluster of cubes just hanging out under the Southwark bridge

WELL IT'S WHERE THE FLASHBACKS ARE STORED

Myrddin killing Jonathan

Jonathan serving on the front lines

and the undertakers throwing him into the mass grave

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part IV

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They spent a few days in Oxenfurt, mostly for Jaskier’s benefit. The bard hadn’t been lying when he’d said he wasn’t prepared to head out. There was packing to be done, his rooms to see to, appointments to cancel with the university. Geralt was happy enough to wait. It wasn’t strictly a hardship to spend some time lounging in Jaskier’s rooms and wandering the university gardens during the day before following Jaskier to whatever tavern or hall he was to play at for the evening. Jaskier was away for the better part of most days, but Geralt moved his things to Jaskier’s rooms after the first night at the inn. Waking well before Jaskier in the same bed, he was greeted each morning to Jaskier’s arm slung across his chest, warm and comfortable in the predawn silence. His cheeks would be ruddy with sleep and their shared heat under the blankets, his hair flattened awkwardly to his skull where it had been pressed to the pillow.

He’d missed this. After months without Jaskier’s presence, it felt like he was drowning in it, shocked by the strength of his own reaction. With the golden light of the morning sun shining through Jaskier’s one window to fall softly across his brow and pick out the silver strands in his hair, Geralt wondered at how he could have ever misplaced this feeling in his chest. He loved him. He wanted to preserve each moment in fine amber, never to fade.

But finally Jaskier was finished making his arrangements, and they were able to set out from Oxenfurt towards their first destination. It would take them several weeks to collect the components that Ida had mentioned—weeks that Geralt would have to spend dancing around the subject of the ritual and its origins, as well as his traitorous heart. As he caught Jaskier’s bright smile from up ahead as they crossed the Oxenfurt bridge, he hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

*

“So where, exactly, are these mysterious elven ruins?”

Geralt grunted, both in answer and in exertion as he swung his sword through another clump of heavy brush, clearing the path. Roach waited patiently behind him, and Jaskier less so. He turned to look back at them both, finding Jaskier giving him an unimpressed look. Geralt forced down the urge to grumble again. “They’re close,” he said, taking Roach’s reins to lead her through the cleared bushes. The path that they were following was barely a deer trail in places, clearly unused for decades. There had been no sign thus far that the area had once been populated aside from the occasional flash of white brickwork that told Geralt they were on the right track.

“Oh, really,” said Jaskier, who had likely not noticed the brickwork, based on Geralt’s past experience with his observation skills. “You know what I think, Geralt? I think we’re lost in the woods in the middle of nowhere, a day away from the nearest hamlet, and we’re just as likely to find a wyvern den as an elven temple out here.”

“Wyverns don’t populate the lowlands,” Geralt said automatically, kicking a large branch out of Roach’s path.

Jaskier made a strangled sound behind him that Geralt might call a growl if it had come from anyone else. “I know that, I was being hyperbolic, you ass. You’re avoiding the issue.”

“We’re on the right path.” Another glint of white stone caught his eye, this time the edge of an arch wrapped nearly over in vines and moss. Only fragments remained, large chunks blending in with the forest floor.

“As if you would admit it if you were lost,” Jaskier griped, shoving a branch out of his own way. “Remember that time near Spikeroog? We were lost in a boat for three days because you wouldn’t just admit that we went west for six hours—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and pushed aside the last of the foliage.

Jaskier fell silent, and they both looked beyond the treeline into the clearing Geralt had revealed. Before them rose a silent, crumbling stone structure, pale as a ghost against the dark lines of the trees in the afternoon light. Much of its surface had been reclaimed already by the forest, but enough of it poked through to give a general sense of scale. It towered at least two stories above them, though the edges were uneven in a way that suggested it once may have been higher. The front facade rose in a flat wall before them, pierced by a line of arches, their edges decorated in fading but intricate reliefs. Here and there along the line of what had once been the path leading to the central arch, the occasional protrusion of a column could be seen. The path beyond the central arch was shadowed, too dark for even Geralt to see past after so long in the daylight.

Jaskier stepped forward into the narrow clearing, and Geralt followed. Wordlessly, Jaskier raised a hand to trail along the remnants of a low, circular stone wall, perhaps the remnants of an ancient well. When he looked up at Geralt, his eyes shone, two pieces of midday sky in the murky shade of the forest. “I stand corrected,” he said, offering Geralt a giddy grin.

Geralt shook his head with a small smile, drawing Roach further into the clearing. “Let’s set up camp here. You can explore when we have someplace to sleep.”

Jaskier agreed eagerly and they both launched into the process of setting up camp. They fell easily back into old patterns, Jaskier slotting seamlessly into Geralt’s routine. It was always easier to set up and break down camp when the bard was around, though Geralt thought it had very little to do with splitting the work halfway.

Within half an hour they had created a comfortable camp in the clearing and Geralt had Roach tended to, and they both stood before the dark archway into the ruins.

Jaskier hesitated over the threshold, his excitement over the history of the place apparently conceding to nerves. “Well, ah. After you, witcher,” he said, holding out an arm as if holding an imaginary door for Geralt to walk through.

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped into the small hall beyond the archway, blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. “Come on, bard,” he called over his shoulder, amusement and affection swelling in his chest as he heard Jaskier mutter and quick footsteps follow after him.

The hall ended in a flight of stairs leading down, and they had to pause to light a torch when Jaskier ran directly into Geralt’s back and nearly knocked them both down it. A quick burst of igni had firelight dancing across the smooth white stones as they descended into the ruins.

Elves, Geralt had found, rarely built up. Though their cities had towered in ages past, their true magnificence had always lain below ground. The complex that they made their way down into was labyrinthian, huge open hallways with dozens of rooms and offshoots, archways that looked in on underground courtyards with pierced ceilings that let in the daylight, huge caverns expertly carved into cathedrals. Jaskier quickly brought out a bit of charcoal he often used for taking notes or sketching and began to mark their way with arrows pointing back the way they’d come, so they might not be hopelessly lost in the ruins. Geralt led them mostly by smell, at first; Triss had mentioned that any ritual chambers would likely be on the lower levels, as they were considered private and upper floors were generally public. He followed the cool, chalky scent of wet stone deeper into the ruins, down ramps and stairways until they were all but buried in the earth.

“I never knew the true breadth of them,” Jaskier breathed at one point, as they made their way down a winding spiral staircase that curved along what seemed like a natural cave shaft. “I’ve read, of course, about the scale of the old elven kingdoms, but it’s different to see it all. We’ve been walking for hours already and I feel as if there’s still miles to be seen.”

“Maybe not miles,” Geralt said, keeping one ear out for potential movement and one on Jaskier’s footsteps on the slick stone steps. “One’s I’ve been to before are usually somewhere around five and fifteen levels. We’re getting close to the bottom.”

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment. “You could take an entire lifetime to study this place. Why hasn’t anyone surveyed it? How do you know the thing you're after for this ritual hasn’t already been taken?”

At that moment Geralt heard a gentle click, and he reached up just in time to pluck the arrow from the air as it hissed past his ear and towards Jaskier’s head. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, finding Jaskier wide eyed behind him. Looking meaningfully down at Jaskier’s foot, he jerked his chin up.

Jaskier lifted up his foot, and the click of a pressure plate resetting filled the narrow space.

“That’s how,” Geralt said, tossing the arrow to the side.

“Of course,” Jaskier said weakly. “Of course the place is booby trapped.”

“And haunted probably,” Geralt agreed, continuing down the stairs. “Stay close. Wouldn’t want you to die before I can make you immortal.” The words were said as much in jest as he could make them, but he felt a brief strum of anxiety all the same.

Jaskier huffed in annoyance, but Geralt could feel him press even closer. He ignored the way that the air between them seemed to heat, the soothing warmth of Jaskier’s presence pressing back the dark more efficiently than any torch.

*

“Look,” Jaskier’s voice came from behind him. Geralt turned around to see Jaskier rubbing at a patch of the wall in the hall they were currently trekking through, the ancient slabs of stone crumbling a bit at his touch. “There’s writing here.”

Geralt stepped up next to him, feeling Jaskier’s warmth radiating along his side. Forcing himself to ignore the proximity, he leaned in to peer at the wall. “Elder, looks like. Can’t make it out.”

“It looks like one of the early northern dialects, closer to Laith aen Undod.” Jaskier scrambled in his small pack and pulled out his bit of charcoal and his notebook, handing the torch off to Geralt. Accepting the light, Geralt frowned at Jaskier as he made a few quick lines on the paper, referring back to the wall a few times. His tongue poked just barely out between his lips, as it always did when he was concentrating. After a moment he stood up straight, leaning towards the light to examine his own markings.

“Can you read that?” Geralt asked, genuinely surprised. He was fairly well versed in Elder, but his knowledge was more practical, learned from his interactions with the Scoia’tael and learning the Signs. The One Speech was well beyond his understanding, not to mention the various ancient dialects of Elder.

“Mm, I’m better at reading Elder than I am at speaking it, I’m afraid. Academic knowledge. Have to be able to translate the old poems and stories, after all.” He flashed Geralt a grin, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torch, turning the blue silver-gold. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

When Geralt didn’t respond quickly enough, Jaskier turned back to the notes he’d made on the paper. He muttered a few things to himself in Elder, the words sounding oddly musical—as if he’d learned to pronounce the language through song, which he probably had. Finally he scribbled a few notes in Common. “I think it’s a road sign, of sorts,” Jaskier said slowly. His tone took on the particular quality that Geralt had come to recognize as his “professor voice” over the years. He’d always found it rather amusing. “This complex must have been big enough to necessitate passage markers. See the sideways arrowhead under the top line? It says—well, I’m not sure, but I know the root has to do with the evening meal, so I’d guess it’s pointing to some kind of tavern or dining hall. And this one just says ‘sanctuary,’ I think. That’s a weird one, that symbol in more modern Elder just means ‘place’ but there’s a prefix here that adds a sort of defensive quality to it. Maybe ‘protected place’?” Jaskier frowned down at his own work. Already he had somehow managed to smudge charcoal across his cheek.

“Might be right,” Geralt grunted, impressed. “Triss said it would be in a safe place. ‘Ionad chosanta.’”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Could be as good a translation as any.”

