#also side note- I’m kicking myself for Lucy’s mask

[golden-stag]

- WIP -

I’ve been using these to work on as warmups when I can, but here’s an update on how Guilty Gear-ing my OCs is going!

Ft. Zazz!

He and Lucy are part of a set I cannot seperate them.

[yeswritingsandwritings]

COVID Diaries; Pennies

It is March 2020 and I’ve channeled the spirit of Paul Revere. As Los Angeles erupts into rioting and mass fentanyl suicide, I dive headfirst into the cabin of the Mazda, and gun the packed ship upwards along the vacant I5 corridor. Every smouldering city under Gavin Newsom looks further gone than the last. The navigation takes me on some perverse fantasy detour thru post-apocalyptic San Francisco. It’s been a long time coming but now it’s solidified. The mayor and her delegates have chomped their cyanide pills and now the streets and bridges offer rotting cars beside silent, beautiful Victorian manors. Still in full color, the sky is blue and the sun is yellow, gleaming indifferently. I am nervous about San Franscisco County. The shelter in place order says no one shall be out on the street without proper reason. And, proper reason or not, I have a pharmacy of drugs in the trunk of my car. Will it be enough to wait out the pandemic in my mother’s house? Enough to keep me sane tucked in the basement of the compound on Cougar Mountain, Issaquah, Washington, for GodKnowsHowLong? My very own Bavarian Alps.

For years in LA I have lived for high speed and hard sex in a blackout frenzy which no young American could denigrate without looking like a nerd. In our culture of excess I sought the most insane, unexplored corridors. Chavionistic romps through the bitter forests of lust, contamination, too-young suicide, too-good blowjobs that leave explosions on this cast of characters flown from every corner of the globe, all with the same indelible fever. I come to now, in this chaotic month handed down by God, March 2020, and I’m withdrawing from all of it in the penthouse on the side of the mountain.

In this moment the fantasy is fading fast, like being jolted from a wet dream by a home invasion. For a lot of people the American dream was already a flickering ember in the distance, a relic of some stupid pilgrimgrage for egoic glory, a blind propaganda puzzle piece with no jigsaw to belong to. But I had formed my own relationship with the concept, and, until now, had believed wholeheartedly in the myth in America; or at least that myth’s capacity to spur significant action, which could abolish hunger and pain, mistreatment and misunderstanding, which could deliver us from evil and unto the kingdom of heaven.

I am not, to many of her 300 million pairs of eyes, a portrait of traditional American success. I am the starving artist archetype. I’ve lived in abandoned buildings and shot cocaine into my veins in the speeding bathroom of many an Amtrak carriage. These may be my most definitive traits, save for the music I somehow manage to draw out of all of this. Albums worth of potential answers to the impossible questions. Sometimes I think I’ve reached the peak, with the LSD and the naked festival girls. I am 26 years old and feel incompetent. I go to pay a traffic ticket or am electric bill and find myself paralyzed at the entrance to the website. In a moment of otherworldly strength I call the bank and my debit card has been cancelled. I stare at the parking ticket in my pod, which has been rented from a company called Up(Start), and is arranged in a row with twenty others. At least I’ve made it to Los Angeles.

Up(Start) is a strange place. I find most people don’t last very long in this community. They leave back to their hometowns or find apartments. The ones who stay haunt this place like ghosts, with no discernible goals and mysterious incomes. I’ve learned not to ask how these life-longers pay the rent. The answer is not translatable.

Willow is one of these life-longers. She always talks about moving out; sometimes to an apartment in LA, most recently about some nebulous palace in France. She says her grandmother died and left her everything. She shows me a suitcase full of watches and rings that still can’t fully convince me of her story. She drinks vodka when she wakes up and convinces me to fuck her when Jesse leaves us in his room alone.

Jesse found his way out to a beautiful house in Silver Lake. He had been at Up(Start) for a year before that. He is the nicest guy I know, offering the coat off his back for nothing but a swig of your vodka in return.

