#hence his reaction

[arcxnumvitae]

So if you're not close with the gentry and you didn't form any bonds during your...hiatus, do you have any friends Your Majesty?

@thewolfisawake || Ask my Muse about their relationships with other Muses!

Rub it in his face, why don't you?

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Conceal, don't feel, don't let it show.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[marvey-sideblog]

[breadandblankets]

Duke such a talker and its one of my favorite things about him, his narration is long winded and uses so much philosophical language, his verbal speech isn't as bad as other notorious talkers (Dick, Jason, and Steph come to mind) but he is Still talkin

he has so much to say (for himself, for his profession, for his community) and i love him so much for it

[pinkinsect]

<-

canon-atypical emotional vulnerability

[rawbin-hsr]

Aventurine x reader

You die.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

TW: DEATH, heavy angst, gore, blood, kind of disturbing, a bomb explodes, derealisation/disassociation, graphic, I'll be so honest this fic is kind of fucked up

Lmk if I should add any more specific warnings!

If you're sensitive to violence and dark themes, you probably shouldn't read this.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

This mission had gone terribly awry. 

It was only meant to be a routine checkup. The IPC was planning on allocating resources from this planet, something the locals had not been pleased about. Aventurine understood. He would not be particularly happy to have his planet drained of all that made it worthwhile either. (He had not been happy. But all things considered, he thought he was being generous. Nobody was being directly killed, the IPC merely wanted a cut of the many materials the planet offered. The Avgins on Sigonia had all been very intentionally exterminated. He was not doing that to these people.)

Still, he couldn’t afford to take risks, hence the many IPC assigned bodyguards he had brought along. Deals like this, where the clients were undeniably on the losing end, were bound to go wrong in one way or another. Often violently so. 

He just had not expected the bombs. He had not expected the mass amounts of guns. The people were more capable and vengeful than he had assumed, then. Ultimately, it was his own fault.

Most of his goons were dead. Most of the government officials were dead too. It made sense they’d want to go out in such a loud and proud way. A declaration to their people they wouldn’t lay flat before the otherworldly corporation that had come to essentially take away what made their planet their home. Bold to be ready to kill so many of their own, but he could respect it. 

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be very angry. It was fair, all things considered. He’d had this long coming; being killed by the people whose lives he was ruining. In their positions, he’d love to kill him, too. The only issue was that this hadn’t happened under normal circumstances. 

No, you were with him. You’d been just a bit away from him when they opened fire, when they set off the bomb. 

It was so stupid. It was so, so unbelievably stupid that he’d let you come with. It was your job, yes, but he should have reassigned you to some other mission. Something safer. Something that didn’t involve visiting planets to drain them of all their worth. Something that didn’t bring about rage from the clients. 

He could see you. He’d been saved from the brunt of the impact, and his luck had once again protected him from serious harm. He had only been slightly grazed by a bullet, had only been slightly burned by the heat of the explosion. Nothing serious. Nothing he couldn’t walk off within a week or two. You had not been so lucky. 

Your arm was outstretched over your head, body lying limply on the floor. Missing the other arm. There was only a gaping, red hole where it had once been attached to your body, a little bit of bone sticking out of the gory mess. The blown off hand with your engagement ring lay close enough to him that he could touch it. Maybe intertwine his fingers with it for the last time. The pinky was missing.  

He pushed himself onto his feet on unsteady legs. He could barely feel his own body at all. One glance down at it told him he’d been right in his initial assumption, though. No parts of him were missing. He was intact. 

He stumbled over to where you lay, your expression calm, almost peaceful. No pained pinch between your brows, no worried frown on your lips. Were you unconscious, or were you dead? Though he knew it was unlikely you’d leave this place alive either way, he hoped desperately for the former. 

He fell to his knees next to you. Something was buzzing beneath his skin. Something was buzzing in his vision. Had the world always been so blurry? Had there always been such a loud noise ringing in his ears? His hands trembled as he carefully reached out, a hand tenderly cupping your cheek. Your face was red, slightly burnt in places. Your hair was singed. You felt hot to the touch. 

No, not hot. Warm. Warm as in alive. He couldn’t hear you breathing, but warmth meant life. Warmth meant life. You were alive, surely.

He brushed his thumb under your eye. Tried to find something to say, but he found his mouth refused to open. Carefully, so carefully, he shifted you onto his lap. He stared at the dust from all the debris that had settled onto you. He couldn’t breathe. 

(He thought back to a time when the dust had been sand. He thought back to the red that had painted the ground then as it did now. He thought back to another body he had pulled closer, with hands much smaller and weaker than the ones he had now. He thought back to the taste of salt as tears fell in an endless stream from his eyes to cover his face and hers.)

He moved his free hand to your neck, gently pressing a finger to where he knew he was supposed to find your pulse. It wasn’t there, but only because he wasn’t searching hard enough. He carefully felt around, and though he couldn’t find it, he knew it was still there. He just didn’t dare press down hard enough to find it. The same applied when he felt your wrist. He was just bad at finding things today. 

(He stupidly hadn’t found a good enough reason to put you out of this mission. He stupidly hadn’t found anything that happened before the explosion suspicious enough to leave early. He stupidly hadn’t found his way next to you quickly  enough to save your life.)