“Better than wandering around,” Geralt shrugged, and turned towards the hall the arrow pointed towards. Before stepping into the darkness, he paused, looking back at Jaskier. Without letting himself think too hard about it, he reached up and rubbed away the charcoal on Jaskier’s cheekbone. The sweep of his thumb pushed back the soot and revealed the pale skin underneath, still so soft even after so many years spent traveling out in the elements. That skin care regiment Jaskier was always going on about must be worth something, he thought faintly.

Jaskier was silent, staring at him with an expression that reminded Geralt of a hare staring down the point of an arrow. Clearing his throat briefly, Geralt let his hand fall and said, “Thanks. For the… You did good.”

Even in the dim light, Geralt could see the flush that lit up Jaskier’s face at that, spilling prettily over his cheekbones. He gaped at Geralt for a moment before his mouth snapped closed with a near audible clack. Geralt expected a witty rejoinder of some kind, perhaps a jab at his historical inability to offer praise. He knew he deserved it, even if Jaskier meant it in anger rather than jest. Raising Ciri had taught him the value of voicing his appreciation and affection for others, even if he still struggled for the right words to do so. Yennefer had painstakingly beat it into his head. Ciri hadn’t known that he cared unless he said so, and so he had no other alternatives. Looking at Jaskier gaping at him, he wondered how many times Jaskier had assumed that Geralt cared little for him for lack of a kind word. His chest hurt at the thought.

After long enough that the silence had grown heavy and awkward, Jaskier coughed lightly, ducking to hide his expression. The ribbing Geralt had prepared himself for did not come. “Not a problem,” was all Jaskier said, brushing past him. “Let’s get a move on, yes? Don’t want the torch to run low.”

Geralt stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and following.

*

The shrine, when they found it, was hidden behind a thick patch of rubble that Geralt had to blast out of the way with a few precise applications of aard. He slipped inside first, sliding through the small opening in the stone and landing lightly on the other side. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, to his surprise, and he realized that there were several glowing crystals embedded in the walls around him at even intervals. There came the sound of cascading stones and a low curse from behind him, and he turned in time to catch Jaskier’s elbow before the bard fell flat on his face.

“Ah, thank you, dear witcher,” Jaskier huffed, reaching up to fruitlessly brush the dust from his jacket. Looking up, he halted in his motions, taking in the room around them in its soft, ethereal light. “Oh,” he breathed.

It was indeed beautiful, even in its decaying state. Like everything in the tunnels, the structures were unmistakably elven, but even so they appeared alien to Geralt’s eyes. The walls were covered in delicate mosaic work, in patterns that danced in the flickering light of their torch and that of the crystals. The center of the room was dominated by a blank circle of unmarked stone, with Elder runes engraved along the edge that Geralt could not even begin to decipher. The circle was framed by a delicate canopy of carved white stone, supported on four pillars of the same material. The carvings were so minute that for a moment Geralt thought the entire structure might be built not of stone, but of some sort of webbing or silk. It was delicate enough to be blown glass, but when he set his hand against one of the pillars it was as unforgiving as a mountainside.

Jaskier ran his fingers along one of the walls, tracing a twist in the tiny shards of colored glass. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice pitched low.

“Triss said these places were sacred to the Aes Sidhe. They mark where the elves first arrived,” Geralt said. He found his own gaze drawn back to the center of the unmarked circle beneath the canopy. “Here.”

Set into the very center of the stone circle was a small depression, no larger than Geralt’s palm. He stepped into the circle and knelt down, peering at it. Within the shallow bowl formed by the carved out floor sat an oval stone, maybe three inches long at its widest point. Drawing out his trophy knife, Geralt set the edge of it against the lip of the facet and twisted it. It popped out surprisingly easily, as if it was meant to be removed by design.

Jaskier hovered behind him as Geralt picked up the gaes carraigh. It was cool against his fingers, made of a translucent white stone that became more opaque at the edges. The center was nearly see-through, and when Geralt held it up the light played oddly in its depths. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest, warning him of the presence of magic. “Is that it?” Jaskier asked, resting one of his hands on Geralt’s shoulder to lean in closer.

“Think so,” Geralt replied, trying to ignore the weight of Jaskier pressed against him.

“What exactly does it do?” Jaskier reached out his free hand to press a finger against the center of the stone, curious as always. Geralt allowed it, and forced himself not to flinch when their fingers brushed incidentally. He could feel his ears warm regardless.

“It… binds the words of the ritual, or something. I didn’t ask.”

“Gaes carraigh… promise rock?” Jaskier tried, dropping to lean his full elbow on Geralt’s shoulder, casually slotting their forms together. His fingers barely brushed against Geralt’s collarbone, and he took a slow breath to maintain control over his heartbeat. Suddenly the proximity was overwhelming. Here they were, in a sacred space where possibly dozens of couples had made their vows to each other, fingers both lingering over the stone that would bind their oaths. In another life, perhaps they could have had something like this—Jaskier resplendent in the light of the blue crystals, eyes shining, looking at Geralt with adoration as they made their promises to each other. He would want to dress up, like he always did for a big event, but this time it would be only for himself and Geralt. Would he dress in blue? Or perhaps black, a witcher’s color, his pale skin like moonlight against the night sky. Would he wear a crown of periwinkle and sage, as was the northern custom? He would lean in close, like he was now, and murmur his vows to Geralt in words that flowed as smooth as a song.

He hadn’t known it was possible to want something so badly it was like a physical ache. Geralt was a witcher; he did not allow himself to think on things he couldn’t have. But here in this place, with Jaskier so close and yet so far away, the force of his desire felt oppressive. Jaskier didn’t know what any of this meant, and Geralt had no right to it, no right to want it. It was just a ritual. The context didn’t mean anything, because Jaskier would never feel that way about him.

After all, Geralt thought, looking down at the oathstone in his palm, who would want to marry a witcher?

Jaskier was still talking, and Geralt wrenched himself out of his thoughts when the arm on his shoulder pulled back and Jaskier patted the empty space once, as if in parting. “—probably get going, don’t you think? I do not relish the idea of being stuck here overnight. Not that I am not entirely confident in your abilities, darling, but I feel it’s best not to tempt fate when it comes to ghosts of ancient elven sages. Do you think they would count this as stealing? Probably. Anyways, I don’t want to find out what angry centuries old spirits do to trespassers.”

Geralt grunted, still gathering himself. He felt sluggish under the weight of his own emotions, pushing himself to his feet laboriously. The oathstone was heavy in his hand, and he slipped it into his potions pouch in the hope that it would feel less burdensome there. Without a word, he stood and exited the chamber the way they’d come, Jaskier fumbling after him.

[thekitschdiet]

my take on the literary masterpiece, the chic diet

Firstly, I am no one. It’s part of my charm. My fifteen minutes of fame was years ago, when I had an instagram niche meme page. I didn’t even take any brand deals! And my posts averaged six thousand likes! Anyhow. I am hardly literate and well hydrated and carry a small sephora-CVS-hybrid worth in my mini tote bag. Here is my guide on how to live like me, the intermediate kitsch-rat, aspiring influencer. But like, in an apathetic, somewhat dissonant, ironic way. I like saying I live by dogmatic principles. But a lot of it, um, is just eating disorder rituals. But that’s not really important. You’re as hot as you say you are, and as much an authority on what you write so long as you say it with, you know, conviction. It’s kind of venerable how fucking delusional I am, actually. Giving any sort of advice like I’m anywhere close to the ritzy ideal of the amphetamine-areyouami label-american. New York, ideally. West Village, preferably. But I guess the kind of guide I can write is better suited to someone living in a suburb, in a house with the twelve-paned windows. I always thought those were so chic. SO quaint, in a somewhat luxe way. Like, Connecticut vibes. My parents used to drive me up there as a child to buy books and ice cream. Nowadays I’d opt for a matcha latte with novelty ice cubes, but I guess at the time it was pretty sweet. 

Because I popped a Vyvanse at like, 10pm, this next little bit could go one of two ways. I will write the most articulate, brilliant piece of literature of my life. Magnum opus, if there was a skinnier word for it. Or, I will get wrapped up doing something like folding all my last-season knits (which is part of my look, okay! I don’t have a job!) and fixating on a paragraph on how a girl’s collarbones are almost as identifying as a fingerprint, or a signature. I’m not a graphologist, but if you write your A’s with the little tail on top (like on a computer), you’re probably a snake. Nothing personal, just an observation. Also, I do have a biology final to study for. Not that I’m super anal, or even particularly committed to academia, but even in my precariously manicured (read that as separate terms; I did a good job on my nail polish, okay? But I happen to also be teetering on the brink of an epiphany or a collapse. Hence the use of the word precarious.) state, I know it’s important enough I can let one of my countless side-quests sit idle for a couple more days. 

The first section seems only natural to be about hydration. And the whole idea of drinking things, really. There was a section in The Chic Diet about Adderall dry-mouth, which deeply resonated with me. Once I bit off a chunk of a Nivea Strawberry Shine (my favorite lip balm, more on that later) and swished it around my mouth. Didn’t help. Really, really didn’t. Anyway, I suppose that even if it served no purpose for combatting my prevacatingly ingenious cottonmouth solution, I was able to milk a sentence or two out of the experience. “Do it for the Vine”, all grown up! And wearing bananapapaya resin hoops too. Side note, that Etsy shop is a parasocial enemy of mine. It stems from jealousy, which sucks, but hating from inside a club I’m adjacent to is much healthier than being a hateful individual towards people I would, you know, interact with. Daily. Or something. I stopped going to therapy because I felt stupid about going and I don’t live in the right kind of town to warrant vacuous $300 hours. Bitching about my well-adjusted parents and how desperately I wished my anxiety would just “go away” was plainly gross, and a waste. Like, pretty sure almost every problem I have could be solved by a couple painful conversations taking place during a hurricane. Such a shame it doesn’t rain much here. Anyhow, I digress. 