I left these characters behind, keeping a steady 65 on the interstate and stopping only to black out in a hotel room in Redding, CA. Summer, inspirational barista and blowjob queen, dared me to stop and see her in Portland, but my body was crawling from scabies from Lucy, (who was also in Portland and, I would later learn, infected with the virus) and I sped right through.

My younger brother Jon was at the house and had been awaiting my arrival. I instantly understood why. My mother had become a figurehead for the national panic, and shoulder-hugged me with her mask on. She is, as we speak, sterilizing the place.

I’ve gotten to spend a good amount of time with Jon, and am somewhat surprised to find that he faces the same existential torment as I do. This is not something we talk about, but I can feel it on him. He is super into Xanax, and orders pressed bars off the darknet. I share the drugs I’ve brought with him. Kratom, weed, and, —most enticing— Flubromazolam. I learn that he has been kicked out of UW on academic probation. I ask him about it in front of my mother and stepdad. With a casualness that shocks me he says he just didn’t care about any of his classes. But he’s got reaccepted to the school and he says he’s going to make it this time.

I show him how I order my drugs online. I show him the designer benzodiazepines on the clearnet, pennies per dose. We place an order for O-DSMT. It’s an insane solution to our problems, but I guarantee you it works.

I tell Jon about my life in LA with the stuff. Taking it and driving weed deliveries all day. I don’t tell him about the long nights with Lucy, telling her the love I feel from the opiate is sourced from her, then failing to get hard.

Jon, for his part, tells me about the peak of his Oxycontin habit, poppin 7 OC30’s a day with his buddies at Rolling Loud. I was just a few blocks away. I didn’t know he was in town.

We order the O-DSMT to his apartment in the U District, stopping to and snag it on our sole vacation to Dad’s for dinner. Two packages have been delivered. We have the save pavlov response. We carry the packages to his apartment on the top floor and split the bubble wrap with a butterfly knife. Out of a manilla envelope comes 100 green Xanax bars. From a bent UPS envelope comes a gram of O-DSMT and 250mg of 4-ACO-DMT, a bonus for me (Jon says he hates psychedelics).

We set to the scale and split the gram, dosing 50mg then and there to get through dinner. The next day he visits me in the basement, saying “Yo, this O-DSMT shit… it’s dope.”

I say “I’m with you.”

My days are spent deep in the dream flow, recording songs for a hopeful fourth album. The third one is still far from complete, but I can’t go back and meddle with those songs now. Wouldn’t dare touch their Los Angeles essence with the hand of the evergreen state. They will go to Rob and Twon and Andy as they are.

I’m back to guitars for the new album. Cardinal sin AC/DC type songs. I think it may be a double album, quarantine permitting. I want an exploratory, unstructured, throw paint at the wall and see what sticks, White album/Life of Pablo situation. I want solo piano pieces and Aphex Twin-esque 808 excursions. I want the label to release it on white vinyl with extensive liner notes. Indulgence. I want this album to be the one where I say “indulge me.”

If Rob is vehimently opposed to the idea I had the fantasy of making an easy album. Taking songs like Parade Owl, See You Tomorrow, Miss Can’t Sleep and putting out a whole album of them. Good rock music. Take a step back from the frontlines; the cutting edge. We’ll see what sticks to the wall after this quarantine is over.

Weeks drift by. There’s a trade route for all the beer that gets brought into the house. It goes from the garage fridge to the basement fridge to my eager hand, to my mouth, to my blood. Night by night the ritual recurs, til my mom takes out the downstairs trash and finds all the empties. She makes some subtle comment. I tell her to buy more White Claw.

