#filling in all the blanks of crow training and world building

[marcell-arts]

doodles of viago de riva and his little protegee, Rookie!

i just finished veilguard and i am obsessed with the crows. you can check out my fic on this duo, focusing on pre-game events and what it was like for my crow!Rook to grow up in House de Riva!

[yanderesimps]

"Twenty years too late"

/Keigo Takami x Reader\

(Tw: references to rape, kidnapping, reference to forced pregnancy)

The house had been filled with laughter for many hours now, something she never though she'd hear in a place that she held such contempt for. Or perhaps it had always been like this but she'd been too blind to see it, too consumed by her ever-growing hatred of the former number two hero. Her swallowed anger and smothered pride had tainted the bright walls and subtle sweet smell that wafted through the halls.

She ignored the laughter, the chatting and how the voices would grow slightly quieter whenever she would hum to calm her shaking hands as they guided a knife. The clatter of the metal as she sliced through the vegetables that sat upon the cutting board before spilling them into a pot.

She couldn't focus on anything else but her working hands. They had grow old, not elderly but age had taken it's due. Her once smooth skin now held the occasional wrinkle as subtle crows feet clung to the corners of her eyes and faint laugh lines cursed her lips. It was a wonder she even had laugh lines but perhaps her years of faking smiles had grown all too practiced and actually left their mark. Fine grey hairs were visible now, more than average for a woman of her age but after decades of kidnapped enduced stress it was a miracle she still had hair.

The sound of the kitchen door opening caused her hand to catch and her posture to straighten suddenly. The flutter of wings could be audibly heard. She prayed, pleaded and begged to whatever divinity existed in the cruel wretched world.

Don't let it be him

Don't let it be him

Don't let it be him

"Mom...do you need any help with dinner?" Tears of relief threatened to fall from her eyes right there and she almost felt her legs give way. Whipping her head around, she spyed her youngest who was still an adult now nevertheless. Their eyebrows were knoted together in subtle confusion, perhaps they saw her heavy breaths and shaking hands. "No...no, it won't be long now"

Maybe once she would've given a more convincing answer. Maybe once she would have given a more genuine answer but after years of fighting for her life where each action could've been a cause for punishment, she was no longer a woman of many wonders. Turning back to the cutting board, she could feeling the lingering eyes fixated on her back and the unspoken questions that lingered in the air like a cancer.

But no questions ever came, only the sound of the kitchen door closing once again. She didn't know why her heart was pumping out of her chest right about now, would she have even given an answer to such a question? Through the years it had been less question and more accusation. Tears spilled and arguments made about how she was a terrible mother. Neglecting her children since the day they were born and avoiding them like a plague as they grew older.

She had only done the bare minimum since that's all what keigo allowed. Change them when needed, feed them when they cried but in the end, all her attention must be focused on him unless she wanted to explain to her children why they lost a sibling.

That almost made it sound like she loved her children which she did in a sense. Loving them like you may love a gold watch, only ever seeing the materialistic value in it. Taking it to get fixed, cleaning it when it was dirty and protecting it from damage. Pure maternal instinct but nothing more than that.

It was the eldest of her children who had brought up her years of distancing herself from them. Saying that if she didn't want them then she shouldn't of had children. She could still remember the look of shock on their faces as she laughed, a bitter and hate filled laugh before she muttered something along the lines of "as if I had a choice in the matter" which keigo didn't like at all but that was a victory, one of the few she'd gained over the two decades she'd spent locked in this prison of obsession.

Now her life was a big joke constructed by keigo, a sour reminder that it wouldn't be just him that would look for her if she were to ever escape again. Unspoken gloats shown through opened windows and unlocked doors, something she would prayed for in her youth. He knew and took pride in how he had broken his little house wife and moulded her into whatever he desired.

She stopped cutting the vegetables, her mind growing blank as a single question ran through her mind.

What was the point?

He had her wrapped around his pretty finger despite how she resisted falling into Stockholm syndrome and never stopped resisting behind closed door.

The wedding band strapped around her finger now felt like it was burning her flesh. It acted not only as a sign that she was taken but to show her that she would forever be his and his alone.

Her hand gripped the knife tighter. She glared down at the sharp glint of the steel. The knife could be a escape. How long would it take them all to find her fallen body? Perhaps when the food would start to burn. How long would it take keigo to fly across the city with her in his arms and get her stitched up and discharged without a single word of refusal? Even despite the occasional greyed feather, he was still the fastest hero in Japan.

She placed the knife down with shaking hands, taking a moment to leave the dinner behind but not before remembering to turn down the stove. She blocked out the chatting as she neared the backdoor, gripping the handle and pulling it open to be greeted by the early afternoon sunlight. She bathed it in, taking a deep breath of the clear air as she gazed out at the city that sat upon the horizon. Another one of keigo's jokes. A city in the distance which made an hour of running seem child's play if it meant her freedom. Alas, she could never escape the house despite how hard she tried. Her last escape attempt when her youngest had turned five was still etched in her mind and her arm. The broken glass of a window sliced up her joints which left a pretty trail for her capture to follow.

Taking a step forward felt like breaking through a brick wall and taking another step felt like walking through the remnants of that wall. Years of a past life which her mind held at back flashed past her eyes.

What was her mother's name?

Did she have a sibling?

Was it her grandmother who had given her that birthday present on her 18th birthday?

Who was that boy she occasionally saw when walking through UA? Was he a hero now?

The heels that clung to her feet touched the grass of the yard. Images of a dozens of birthday parties, screeches of children and an arm clutching her hip all burned her mind. Each birthday marked a rape where keigo's need to breed her was successful. Each candle marked a year that held countless more rapes. Each flame blown out showed her dimming defiance that was swallowed by obidience. When was the last time she had audibly disagreed with the bird captor?

She broke into a run, leaping over the yard fence as years of instilled hero training cracked free from the slacked chains of keigo's torture. The wind tore at her skin, feeding the adrenaline that had set her heart ablaze. Decades of memories unleashed themselves upon her, each children first word that had always been "mama", each drawing they would happily hand her even if she would turn away and refuse it without a word.

Her mind begged her to turn around, attempting to persuade her that all those sweet nothings that keigo whispered we re true and all the torture he inflicted had been fabricated. She didn't listen. She only wondered how far she would get before hearing that beat of six pairs of wings.

With each step she felt liberated, with each second that the distant buildings seemed to grow made her heart quicken even more.

For now, she was free. She wasn't a mother, a wife or a victim. She was a saviour. The saviour she pleaded for through nights of tears and blood. She was the one that would save herself and break that cage that she'd been encased in for so many days and nights.

It was too late to go back now. Even if she returned they would notice the sweat on her brow and the heave of her lungs as she breathed. For now she ran with all her might, the pleas of twenty years pushing her further, screaming at her to run faster.

There was no doubt in her mind that keigo would find her but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of doing it without a fight.

[soukokuwu]

DAZAI OSAMU

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐈 𝐌𝐄𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍

》 angst, unfortunately (dazai x reader)

》 trigger warnings! suicide themes, death

》 word count: 2.3k

》 notes: you saw him for the exact opposite of what he was. he did you a favour, but everything has a price. and now he has come to collect.

》 a story where Dazai is an angel

The ring of the shopkeeper’s bell. The smooth wood of the door. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The taste of baked ham. The sun illuminating the alley right outside the cafe.

There he appeared again. After ten years.

He looked just as you remembered. He didn’t age. Bandage over his right eye. Black hair a mess, covering one half of his face. Deep brown eyes as alluring as ever, piercing into your very soul. Black tailored suit, black tie, white dress shirt, same as the last time.

Although, there was one thing different about him.

Black feathered wings that used to be almost miniscule compared to his person— no, could you even call him that? Body. The wings that used to be diminutive compared to his body were now thicker and wider, standing even taller than his frame.

You were painfully aware that only you could see his beauty. Everyone else walked past him without regard. You strolled over to the figure, aware that he saw himself far from what you made him out to be in your head. That wouldn’t deter you from believing that of him though.

Your guardian angel.

»»-------------¤-------------««

Scribbling.

Sound of pen against paper had been all you could hear.

The pen had been discarded and you felt a pat on your head. You had looked up into his eyes. Empty. Vacant. Hopeless.

He had grabbed your hand and led the way. Something had been weird about the route he took that day. That had not been the usual way the two of you took to your school.

A left instead of a right. A bookshop instead of a cafe. The hustle and bustle of people instead of the usual seclusion. Yet you never questioned him. He had been the adult after all. Maybe there was a special event today that you had forgotten about. Yes, that could be why he hadn’t taken you straight to school.

The two of you had finally reached the train station. It had only been on rare occasions that you would step foot there, given that your family hardly ever went out. Even at twelve years old you could tell that your parents were struggling financially. In spite of that, though, you were all happy together. As long as you had each other, your mom would always say.

It had been a windy day. The sky turned a darker shade of grey. It had not been too crowded for a weekday morning in the subway station, so you could see the sky clearly even though you had been a short little child back then.

An announcement played, saying the train would be delayed and it would take a while longer. You looked around, trying to find the display screen that estimated the next train’s arrival.

However, something moved past you and caught your eye. A single black feather fell in front of your face and you eyed it until it touched the ground. You gripped your father’s hand tighter out of fear, but it barely registered in your father’s head. He was much too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Scared as you had been, curiosity got the better of you and you looked around for the source. It could not have been a crow, so where could the feather have come from?

Just as you were looking, you spotted him there, near the front of the platform, facing your direction. A general disinterested look, blank chocolate eyes looking straight ahead at absolutely nothing, dark brown hair and small black wings floating in the breeze. Even all those years ago, he looked breathtaking to you. Something that was supposed to instill fear intrigued you instead. He spoke of something in a soft murmur, in a voice low enough you couldn’t make out what it was.

A pair of watchful eyes followed him as he walked toward you, looking around at everyone on the platform. As the creature passed by you, he stopped in his tracks. His body stiffened and he slowly turned to look at you, who had been blinking up at him skeptically.

“This human is creeping me out,” he had murmured to himself, gulping and then bending his knees to get leveled with you. His eyes had then seemed alive for that split second, filled with intrigue. “It’s as if she can see me.”

“But I can,” you said, almost causing him to stumble over.

The creature blinked in succession as he tried to register what you had just said.

“You can... see me?”

You nodded, attention completely focused on the peculiar being in front of you. He had ominous black wings, but you didn’t feel scared of him at all. You then proceeded to question him about why it was that nobody else could see him. But everything he had shared with you about the different dimensions and how it worked were too complicated for you to remember. Being the inquisitive child you were, you kept interacting with the being. Banter and jokes were all you remembered sharing with him that day.

“You’re funny,” you had told him, laughing at the stupid joke he shared.

The creature had laughed too, before his expression shifted slowly into that of hesitance. You had asked what was wrong, but he shook his head, claiming it had been nothing. He was seemingly looking at something past you, but he hogged your attention by asking if you wanted to see a magic trick. Excited, you had given him all your focus, and by the time you clapped for him and noticed the absence of your father’s hand, you realised you were someplace else.

It was a peaceful place. The both of you were situated in a meadow, surrounded by a sea of colourful flowers. The skies there were a dark grey too. The only sound you could hear was that of the wind blowing. You were alone there with him, your father nowhere in sight. Despite having been teleported to a foreign dimension with someone you barely knew, all you had been thinking of was how much you wanted to explore this place.

“I can’t see the station anymore,” you had casually remarked.

“Sometimes it’s better to see what isn’t there instead of what is,” the creature had replied, an ache in his tone you didn’t miss.

Before you could ask him what he meant, warm droplets of rain started falling onto your face. The creature used his wings to shelter you from the rain, letting himself get drenched. His wings were too small to cover the both of you at the time. Feeling bad, you had asked if he could take you to his home so that you both would get shelter. The flash of melancholy that took over his face you could not have missed.

“Not now, you have to get back home,” he murmured gently, patting you on the head. You nodded in resigned compliance, catching a glimpse of the words imprinted on his wings.

Osamu Dazai.

The world around you began to shimmer and flow together, the colours of the flowers mixing together in circles. It was all making you sick, and so you chose to close your eyes. Everything was spinning. But as you felt a few raindrops fall onto your face, it stopped.

When you opened your eyes next, you found your mother sat next to you on your bed, crying over your body, hugging you when she realised you had come to.

The creature was nowhere in sight.

And neither was your father.

»»-------------¤-------------««

No one told you what really happened that day until a few years ago, when your mother was on her deathbed. Initially, she had just claimed that your father had to move to another city and wouldn’t come back. You were twelve but you weren’t that stupid. You didn’t believe her, but you thought better than to press her about it.