Staying hydrated. It is essential to my character, my persona, if you will; to never be without either an elegant metal bottle (I’m loyal to the smooth enamelled S’well ones, printed to look like marble or a semi holographic solid) or a little 16oz tumbler with a metal straw. Hydroflasks were some of the worst things to happen to society. I want to preface this claim with the fact that I wanted one in the same way a teenage girl wants a new iPhone so she can keep up appearances with her dermatologist-dad friends who still have the XR, by the way. But I ended up spending the money on like, a minidress at Brandy Melville before it fled my city. Or maybe a Fresh Sugar tinted lipbalm. For the better, even though the dress has a busted zipper now and the lipbalm tube has inevitably gotten dinged and dented by the other contents of my mini-totebag. Unlike a car, though, a couple scuffs on your laptop or your luxury lipbalm tube looks kind of cool. Like, you’re not someone who values the pristine, unused quality of an item that was ambiguously intended to be used versus displayed on Instagram.�� Now, I’m wondering why this paragraph about hydration is so fucking impossible to stay on track for. I literally drink several litres of water a day, and more tea on top of that. And sometimes an almond milk latte if I can budget it in. Not that I’m so anorexic I can’t afford a 45cal latte. They’re just not that important to me. Anyhow. Drinking lukewarm (on the cool side) water is better than ice-cold. Partially because I just get it out of the tap of my ensuite and I can’t be bothered to wait for it to run cold enough every time, and it just seems wasteful. Plus, there is something so.. skinny about drinking water at an “obscure” temperature. Trust me, I want to know why my thought process is like this too. My favorite tea is blueberry tea foraged in a side aisle at my local supermarket. I love a good commercial, high-end steep or fruit infusion as much as the next girl. Maybe more. My pantry is filled with tins labelled with things like “emerald jade organic” and “magic potion”, which is really just currants and butterfly pea flowers. But there is a necessary glamor about drinking dirt-cheap tea on the daily. Seriously, a box of 25 sachets is like, $3. At a higher point with my, um, Adderall problem, I spent like several times that on pills. I didn’t really need to include that, and could have linked the price point to the cost of a drugstore lipbalm, but I wrote it in. And I’m married to it, stubbornly, as all amateur writers should be when they wittle in a somewhat indecorous little joke. This tea is sooo good because it has a strong fruit-reminiscent taste (not as sweet as a fresh blueberry, but who wants that anyway?), it’s zero-calorie, it’s the most GORGEOUS color ever. The latte, the third drink in my little trifecta, is nothing special. But necessary. The trick is to use a milk frother to whip up sugar free syrup with instant coffee and a little bit of hot water in a glass. It’ll make the most luscious foam.. Top it off with almond milk. My dad is a coffee purist, owning both an upstairs keurig AND a downstairs one (among other more analogue methods, but I can’t name-drop, so what’s the point?), so he hates this drink. Now, calling oneself a plebian is so unglamorous and teetering on self-deprecating territory, dangerously close to insecurity. But I can use it here because I am at least posh enough to have a different pair of earrings for every outfit I could possibly come up with, and I only wear Patagonia if I am in a situation where I just have to wear fleece. Like I was saying. It’s such a simple drink, certainly not a delicacy, and… I had a joke about the word plebian but I keep getting up to refill my water and I fear I have forgotten about it. 

Next section; the importance of a good tinted balm

In the intro I alluded to how a girl’s collarbones function essentially as an identifier, the way a signature or fingerprint does. This is a lie, or at least an exaggeration. But one’s ultimate tinted lipbalm is  actually extremely indicative about who you are, as a person, as a member of society, even… 

If you are loyal to Dior Lipglow, I have a couple questions. One; did you shoplift one tube, once, and refill it with cheaper stuff afterwards? I did that. I consider it one of my better-kept secrets, but now you know. Might as well explain the catalyst for my parent’s first separation now, and the horrifying experience that was meeting my dad’s Manhattan sugar baby (?) at the age of thirteen, wearing an overalls dress from, like, Topshop or something else equally embarrassing. .. Kidding. I digress. It’s such a fancy lipbalm, and good too! It smells like thin mints! But I could just never justify cell phone monthly installation payment money on something I will inevitably talk off. I do own three, but two I stole (before I lost the nerve, somewhat unfortunately) and one, a boy(not)friend bought for me. This is not something I feel any remorse about, because his house was easily four thousand square feet and his sisters had a dedicated all-glass room for their shared peloton. Oil money. Ugh!

My personal favorite lip balm, and I have tried a frightening amount, has got to be the Nivea Fruit Shine collection. The frosted one is shit-ugly. Hideous. But the strawberry one is the love of my life. It’s such a pleasant red, looking healthy and rejuvenated and really completes any look. Only downside is it will always, hopefully not always, remind me of Charles. Kissing Charles, specifically. And him asking me what lipbalm it was, because he knew I was somewhat frivolous and definitive and would have a very long answer. But for whatever reason, I simply stated it was from “out of town”. Not really sure why I said that, but it plagues me (minorly) to this day. Of all the things to make up.. .. The peach one is a perfectly demure spring classic shade. Cherry exists too, but the only tube I have ever had the fortune of owning was purchased in Costa Rica and lost somewhere on the way home. Honestly tragic, it was the juiciest shade. Blackberry is perfect too, but I have to layer it with either peach or untinted lipbalm to avoid what I imagine TooPoor would choose if she believed in tinted lipbalm. I don’t mean this hatefully, I think she’s a queen, but super dark, smudgy makeup suits the eyes better in my opinion. Or something. Or something.

Afraid to bore the reader, I have to move on now. Maybe at a later date I will release an addendum on my ultimate lipbalm buying guide. But also, that is so deeply personal (and everyone needs the excuse of “hunting for the perfect staple shade!!”), so it is really not my place to have any authority on something so intimate and subjective. Etcetera. 

Moving on; Decorating your room

Here is a section I lifted out of my memoir document. It fits, because as enigmatic as I hope I am, I am also quite unchanging.

 I just pushed three hangers and two tiny strappy tops with the tags still on, off my bed. Most nights, all, these days, actually; I spend in my large but cluttered bedroom. I have a little ensuite with a jetted tub I’ve never used because I just never get around to it. There’s a plush grey rug, spanning the expanse of the room (covering an ugly cherry wood that doesn’t match the rest of the house; no clue why. I never asked, and the previous owners were eager to sell so they could finally ditch this town and retire in Montreal for the bagels, or Hawaii for the monk seals. Point is, I’ll never know) with loose beads and loose pills and little shards of glass from plier-crushed beads. I vacuum every day. The whole room tells you exactly the kind of person I am; the clutter I possess, the encapsulation of the projects I start, start, start and the hours I don’t sleep for and the clothes I tried on (these to sell, these to cut up with kitchen scissors; thrifted lululemon and aritzia and heaps of knits and plaid fabric..) I would not say the room is a mess. Lived in, maybe. Chopsticks and mugs and gum wrappers. Single dangle earrings. I just finished the last of my Creme Brulee eos lipbalm; disguised as a relic of 2015, I was gifted it Christmas of ‘20. I think my next waxy conquest will be a tinted Burt’s one I palmed a while back, before I lost the nerve. Peering around the room you will see shopping bags strewn about the mouth of my walk-in closet. Every surface has something shiny or colorful stacked up on it. Cluttered, busy, but intentional. Except for the walls, which are bare. Bare and gray and miles-tall when I lie flat on my back, high out of my mind, willing things to change but knowing I’m responsible for a first step I will always be too scared for. Bare, pristine, no gumtack. Empty, Like they’re waiting. I wait around a lot. It makes sense. That was an awful lot of words about my stupid blank walls when truly it does not bother me that much; I really just don’t get around to it. I have other things on the ground to tend to, like post-email nausea, addressing envelopes, marrying wire and bead.  Writing a document I care about because I am determined and I am alive, alive, alive, goddammit. 

Excerpt over. The memoir is coming out when I get famous, or something earth shattering happens. Like I become the world’s least remarkable entrepreneur, and I get retweeted by Colorpop. I don’t want to be the next Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read two of her memoirs one restless night, absorbing it to make up for the nutrients I didn’t that day (you can laugh. I think that is pretty clever), heart breaking a little bit. She writes about her struggles so intrinsically, you either get it, or you don’t. Anyway. She had the books and the fame from it, and she wrote more memoirs than I think a single person should. That is admirable. Aspirational, even. But I do not want to be like her. Where was I? Oh. Yes. Decorating/adorning/filling your room. Your room should serve as the kind of place to watch a movie (if you believe in film. I don’t) and put on ridiculous glittery eye makeup, or smoke an ~artistic cigarette~ or stay up all night on the phone, which is different from staying up all night simply on your phone. Chatting with someone you are tepidly in love with is much more exciting. Not chic as the whole affair is so juvenile, but fun regardless. It’s somewhere to keep your worldly possessions, too. I know I have a lot! Also, it is kind of thrilling to hide things in your room in little crevices only you know about. Now, unfortunately, everyone reading this will know too. But, like, I trust you not to really.. do anything about it. I keep my extra juul pods in the sliding box my apple pencil came in. That box is almost more useful than the pencil itself. I’m somewhat morally opposed to the iPad. Whole culture is so embarrassing! I have a tea tin with an ounce of golden teacher shrums in it. This is tossed in my closet among tins filled with other things, like lace trim and buttons. Which makes it actually a pretty terrible hiding spot, I see now… Anyhow. Keeping benign little secrets like that is so fun. You can tell I don’t have siblings. I sort of wish I did, but it is easier to believe there is something aristocratic about being an only child. Not sure if older-sister me would be egalitarian enough to share things. But that’s prophesying, which is kind of a waste of time. I live in the now, in a room positively cluttered with meaningless things that mean the world to me, chewing on my lip because my mouth is just so dry and 5gum is just not an after-8 indulgence. To live truly kitschly, you have to have somewhat hideous decor. Now, do not confuse dissonant, or incoherent, with what I mean by “hideous decor”. The kitsch room has as many surfaces to look at as possible, while also shying away from too many shelving units. Then you risk your room looking like a storage unit or something. When my mom renovated (re: paid someone to do it) our New York house so we could sell it, all our stuff was stacked up in a Cubesmart self storage. It was sort of horrifying, seeing my childhood home reduced to plastic storage tubs piled what felt like thirty feet high. Anyway. It’s just not an  inviting way to store things; I imagine it makes your room look like your stuff is all trapped in gelatin. The more fussy, tiny things you have out in the open, the better. Nail polish. Earring trees. Bowls full of rings and lighters and water color pans perched on your windowsill. A rack with the tackiest assortment of knits and bucket hats and baguette bags. And so forth.. Quickly surveying someone’s room is so telling. Bonus points if all your books are spine-in, except for your favorite ones, because you don’t want people to get the wrong idea. (that you read). 