When his hand landed on your chest, absent of a heartbeat, tears started falling from his eyes. But why was that? You weren’t dead. In fact, the longer he looked at you, the more sure he became this couldn’t be you. Your skin wasn’t this hot. Your arms were both still attached. You did not have fresh burns covering your face. Most importantly, you were alive. Alive and well and happy and safe from this little mishap. He had misremembered, you had stayed home during this mission. The hand he’d been so sure belonged to you had been someone else’s, he’d merely mistaken the ring for yours. It was such a bland ring, after all. He’d have to buy you a new, much prettier one once he came home to you, and apologise for his oversight in giving you such a boring design. 

He ignored the repeated whispers of ‘not again, not again’ going through his head. Nothing was happening ‘again’. This was not Sigonia. This was not a person he loved, or even knew. He couldn’t understand why his body curled over the stranger’s, sobs wracking his frame as he pulled them close, soft apologies tumbling from his mouth. He nuzzled his face into your- their hair, hand carefully cradling the back of their head as the other supported their back. 

The body smelled like you. The body felt too similar to yours in his arms. The body had your face, even if your features were a little damaged. The longer he stared, the more he could feel his gut sinking. So he shut his eyes and reminded himself that there was no possible way this was you. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. The universe would not be that cruel to him, would it?

Then again, maybe he had deserved this. If it was real. He was not a good man. He had not come to this planet with good intentions. Losing the thing most precious to him, the only thing precious to him, after taking away so much from so many others was a befitting punishment. 

But you hadn’t deserved this. Wouldn’t have, if it was real. You were so kind and generous and perfect and lovely, so different from him, so different from the position your job wanted you to be. You didn’t deserve to die. 

Die. Dead. 

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

You were dead. 

(Aventurine had seen so much death in his life. He should have been used to it by now. He was used to it. He had just forgotten how much it hurt when it is someone he loves.)

He held you tighter. If he held you tightly enough, could it piece you back together? If he held you tightly enough, could he replace the parts of you that were missing with his own? The sobs that escaped his lungs were violent, and quickly, some morphing into gagging. He felt sick. He had to turn himself away from you briefly to throw up, not wanting to soil what was left of you further, before he desperately held you again. Would it be the last time he held you?

Maybe if he took you back to the ship quickly enough, something of you could be salvaged. Maybe he couldn’t piece you back together, but he could find someone who would. There had to be something he could do. This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t lose like this again. 

He could barely stand. His body was already weak and your added dead weight made it even harder to balance. He picked up the parts of you strewn about on the ground he could quickly spot. Your hand, your shoulder, what he thought might be your bicep. He couldn’t find your forearm and he didn’t have time to properly search for it. Maybe someone could put all of you back together? Maybe you’d be whole again. He wanted you to be whole again. 

(He couldn’t save his people. He couldn’t save his mother. He couldn’t save his sister.)

(But things had to be different now, surely. He was a different person now. He had power, he had wealth, he had everything. What would it all be good for, if he couldn’t save you?)

Other IPC personnel met him outside the building as he stumbled out, and Aventurine’s mind was so hazy he couldn’t make sense of anything that was happening. He was pretty sure his own, now dead, workers had sent a distress signal. People rushed in to find anyone else from the wreckage. After, Aventurine found out he was the sole survivor. (He always was.)

(You had not survived.)

He demanded you be taken into surgery. That the medical staff on board had to get you to breathe again. For some reason, they had been hesitant. He threatened to have them fired or killed if they didn’t get to it. He set you as first priority, putting the best doctors they had on hand to work on you. 

They sewed you back together as best as possible at his insistence. They got your heart pumping blood again, they hooked you up to machines and forced your lungs to breathe. The surgery lasted for four hours.

It did not change the flatline on the screen signalling your brain activity. 

He could find the best doctors in the whole galaxy, but he already knew the line would remain flat. Nothing was bringing that back.

He stared at you for hours after your surgery. Interlaced his fingers with yours, feeling the artificial warmth of your hand. It did not feel like you. The temperature was wrong. The look on your face was wrong. Your body was wrong. Everything about what remained of you was wrong. 

He eventually laid his head on your chest, and then he cried.

He cried until the black spots in his vision grew so numerous he could no longer see, until everything faded and he could no longer hear the beeping and humming of the machines keeping you hollowly alive. 

(Why did he ever let himself love again?)

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Sorry that was messy I wrote everything today because I am con-crunching tomorrow and won't be available for like at least 3 days after this (usually I write over the span of multiple days so I can re-read for grammatical/spelling errors and so my language will be a little more varied + I get fresh ideas). Sorry this fic was ?? kind of messed up ??? I think ??? I think my perception of what's messed up and not is kind of weird (I grew up on warrior cats HELP.) so to me it didn't feel that fucked up to write about Aventurine literally picking up your body parts after you died but I've realised upon mentally summarising that part of the fic that maybe that was kinda horrific. Just a glimpse into my twisted mind heh 😈.... sorry

My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3

[r0tt1ngr4bb1t]

What has He seen that We haven't 😔

Bonus :3

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 23

ohhh baby we back in it now

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

byakuya pov finally

bonus headcanon coming into play here: byakuya being Wasian

shoutout @digitaldollsworld for helping me conceptualize byakuya's mom! both of us are Sick about her

Content warning tags: wall-punching, grieving/mourning, unreality (dreaming)

< previous - from start - next >

There’s a woman standing in his office.