Despite the drug flow my inspiration seems to be drying up. Rob took a listen to the twenty five songs I’d completed since arriving in Issaquah and said they sounded like Dogs. The old band. The old rock and roll band we’ve been trying to move away from. I was disappointed to hear him say it. I was disappointed he wasn’t excited about the songs. “Fuck it, should I scrap them all?” I asked myself. Then I started to look around the house and understand that if nothing came of these songs… I must be insane. I must be losing it. The stupid research chemical stimulants don’t help. I thought they would. Productivity and all… but I’m just jittery, texting strangers on Instagram for hours, all the while feeling like I should be doing something else. And the television is on in the background, and I told myself I was going to do so much to day. And I did it. And people on Instagram say “you seem busy.” They’ve always said I seem this and I seem that. I never agreed with any of it, but they probably know me better than I do. How could I see myself? I look for myself through a fog and it’s only a ripple of a shadow. A microcosm a million miles away through a hellscape with no up or down, no east or west. They say I’m social. They say I’m a socialite. Really I just get drunk and unleash all my nervous energy on the party or, nowadays, the Zoom meeting.

Today I drink Modello. Ma and Chuck went to the Seattle waterfront for a picnic or something. I didn’t get the details. But the sun should be going down now, and she’s texting me asking if I want to play a board game when they get back. I say yeah sure I do. My temper when I’m off these amphetamines analogues, though… I worry I’ll flip the Pictionary board. Slam dunk the wine glass onto the wood floor. Now the cliffhanger; will this Modello calm my nerves?

This morning I went with mom to buy plants for the garden. I thought we were going to get seeds but she wanted the already grown ones. She was ready to be angry. Nothing made her happy. We went to three different garden store. I think she got some tomatos. How the hell am I going to get out of this one? Feels like the walls are closing in. I feel like I’m in the freezer in the back of McDonalds. I feel so sad for her, but I also feel so sad for myself. I feel cut off. I feel short of breath. I feel terror. It is Friday, April 17, 2020. Dread, terror, paranoia… I’m sure it’s been felt a million times by a million people, but here’s my version of it. In this McMansion on the side of the mountain, feeling less like I have a mission than ever. Calling nobody. Freezing. Yeah I’m freezing.

My brother and I both have drugs to get through this crisis but I’m planning to get off them. I sold him half of my etizolam and half of another shipment of O-DSMT the other day. He wasn’t at all interested in the 2-FDCK, an analogue of the dissociative Ketamine. I am still not really sure what dissociatives do to consciousness. They can move you into states profound darkness. You feel like your life is a black and white film and it is raining outside. And it drips off the palm trees and you sit in traffic on the way back from the Boy’s and Girl’s Club, where the boys and girls wouldn’t listen, they’d just go off into their own worlds. I wonder how they’re all doing now, tucked into their parents houses in Calabasas.

Anyway, I said to Jon “I’m getting off the stuff.” And I intended to. This journal finds me at a crossroads between fantasy and reality. What is my life going to be for? Where do I cast this fishing pole? Well the pole’s been cast. It’s out there in the middle of the ocean. But at the same time it’s in my hand, in this very moment, and I can chose where to dip it. I’m not trying to catch a fish in this scenario, I just like the serenity of the bay.

The question on everyone’s mind is: “If not drugs, then what!?” That’s a great question and I’d be bullshitting if I said I could answer it. I don’t know what lies on the other side of this life. I want to find out. Do I truly? I have to truly. Love, sex, work, victory… I’ve seen all these things before. And I keep turning to these substances. They fill up my days and my hours and all the music is informed by them. They move my hands to play the guitar and my voice is scratchy when it comes out. I’ve formed an identity around these drugs to a certain extent. That idea of me has to die. It does. I’ll have to mourn it. I’ll have to mourn a lot. I guess I don’t know what to be afraid of. I know a lot of stuff is going to come up through this process. The drugs numb it all out. People say that but it’s really really true. Bad news doesn’t don’t hit you as hard. Most things don’t hit you at all. You’re in your world. You’re off in a cloud. You’re unaware of the world around you. You’re afraid to engage. Why?