[valdarian]

Invader Zim-Infinite Pink: ch.3

Warning(s): This fic is intended for mature audiences!  violence/fighting. I tried to keep it from being too graphical but be advised.

A more action packed chapter. Couldn't get this out of my head. I really wanted to explore a bit of the Almighty Tallest after Zim's trial as well as a look in their shared past.

A reminder: Voel=Tallest Red, Theron=Tallest Purple. 

More notes at bottom.

Summary: Mirage- A look into the past. Nothing is ever what it seems.

(First Timeline: Somewhere in a distant past.)

"You've really done it this time Zim!" Theron admonished, ducking a laser aimed at his head as he ran.

"I've done it? How was this Zim's fault? My plan was flawless! This was clearly you're fault!" The magenta eyed Irken yelled. Stopping to point an accusing finger at the taller elite.

"Would you both shut up! We don't have time for this!" Voel shouted, throwing the smaller Irken over his shoulder as he passed. Theron followed closely after, hoisting his sniper rifle closer.

They dodged a few more lasers. Racing through the remote streets of some shady black-market planet. Followed closely by a group of Glozikian mercenaries(1).

It wasn't that unusual for other aliens to take advantage of the Empire's underbelly. Refugees from conquered planets and limited resources seemed to facilitate all kinds of dastardly dealings. Groups of various mercenaries and mafia gangs popping up left and right.

All vying for power, influence or monies.

Typically they'd be left to their own devices. Recently however, a few had gotten a bit too bold for the Empire's liking and needed to be put back in their place.

Their mission was supposed to be just a routine bust. Get in, take out the supply and any targets, get out.

Send them a message about who is really in charge.

A larger and more experienced squad had been sent to another location. The veteran's were to deal the Sovoxian mafia(2) on another side of the planet. A nasty bunch that they learned practically ruled the underground here. It's also where the core of the dealings were supposed to take place.

Their squad had been sent to deal with the Glozikian's group. A new, but fast rising gang on this side of the planet. They had been causing a ruckus at some of the shipping docks. Upsetting the trade routes. They were said to be blackmailing and threatening the traders, taking much of their monies or even goods as payment for their "protection".

They had expected an overzealous, yet relatively small group to be in their location. That's what their intel had told them anyway. It'd be something new recruits could easily take care of on their own.

Not that they had any doubts. While their track record was a...tiny bit hectic and unorthodox. They were still elites and they hadn't failed any of their missions yet.

Maybe that was why they were always paired together. Not that he mind. A smile forming even as his lungs burned from running.

It was exhilarating!

A laser just barely missed his antenna.

Well, usually anyway.

However, their intel had apparently been wrong. Very wrong.

The gang was far larger and dangerous then they had expected. Fully organized and armed to the teeth. Guarding the area as they moved an abnormally large amount of cargo. A few Sovoxian's were among them as well. It was all too suspicious to be any normal dealings.

He was going to give intel a piece of his mind when they got back. It was probably Huk's doing, that smarmy little Irken always had it in for him!

Normally the veteran squad would be called in to deal with this. Not a trio of fresh faced elites, but when you got three of some of the most stubborn and prideful Irken in one group...

Besides! The others were busy with the Sovoxian's on the other side of the planet and it would take too long to call for backup from Irk anyway.

It's not like they really had much of a choice, now did they.

How could they just let something like this go? I mean, how could they even call themselves elite if they ran away now.

It would be so shameful!

Sure they were outclassed but they weren't out yet! They've fought tougher things.

All for the glory of the Empire!

Zim had luckily had some explosives on him.

Sneaking around the dock they had managed to place the bombs in a few areas. Even taking out some of the guards that had been by themselves. Once they were in a safe area they set them off.

In only a few seconds the flurry of explosions had taken out a large chunk of the criminals. A nearby crane falling onto their main supply ship, rendering it unusable.

While the remnants dealt with the fallout, an argument had happened over their next step.

Long story short, they were discovered.

It had been pure chaos from there.

A rain of lasers and smoke had quickly clouded the area.

Just when they thought they were almost finished with the enemy, a downed Glozikian had called for backup.

Low on ammo and exhausted, they had no choice but to tactfully retreat for now.

It wasn't fleeing!

They rounded a corner.

Voel stopped, taking aim at a Glozikian that had caught up to them.

"Excellent shot Voel!" Zim smiled, still atop his shoulder.

The red eyed Irken smirked.

"Lucky shot." Theron scoffed, taking out his own mercenary as another one rounded the corner as well. He could hear more still on the way.

They ran a bit further, ducking into a nearby alley. Coming out of it at an empty construction site.

Perfect.

They took positions. using the next few minutes before the mercenaries caught up with them to catch their breath and reload what little ammo they still had.

"Zim, you got anything?" Voel questioned. Aiming his pistol at the alley entrance as he took point. His antenna stood tall as he focused on the nearing gang members.

"In a second." Zim responded, searching through a nearby crate of supplies the construction workers had left.

"There they are!" A Glozikian shouted. Laser fire following soon after.

One down, another, a few more shots rang out.

Theron was getting nervous, he blinked sweat from his eyes. He didn't have many rounds left.

"Any second now Zim!" His rifle clicked, a Glozikian jumped at him. He used the frame of his gun to keep the sharp toothed alien away from his face

"Do not rush ZIM! The magenta eyed irken yelled back. A little noise of triumph soon followed from the smaller irken.

"ZIM!"

A bottle went flying, as it hit the ground, flames enveloped a group of Glozikian. His opponent was immediately distracted by the screams of his brethren. He took the moment to push the other away and attacked it fiercely with the butt of his weapon.

Theron took a deep breath after it was done. Cardiac-spooch still beating rapidly. He heard the sound of a few more bottles breaking and saw Voel taking out any mercenaries left untouched by the flames. The red eyed Irken had picked up one of the Glozikian's weapons somewhere along the way.

Voel meet up with him when all was quiet. They walked over to Zim.

The magenta eyed Irken held up a bottle with a cloth in it. "Vortian whisky, great for explosives". He placed it back down into a crate with a few similar bottles.

"What's the next step then?" Theron asked, a note of exhaustion in his voice. He wasn't one for physical fights like his companions. Preferring to keep his distance whenever possible.

"There was a Sovoxian there. A big one that had left in that ugly vehicle. How could they ruin a limited edition XXXX54' model with such an atrocious paintjob!"

"The one with all the jewels?" Voel questioned, ignoring his companion's complaints. "You think it might've been the boss?"

"Seemed like it or at least some kind of higher up. Pretty sure he was wearing a snarl beast coat." Zim explained, searching through the non charred bodies for any ammo or weapons. He threw a cartridge to Theron.

Voel looted an extra pistol as well. The weight of the Glozikian weapon didn't compare to the red eyed Irken's favorite pistol but it probably made him feel safer.

"Bit strange to have a Sovoxian on this side of the planet though. Thought they never left the cities." Theron looked up from reloading his favorite weapon. He always felt best with it by his side.

"Wonder what they're doing here? Must be pretty important for the Sovoxian's mafia to work with the Glozikians."

"They had said something about meeting up a place called the Twisty Fosion." Zim suggested, gleefully inspecting a newly acquired shotgun.

"They'll be on guard now." Theron pointed out.

"All the more fun for us then." Zim's eye were alight with the impending doom.

Theron couldn't help but smirk.

He was exhausted and wanted nothing more to have a snack and cleansing wash. Yet, he had to admit a part of him thrived in this kind of chaos. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Twisted Foxian as it was actually called, was a shady nightclub on the edge of the town. Glozikian's guarded the entire area. Zim pointed out the vehicle the Sovoxian mafia boss had used.

The Glozikian were really in cahoots with Sovoxian Mafia. Why?

Voel put his binoculars down. This was going to be tough. Word about the attack on their supply base must have gotten back to them at this point. They were sure to be on guard. A vehicle pulled into the alley below them. Glozikian's hopping out and beefing up the already tight security.

He ducked back down, using the walls of the roof to hide him as they planned their next move.

"We can't just walk in there."

Zim shifted, he wanted nothing more to just run in there guns a blazing but even he knew they weren't in the best shape. He only had a limited number of his Molotov's and they were limited on ammo.

A backdoor opened and the Sovoxian don stepped out, flanked by bodyguards. It'd be easy to snipe him from here but they still didn't know what was going on.

The vehicle started up and quickly sped away.

"Should we follow?" Zim questioned.

"There's no way we'll catch up."

"Then what do we do?"

"I'll try contacting Squad Alpha." Theron was meet with the displeased looks of his partners.

"Look! We got admit this is way over our antenna! I got the feeling this is bigger than anyone realizes." He hissed.

Voel and Zim shared a look before they each nodded.

"Fine"

Theron radioed their seniors but received no reply. His antenna flattened at the radio static. He tried a few more times.

"Come in squad Alpha. Squad Delta requesting aid. Location coordinates xx.xxxxx-xx.xxxxx." Nothing beyond radio static came through.

He meet the nervous stares of his squamates.

"What now? Our ship is half way across the city. Might have been found, they could be looking for us."

"We can't stay here." Voel said, taking charge. "We either make it to our ship or we see this mission through to the end." He said somberly.

"Then should we head back to the supply base? It's on the way and might hold some clues." Theron suggested.

"We don't have much of a choice."

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

The supply dock was quite when they arrived back at it. Only smoldering embers and the still bodies of their fallen enemies among them. The planet's sun was setting, adding to the eerie atmosphere. It didn't look like anyone else had been here. Yet.

Theron held tightly to his rifle as they swept the area. His antenna stood alert for any signs of ambush.

They searched for any clues along the way. Looking for docking logs, audio files or anything else that would help piece the puzzle together. So far, nothing.

The supply ship was in ruins. Even more than he remember it had been when they had fle- tactfully retreated.

The crane that had fallen on it, was now a few hundred feet away atop some shipping containers. What was left of it anyway.

Had it blown up? The twisted metal looked like it had blown the ship outwards from the inside. Were they transporting something volatile? Bombs? weapons? Sovoxian's usually dealt in illegal drugs or overpriced luxury goods. This wasn't like their usual MO.

They made their way to the back of the lot. Avoiding wreckage as they entered the only building there.