However as she was dying, she told you the real story of how your father disappeared. She recounted to you his suicide note, word for word. He had had enough of his life. Apparently the happiness you saw in your family as a kid was all a facade. Your father was far from a joyful man. He was beyond depressed, with a shit job and a shittier financial situation. His wife had lost interest in him as a man and his only solace had been you. Which was why he wanted to bring you with him. To die with him.

His plan that day was to jump in front of a moving train with you. But that creature had saved you at the last minute. According to witness accounts, they saw you let go of your father’s hand just as he was about to jump off the platform before you fainted on the spot. There was a small boy who swore he saw a man with brown hair and black wings who pried you away from your father, but of course the authorities didn’t take him seriously.

»»-------------¤-------------««

The city looked so much better from way up high. It had been a while since you were here. The wind blowing reminded you of that day when you were teleported to another dimension. You shifted your gaze from the scenery to the figure beside you. He had followed you here all the way from the cafe. He looked even more mesmerising now with a soft smile plastered on his face.

“Dazai?” You called out hesitantly.

The being nodded in acknowledgement. However, you found you couldn’t quite find the right words to say now that he was here, in the flesh.

“Ask me.”

His statement stunned you. It was a gentle kind of prodding, indicating he understood the situation. You were almost a hundred percent sure by now of his answer, and as much as you would like to confirm it, you decided against it.

“You’re my guardian angel, Dazai.”

It was not what he really was, but it was true all the same. He had saved you as a child even though he had absolutely no reason to. Osamu Dazai saved you even though he had been, and was still, the embodiment of death.

“I’m the angel of death,” he uttered, completely monotone. Dazai looked puzzled now, his lips pressed into a firm line. He shifted his gaze and looked out at the view of the city from his spot on the skyscraper. The streets surrounding this building were somewhat secluded, save for two or three pedestrians walking below. You caught a look of understanding that seemed to wash over him, as though a sudden realisation of your intentions, and why he even appeared before you in the first place.

You thought back to all those years ago, when you tried to convince people you weren’t crazy. In hindsight, telling people about a heavenly creature that saved you from death’s grip wasn’t the brightest idea. It had resulted in years of bullying, several counts of physical abuse and a consequent depression that you wished would go away.

Where you would normally be shut in at home, today you were out and about. You had taken work leave. All your colleagues were stunned into silence yesterday when you offered everyone cupcakes. They should; you usually didn’t even respond much even when spoken to. But the day before, everyone found you pleasant to be around, and you could see the looks of relief on all of their faces. They all spoke of not being able to wait to see you the next day.

Everyone who thought they knew you took it as a sign of you getting better. But no. To you it was a sign of clarity. You felt more upbeat today than any other day. It was because you knew exactly what waited for you at the end of the day: oblivion.

Before you knew it, you were standing at the edge of the building. Your legs trembled slightly when you realised just how high up you were. The fear was taken over by confusion when you felt warmth envelop your right hand.

Dazai’s fingers were intertwined with yours and he offered you the most comforting smile you’d seen in a long while. You were completely perplexed by the words he uttered next.

“I’ve always wanted to commit a double suicide with a beautiful lady when I was human.”

You had expected that he was the angel of death, but you never thought he had been human before. How it worked you would never find out, but there was something you wanted to know.

“Aren’t angels like you immortal?”

“My death was set in stone the moment I saved you from myself.”

Dazai did not need to explicitly tell you, but you deciphered it anyway. It was a simple message: your death would spell his. That’s all there was to it. A curse of some sort, because he had failed his duties all those years back. He forcefully saved a soul bound to death by his own hands. This was his punishment. But he did not look the least bit unhappy.

If anything, he radiated pure bliss. It was a bittersweet moment. The person you had dreamt of countless times in your life, the one you had fantasised finding again and again— he finally appeared but it was on an ominous condition. It only meant one thing: you would not change your mind today.

Your legs stopped trembling. Your heart started pounding faster in your chest. The warmth of the noon sun was getting uncomfortable. Yet you found the warmth of his hand relaxing.

Without warning, you felt your hand being yanked toward him, your body covered in his warm embrace. This time, his wings were big enough to shield both you and him from the outside world. You could see nothing but his face. You were pressed against his chest, foreheads touching and eyes glued to each other’s. You felt any fear you had dissipate into the void.

“Will you meet me in another life?”

You couldn’t help but ask. It was something you were wishing for, no matter how impossible it may seem: to get to know Osamu Dazai as a person. You hoped to find him in that other life, if it was possible at all. You wanted to get to know him, to understand his soul, preferably as equals.

Dazai’s unbandaged eye was clouded with a certain bewilderment before it reverted back to a gentle kindness, one you had seen many years before.

“I promise.”

Deep down you knew it was bullshit. You could sense his uncertainty. But as you both plunged to your death, the words were the only comfort you found, aside from the tenderness of his hug.

You opened your eyes to look into his once more, and then everything went black.

A scream.

And then nothing.

tags: @yokelish

[grumpyhedgehogs]

(you taught me) the courage of stars pt. 3

Summary: “I know what it is like, Ahsoka.” Obi-Wan tells her. “I know what it is to leave the Jedi with nothing more than the clothes on your back and the knowledge that you are doing the right thing.”

 Or: Ahsoka Tano flees after a warrant for her arrest is issued, but not before receiving aid from an unexpected ally. (Ahsoka proceeds to go on a road trip filled with a bunch of strangers who all say the same thing: Obi-Wan Kenobi is much more than he has ever appeared to be.)

Warnings: Canon typical violence, abuse (childhood, emotional, physical, mental), mind control.

Pt. 1, Pt.2, AO3

Nautical Dusk

Coruscant’s skies open above Anakin’s head. The deluge pounds down, weighing on his shoulders even further, trickling into his collar, seeping into his bones. He is alone. He is alone. His thoughts swirl, his own storm all locked up inside his skull, a fragile pantomime of the downpour around him. The landing pad is soaked, reflecting the hazy neon lights from the buildings around the Temple as Anakin waits.

If you’d just tried harder--if you’d just protected her better--if you’d just run after her faster--

His head aches as Anakin shakes it savagely, ignoring the strain he puts on his tendons. Ahsoka is gone. She’d bolted before he could--he could--

What could you have done, my boy? Palpatine had asked gently when Anakin called him hours ago. The rain, which had flickered on and off throughout the day, provided a cacophonous background symphony to the call. Palpatine’s face was deeply troubled, even pitying. Anakin doesn’t know why he even tried talking to the Chancellor--only that Ahsoka was chased away from him by authorities and his mentor may have been able to help. It is not your fault that this has happened; it was your student’s decision to flee. You can’t expect to help her if she is gone.

Anakin’s fingertips are numb. His spine is brittle, threatening to snap under the weight of what has happened. There are no other Jedi in the hangar; they’d cleared out when he’d entered, sensing the destructive spiral of the Force around him. It wraps around the Knight darkly, seething--he can’t seem to stop it. His throat is so tight he chokes on air. It feels as if the world is crumbling around him without Ahsoka’s foundational presence to shore him up.

Usually, when someone runs it is because they are guilty. Not that I have anything but the utmost faith in anyone you have trained, of course. I’m sure not everything is as it seems in your Padawan’s trial but unfortunately this is in the Jedi’s jurisdiction, not my own. If only I had a little more pull within your Order, I may have been able to help…

Why does he always want more pull within the Temple? A voice in Anakin’s head had whispered then, but Anakin had shoved it away with a vicious snarl. That call was the only time he can remember hanging up on the Chancellor without so much as a goodbye. Palpatine could not help him, could not help Ahsoka. It was useless to try.

The sound of a speeder’s engine cutting off shakes him from his thoughts, and Anakin jerks to attention, hardly realizing how far his mind wandered. It has been hours since Obi-Wan slipped out, surrounded by Coruscanti Guards; his master’s hood is up, plastered to his head with rainwater. He moves slowly, gingerly, as if sore. He is alone, a singular miserable figure against a disgustingly empty horizon. Anakin’s chest constricts but he rushes forward anyway, crowding into his master’s space.

Over the rush of rain and sleet, his voice is weak. “Did you find her? Did you find Ahsoka?”

Obi-Wan swings himself the rest of the way down from the speeder. His hood hides his face in shadow and he shakes his head, motioning towards the shelter of the hangar. “Let me inside before we discuss anything, Anakin. This rain won’t do anything for our health.”

The hallway is too bright, light digging into Anakin’s eye sockets as they walk. His head renews its throbbing.

I may have been able to help...

Temple guards look up curiously as they pass, but from the corner of his eye Anakin catches Obi-Wan shaking his head deliberately. They are allowed back to Obi-Wan’s quarters unmolested.

The words explode from his mouth mere seconds after the door closes. “Where was she? Why didn’t you bring her back--”

“Ahsoka is gone.” Obi-Wan strips his robe off, and, in a move Anakin has never seen from him before, checks the lock on the door. When he turns to face his former padawan, Anakin really sees him for the first time tonight: Obi-Wan’s face is torn and worried, crow’s feet at his temples and wrinkles digging deeply into his forehead. His mouth is set in a thin, firm frown, and his hair hangs lank with dampness over his brow, which furrows tightly. “I tried to catch up--there were so many guards that I had to--”

Anakin feels his fists clench almost independent of his will. “You lost her! You were too busy following the rules and regulations that you lost Ahsoka!”

“No, I--”

“Why would you even bring so many guards with you in the first place? You’re treating Ahsoka like she’s some common criminal!” Anakin whirls, pacing the living room’s length. He bumps into a small coffee table as he whirls back. Quite unknowing of what he’s doing, temper piqued and red descending over his vision, Anakin lifts a boot and shoves at the table’s edge. It topples with a tremendous clatter; a forgotten mug shatters against the back wall, splattering cold tea across the floor as the table flips, crashing onto its side. The only other ornament on the table, a smooth rock which hums in the Force, scatters away in the wake of Anakin’s anger, and, like a candle, his temper blows out quite suddenly.

(He used to play there when he was young, taking apart a mouse droid only to rebuild it perfectly, Obi-Wan’s indulgent smile visible over the edge of a datapad.)

“ Anakin .”

Rather than apologize, Anakin drops his face into his hands, a sob hitching at his chest. “She ran. Why would she run from me? Doesn’t she trust me to help her?”

“She has lost faith in the Order,” Obi-Wan replies. His face is more lined than Anakin ever remembered it being. He won’t meet Anakin’s eyes: it makes the heat of rage flame in Anakin’s chest where it had been burning down to embers.

“And why shouldn’t she? The Jedi have done nothing for her! They have failed her!”

“ We have failed her.”

Anakin pulls up short. Nearly chewing the words, he spits, “What? What are you talking about?” He hadn’t--he’d wanted to help her, take her back to the Temple with him and make the Council listen --

“ We have failed her.” Obi-Wan repeats; his eyes flash to meet Anakin’s, steel in his voice. But his stance is open as he moves further into the room, standing broad-shouldered, unshakable, across from Anakin. He stands as if the sky hasn’t fallen down around their ears. “Have you forgotten that you are a part of the Jedi too, Anakin?”

Anger roils in his gut, makes him snarl. The Force rises around them, threatening, until Obi-Wan’s Force signature (cool and calm, steady as rock and soft a velvet) pushes it back, soothes the storm. It almost allows Anakin a moment of calm, but his nerves jangle in the back of his mind, refusing to let him rest.

“We are not infallible, Anakin. We make mistakes--sometimes big ones. Sometimes catastrophic in measure.”

“Ahsoka isn’t a mistake.”

“No. She is not. But what has happened to her is, and we will not be able to help her fix it if we are too busy fighting amongst ourselves. We’ll only be able to clear Ahsoka’s name if we work together.”

What could you have done, my boy?

“What can we do without her here to give her side of the story? Not even the Chancellor can help us, it’s in the Jedi’s jurisdiction and they’ve already pronounced her guilty!” Helplessness floods him, insidious. Obi-Wan’s voice sounds very far away.

“The Chancellor--?” Obi-Wan starts, but cuts himself off quickly. “Never mind that. Listen to me carefully. The trial and Ahsoka’s fleeing her sentencing is not the end of this, Anakin. The Council will listen to reason if we can provide evidence of Ahsoka’s innocence; they’ll even accept her back if she wishes to return. We can help her, but we have to work fast. She’s out there alone --”

Anakin scoffs, his hollow chest making the sound ring out around them loudly. He turns away, but before the door slides close behind him, snaps out a parting blow. “What would you know about being alone?”

He chooses to leave rather than give Obi-Wan the chance to answer.

Someone is waiting for Ahsoka before her ship lands.

The Force pulls at the young trogruta’s senses, leading her through the merry throngs, families reuniting and friends embracing. Her chest aches, skin practically crawling with need, with grief. Nonetheless, the Force calls to her, and Ahsoka answers.