Byakuya stands behind the cracked-open doorway, peeking through - though, part of him does rile up with the indignity of having to spy into his own office - at the intruder, standing in front of his desk, back facing the door.

He can’t see her face. But he can see her flax-yellow hair, tied back with a wrinkled, silken scarf that’s probably the most expensive thing she’s wearing. Her cotton jumpsuit is so stained and faded that hardly any of the original blue is still there. Her canvas shoes are discolored with mud.

She would look more out of place, if the shabbiness of her hadn’t seeped into her surroundings. The carpet is splattered with crusted clay, and shards of stone stick out of the plush threads like thorns. The mahogany surface of his desk is creaking and bent under the weight of a large cube of fleshy, white marble, splintering under the lacquer.

As he watches, she lifts her bare hands - ugly, roughened, thickly muscled fingers, nails cracked and filthy - like a conductor before an orchestra. She pauses, head tilted like a bird, thinking, and Byakuya inexplicably finds himself holding his breath; and then, she places her palms against the stone.

The surface of it warps and distends beneath her touch, first like a swollen balloon, and then like clay, twisting and following her hands like a swimming fish. And he watches, fascinated despite himself, as she bends and shapes it, twisting pieces off, smoothing edges down. She pinches out a piece in the middle for a nose, smoothes down a sharp edge for a sloping curve of a cheek, flicks her nail sharply beneath the brow to pull out a crease for an eyelid.

It’s magic. In seemingly no time at all, there on his desk is a bust; the head of a man brought to life, caught in a soft, gentle expression. The sculptor pauses, and steps backwards to take in her work.

There’s something reverent about it, and Byakuya suddenly has the feeling that he’s witnessing something not meant for him to see.

But he creaks the door open slightly more to get a better look, finding it strange how he was more curious than angry, even despite the intrusion. As he approaches, the bust’s eyes suddenly flick towards him, and immediately the serenity is replaced by a solemn, pinched brow, the smile replaced by a severe slash of a frown. And Byaukuya realizes he recognizes this face.

The marble-wrought head of Kijo Togami is sitting on his desk, scowling at him.

“Byakuya?”

He turns to the woman. She’s facing him now, though she has no face to speak of - it is blurred and unfocused, like a distant background character of an impressionist oil painting, the features mere shifting smears against a flat plane - but he knows her. He knows her.

“Byakuya,” She repeats, the syllables awkward on her tongue. She’s speaking French, and she sounds distant. Muted, underwater. But her voice still has the same, oddly musical quality to it that he remembers, making everything she said sound like a lullaby. “Bijou. Did I not tell you to stay out of my studio?”

Her studio?

“This is my office.” He protests back. He can’t tell if he’s speaking Japanese or not; every word feels clumsy and foreign, like he’s just learned how to talk. “What are you doing here, Mother?”

She just sighs. Shakes her head, her featureless face. There’s no anger in it, no loving exasperation either; just a neutral disapproval of his presence. His unwanted existence in her space. “Bijou,” She says again, and the nickname irritates him. A sweet-sounding endearment that was ultimately empty, a placeholder for her to refer to him by, because his own name was too clumsy to speak with her accent. “When did you become so grown? When will you stop being so cold?”

The stone Kijo Togami is still frowning at him. In this instant, both the man he calls ‘Father’ and the woman who had birthed him - one painfully-detailed stone, the other indistinct flesh - stand before him. One silent and forever displeased, the other sweet but hollow-sounding and entirely uncaring that they shared any blood at all.

“How strange it is, that you look so much like me,” She sighs, raising a hand to his face. He flinches away from it, the sandpaper sharpness of her palms, the filth that stains the creases of her skin, the heat that comes off of it like a kiln. “And yet, you are so much like him.”

—

He wakes up with a gasp, eyes snapping open.

He’s greeted with the pitch darkness of his ceiling, cut through with a thin slash of white from his bathroom light, streaming through the cracked-open door. A reminder he had taken to preparing for himself before he went to bed, that his eyes were still there, and he sighs and presses a palm to his chest as he stares up at it. Feeling his heart pounding beneath his fingertips, then slowing, in time with his breaths.

A dream. He can’t remember the last time he dreamed so vividly, but he had been subjected to some unpleasantly…shocking events the last few days (he won’t call them traumatic, he’s witnessed far worse in his life). The details of the dream are already slipping away as he tries to recall it, like sand between his fingers. It’s hardly important.

He lies in bed a moment longer, trying to see if sleep will come, but even with the adrenaline fading he’s wide-awake. Annoying, but not surprising, considering how he had spent much of the day before napping in short, fitful bursts. He pushes himself upright, reaching under his pillow for his handbook; may as well make use of the time.

The clock on his handbook reads: three AM. His neglected stomach gurgles as he squints at the dim glow of the screen, and he sighs. He hasn’t eaten since Celeste’s little tea party the day before, and he might as well go to the kitchen now. There likely wouldn’t be anyone wandering around to disturb him. And with Ishimaru gone, there was no one left to seriously uphold the nightly curfew; he drags himself out of bed with a grunt, grabbing his bathrobe off the end of his bedpost as he goes.

He’s not expecting the trap that he finds when he opens the door, however. The first step he takes past the threshold is accompanied by a loud, startling crunch, and he jumps backwards, just barely stifling a shriek. He throws his hand against the light switch, digging it into his palm as he flicks in on, and at once the yellow glow streaming from his room illuminates the something round, brown, and somewhat deflated sitting in the hallway.

