#but I feel nauseous watching Hiro at work

[mikuni14]

News, articles etc: no one wants to work, Gen Z destroy workplaces with their behavior, they are demanding and picky, Gen Z cares about work-life balance and don't want to make sacrifices, employers complain about Gen Z, Gen Z destroy the old order in work

Me after watching Perfect Propose: …….. well CAN YOU DESTROY IT FASTER??

[loudgothbf]

It was four hours after court started that Hibiki finally crawled out of bed and got dressed. His clothes were wrinkled-- he hadn’t had the time or energy to wash them, and he didn’t have anything else that’d be “courtroom appropriate.” 

And what did it matter, anyway?

He dug his pills out of the pocket of his pants from the previous day, and took five. Full dose for him now, it seemed. He couldn’t get there if he kept shaking, if he was just nauseous, head spinning, barely able to think. And the pictures... he’d need all the help he could get to be able to actually... talk.

When he finally arrives, he at least doesn’t have to wait to be ushered in, though he receives some sour looks from the courtroom. His face is completely blank and pale, eyes swollen, puffy, and red.

“Mr. Shiryo,” the prosecutor snaps, giving him a desperate, insistent look. She, apparently, had been talking. Hibiki jolts to attention, staring at her. “How did you acquire the pictures from Mr. Agawa?”

Hibiki bites his lip, gaze dropping. “I found them in-- well, when--” He huffs. “When I got out of the cellar, I didn’t... I didn’t have any clothes. So I... I wanted to go inside and find... find my clothes. I went... I went up to his room and tried to... look around for them. I found them in the back of the closet, next to... next to this big safe. I... I hadn’t seen any sign of the pictures he took, so I... I thought maybe-- and-- and I wanted my phone, it....” He chokes up slightly, curling in on himself. He felt numb. So, so incredibly numb. There was a shell-shocked look on his face as he absentmindedly picked at the skin around his nails. “When we first saw each other again, he... he got rid of my phone, and it... it had... all of my pictures on it. From before the tragedy, from before I went missing, all-- all my memories. And-- H-Hiro was missing, so I... I thought my last memories of him were on it, and I-- I thought maybe he had it in the safe. So I wanted to open it. And I... I just tried his birthday, y’know? It was-- th-the first thing that I thought of. And it worked, and... that’s where the pictures were. S-so I took them. I wanted... I wanted someone to know what kind of person he was. I saw the pictures, I saw the... the people in them, and I... I wanted someone to listen. Someone needed to know.”

She goes silent for a moment, watching him. He was shaking. Horribly. But he seemed so half dead, it... could they really continue like this? She swallows. They had to. “What did you see in the pictures?”

Hibiki’s eyes close. “I saw... a bunch of people... mainly teenagers, I think, but it’s hard to tell. They were... tied up, or pinned to the bed, or asleep in some cases. And they were being...” He shudders. There’s complete silence. He didn’t want to say the word, didn’t want to admit it. But no one was filling in the word for him. “...Raped. At least from how it looked. And they were kids, so it-- n-no matter what, it--” He hiccups, crying. Why was he crying? He didn’t feel anything. Couldn’t feel anything. “And there were the pictures of me, th-things I remembered... things he did to me, and--” He slaps a hand over his throat, gagging.

“Shiryo, are you alright? Can you continue?”

Hibiki sits for a moment, hunched over on the stand, begging himself to speak, to say anything. Say no. Just say no. “Y-yes...”

“...Very well. Did you recognize any of these individuals?”

“I... n-no, they... I didn’t recognize them at the time, but... after that I... I looked up some of his former athletes and... some looked familiar--”

“Objection, conjecture.”

The prosecutor shoots him an irritated glance. 

“Sustained.”

She sighs, barely biting back an argument. It didn’t matter now. “You couldn’t identify any of them by name at the time you saw the pictures?”

“I... no, no I couldn’t.”