It’s easier not to ask why. It’s easier to get the immediate relief of a squirt of etizolam tincture. Or a gross tossing of O-DSMT powder into your mouth and a quick washdown with water. In this way you don’t have to answer any questions. In this way nothing hits you. And guess what else? All your heroes did the same thing.

But a lot of them died doing it. And you don’t want to die. You really really don’t want to die. You want to live a long life, with kids and grandkids, and see what happens to America and what music turns into. You don’t want to die, but what do you have to live for? You know you can make things up. Everyone’s always making shit up. All of this is made up. The culture, the value of a dollar, the value of a Benz. We just decide on it. And that takes a lot. But you know what takes a lot less? Deciding how you want to react to each moment. This one and this one and this one. Do you know what I mean? They say a lot of stuff about the world. The world’s fucked. They say the world’s burning to the ground. They say we can’t leave our houses. They say America won’t be a super power by the end of all of this. But they’re making shit up. And I’m making shit up too. I’m whipping up like a chef. Throwing dishes out from the kitchen, but the dishes are words and actions and the kitchen is my mind. What kind of food am I throwing out? What kind of food am I serving the world? Let me serve love and hope. But for that to happen, let me cultivate it in myself first. Let me nurture it like a child. Let me see it sober. Let me take the steps in the right direction. It’s simple. It’s simpler than you think it is. What are you going to do right now, after reading this? Or while reading this? How are you going to face the world?

Jon told me he got into Xanax from the Famous Dex song “Japan.”

“Baby girl, what you doing, where your man? I just popped a xan, fifty thousand in Japan”

He told me his friends heard the song and picked up some Xanax because of it. They liked it and reached out to him “You’ve got to try this,” they said. My little brother, in the throes of this batshit demon force that will bury him. It might bury me too. The jury’s still out. Mom, just let me withdraw in peace. She brings down a space heater. I grow to love it. I lay down on the wood floor that the spiders sometimes dash across. The space heater comes close to burning me, but I’m ok. I stand up, dizzy from all I’ve done to try to combat the withdrawls. Way too much etizolam, way to much kratom, getting to the point of way too much weed and alcohol. But hopefully it’ll all be over soon, and I can call my friends in peace and not want to slam down the phone whenever there is the tiny threat of silence, or whenever I speak, or whenever they speak. I can’t any of it sober, that’s what I think. Life is hard sober; it’s a breeze when you’re floating thru it. A good dream. So why get sober? They say it’ll kill me. Well, I said that. In this very same paragraph. And maybe it will. But when you’re withdrawing like this… all you want is a moment of peace.

Oh God, at dinner tonight I started to go off about my own mental state to the family. I should have known it was a big mistaken, but on my way home from Doordashing a rainy Issaquah I stopped at QFC and got a bottle of True Eagle American Spirits, Kentucky manufactured vodka. And, helping myself to serving of kimchi,  I said to them “I think I’m losing it.” And the conversation spiraled until my mother asked me “Are you suicidal?” And “Are you struggling with drugs?” Jon, between us, must have felt betrayed, but I just wanted to feel understood. I feel Chuck does not want to understand. I understand what he’s sacrificed for the life he has, but what value does that life has to him? He has a tumor in his jawbone, and it’s eating away at him, and no one can do anything. And they can’t get out to the specialists on the East Coast, and they won’t do the invasive surgery. He’s too busy. I know, in some capacity, he understands. Because he blows these things off like they don’t matter at all, when anyday he could have a stroke like Grandma had, fall to the floor of the kitchen while dishing up his kimchi, or pulling a slice of pizza out of the carton. I feel the same way. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I know that I am mentally unwell. And I avoid the questions about my drug use and about my suicidality. I miss girls, ma. I miss pussy and parties and not giving a fuck. The way I don’t give a fuck now is in these terrifying sound collages drafted on the latest of nights, in the deep dark depths of quaratine. What was I saying in the last one? Something about how I didn’t wanna kill the crabs on the beach on Whidbey Island as a kid. Holy shit I’m losing my mind. But it’s all fine, isn’t it? As long as the music comes out fine.