For a moment, he thinks it's some kind of rodent, dead and trodden under his foot. But closer inspection reveals it to be packaged bread, only slightly crushed in its plastic wrapper. There’s no note, but he can guess who the offering is from.

He sighs, picks it up by the corner, and tosses it behind him towards his trash can as he leaves.

The hallways are dim, and almost silent if not for the dull hum of the school’s inner machinery. The whoosh of air conditioning, the muffled clang of pipes. None of the construction that Hagakure had reported days ago, not even when he strains his ears.

But he does catch the quiet murmur of conversation as he passes the bathhouse, and he pauses, staring at the light that streams from behind the curtain, the quick-flicker of shadows moving from inside.

“It wasn’t your fault!”

He freezes, standing just outside. That was Chihiro’s - no, Alter Ego’s - voice. 

“I know Master wouldn’t resent you.” It continues, earnest and bright. “And based on my data…I don’t think Kiyotaka would blame you either!”

“But it was my fault,” Mondo’s voice is strained and hollow, grieving still. “If I hadn’t left them alone - if I’d tried to just talk to him -”

Byakuya shifts slightly. He doesn’t want to be here, to have to witness Mondo’s continued breakdown. He still hasn’t forgiven the other boy, but having to see him stuck in the depths of misery was…unpleasant. And he’s not so petty to want retribution while the target of his ire was in such a state.

He tiptoes past, giving the bathhouse entrance a wide berth. From inside, he hears more indistinct voices, one low and gravelly from crying, the other electronic and gentle. And then-

“Brother, what are you looking so down for?” This one was new, but chillingly familiar. Loud and overeager and belonging to someone who was supposed to be dead. “You-”

Crash.

The sound of crunching metal. In the quiet of the hallway, it’s as loud as an explosion, and it makes Byakuya jump. Before he can reconsider, he’s sprinting into the bathhouse, throwing aside the curtain.

It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing. Owada is standing, partly-hunched, one hand punching against the wall of lockers hard enough to warp the thin metal door. Someone is standing beneath him hands raised in self-defense - it takes Byakuya a moment to recognize that it’s Makoto, dressed in the white and dark blue of his pajamas, lacking the signature green of his jacket - and from somewhere behind Makoto, there’s a dim, neon-green glow, and a confused, worried voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-!” 

“Don’t do that,” Owada snarls, drowning out Alter Ego’s stuttered apology. The locker door rattles where his fist is pressed into it. “Don’t just- wear his face, don’t you dare-”

“M-Mondo, it didn’t mean to! It was just trying-” Makoto breaks off, apparently noticing Byakuya. “B-Byakuya-?!”

Byakuya was immediately beginning to regret his decision to involve himself in the first place. “What is going on here?” He demands, crossing his arms and glaring imperiously.

Instead of replying, Owada pulls away, withdrawing his hand and retreating to slump over on the bench, despondent and unresponsive once more. Makoto twitches, turning between Owada, then Alter Ego, and back to Byakuya. “Um…”

“It’s not their fault!” Alter Ego pipes up hurriedly, its voice echoing tinnily from inside its locker, and Byakuya could feel a corresponding vibration from the handbook tucked in his shirt pocket. “It seems Mondo wanted to ask me a question, and Makoto was just helping to convey that-”

“I don’t care.” He snaps, and Alter Ego falls silent. “Neither of them are supposed to be here in the first place, and especially not after hours. Are the two of you trying to draw Monokuma’s suspicion? Endanger Alter Ego?” Makoto flinches a bit at that. Owada doesn’t even move. “Don’t you care about getting out of here at all?”

He’s not really expecting a reply, so he’s surprised when Owada speaks up. “ ‘Course not.” He rasps, so low and hollow that it was like he was speaking from the depths of a pit. Or maybe he was the pit, swelling with black-matter misery. “I…don’t care about anything anymore.”

Well. That’s to be expected. But even despite that, he finds himself a bit rattled. He’s been at the receiving end of anger, venom, screaming anguish and even vehement hate at this point. But this emptiness Owada is exhibiting was new; It seems like this school is insistent on teaching me new things, he thinks, and feels his lip curling up with the bitter irony.

“So you’re content to waste away? Throw away that anger that you were so proud of?” He raises a scathing eyebrow. “Go ahead and do that, then. I won’t stop you. But at the very least, spare the rest of us the dramatics of your little episode.”

“Byakuya!”

He twitches a bit, irritated. Makoto’s voice is shrill despite being hushed, and laced with anger; he’s standing stiffly next to Alter Ego’s open locker, hands trembling at his sides.

“What, Makoto.” He snaps, and only belatedly realizes that this was the first time he’s actually spoken to the other boy since the trial; in his irritation, he went and broke his own self-imposed vow of silence against him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but doesn’t immediately shrink away either at the acidity of Byakuya’s tone. If anything he stands up a little straighter. “It’s only been a day since…you know.” He says, and his words are slow and careful, meticulously chosen. Like he’s in a trial again, trying to soothe skittish tempers - though Byakuya feels the exact opposite of ‘soothed’ by it - “Mondo asked to talk to Alter Ego. I went with him. It got a little heated-”

“A little? Is that what you call this?” He points at the locker next to his head; the one that Mondo had punched, the dent a clear, dark blotch of shadow in the middle of the flat green surface.

