#i just find it oddly unsettling that they still make hints that characters might be suicidal

[ikamigami]

I have such a bad feeling that Sun's going to die on July 16th, it just has that vibe, and/or he learns Dazzle's secret and then dies

Yeah.. I think the same, dear anon..

I have a feeling that Sun will willingly die.. idk what will happen though..

[vannahfanfics]

Snowed In

Category: Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Gintama

Characters: Tae Shimura, Toshiro Hijikata

Requested By: 8579 (FanFiction)

“Good-bye, everyone! See you tomorrow!” Tae called cheerfully in the threshold of the door to the cabaret club while bundling her scarf about her neck. Her coworkers, and quite a few men in various degrees of inebriation, responded with resounding farewells as she finished tugging on her mittens and finally exited her workplace. As she inhaled, the cold, winter night air rushed up into her nasal passages; it tickled the sensitive membranes and caused her to sneeze. Frowning, she rubbed the underside of her nose with the edge of the mittens and shivered. “It’s freezing tonight… I had better get home quick!” she muttered to herself before starting a brisk pace for home.

A thin layer of snow crusted over the dirt streets. It crunched under the soles of Tae’s sandals like half-melted shaved ice as she trundled along the street. Every few seconds, a powerful breeze would howl down from the sky to blast through the Edo roads, striking Tae with enough fierceness to send her tumbling back. She hadn’t even rounded the block before she had tugged her scarf up over her mouth and nose and had her hands buried under her armpits. The thin curves of her round cheeks peeking above the knitted fabric were a blistering red, burning from the relentless bits of the ice-laden wind. The breath that leaked out of the knotted fibers fogged before her before being whipped away by the gales. Maybe I should have just waited out the storm at work. The weather forecast didn’t predict a blizzard or anything! She lamented as she continued her miserable trudge. The snow had already piled up around her ankles.

She yelped aloud as a particularly buffeting burst of wind knocked her a few paces back. The soles of her sandals slid over the slick, ice-encrusted sidewalk. She pinwheeled and cried out as she lost her balance; Tae then tipped backward with a final squeal and landed on her rump in the powdery stuff. A shiver crawled up her spine as the cold bit into her behind with thousands of pin-like teeth. The bottom half of her kimono eagerly soaked up the wetness of the snow, spreading even more of the jarring cold over her skin. She hastily- but carefully- clambered to her feet and shivered when the wind resumed its attack on her with gusto. Her normally kempt brown hair had been wrenched from her bun to flap erratically around her flushed, chapping face. The wind was shrieking with a fervor now, swirling the snow around wildly. She squinted into the maelstrom, but all she could see was white.

“Oh no,” she whimpered and bundled her sodden clothes as tightly as she could around her shuddering body. Home was a long, cold walk, but the way she came was a long, cold walk too. What she wouldn’t give for a deus ex machina to rescue her from this dismal situation. A gleaming knight in shining armor astride a gallant steed to spirit her away to a warm hearth and hot meal…

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mess, haven’t you, cabaret girl?” Tae’s expression curled into something ghastly and horrid at the sarcastic voice floating upon the wind. It was less a gentle knight, and more a scheming gremlin crawling out of a nasty sewer. She glanced over her shoulder to see a simple wooden gate, squeaking as the wind lobbed it back and forth. Beyond that was a simple stone pathway mostly buried by the piling snow leading up to the wooden porch of a spacious house. Beyond that stood one Toshiro Hijikata, leaning in the threshold of his doorway, taking a drag from a cigarette and eyeing the girl with critical black eyes. “Hey, hey, hey, hey!” he protested angrily as she promptly began stomping down the sidewalk again.

“What?” She looked back to see that he had stumbled across his porch and had one hand wrapped around the support beam. The burning end of the bud clenched in his teeth glowed a burnt umber, casting orange light over his face. His scowl deepened when she acknowledged him. Tae’s eyebrow crept up when he rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, with what she saw was the faint hint of a blush burning over his cheeks.

“… J-just get inside, dammit! There’s no sense in you walking around in a damn blizzard!” he barked at her. His face shone a rosy pink when he glared back at her. Tae gawked at him, admittedly suspicious. It wasn’t that she had anything against Toshiro, and it was much better than stumbling up to a stranger’s house begging for reprieve. However, he was a leading officer in the Shinsengumi and had historically had it out for the Yorozuya, even if the world nearly ending twice had mellowed him out a bit. Unsure, she mulled about on the sidewalk, prompting a vein to bulge out on his forehead. “What’s the problem? Don’t tell me you’ve frozen to the street.”

“Oh, hush, you!” she scolded and bundled her wet kimono about her thighs. There was nothing for it, and she knew that; this was as good as an invitation for hospitality she was going to get, and she ought to take it. Even if it’s this grumpy bastard, she thought snootily. Still holding her dripping wet kimono, she cautiously crept her way over the frozen ground of his yard before arriving at the porch. She kept her gaze on her toes the entire time, carefully selecting her footholds; when the ice-encrusted wood of the first porch step came into view, she gasped as a hand also appeared in her field of vision. She looked up at Toshiro with pink cheeks. He was clenching the cigarette tightly in his teeth and looking at her through his peripheral vision. As she hesitated, he shook his hand insistently.

“Come on, cabaret girl; I’m freezing my ass off.”

“My name is not ‘cabaret girl’! It’s Tae!” He winced when she grabbed his hand and squeezed it with much more force than necessary. Recognizing it as karma for his foulness, he swallowed the insult with grace and eased her up the porch. He released her hand once she was secure on the wood, but a deep part of Tae lamented the loss of his fingers enclosed around hers. She had felt them even with the woolen fabric of her mittens. His warmth still burned on her fingertips, fighting a valiant battle against the numbing cold that had invaded her nerves. Toshiro simply muttered “come on” and disappeared behind the screen of his front door. Rubbing her tingling fingertips with her opposite hand, Tae lingered a moment on the porch.

Have I possibly gotten myself into an even bigger mess?

The wind and snow had not an answer, only promises of more biting cold. Tae quickly bundled herself into the house.

Tae’s brown eyes were wide as she stalled in the entryway. From there, she could see most of everything, and she was impressed to find it an elegant and tidy abode. It was almost so neat and tidy, actually, that it was unsettling; it looked more like a house on the market than a proper residence, as Toshiro had very few personal possessions. Only the necessities abounded, like various articles of furniture, an outfitted kitchen, and a kotatsu table in the living room. She could not see his bedroom from her vantage point, but she wouldn’t be shocked to find it barren aside from a futon.

Just as Tae slipped out of her sandals, Toshiro came strolling around the corner, holding a bundle of cloth. Tae ogled at it in befuddlement, then slowly shifted her gaze up to him. He had that pink tint to his face again and was rubbing awkwardly at the base of his neck.

“You shouldn’t walk around wearing those wet clothes, so… Here,” he brusquely grunted and thrust the black fabric into her hands. It was then that Tae realized that he was handing her a kimono- one of his kimonos, to be exact. If she was cold before, that was no longer so, for a heated flush bloomed over her body from her head to her toes. An argument simmered on the tip of her tongue, but when she glanced down to find ice-cold water puddling around her feet, she reconciled with the fact that she would have to change into Toshiro’s clothes. He continued scrubbing at the base of his neck and gestured down the hall. “The uh… restroom is down that way…” he grumbled. Tae dipped her head respectfully and scurried off to get changed.

She could feel his gaze on her the entire time she shuffled down the hall, right up until the moment she flipped on the light and shut the door behind her.

She placed a hand over her heart to find its pace hammering. Why am I getting so flustered? It’s just Hijikata! She gulped, immediately realizing the folly of that statement. Toshiro Hijikata was a regular topic of conversation at the cabaret club, even more than he was a frequent visitor with the rest of the Shinsengumi. It was little wonder, of course, because the man was undeniably attractive. Even Tae couldn’t contradict it; luscious black hair, chiseled features, a high position in a steady job, and a bad-boy attitude? He was every girl’s fantasy. Of course, Tae knew the man much more personally than the rest of the cabaret girls; his foul manner could be quite grating. Still… He invited me into his home, and he loaned me his clothes, she thought while hugging the kimono to her chest. She could not help the tiny little smile that graced her chilled lips.

She might as well make the story as riveting as she could for when she recounted it to her coworkers tomorrow morning.

She peeled her kimono from her body, and it slipped to the floor with a wet slap! As she drew Toshiro’s black robe over her arms, she caught the faint whiff of cigarette smoke and enticing cologne. One would think the pungent aromas would make her hack and cough, but Tae found the scent oddly pleasant. She secured the sash around her middle, then frowned when she noticed how loosely the fabric hung from her small frame. She could solve the problem of the too-long sleeves just fine by rolling them up, but every few seconds, the cloth would slip from her shoulders and expose just a bit too much of the curves of her chest. I’ll have to be careful not to flash him like a common harlot, she thought with a click of her tongue as she held the baggy cloth to her chest and bent over to pluck her soiled clothes from the wood floor. There was a small puddle of water glistening on the polished surface, though the kimono had only been sitting there amount a minute. The bunched cloth was heavy in Tae’s hand. Tucking it underneath her arm, she turned and opened the sliding door-

and was greeted by a surprised Toshiro, who was holding his fist up mid-knock.

As she jumped, he flushed a pink color and stepped back from the door. “S-sorry…” An awkward silence descended between them, so she meekly held out the wet clothing.

“Is there somewhere I can hang this to dry?” He led her to his laundry room, where she laid her kimono over a drying rack. They migrated back to his living room, where they sat at opposite ends of the kotatsu table. He had prepared some hot tea while she was changing and had already poured her a cup. Tae took it with both her hands, appreciating the way the warmth blossomed across her cold palms. Toshiro lit up a cigarette and took a long drag, then exhaled the smoke between them. Tae watched disconcertedly as the thin white-gray wisps slowly rose to the ceiling before dispersing against the support beams. “… Thank you. It was very kind of you to invite me inside,” she said finally with a dip of her head. Toshiro regarded her with lidded black eyes.