What could I possibly do to get healthy? I feel so far off the deep end. You have no idea; I feel like crying. My best friend, living with the girl I thought I could always go back to. We don’t talk. I mix these ketamine analogues in with that cheap cheap vodka (plus etizolam) and cry tears onto this plastic table. It’s pointless to keep up the tinder courtships. I feel like this will never end. And it started with such a bang. I was such a part of history. Now I’m a nobody; I’m a junkie, holding on by the thinnest thread. No energy to pray. I feel like Cobain, and I know so many people do… but I really do. I can only imagine. But I’m only listening to Mingus, Lana Del Rey and Radiohead (Kid A thru Hail to The Thief).

Should I throw weed in the mix? Lord knows I have enough of it. It’s my number one priority. I’ve made enough songs now that we could workshop what I’ve come up with years. What else is there to do? Mingus ripped the piano strings out of some pianist’s instrument in front of a live audience, then stormed off the stage. Where the fuck is that in my life? I’m in front of the computer, weeping because America has come to a close. You know they sent jazz to the Soviet Union as a WEAPON? A weapon of freedom and democracy and individualism. What the fuck happened? It all makes me want to cry. It’s all too much; this world. These people I’ve known and loved and lost. This music I’ve made that they promise me will be something, but I don’t know if I believe them. I don’t know if I want anything to do with this life. I can’t engage with my culture anymore… my history. I feel like I’m not a part of it. I feel so disconnected. Who’s rippin the strings out of MY piano? Or who’s piano am I ripping the strings out of? We’ve lost so much… I mean… I’ll do my best to work with what we still have, but we’ve been so fractured. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was the end. Of America. Of our culture. Of our music and our hustle and bustle and industry and lover’s lanes and rites of passage. I feel like I’m mourning it now. Mourning my culture. Maybe mourning the illusion that was sold to us. Believe me, I was first in line to buy. That’s why it destroys me so deeply to see it collapse.

I guess we’re all one people. I’m crying writing this. Weeping, weeping, weeping. Grieving. You know what grieving is. I remember what’s-her-name in the pool. We went to every hot tub, each a different temperature, in the Desert Hot Springs Resort. Then Lucy’s friend’s new boyfriend told us Bernie Sanders had stayed there when he had visited DHS. I laughed so hard. Lucy ordered me another drink. She didn’t mind the cost. She liked me to be on her level. And I didn’t mind. I was proud to sip. We went back to the hotel and did god knows what. Feels a million lifetimes away.

This was back when anything could happen. When America was a blank slate and no one could predict anything. When you could go outside and say “What the fuck is up?” and get in adventures. I mourn the loss of that. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe that’s still there. But I’ve emotionally severed my ties to it. And I wish I didn’t. Because I love it. I love it so much. It’s not a myth. I swear to god it’s not a myrh. It was a reality… until all this happened. You have no idea. I mean, if you’re reading this and weren’t around before. You have no idea. I mean… I don’t know what things are going to be like after this. But not the same. There’s no way they could be the same.