Once inside they saw a few pathways lay before them. Voel turned to his partners, making a motion to split up. They would have to if they wanted to cover more ground. Every second they spent here was increasing their risk of being discovered. They split up the last remaining Molotov's between them. Voel taking most as he decided to parole the perimeter. Zim stayed on the main floor and Theron made his way upstairs.

His cardiac-spooch thumped loudly. He willed himself to keep his breathing steady. Now wasn't the time to let his guard down. Glozikian's weren't hard to take down but in a large group they could pose a problem.

Turning into a darkened office, he was glad to see the low lights of a terminal. It didn't take long for him to crack the code on it. Who put their password as Dookie?

Theron's eyes widen as he read through it.

They were selling weapons to the Noyings!(3) The Empire's sworn enemies, worse than even those energy stealing Meekrob!

They had killed Almighty Tallest Pink! Backstabbed the Tallest during peaceful negotiations between their empires ages ago. The first thing Almighty Tallest Miyuki had done after being enthroned was promised to avenge her fallen predecessor. Sparking a war that had gone on for hundreds of cycles. It had only ended some 200 cycles ago in a shaky truce.

Were the Noying's getting ready for war. Were they thinking of attacking the Empire again?

This was huge!

"Ah!" He heard Zim cry out and ran downstairs, his gun raised and ready to pull the trigger. He rounded a hallway into the main hall and nearly got his head blown off.

A trap!

Theron pressed his back against the wall. Taking a second to calm his racing cardiac-spooch, before he chanced a peak around the corner.

There were four Glozikians, two on either side of the mafia boss, each with a gun raised in his direction.

Zim was held in one of the large arms of the Sovoxian Don. His shotgun lay a few feet away. His PAK unusable due to the hold.

"Well, well what do we have here?" The Sovoxian Boss said. All four of the Don's eyes looked his way in boredom. Zim struggled in the tight grip to no avail.

"By order of the Empire, you're under arrest for colluding with the Empire's enemies!" Theron announced, trying to keep his voice steady. Where in the void was Voel? He needed to buy some time. What should he do?

"Under arrest?" The Don laughed. Jewelry clinking as his body shook with the sound.

"The Empire means nothing to me. You Irken always think you're so powerful but I got news for you! The only thing that matters in this world is monies. Monies that you and your little friend here cost me!" The don said, all previous mirth wiping off his face. His grip on the small irken tightened.

"Zim is not little!" Zim glared at the oversized Sovoxian through gritted teeth. The four eyes turned to him, a grin soon spread on the mobster's face. The smaller Irken's antenna pressed flat against his head.

"Now that I look at you, aren't you a pretty one. Maybe I'll just have to take you as part of the payment you owe me."

"Disgusting! Unhand ZIM!" The smaller Irken squirmed with new effort in the Sovoxian's hold.

"Feisty, I Like that." The mafia boss smirked, making a motion with his hand to the Glozikian's behind him. They began moving towards Theron but stopped as the building shook. Distracted by the activity.

Theron realized this may be his only chance and quickly pulled the trigger. The nearest bodyguard fell. Another tried to rush him, only to meet their comrades fate. The remaining two scrambled for cover.

"What are you fools doing! Get him!" The Don yelled, trying to keep his footing as the building rattled again. They could hear the sound of metal and stone twist and break somewhere in the distance.

Was the building about to collapse?

What in the void was going on?

He got a shot on one of the guard's legs. He gritted his teeth. He had a Molotov on him but the space was too confined and he might get Zim in the process.

The Don grew increasingly furious. Face turning a few shades darker as he continued to yell at his mercenaries.

Theron used the distraction again to take out another guard and then the last.

He glared at the mobster as he walked into the room fully. "Let. him. go." Rifle aimed at the Sovoxian's head.

The Don glared at him, quickly pulling out his own pistol, decorated just like himself and his transportation. He pressed it to Zim's jaw.

"Come any closer and this one gets it!"

"It's so gaudy!" Zim complained. Despite the threat to his life, the smaller Irken was not going to forgive the mobster for his horrendous decorating choices.

Theron faltered and the mobster took aim at him. He ducked just in time.

The oversized Sovoxian quickly made a break for the exit. The elite close on his heels. A whirlwind of fury growing within the Irken.

"Guards! Guards! The Sovoxian Don yelled into the shipping yard. He was no fool and made sure to bring backup. He wasn't gonna let a few pompous Irken ruin everything he worked for. This was the biggest score of the millennium for him.

It was just a little hiccup he told himself.

He was Donal Foxion Del Dookieton for universe sake! The most feared and powerful mafia boss on all of Glovox and soon, the galaxy!

A laser caught his ear. He let out a yell from the pain, quickly pushing a hand to it. He ran up the last remaining wreckage separating him from where his other guards should be.

Oh! Donal was gonna make sure to capture that annoying purple eyed Irken alive and make the other beg for death!

The don smirked as he came out on top of the wreckage. Laughing to himself at the fate that was about to befall the sniper elite.

Only to find nothing was there.

Where were his guards? Where was his beautiful limited edition XXXX54' model with a custom paint job featuring his gorgeous vision!

The mobster looked around. His perch allowed him an excellent view of the damage.

"MY PRECIOUS!" His vehicle had been driven into the side of the building.

The remains of his mercenaries' vehicle was turned over, having crashed into a gas tank. A large blast radius with what looked like the remnant of his men lay around it.

"W-What?" The Don muttered in disbelief. "How could this happen!? No, NO!"

The Don's arm grew lax and Zim quickly squirmed out of it. The mobster quickly snapped from his stupors and attempted to recapture the Irken, but Zim would not be taken off guard again. He used his PAK legs to gain some distance from the four legged alien.

Theron took aim.

One of the mobster's legs were pierced as a laser rang out. Sending the large alien tumbling to the ground.

The sniper gasped. He looked wildly around for the source.

"Voel!"

The red eyed irken dropped down from atop a nearby shipping container. Looking worse for wear. He'd been busy if the state of their surroundings was anything to consider.

Zim quickly ran to the pistol wielding Irken's side with a worried expression. Voel wiped blood from his mouth. "I'm fine." He smiled at the smaller irken.

Theron's Squeedlyspooch twisted. He turned to the mafia boss that was recovering from their fall and pointed his rifle at the mafia member's face.

"D-Don't shoot! Anything you want. Monies, power, pleasure! Let me live and it can all be yours!" The mobster bargained.

Theron looked at him in disgust. "Why are you selling weapons to the Noyings? What do they want with them."

"I don't know." Theron pressed his rifle closer to the Don's face.

"Really! It's just business. They pay me and I send them the goods. I don't question my clients." The mobster explained, seemingly docile now that his life was on the line.

He pulled away from the Sovoxian and looked to his companions for their next step. A mistake.

Zim's face twisted in horror.

"Theron!" The warning came to late. The Don still had his pistol and had it aimed right at him.

Shit! He'd forgotten about it in the chaos and was now going to pay the price. He attempted to dodge, a scream left his throat as the laser tore through his shoulder. His rifle fell to the ground beside him.

"You can kiss your empire goodbye!" The don attempted to run. His laugh cut short as his body crumpled to the ground.

Zim's face was dark with fury as he lowered Voel's pistol.

The two elite quickly made their way to their companion's side.

"Theron, stay with us." Zim set about tending to the wound.

It hadn't hit any major organs but was far too close to Theron's cardiac-spooch for the smaller Irken's comfort. If had been just a few inches over...

It would heal but any injury still put them at further risk right now.

Who knows how much longer they'd be on this planet. Who knew what or whoever else they would have to face. They were already reaching their limit. Voel looked like he would pass out at any moment and now Theron's shooting arm was down as well.

Things weren't looking good. "We have to make it back to the ship."

"And if someone found it?"

"We have no choice. Unless you want to be stuck on this planet until the end of our days!" He shared a look with Voel. Trying to keep a brave face despite the fear he felt.

Zim prayed for some kind of miracle.

The rotation of helicopter blades could be heard in the distance. Mafia reinforcements? They wouldn't be happy that their boss was dead.

Zim wasn't keen on sticking around to find out. "We have to get out of here now!" He helped Theron up. Voel followed a few feet behind them. Fatigue keeping the normally fast Irken at a slower pace.

They were stopped as a figure walked in front of them, a surviving Glozikian. A hand pressed to their side as they held up something in their other hand.

"If I'm going to the void, then I'm taking you with me!"

Zim's eyes had widened, he shoved Theron behind a container just as the blast enveloped them.

Theron came to. He could vaguely hear Voel calling their names through the ringing in his head. He coughed from pain and the dust kicked up by the blast as he struggled to sit up.

"Z-Zim?" He called, squinting through the dust. He could barely see the smaller Irken's figure through the smoke and reached out. He grasped the other's wrist and felt Zim turn towards him.

He looked on in horror as the smoke cleared. The magenta eyed Irken had injures all over. Theron noticed one of the other's antenna was partially missing and a leg was nearly severed.

"You're okay!" The other smiled before collapsing on him.

---------------------------------------------------------------- (Aboard the Massive, Almighty Tallest Purple's chambers.)

Theron awoke with a start. His cardiac-spooch beating rapidly within his chest.

He fell asleep again.

These nightmares. Dreams. Memories? Had been haunting him for cycles now. Ever since...

He doesn't want to think about that. It makes his Squeedlyspooch twist uncomfortably.

Theron knows he shouldn't. They had been justified. That Irken had been a menace to the Empire. As tallest, Voel and him were fully in their right to punish him. If anything they should have done it immediately. It was a mercy they had let him live as long as they had.

So why does he feel like a no good Blasnit every time he thinks about it.

Had the other somehow infected him with malware? Had the defect placed one of those ancient curses on him? The ones he hears so often whispered about by overly superstitious Irken.

Theron laughs at the thought.

He feels a headache coming on. This...what ever it was, had been particularly vivid this time around. He doesn't want to go back to sleep and feels to queasy to eat.

Anyone would surely be shocked to hear him say that.

He calls in a servant to run him a bath in the cleansing room. Maybe a good soak will help sooth him.

The purple eyed tallest closes his eyes as he lets out a sigh of relief as he relaxes into the warm water.

The dream replays in his mind. Purple eyes open and he stares at the ceiling in contemplation. Was it really a dream?