“What was I supposed to do? Let you freeze to death?” he grunted, his gaze falling to his own cup of tea, which he had not touched. “I’d have no reason to visit the cabaret club anymore.”

They simultaneously blushed. Tae’s head snapped up to stare at him disbelievingly, but he had already turned to the side, staring at the wall with an embarrassed scowl. I thought the guys always dragged him along, but… Does he actually enjoy coming to see me? Tae was a spitfire, to be sure. Many of the other girls were sweet and charming, but Tae’s reputation was of playful feistiness. Thinking back, Tae was almost always requested to serve the Shinsengumi’s party; she had reasoned that it was Isao’s doing, but now that she really examined the experiences, sometimes it was just Toshiro in charge. A heat rose to her cheeks as she considered the possibility that it was the vice-captain behind her exclusive catering.

Toshiro’s fingers drummed against the table’s surface as the quietude descended once more. Tae glanced out the window to see the snow piling up on the sill. She rose and shuffled over to the glass pane, adjusting the kimono as it slipped from her shoulders. The whiteness blanketed everything in sight; the street was no more, just a swathe of the rolling powder, and the houses across the street were laden with heavy pillows of it. Faint sprigs of dead grass poked out of the layer in the yard, rapidly being buried by the second. The slippery pathway which Tae had traversed only minutes ago was completely submerged. I could end up staying the night here, she reasoned. The thought made her heart quiver, and the heat in her face increase substantially. Curiously, she peered out of her peripheral vision at Toshiro, and found his gaze fixated on her.

Tae thought that it might not be a bad thing to be snowed in with the handsome police vice-captain.

“Well,” she smirked finally, making him straighten up. She held the loose fabric of the black kimono to her chest as she turned to him. “Since you like visiting the cabaret club so much, why don’t we liven up the atmosphere? Surely you have some alcohol here,” she chuckled as his eyebrow quirked inquisitively. “I don’t know about you, but brooding is not exactly my idea of a night in.” She strolled back to the kotatsu table, making a point for the fabric to slip in just a way to unveil her milky-white thigh. “Unless, of course, Mr. Vice-Captain isn’t man enough to drink with me?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Three shared bottles of sake later, Tae was pink-faced and snorting piggishly with laughter. Her hand repeatedly slapped the surface of the table as she giggled uncontrollably. Toshiro had just said it, but she didn’t even know what was so funny. He had rounded the table to sit beside her, and she was leaning heavily into his shoulder.

“Ahahahaha!” she howled as she swiped tears from the corners of her eyes. Toshiro released a long, contented sigh and slammed the most recently emptied alcohol bottle on the table before looking down at her with flickering eyes.

“I can’t believe you accused me of brooding.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. ‘Oh, look at me, I’m so grumpy and serious,’” she jibed with an unflattering mimic of his baritone voice. His eyebrows dove down over his eyes, but her coy smirk revealed his amusement. “What was I supposed to think you do for fun? Certainly not drink with beautiful women such as myself,” she said haughtily and flipped her hair over her shoulder. It had long since fallen from her bun and cascaded in waves around her upper arms. She had also long since given up correcting the kimono every time it slipped, so the black fabric was now loosely bunched around her biceps. With the tops of her breasts peeking above the dark cloth, she certainly did look like a prostitute. She was too inebriated, or maybe confident, to care.  

Toshiro purred and brought his face dangerously close to hers. Tae could smell the sake on his breath as he toothily leered over her.

“No, indeed. I’ve never had the pleasure. Those bungling oafs of mine always ruin it.” Sober Tae would blush and turn away, but drunk Tae was much less concerned with social propriety. Squealing, she clapped a hand to her blistering red cheek and shoved him in his thick shoulder.

“Oh, Toshiro! You tease!”

His voice rumbled in a purr with the intensity of a lion’s. A pleasurable shiver traveled up her spine at the sensation of his breath puffing against the shell of her ear.

“Tease? You presume too much; I’m being honest here,” he sighed in fake hurt. Tae giggled, girlishly holding her hand to her lips, her eyes rolling to peer at him through her peripheral vision. The smirk decorating his face was downright devilish. His eyes glimmered like obsidian, dark and dangerous and captivating. Tae was now wondering why she had possessed any inhibitions about Toshiro inviting her in. “Hey.” The sudden solemnness in his tone made her frown and glance up at him. His expression was suddenly very serious. “I am being honest, you know.”

The gravity of that utterance sobered Tae immediately. Flushing, she wrung her hands into the folds of the kimono but couldn’t bring herself to tear away from those smoldering eyes of his. His hand slowly reached up to lightly grab her chin, his thumb caressing the space just below her slightly parted lips. He tilted his head to the side and just stared, as if he were memorizing every detail of her face. The thought made another pleasurable tingle shoot through Tae’s nerves, but it was much more electrifying and exciting than the last. There was such an atmosphere of tension, of expectation, like the way the air crackles with energy before lightning strikes. She drew in a breath and held it, for she already knew what he was about to ask.

“Tae.” His voice was soft and inviting. Oh, how it drew her in. It felt like she was descending into warm water, floating in the dense space. She found her eyes threatening to flutter closed already, intoxicated on the deep bass of his voice alone. “Stay with me.”

Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the snow piling high outside, and the shrieking wind rattling the glass windowpanes, and the depressing gray clouds choking the night sky. Perhaps it was the excited gossiping of the girls at work every time Toshiro strolled through the door, accompanied by his posse of police officers. Perhaps it was all of that, but it was also most definitely the fact that her heart had been palpitating from the moment she stepped through the door.

“Of course.”

The moment his lips met hers, it felt like the entire world fell into place. It was just so incredibly natural, almost as if it had been a moment that Tae had waited her whole life for. A soft sigh slipped out of her, and her body sagged with contentment. Toshiro’s sturdy arms wound around her waist when she fell against him; so immersed in the kiss was she that it seemed too burdensome even to keep herself sitting up.

Their mouths moved together in sync, slow at first. Then the hunger and passion oozed in. Soon their lips were feverishly smashing and their teeth gnashing and their tongues dancing. Tae’s hand traipsed up his back to curl firmly into the straight strands of his black hair, coiling them continuously around the slim digits. She gasped when he sealed her brunette locks between his fingers and pulled, just hard enough to coax her head back but not enough to heart. Her eyelashes fluttered lasciviously when he began raining sloppy kisses across her jawline and down the column of her neck. “Toshiro,” she whined when he pressed a searing, enduring kiss to her collarbone. He nudged her body with his own, and she obeyed the silent command, falling back against the floor. He loomed over her, ceasing his incessant affections to stroke the soft skin that had been revealed by the loose kimono.

“I suppose it’s a little late to say that you’re beautiful,” he smirked down at her. Tae snorted, rolled her eyes, and shifted her hands down to his biceps.

“Maybe so, but a girl still likes to hear it.” He plucked one of her hands up and brought it to his mouth, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to her palm. His eyes never left hers. It was so gratifying, that cherishing gaze of his, that she found herself smiling warmly. He finally pried his lips from her skin and pressed her hand against his cheek, then shifted so that his body pressed against her. It felt like her every curve locked so perfectly into place with the rugged landscape of his form. He swept some of her hair away from her face, then traced a finger down her jawline.

“I gotta say,” he smiled wryly. “I never actually thought I’d find myself in this situation.”

“Hard to believe that Toshiro Hijikata, vice-captain of the Shinsengumi, has been so afraid to tell a girl he likes her,” she teased, and stuck out the tip of her tongue when he scowled. She yelped when he pinched it between his fingers. “Ow! I’ne thorry!” she pleaded when she failed to tug it away from him. When he released her, she began laughing at the informality of it all.

“I gotta say,” she grinned when she finished snickering. “I never thought I would find myself in this situation, either.”

“You regret it?” His face had retaken on that serious note. Tae smiled wider and snuggled against him, shaking her head.

“No. Not at all. One thing, though.”

“What?”

“You’re taking me out for a proper date tomorrow.”

Toshiro smiled in amusement and leaned down to press a little kiss to the tip of her nose.

“You’re too bossy for your own good,” he purred. Naturally, their lips molded back together for a passionate embrace. Outside, the snow continued to fall and blanket the world in cold, cold white; but for that night, Tae found herself the warmest she had ever been.  

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork

[xoruffitup]

Burn This: The Oversized Review/Analysis

I sat down this afternoon to write out all of my thoughts about this play, given that they’ve become more complicated after each viewing, and here I am just finishing up some 6 hours later. :’) Clearly, this play is much more complex than it seems!

I’ve now been fortunate enough to watch Burn This three times, and each time I experience something new. A lot of the reviews have been lukewarm about the play itself and skeptical of how well it functions as a revival on a modern stage. This play is absolutely a product of its time, and the revival consciously places itself in the original 80s setting through the costumes and music. Strictly speaking, I would have to agree that in some ways, the play doesn’t age well. A lot of my reservations upon first viewing towards Pale’s character and the portrayed relationship with Anna stem from this cultural shift – A modern audience watching this play has a lot more sensitivities and a higher bar of scrutiny towards an irreverent, aggressive male character like Pale than in the time of its writing. Although I believe a lot of the slurs in the original play have been removed, the audience still always makes an audible reaction of discomfort when Pale slings the words “cunt,” “oriental,” and “fag.” And yet, the audience spends practically all the rest of their time laughing up a storm at his crazy diatribes and curse-laden rants. The play is still an absorbing pleasure to watch, and for all the nitpicking I and many others are doing towards Pale’s character, at the end of the day I would still praise this production and argue its merits, its lingering universal resonance, and the brilliance of its writing.

Since Pale’s relationship with Anna is the main drive of the story, the story would lose all appeal if Pale were found completely unlikable. And yet, the reviews that have questioned their chemistry do so only partially for this reason. For the most part, reviewers are raving about Adam – Finding his portrayal to be the disarming, shocking highlight of the show. Like Anna, for all that he makes us uncomfortable, we find ourselves wanting more of his biting honesty, his crude humor, and his commanding, live-wire presence. So what is the play’s challenge? Aside from unchangeable aspects such as cast chemistry (though personally, I thought Keri and Adam had plenty) – The challenge may be that a play like this, exhibiting an ill-advised, volatile relationship like this one, can’t simply exist unquestioned anymore. This type of explosive man, hesitant woman, and tempestuous passion is no longer a reality we accept for standard. And so, perhaps some audiences fail to find the play’s story compelling or authentic.