You know I hope I get this shit. I hope I contract COVID-19. Lay in this guest bedroom bed with the scabies I may or may not have gotten from Upstart Creative Living… and which wouldn’t die off. I hope I can’t breathe. I hope I’m immune. I want to walk the world. Maybe I should go out, get it, isolate, heal, be immune… if that’s even possible. At this point we don’t even know if immunity is a thing that happens with COVID. But even if I could walk the earth without fear of it… everyone else is cowering, and they pull away from, seeing I’m not wearing a mask or gloves, or even if I am… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would all end this way. I would have done so much more. Focused so much more on each kiss. Even every note. I did my best, I guess. It feels like it’s all coming to an end. It’s Thursday, April 23, but that doesn’t mean anything. You have to understand how little dates mean in this time. It’s like we’re living in one of those time capsules buried beneath the walkway at WWU. Stagnant… yeah we write songs and poems and do our work and keep the economy from faltering completely… but there’s a different angle to look at it all now. The world is over. I mean, aha, to use the words of Rem… “It’s the End of the World As We Know It.” Key words: “As we know it.” I had no idea this would happen in my lifetime… I couldn’t even conceive it. If you would have told me this would have happened six months ago I wouldn’t have believed it. America seemed so stable. And now it feels like it’s in shambles. It really did feel stable. You may think I’m insane for saying America in September, 2019 seemed stable… but shit, we were free. And we were headed where we were headed. This throws a wrench in all of this. And it could be the end. And I thought this was the greatest country on earth. Happiness is a buttery, try to catch it like every night.

I’ve been fascinated in American history since I could understand it. Most specifically, I’ve been fascinated about how history is still happening. The closer you get you the current day, the harder it is to get a straight story. FDR did what he did and we won. That’s fact. That’s cement. Nixon? Everyone agrees he was a crook. But what about Reagan? What about Bush Sr? What about Clinton? The closer you get to the modern day, the more difficult it becomes to discern what is real and what is fake.

[jastiss-blog]

Trial by Fire (Ignis/femaleOC currently SFW)

Ok, so I’m playing around here with text posts rather than simply posting my AO3 links for this fic.  Bear with me.  I made up the fighting bits because I sit my butt down all day and have zero knowledge of how this shit works but!  I think it’ll be alright.

Summary:  A woman put forth by Gladio enters the ranks of the Crownsguard and piques the interest of the royal adviser.  An adrenaline fueled moment changes everything for Ignis, but catastrophic events may leave her dead before he can act.  Struggling with his sense of duty and his own personal freedom, Ignis must mourn the chance at  happiness while remaining strong at his king's side. Covers events prior to Parting Ways, throughout main storyline and beyond.

No warnings apply at this time.  Many thanks to @hypaalicious for the push to go ahead and post.. I’m such a weirdo about having my works out in public.

Chapter 1/?

"Again." 

Daggers clattered to the ground as Callie grunted in frustration. Her breathing was ragged, hands screamed in pain at being forced to grip weapons for so long.

"Again," he repeated, tone commanding obedience.

"We've been at it for hours..." Callie grumbled under her breath.

Emerald eyes snapped to her silver ones, her instructor's face one of mild annoyance.

"You would do well to save your breath for the exercises and also to remember that my time is highly valuable," he stated calmly. "Gladiolus requested that I assess your readiness for the Crownsguard physical aptitude exam. Do you intend to take this seriously?"

Though firm, his words were not unkind. Of course the prince's right hand would have much more important things to do than assess a civilian and would want to know if he was wasting his time. After all, rumor said that he was constantly at work, never leaving the Citadel even to sleep... They also said Ebony flowed through his veins, keeping him alert at all hours.

Callie suddenly felt humbled and sighed. "I apologize, Ignis. When Gladio said he'd have someone objectively gauge me, I didn't think he meant the royal adviser himself. I'm exhausted and could definitely use a bite to eat. Do you mind if we take a breather?"

"I presume you aren't used to someone working you this hard?" Ignis quipped as he gave her a wry smirk.

Assuming it would be rude to have a heart attack in the middle of the training floor, Callie reigned in her surprise at the adviser's humor. "Well, Gladdy does often treat me like a flower. Either that, or he's the flower and is putting on an act."

At her retort, Ignis actually gave a chuckle. "I shan't tell him you think so."

"I don't know, his reaction may be entertaining," Callie replied, laughing along with him. She knelt down to retrieve her twin daggers before glancing back to him. "So, how about that break?"