“Could... you look at a few of the pictures and verify that they were--?”

“No. I-- I can’t.” He gives a shaky sigh. His nails were bleeding now.

“No further questions your honor. I request a recess.”

“Half hour.”

The next thing Hibiki remembers, he’s waking up, laid across a set of creaky office chairs.

[jflashandclash]

Traitors of Olympus IV: Fall of the Sun

Thirty-seven: Ajax

I am No Longer A Baby Panda

             Later, Pax would say he admired his mother’s stylish entrance.

           At the time, he was just horrified. And maybe a little annoyed. He’d been proud of himself for getting back Frank’s stick and not having to sleep with his sister (something, he realized, really ought to cue him in that he had hit an all-time-low) and now the Goddess of Night had to steal the limelight—haha, steal the light—and tackle Apollo out of the sky.

           Everything happened at once.

           As the sun fell, ghostly silhouettes groaned out of the blackness. The lingering ghosts spilled from the forests, out of the shadows they’d been watching, and cackled with gleeful war cries.

           Rotting corpses staggered towards Camp Half-Blood, an army at least four times larger than the one the Romans had been holding back earlier. Melinoe, her half-mummified, half-fireplace fabulous carcass, led the charge.

           The piercing notes of a pipe echoed through the fields and a huntress, a Greek, and a Roman[1] standing guard at the border collapsed.

           A suction of warm air eased away from the camp, and Pax knew the Mist shield—if it had been recovering—was completely down again.

           The ground rumbled. Pax hoped, but doubted, that it was Nico or Axel to the rescue with a secret, giant mole army.

           Instead, a massive black serpent exploded from—if Pax had to guess—that hole in the ground that Jack had voice-activated outside Hera’s cabin. You know, the major weakness of their defenses in the center of the camp that really ought to have a Welcome, Python, sign, We Forgot You RSVPed.

           By now, the screams were omnipresent.

           When Python collapsed onto the Apollo cabin, Pax liked to think there were as many screams afterwards as before Python decided to use the once-golden structure as a back scratcher.

           Romans spilled out of the barracks. Greeks scrambled out of their cabins, er, the cabins that were left.

           “Turn on the field lights!” Frank shouted from somewhere by the barracks.

           The Canadian’s orders came to light and brought the ghastly attackers to high definition. The thump of the field lights echoed around the strawberry field. Pax had to wonder if substitute sunlight could weaken ghosts, and, if so, whether the Romans should seriously consider adding horticultural LED grow-lamps to their infantry.

           Michael Kahale and Butch were with half-a-dozen demigods towards their edge of the strawberry field, apparently having been planning defenses for this evening. Well, surprise!

           In a breath’s pause, Butch looked towards Python and Kahale blinked at the advancing ghoul army. The debate on whether to help with Python or guard the border lasted all of Michael Kahale ordering the troops to stand strong on the strawberry field. “To arms! Defend our barrier!”

           What a mighty battle cry Michael missed out on; Pax would have said, Defend our berries!

           Pax felt like he was watching an old family movie as his mother tossed her Molotov cocktail up and down. The flame flickered, making the malicious zeal in her eyes glitter. She wore black tactical pants, a torn up red and black shirt with a circled and slashed A, a black bandana to conceal half her face, and—

           When she launched her Molotov cocktail, everything became too real.

           Pax wanted to say, Nice throw, since he’d forgotten his mother was a goddess and lobbing a bottle of alcohol was as easy as tossing rice at a wedding, though that probably was what she tossed at weddings. The bottle went clean over half the strawberry field, far beyond where Percy was cursing Eris at his throne of Saturnalia.

           The glass shattered.

           Michael Kahale went up in flames.

           There were more screams.

           He dropped to the ground, rolling, tearing at his armor.

           Two other soldiers dropped beside him. One went to rip Michael’s armor off, the other frantically shoved dirt onto him.