Her senses pull her towards a person who waits beside the west exit, hood up and hands clasped before them patiently. The Force ripples about them, curling fondly, light with song. It’s almost enough to make her relax--until Ahsoka catches herself and tenses her shoulders again. She’d thought she was safe before, that people who raised her were actually there to protect her. She was wrong.

She pulls up short before the person and does not speak. A trick Skyguy taught her: desperate people will usually spill their souls to you if you are quiet enough.

The hooded person before her tipped their head towards her after a moment in which they both fall stalk still. The crowd unknowingly gives them a wide berth, responding to the inherent prompting of the Force.

“Hello there.” they greet Ahsoka gently. She still finches at the familiar phrase. “What brings you to our humble home?”

They are testing her. Ahsoka’s spine wants to snap straight, but she refuses to yield, to show the emotions that roil in her gut. She has to be calm. She has to be collected. Master Obi-Wan’s blank sabbac face flashes through her mind and Ahsoka’s gorge rises in her throat. She swallows it down, grits her teeth until she thinks her voice won’t shake too much. “A friend.” The words do not feel as vile as she’d have thought they would, and with a startling drop of her stomach, Ahsoka realizes she isn’t lying.

The person hums; they’ve gradually turned their back on the crowd--only Ahsoka looks directly at them now. “We as a people are not known for having many friends. Certainly not many of those who would send newcomers to seek us out.”

This time, Ahsoka keeps quiet. The Jedi are not the only Force-users in the galaxy. With how strangely this person is acting, unknown to her as they are, she’s not willing to give out any names. Her lineage is particularly good at resisting Force suggestion but Ahsoka is self-aware enough to know her shields are not at their best in this moment.

The stranger’s head tilts and Ahsoka feels eyes scanning her from head to toe. She nearly snarls. “Kenobi sent you then.”

Old protective suspicion makes Ahsoka’s hackles rise. She doesn’t mean to speak again but before she knows it, words fall from a sharp tongue. “How do you know him?”

“He is a very old friend.” They lift their hood from their face; the woman underneath is older than Ahsoka expected, with smile lines dug in deep into her skin. “My name is Wila,” she says. “Welcome to Gala.”

[crystalmoonarcher]

Surname, Given Name: Kawaguchi, Amaya

Birthday: September 15th (Virgo) Age: 19 Height: w/shoes 158 cm (5 feet 2 inches) w/o shoes 153 cm (5 feet) Weight: 56 kg (123 lb) Pronouns: She/Her Blood Type: AB Marechi: No

Rank: Hashira Weapon: Light cerulean blue Nichirin Blade Breath Style/Blood Demon Art: Breath of Snow - derived from Breath of Wind and Breath of Water.  This unique style makes use of quick and fluid movements to freeze a target.  It can cause the temperature to drop to dangerous levels for both the user and their opponent.

First Style: Snow Flurry - A quick succession of forward jabs, usually aimed at the throat.

Second Style: Blizzard’s Fury - Multiple quick slashes, usually used to chop off a demon’s limbs.

Third Style: Dance of Winter - Fast moving slashes done in a spinning motion.

Fourth Style: A Light Snowfall - A thin sheet of snow falls and disperses enemy projectiles.

Fifth Style: Everlasting Winter - The user moves quick enough to make it seem like they are in more than one place at once.

Sixth Style: Absolute Zero - A spinning attack unique to Amaya meant to slow a target’s movements.

Seventh Form: Yuki Onna - An attack unique to Amaya, in which the user dashes forward and hits the opponent with multiple slashes.

Stats:

Breathing Technique - 6/5

Speed - 5/5

Strength - 4/5

Stamina - 4/5

Intelligence - 5/5

Charisma - 3/5

Abilities:

Master Swordsman

Enhanced Strength

Immense Speed

Enhanced Reflexes

Flexibility

Ambidextrous

Demon Slayer Mark

See-Through World

Personality:

Seems cool, calm, and collected at first look but is pretty awkward

“Snow Princess”

Seems to space out a lot, but is actually paying attention

A people watcher

Quiet, prefers to listen to other people talk.  Will give some sort of gesture to show she is still listening

Will not start a conversation.  People have to engage her if they want to talk.

Afraid of people to some extent

Blunt with her words

Has trouble trusting people after past experiences

Will talk more if she actually likes someone

Is an ailurophile (cat lover)

Is (unfortunately) more likely to talk to a cat than you

Has a tendency to ignore people who annoy her and pretends they don’t exist

Would kill for her friends

Likes Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream

MBTI - INTJ

Appearance:

Blue eyes

Black hair tipped white

Bangs point down in the middle and slant in towards center on the sides

Hair is tied back with 2 ribbons and a snowflake hairpin

One of the ribbons accompanied by the snowflake hairpin holds some strands of hair from the front

The second ribbon holds the rest of her hair in low ponytail

Pale skin, she usually only goes out when there is very little sun

Thin, short arms and legs, small hands

Does not look very muscley but actually pretty strong

“Dainty” appearance

Usually blank faced

Voice Claim Japanese: Maki Kawase (Junko Konno, Zombieland saga)

Voice Claim English: Christine Marie Cabanos (Hapi, Fire Emblem Three Houses)

Background:

Amaya grew up with her mother(Amaterasu), father(Mamoru), older sister(Amane), older brother(Makoto), and two younger brothers(Masaru and Masaki) in a mountain home.  She enjoyed growing up surrounded by her family, and life had been relatively normal.  She wouldn’t have asked for it to change in any way, but fate had other plans.

When she was 11 years old, a demon came across her home.  Amaya was petrified as she watched the demon kill one of her family members one by one.  Just when she thought it would be the end of her life, Amane had jumped up and shielded her and Makoto from the demon.  As she cried for her sister, a demon slayer had shown up and saved the remaining siblings.  The two were led to the village at the foot of the mountain after the dead had been buried and respects had been paid.

Amaya and Makoto stayed in the village where they met two orphaned kids, Eri and Eiji Mori.  The orphaned children all stayed with an elderly woman.  However, it had taken a few months before the Kawaguchi siblings were able to settle down and get used to a life without the rest of the family.  As she grew more comfortable with her situation, Amaya began to play games with Eri and Eiji in the streets while her brother watched them.  She thought life wouldn’t change anymore after this, but her brother had other plans.

When she turned 14, Amaya learned that Makoto planned on becoming a demon slayer.  She had begged him to stay, not wanting to lose the only family she had left.  However, her pleas fell to deaf ears as her brother was set on his decision.  Makoto told Amaya to become a demon slayer and find him again, only then could they be together again.

As she watched her brother leave, Amaya made a silent vow to become a demon slayer.  She began training on her own and set out for final selection when she turned 15.  She had passed and returned to the village to tell her caretaker.  While her new found grandmother had been proud of her, Eri and Eiji were not.  The Mori siblings still offered their congratulations, however and continued to play games with Amaya until a swordsmith arrived with her Nichirin Blade.

Amaya left the village with the promise to write back to everyone she knew there, and she set out on her first assignment.  During a particular assignment, she ran into Makoto again.  She had been excited to see him again, but Makoto only had a look of horror and disgust on his face.  Her world had gone numb when her brother told her to stay away from him and that he never wanted to see her again.

Heading her own way, Amaya completed assignment after assignment for the next year.  Then one assignment brought her back to the village she had spent part of her life.  Worried, she rushed back without hesitation.  Upon arriving at the village, Amaya headed to the home where she had stayed, only to find that the elderly woman had been killed.  Filled with rage, she turned to confront the demon that had been lounging in the corner of the room.  Her rage turned to mute horror when she discovered that the demon was none other than her friend, Eri.

Amaya had hesitated, but she pushed down the feeling of dread and faced her unexpected opponent.  With a heavy heart, she struck down her demon turned friend.  Just as she thought things would settle down, the dying Eri informed her that Eiji had also become a demon and had gone to another location.  As Amaya was about to grieve for her losses, one of the villagers entered the building.  Not knowing the full story, the villagers had believed she had been the one to kill the elderly woman.

After being chased away, Amaya found herself fleeing up the mountain to the home she had lived in with her family.  She stopped to rest just outside of the home and tried to collect her thoughts.  As she was able to calm herself, she heard her kasugai crow arriving with a message: “Kawaguchi, Amaya.  You have been promoted to the rank of hashira!”

Amaya went on to complete more difficult tasks, and she met different demon slayers on the way.  However, she refused to allow herself to get close to any of them.  Whenever she felt like it was happening, she would just leave that demon slayer.  It went on for a long time, until she met a particular one that stuck out to her.

Taisho Secret(s):

Amaya has a scar on her back, but it wasn't from a battle as some newbie demon slayers have been led to believe. She got the scar from falling out of a window backwards. Shinobu was there to witness it. The other hashira are aware of how it happened, but most of them(except Shinobu and Himejima) tell some convoluted story of how it happened. As a result, newbie demon slayers do not know what to believe.

The home that Amaya is currently living in is the very same one she grew up in. She chose to return and repair the place because it holds some sentimental value. That and, it is also where the rest of her family is buried.

The snowflake hairpin that Amaya wears belonged to her older sister Amane.  Amaya found it hidden behind a bookshelf while she was repairing the damages done to her home.

Relationships:

Kasumi Shimizu - “She is actually pretty nice… Sometimes she gives me some food to eat when we are paired up on assignments.”

Makoto Kawaguchi - “He is my older brother, but I don’t think he likes me very much.  He said he never wanted to see me again.”

Atsuko Suzuki - “She is like an older sister to me, but I will not let anyone know that.”

Misaki Fujimoto - “She is a close friend of mine.  We get along well.”

Ren - “She seems like a nice kid.”

Sayuri Yukimura - “She is a friend of mine.  Kind of like a younger sister.”

Yuka Yukimura - “Why is she so loud?”

Yoshi Yukimura - “He… can be annoying at times.”

Yusuke - “I took him in after finding him in an abandoned village.  He is a good kid.”

Kiku Inoue - “A brat…”

Eri Mori - “She was my friend… She said she hated me for leaving.”

Eiji Mori - “He’s still alive somewhere out there, and he probably hates me just like Eri did.  But I don’t blame him...”

Tsubasa Kurahawa - “I like Tsu… He’s the first friend I’ve had in awhile.  I’d kill for him.”

Ishikawa Rei- “I’ll admit, he is like a brother to me.  But um... I don't know if he is okay with that...”

Nomura - “I think she is like a sister.  An unpredictable one, but still a sister.  I care for her even if she doesn’t know it.”

Akira Sato - “...is it wrong to say I don’t like him?”

Minoru Maki - “He ran away from me.  Did I do something wrong?  All I did was say hi…”

Hanata Fujisaki - “She fell asleep on my shoulder before.  I didn’t want to wake her up, so I just stayed there.”

Orihime: “She is an amazing person.  She is also my adorable tsugoku.”

[exiledlocke]

ailin took me somewhere

it is a radio station, and you can hear the tunes play over and over, the old-time music that sounds a bit like what i'd hear in another yesterday, what i heard in my dreams.

there is something horrid about how it fills the room, crackling, hissing with the fizz i could always hear around ailin. pops and clicks hiding underneath sumptuous sounds.

it feels heady, and it's all too easy to get lost in the noise before i can think. something about this place detaches you from all time. warm white, soft white carpet, white around, white through, white below. why does this feel more home than my house after the beast attacked ever did?

i don't think this is natural. any of this. ailin, this building, this sound that makes me feel as if my mother will come out any minute with a soft smile on her face and a tray of food for me.

but i have made my deal. that's what i tell myself. it will all pay off in time when i see the so-called crow of memory strangled.

regardless, she sat me down in a place with an oak table, some sort of office, and straightened her chair. i was mid-straightening mine when it straightened for me and nearly slammed my face into the table.

ailin had no reaction, her face carefully blank.

"this is where you will train. perhaps even live, if you want it."

"what even is this place?"

her eyes seemed to flash some sort of white-gold, dead grey distortion bursting briefly from them as she spoke. "ḿ̵̛̺ẙ̶͔̱̂̅ ̵̛̲̺h̵̘̥̫͆̏̈́o̴̦̣̦̅͆͑m̴̦͛͊ͅĕ̴̪̞̩̍̈."

my hands tightened into fists on the desk, blinking with a bit of a jolt at that uncomfortable sound.

"does that discomfort you?" she said this almost accusingly, which i found to be strange.

"yes? i've always been sensitive to noise."

"good. we will wipe that clean in time."

"excuse me?" i asked, narrowing my eyes at her.

"one like you must hold little weakness. the future will slice you open, pick out your bones and leave you in the filth dark, bleeding for all times. but when everything is the past, all wounds can be prevented. sit straight, locke."

"just call me casey."