This play contains several dangerous ledges. In the three performances I’ve seen, these ledges have been crossed to various extents. Here are what I believe to be the main tensions within the play that challenge a modern audience, and which are handled by the cast delicately and differently in each show.

Is Pale the archetype of the hyper-masculine? Is he disrespectful, inconsiderate, or worst – predatory towards Anna?

Why, comparatively speaking, does Anna have such a small presence? Does this compromise the integrity of the play, when it’s intended to be her story?

Is this really a story about romance? Are we supposed to want Anna to want Pale? Is their story one of snowballing tragedy, or of consolation, connection, and artistic fulfillment?

Is Pale the destructive archetype of the hyper-masculine?

I’ll start with the first point, as this is really the most crucial. From a storytelling standpoint, Pale needs to be dangerous. He needs to embody primal chaos, and make the audience just as uncomfortable and conflicted as Anna. I’ve used this quote in a previous post, but bringing it back because it’s so perfectly apt: “Menacing, profane, dangerous and yet oddly sensitive, Pale is both terrifying and fascinating and, in the end, the one who brings to Anna the unsettling but compelling love that, despite her fears and doubts, she cannot turn away.”

Without this response to him, the play simply wouldn’t work. Pale’s entrance into the play needs to completely upend and throw into disarray everything that came before. In the twenty minutes or so before his entrance, the world of this play is a quiet, thoughtful, and mournful place. Anna has just returned from the terrible experience of Robbie’s funeral. She’s questioning her inspiration and future as a choreographer. Burton attempts to wax about his writing and the ultimate force of great love or “some megapassion.” It is tame and innocuous. Burton’s dialogues seem charming, even bordering silly in their grandiose, guileless pretension. Then enters Pale, who barrels through the door in an explosion of curses, energy, and authenticity. He’s not standing there trying to find the fumbling words to describe a “megapassion” – In all his hot mess pain, he is one. And to Anna, his overpowering, magnetic presence is both more than she can bear, and a blessed cover for her own pain and lack of direction.

For all his political incorrectness and bad manners, I do sincerely love what Pale represents. To me – in this play about the search for artistic authenticity and inspiration, he represents the depths to which an artist might perhaps need to dive into their own uncomfortable, ugly emotions in order to create something honest. It’s no surprise that it’s through meeting Pale that Anna is finally able to choreograph the dance piece that gives her closure for Robbie’s death. His presence is the only thing incendiary enough to be called true inspiration. While Anna begins the play adrift and helpless in the expanse of her grief after Robbie’s loss, with no way to process this terrible suffering that can find no place or redress in her every day life, Pale’s massive vitality is the only thing equally as powerful. By the end, it seems to ground Anna. His destabilizing presence makes her confront the type of chaotic, profound state of being Robbie’s loss thrust her into, and ironically, sharing that space with Pale eventually affords her the equanimity and resilience to process her grief and ultimately create something from it.

While Anna seems to want to run from her grief rather than face it, Pale is the opposite – He tortures himself by wallowing in it. By the end of the play, the two seem to have pulled each other to a middle ground between their opposite coping mechanisms. Finally, this might be a place where they can each move on with their lives. While Anna’s manner of physically comforting Pale is kind and familiar, his manner of helping her is a bit more unconventional – Though arguably equally effective, knowing Anna ends the play in a more centered and productive position than she began it in. After their relationship has dragged on a while and Anna begins trying to break it off, Pale says, “You know, you’re a much different person in the sack then you are standing up.” Wince. Here’s the insensitive guy complaining that she won’t just stop talking and continue the convenient hook-up arrangement. But then, as he often does, Pale throws us for a loop. He pauses, then adds with emphasis and a hint of challenge, “Which one’s the lie?”

This always seems to be one of the most powerful lines of the play. The audience usually makes an audible reaction, as with just a few words, Pale shifts from seeming self-centered, to being the only one who cares enough to challenge Anna for her own good. Because really, this is the crux of what has caused her such pain and debilitation since Robbie’s death. She’s been wearing a mask to try to cover the depth of the loss she truly feels. Like Pale says a moment later in this same scene, and another one of my favorite lines – “People walking down the street, don’t mean a thing they’re doing.” Similarly, when she tells Pale she wants him to leave because he frightens her, he calls out that she knows he’s not dangerous – she’s simply afraid of “feeling something.” Anna and her friends talk about their artistic endeavors and ambitions. They talk about Robbie’s death, sure, but none of them feel and act their grief the way Pale does. This isn’t to say that each character needs to run around wailing in order to be authentic, but Pale’s call-out here is what wakes Anna to the fact that she needs to marry these two disparate areas of herself – Her immense, debilitating grief, and her work as a dancer/choreographer. At the beginning of the play, Anna can neither advance her work as a choreographer, nor deal with her grief. But by the end – By realizing the artificiality in pretending that she was fine and life could go on, she is able to direct the immense passion and power of her grief towards both artistic and personal resolution.

Now, examining this relationship from the lens of gender, rather than artistic fulfillment and emotional authenticity, is a thornier task. The first time I saw this play, I was a bit uncomfortable with my initial impression of Pale as the type of man who doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer – if he even asks the question at all. Originally, I didn’t like that he assumes his welcome with Anna and initially tries to blow past her misgivings about their relationship. (Although when she tells him in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t want to see him, he does listen to and respect her wishes.) However, in the more recent performances, I appreciated that the first time they become intimate happened a bit more slowly. In the first preview, Pale seemed to kiss her out of nowhere, and only afterwards did he assess her reaction. But now, this entire scene has become more tentative. He sits back and looks at her first, saying a deliberate line about how she’s making him “riled up.” He reaches for her slowly, and waits to see that she remains where she is before he kisses her. (In one performance, he spent a solid 10 seconds just stroking her hair back first.) He then sits back again, looking at her carefully and asking if she’s alright. I loved the scene a lot more this way. His slow, gentle advances were touching, and made it so much clearer just how sincerely Anna reciprocates.

The single most important and potentially uncomfortable question about Pale is whether he might be called a predator taking advantage of Anna’s grief. On paper, I can see the threat. But watching Adam on stage? The thought barely crossed my mind. After seeing how thoroughly and wretchedly he falls apart under the weight of his own grief – The kind of wailing and hiccupping, red-faced crying he does, it doesn’t seem possible that this man is anywhere near calculating. He doesn’t make any advances or comments about her body until the point where they’re seated on the couch together, and Anna has already initiated physical contact by comforting him as he weeps. Sure, on paper one could make the argument that he’s taking advantage of the situation, but with the slower, cautious way the scene is now played, it certainly doesn’t feel that way. Pale doesn’t seem to have any kind of seducing agenda. If he did, breaking down in ugly tears in front of the hot woman certainly wouldn’t help. Instead, their shared grief and discussion about Robbie gradually draws them closer – emotionally, then physically – until they both tumble into intimacy that’s both demanding and healing at the same time.

Looking at the character himself – Is he the archetype of an entitled, hyper-masculine, egotistical man? The type that has blessedly lost appeal as a romantic figure? On the surface, yes, he might seem it. Every other word out of his mouth is a curse. He starts a drunken fistfight with Anna’s boyfriend. He shows up at her place drunk, and is then hard to get rid of. He throws around curse words with Anna when they first meet. He blows from one destructive habit or emotion to the next, without any real thought for how those around him will be affected. He willfully drives Anna and Burton apart. He doesn’t think it worth mentioning to Anna before they sleep together that he’s still technically married. In terms of character traits and temperament – No, he’s not likeable.

Enter the insanely charismatic, improbably empathetic Adam Driver – Who manages to turn the character’s cursing habits into cause for uproarious laughter; Who turns the air silent and reverent when Pale’s character slows to 0 mph for the first time when he kisses Anna; and who plays the character with startlingly endearing moments. (Coyly covering his face with the sleeve of her robe after he interrupts Anna’s phone call with Burton? Kissing her forehead like 5 times when he hands her tea? Clutching her so tightly in the final scene, she is clearly all that matters to him anymore? MY HEART)

One of my favorite things about Adam’s portrayal of Kylo Ren is the complexity of gendered behavior he brings to the role, just as he does for this role. Even while Kylo is physically menacing and unpredictably violent, his eyes tremble with cracked vulnerability and even in still silence, his being radiates crushing conflict and abject pain. Adam plays Pale with the same nuance. Pale is loud, crude, and irreverent. He clearly spends no time thinking ahead about what is ‘correct’ or ‘polite’, he is simply a being of impulse and instinct. But because Adam plays him with such convincing immediacy, he comes off just as honest as he is unrefined. To me, this is Pale’s saving grace. After spending a half hour vacillating between yelling, cursing, screaming, and crying, it seems clear that he is someone moved by emotions and instincts greater than himself – Rather than a person who chose to be disrespectful or rude. The moments when he ingratiates himself in our and Anna’s hearts are when his gentle, tender moments with her are every bit as impactful as his loud, noisy meltdowns. And there is nothing aggressive or intimidating (“manly”) about the way he weeps in front of her. There is something refreshing and moving about such honesty; Such helplessness to hide or restrain the brunt of one’s pain from others. A simplistic gendered reading of their dynamic might accuse him of preying on her from the beginning; But a reading of Adam and Keri’s performance would struggle to find such a gendered binary. After all, Anna doesn’t cry in front of him once. He is the only one of the two of them to be reduced to misery in the other’s presence.