“That -” Makoto winces slightly. “We weren’t really expecting-”

“No, clearly not. And not thinking either, I imagine.”

“I-”

“I suppose safety and logic took second priority over trying to be helpful, hm? Since that’s all that’s important to you?” He’s not sure where these words are coming from, filled with acid. But it feels good to talk, to spit out every miserable thing that he’s feeling, that he’s felt because of Makoto. “You were so very kind to help me during that trial, after all.”

“Okay, that’s not-”

“That must be why you’re here now, I imagine. Sneaking out at this late hour past Kyoko, just so you could babysit this useless mess.” He sneers. “Did you decide to make Mondo your next pet project, trying to be his little assistant like you were mine?”

“Oh, for-” Makoto takes a deep breath, presses his hands to his eyes. “Can you shut the fuck up?! For one second?”

Whatever else Byakuya was about to say, dissipates like smoke out of his slack-jawed mouth. Even Owada seems to twitch up at this, the only sign of surprise he could give, compared to Byakuya’s shock.

Makoto is quiet for a few seconds, and the only sound is the quiet hum of pipes, and the sound of his breathing, shaky but slow. He pulls his hands away from his face after one more shuddering breath. “Okay. I’m okay now.” He says this part quietly, as if it were more for himself than anyone else. Then:

“It’s not fair,” He addresses Byakuya, and his voice is almost steady. “I’m trying my best, I’m trying to keep us all alive.”

“Yes, and you’re doing-”

“No! Shut up! Just listen!” He snaps, and Byakuya’s teeth click as he shuts his mouth, effectively cutting off the rest of his sarcastic remark. “Right now, the best thing we can do is to survive together. We’re just going to play into the mastermind’s hands if we can’t trust each other. Why doesn’t anyone get that?!”

His voice actually cracks on the last syllable, and he sounds close to hysterics. Byakuya simply stares, dumbfounded for a moment, before:

“...You’re going to say that? After what just happened?” It’s so ridiculous he could almost laugh. Trust? In this school, in this game? After everything that’s happened? “We all trusted Ishimaru. Where did that get us? Where did that get Chihiro?”

No sooner has that name left his mouth, does he try to bite it back. Feeling all at once mortified that he would stoop so low, that he would let himself be pushed to such a level. But it’s too late to take it back - at the sound of those names, Owada jerks again, and Makoto actually takes a step backwards, as if struck - so Byakuya keeps going. “This isn’t some-some fairy tale where everyone can learn to get along by talking about our feelings. None of us have any unity left - if even Ishimaru can snap, then there’s no telling who might strike next.”

“Stop,” Makoto grits out. “Taka - it was an accident. Just a stupid accident.” And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That none of this was supposed to happen at all; if the coincidences hadn’t lined up terribly, horribly perfectly. “He didn’t mean for Chihiro to die!”

And Chihiro didn’t mean to get killed either. But he manages to swallow that thought, bitter and heavy in his throat. “His intentions didn’t change the outcome.” He says instead, cold and flat and utterly, completely empty.

Silence falls on the room. The lights buzz, the pipes hiss; the old, outdated screen of Alter Ego’s computer hums softly, contemplatively. There’s the muted, metallic thump of the water heater, somewhere inside the wall.

And then Owada speaks up.

“What should I do?” He asks hollowly. He’s looking up now, directly at him. His hair is limp, pompadour undone and falling over his face, obscuring it in streaks of dirty yellow. “I…they’re dead. I couldn’t-” He takes a slow, shuddering breath. “It was my fault. But I don’t know what to do.”

His words are pleading and genuine, as if Byakuya could give a proper answer; he hesitates, still uncertain of what to do with this…empty shell of a punk.

He glances towards Makoto, and then the dim green glow still emanating from the open locker. “Do you care what you do with your life at this point?”

“Byakuya…” Makoto starts warningly, but Owada interrupts him.

“No.”

“Then use it to protect Alter Ego.” If Owada has any sort of misgivings or protest about this, Byakuya ignores them. “That’s Chihiro’s last work, after all. It’s the least you can do to guard it.”

“Is…” Owada’s head turns towards the locker, then back. “Is that…okay?”

His hesitation is understandable. Even if Alter Ego was nothing more than a clever program, it did still wear the face of the boy who Owada’s friend inadvertently killed, and whose corpse Owada had tried to conceal. And that wasn’t even considering if Alter Ego would be cooperative in being protected by him, though there wasn’t much it could do about it.

But Alter Ego is the one who speaks up. “I hope we get along well, Mondo!” It chirps, a smile clear on its voice. And Mondo simply stares for a moment, before burying his face in his palms, and begins to cry.

__

“Are you going back to your room?”

He stops, and turns. They’ve left the bathhouse, Mondo departing first after sobbing his eyes out, and Makoto insisting he go rest in his room - though he probably would’ve ended up staying in the bathhouse all night if he could’ve gotten away with it - and Byakuya, having ended up spending an hour more than he wanted to dealing with it all, is tired once more..

“Where else would I be going?” He scoffs. Makoto is standing just in front of the bahthouse curtains, his face entirely concealed by shadow.

“I…” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I noticed you didn’t really…eat a proper meal yesterday. I could go make you something?”