"i will call you by your new title as i train you, then. sit straight, votary."

it felt like she put all the strength and venom in the world into that one word, as if my mind blurred static and made every need in my soul to be to sit straight immediately or else i would die.

i didn't feel like locke casey. no. i was the votary. all that i did reflected on ailin. it was only natural to sit straight and not slouch.

how could a woman like this force me into compliance with a word and yet sometimes seem like the frailest person in the world?

"i will explain to you your obligations of training. you will be my votary and in time you will be my successor to the position of ailin. i will mould you into something more, something far more of worth. this is, of course, to your agreement. locke casey wasn't strong enough to kill the crow of memory. you will be different, my votary. you shall be."

the more she used that word, the more hazy and nostalgic and compliant and yet all at once strikingly sober, blank, static i felt.

"tell me more," i said.

[kuraiamore]

Gintama fic, Pay your workers fair wage or they’ll start a revolution!!

pairing: Gen

fandom: Gintama

rating: T

summary: Come experience a typical day in the Yorozuya office! Meet the team that makes the magic happen! Find out what it's like to be a member of a fantastic Odd Jobs team!

(In case of emergencies, please head to the Back Arrow button located on the top left-hand corner of your internet browser page.)

(This fanfiction takes no responsibility for any failed expectations on behalf of the reader. Terms and Conditions apply. See your local pro-fanfiction Tumblr post for details.)

notes: Very Very Very belated bday fic for @first-quarter-of-the-moon . This wonderful human being, whose friendship I’m so grateful to have stumbled across in this tiny fandom of shithead samurai, asked for a fic with a pun on the word “glasses”. I’ve no idea if I managed to pull it off, but nevertheless, here it is and I hope you enjoy it even if it is months late<3 <3 <3

ao3 or read below.

It's a quiet day in the Yorozuya office-cum-household-apartment; no jobs, no clients, no day-saving adventure to embark on for one to take pride in one’s life-and-career path as a Can-Do-All, NEET Samurai and Friends Pty Ltd., Odd Jobs™ business. The sort of day where face-planting on the desk for catnaps is considered high productivity and the walk from the couch to the fridge for a well earned snack after doing nothing for an hour is worthy of office-cum-household-apartment bragging rights.

So really, it's like every other day when they're not out disastrously, fantastically doing some combination of saving the world from mad aliens, accidentally joining forces with an assortment of oddball characters who really ought to get some life counselling, travelling through interdimensional planes of existence on ridiculously wacky adventures, or whatever have you, instead of actually, you know, making the required revenue to run a profitable business.

In other words: a standard Yorozuya working day.

At this current point in time, momentarily unaware of the literal office tour taking place for the convenience of this tired narrator, the self-made boss of the Yorozuya is seated at his desk, last week’s copy of Shounen Jump fanned out in a roof over the top of his head. His two young employees-in-training-slash-unofficially-adopted-children are lounging about the main room, one on each of the twin couches framing the apartment-cum-office’s only coffee table. The small, rickety thing has its worn, scratched-marked surface covered with evidence of the day’s work: magazines and dirty tea and coffee mugs. Advertisement catalogues, cooking magazines, idol pop magazines, sports magazines, cars, fashion, home real estate, and everything beyond and in between build up a veritable paper fortress blocking either couch camp from each other.

Odd Jobs™ business, you see; gotta be ready to deal with anything and everything.

As usual on these lazy working days, the trio that make up the Yorozuya spend more time making indulgent commentary on their reading material than actually reading the material itself. Then again, it could only be expected; none of trio have spent any considerable amount of time in school on account of their traumatic backstories which this tired narrator will ask both the beloved characters and readers to conveniently ignore for the sake for easy comedy, and so the expectation that any of them would seriously engage in any real, productive work is entirely preposterous, like seriously, what did you expect, we all know these characters are as dumb as bricks and—

“Hey, some people are trying to read here!” Kagura yells.

“Quiet, Kagura,” Gintoki say, an apathetic tone and expression in his voice and face reminiscent of old men working middle management roles that have no end-of-year bonuses or promotions to look forward to, “the boss is in the middle of important business and needs all his concentration.”

“A proper boss who has important work to do would be doing the work instead of wasting everyone’s time nagging at his employees,” Kagura bites back.

“Well you wouldn't know because you're not a boss, are you?”

“Miss Teen Idol says I am!” Tossing aside the magazine she's currently reading, Kagura tears through the paper fortress like a hurricane uprooting and scattering cities into the skies.

“Oieee!” Shinpachi yells, as his perfectly stacked tower of magazines with Otsuu’s name and face on the front cover, however big or small or scandalously associated, goes toppling over. “Don't worry, Otsuu-chan, I'll save you!”

The broken fortress becomes a battleground, hands and magazines flying as (thankfully empty) cups fall over. It's a battle of speed and precision, Kagura attacking with her rummage-glance-throw-away technique against Shinpachi’s valiant defence in protecting creases and wrinkles from Otsuu-chan’s face.

“Ah-ha!” Kagura crows later, after two minutes of constant barrage. Her arm swings wildly above her head in triumph, the magazine clutched in her hand waving like a banner of victory.

Gintoki yawns without bothering to cover his mouth. There's an empty cup of pudding on the side of his desk that he eyes mournfully. It had been the last one in the fridge, now serving as an ineffective paperweight to last month's overdue gas bill. He’ll have to go buy more soon, lest he suffer from sugar withdrawal. Maybe some of those new jelly-filled chocolate bites he saw at the convenience store too while he's at it.

But then again, a new ice cream parlour had opened two weeks ago, just twenty minutes away by foot from the Yorozuya office.

And he also dimly remembers a commercial from last night's re-run of My Pretty Kitty Takes Over The World, featuring some wildberry confectionery shaped into wearable cat ears.

Gintoki’s still daydreaming sugar-coated dreams when Kagura smacks her magazine onto his desk. The wave of air that comes fanning out from the two-page spread is so violent, it tickles his nose and sends his fringe billowing out around his face.

“Here!” Kagura points to the page she's opened up, revealing a blazing red title asking, ‘Are you Beauty, Brains, or Brawn? Find out your best attribute to win over the Man and Job of Your Dreams!’

Shinpachi joins them at the desk, scanning the heading with a frown. “Why is it ‘Man’ and ‘Job’?” he wonders aloud. “Since when did relationships and careers have anything to do with each other? They’re are totally different things.”

“What are you talking about, Shinpachi? Don’t you know that dealing with men is a full time job?”

“That's right,” Gintoki agrees, nodding along, “men are scum.”

“Yup, yup. They're a parasite on the industry of life. Oi, boss, you should give me a raise for all the effort and overtime I put in dealing with the scum in our workplace.”

“Sorry,” Gintoki says, “the agreement of the contract you signed stipulates that wage raises can only be considered after gaining a minimum of ten years’ experience in your working role.”

“Oh,” Kagura says, complete lack of understanding on her blank face. She shrugs. “Okay then.”

“Wait but we never signed a contract!” Shinpachi says, perplexed.

“What do you call that then?” Gintoki says, throwing his thumb out behind his shoulder.

Shinpachi follows the invisible line to a copy of one of their old advertisement flyers stuck on wall behind the desk. It's instantly recognisable, featuring three handprints and one paw print haphazardly framed around a picture of the Yorozuya team.

A prickly, tingly feeling rushes through his chest—it might be bad business manipulation at its best, but Shinpachi can’t find it in himself to argue against that. He clears his throat.

“In any case,” he says, “the quiz is clearly making the mistake of lumping the two together!”

“Now, now, Shinpachi,” Gintoki interrupts, back in that deliberately overemphasised, sagely, rather quite condescending tone, “it is merely your youth and inexperience with adult matters that make you think that way. You see, the office or workplace romance is the most intense and thrilling romantic experience the ordinary human will have in their measly lifetime. Therefore when a person takes on a job, they’re investing not just in their career and financial stability, but also in the promise of a lifetime partner. That’s what people mean when they talk about being married to work!”

“Gin-san, I don’t think that’s what that means at all, and anyway, you’ve never worked in an office or workplace with other people in your life!”

“You wound me, Patsuan. How do you think I got this far, CEO of my own business with one hundred percent employee loyalty at the prime young age of twenty-eight, if I didn’t have a lifetime of experience dealing with the intricacies of workplace liaisons, huh?”

“Gin-san, you have two underaged employees which I’m sure counts as child labour exploitation, and you never paid the registration fee for the business registration application. I’m pretty sure that the Yorozuya is technically an illegal operation.”

Immediately, Gintoki turns around and closes the window blinds. The room goes quiet as the possibly illegal boss and his two employees glance furtively around them to make sure they hadn't been overheard by any men in black suits who just happened to be creeping around for no reason other than the wacky slice-of-life genre specification.

“Oi, oi,” Gintoki says after a moment, with a shaky laugh, “don't joke about that, Shinpachi-kun. What kind of role model would we be to all our lovely viewers watching and reading us if they thought we were an illegal business? Sunrise would have our heads!”

“It's okay, Gin-chan,” Kagura goes to reassure him, “the only people watching this sketchy anime and reading its sketchy fanfiction are probably sketchy people themselves already.”

“That's right!” Shinpachi adds helpfully, though his neck still cranes around as if looking for hidden microphones and cameras. “Besides, even if we were illegal—which we're not!—then they would still know better than to waste their time coming after us. We're so poor, we wouldn't be able to pay the bail out money anyway! If anything, they should be targeting those multi mega corporations that do way more sketchy stuff! Like tax evasion!”

“And Amanto discrimination!” Kagura adds.

“And killing the environment!”

“And disrupting the view with their giant billboards!”

“And taking advantage of the working class to fuel their corrupt profits!” Shinpachi cries in heated passion, slapping his hand on the table.

“And increasing the price of pudding by ¥240 so Gin-san can only afford to have his sugar intake three times a week instead of four!” Gintoki joins.

“Um, Gin-san, that's not—"

“Down with capitalism!” Kagura cries, jumping back onto her couch and rising one fist into the air while her other hand still clutching the magazine waves it again like a great banner. “Come comrades! Let us take down the abominable bosses and factory managers who exploit the good-hearted working citizens!”

The magazine gets rolled up and becomes a baton which now points accusingly towards the Yorozuya boss. Gintoki looks to his left, and his right, and seeing no one on either side of him, points a finger to his own mug and mouths, “Who, me?”

“Rise up!” Kagura continues with her impassioned call, turning back to her audience of one. Shinpachi hears the call solemnly, eyes burning with the bright rage of workers’ rights. “Rise up and take down the evil corporations and greedy CEOs and business owners who use their money to hoard all the good things to themselves and never leave the sesame-flavoured subonku for the common folk!”

“Well if someone didn't spend all their money on monthly pork barbeque bun sales, they might have enough left over to buy sesame-flavoured subonku whenever the stores have them in stock!”

“But Gin-chan, two pork barbeque buns for the price of one!”

Shinpachi coughs delicately. “You have to admit, Gin-san, it is a very good deal.” Aside to himself, he mumbles, “they’ve saved me more times than I can count,” and hopes Tae never finds his stash of frozen pork barbeque buns he sneaks out at midnight when dark matter dinners prove too much for his stomach to handle.

“What are you two, video game characters who can only revive their health with pork barbeque buns?” Gintoki grouches, then leans back on his fake leather and plastic desk chair. “Ahhh, but really, society is scum. All those flashy, money-grabbing advertisements and media turning the free-thinking man into a mindless drone. Bah!”

“Well,” Shinpachi hedges, fidgeting with the Otsuu-chan NekoNeko double spread special open in front of him, “maybe it's not all so bad…”

“Eh? Don't tell me they've caught you already, Pachi-boy! Those sirens, always luring in the innocent cherry boys with their wily charms and pretty faces! Cover your ears, Shinpachi, before you drown!”

Shinpachi’s face turns bright red as it always does when reminded of his cherry-boy status, like soup that someone put beetroot in and left on the stove for too long so all the vegetables became a mushy red mess like a bloody murder scene like someone dropping a basket of actual ripe, red cherries.

“Like the bright flag of revolution!” Kagura adds to the overly extended and entirely nonsensical metaphor, waving her magazine again even though the front cover is yellow.

For all the embarrassing state of their being, the fantasies of cherry boys cannot be underestimated: in a split second, Shinpachi finds himself in the grip of a fervoured daydream where he's leading the pop idol revolution, Otsuu’s grateful, adoring eyes centred upon him from her Queen Idol throne made from glittery microphones and album awards, while he stands bearing her image and flag upon the conquered mountain of her rivals’ platinum albums and singles. Shaking himself free of this intoxicating dream takes truly the will of only the most stout-hearted and tenacious of samurai, but Shinpachi has always been deceptively strong, underestimated as he is by his otaku appearance.