To be clear – This is not a matter of a character being “emotional” denoting the feminine, while loud yelling denotes the masculine. My response to the charge of Pale’s character being toxically hyper-masculine and predatory is simply that this is an ill-fitting characterization, given the assumptions that A) Being ‘predatory’ requires a certain amount of intent, cunning, and callousness – None of which could be attributed to the distraught, sentimental mess of Adam’s Pale who lives only in his immediate force of being; and B) The concept of hyper-masculine “macho”ness denotes a certain one-dimensional understanding of chauvinistic masculinity, which Adam’s Pale defies in its sometimes alarming complexity – Alarming precisely because his breakneck swings from a physicality of violence to one of broken helplessness fly in the face of the gendered expectations one might ascribe to a man of his stature.

(Wow, holy shit did I just write all that for only my first section? Jfc okay, promise I’ll start moving faster! But for the sake of comparison, my original conflicted thoughts about Adam’s Pale after the first preview performance are here.)

Why does Anna have such a lesser presence?

Examining this play from a feminist perspective requires acknowledging how much smaller Anna’s presence is compared to Pale’s. In their first scene together, there are literally stretches where Pale will rant and rave for solid minutes without Anna getting in a single line. No wonder Adam’s performance has dominated reviews. Keri really isn’t given much to work with.

I have two opposite responses to this problem. First – Perhaps the play simply isn’t written with a high regard for its female lead, and makes little effort to develop her character beyond her relationships with the men around her. The more I consider how the play functions, the more it seems to be the case that the men around Anna have all the important, witty dialogue as the ones who set the scenes and move the story along, while Anna is pulled along in their wake.

I realized upon later viewings that what initially seemed to be Burton’s pseudo-artistic ramblings in the first scene actually serve the purpose of establishing the play’s two main themes. The first theme – His idea to write a script about the wives of sailors out to sea, waiting for the men to return, introduces the idea of the search for some ultimate, profound form of love that sustains people through any manner of loss and suffering. (This is what Anna is searching for and what she ultimately finds in her feelings for Pale.) Okay, the very way this theme is introduced – women sitting idle, waiting for the men who are out doing the real work and having the real adventures – is lame. Second, we can’t even have the female character who’s actually trying to undertake this in her character arc narrating her own journey? Why is someone else laying it out for her? And to look at the story as a whole – Why is her fulfillment something she ultimately needs to receive through a man’s involvement? From the beginning, the fact that her resolution is tied to her connection to a man seems flawed.

The second theme is introduced from Burton and Larry’s discussion of the story of Senta and the Flying Dutchman. To make a long story short – Senta sacrifices herself in her great love for the Dutchman in order to “save him from perdition.” While Anna does participate in this conversation, she seems to remain unaware of how this meta dialogue is in fact reflecting her own underlying fear running through the whole play, as well as her greatest danger. The play vocally introduces at its beginning this idea of women sacrificing themselves on the altar of their great loves. (When Anna is retelling her experience at Robbie’s funeral, she indeed recalls how she felt she was expected to throw herself over his casket.) This could imply a number of interpretations. It could reflect Anna’s fear of loving someone again with the same intensity of her love for Robbie – And then suffering the same metaphorical ‘death’ she is experiencing at Robbie’s loss. Or, it could reflect the expectation of an imbalanced male-female relationship where the woman is expected to support and fulfill the man, while defining herself through him to the point of self-erasure. If we simply compare a word count of Pale’s lines against Anna’s lines, the second interpretation doesn’t seem completely far-fetched.

What I love about theatre is the great variability between what a script does and what actors can do with it. This very well could be a script that is completely disparaging to Anna, purposefully placing her in the path of a domineering man whose oversized personality smothers her to the point of losing both her grief and her personhood. However – that is not what Adam does with the script. That is not what this revival production seems to be trying to convey. There’s not much that can be done about the (small) number of lines Anna has; Just like there’s nothing to be done for the fact that she will unavoidably get a bit lost in Pale’s shadow, when he has these hilarious, ludicrous, show-stealing monologues and is played by an actor with such commanding stage presence as Adam.

Nonetheless – Even for all these misgivings, I have a defense for both why the script pays her less attention, and how the current production and Keri have done their best to move Anna more into the spotlight. Keri has an incredible portrayal of body language, and is often actively expressing her character’s experience even when she doesn’t have lines. For instance, when Pale first enters the apartment and spends the first ten minutes circling the room and bitching about parking, Keri keeps circling opposite from him. Her arms are crossed, and she keeps pointedly placing distance between them. When he moves towards her, she rotates away. Even though she speaks a lot less than him in this scene, her body language nonetheless clearly articulates when she begins to be moved by his suffering, and when she gradually stops distrusting him. By the time they’re sitting together on the couch and she’s embracing him as he weeps, she is physically open to him in a way she never is with any of the other characters. When she’s sitting with Burton on that same couch in other scenes, she shows in her stiff physicality that she does not feel as at ease with him, and does not trust him the same way. She always places herself opposite Burton, and keeps her legs folded between them and her torso often leaned away from him. While many reviewers said Keri’s acting seems to better fit the medium of television rather than theater, where small-scale nuance often gets lost, I found her acting through body language highly effective.

My other defense for why I’m not totally convinced of the sexism of the original material is that this really does seem to be Anna’s story. She is the character most often present, on stage for almost every scene. Yes, the main action of the story is Anna and Pale’s relationship, but the telling of that story stays more closely centered on Anna’s perspective. Even though Burton and Larry are the ones who articulate the play’s structural themes at the beginning, it is Anna’s experience and hardship at Robbie’s funeral that opens and frames the play. She is the character we get to know first. And following on that – perhaps the play is then meant to progress through her eyes, meaning the audience becomes her proxy, and hence why there might be fewer lines necessary to understand her experience.

What I mean by the audience becoming her proxy is that the play is framed in such a way that the audience’s experience watching the play closely mirrors Anna’s experience in the play. When Pale is being played by an actor that succeeds in making him empathetic to the audience, then the audience travels through the same progression as Anna in its evolving understanding of and connection to Pale’s character. The audience feels the same conflict of discomfort and attraction, the more time Anna spends with him. Anna doesn’t need lines to explain her misgivings about becoming involved with him – They’re already completely clear. And when Anna breaks off the relationship and Pale leaves – The audience feels much the same way Anna does and expresses to Larry: Relieved but “like shit.”

There is also the fact that although Anna is given less voice, her presence is, in a way, much stronger and put-together than Pale’s. Even though he is louder and more attention-grabbing, she is the one in control of their dynamic. She is the one usually looking after and comforting him, trying to manage him, and so long as their first kissing scene is played in the new, more tentative way where he waits for her response, she is the one defining the terms of their relationship. Though she connects with Pale because she is suffering just as much as he is, she is unquestionably the more stoic of them both, with a subtle inner strength she does not need Pale to bestow upon her - only to remind her of.

Is this a story of romance or disaster?

NOW finally – Is this really a story about romance? Or an explosive disaster doomed to fail? In my first post after seeing the first preview of the play, I described Anna and Pale as “star-crossed lovers” – in the proper, tragic sense.

(“Whatever is between them should not exist. Whatever is between them threatens them both. Whatever is between them is not long for this world, and doesn’t belong in it. (…) They are polar opposite people - Sharing no visible common interests and with temperaments that couldn’t be more opposite.”)

It’s certainly difficult to envision these two in a stable, long-term relationship. Most likely, they’ll continue on as they are – Finding their way to each other in explosive bursts, then attempting to disentangle before they’re drawn back together. A woman like Anna, sensible and talented, seems far too levelheaded to fall for a temperamental firebrand like Pale. So what attracts her to Pale in a way she isn’t attracted to Burton? Why does she find more fulfillment with him, when she finds no stability?

Pale both challenges and needs her in a way Burton does not. Burton comes from a rich kid background, who never really had to fight for anything and admits himself that he’s never really felt loss in his life. Anna and Burton work well in the sense of their lives and interests aligning together, but Burton never gives the impression of needing Anna in any true sense. Not the way Pale does – when he entreats her not to go when they’re sitting together on the couch, or when he comes to her in his most pathetic, broken state. She is the only one who knew Robbie deeply and can share Pale’s crushing sense of loss, and as such is the only one who can provide him the solace he so desperately needs. There is nothing Burton needs from Anna, or relies on her for with such urgency. As discussed in the first section, Pale also gives Anna something in return. It may not be what she knew she needed, but he forces her to confront the true brunt of her grief, and look at herself honestly rather than hiding from her pain. She shies away from this at first, and tries to avoid caring for someone again as deeply as she did for Robbie. (He accuses: “You’re afraid you’ll get interested. Afraid you’ll feel something.” She objects: “I feel, Pale!”) At this point in her life, this type of burgeoning attachment to someone new is not something she wants or feels equipped to deal with. She thinks she wants to end things with Pale and does so, but after he leaves, she’s faced with the rising realization of how much she doesn’t want him gone. Her following dialogue with Larry is some of the most intriguing: “I’m sick of the age we live in.” “What, you’d rather be pillaged and raped?” “I am being pillaged, and I am being raped!” Sensible, put-together, talented Anna has no place in her life and in her career for this type of affair. She has no patience for it, and is frustrated with herself for wanting it despite how much of a terrible idea it is, and how little she thinks she likes Pale as a person. She’s fighting her feelings for him, and she hates that they’re winning. But the fact remains – His need for her and the way he has bared himself to the soul has left its mark on her heart. No one else has ever been so honest with her. Just as it seemed to both pain and soothe her when she told Pale he reminded her of Robbie; It both fulfills and distresses her to grow closer to him. No matter how they get there, the urgency with which they fall into each other’s arms and cling to one another in the final scene is unquestionably one of the play’s most heartfelt and powerful moments. They may not be the type of couple that lasts forever, but this isn’t that kind of story. It is the story of two people attempting to navigate profound grief, and only through finding each other do they find their way free.

My last comment on this question is that I’ve had different impressions of the depth of their feelings for each other in different performances. In one performance (4/16), the cast seemed to be playing up the comedy so much that the two moments I had remembered as most touching and intimate between Pale and Anna became drowned out. The first was what Pale says to her between kisses, the first time they become intimate:

“Let’s just start up the engines real slow here … maybe go halfway to the city and stop for somethin’ to eat … You talk to me, okay? … You’re gonna find out there’s times … I’m a real good listener.”