It’s tempting, for a moment. Byakuya clenches a hand in his robe, pressed against his stomach to stifle any unwarranted growls. “No.” He says firmly. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh…are you sure? Because-”

“Makoto.” He falls silent. “I told you that there’s no need for us to uphold the deal we made. Your assistance is no longer needed.”

“...But, this isn’t because of the deal, I just-”

“I’m not so low that I’d need charity from you.”

He goes quiet again. Quiet and still, and there’s something off-putting about how he looks. Outlined by the yellow lights of the bathhouse but otherwise completely in darkness, his silhouette sharpened without his jacket. “...Is it really that hard, trusting someone?”

For as angry as he’d been in the bathhouse, now he’s more like his usual self. Quieter, and unsure. The one person out of place in this school, designated unremarkable and then made remarkable because of that.

An unremarkable life. No wonder he couldn’t understand.

“You’ve never had to worry about it before,” He says. “I imagine your life is like a sheep’s. Completely oblivious to the danger around you, as long as you stay inside the fence.

“But the world isn’t as kind as you think it is. And people can always be swayed, no matter how much you trust them, or how much you think they trust you.” He’s seen it happen. He’s exploited it himself, even. “At this point, it would be safest to stop associating with anyone. If you had any brains at all, you would do the same.”

Makoto lets out a sigh that’s almost a laugh, though it’s bitter and mirthless. “Kyoko said the same thing,” He mutters, half to himself. “So you won’t feel safe unless you’re alone? Even though there’s only ten of us left?” He shakes his head, and the motion is a little dizzying, the messy shape of his hair blurring into a dark mass. “How many more people need to die for you to feel safe?”

He sounds angry again, but it’s a colder kind of anger. Resentful and resigned. When did you become so cold?

“...I won’t be safe until I’m out of here.” Byakuya replies steadily, though the hand clenched in his robe tightens slightly. “Even if I could keep everyone in my sight, it’s not like it’d be easy to tell if they were holding a weapon.”

Silently, he adds: And thanks to you, they know that as well.

Makoto doesn’t say anything in reply, so Byakuya leaves. Quickly, in case his stomach threatens to grumble again; his hand doesn’t leave his robe until he’s safely inside his room, door locked behind him.

He almost treads on the bread again, stepping on a corner of the packaging and jumping at the sharp, crinkling sound. It takes a little bit of fumbling in the dark until he finds it, squeezing it through the plastic.

He’s tempted, for a moment, his fingers already searching for the serrated edge to tear it open. But the image of Makoto standing at the bathhouse entrance jumps to his mind; still and shrouded in darkness. A strange, statuesque parody of his usual self.

He throws the bread across the room and climbs back into bed.

< previous - from start - next >

[adriancatrin]

some v inconsistent zuko sketches

[skoulsons]

Baylan and Shin’s parting

The scene that has upset (me) or confused (also me) most people. A chunk of people, who I respectfully disagree with, have said that Baylan is “abandoning” Shin. While I agree she definitely feels abandoned, I do not believe that is or ever would be Baylan’s intention. I just don’t think it works.

There’s an obvious amount of care (love, you could say) in their relationship. They’re not your typical competitive Sith master / apprentice relationship or Jedi master / padawan where feelings like that were repressed. They’re not mercenaries who were put together for a job or purely for the selfish gain of power. Shin has been under his wing as his padawan, borderline his child, for a long time.

He’s very protective of her as we see most notably in episode 4 when he ‘kills’ Ahsoka because she threw Shin into a rock. That sort of protection that drives you to kill someone (I don’t believe his original intention was to kill her—it was that that set him off) doesn’t come from a lack of love or lack of a relationship.

Their first scene on Peridea is another to consider. They’re comfortable, open, and vulnerable. Shin’s tone when she says “I know no such stories (shoutout to the person who made that post about Baylan telling Shin stories about the Jedi when she was younger. i still think about you)” is a sarcastic tone, almost teasing. They both comfortably smile and are way more relaxed being around just each other. Shin asks him questions without fear and Baylan answers without hesitation.

So, no, I don’t believe he’s abandoning her.

Now, nothing is known for sure. What exactly does he hear? What exactly does he see? What vision does he have?

Hopefully we get that answer, but my (and maybe most of you) bigger concern is why part from Shin for a wasteland and some power (yes yes we know he wants the ‘beginning’ but that’s still kinda VAGUE)?

Again, don’t know the truth, just throwing out ideas. i cant wait to be wrong on every front and be completely humbled tuesday night lolol

For one, he’s sensed and understood her questions and doubts and is actually considering them. He’s recognizing “OK, she doesn’t see all that I do”. He isn’t saying “Nope, I’m forcing you to join me in this”. He’d be a jackass if he did that. Since he seems pretty sold on staying on Peridea for… whatever it is he believes is there, he’s letting her go so she can, in turn, find her footing and take her place in the coming empire. Yes, he doesn’t know if that’s even what she wants, but Shin hasn’t exactly told him what she would want. All she’s mentioned (I think) was about leaving Peridea since Thrawn is desperate to leave as well.

Either way, he’s considering her and letting her go her own way instead of forcing her into a future with him that she obviously isn’t interested in.

Two, Baylan actually knows a lot more than he’s letting on and sees something that is… dangerous. Something he doesn’t want Shin exposed to. Something he knows is dangerous and he’s trying to keep her from (so she doesn’t suffer the same fate as his last padawan—if it’s true, of course). This one seems more selfish than some other thoughts. It can even fit other fandoms—he’ll go into it guns blazing for himself despite its dangers, but not her.