Ignis hummed thoughtfully as he retrieved his phone from his pocket and glanced at it briefly. "Unfortunately, I am needed with the Council shortly; either we push forward or we will need to adjourn for the day. Are you willing to commit to fifteen more minutes? I wish to observe for myself the reason Gladiolus is pushing for your recruitment."

Fifteen more minutes when her hands were tingling and swollen. Fifteen more minutes of her stomach clenching in pain because she forewent breakfast, thinking this would be a simple ten minute spar. His morning meeting canceled, Ignis had deemed it appropriate to run various drills with her until his next appearance. All that in mind, she hesitated.

"Ignis, I don't know, I-"

"Defend yourself!" he exclaimed, leaving Callie with a split second to realize he was charging in her direction, a pair of his own daggers suddenly in hand.

Metal clanged sharply as Callie crossed her weapons in front of her to deflect the sudden attack. She staggered back a pace, meeting the sly glint in Ignis's eyes with fire. "Astrals, Ignis, what are you doing?!"

The strategist said nothing, eyebrows simply arched in challenge. Infuriated, Callie snarled, shoving Ignis forcefully away from her. The blond back flipped away effortlessly and paused to allow Callie to regain her senses.  They clashed repeatedly, Callie getting the impression that Ignis was simply toying with her.  She found that it was entirely too difficult to get near the strategist; he kept dancing away from her as soon as she found an opening.

"I've not known Gladiolus to misjudge something so poorly," he taunted, suddenly behind her.

Callie's hackles raised. She could feel him gearing up for another charge attack and as soon as she heard the squeal of his fancy shoe pushing off the wooden floor, she dropped to the ground, flat on her back. Ignis passed harmlessly overhead, at which time she sat up and executed a seated back flip, using the natural reaction to stumble forward to launch a kick at the back of his knee. Surprisingly, the royal adviser stumbled down to one knee, and Callie was quick to press her blade to his throat in victory.

Time stood still. Callie's pulse pounded in her ears, the sound of her ragged breathing just as loud to her in the otherwise silent room. They remained as they were, Callie with her right blade poised at Ignis's neck, his left arm twisted behind his back in her firm grip. The adviser was calm, his breathing as even as if he were out for a leisurely stroll.

"Mortifera," he breathed, breaking the spell, "if you would?"

"It's Callie," she corrected automatically, noting that he gestured in the direction of the blade at his neck with the hand he was previously steadying himself with. She immediately dropped her arms and stepped back a few paces, blushing profusely.

Ignis stood slowly, brushing dust from his knee and turned to face her.

"My apologies, Callie," he also corrected, gently pushing his glasses up his nose.

Silence dragged on as the tactician regarded her with a calculating, unreadable stare. Callie fought against the urge to squirm under his gaze, but eventually she could hold herself in check no longer.

"Ignis, look, I'm so sorry. Instinct kicked in and-" she began, uncertain.

"Be at ease, Callie," he said, face gentle in what she imagined was the closest he came to actually smiling on a normal basis. "It is precisely the reaction I was hoping to provoke. I admit, Gladiolus gave precious few details of your training and as such, my curiosity prevails. Where did you learn your particular technique?"

There was a brief pause as Callie crossed her ankles, bringing her arms behind her back as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. "I don't know... uh... well, myself, I guess?"

For the first time, Callie witnessed the renowned strategist caught off guard. He blinked slowly, and she could almost see the wheels in his head turning, trying to figure out how someone could simply grab daggers and become proficient enough to disarm someone of his stature.  He finally cracked, eyebrows knitting together in contemplation.

"You mean to say you've had absolutely no formal training?" he asked, surprise coloring his tone, the smooth baritone rising in pitch very slightly. "Magnificent. I admittedly wondered how a civilian was being fast-tracked to Crownsguard admission. If that only a small glimpse of your abilities, their judgment is sound."

"Uh, thank you," Callie laughed nervously, a bright blush dusting her high cheekbones. "I was a gymnast for many years and decided to add something light and deadly to compliment my knowledge base. You do what you have to when your hometown is surrounded by daemons."