This is nothing short of brilliantly written dialogue, because the first time I heard it, I didn’t even realize the sexual innuendo. In the first preview, the lines were delivered so gently and sincerely, there was no laughter at all. It was a moment where Pale seemed to be promising her that this was meaningful – That he wanted to be there for her in more ways than just the physical. Instead of a metaphor for sexual acts, it sounded like “Before we go all the way… I want you to know I’m here for you. What we’re starting is bigger than just this.” It was a palpable, tender moment of connection.

The second time I saw the performance was when the audience caught the metaphor and the moment became comic. I’m not sure what exactly Adam did differently (I think he was kissing her during the ellipses, rather than pulling back and saying the whole line in one heartfelt go), but the moment was completely different. Yes, it’s actually hilarious dialogue and brilliant because it can be delivered in such different ways, but I couldn’t help feeling that a central moment of emotional intimacy was lost.

The second moment is in the final scene, when they’re reunited for the first time in weeks. In the first preview, I think they were sitting together when Anna said in a helpless voice, “I don’t want this.” Pale looked at her and responded, “I don’t want it too.” The moment was mournful and touching, because the way they were looking at each other made it clearly inevitable that their personal wills would have no say in the matter. No matter how much they might not want this – no matter the fact that they both know they’re not good for each other – they know they’re being pulled together by forces greater than themselves.

In later performances, the blocking was changed so they’re saying these lines between kissing. This made the comments comedic rather than tragic, because obviously it’s hard to believe he “doesn’t want it too” when he’s enthusiastically kissing her back.

In my personal opinion, this shift towards the more comedic made the whole thing a little less impactful, since to me, the most compelling element of the play the first time was the beautifully tragic nature of that final scene. My friend was reduced to tears during it. The play is funnier now rather than bittersweet and Adam is uproariously hilarious, but I think what makes this play unique and most powerful is the fated/tragic nature of Anna and Pale’s relationship. Rather than a romping “oh yeah, they know it’s a bad idea but they’re falling into bed together anyway” – The beautiful writing and the exchanges between these two characters really can elevate the story to the level of the profound.

Well. Apparently I had much more to say about this play than I realized! I hope one or two people out there found themselves as interested by it and Adam and Keri’s performances as I did. Thank you kindly if you actually read through that entire rambling mess!! And please, if you have any thoughts at all about anything I wrote above or any other element of the play, I would really love to hear! :D

[riyuyami]

So, as my followers know, I have an au called Yami and the Ink Machine, obviously a parody of the game Ben/dy and the Ink Mac/hine. And I’m so into this au that I decided to make a fanfic out of it, based on the game play, along with my own changes to the plot to fit better with the au and the characters.

Summery: Yugi received a letter from his former boss and friend, Seto Kaiba, asking him to come back to their old animation studio to see something that Seto had.

Oh, how he wished he had chosen not to go…

Warning: horror, body horror, a cute kid’s show turns into a satanic mess, cult stuff, death, lots and lots of ink

Also contains artwork by me.

The title is based on the famous BA//TIM fansong of the same name (give it a listen, it’s really good)

On with the fic!

--

Gospel of Dismay

Chapter One: Moving Pictures

--

It seems like a lifetime since we worked on cartoons together.

20 years really slips away, doesn't it?

If you're back in town, come visit the old workshop. There is something I need to show you.

Your dear friend.

-Seto Kaiba

--

Yugi frowned, looking at the old, yellow note in his hand. The writing was obviously Seto’s, perfect and neat, but the old paper and the ink spots were a little out of his area. Seto was a very clean man, a perfectionist, so it was a little worrisome to see the condition of the note.

Same with the condition of the studio.

Orchid eyes stared up at the ruined sign that once proudly hung over the door that lead into the building. It said SETO KAIBA STUDIOS, the metal was rusted, and three letters were missing. The rest of the building was also in a terrible shape, it looked like a simple kick to the side would cause the whole thing to fall in on itself. It was falling apart, vines grew on the sides, all the windows were boarded up, not a single hint of glass could be seen.

Why did Seto want Yugi to come here to meet him?

He knew that the studio went under a few years ago, people just didn’t like small studio cartoons anymore, everyone just wants Disney and Warner Bros. It was depressing to the former animator to see such good cartoons and the like being thrown under the bus when compared to the big names. Such as the toons from this studio, the studio Yugi helped co-found and was head animator for.

And creator of the main attraction of the studio, a little shadowy demon boy with a magic necklace and hair that looked a bit too much like his creator’s.

Stuffing the note into the pocket of his vest, Yugi knocked on the door as he stood in front of it.

With a tired sigh, Yugi discovered after a few minutes of knocking that no one was coming. He also discovered that the door was unlocked. He frowned, opening it up and stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, turning to face the hall.

It was dimly lit, by emergency lights. Huh, was the power out and the backup generator on?

No… that didn’t make sense, he had read in the paper before that the studio had been shut down and closed off, the power should be off, including the backup power…

Well, maybe Seto used his money to do something about that, Yugi wouldn’t put it past him.

He glanced at the walls of the small walkway, seeing posters of some of their original shorts, The Dancing Shadow and Sheep Songs. He remembered those shorts, he had animated them himself.

Yugi smiled a little before straightening up, fixing his vest a bit to look presentable. “Alright, Seto. I’m here. Let’s see if we can find what you wanted me to see…” He mumbled to himself as he approached the workshop.

The former animator winced, seeing how… barren and dusty it was. He found an old projector that was running, along with a speaker. It was a bit damaged, considering that the song it was playing sounded tinny. Hm, he knew that song… sounded like one of Pegasus’ songs from the show. Speaking of that, the projector showed nothing, just a blank, flashing screen. Who just left these things on? What this part of what Seto brought him here to see?

Something caught Yugi’s attention by the projector, a cardboard cutout of his character, Yami, the dancing shadow. Well, that was just one of his names, he’s also known as the lil’ spooky darlin’, the game king, and the dancing demon, respectively.

The cutout was staring at him with hard, black eyes, a frown on his face. Hm, that was a default expression for him, if not that, then the weird… creepy smile that Seto insisted he have. Yugi examined the cutout, seeing that Yami was also in his default outfit of a black, sleeveless shirt, his white gloves, dark pants and strange shoes, along with the little belt around his non-existent neck.

He also wore his magic pendant, an upside-down pyramid with an eye on it. Yami would use it as a magical device, it was his hammerspace, he could pull anything from it! He could also use it to turn it into objects of his desire, often something set up for games and pranks.

His hair was very much like Yugi’s own, when Yugi first began his design, Seto had told him to give him the same style. When Yugi asked why, Seto replied with ‘your hair is ridiculous, it will look great on a cartoon character’. Obviously, the animator had taken offense to that, but he had to agree with his boss, the hair fit Yami perfectly.

And it often led to hilarious sight gags, and it was easy to draw.

Speaking of drawing…

Glancing to his left, Yugi spotted a small hallway and quickly made his way to it, sighing in relief as he looked at his old work space. He chuckled as he approached. “I wasted so many hours here…” He joked, seeing that, oddly, all the old sketches and work he had left behind when he left were still here, still in place. Though, he did notice there was a lot of paper tacked to the broken walls, and some sketches were on the floor. He didn’t remember leaving such a mess, must have been Seto’s doing.

On the desk, Yugi found a little doodle he did of Yami that was off model, with the note that Seto left, a big ‘NO’. However, the big change to the room was the cutout standing next to the desk, again, Yami looked mad.

It… was a little unsettling that someone left this in his office…

Shaking his head, Yugi turned away, heading out of the office to go down the hall that was to the right. He frowned when he noticed the cluttered mess by a door, but when he looked off to the side, his eyes widened.

Down a hall, where they use to have a small table for where people could sit and talk, was a written message, in ink.

DREAMS COME TRUE.

Yugi shuddered, that was… ominous, who wrote that? Uhg, this felt like a bad joke, is Seto fucking with him?

He huffed, stepping into the hall and walking past the written words, noticing ink leaking from a spot in the ceiling. Why… was the ceiling leaking ink? What the hell? Also, there’s pipes, big pipes, black in color, with what looks like ink in them.

Why is there so much ink? Uhg, the air already had that terrible stale, dusty smell, now he could smell rubber ink. Even back when he animated, Yugi never liked the strong scent of ink, it made his nose hurt.

“Seto, what were you up to here?” Yugi wondered aloud as he continued down the hall, pausing at a door with a light shining under it, the faint sound of a radio playing inside. He knocked, but received no answer, and the door was locked.

Useless.

Maybe there’s a glitch? The power really shouldn’t be on…

This was starting to unsettle Yugi greatly, but still… he might as well keep going, cause something caught his eye.

Up ahead, at the end of the hall, was a room he didn’t really remember being here before.

Above the entrance was a sign, INK MACHINE. Inside, to Yugi’s shock, was a large, strange looking machine! There was a spout on one end, and a giant glass tank of ink on the other. There was ink splattered all over the ground, and large pipes seemed to be attached to the machine, going into the ceiling.

“So… this is the ink machine…” He figured as much, it was obvious. “I wonder how you turn it on.” He pondered, looking the machine over, before deciding to continue his search for Seto. He wondered if that was the thing he was gonna be shown. It was impressive, yes, but what the hell was it for? Uhg, Seto, why were you always so hard to understand…

Yugi rolled his eyes, leaving the room and going down yet another hall. He winced, seeing another cutout, standing where the old water cooler had been. He frowned, this one was giving him a curious look, maybe… there were other cutouts around the place? He noticed that an animator’s deck was nearby, with a book on it.

Approaching, Yugi picked it up, noting that it was black, with silver writing. The Illusion of Living, the book said, with Seto’s signature on the cover. Uhg, he wrote a book? Yugi sighed, walking off after he sat the book back down, though he wondered if he should take it with him, he felt the urge to slap Seto in the face wit-

There was a loud bang and Yugi nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning, the small man noticed that a chunk of the ceiling had fallen at the end of the hall to his right, a plank of wood sat on the ground. He saw dust beginning to settle, oh… hahaha… this old building is just falling apart at the seams, isn’t it…?