           Watching the fire and screaming centurion, Pax clutched Frank’s stick to his chest. He felt like the stupid thing could burst into flames by sheer peer pressure.

           A laugh with the same giggling mania as the Joker’s filled the battlefield along with the flick of a match.

           Eris jumped up and down in excitement as she tossed another bottle from hand to hand. “Terror Muffin! Come paint with me! I’ll bet I can make my masterpiece more vibrant than yours!”

           Pax, stupidly, went to shout a warning, like Michael Kahale and the others might be confused or capable of defending themselves from the whole “flaming bombs” thing.

           As he opened his mouth, something much louder made an inhuman wail about ten feet behind him.

           There was a crunch of metal and bone.

           At the same time, the Silver-Tongued helm attached to his waist shrieked.

           One of our brethren is in danger!

           Really, Pax wanted to ask the helm why it didn’t open up more often. He was offended by the lack of weekly coffee chats—Axel’s helm talked to Axel all the time--but now wasn’t the time.

           The shriek left him confused, with a lovely punched-by-a-minotaur-in-the-stomach sense of dread.

           One horrifying thing at a time.

           When he looked up to see the Molotov cocktail’s destruction, a blinding flash of light arched over the demigods.

           The bottle hit something, exploded along the arch, and burned out, leaving the split second image of a brilliant, mini rainbow.

           As the beams of colors faded, Pax could see Butch, the giant child of Iris, scowling hatefully in their direction. His arms were raised, one with a mister bottle, the other with a flashlight.

           Rainbows were some powerful shit.

           Pax wanted to slowly back up, put his hands in his pockets, and walk away whistling.

           But he had to stop his mother from withdrawing a grenade from her utility belt.

           He needed to chastise her: utility belts were definitely something that shouldn’t be used by evil. Only comic book heroes.

           “Mom! Stop!” Pax cried. The shock faded enough for Pax to sprint towards her.

           Her grenade didn’t even have a pin in it. From what he could see, it was held together by a hair band.

           As she slipped the hair band back onto her wrist and cranked her arm for the throw, Pax slapped her hand.

           The grenade tumbled out of her grip. While in mid-air, he kicked it as hard as he could towards Farm Road.

           In the last few moments, he tackled his mother away—

           An explosion popped his ears. Dirt sprayed his back.

           Before the dust had settled, his mother was already squirming to shove him off. Pax wished he could hug the homicidal out of her and have them all go on a nice, non-violent family picnic after this, whatever was left of his family. Merry wouldn’t hurt Hiro, but he’d watched Jason kill someone Pax loved before. He hoped Lapis and Axel were okay.

           “My Little Terror Muffin, what’s the matter?” she cooed, digging her talon-like nails into his recently-fractured shoulder. “The Greeks and Romans massacred all your friends and hunted you into hiding. This is the perfect opportunity for you to have a little fun. Don’t you want to honor your friends and let Momma have a nice Bring Your Son to Work Day?”

           Pax whined in pain. He fumbled to withdraw a dart from his belt with his hand with functional tendons. He feared he didn’t have the dexterity with the other. Pax didn’t know if his darts would knock out a goddess, or if he had any Morpheus dust left to do the trick.

           His belt wasn’t there.

           Axel had shredded it and Pax left the remains in the Hermes cabin. All he had was Frank’s stick and the Silver-Tongued Snake helm on a rope around his waist, because he feared the Hermes little ones would play with it.

           Pax wanted to cheerily brush his mother’s comment off. Instead, his mouth worked on its own. “Stop pretending all the messed up stuff you and Dad do is for me!” he snarled.

           Pax meeped when his mother lifted him up like he was a small child. When she stood, they were several feet higher off the ground than they should have been. She was feeding off the chaos around them, growing. He trembled to think she’d be more powerful with each second of this battle.

           But, Pax realized, he was her son. It ran in the family.

           Although he felt small and baby-panda-like, Pax could discern the delirious sensation coursing through his limbs, like it had during the pandemonium when the Heroes of Olympus collided with the Traitors from Mount Othrys.