“No, that's not what I meant!” he says vehemently, crossing his arms over his chest. “It has nothing to do with cherry boys, or rather, not only to do with cherry boys! Yes, the capitalist market may be a money-grabbing, exploitative, manipulative, marginalising machine"—he takes a deep breath here, having run out of air after his string of long, multisyllabic words—“but you can't deny that it's also given some people the chance to achieve their dreams, and in that way, helped inspire others too!” He gazes lovingly at his Otsuu spread, conveniently ignoring the headline to the side exclaiming, ‘Otsuu production company bankrupt?! Employee scandal!!’

“Ahhh,” Gintoki says in a bored, dry voice, “that was sure quick of you to swap sides there, Shinpachi. You went from glass half-empty to glass half-full in, what, less time than it takes for a teenage boy to hide his dirty magazines when his mum unexpectedly bursts through his bedroom door. What, you playing double glasses or something? Doubles G’s? Is that what you're into, Shinpachi?” Gintoki tuts, shaking his head. “Teenage boys are so greedy, always thinking more is better. No wonder they make such good prey for those dirty media companies. It's okay, Shinpachi, you'll learn, you'll learn.”

Shinpachi splutters, the thought of double G’s such a force against the foundations of his feeble cherry boy mind that he cannot pull out his defences. Taking advantage of the moment, Kagura jumps in with a question.

“What are you talking about, Gin-chan?” she says. “Shinpachi has always had two glasses. Like a pair of glasses! G. G.!”

She crooks her thumbs to her forefingers, touching the tips together so they make a pair of circles just the right size to peer out of, and presses them to her eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a group of broke university students break out into a flashmob, a chorus of ‘G’s and ‘baby’s rising up while a crowd of people just trying to reach the end of the street look on in confusion.

“Bless you,” Gintoki says, while Kagura continues to blink owlishly out of her literally hand-made glasses.

“My glasses look nothing like that,” Shinpachi complains to Kagura, because that is far safer than remaining in the grips of a Double-G dream. (Already he has had to discreetly wipe away the trickle of blood from his nose while Kagura and Gintoki were busy fooling around.)

“Of course not,” Gintoki reassures, “your glasses look like those cheap, mass-produced products that break and fail you right when you need them.”

“Well maybe if you actually paid us a living wage, I could afford brand glasses if mine offend your sensibilities so much!”

“For someone who’s only just over legal working age, you sure have high expectations!”

“You're not even paying me minimum wage, I could report you, you know!”

“Oh yeah? Report me to who? The boss?” Gintoki snorts, waving a dismissive hand.

Shinpachi’s nostrils flare, eyebrows drawing together in an angry line.

“I'll report you to… to… to the industry union!”

Gintoki laughs an evil, corporate laugh. “What industry union? The Odd Jobs union? Ha! Good luck with that! Even if one existed, it would never get anything done because its members would be too busy looking for odd jobs to make their daily living!”

Kagura’s eyes flash. “Pachi-boy, let's start a union!” she says, though what a fourteen year old alien would know about industry unions, the never-ending battle for workers’ rights, petitions, rallies, strikes and other various union organisation stuffs remains an unanswered question. Still, one couldn't fault her enthusiasm.

Unexpectedly, in utter abandonment of his straight man role, Shinpachi jumps onto the idea.

“Yes!” he says. “We can invite all the other Odd Jobs teams from the anime crossovers we have! ‘Odd Jobs’ is such a well known and overused trope, I'm sure there will be plenty who will want to join us!”

“The Odd Jobs industry revolution!” Kagura bellows, arms spread out wide like she’s presenting a magic trick. “Led by the Yorozuya!”

“O-Oi!” Suddenly faced with a revolution and overzealous employees, Gintoki has no idea what to do.

Luckily for him, right at that moment, the phone rings. Its noisy call goes on for two ring cycles, cutting through and silencing all conversation in the room, before Gintoki wipes out a hand to pick up the receiver. Suddenly Kagura and Shinpachi are pressed right up against his side, intense looks on their faces as they eavesdrop on the call, union revolution promptly forgotten at the prospect of a new job.

“Hello, you've reached Yorozuya Gin-chan, how may I help you? Yes, a job? Right now? You're desperate? Of course, of course, that's what the Yorozuya are here for! What exactly…? Yes. Uh-huh. Uh-huh, of course, yes.” As he listens to the job details, Gintoki catches the gaze of his employees and does a fist pump in the air. Kagura and Shinpachi grin at him and return the gesture. “...Yes, just leave it to us! We'll be down there before you can blink!”

With that, he hangs up the phone, pushes back his chair and stands, grabbing his bokutou and slipping it into his belt with a smooth motion.

“Alright, people!” he says, turning around to look down at Kagura and Shinpachi. “We've been called and now we got a job to do. Tell me: Are the Yorozuya ready to put their all, to go beyond, plus ultra—"

Shinpachi sighs; of course they couldn't get away without referencing another anime. He hopes at least with fanfiction’s grey legality, they won't be sued or have to cop another lecture about copyright laws from Sunrise.

“—to deliver the best Odd Jobs service to our dear and valuable clientele?”

“Yes!” comes the enthusiastic response, Kagura and Shinpachi standing with straight backs bearing their pride and excitement as a true Yorozuya member.

Gintoki cups his hand over his ear, leaning forward. “I said, are you ready?!”

“Yes!”

A short, approving nod. “Alright. Yorozuya Gin-chan, move out!”

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, Books, 1: An eclectic library of dusty tomes, fictional textbooks, pocketbooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, booklets, leaflets and magical manuals. Paper leaves and the binding surrounding them can help define a character, kick off a subplot, fuel a fetch quest or simply serve as a generic macguffin. Commonly seen in video games such as Baldur's Gate, Neverwinter Nights, World of Warcraft and Skyrim, book items are a way to subtly world build while still handing out sellable loot. A wizard has a spellbook, a cleric has a holy text and now you have a trinket list.

A bestiary containing only several dozen different entries on one common animal, some of them offering mutually contradictory information.

A book of flumph grammar

A book of labelled “Magical Lore”, that contains a hollow interior compartment.

A book that gives you a powerful migraine whenever you try to read it. You are still unsure of what knowledge or story it holds.

A book that perfectly records the holder’s dreams when held while sleeping.

A book that you faintly remember from your childhood that you thought was lost for many years.

A book with a children’s fairy tale that change every time it is read.

A book with a harmonious mystery story, however whenever you turn the last page it takes you back to the middle of the story so you don’t know how it ends.

A botany book filled with dangerous misinformation.

A children’s storybook entitled “The Magic God’s Gifts”

 ---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Click Here for additional Book Descriptions to give these objects even more personality.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A bestiary containing only several dozen different entries on one common animal, some of them offering mutually contradictory information.

A book of flumph grammar

A book of labelled “Magical Lore”, that contains a hollow interior compartment.

A book that gives you a powerful migraine whenever you try to read it. You are still unsure of what knowledge or story it holds.

A book that perfectly records the holder’s dreams when held while sleeping.

A book that you faintly remember from your childhood that you thought was lost for many years.

A book with a children’s fairy tale that change every time it is read.

A book with a harmonious mystery story, however whenever you turn the last page it takes you back to the middle of the story so you don’t know how it ends.

A botany book filled with dangerous misinformation.

A children’s storybook entitled “The Magic God’s Gifts”

A dark book with an imposing black sigil on the front cover. Every page is completely blank and untouched.

A detailed guide on the anatomy of rocks, with graphic illustrations of how geodes are conceived

A detailed guide on the anatomy of rocs.

A detailed guidebook to making pickled foods.

A diary belonging to a pleasure slave.

A diary of a man who claims to have been cursed to forever walk the earth, the writer is unidentified and the last few pages are missing.

A diary of a notorious philanderer that contains useful information on how to dress yourself quickly in pitch darkness without making a sound.

A durable handbook which contains the epic poem, The All-Knowing Winter Gods’ Legend

A graduate student’s first published copy of their thesis “A Report on the Kingdoms’ Ideological Treaties”. The dedication is made out to her friends and family.

A graduate student’s first published copy of their thesis “Similarities in the Uncommon Areas of Habitation of the Troll and the Dragon”. The dedication is made out to all of his colleagues and hired guards who died during the research portion.

A guidebook to making, changing and maintaining bowstrings. It’s filled with grammatical errors.

A handbook of etiquette and the courtly manners of nobles of an empire that fell.

A heavily smudged handbook entitled “A Tactical Comparison of the Shortbow and Spear”

A holy text of The Blessings of the Infinite Birth God

A holy text of The Wisdom of the All-Knowing Summer God

A journal filled with poetry hand-written in Primordial.

A journal recounting a famous battle that contradicts what is commonly thought about the event. It was written by a great sage who claims to have been present.

A journal that details the great adventures of a hero no one has heard of, complete with vivid descriptions of nonsensical creatures and terms, all written in messy handwriting, but with impressive diction.

A large blank tome that seems to be missing most of it’s pages.

A leather bound book with pages showing in detail how drow and demons couple to create Draegloth, in graphic detail.

A muddy book with a single phrase repeated over and over: “The gravesoil never washes away”

A pocket book of dwarven poetry

A pocket instruction manual depicting bizarre fighting stances of leaping, spinning and holding weapons by the wrong end.

A portfolio of dried pressed flowers, along with taxonomy descriptions of them

A reference tome and organizational guide of an abandoned library.

A romance novel written in undercommon titled “Just one Layer of Grey”.

A seemingly untouched copy of “An Encyclopedia of the Forgotten Notables of the Earldom”

A seemingly untouched copy of “The Muscular System of Griffins: New Speculations”

A seemingly untouched copy of The Latest Research Into The Circulatory System of Chimeras

A slightly out of date guidebook to foreign inns, taverns, and transportation

A small book entitled “Path to Forgiveness”, edged in gold filigree. Inside, some pages have been cut away to insert a small gold ingot and a handwritten note, stating “As agreed, three more once Jarl Khoral is crow pickings.”

A small empty book wrapped in a red velvet covering, embroidered with a the sign of an open hand.

A small handbook entitled “A Discussion of the Origins of the Stiletto, Knife or Shoe?”

A small nickel edged book with a hummingbird motif lock. If successfully unlocked, the book contains hand written essays on avian husbandry and training by the reputable (and deceased) Falconer Kothmai.

A small notebook full of drawings and sketches of the local area.

A small prayer book, the cover is stained with an unidentifiable slime.

A small water-damaged book labelled ‘The Genealogy of the Walpo Family.’

A terribly written novel whose plot seems to match events that have happened in the reader’s life.

A theatre playbook from a performance where many of the audience died in a suspicious fire.

A thick book comparing and contrasting various stories of myth and legend in an attempt to discover what is and is not true, entitled “The Legendary Facts Concerning the Forest God”

A thick journal bound in grubby fur filled with awful, highly disturbing sorcerous ramblings.

A thick research tome entitled “The Subtle War God’s Sanctuaries”, which goes into great detail over the various locations, defences, staffing and purposes of the sanctuaries.

A thick tome containing a modern transcription of an ancient prophecy predicting that the highest of the land will fall when the sky cries blood.

A thick tome entitled “Personal Transformations for Mages, Volume 3”

A tome filled with cryptic writings, all in Common, but with confusing terminology.

A torn, warped copy of “Evard’s Poetry: 100 Poems for the Aspiring Prince”.

A torrid romance novel entitled “The Infamous Priesthood and the Protector Goddesses”

A translation guide for a fictional language.

A wizard’s journal, recounting the tales of many arcane experiments.

A wood bound copy of The Codex of Advanced Alchemy

An orcish phrasebook containing only variations of phrases which include the words: food, enemy, and fight.

My Journey Among the Merfolk, A Landlubber’s Adventure: A book bound in otter leather whose writing only appears when it is submerged in water.

The diary of a prison guard with half of the pages written in a strange cipher.

The journal of a philosopher, full of wise sayings and anecdotes.

Tongues and Their Reading: A pocketbook of flame identification, used to tell magical flames from natural ones and much more.

A heavily smudged handbook entitled “Halberds and Slings: A Tutorial to Variations Thereof”

A seemingly untouched copy of “Similarities in the Social Hierarchies of the Unicorn and the Cockatrice”

The first publication of a graduate student’s thesis “Unicorns’ Child-Rearing Habits: An Examination”. In the dedication the author thanks her friends and family but especially her long suffering romantic partner. She goes on to say how she will be retiring form the field of unicorn research in order to focus on becoming more “intimate” with her fiancé and they will be married and have the wedding consummated as soon as a sober enough priest can be located.

A copy of “Current Studies of Centaurs’ Integument”, bound in what appears to be horse hide.

A book entitled “The Uncommon Areas of Habitation of The Roc” which is the third volume in a series of ten.