Three, which is just a bit of a vaguer, rephrased Two, he can’t / doesn’t want to lose another padawan if he can help it.

“Oh, then why’d she even follow him to Peridea? Why’d Baylan even let her come if he was going to abandon her anyway?”

He’s her master. Of course she’s going to follow him. It’s the guy she’s known longer than anyone else in her life. Her master, her father figure. Why wouldn’t she follow him? Why wouldn’t she stick it out for him? And, again, don’t believe at all that it’s abandonment or even something that was planned. It seemed very spur of the moment—like an off screen decision being made in Baylan’s head. Parting from her wasn’t something on his bucket list he was waiting to check off.

Fourth, the “ambition” that Baylan said was driving Shin is her willingness (not the word im looking for please read my mind) to embrace the dark side compared to himself. If he truly wants to bring an end to the Jedi v Empire back-and-forth, he’ll stay more Gray. So, he parts from her to give her that freedom. It’s the thing that drives them apart.

There’s even more ways to try and understand why, im sure. These are just word vomits and nothing to be taken as truth.

While I don’t at all believe Baylan’s intention was to abandon her, leave her for dead, etc, I definitely agree that Shin does feel abandoned.

Was the decision easy for Baylan? Highly doubt it. I don’t think he would watch her go, take a deep breath in, and roll his shoulders if it was easy. I don’t think he’d look around after Ahsoka stole his howler and debate going back for her if it was an easy decision. I don’t think he’d wait on the hill to keep watch and protect from a distance if he didn’t care.

I think one thing is for sure. Baylan thinks he’s doing what’s best when it’s really not. Shin looked like a kicked dog when Ahsoka offered to help—and whether that’s because she was reminded of 30 minutes prior on the hill beside him, or 15 years prior when Baylan stood above her and offered his help that started them on their journey (yari put this thought in my noggin), it hurts all the same.

I just hope the finale clears something up

[quaranmine]

One more ask, lol.

Something just occurred to me that really drives home just how unsolvable this whole thing was.  Grian found Mumbo on pure accident, which just drives home the fact that Grian is not in control.  This is something you made clear through the narrative and in the authors notes. 

It had to be an accident.  Because I'm think back to when Grian and Scar were analyzing the initial search.  They both saw fault with the fact that they focused the search on Cloud Lake without even considering Pinnacles, and the fact that Mumbo was given a permit for a Cloud Lake, a closed trail, in the first place.

But Mumbo was SO FAR off trail in such a tricky, hidden spot that, EVEN IF the initial search would have led them to Pinnacles, EVEN IF they would have found the bag and the bike, EVEN IF Mumbo had been given a permit for Pinnacles instead of Cloud Lake from the very start... it might not have mattered.  It might have already been too late.  They STILL might not have been able to find him alive, or even at all, before the area was evacuated for the fire.

Just... there really was no rhyme or reason.  No hidden cause.  No fault.  Just...

There's this Irish folk song I'm low-key obsessed with in which the countryside is described as "where nature is seen both majestic and savage." 

Mumbo died due to the majestic, savage nature of... well.  Nature. 

And there's nothing anyone could have done.  

(I hope it's clear that I'm using the word "savage" as an adjective describing a fierce, violent force of nature and not... other contexts 😬)

Yes, exactly! Actually putting this under a cut it got long lol

Not going to lie I did Worry a few times throughout writing this about having a plot that was so heavily dependent on accidents. Like, is it undermining character agency to have significant things just happen? Do my characters drive the plot or is it just happening to them? The other hikers finding Mumbo's bike in chapter 3/4 was an accident. Most of the events of chapter 11 were an accident.

But genuinely from a real-life perspective...that's how things just happen. This story is kind of a non-mystery mystery. It's a mystery in the sense that we don't know where Mumbo is or what happened. But it's not a mystery in the sense that is some conspiracy to be unraveled, a killer to be arrested, etc. I talked about this in another ask a few weeks ago about how I mystery write, but this fic had a lot of unique barriers to it. Firstly, from a purely practical plot perspective, Grian has like nothing to work with. He has no access to any SAR tools. He doesn't have access to documents (at first lmao) or any other type of hard copy research. He cannot go out and interview people or do anything else a mystery protagonist would typically do to find "clues" because he's alone in a fire lookout. That's it. That's the setting. There is a guy who is alone in the wilderness who wants to find someone.....out of hundreds of square miles of nothing. With no real tools except his own two feet, a map, and a new friend who can only give voiceover help.

So.....there's already a hard limit on what he can reasonably do without the narrative helping him out a little. And I think I did my best harnessing everything he could do on his own. Now, Grian also THINKS he can solve it all himself. He sees no issue with this set-up. As the author though I'm forced to consider HOW he plans to do all this though lol. So again from a reasonable perspective, he ain't working with much. He himself would not have considered Pinnacles if the bike didn't get found. He might have pieced together that Mumbo took a different trail, but he would've had no way to figure out which one. Meanwhile, I just focused on building the plot of his personal journey. I also just focused on the parallels between how Mumbo got to the place he was and how Grian ended up there too.