He straightened his vest, biting his lip as he ran a hand through his hair. Okay, that just happened, probably best to ignore it. He walked down the hall, careful to listen for any creaks and groans from above, before moving to the room to his right. He remembered that this is where the old break room was, and… oh dear God…

The room had been gutted of its tables and coffee makers, replaced with six strange pillars, three on each side. Behind each pillar was a framed drawing in black, so there were six. The drawings were of a doll, a record, an inkwell, a gear, a wrench, and a book.

At the back of the room was a large lever, with a flashing sign next to it, saying ‘low pressure’. Above it was a sign, reading MAIN POWER. Was… this the switch for the ink machine? Yugi approached, trying it out, but nothing happened. Hm, maybe it had something to do with the low pressure?

He rolled his eyes, uhg, how complicated is it to just put everything in one room?

Oh, right, this is Seto, nothing is ever easy with him…

Yugi sighed loudly, and moved to step out of the hall, gasping when he almost ran into a cutout of Yami… one with a very creepy grin on his face.

“Who the hell put this here?” He grumbled, about to shove it aside, but something behind it caught his eye, and he wished it hadn’t.

In an old room that Yugi remembered being full of artists in the past… had something else entirely in it.

Stepping past the Yami drawing, Yugi’s eyes widened as he approached the other room. The sight of the room sent a terrible chill down his spine as he stared at the main attraction in the center.

There was a medical table, lifted vertically to show its contents on display, sitting in a square hole in the middle of the room. The object on the table… was a life-size… model??? A model of Yami’s co-star, Joey the Mutt???

Yugi always remembered enjoying Joey, Seto hated him. He was a laid-back, happy guy who wore a shirt with a dog hood on his head, it looked like a happy dog’s face. He was a musical guy, but also was quick to pick a fight with anyone, often with Yami after he got pranked. He was a true friend, even when his best friend was being a pest.

But here he was, on full display, in real life...

With his chest torn open, cartoony ribs poking out, gray organs could be seen in the cavity, but not a heart. There was ink everywhere, and Joey’s eyes, both the ones on his face and the ones on his hood were giant Xs, like when a cartoon character dies…

“Oh God, Seto… what were you doing here…?” Yugi stammered before feeling physically ill. He turned and gave into his urges to… well… now there was another mess on the floor. He groaned, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Something caught his eye, more writing, on the wall.

WHO’S LAUGHING NOW

The animator stumbled back, bumping against a wall. What the hell happened to this place?!

Was… was this a joke?!

He knew Seto had a shit sense of humor, which is why he often didn’t write episodes, but this… this is too much as a ‘welcoming surprise’ for Yugi, if this is what he had planned! “Fuck…” Yugi moved away from the body, gods above he hoped it was fake, and opened a door, stepping into an old work space.

He panted lightly, trying to get his old heart working correctly, jeez, he’s not even that old and already he felt like his heart was gonna give out just from that damn display. He shook his head, rubbing at his temple.

Luckily for him, the room didn’t contain anything scary, just a bunch of artwork and supplies, and two desks. He made his way out of the room through another door, stepping into the hallway that had led to the break room. Yugi made his way down the opposite direction, god damnit, where is Seto?!

He spotted something though, that grabbed his attention. It was a recording device, and it had a tape in it. He pushed the play button, surprised to see that it worked, and he heard a voice he hadn’t heard in years.

It was the voice of Tristan Taylor, the janitor.

Oh, Yugi remembered him well, an average guy who took his job seriously, but was a pretty nice fellow.

Quietly, Yugi listened to the voice of his old co-worker, wondering what he was going to say.

''At this point, I don't get what Kaiba's plan is for this company. The animations sure aren't being finished on time anymore, and I certainly don't see why we need this machine. It's noisy, it's messy, and who needs that much ink anyway?

Also, get this, Kaiba had each one of us donate something from our work stations. We put them on these little pedestals in the break room. To help appease the gods, Kaiba says. Keep things going.

I think he's lost his mind, but, hey, he writes the checks.

But I tell you what, if one more of these pipes burst, I'm out of here.''

…

Appease the gods?

Well, that… sort of explained the break room, and… Joey.

Maybe?

Wait, so he had to look for office relics for the break room? Hmm… Yugi really didn’t want to do that, but if it helped him find Seto, he might have to do it. And he really wanted to find his old friend, cause the guy probably needed a few good slaps across the mouth for all this crazy stuff.

He set the recorder back where he found it and walked away, deciding to go look for the items. He already knew where one was, the book. He was sure that was the one seen in the picture from the break room.

What else was there…

A wrench, a cog, an inkwell, a record, and a doll.

Okay, seems simple enough. He could do this, Yugi thought as he grabbed the book from the desk, turning to look down the hall to the break room, surprised to find that the Yami cutout was gone.

… Whoever is doing this needs to stop.

As he walked around, exploring, Yugi came across locked doors, and open closets that had shelves full of bacon soup, a product that Seto had tried to sell that didn’t do all that great. Yugi didn’t care for it much, it was too bland in taste, but they had sold enough, he supposed.

Opening a door scared him silly when a damn cutout popped out, showing that big, creepy grin like the one from the hall.

He walked away and continued to search for items.

He found the cog back in the ink machine room, hidden in an old closet space. The record he had found in the old basement, along with the inkwell.

During his search, Yugi had found that he could enter the room where he had heard music, and was surprised to find an old radio inside. He turned it on, hearing a nice little song play, before the radio shorted out and it ended. Well, it was nice while it lasted.

The wrench was found in the area with the first creepy message he had found, now all that was left was the doll.

This one took a bit of work to find, Yugi searched all over, and after twenty minutes of wandering around, he finally found the little doll in his old chair.

It was a Yami doll, from the toy line Seto tried to market. It’s stitching was a little off, as were the eyes, but Yugi always thought they were cute. He couldn’t help the laugh that he let out when he gave it a squeeze, hearing it squeak.

“Well, that’s all of them.” He mumbled, trying the juggle the items in his arms to get a better hold.

It didn’t take him long to get back to the break room, where he began to set the items on their pedestals. It was unnerving that they sank a little with each item put on them, but he heard something and turned to the lever, frowning that something was off. Hmm… it was still low on pressure…

Wait!

In his search for the doll, Yugi had found an old screening room! And behind the projector was a button on the wall, labeled ‘Flow’. Maybe that’s what he needed to get this stupid machine working!

Quickly, Yugi ran down the halls, making his way back to the projector room, only to scream when a cutout suddenly peered at him from around a corner, only to quickly hide behind it.

“W-who’s there?!” He called out, hearing nothing.

Carefully, the small man made his way to the projector room, seeing the Yami smiling at him, looking a bit… pleased with itself. God damnit, this place was messing with his head…

Stepping past it, Yugi entered the projector room, frowning that he saw the projector on, showing a loop of Yami doing a small, poorly animated dance. He tisked, and approached the button, hitting it. He gasped when ink started to shoot out of the machine, spreading all over the floor. It took quick maneuvering to avoid the spray, though the bottom of Yugi’s pants and his shoes were damaged due to the rising ink.

“Uhg, damnit, these are some of my nice pants…” He frowned, but rushed back to the break room.

But as he ran, he swore he heard something, from above, in the pipes.

It sounded like skittering, and… a whistle? Was someone whistling a song? It was hard to tell as he ran back to the room. He got up to the switch and pulled it down.

The pipes came to life and were loud, pumping ink. The lights seem to have gotten brighter, but Yugi felt uncomfortable suddenly, a sinking feeling of dread overcame him as he felt like he just made a big mistake…

He straightened his vest and walked out of the room, whatever, he needed to see if he got that machine working or not.

Sure as heck sounded like it!

As he walked back down the hall, the feeling of dread consumed him and he turned, shocked to find that the ink machine room was blocked off by hastily-placed boards, nailed in front of the doorway.

Who did this? Why didn’t they want him to enter the room?

Yugi was sure he could easily pull those out if he tried. He nervously laughed as he approached, seeing through the gaping holes between the boards that the machine was pumping out globs of ink.

It took only a moment for Yugi to realize that he should have left the building the moment he first laid eyes on the ink machine.

Cause just as he was two or so feet away from the boards, something jumped out of the ink.

It was soaked in ink, at least six or so feet tall, with large, wet spikes coming out of its head. What appeared to be drenched bangs framed its bone-white face, the eyes completely hidden by ink, and the most unsettling smile was on its face, it looked like Yami’s creepy smile!

It slammed a large, white, ink-soaked hand down on a board, while a short, thin arm, with a clawed hand at the end, swiped at him.

Yugi screamed, jumping back from the slash as the walls around him seemed to become soaked in ink, coming from the room.

The… the thing in the room seemed to stare at Yugi as he stood in shock, before it let out the most horrific scream Yugi had ever heard.

He stumbled, his body feeling like it was full of pins and needles, his balance was off. He turned and tried to get away, but his vision was so off, everything blended and mixed, the walls were leaking so much ink! The floor was flooding, and that thing was trying to break out of the room!

It roared this time, but Yugi felt like the world was being shaken as he tried to make his way to the exit. He slammed into the wall with the DREAMS COME TRUE writing on it, so in his vertigo-esque state, he was going in the right direction.

He got back into the main room and found the hall to the front door when his vision began to return to normal. Just as he stepped into the hall, just ten or so feet from the door…

The floor beneath him gave out, and he fell.

Yugi screamed as he fell so many feet before slamming into ink, the room he had landed in was flooded in it! He gasped and tried to make his way over to a valve he had spotted. Once he got a good grip on it, he turned it as much as it could go, and the ink began to drain quickly.

He panted, his heart was beating so hard in his chest, he could practically hear it over the ringing in his ears from the scream.

What… what was that thing?!

Yugi had never seen such a thing before, it looked like someone had destroyed and tried to rebuild poor Yami… did it come from the ink machine? He glanced up towards where he had fallen from, there was no way he could get back up that way.