           The feeling normally made him nauseous. Normally, he wished desperately he could get a high off a party, like Merry, or off two people in love, like Calex, or a song, like Kally.

           This time, Pax didn’t try to stop the tugging in his stomach. An uncomfortable acceptance settled over him, putting him at ease with the surrounding screams and mayhem: Greeks and Romans were going to die during this battle, he and his brother were never going to be the same after what Ares and Aphrodite did to them, his family was in tatters and needed major therapy, everyone in this camp would die if he, Kally, Alabaster, and a handful of fighters didn’t level up, and if he kept pretending his family was a pack of misunderstood puppies.

           Axel or Jack or someone else always came to the rescue. If Pax could let go, maybe if he stopped acting like a baby panda, he could protect other baby pandas still in Camp Half-Blood.

           “Terror Muffin, I only want you to experience life and glee as fully as I do,” Eris cooed. She was about to toss him, he could feel her winding up. But Pax was the Silver-Tongued Snake, the former spymaster from Kronos’ army, and known for weaseling his way out of everything. “What is that silly saying they have? Be the change you want to see in the world? I’m setting a good example for someone I love.”

           She nuzzled the top of his head with her chin. Her body tensed for the throw.

           In a motion Hunnie, Baller, and Nietz would have been proud of, he latched onto his mother, digging his functional fingers into the skin above her kidney and chomping down hard with his teeth.

           Eris lost her grip on Pax.

           He thrashed and squirmed his way out, springing off her to land on his feet.

           Pax stood a foot taller than the highest field light, his breath was ragged, and a hysterical laugh spilled from his lips. “I am not a baby panda!” he cried triumphantly.

           Eris touched her back, her fingers returning with golden ichor smearing them. “Terror Muffin?” she asked, her serial killer grin one of amusement.

           “Sorry. Internal monologue. It’s a main character thing,” he said. “Now, for the reprise. You and Dad always say you do this stuff because you love me.” Pax doned the Silver-Tongued Snake helm, feeling the warm enhancement of strength slither through him. He cracked his neck and withdrew Frank’s stick like it was one of his daggers. “If this is love, I don’t want to be loved!”

           Pax really hoped this battle would be over soon, else he wasted a kick-ass line.

           Eris’ wide, excited gaze turned adoring. “Your tricks won’t work on me, Terror Muffin. There’s no one you can turn into that would make me stop. You can’t puppet me the way you did the little Valdez. We have the same powers. You’re my son.”

           “I’m not just your son. And I’m not letting you, or anyone else from our family hurt these baby pandas,” Pax said. He wished he would have pickpocketed her lighter off her, but he hadn’t felt one when he weaseled away. Instead, he focused on Frank’s stick, hoping it was as easily influenced as he thought. He also hoped this thing had a “slow burn” option or an alarm that would flash with, Destruction of Canadian: Imminent.

           The tip burst into flames.

           Pax bit his tongue, whining at the blood dribbling out—how did Axel do this every time without complaining?--and said the incantation he’d only ever successfully recited during the battle for Mount Othrys, something he’d heard Frasco do before he died. “Xma’su’tal Xib, Liik’il Ch’iich’!”[2]

           Pax spit his blood into the flames. The red glow flared a brilliant turquoise. Pain flared as he felt his limbs elongate and his bones alter. What he was excited to say, and had rehearsed a few times in his head, was, “I’ll show you why you don’t mess with a Mayan warrior-prince!” but what came out was more of a, “Aye! Aye! OW! How does Axel do this all the time?!”

Sorry for some of the bravado, I’ll admit, I’ve been watching WAY too much anime recently.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D

Footnotes:

[1] As Mel pointed out, excellent start to a joke, “A huntress, a Greek, and a Roman were standing guard…”

[2] “Abandon the man, ascend the eagle/bird.”