A blood spattered veterinary textbook entitled “An Examination of Hippogriffs’ Sensory Systems”

An engaging and sharp witted series of bound essays entitled “The State’s Legendary Literary Conflicts”

An incredibly dry book entitled “Excretory System of the Ettin and the Cockatrice: Similarities”

A dog-eared copy of “A Revolutionary Discussion of the Manufacture of the Falchion”

A surprising well written and engaging arcane spell book entitled “A Necromancer’s Guide to Abjuration, Protecting the living with the Dead”. The author has managed to work in a few humorous anecdotes and words of wisdom which balances out the otherwise grim subject matter.

A book entitled “A Comparison of the Sleeping Patterns of the Hippogriff and the Sea Serpent”, which has been signed by the author.

A mage’s handbook entitled “The Peacetime Use of Revised Transformation”, which outlines the way in which traditionally combat oriented transmutation and transfiguration magic can be repurposed into civil engineering and public works projects.

A wood bound copy of “The Capitol’s Economic Famines”

A thick tome entitled “Regarding the Forgotten Prophets of the Territories”

An action and adventure novel entitled “The Agents of the Winter Goddess”

A sturdy travel book entitled “Prayers to the Infallible Snow God”

A cheap pulp handbook in a shoddy binding entitled “An Expose of the Territory’s Infamous Poets”

A large atlas entitled “The Major Charges of the Frontiers”. Opposing pages have historical and modern maps, allowing the reading to easily compare the changes in borders, cities and natural resources.

A seemingly untouched copy of “A Revolutionary Tutorial on the Development of Shivs and Crossbows”

A mage’s handbook entitled “Practice Summonings for Apprentices”, that seems to be mostly advice, rules and guidelines on what not to do, rather than how to actually perform a summoning.

A blood spattered medical textbook entitled “The Methods of Locomotion of Minotaurs”

A bound collection of blueprints and architectural sketches entitled “The Temples Built for the Omnipotent Wind Goddess”

A bound collection of stories that aims to dispel the mythos around tales of local adventures and focus on the facts of their tales. It is entitled “An Encyclopedia of the Minor Heroes of the City”

A heavily smudged handbook entitled “A Concise Discussion of the Variants of the Glaive”

A mage’s tome entitled “A Treatise of Evocation”, that seems to be an in-depth contrast and comparison on the varying types of violent magical force that can be applied to a myriad of common creatures and materials. The tome provides conclusions as to which type of destructive magic works best against which objects, as well as situations where alternate types of energy could be efficient. For example, against frozen or extremely wet stones (Including stone building foundations), fire spells can be used to great effect, as the stone cracks and shatters once reaching a certain temperature causing objects around it to take damage as well.

A mage’s tome entitled “The Codex of Basic Abjuration” which explains the methodology behind how protections spells work and how various magic decides what is and is not harmful to the protected creatures. It is apparent that at some point a large amount of work went into creating spells that would protect a creature from being harmed by fire while still allowing them to feel warmth.

A copy of “An Overview of Goblins’ Integument”, bound in what very well be goblin leather.

A quickly and shoddily made handbook entitled “An Examination of the Recent Religious Assassinations of the Kingdom” which weaves a vague and confusing web of conspiracy theories around the deaths.

A bound collection of blueprints and architectural sketches entitled “Sanctuaries of the Spring Goddess”

A small handbook entitled “Minor Stories of the Birth Goddess” which seems to be a collection of lessons, procedures, herbal concoctions and advice in the field of midwifery concealed as stories and fables.

A wood bound book entitled “A Comparative Evaluation of the Wood Axe and Battleaxe”, which is incredibly boring despite it’s sharp and violent subject matter.

A strangely thick tome entitled “A Brief Comparison of Battleaxes and Tridents” which goes into incredible detail on the two radically different weapons.

A bound collection of blueprints and architectural sketches entitled “A Study of the Famous Architects of the Empire”

A bound collection of blueprints and architectural sketches entitled “The Sanctuaries of the Eternal Woodland Goddesses”

A thick historical tome entitled “The Literary Annals of the Capitol”, which is the fourth volume in a series of ten books.

[harrisonkitteridge-blog]

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness.

Before Holmes Met Watson by Harrison Kitteridge

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness. Living out this paradox could be quite stressful. Obfuscation. Lies. Deceit. He had always been fascinated by people’s attempts to subvert the truth while living in a world in which there were cameras everywhere, constantly recording, sending everything back to The Archive, where anything governments or other powerful entities hadn’t obscured was searchable. Everyone could see everything, know everything about everyone else. “The Age of Transparency” was how the headlines had heralded The Archive coming online. Mendacity now took careful planning. Saying you were working late when you were really at a seedy motel rolling around on the bed with a colleague was a nearly impossible sell now. As were most forms of impersonation. The ubiquity of biometric readers employed to do everything from unlock doors to sign for packages meant most impostors quickly set off alarms when The Archive recognised someone was in two places at once. It had become so difficult to hide, and detective work was about uncovering concealment. The spotlights The Archive shone into people’s lives made Sherlock’s illuminating insights seem like a flickering candle, and he feared he was obsolete.

As a boy, Sherlock would spend hours upon hours neglecting his school assignments to browse the Personal Archive Files of strangers. He watched in fascination as the chain reactions of their ill deeds accelerated towards their explosive finales. All the evidence was there. The outcomes were predictable, yet the affairs, the embezzling, the betrayals always seemed to blindside the victims. They see, but they do not observe, Sherlock often thought. More damningly, they thought The Archive could do the observing for them. Everyone was watching everyone else all the time, so the misapprehension wasn’t wholly unreasonable. Nevertheless, it didn’t erase the simple consequence: Sherlock Holmes was a detective who almost never had any cases to solve. If you are what you do, what did it mean that he was constantly doing nothing?

#

John Watson was a doctor and a soldier. He lived and worked in a war zone. He saved the dying and on rare occasions had to pick up a gun and kill the living. He’d been trained well to do both. He preferred the former. There were moments when John was alone that it seemed to him his life was some sort of dream or even a simulation. War was terrible and chaotic and hellish. It was also thoroughly ludicrous. There was always something to do, though, and that left you with little time to realise that nothing made sense. The why of the fight was impossible to appreciate when you were in the valley of death. And when you stepped away far enough to look in at the mass slaughter, you realised the why was never good enough, and the true insanity was anyone thinking the depth of the suffering was justified. John struggled with the contradiction in himself: he was a healer and a killer. There was something he enjoyed about the risk of standing next to that yawning, dark abyss. He tried to ignore that part of himself and focus on the bit that spent exhausting hours in the operating theatre patching up the wounded. He thought of himself as a surgeon first, but his title belied that. Everyone called him Captain Watson.

Day One: Shopping

Adaptation. It is the driving force behind evolution. The species that is better adapted to its environment is more likely to survive. Humans are incredibly adaptable. We can adjust to almost any circumstance, survive nearly anything. John Watson pondered these things as he broke into a clammy sweat and hid behind one of the large potted plants lining the gleaming hallways of the mall. He’d adjusted to life in Afghanistan, to the gunfire, the bombs, the blood, the death. Calm in the face of chaos had become his default setting, and all this… peacefulness had his nerves singing and his pulse racing. He wished he’d thought to spend his leave in his hotel room and just have everything he needed delivered: food, spirits, companionship, but especially the items he’d promised to pick up for his mates stuck back in Kabul. He’d thought the novelty of going to one of the few remaining shopping centres would be a bit of a lark, but he hadn’t realised just how much he had changed. He’d always managed to take leave with friends he’d been deployed with, and without that familiar buffer he was flailing wildly and on the brink of a panic attack all because he was in a shopping mall that was too brightly lit and filled with civilians whose situational awareness rivalled that of a thick plank. He was beginning to get strange looks.

In another part of London, Sherlock Holmes was doing shopping of his own.

They claimed the stigma had been removed, but it hadn’t. He could see it in the eyes of the pedestrians who saw him make the left turn into the building; he could see it in the eyes of the staff. There was always a measure of contempt chased with a sharp spike of moral superiority. It was the pity that rankled him the most, though. But he kept coming to the Controlled Substances Dispensary because he knew the molar concentration of what he was getting down to four decimal places. The precision of it all provided a sort of comfort, although he found the blankness of the stark, unadorned white walls sinister – their cool inhospitality was quite deliberate.  He provided a retinal scan and was assigned a number. He’d long realised that no one liked to sit by the vents on the north side of the room, which blew arctic blasts in the summer and seemed to ooze positively equatorial humidity in the winter. It was early spring, so predicting the temperature was a bit chancier, but he took his usual seat directly under the openings and was shocked to find the problem seemed to have been repaired. A pleasant, gentle breeze wafted over him, and, as he watched a young man (early twenties, art student, hooked on some variant of methamphetamines) shamble towards him, he knew his day would go poorly.

“Nice day for it,” the art student said, smiling as he took the seat right next to Sherlock.

“Is it?” Sherlock replied, giving him a scathing look.

“I suppose not,” the young man said, recoiling slightly. At least he had the decency to take the hint and move a few seats away. Sherlock sighed in relief. He abhorred familiarity.

Back in the shopping centre, John had abandoned his cover and made his way into a supermarket. He’d picked up some chocolates and biscuits for his colleagues at the hospital and was consulting his list for what to buy next when he came to the fresh fruit section. He paused in front of what seemed like acres of bananas and stared. The sheer abundance of it all seemed preposterous to him. It’s all that unblemished yellow, he thought. He picked up a hand of seven and added it to his basket. He consulted his list again and headed off to find some authentic hot pepper sauce for his Jamaican anaesthetist.

Sherlock’s number was called, and he was ushered into the back room to receive his standing order. He’d never seen the woman manning the inventory before. She had brassy red hair and a nosy demeanour. He braced himself.

“Mr Holmes?” she asked, and her nasal inquiry made him want to throw things. Of course he was Mr Holmes. Hadn’t his number just been called? Hadn’t he just been escorted in?

“Yes,” he replied. He could hear the faint whir of the machinery retrieving his medicine and felt the blood in his veins pulse a bit faster. The vials popped up from beneath the counter.

“A bit strong, isn’t it?” the clerk said, examining one of the labels.

“I prepare the final solution myself,” he replied, reaching for the vials. She withheld them.

“And you’re allowed?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, clenching his fist. “I’m allowed.” He stared at her without blinking, and after several moments she handed him the vials.

“Would you like some syringes?” she asked.

“I have my own, and I don’t share,” he replied, tucking the vials into his coat pocket. Part of him didn’t like the profound sense of relief he received from feeling their slight weight set him ever so marginally off balance. But hearing them clink together, knowing he had them if he needed them set his mind at ease in a way nothing else could.

As Sherlock left the dispensary, he witnessed a strange phenomenon. In the distance, dark objects were falling from the sky. At first, he thought they might be delivery drones that had been clumsily hacked and were part of an inept terrorist attack, but they were the wrong size and shape. In addition, there were no wailing warning sirens, no people running, no screams. There was only an ominous silence that seemed to have swallowed the noise of the city.

John heard them smack into the pavement wetly before he saw them out of the corner of his eye. It took every ounce of his self-control not to yell “Incoming!” and dive into an improvised foxhole. But they weren’t bombs; they were birds, plummeting from the sky like giant black hailstones, already dead before they hit the ground.

“It’s raining crows,” a woman wearing a mauve dress stated as their small crowd stood and watched disbelievingly as the avian projectiles exploded as they hit the pavement, splattering blood and entrails astonishing distances. “It’s raining a flock of crows.”

“A murder,” John said mostly to himself. “That’s what you call a flock of crows.”

“I think they’re ravens,” a man said, grimacing at the carnage and flinching at each thudding splat. “They roost in the bell towers of some of the cathedrals and in the Tower of London.”

“What are they called?” a boy asked, pulling at John’s sleeve. “If crows are a murder, what are ravens?”

John looked down at the boy. He was slender to the point of breaking, white as milk, and something about the seriousness in his pale eyes and the wildness of his dark curls set John on edge. He reminded John of the stories of the Daoine Sith his grandmother had told him. The strange boy standing there looking like one of the faie, the dead birds, the constant prickle down his spine – it all seemed to augur ill, and suddenly he wished to be back in Edinburgh starting his medical studies. That’s when he’d been happiest. Hadn’t he? “An unkindness,” John finally answered, feeling compelled by the child’s unwavering stare. “They’re called an unkindness.”

Day Two: Gardening

It was dark, dank, and everything smelled of shit. But that was how you grew magic mushrooms, Sherlock mused to himself. Psilocybe Stantonia to be precise – powerfully hallucinogenic and highly in demand. They were the fungal equivalent of precious gems – more valuable than truffles even – and, while not strictly illegal, trading in them was a dodgy business. But dodgy businesses were Shinwell’s speciality, weren’t they? That and bare-knuckle boxing.