The confession prompted an inquisitive look from Ignis, though he said nothing. Callie could tell he wanted more information, but perhaps he thought it impolite to ask.

"I grew up in Lestallum, after the King had to pull back the wall to protect Insomnia," she offered. Ignis crossed his arms and listened, his face impassive. "We always tried to be careful, but things went bad one day and dad didn't make it. I begged mom for combat manuals after that, and, well... here I am."

Ignis had schooled his features into the mask of the strategist. Uncrossing his arms, he took a step forward, lips barely down turned. "My condolences on your loss, Callie. The loss of one's parents is difficult to manage on the best of days."

"Thank you," Callie mumbled, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Do not cry, Callie, do not.

"If I may, however-" Ignis began. His phone, however, had other ideas. "A moment, Callie."

While he was otherwise occupied, Callie took a moment to really look at her mentor.  She knew black attire was a staple for the Crownsguard as her mother told her years ago it held some special significance to the Lucis line.  Thus, most of Ignis's attire was black, save his shirt.  It was an interesting color, once which Callie had trouble placing.  It was coeurl print, but was it deep grey, or desaturated lavender?  Callie landed on it being somewhere in between, though the spots were black and the collar was a pretty black leather adorned with silver studs along the stitching.  The shirt tucked neatly into his trousers which were black with a stripe down the side of the same pattern as his shirt.  Callie couldn't tell what was on his snazzy black shoes, but there was some pretty adornment on them.

A muted voice on the other end had been droning on during her observations but before long Ignis gave confirmation that he would be on his way. He stowed the phone back in his back pocket, turning an apologetic face her way.

"My apologies, Callie, but it appears that I am now needed elsewhere," he said, lips quirking into a small smile. "You certainly have my endorsement; I believe you will do well when the Marshal calls upon you to take your trial."

"Thank you, Ignis, truly," Callie replied, another blush creeping up on her. "That certainly puts my mind at ease."

With a nod, the royal adviser turned and headed for the exit at a brisk pace. While Callie busied herself stowing her weapons, she didn't notice him pause and glance at her over his shoulder.

"Ah yes. Callie?" he called. She snapped her head up, meeting his gaze with a quirked brow. "Should you have the availability, I would enjoy sparring with you again. Though, I wouldn't expect next time to be so easy."

The statement hung in the air, awaiting her confirmation or denial.

"Of course," she agreed, a large grin on her face. Callie never backed down from a challenge. "Once I figure out what's going on, I'll let you know?"

"Excellent. I can typically be found here in the Citadel," he said, heaving a dramatic sigh. "Such is my duty. If you cannot find me, seek Gladiolus for assistance."

As Ignis took his official leave, Callie reflected on the day's events. Gladio obviously knew what he was getting her into pairing her with Ignis for training, and she would be pissed off if not for the outcome of the day. Resigning herself to the fact that she would owe the large man a favor, she grabbed her bag from a nearby bench and headed for the apartment she was staying in while awaiting her trial.

Halfway home, she stopped in the store to grab as many Cup Noodle as she could find, intending to pile it in Gladio's room at the soonest opportunity. Along with some dinner for herself, she took her purchases home, intending to shower and run some gymnast drills before bed.  However, as she turned her key in the lock, Callie could feel the groceries getting heavier. Maybe gravity was pulling her down to the floor. She made it to the kitchen to drop some daggerquil breasts in the fridge along with the garulessa milk, everything else dropping to the kitchen floor with a loud thud.

No, come on,   Callie scolded herself.  We should at least stretch it out and eat something. We haven't had a bite to eat today... You're going to be sore as all hell in the morning... Don't do this to yourself.

Her body had another idea as it disobeyed her urging and plopped down on the plush black sectional. Within seconds, exhaustion pulled her under like the deep currents at sea.