Also speaking of the initial search at Cloud Lake, I want to highlight a case I listened to on the Out Alive podcast from Backpacker Magazine. It's the episode "Finding Life on the Edge of Death" about Andrew Devers who was missing for 9 days on the Pratt River Trail in Oregon in 2021 (and survived.) First of all, excellent episode. Also, I did not listen to this until after I had worked out the plot, but it really strengthened my conviction in the storyline I had laid out. And I did end up referencing something from this episode in chapter 10. Specificaly, Andrew went hiking alone on a trail that recently had a landslide. Because the environment was so drastically changed, when he turned around to hike back he couldn't find his way at all. And I was like, yeah. That's why Mumbo's search continued to stay in the same area even though the trail was closed. Because this happens. They thought he lost the original trail in the landslide, just like this guy did. They thought that the trail being closed actually increased his chances of being lost there because it increased his chances of losing his way. They just didn't realize he actually turned around and went somewhere else. No conspiracy. Just a misguided assumption on the situation.

Also it really is horrifying how difficult it is to find people in the wilderness. So many people who go missing are found months or even years later on accident. I'm also reminded of the tragic case of Geraldine Largay, who died after going missing on the Appalachian trail. She survived 26 days. Search teams got within a 100 yards of her location, but they didn't find her body until two years later. She was only two miles off-trail, and only 30 mins walk from a road. She got turned around after simply stepping off trail to use the restroom. It hurts my heart so much. More recently last November, in my own beloved Big Bend National Park, Christy Perry went missing on the Lost Mine Trail for 8 days and was later found alive. She was so lost but only 1/4 a mile off-trail. I've been on that trail many times. I've....um.....been off-trail on that trial many times....Anyway, I was keeping an eye on updates constantly hoping she'd be found because it looked so bad for her, but she was fortuantely okay.

Anyway I guess my point is that people really do get hopelessly lost all the time while being close to trails, and being close to trail doesn't mean someone will be found quickly or at all. And in Mumbo's case...he wasn't anywhere where people thought he might be. Grian's mission was a needle in a haystack. If I were truly being realistic, he wouldn't have found him at all, but that's where I'm using narrative power.

So yeah. Accidents. Sometimes you're just not in control. Sometimes bad things happen. Nature majestic and savage indeed....

[shedontlovehuhself]

I'm 💀 @ people saying Misha(who was being facetious with that answer cause he knows this fandom and is also on tumblr) would be awkward in a romantic scene with Jensen and voted in that poll that Jensen would put his whole heart in it. Y'all have me laughing. If that's the case ask Jensen that same question. Cause y'all aren't afraid to ask Misha who actually answered, be it jokingly.

Y'all too chicken shit to ask Jensen those same questions and that tells me all I need to know.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 5: Flip Slip.

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 4.5)

[daz4i]

ik a common pet peeve ppl have with media is that trope of a villain having a really good point about society then immediately killing a baby to achieve it or smth and how it's used by people in power to demonize these criticisms of them. but i do think in bsd when antagonists make a good point it still stands and it's still a good point regardless of what they do about it, and the narrative does not want you to perceive them entirely negatively. like, there's a reason atsushi spends a few chapters in a conflict bc he agrees with fukuchi's ideas, just thinks his methods are harmful. the story lingers on it bc it wants you to stop and think and see the good in them, i think, and not to be mean and turn it around like a "gotcha! you are just as bad for agreeing!" or smth.

i think it all stems from how every character in bsd is morally grey in order to humanize them. every antagonist is presented in a positive light at some point (only exception i can think of is fyodor, who so far hasn't been presented in a really grey way either), their motives or ideals are laid out so you can understand WHY they're doing the things they're doing, and eventually they end up working with the protagonists because well. they're all humans at the end of the day.

the thing driving all protagonists in bsd is simply to keep living (each have their own asterisk next to that, but i won't get into details) and usually keep others safe. they beat the forces that stand in their way of achieving this, but for a moment, these forces' own goals get reflected back onto them, and they become a vehicle for them as well, at times.

it's less of a "villain makes a good point then kills a baby to make you disagree with them", more like "villain makes a good point but the story lingers on it so both you and the in-universe characters think about it and consider it. they also kill a baby but that's more like a personal character flaw that might get ironed out of them with the power of friendship"

that's also why wildly loved characters that are generally considered positive start out trying to kill the protags (akutagawa, chuuya, lucy, poe, sigma, the hunting dogs etc). you know WHY they do this. you know what led them here. you also saw other sides to them - silly moments, helping their comrades or innocent bystanders, positive interactions with the main cast - which help make them feel more human, thus making them easier to understand for us as readers.

idk man i think it's p cool

EDIT: i will also add!!!! that imo fyodor seeming purely evil despite bsd's attempt at humanizing its characters!!!! is less of a fault in writing but rather showing how he dehumanizes HIMSELF. he views himself as more than human. characters like sigma view him as more than human. and so, for now, the narrative will treat him as such too - not bc he's right. but bc it serves his current story, and hopefully a future arc will have him unlearning that, or more layers will be peeled from him so at least we as an audience can see his humanity (i have a feeling the information sigma got from him + the injury dazai gave him + him being bested in general + whatever the fuck "that man" comment was, will all play a part in that)

[astramachina]

I figured it out. My two brands of horror writing are "it's giving A24" and "it's giving Blumhouse" and it's always a toss-up where shit's gonna land.

[notonlymice]

Rush having an ✨interesting✨ dream about Ally