He tensed up, hearing the faintest whistle from above, getting louder with each second that passed.

Oh god… was that the monster?! Yugi couldn’t stay here, it could be looking for him right now!

Turning, he rushed out of the room he had landed in, beginning a new quest to get the hell out of this horrible place. As he moved about the halls of this new level, turning on pumps to get rid of the excess ink, Yugi wondered when this was added on. He didn’t remember them having more to the building underground, yes, there was a basement, but nothing like this.

He entered a new room, surprised to find another tape recorder, another audio log. This one had a label on it, ‘Yusei Fudo’. Oh, he remembered that guy, faintly. He was a quiet, stern looking kid who Seto would bring in to fix any problems in the building.

The guy was fast with his work and never really talked to people, Seto liked him for that.

Yugi looked at the recorder, pushing play on it.

''It's dark, and it's cold, and it's stuck in behind every single wall now. In some places, I swear this godforsaken ink is clear up to my knees! Who ever thought that these crummy pipes could hold up under this kind of strain either knows something about pressure I don't, or he's some kind of idiot.

But the real worst part about all this... are the noises the system makes. Like a dying dog on its last legs. Make no mistake, this place... this... machine... heck, this whole darn thing... it just isn't natural.

You can bet, I won't be doing any more repair jobs for Mister Seto Kaiba.''

The older man hoped that Yusei took his own advice and never did another repair job for Seto. He sighed, setting the tape back down before looking around the room, spotting something that perked him up greatly.

An axe!

He ran over to where it was resting on the wall, picking it up. It was a standard fire axe, and though Yugi was wondering why it was all the way down here and not upstairs, he wasn’t going to complain. He now had a weapon of some sort to help him in case that horrible thing came back.

He swung the blade, testing it out. It sliced through a plank of wood that he was next to with ease. Perfect, this would work well for him.

And certainly it should, considering that the next area he could go into was blocked off with wood. Sure, Yugi was short and in decent enough shape to just maneuver his way past the boards, but his back was killing him from the fall and he wasn’t as young as he once was.

So, Yugi’s only option was to start swinging.

Once most of the wood was cleared away, Yugi continued his search for an exit, hoping to avoid any run-ins with more monsters. He prayed that he wasn’t going deeper into this strange building, and would eventually find a staircase or something to lead him back upstairs.

There was a door he found, and Yugi frowned, the sense of dread had returned tenfold as he put his hand on the knob. He wasn’t sure if he should open it, but this was the only other door and he couldn’t go back the way he came. He had to keep going forward.

The old animator swallowed the lump in his throat, adjusted his vest, and opened the door.

His eyes widened and he lost his voice as he stared at the inside of the room.

It was lit only by a circle of candles, surrounding a pentagram of some sort on the ground. It was a strange in design, with an Egyptian-looking eye design painted on in it in ink. And along the wall behind it were coffins.

Before Yugi could hightail it out of there, the room began to shake, like a sudden earthquake hit the structure. He stumbled into the room, gasping when his vision began to go out, and he dropped.

As he fell, flashes of images came to his mind, strange flashes that felt familiar to him, but he couldn’t really… place when they happened.

The ink machine, a wheelchair, the monster…

Before Yugi could ponder on these images, he smacked his head against the floor. As his vision darkened, his last thoughts were of the curious sounds of whistling from somewhere in the area.

TBC

--

That’s the end of chapter one, both for this story and literally for the game.

I did change a few things, such as some of the dialogue, I gave Yugi more reactions to what he was seeing (cause Henry is so blasé about everything in the game!), and the location of the objects weren’t all in the places they’re supposed to be found it. Then again, I’ve had trouble finding a few of them in their normal locations, so whatever.

I made Honda Wally cause both are said to be regular guys and season zero Honda is seen as a janitor character. For the most part, I’m using the English names for this story cause not everyone is gonna be Japanese in this. Yusei got to be Thomas, the repair man, cause I’m trying to match characters up by personality or how they speak about the situations in the audio logs. And Yusei fit this guy pretty well, I don’t know if I will use any other spin-off characters, but we’ll see.

Next chapter: Yugi must keep going, he needs to get out of here. But that’s easier said than done, what with the ink being more than what it seems, the strange man spotted out of the corner of his eyes, and the monster always being near.

Can I get an amen?

Thanks for reading!

[askvicothefallenbloodangel]

Writober Day 2: The Tribe’s Dog

Halloween Art Gauntlet

“He’s in there?” Thevan asked.

“Oh, he most certainly is, my lord!” Sunan replied cheerfully.  “My contact back in Felheart is a being of most reliable character, I’ll have you know.  I saw to that.”

Thevan continued to study the distant temple through the scope of his rifle.  Even in its dilapidated state, it was clear that it was not of any architectural style common to the Imperium.  He thought he could see some elements of Eldar influence, but time and neglect had made it difficult to be certain.

But even if he was looking upon evidence of xenos worship by the moon’s original inhabitants - original human inhabitants, you mean - that was not what Thevan found the most unsettling.  The environs surrounding the building were quiet, far too quiet for even the most desolate regions of this cursed world.  Even at this distance, he could feel a sense of emptiness enveloping the place.

The fact that he was looking for an Ork just made the whole situation all the more bizarre.

“Just find him and tell him to give you what he owes me,” Sunan continued.  “Though old Lugnak might require a bit of, ah, encouragement.  But I doubt a tetarto-god such as your lordship will have any trouble.  In the meantime, I’ll be making preparations for the next stage of our journey so that we may travel in the style and comfort that we both deserve!”

Wouldn’t that be a sight to see.

Best not waste any more time then, give our companion more opportunity to conjure his gilded chariot.  Thevan picked his way down the hill towards the ruined temple, his rifle kept at the ready.

The sense of nothingness kept gnawing at him as he drew closer.  Thevan felt a prickling around his hearts along with a heavy pressure from within, like he was trapped underneath a Rhino.  A hollowness encompassed his eyes, his vision becoming unfocused.

Thevan shook his head clear.  This place is cursed.  Let us conclude our business here and be done with it.

As he entered the shadowed streets surrounding the temple he discovered that the area was indeed inhabited, though “occupied” was likely a more appropriate term.  Several humans sat at tables by the remains of old cafes, still and motionless.  Others lay in barely dignified reposes atop piles of rubble, and more than a few simply laid on the ground, forcing Thevan to walk around them.  A couple slowly turned to glance at him as he passed by, but they made no sound or any gesture of greeting, returning to stare at nothing the moment he was more than a few meters away.  There was nothing but the barest flicker of curiosity in their eyes, no hint of warmth or hostility.  Just a soulless gaze.

No, not soulless.  Precisely the opposite.  The Outcast could sense something beneath the emptiness, signs of life amid the corpse-like stares.  But gentle psychic prodding at it only revealed a hot welling of pain and profound despair threatening to burst like an angry boil.  But it was the familiar, silent cry within that pain that shook her to the core.

Thevan continued to walk past them.  Leave well enough alone.

My kin are trapped here…

As are you.

But not like this.

What else can you do for them that we are not already doing?

…

Then let us move on.

Asking the denizens, Thevan felt, would’ve been pointless.  Thankfully, there were only so many places an Ork could hide, though he was still surprised when he finally found him just inside the temple.  Thevan estimated that Lugnak was slightly taller than the average Ork Boy, but somehow he managed to make himself look slight and fragile as he lay on his side on the temple floor, curled halfway into a fetal position.  The moment the Ork saw Thevan approach he actually flinched, slowly curling up as though he expected to be beaten.

Thevan shoved aside his astonishment and gazed down at the Ork.  “Lugnak,” he said in a whisper just loud enough for him to hear.  It seemed inappropriate to disturb the silence anymore than necessary.  “I am here to collect what you owe Sunan.”

Lugnak only responded by covering his face with his hands and giving a long, shuddering sigh.  He seemed to double over, as though there was a great pain in his stomach.

“Lugnak,” Thevan repeated, “your payment.”

The Ork’s hands balled into tight fists over his face, his entire body tensing.  Thevan stepped back into a ready stance, his hand on his chainsword, but when the Ork lashed out, it was not at the Lamenter, but at his own face.  Lugnak’s rage and frenzy only seemed to grow more intense with each strike, his green face becoming streaked with blood.  There was a sickening crack of bone as one of his tusks clattered away from him, yet he still continued to viciously bash away at his head.

Thevan stepped back, glancing around at the other people milling around them.  A few took note of the Ork’s self-violence, but no one moved to intervene or walk away.  After a moment’s hesitation, Thevan rushed forward, grabbed a handful the broken, bloody teeth on the floor, and ran further into the temple, not caring where he went so long as he couldn’t hear the Ork’s choking sobs.

Somewhere deep within the ruins, Thevan slowed to a stop.  He glanced at the teeth in his hand, still warm and slick with blood.  He drew in a ragged breath, trying to steady himself.  He had killed many Orks up to now, so why was this so disturbing?

Death is one thing.  Despair is another.

The Outcast shuddered.  And when death is denied, despair is all we have.

Thevan shook his head and took a step forward.  Not that I can do much except bring both to others.

I do not even have the excuse of being forged solely for that purpose.  Wherever I go, devastation follows.  They never should have let me come here.

But I only wield death for the sake of preserving life!  I fight so others may live!  So why do I keep failing to protect them?!

I couldn’t leave well enough alone.  At least out in the Void She would’ve only found me, not thousands of my kin!

There is nothing left here but damnation.  Even now I carry incontrovertible proof of my sins.  Why do I persist?

Now we are all trapped in an endless hell of death and corruption.  Nothing I do will change it.

I will only make things worse.

I might as well have never been here…

Thevan blinked his vision clear.  He stared his rifle lying on the ground at his knees.  The wet, chipped aquila on the receiver immediately drew his eye, practically out of reflex.  He reached a shaking hand towards it, desperately wanting to feel its familiar contours beneath his fingers, but he stopped.

My Emperor, Your gifts were wasted.