Theron runs a clawed finger over the web like scar on his shoulder. He hadn't paid it much mind before, he hadn't remember where it had come from. Figuring that he had been an elite once. He'd obviously had fought in many battles and must have gotten it in one of them.

He couldn't remember any of them though. In fact he couldn't remember most of his youth. He'd been a medic at one point? He thinks.

The Purple Tallest try's to recall his past, brow furrowing as few things come to mind.

There were lots of things he couldn't remember. Everything felt like it had been locked away and what little he did remember was seen through a foggy haze.

It's was like someone had taken a recording of his life and cut out large chunks of it. Then sowed together the remains. Only now was he finding the missing pieces.

He could remember the pain of the laser tearing through his muscle.

He could remember the taste of dust in his mouth.

He could remember the feeling of his cardiac-spooch beating every time Z-

Theron shook his head, trying to block out those thoughts.

The physical proof was there.

So why had he not remember something so important. He felt possessive, a part of him clinging to these new, old? memories with all it had. The thought of loosing them made his Squeedlyspooch twist.

Was it because of what he felt?

He wasn't defective.

Theron knows he had only been reprogramed once, when his title changed from elite to Almighty Tallest. He's sure about it...maybe. He feels unsettled.

Why couldn't he remember? Had he deleted them himself? Had someone done this to him?

A shiver passed through him.

Maybe Voel would know something. Theron was sure he'd go crazy otherwise.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (Aboard the Massive, Almighty Tallest Red's chambers.)

Banging reached Voel's hearing. He buried his head further into his pillow. Hoping who ever it was would go away. They had two Tallest! Surely they could go bother Theron with what ever it was.

The banging continued.

He scowled, hadn't he had told the servants he didn't want to be bothered today!

Another bang.

He sprung from the bed and reached the door in a few strides. Maybe he'd pull a Theron and throw them out the airlock. He wasn't in the mood today.

The door swished open and Theron's surprised face greeted him, fist still raised.

"No." He says flatly.

"What do you mean no? You don't even know what I was going to ask!" Theron pushes past him. A low growl builds in his throat. He really wasn't in the mood today.

"Theron, I swear if this is about changing the water fountains into nacho cheese ones aga-"

"It's not." Theron says.

Voel's taken off guard by the serious look on the other's face.

"But that is a good idea, I forgot about that." The purple tallest throws himself onto one of the sofas in the room. Patting the seat next to him.

Voel sighs, crossing his arms. His fellow ruler looks at him expectantly. He won't give in.

"Look, I'm tired. So unless this is serious can we talk about this later? Voel notices Theron perk up.

"Dreams keeping you up?"

The red eyed tallest feels shock course through him. "You know about them?"

"You too then! I'm not the only crazy one!" Theron says excitably.

"What do you know about them Theron!" Voel crosses the room and grabs his fellow tallest tightly. Shaking him slightly.

"Ow! Ow! Let go of me and I'll tell you!"

Voel let's go and sit across from the purple eyed Irken.

Theron rubs his arms "Jerk." He pouts.

"Theron." Voel warns.

"Voel, do you know how I got that scar on my shoulder?"

Voel is quite for a second as if recalling something horrific, before slowly nodding.

Like a dam being broken. The words tumble from Theron's mouth as he recalls everything he remembers, all the dreams he has had and compares it to Voel's own telling's.

They are both shocked as all the information lines up. ----------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours past, they continue to talk about the seemingly double life they've lived.

"Do you think something went wrong when we were enthroned?" Theron asks.

"I don't know. I feel like it goes further back then that though." Voel says, truthfully he is still confused about all of this and not sure what to make of it.

A thick silence grows between them.

Voel closes his eyes in thought or maybe sleep finally claiming him again.

Voel?" Theron begins, waiting for the other Tallest to acknowledge him. He hears a soft hmm from the other.

"40 Schmillion errors, can you imagine?" Theron whispers. Zim had been a forbidden subject ever since the Invader's trial.

"It's a lot." The red eye Irken nods solemnly.

"It's a nightmare is what it is. 40 schmillion Voel! It's no wonder he was so messed up." Theron looked over to his fellow tallest. Voel meets his eyes.

"He wasn't always like that."

"I know. But, it's just...a wonder how he managed to hide it for as long as he did. I can't imagine ever being able to function like that."

"Zim made it work."

"Do you think...?" Theron stops himself. Voel looks at him questioningly.

"It just doesn't make sense." He continues. He feels cold by were certain thoughts were leading him.

"No. It doesn't."

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

These are aliens that don't actually exist in IZ lore. (1): Glozikian's are nomads that often take mercenary jobs. A group exist on the black-market planet Glovox. Secretly working for the Sovoxian mafia. (2):Sovoxian's are four eyed and four legged natives of Glovox, many are shady creatures that enjoy nothing more than material wealth. (3) Noyings are the Irken nemesis after they were implicated in the murder of Almighty Tallest Pink. (Fun fact: Irken's were originally supposed to be called this. Really glad Jhonen went with Irken.)

Also how do you feel about tallest Zim?

Previous chapter: https://valdarian.tumblr.com/post/640605434229735424/invader-zim-infinite-pink-ch2

Next chapter: https://valdarian.tumblr.com/post/642137626436075520/invader-zim-infinite-ch4

[dystopiandisastercontrol]

General Collection of Old OC Dribbles

Pretty self-explanatory. Stuff from the old iteration of the blog, returning to keep this one generally active.

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

First-Hand Experience

The scar on her leg is hidden from view, and very few have seen it. It’s a surgical scar, long and clean, knit back together perfectly. Something morbidly pretty to hide the defect of how the bones beneath porcelain-pale skin healed. She doesn’t actively show the scar, but the limp is prominent.

She refuses a cane, always has. It holds no real support, she says, and only furthers to remind her that she is a cripple. It won’t help. It can only hinder her more. People respect that. Why should she need it when she hobbles faster without it than with it.

A little cube-avatar pops up next to her head, within the cylinder of blue screens projected by the little chip she has placed on the ground under her. One of the ceiling crews, those in charge of keeping the Dome far above from decaying and crashing down on the city below.

There is a panel loose, he says. They’re checking for any sort of damage to both the supports and the surrounding panels. They’ll rivet it back down when they’re sure it’s safe, but they’ll need the heavy guns next to the trucks. She relays the news to a small group of Cablers with little to do amid the hustle and bustle of the rest working to stabilize another skyscraper for anchoring. They will be on standby.

It started when she first started talking, a dull throb in her right leg. She shifts her weight more to the left, but it’s still there. For a brief moment, her face twitches in emotion. Lips drawn thin just a bit before resuming its usual apathy. The leg does this every time they talk of panels, a not-so-subtle reminder to herself of why the Dome panels are important. Why they were slotted into the maintenance schedules every week.

Dome panels are heavy. She knew that even before the first one succumbed to gravity. Almost twelve years ago now. It wasn’t long after they moved in, while they were slotting into their respective societal niches.

She’s lucky she wasn’t wholly crushed, it was her split-second instinct to run at the echoing sound of screaming metal that likely saved her from worse. It’s only sad to say that her right leg wasn’t as lucky as she was. It was the only time she remembers showing emotion publicly.

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

Sky

We have a joke among us.

‘The sky’s the limit!’ ‘That’s a pretty short limit!’

It’s a joke to us because of the existence of the Dome. It seems really far up there, almost like the sky from where we are, almost a full hundred levels below it. But we’ve actually touched it. That’s no sky. It’s no better than the artificial sky Kane puts over the top of Deluxe. It’s a really terrible substitute.

We’ve seen the sky. The real sky. It’s not something you can touch. It’s something to really aim for.

I remember on good days, it was clear and blue. Not just one shade, but several shades of blue, mixed and fading in and out of one another. There might have been wisps of clouds. Due to the air currents coming off the lakes, we didn’t get the big fluffy clouds too often.

The air never stopped moving, really. There were days when it would be a little slower, a bit of a light breeze to ruffle the grasses and trees some, but it never came to a standstill save right before a big storm. Living next to a lake the size of a small sea does that, keeps the air moving. Most of the time, if you didn’t get a whiff of Detroit, the air was permeated with the smell of cold fish. After a while, you get used to it and it doesn’t bother you anymore.

At night, the sky darkened to a very dark blue, though it had a warmer undertone, like a promise day would return. If you were lucky and Detroit’s light didn’t bleed too far into it, you could see stars. Pinpricks of light. The further you got from the cities, the more stars you could see until the sky looked like a black canvas that someone had splattered glitter and white paint across.

I remember the weather, too. The wind, of course. There was always wind at some level. I remember the rain the most. The best weather to me will always be rain. It washes away impurity. The world appears fresh and new after it rains. There’s a smell to it that you can never forget, one of cleanliness. It is immersive. You can lose yourself to it, and it gives you the hope that you can start anew. Snow was always a plus; it covers the world in white. All the blemishes given by nature were washed away, even if only temporary. It might be cold and harsh, but at the same time, it’s delicate.

I wonder if the weather still rages outside the Dome. I bet it does. The Dome can cut us off from the world. In here, where if something drips on you, you’d better get tested to make sure you’re not irradiated. But it can’t stop the world turning and changing on the outside.

'The sky’s the limit!’ 'That’s a pretty short limit!’

One day, maybe. One day, we’ll see the sky once more.

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

Awake

Awake I - War and The Beast

The pangs are prominent, and are what initially wake it.

Deep within the entangled mess of wires and cables up near the ceiling of the Dome, it wakes. A shuffling stir of heavy fabric against hardened nylon, the hum of electrical current droning out the sounds of outside.

It unfolds with a crickling snap of long-unused joints, yawning wide to display the tools of the trade plainly. Hearing returns, giving away nothing but the typical ambiance and in safety, it uncoils from its space to resume its vigilance above. Stretches to further limber are taken with every stride and movement, steps careful and practiced across the usual perch.

Eyes glint silver, color of snow and frigid ends, a brief shift before resuming the abyss of oceans; dark, cruel, unforgiving. Scan of below before it begins to bubble and boil, starting in its chest and pushing up through parted jaws thrown wide.

It starts as a screech, escalates to the sound of a roar over those below. An assertion of dominance over its hunting ground, a reminder of monsters of old rising anew to begin the hunt again.