Sherlock Holmes had met Shinwell Johnson at The Ludus, an underground club dedicated to the pugilistic arts. It was a dark, cave-like, medieval sort of place with sawdust on the floor to soak up the blood and sweat. In the pits of The Ludus there were only two rules: no weapons, and you couldn’t kill anyone – it was too much bother to clear up the bodies. Oh, and there were no rounds; the bout ended only after one of the fighters couldn’t get up any more. Shinwell had grown up there, taking on his first fight at the age of sixteen. Twenty-five years later, he had seen every combination, every dirty trick, and the vastness of his experience more than made up for the slight slowing of his reflexes. He also still had a right hook that could drop a mule.

Sherlock’s first night at The Ludus had become the stuff of legend. According to Shinwell, he had “fooking swanned in like His Majesty, the King” and stunned the onlookers by requesting to fight in the open category. To keep the fights fair and the bets coming in, there were rough weight classes, and the organisers tried to match fighters by skill. In keeping with the spirit of the founding of the club, however, there remained the open category where you could fight any and all comers. Over time, it had supplanted the heavyweight class, but every now and then some arrogant sod swaggered in and received a spectacular thrashing. There were a flurry of bets on Sherlock’s fight, and when he stripped to the waist and revealed the track marks on his left arm, the odds against him surviving more than three minutes soared to 50-to-1.

Shinwell had objected on principle – an addict wasn’t in the proper state of mind to appreciate the consequences of the suicidal decision he was making. That, and he was obviously a toff. If he died, it would bring the filth. Shinwell had nearly come to blows with the bookmakers, and only his long history prevented him from being thrown out and barred. He looks made of marble, Shinwell thought as he observed the swathe of pale skin stretched over Sherlock’s thin frame. He’ll shatter at the first blow. Shinwell had watched in concern as Sherlock meticulously wrapped and taped his hands. At least he knows to do that much, Shinwell thought, some of his worry easing. As he watched Sherlock warm up and stretch, he began to wonder if he’d jumped to a parlously mistaken conclusion. Yes, the man needed feeding up, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and Shinwell recognised the camouflaged strength in his muscles and tendons that practitioners of kung fu called “iron wires”. But more than that, it was his economy of movement; there was a precision there that could only be the product of a disciplined mind. He began to shadow box, beginning with some simple combinations, and Shinwell choked on his chips. God, but his hands were fast. His strange, almost translucent eyes were clear and focussed, and there was something distinctly lethal lurking behind them. Shinwell had seen enough of them in his time to know: The man was a killer. Shinwell downed his pint, headed back over to the bookies and placed all of his night’s winnings on Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s opponent went by the moniker The Butcher, and he was a literal giant – enormous, thick-necked and notoriously able to absorb punishing blows. But he had grossly underestimated Sherlock’s speed, skill and strength. The quick combination that had The Butcher stunned then out cold before he hit the ground came after only thirty-five seconds. Shinwell had never heard The Ludus so quiet. Sherlock asked to fight again, and Shinwell let his substantial winnings ride.

The next bout remained one of the most beautiful fights Shinwell had ever witnessed. Sherlock’s adversary, a skilled mixed martial artist who called himself The Sword, was much more careful than The Butcher had been, circling Sherlock warily, trying to get the measure of the new phenomenon. Sherlock waited patiently until he had no choice but to attack, and Sherlock seemed to melt away only to surge back towards him, raining exquisitely placed blows to his vital organs. Shinwell almost wept at the elegance of the execution. Wherever The Sword went, Sherlock was there first. Can he read minds? Shinwell thought as he watched Sherlock sidestep a blow that would have at least glanced anyone else and viciously box his opponent’s ears. Shinwell knew how disorienting that ringing inside your head could be and was unsurprised when The Sword met his end.

Sherlock retreated to his corner seeming deaf to the cheers at his triumph. He was glistening with sweat and flushed, his dark curls nearly sopping wet. Shinwell was straight enough to calibrate a level, but he realised the enigmatic stranger could have nearly anyone in the room if he thought to ask, but he seemed uninterested in making any acquaintances. He had come alone and wasn’t celebrating what were thrilling victories that would be talked about for ages. He quickly cut the tape from his hands, towelled off and dressed. When he left, ignoring the many offers to buy him a pint, Shinwell followed.

Too many egos had been bruised and too much money lost for there not to be an attempt at retaliation. Sure enough, a group of The Butcher’s mates already had Sherlock cornered when Shinwell exited the building.

“Now, now, lads,” Shinwell warned. “No one likes poor losers.” There were enough of them to subdue someone of even Sherlock’s prodigious skill, but with Shinwell added to the mix, the odds had shifted out of their favour, and they wandered off muttering threats.

“I could have managed,” Sherlock said.

“Of course you could,” Shinwell replied. “There’s nothing like a good street brawl, though, is there?”

“I suppose not,” Sherlock said, something approaching humour entering his expression. At that moment, Shinwell Johnson decided to adopt Sherlock Holmes. He was an absentee parent, but Sherlock found he could count on him whenever another pair of fists were needed, and Shinwell actually had someone clever to consult about his schemes. That’s how they’d ended up covered in shit, harvesting mushrooms in a derelict greenhouse.

“How long will it take you to test them, then?” Shinwell asked.

“Most of the night,” Sherlock replied, looking at Shinwell’s thrice broken nose and scarred knuckles. All the abuse he had taken would soon tilt him towards a dilapidation that matched the disrepair of the greenhouse they had just been picking through. Sherlock turned away, wondering if he had caught a glimpse of his future.

#

Approximately 40,000 feet above, a military transport plane had just reached cruising altitude. One of its passengers was John Watson. He hated flying. He wasn’t frightened of it or anything; he just found it depressing. Shouldn’t there be some sort of teleporter that beamed you thousands of miles away in seconds? Or at the very least a hyperdrive that could complete the journey from London to Kabul in minutes not hours. What on earth were they doing on an aeroplane in this day and age? He sometimes wondered if they were part of the problem – he and his colleagues. Ready bodies to throw in front of the canons and pull the triggers made the decision to fight more palatable than it should have been, and violence and war thrived on fear. Fear is a powerful motivator, but it is also the destroyer of dreams. They’d stopped dreaming, hadn’t they? They lived perpetually crouched in a defensive position, their minds crippled by the uncertainty wrought by decades of instability.

Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, John rifled through his bag in search of something to eat. He was slightly overwhelmed by the variety of snacks he’d crammed into his baggage, but he managed to decide on some savoury crackers and a paradoxically firm but creamy new variant of White Stilton. He offered some of his meal to his neighbours, who gladly accepted in lieu of army rations. The crackers were crisp but not hard and flaked pleasantly on the tongue. The seasoning was well balanced if just the tiniest bit over-salted, and the cheese complemented it well. Some wine was in order, John thought in disappointment. Curious about the ingredients, he read the label as he bit into another cracker. Rosemary, thyme, and (yes!) that was a bit of dill. He didn’t have a sophisticated palate, but he grew up with a father who was an excellent cook, and his mother had kept a small herb garden in the back yard. John was often called to help with the weeding and harvesting. As light as the work had been, he had always complained.

“Johnny,” his mother would say. “I want you to always remember that we are connected to the soil. We have to respect it.” And she would plunge his hands into the wet earth and laugh as he grimaced.

He’d made her stop calling him Johnny when he was a teenager. It had seemed so important then. When his parents had left him at his dormitory that first day at medical college, their eyes had been shimmering, and his mother had embraced him. “I’m so proud of you, Johnny,” she’d said, ruffling his hair. He’d blushed and smoothed his hair down, embarrassed for his roommate to see him being coddled. The insane idiocy of youth: making people ashamed of being loved.

“I told you to stop calling me Johnny,” he’d said, not wanting her to leave but desperately needing to be out on his own.

“She’ll call you whatever she likes,” his father had said gruffly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Work hard,” he’d admonished.

“I will,” John had promised.

That was the last time he’d seen them. The accident had been so bad they’d had to close the caskets. Everyone told him he should have sued the automobile manufacturer and the company that had made the self-piloting software, but that would have meant reliving it all, thinking about them like that. He couldn’t have borne it. Someone else had brought the court case, and he’d eventually received part of the settlement. He gambled the money away over the course of a single weekend.

John had started an herb garden many times over the years, and each time neglect had caused the plants to wither and die. He lived a soldier’s life, and it censured the delicacy required to make things grow.

Day Three: Gifts

Besides the quaintness of the mode of transport, the thing John hated the most about flying was how shattered he always felt after a long trip. It didn’t matter if he’d had a good kip and drank his weight in fluids; he always got off the plane feeling disorientated, dehydrated and in the mood to punch things. It’s all that recycled air, John thought, blinking to try and moisten his arid corneas. Kabul was parched, and so was he.

John was taken aback by the immense relief he felt when he entered his stark quarters. The tightness in his chest had eased with each second he got closer to the base, and the sight of his cot, camp stove and canteen almost brought him to his knees. This temporary structure in the middle of a war zone, these humble necessities created more of a feeling of home than the country of his birth. Part of it was his comrades-in-arms. The smiles and warm greetings of “Captain Watson” provided succour he hadn’t quite realised he’d needed. There were people here who knew him, who valued him. There was also a bracing sort of comfort in how unequivocal the mortal threats that surrounded them were. Death comes to us all, but for most it was an abstraction. Its proximity removed some of the fear. John found there was a certain purity in living in purgatory. Afghanistan was filled with friends and foes bent on destruction; England was filled with strangers. John strongly preferred the former.

As news of his return filtered through the base, his surgical team, poker and rugby mates all dropped by to welcome him home with warm hugs and claps to his back. And this was his home. He could see that now. He swallowed over something tight in his throat and emptied his luggage onto his cot. He sorted through the gifts he’d brought back, feeling a bit like Father Christmas. Nearly all of them had asked him to see if he could find the sweets and biscuits that had been their favourites when they were children. John supposed it lessened the sense of insecurity somehow, brought them back to a simpler time, made massive problems seem solvable. A few bottles of spirits also made the rounds. Those were for a bit of fun over a game of cards or to obliterate even temporarily the memories of the particularly bad days when it seemed they’d wandered into hell itself and the Devil had everything turned up to eleven.

John could spin a good yarn when he was in the mood, and his recounting of his sojourn to the mall had his visitors in stitches. He left out the bit about the ravens, because it seemed like too ill an omen. None of the gathered were religious or superstitious, but imagery had the power to lower morale, and, as an officer, it was his duty to keep their spirits up, even if he had to sacrifice a bit of his pride and admit he’d been overwhelmed enough by his shopping expedition to take cover behind indoor shrubbery.

They all shared a bit of scotch, and John listened as they recounted what he’d missed. Thankfully, there’d been only a few minor skirmishes, and, while any single death was keenly felt, the days when the bodies (or what was left of them) had to be stacked like cords of wood were nearly impossible to manage.

A few hours later, John was on his own again. There was one gift left in his bag. Once he’d stumbled across the snow globe with the single, blazing red poppy inside it, he couldn’t leave it behind. He’d even taken the time to have it wrapped at the store. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the gift’s intended beneficiary to come and welcome him home.

#

Back in London, Sherlock had managed to wash most of the stink of excrement from him and was in one of the laboratories at St Bartholomew’s Hospital testing the potency of the mushrooms he and Shinwell had collected. Shinwell had a mate of a mate of a bloke who was flatmates with a mycologist. It was a convoluted history to which Sherlock had paid scant attention then routed away from his long-term memory. At the centre of the labyrinth was the claim that this particular variant of Psilocybe had been bred to produce enhanced psychedelic effects. Sherlock’s preliminary tests confirmed that the mushrooms consistently contained much higher levels of the psychoactive compounds than would be expected – enough to defeat the purpose of their creation. The dosage of psilocybin was well above what was ordinarily consumed and would almost certainly poison anyone who consumed them.

Sherlock thought of the greenhouse Shinwell had shovelled full of shit and where he had devoted hours to meticulously minding the spores he’d spent nearly his entire savings on to ensure they sprouted. He called the fruit his “gold nuggets” – they were meant to fund his retirement. There had to be hundreds of pounds of the things.

Shinwell was a good sort for a degenerate, Sherlock thought. They weren’t exactly friends, but there was a measure of trust and loyalty in their relationship that Sherlock felt bound to respect. If the mushrooms had to be scrapped, Shinwell would get spectacularly drunk and instigate a pub brawl, but the next day he would bounce back and find some other get-rich-quick scheme. He always did. But the mushrooms could be salvaged, Sherlock pondered, if instead of drying them and selling them as edibles, the psilocybin were extracted into some sort of tincture that would administer the correct dosage. A new delivery method would set Shinwell apart from his competitors and perhaps even allow him to charge a premium.