The Outcast let her hand drop to the ground, her fingers curling around a cobblestone.  Images of Lugnak flashed through her mind.  She couldn’t do what he did - you fled from the Path, and yet you entertain thoughts of being as brave as that Ork? - but maybe…it would be easy after the first blow…

This is stupid!

He roared in frustration, his fingers so tight around the stone that it might break from his rage alone.  He lifted it up, and…

He didn’t know.  He just flung it half-heartedly against the floor, a bestial, wolf-like growl emanating from his throat.

…wolf…?

Thevan whirled around, his rifle in his hands and braced against his shoulder.

With a start he found himself staring into the eyes of a monstrous daemon.

A Flesh Hound, he realized.  But this one was different.  Not only did it loom well over a meter over him, its scales were pitch black, giving it the appearance of a living, ethereal shadow.  Hollow, featureless white eyes stared down at him, betraying no hint of hunger or hostility, just a stark, predatory gaze.

Thevan felt…nothing…as he stared back at the monstrous creature.  The torn, ragged edges of his psyche fluttered slightly, but in his exhaustion he felt oddly serene.

Then a slight trickle of emotion dripped from the tatters.  Anger, sadness, mirth, rage.  He let them flow through and past him, but one in particular pooled within him.

Spite.

The Outcast stood up, the crude weapon in her grip never leaving its target.  Crude, but nevertheless suitable for her purpose.

To the Abyss with the Bearer of Lies.

The weapon roared and spat a single bolt of fire, the light and fury casting away the grey silence.  The explosion when it met its target was even more brilliant, washing out all sight and sound.

Thevan’s sight cleared in an instant, but there was nothing in front of him save for some tumbling dust.

I doubt the abomination is banished for good.

He nodded.  It was not nearly satisfying enough, anyway.

The Outcast’s grip on her weapon tightened.  At least I can still accomplish one thing, even if it’s only for myself.

The corner of Thevan’s mouth curled up slightly.  And there are plenty more less worthy foes to keep us occupied in the meantime.

[spectre-writes]

They pulled out of the driveway with a crunch of gravel and Delia spared her old home a last, cursory glance before it was left behind for good, like so many before. The landscape blurred into a rush of distant houses and carefully trimmed gardens. Given the direction they were traveling she suspected they were headed for the city.

“You know,” she remarked, tearing herself away from the window, “your knack for timing is superb.”

“Is it? Such a pity it doesn't run in the family. It's been almost a year you know, perhaps it's wistful thinking but I would have expected better than a single phone call from my dear sister.” She could see Christine's face reflected in the edge of the rear-view mirror. A delicate frown, but the faint upward twitch of her lips suggested her irritation wasn't enough to spur a real argument.

Delia waved her words away. “I've been busy. Are you aware a couple of thugs attempted to kill me not minutes ago?”

“Never a dull moment in your life it seems. No, I was not aware, though I knew something was up when you walked up to us dressed like that with your bag in tow. You only wear those rags if you know you're going to make a mess. I suppose it's safe to assume they're both dead?”

“Naturally,” she said. She stretched out on the backseat, ignoring the creak of fresh leather and finding a position that eased her aches and bruises. “It's good to see you again. I think it would save us a lot of time however if you cut to the chase because we both know this isn't a social call. What do you want?”

Christine's frown deepened. “I was getting to that part.”

“If it has anything to do with the family business-”

“Oh please, the family business functions quite well without you and it has done for years, however crippling that may be to your ego. This is my own agenda. I'm here to offer a... mutually beneficial venture.”

“Really?” Delia raised a skeptical brow. Christine was not, strictly speaking, one for 'ventures'. Her little sister had the enviable position of already having acquired everything she wanted out of life – a fortune and a perfect, happy family of her own. There was little more for her to gain and too much to lose, even her business arrangement with their old family only stretched so far as money laundering and social posturing these days. What circumstances could change that she didn't know.

“Hear me out.” Christine turned, peering over the back of the seat in an oddly girlish manner. “What if I told you that there was a gun...”

“I would ask you what other riveting plot points this story has.”

“Don't interrupt my dramatic pauses. Now, this gun... it uses necromancy.”

Delia snorted.

“I'm completely serious,” Christine insisted, “it uses necromancy as well as bullets. Those it kills it instantly brings back under the command of the wielder.”

“Utter garbage,” Delia said in exasperation, “necromancy just doesn't work that way. You can't raise spirits just by firing a gun, you have to reel them in... and tie them back to the body if you want that too. It takes time and precision. I suppose you could transfer command to the gun wielder with a good enough contract but that's hardly going to be quick either and  contracts are best reserved for specific situations, you have to narrow down the terms very tightly. A weapon like... like this mythical gun of yours, modern theory just wouldn't account for it.”

“I have no interest in what theory accounts for, what matters is that it's real. And it is. Well, the prototype anyway.”

Delia stared at her for a long, scornful moment.

“Honestly, do you think I would drive all the way out here just to lie to you about this?”

“We were raised to lie.”

“Yes, but apply some common sense to the matter. What could I possibly gain by lying to my darling sister? I know your natural instinct is to deny the possibility of anything your own knowledge refutes, but try to be open minded. Science experiences breakthroughs every decade, is it so strange the magic would follow the same pattern?”

“If... hypothetically, I was to believe you, what is your proposition?”

Christine smiled. She knew how to perfect a smile, to begin slowly and let it unfurl like a stretching cat. “I thought that would be obvious. I intend to procure it, and it's only natural I should bring a necromancer with me since it's a little out of my field. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to... expand your research. I know you Delia, you're never happy without something to chase after. What do you say? Care for a little family adventure?”

“You're being very presumptuous,” she said, but she couldn't deny her own interest. If such a gun did exist... well, it was revolutionary. All her years of work, all her study, her research, experiments... and someone else discovered this? She was furious. Yet, if she pushed past the indignity of it there was a burning sense of excitement. If the gun were real, she would have it. Who else deserved it but her? Who else had earned the right? She would decipher its workings and put that knowledge to her own uses. It would give her a leg up on everyone else in the field. Still, some old caution urged her to ask, “One question, what do you want with the gun? It's very out of character for you.”

“Oh that's simple,” replied Christine, “ask yourself how this gun might fare in war.”

“Very well I would expect.”

“Exactly. You would not eliminate your enemies, you would add them to your own force. It has some cataclysmic potential, and I for one do not intend to let it loose. I enjoy living a relatively peaceful existence and I can guarantee that were this weapon on the market one country or another would feel confident enough to push the current unrest into actual conflict. I'm protecting my own interests, and those of my family. War is not what we desire.”

Delia measured her expression carefully but it did little good, it would only show what Christine wanted her to see - while she liked to consider herself an accomplished liar her sister had always been the better. However, unlike their other two siblings they had never been at odds. So, as Christine herself had said, what purpose could she possibly have for lying now? An interesting question.

“Alright. You'll have to give me the details but for the moment I'm in.”

Her sister beamed. “I knew you couldn't resist. We'll pick up some supplies on our way to the hotel since you seem to be traveling light, then I'll introduce you to some of the team.”

“There's a team?”

“Don't sound so disgusted, you didn't think we'd be doing this alone did you? I've hired some help, professional sorts to handle the work we're less familiar with. You'll have to wait until tomorrow for the last two to be here but it might be best to meet the others first.”

“Ah joy, socializing.”

“Make a game of it,” Christine said, “ just don't get too carried away. We'll be working with these people not trying to find a way to pin them down and turn them into a tool, they're quite happy with the money I'm offering.”

“I'm sure they are, you have a fortune to play with.”

“I'd have offered some to you but I figured you'd find it insulting.”

“Correct.”

“How was is you put it?” Christine coughed, and continued in a theatrical tonne. “'I will work with others, but I will not work for others'. Typical Delia.”

“You think anyone in our family is different?” she said. “We're all too accustomed to being at the top, getting what we want, not having to cater to others. A king will not scrub floors, and I'm certainly not taking time out of my day to get bossed around.”

“What you need is a little humility... but let's not get into that, I'm not here to lecture you on your faults.”

“No, you're here to coerce me into a heist. Some might say that makes you the bad one,” she remarked, with a faint hint of a smirk.

“Ha! Well, say what you like, you're the black sheep of the family... and that's saying something. Surely you admire the irony of your situation Delia? Leaving a life of crime... to start a life of crime.”

She turned to stare out the window. “You know it wasn't the crime I objected to.”

“No...” Christine said with a sigh, “but you're going to ruin this conversation if you go down that path. Here I am, finally catching up with my sister after almost a year, don't we have more to discuss?”

“I suppose... how are Myra and Ben?”

“They're well... Ben started school a few months back. Myra wants a pony. They've both asked when you're going to visit.”

“Probably want presents.”

“Of course they want presents, they're children. Kids have a very parasitic view on relatives, especially those they only see once in a blue moon. Anthony asked about you too, but I think he just wants to be prepared if you make an appearance. You... unsettle him.”

“Does he know my profession?” Delia asked, glancing up at her sister again.

Christine shook her head. “No, I never told him. He suspects something, but he isn't sure quite what dubious business you're in. He's currently rather taken by the idea that you're an assassin.”

She couldn't help but smile at that. “Oh? Well you may tell him that I am very flattered but that the people I exercise my skill on are normally already dead.”

“Perhaps not. It might strike you as peculiar, but I think he'd be much happier with the idea of an assassin in the house than a necromancer.”

“Some people are incurably dull.”

“Careful. That's my husband you're talking about.”

“How forgetful of me,” she said distantly.

She caught that faint twitch as Christine fought down the urge to roll her eyes. Christine had done it all the time as a child, but as an adult she seemed to believe in a more refined behavior, even in the presence of her siblings. She hadn't stuck her tongue out at anyone in years.

“What about you though?” Christine asked. “What have you been up to?”

Delia enacted a shrug. “Trouble, mostly. It's hard for an honest necromancer to get by in a world like this... or a dishonest one, for that matter. I can spare a few anecdotes but on one condition...”

“And what might that be?”

“Find me a decent cup of coffee,” Delia said after deliberation. “This afternoon has been trying.”