Awake II - Death and Vatka

It echoes through the air, the roar of the unpredictable unlikely guardian living at the ceiling. Every morning, at this time, he hears it down in the depths. Too organic to be mechanical, reverberating with the stale wind off cables and wires over the Cemetery Basin. They vibrate eerily, a song of ghosts through makeshift tombstones and across painted imagery of gape-mouthed spirits swirling through the ruins of what was once the bustling hub of the city, a bastion of the old world.

The dead are disturbingly expansive, and for others it is a lonesome lifestyle. Not so much for him, who hears the speech of the passed in whispers and laughter. Nor for his hulking mechanical companion.

She follows him down through a carefully-wound path, from altar to the plateau, rising as he beckons from where she sat not unlike a living dog. He muses a little to her, and she titters in that strange way of hers at his revelations.

Greetings to early visitors, both to the cemetery and to the apothecary gleaming like a beacon at the center of the depression. It is a calm morning, and hopefully an equally calm day.

Awake III - Famine and Plague

The call is heard much easier in the upper reaches of the city.

It is far too normal to truly pay mind to, so muses the Russian behind a cylinder of interfacing consoles, eyebrow over one eye quirking. Not often emotion is expressed on that face, and even then, it is brief before apathy reigns it all back in and it falls flat.

Someone to her side asks about plans concerning the Dome above them. She whisks her fingers down and up, pulling a series of files out of the column of screens, a push sending them to the other's console. Banter back and forth, the sound of machinery drowning out speech.

A panel came loose high above them in the night. It's a hazard they can't leave; Dome panels are massive and can cause more damage than any one attack by Kane if they fall. She intercepted the messages and brought Plague to boot. Together, they arrived with the Cablers to the area. They've all been working since early morning.

Her android brother is with a group above, stabilizing equipment and tools, or holding the offending panel itself in place while his comrades work diligently to bolt it back down. Someone shouts from one corner, waving a hand to catch attention. The metal has rusted through in this corner. They will have to replace a substantial portion of it to ensure the safety of those below.

What should only be a morning job has just gotten longer.

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

Morning Routine

Four-thirty in the morning was always a bit chill. Dawn usually was, even inside the Dome, but down in the Old Detroit Basin, it always seemed at least a few degrees cooler.

Not that Death minded it much, the Haitian shouldering a small pack to begin his usual morning trek to The Altar down in the bowl itself, a spot constructed crudely of chunks of concrete with the Loa veves for both Legba and Samedi scratched into the surface of a large flat piece, like a plaque. In giving offerings to both the spirits and to the ghosts that wandered the cemetery, the plateau would be approachable for the day. Which was exactly what he was after, since that was where the apothecary rested.

The lights on the surviving city block of the plateau shone warm and yellow, a beacon in an otherwise drab world. There were no lights directly in the cemetery that surrounded the upraised place of the past, leaving it with the residual lights from far above. He surveyed the land he had been maintaining for little over a decade, inhaling deeply the smell of stale earth and cool air before descending down the curling road into the basin below.

The light was faint and seemed to suck all the color out of everything, just bright enough to read the crude scratchings of names and dates, epitaphs and well-wishes in the here-after across makeshift tombstones made of any stony material people could get their hands on. Rows were barely existent, making it look like crooked teeth in an old giant's open mouth. Somewhere in the depths were the remnants of power lines and cables from generations before of what Detroit used to be, looking like tentacles reaching into the depression. The air moved a bit, displaced by people racing about in the upper levels and circulated with the massive ventilation fans in the upper curve of the Dome far above. It whistled through the old cables, making them vibrate in eerie twangs, a melancholy and impromtu dirge for those thousands buried in the soil that had been an older, free Detroit.

For anyone else, the cemetery would have been a dark and dreary place to spend one's existence. To the whistling Caribbean making his way down from the Cemetery Plateau and into the graves themselves, this was simply a way of life. Someone had to maintain the dead, as a reminder to the living and as a reminder to themselves. And that someone happened to be the Vodou ghost-talker making his way down predetermined paths, beaten flat over time into dirt roads that all converged on the center rise, where the last surviving city block of Old Detroit still stood.

Wisps played among the tombstones, bobbing shadows up and down. Once or twice, he caught the glance of eyes, or felt them looking in his direction. Whenever he actively caught them, a jovial wave was given. Just because they were dead didn't mean they didn't want to be treated like they were. It was a rule to greet placid ghosts, and these were only curious, as they were every morning.

The Altar rose in the dreary gloom, the pedestal approached with a sort of quiet reverence. Even those spirits curious and following the ghost-talker stopped at the base of the rise it sat on, overlooking the back half of the cemetery, that darker portion where the lights from above didn't penetrate.

"Bon maten." he addressed the veves carved on the back piece, stopping in front of the flat table in front of it and dropping the pack he had brought with him. "I hope y'two had a lovely sleep."

Another wind rattled the cables deep in the darker portion of the cemetery, causing a far-off clanging sound. He took that as his answer from the two Loa, pulling out a set of wooden bowls, dipping saucers, and cups; two sets each. These, he scattered routinely across the tabletop and set about pouring a half-bowl of something resembling cream, dabbling a bit of fresh honey into the saucers, and pouring cups of moonshine. It wasn’t the rum he had been taught to use, but any alcohol would do. To his left, he set a bundle of dried tobacco leaves for smoking.

"Hope y'enjoy breakfast, wi?" he added before picking up the shoulder bag and turning to leave. "Mèsi poutèt ou, for watchin' over all us in the Basin."

The unseen cables rattled again, brightening his unpainted face with a smile as he strode back down the rise into the cemetery again. It was going to be a good day, he reasoned, catching sight of a cluster of short shadowy ghosts ahead of him on his path back to the plateau.

"Ah, can't be forgettin' any of you, can I." he chuckled, setting about on the second task of the morning before the shop opened.

Before he had returned to tend the greenery he sold and paint himself for the day, small clusters of brightly-colored candies and toys, mingled with shot glasses of the same moonshine, added a sense of life into the otherwise colorless graveyard.

[voidendron]

The Outside: Chapter 59

Series Ask Blog: @asktheoutside

((  Sorry for delay! There may be one in the next chapter, as well. My current laptop is nearly to the point it’s unusable, so I’m looking into getting a new one that can handle my programs better and actually run at a functional speed. :/ ))

Chapter Warnings: Food, Starving Animal (Dog) Characters: Jacques Septique, Silver Shepherd, Roxanne POV: Jacques Septique

April 2, 2031, 12:11 PM Los Angeles, California

“Jacques. You need to eat somethin’.”

The artist could only offer a glare over his cellphone. Though he couldn’t help but grimace when his stomach rumbled and he relented; phone placed on the table so he could reach for his untouched sandwich. At least the little coffee shop they’d found was quiet.

The other two were eating quietly across from him. He hadn’t wanted to come. He’d also needed better Internet than what the motel offered.

A huff and Jacques leaned his chin in his hand as he chewed. His eyes were scanning the sketchbook in front of him. It was turned to Michael’s page. They hadn’t figured much else out about the Figments in his sketchbook. They knew Angus, Natemare, and Jane now. But what about the other two? Beau and Michael Garring? They had no idea who either of them were. The most they had to work with was that Beau was an android, and Michael was a security guard. Had he been created as one, though? To hell if they knew.

“Hey.” Jacques glanced up to Silver’s voice. “Ben’s lookin’ into it. We’ll figure it out.”

There were so many possibilities as to who those two could be. Even with Bing (and the Googles? Maybe? Jacques hadn’t heard anything about them in a while) doing the searching it could end up taking a good, long while before they found any identities. Not knowing for certain who they were was maddening!

Setting his food back down on the plate, Jacques picked at the crust. Was anyone doing anything about the other three they did know about? Or were they just… “Are we just waiting for something to happen?” he asked.

All Silver offered was a shrug. The artist grit his teeth in irritation. They couldn’t just… A huff. They couldn’t just wait around for something to happen!

“I—”

Silver put up his hand in a “one moment” sort of gesture, and Jacques could only click his mouth shut. It’s not like he had any ideas. But did Silver? Probably not, he thought while suppressing a roll of the eyes.

“We dunno anything about these people,” the hero said with another little shrug. “We dunno if they’re threats, and how big of ones they are if that’s the case. We don’t know anything about them. We decide to confront ‘em blind, they could kill us.”

At that, Jacques flinched. Roxanne reached across the table, as if to put a hand on his arm, but thought better of it and pulled it back into her lap.

Silver offered a reassuring smile. How could either of them still be so kind to Jacques when he was such an asshole to them?

“We know where Angus and Michael work, now. That’ll at least make it a little easier to avoid them.” He brought his hands up to wrap around his coffee cup. The barista had spelled his name wrong. “Sheppard,” it read. That was kind of funny, at least. She’d spelled “Jacques” correctly, but not “Shepherd.”

Another bite. This time Jacques had to force himself to swallow as anxiety made his stomach churn.

“It is not safe for us to even be out of our room anymore!”

Roxanne shook her head. “We can’t be forced to live in fear. If we did, we wouldn’t be out here right now.”

…She was right. The Outside was a scary thing to them. Something unknown. Something new. Something different. Had they all been scared to come out here, he wondered. Yet, they still did. Every one of them. They would rather meet something unknown than watch themselves fade. Even if that “unknown” was causing more and more problems for them. Silver had said that just a few days ago, Oliver was hit by a car and had to kill the driver. Androids “didn’t exist” after all, and. Well. With Oliver bleeding oil and his leg apparently broken off? That definitely wasn’t human. Something was wrong with the Host, though Jacques hadn’t caught exactly what was wrong. A little over a week ago, Marvin had severely injured himself. They’d risked him dying in the hospital, which would have revealed his aura to the nurses and doctors tending to him, in the hopes they could save him.

Had he died on the operating table, Marvin could have given them all away. No, not could have. Would have. Had any of them even thought of that?

Jacques swallowed as his stomach twisted.

Humans wouldn’t take kindly to the Egos’ presence, would they? What happened if they found out that these…these extremely powerful, non-human beings existed among them while successfully passing as human? That these beings who could in theory kill them in an instant were able to hide in plain sight? Would even the former fans accept them when they knew how dangerous some of them could be?

That was a frightening thought.

“Jacques?” Silver and Roxanne were standing; discarding of their cups and wrappers in a nearby trashcan. “We’re leaving.”