Sherlock sketched out some ideas for the extraction and began a rough first attempt at the procedure. In the lab next door, an exhausted graduate student had fallen asleep standing up and missed a crucial step in her experiment, which exploded. It was nothing catastrophic, but it was enough to startle Sherlock into knocking over his equipment and breaking some of his glassware. He cut his hand rather badly and sucked at the gash while he reached for paper towels to staunch the bleeding. He tamped down on the wound and looked for the first aid kit. He spent longer than he’d care to admit awkwardly using tweezers he’d hastily sterilised to remove the splinters himself. He was minutes away from the casualty ward of a major hospital, but he didn’t want to wait for hours to be seen for a laceration, which, while nasty, didn’t appear to need stitches.

After he cleared all the debris from the wound, he cleaned it thoroughly and bandaged his hand. As he replaced the first aid kit, he heard the sound of bees buzzing. How on earth had they found a way in? He turned around and saw an enormous swarm across the room, and his usual fondness for the creatures was supplanted by a deep fear. They were too large, he realised. They were the size of sparrows. They weren’t real.

“I’m hallucinating,” he said.

He was suddenly and violently ill, turning himself inside out vomiting. The extraction. When he’d cut his hand, some of the concentrated extract must have got into the wound. It was being delivered through his blood, and he’d ingested some of it when he’d sucked the injury.

The bees were coming.

There was someone laughing maniacally.

Was it him?

His heart.

He could feel it slowing down.

It would stop.

He would die.

He needed to speed it up.

The cocaine. It was still in his coat pocket. He needed a syringe. He managed to pry the first aid kit back open, sending its contents flying.

Everything was tinted hot pink, and the sound of the bees tasted like burnt roast.

What was he looking for?

He picked up some ointment and some tablets. No, that wasn’t right.

His heart. It was dying. That’s it: a syringe for the cocaine. He rifled through the mess on the floor until he found one. He crawled back over to his work station and pulled his coat down from the stool where he’d laid it. His hands were too big to fit in the pockets, which were filled with tiny crabs. He shook the coat upside down, emptying everything in his pockets onto the floor. The crabs scurried away, and he slithered on his belly on the floor, following the rolling vials across the room.

He ripped the syringe from its packaging with his teeth. His hands were too small to hold it properly. It told him to go away, that men with small hands weren’t to be trusted. He roared at it to be quiet and shoved its pointy mouth into the vial of cocaine, pulling up the plunger to fill its throat and choke it with the solution.

A vein. He had to find a vein.

He injected himself, felt his heart begin to race, stumbled out of the lab into the hallway and collapsed.

KEEP READING

[63824peace]

Friday, 18th of november 2005

I made my way from home to the train station about a month ago, and I came across a crow's carcass. People had just begun talking about the Bird Flu then.

Birds are cowardly creatures, and they also have premonitory powers. If you ever see birds flying away from some place, consider the sight a tip that something will happen there.

I sometimes see a variety of animals on my way to the office... a frog made 2D by some vehicle, or a mantis with a crushed abdomen, or a rat hit by a car. I never see crows though. Birds are also sensitive animals, so they rarely allow anyone to find their carcasses.

If you see a bird's carcass, then you can bet it's a pretty bad situation.

I observed the body, but I couldn't see any external injuries. Had it died of some disease? I wondered if it had suffered a new type of virus. I felt scared.

I had encountered the carcass in a shoulder-breadth alley that I take as a shortcut to the station. Because of the thin space, I couldn't just step around it. I could only hold my breath and walk over it.

I worried about it later that day, so I took the same alley on my way home. Someone had removed the carcass.

What had that been all about? I've thought about it off and on for the whole month.

"All right--we need to take your temperature before you get your shot."

The nurse's voice snapped me back into the present moment.

"Please record your temperature on this pre-exam questionnaire."

The nurse indicated a blank space on the form with her pen. She roughly handed me a clinical thermometer and the questionnaire. "I'll call you when you're done," she said before disappearing into the hallway.

I put the thermometer under my armpit, and the glass chilled my skin. I felt somewhat reflective.

I looked at the sofa in front of me and noticed the woman sitting there. She looked like an office lady. Both of us wore idle expressions and pressed our arms against our bodies.

She must have noticed me too. She looked across the hallway that separated us, and our eyes met while we both hunched over to take our temperatures.

For some reason I felt awkward and uncomfortable.

We heard an electronic noise. "Pi! Pi! Pi!"

She looked at her thermometer, then recorded her temperature on the questionnaire. The nurse reappeared noiselessly, as though she had been watching everything.

"OK, please come this way."

The woman rose and allowed the nurse to lead her. I continued to take my temperature alone.

I stood in a curved hallway situated on the sixth floor of the Roppongi Hills Clinic. I wasn't sick, though; I had come for my flu inoculation.

You wouldn't have expected more than a few people there. Vaccinations cost about 5000 yen because insurance doesn't cover them, and I was there pretty early in the morning. Nonetheless, people crowded inside the clinic. I don't recall that it was nearly so crowded this time last year.

The current flu vaccine isn't a live sample -- they inject the virus dead into our bodies. While we have no guarantee that the vaccine will work, most illnesses are psychosomatic. The person's spirit decides his health.

Still, we don't lose anything by getting vaccinated. I decided to do this two years ago, back during the SARS hysteria. I've gotten vaccinated every year since.

"Pi! Pi! Pi!"

My armpit thermometer signaled its conclusion. I slowly removed and looked at it. The digital reading flashed 36.2ｰ Celsius.

Huh... that's a little high for me. I had a slight fever. I usually carry a temperature around the lower ranges of 35ｰ C, and sometimes it gets as low as 35ｰ C on the mark. Whenever my temperature exceeds 36ｰ C, I know that I'm a bit feverish. When it gets to 38ｰ C, then I become dizzy and can't stand. The Department of Internal Medicine takes my temperature before every consultation appointment, and I'm bound for a troublesome consultation when my temperature exceeds 36ｰ C.

The doctor will start to talk about symptoms and ask, "Do you have a fever?"

I'll usually say, "I have a slight fever. I'd like some antibiotics."

The doctor will usually respond, "From a strictly medical point of view, you don't have a fever unless you're over 37ｰ C."

I recorded my temperature on the questionnaire, and the nurse led me into the consultation room. She left and then returned the form after a doctor had checked it.

"It looks like there's no problem. The doctor has authorized the vaccination. Sign here please."

I signed the paper before I even had the chance to tell her about my slight fever.

"All right. Time for your shot." She injected the needle into my upper left arm. She proceeded methodically, as though she were following a manual. "No strenuous physical exertion today, no alcohol. You can bathe, but don't irritate your arm."

I considered mentioning the crow in the alley from a month ago, but I decided not to bother her since she's a nurse. Today I can neither swim nor have a drink... that saddens me.

The vaccine began to circulate throughout my body. An antibody will develop inside me within two weeks, according to my immune system's antigen-antibody reaction. Human bodies are built pretty tough. I heard that the antibody should last up to three or four months.

I suddenly recalled the final scene in War of the Worlds, when the aliens died from a cold virus. I guess that living with viruses isn't all bad.

OOOO Training and the release events for both MGA2 and Subsistence will keep us busy right through December. I have to get development into full swing on MGS4 and the new PSP project, as well as draw up next year's management plans. I've got to give some lectures outside the company, and there's also studying and training... I don't have time to lie bed-ridden with a cold. I also don't want to bring any outside germs home to my family.

I ate Sanshoku-don for lunch today at the restaurant Sakana Sushi(Ko-Sushi). I didn't have to wait in line today.

I passed by the smokers' booth on my way back from lunch. They have recently installed it along Roppongi Street. It's a smoking box put there for smokers, and its sides are all made of glass.

A sign atop the box read, "Smoker's Style." They removed the smoking section on the passage between the buildings over there, so perhaps they put in the box to makeup for it. I never see anyone smoking inside though... at least not during the day.

Is it supposed to look like a kind of futuristic attraction booth? I can also see it as a kind of street performer's stage. Do smokers feel awkward when they're seen from outside? I suppose that no one cares what he looks like after a few evening drinks, but they should have at least made the outside reflective.

I didn't see many people at the Cold Stone Creamery, so I stopped by with Kenichiro. I chose the most popular flavor, Strawberry Shortcake Serenade. I ordered mine in a cup today. The cone that I had last time gave the whole thing too much substance.

I've been there three times now. In order, I've had Our Strawberry Blonde, Berry Berry Berry Good, and Strawberry Shortcake Serenade. Each tasted delicious. They all share the same base flavor, so they all tasted pretty similar. I'll try something with chocolate next time.

I pulled up a seat at the front of the shop while I ate. The wind blew too coldly to sit outside.

I thought for a bit and realized that I hadn't heard Cold Stone's specialty clerk chorus since my first time there.

"What happened to the song?"

Kenichiro heard my plaint while he filled his mouth. He had lived in Hawaii until last year, so he's the Cold Stone Creamery specialist.

"When we leave tips in Hawaii, they show their gratitude by singing."

I see... but we don't often leave tips in Japan. I suppose they won't sing here then. The song should have been a service for the opening day alone.

I had almost thought my last on it, and then I heard the clerks' chorus ringing from within the shop. I leaned over to look inside, and I saw the clerks all singing their song.

"Now they sing. What do we need to do to make them sing?"

I hadn't seen what had prompted their song, but I suspected that it involved the contribution box sitting beside the cash register. Do they sing if we drop contributions into it? That's probably the case, though a contribution differs from a tip. Was it a tipping box, perhaps? I'll try that next time.

We made our final adjustments to the OtaClock this afternoon. It is complete at last.

We pronounce the OtaClock's name "OtaKurokku" -- but that doesn't mean it's a rock band (Rokku)! The name refers to Otacon's desktop clock that he invented for use on his personal computer. It's the same clock that had a cameo on Otacon's monitor during the TGS trailer for MGS4.

I'm sure that our well-versed MGS fans will recognize the icon. It's the same one that appeared during MGS2's Tanker Chapter, when Snake sent Otacon the digital photographs.

Omori revised the original Otacon sprite made by Nakkan, who was our pixel artist back then. Omori really exhibits Ota-damashii!

Our staff loves the OtaClock. The program features functions for time, alarm, calendar, and size adjustment.

All KojiPro staff members received it at the end of TGS. They've checked and debugged it until now by actually using it on their computers. It took a long time to finish because they gave a lot of feedback. They suggested ideas for improvement, along with other observations that came to them while they used it.

Soon we'll deliver the OtaClock to our audience. You'll always have Otacon around with this.

Look forward to it!

I had eagerly anticipated homecooking at the end of the week, so I called my wife to learn what she planned to cook. She told me the menu -- shellfish! She said that dinner would consist mostly of seafood!

"I can't eat that!"

So I ate Baikourou-men alone at the restaurant Yokaro. On my way there, I saw Murashu and Ryusako standing in line at the Cold Stone Creamery. I wonder what they ordered. The place was much more crowded than it had been at lunch.

I returned to the office and entered the glass room. I wrote and signed little notes to give as presents along with MGA2.

I'll present about fifty copies of MGA2 as gifts. I wrote about my latest news and well-being, and I also communicated my immense gratitude to so many people... those related directly with the game, and others in the gaming, film, and publishing industries.

I'll be pretty tired of these when Subsistence comes out. I'll have several hundreds to write then. Nonetheless, I enjoy these moments most of all. I want as many people as possible to enjoy our games.

I continued writing the notes with that thought in mind.

I relish my time to thank people when we complete a game, even though it only happens once every two or three years. Thankfully I don't need to tell them how good they've done developing the game -- the game itself will reveal that much.

Here's the extent of their debriefing: "I have created this game. Please enjoy playing it. Hideo Kojima."

I heard the AC!D team's applause in the evening. They had received the news that development had been completed. KojiPro celebrates these times simply, with champagne. We toast to our children's future in the studio, and afterwards everyone shares a few more drinks outside the office.

We'll hold our official celebration party later. We can share today's joy only with our colleagues. It may sound harsh, but we can't properly share these feelings with our families or lovers.

As I thought about this, I happened to look at the poster in my booth. My eyes settled on an illustrated crow -- one of MGA2's motif signatures. Then I remembered the alley crow and my vaccination.

We didn't have any champagne in the office, so the staff ran out to get some. I couldn't drink because of my morning inoculation. I whispered into Okamura's ear: "I can't drink tonight, so I'll slip out before anyone notices."

"But they're on their way to get champagne right now."

"If I start drinking, I won't be able to stop."

"Understood."

I took my bag, slipped out of the KojiPro offices, and in the elevator hall I happened to cross paths with the staff that had left for champagne.

When I got home, I only drank one glass of chu-hai.

Kanpai! Three cheers for the young staff and our children!

I dreamed of a crow in the early morning hours.