Stumbling to his feet, Jacques wrapped what remained of his sandwich. He held the food in his free hand after tucking his phone in his back pocket; the other arm occupied with keeping his sketchbook tucked under his arm.

For a day in Los Angeles, the streets were oddly quiet. It was hot out. Unbearably so. Apparently that was unusual for April in the area? That would explain it. The sun beat down on their backs and made the sidewalks hot; it could easily become miserable if they stayed out too long. All three of them were in tank tops and either capris or shorts.

Jacques squinted against the sun. Sunglasses would sure be nice…

Silver and Roxanne were chatting a few steps ahead of the artist. Fingers laced together.  Roxanne’s long hair pulled into a ponytail, and Silver’s in a messy bun. The artist ran a hand through his own hair; short, tight coils catching his fingers.

One of these days, they just needed to part ways. Jacques didn’t like them. Why? He scoffed to himself. Who did he like anymore? Bitterness was a lonely thing.

Dark eyes raised to the sound of a small “whoof.”

A dog was trotting from person-to-person. It’s ears pulled forward and tail wagging slowly as it looked up with begging eyes. When it was ignored, it moved on to the next. Its ribs were showing, and a grungy collar hung loosely from its neck.

Roxanne knelt and clicked her tongue. The dog abandoned the man it had been begging from so it could trot toward her. Its tail was wagging faster now, and it nudged its head into her hand.

“Jacques? Do you still have your sandwich?”

A little nod, and Jacques started unwrapping the food. He tore a piece off; tossed it to the starving dog. The chunk was gone in seconds. How long had it been since it had eaten? He tensed when the canine abandoned Roxanne and sat at his feet instead. Its head tilted; eyes flitting between Jacques, and the food in his hand. Another chunk torn off, then gone in a moment. Poor thing was just swallowing the food whole!

People were giving them looks, but Jacques just glared back. The dog needed to eat!

Roxanne was undoing her hoodie from her waist. She looped one of the sleeves around the dog’s collar and tied it. “Let’s get her some water and out of the sun,” she said as she rubbed the dog between its floppy ears. “She’s got a collar, so we’ll clean off the tag and have Bing figure out who she belongs to.”

Owners? But she was so underweight! Jacques had to wonder if she’d been thrown out, or had simply run away and gotten lost. It was a big city, after all. It was just a wonder she hadn’t been picked up by animal control yet with how people-friendly she seemed to be.

When they reached the motel, the dog was panting and her head hanging low. It was too hot for her to be running around without water. With her collar removed and having lapped up the water offered to her fast enough the other three were worried she’d make herself sick, the dog draped herself over the foot of Jacques’s bed and promptly fell asleep. They’d cleaned the tag off, and now Silver was on the phone with Bing so he could relay the information on them to the android. It was a fifteen minute call. If that. One tag had been broken off. The name tag, thankfully. That left the one with a phone number and vaccine information still intact so Bing had something to work with.

“Well,” the hero started, “it sounds like her owner passed away a few weeks ago. She was elderly, I guess.” Silver leaned toward the dog to rub the top of her head. “Neighbors called police for a wellness check on the owner when they hadn’t seen her for a few days. Police startled the dog when they tried gettin’ her, and she bolted out the door. She’s a purebred Doberman Pinscher and has no where to go with her owner gone, so she’d just be taken to a pound or shelter if she was turned in. Bing couldn’t find what the dog’s name is.”

“No one’s gonna want an adult Dobie,” Roxanne murmured with a shake of the head. “She’d be stuck there for the rest of her life, or until her time there ran out and…” She didn’t continue.

Running a hand over the dog’s bony back, Jacques furrowed his brows. They couldn’t turn her in!

“…Can we keep her?”

Jacques decided to call her Muse.

[goodlucktai]

if youre taking natsuyuu prompts, maybe just some wholesome natsume loving? maybe protective teachers (possibly a teacher from a previous school who meets his current and starts bad mouthing? I dunno) I love your writing!!!

x

For most of the students, small-towners as they all are, it’s their first time in Fukuoka, so the itinerary the teachers and chaperones have planned is more of a guideline to fall back on than anything else. With three days ahead of them for this trip, there’s plenty of time for them to see a good chunk of what the capital city has to offer without keeping to too strict a timetable. 

“Nomiya-sensei, did you want me to put everyone in groups?” The class representative, Tsuji Masayuki, materializes at Futoshi’s elbow. He’s watching his classmates with a harried sort of mother hen look, and adds, “Before they go too far?”

Futoshi bites back most of a grin and says, “Sure, Tsuji. I appreciate it.” And then, for what feels like the fifth time, “This is a vacation for you too, you know.”

“I know,” Tsuji says quickly, smiling even as he moves away. “Natsume is helping me, so it won’t take long. We’ll make a list of the groups and be right back!”

Sure enough, Natsume Takashi is waiting for him with a handful of other students, and smiles when Tsuji presents his self-given task. His kids are a good bunch, Futoshi decides, and he’s content to hang back and watch over them for awhile.

The other classes move ahead while Tsuji’s classmates roll their eyes good-naturedly and allow themselves to be lumped into groups of threes and fours. Tanuma, Kitamoto and Taki, two boys from class one and a girl from class five who nonetheless are familiar faces in Futoshi’s classroom, grin from where they wait to one side as Nishimura Satoru is paired, perhaps predictably, with Natsume and Tsuji himself.

“Well, you’re no fun,” Nishimura says blandly, “but I guess you can be in me and Natsume’s group, Masa-chan.”

“Would you rather be stuck with Adachi?” Tsuji says with an icy smile, pencil hovering above his roster. Nishimura shuts up promptly, his friends howl with laughter, and Futoshi makes a mental note to remember that threat himself. 

“Nomiya-kun!” a voice calls out suddenly, and Futoshi turns in some surprise to be greeted by a familiar face. “It’s Akihiko,” his old friend says unnecessarily, a pleased smile on his face. “We went to college together.”

“I remember you,” Futoshi says, moving forward to clasp his hand. His already pleasant morning gets that much better, and he grins. “Still teaching?”

“Am I ever,” Akihiko says with the faint air of exhaustion that speaks of the long nights and early mornings Futoshi himself is familiar with. “And I can see you’ve got your hands full. Class trip?”

“Yeah, it’s all they’ve been able to talk about for weeks. It’s not so bad though,” he adds, “my class this year is my best one yet.”

“You probably say that every year,” Akihiko says dryly, and there’s no prudent way to deny that, so Futoshi ignores him. Laughingly, Akihiko says, “Well, most kids are alright. You get one or two stand-out cases, but mostly they’re all more or less the same. If you can teach one class, you can teach them all.”

Futoshi blinks, surprised to be faced with a philosophy he doesn’t agree with in the least. “Is that so,” he finally says.

“Granted, everyone I’ve talked to has had that one nightmare child,” Akihiko goes on. “At least, that’s what I was always told. And I never really bought it until a few years ago, when a boy transferred into my class in the middle of term. Strangest kid I’ve ever met, and nothing but trouble!”

Tsuji is coming back with his roster, and Futoshi is grateful to turn his attention to someone else. He’s already wearing a smile for his student, putting a hand out for the clipboard. 

But Tsuji doesn’t seem to notice, bright eyes darting from his face to Akihiko’s as sharply as if he’d just been shocked. With a pang, Futoshi realizes Akihiko is still talking, and in the middle of saying something along the lines of “– and honestly it was no wonder why. That Natsume alienated himself with his weird behavior and no one wanted to be around him.”

Tsuji stands there with the clipboard hanging in one half-outstretched hand, frozen to the spot by something riding the line between horror and hostility. And Tsuji has never once given into his temper despite all the responsibility he shoulders and the raucous classmates he has to keep in line, but he looks up at Akihiko and opens his mouth around something Futoshi knows will get him in trouble. 

“Thank you for your hard work,” he says, before his student can get a word in edgewise. He takes a step closer, and takes the roster out of his hand. 

Tsuji reluctantly drags heated eyes off Akihiko in favor of giving his teacher a long, measuring look. Futoshi holds Tsuji’s eye firmly.

“I’ll take care of everything else, okay?” he says. “You go catch up with your friends and have a good time.”

Futoshi may not be perfect, but he’s always done right by his kids, and the pay-off is right here, in the way Tsuji relaxes inch by inch, trusting in his teacher to make this right. Somewhere behind him, Nishimura is yelling for Tsuji to ‘come on, everyone else has left us behind already, hurry up!’ 

“Then just leave without me!” Tsuji retorts as he hurries back to join them, and Futoshi smiles at the indignation on Nishimura’s face.

“But then I’d have to leave without Natsume!”

Tsuji doesn’t look back once, but he hooks a proprietary hand around Natsume’s arm and all but drags him out of the room – away from Akihiko’s disdainful soliloquy and back to the relative safety of the rest of their class. 

Only then does Futoshi turn to face Akihiko, and his smile fades at the stunned look on the other man’s face. “After that, it goes without saying,” Futoshi says slowly, “that Natsume is in my class this year.”

“I guess it does.” Akihiko seems bewildered. “I thought you said – “

“That my class this year is my best yet? I did say that. You’re right, I probably say it every year, but I mean it every year, too.” 

There’s a knot in the pit of his chest, because Futoshi remembers the solemn ghost Natsume Takashi was at the beginning of the year, the way he would find the transfer student eating lunch by himself, or napping alone in unused classrooms. 

And only moments ago he was smiling brightly as he helped overworked Tsuji, with probably the most extroverted child Futoshi has ever taught hanging off him the way Nishimura is always hanging off him anymore, while a handful of their friends from other classes waited nearby.

It’s a turnaround Futoshi doesn’t get to see often – a comeback from whatever else Natsume has lived through that makes Futoshi proud of him as a student and as a person, too – and he hates that there are teachers, educators, that could see what he sees and not appreciate it for the wonder it is.

“He was a child who I can only assume was treated unkindly by many people,” Futoshi says, “and despite those people, he has grown into a compassionate and caring individual, well-liked by his peers and surrounded by friends. As his teacher, I’ll thank you to leave him alone from now on.”

Futoshi bows shortly, only to be met by silence. It’s a silence that doesn’t bother him, and one he doesn’t think too deeply on. Moving away from the man he once knew to catch up to the students he came here with, his thoughts are already shifting to the restaurants nearby, and where he might be able to afford to treat them all to lunch.