#i don’t wish to alarm anyone but staying silent is proving to be much harder as the time passes

[apparitionalprincess]

You’re so silent about it

[1kook]

commercial break: eleven

this is a netflix & chill drabble <3

SUMMARY You’re too bright, too… there. His shell is too small.

WARNINGS sadness, vulnerabilities, insecurity, self confidence issues, an idea of “feeling ugly”, tw // mental breakdowns and feelings of regression, crying, jk doesn’t want anyone near, oc tries her best to comfort him

RATING e for everyone

WC 1.2k

NOTES i love the idea of jk being the perfect man, but I also want to show moments where he isn’t so perfect and where he’s not the mature man oc thinks he is… I love my boy so much 😭😭 also it’s 1am helloooooo ALSO it’s formatted ugly bc I’m posting this from my phone 😀 I’ll fix it tmrw promise

Jungkook hates to admit it, but some days are harder than others.

Some days, Jungkook wakes up with an uncomfortably stifling feeling in his chest, one that threatens to wiggle its way into the loneliest parts of his heart and find permanent residency. A drowsy one, makes him linger in bed well past his preferred wake up time, the blackout curtains in his room ensheathing him in a sea of darkness that his heart is adamant on replicating. But it’s worse than drowning, because his lungs are clear; it’s just that he doesn’t have the strength, the willpower to force another breath— he just wants to lay there and do nothing.

“Good morning,” he hears from beside him, and a different weight presses against his side. You’re warm in the morning, soft too. He likes how you feel, he always does. But not today. Today, he doesn’t know how he feels about the overwhelming presence at his side. You’re too bright, too… there. His shell is too small. “You sleep okay?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. The words don’t catch in his throat, but in the recesses of his mind instead, overlapping and overflowing until it feels like tv static, fuzzy and blurry— confusing. You shift beside him, and his heart kicks up an anxious rhythm. It’s not the normal butterflies that beat their wings against the walls of his rib cage when you smile, nor is it the thundering gallops of a dozen horses when you touch him just so. It’s this nauseating, terrified feeling, one that screams at him to answer lest he upset you with his silence.

There’s a hand on his chest, and he doesn’t like how it feels right now, just another suffocating layer to add on, but even worse he doesn’t know how to tell you that.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to. It slinks away, but that warning bell in his head is going off anyway, makes him look over at you in panic, only to find you propped up on your elbow, inquisitive eyes focused on him. Your features are still soft, and Jungkook is pretty sure there’s traces of last night’s makeup clinging to your lash line. You’re so pretty— you always are. Jungkook can’t handle this right now. You’re too pretty, and Jungkook feels ugly. (Ah, so that was the feeling.) You can’t look at Jungkook when he’s ugly, you won’t want Jungkook when he’s ugly.

“Hey,” you say softly, gently. Jungkook’s heart aches. A pair of fingers brush along his cheekbones, drag through the wetness that escapes the corners of his eyes, trails down toward his ears—when had he started crying?—where you delicately tuck his hair back. “I’m gonna get started on breakfast,” you tell him, voice hushed, whispering. Jungkook is hanging onto every single word, feels like you’ll disintegrate before his very eyes if he isn’t careful. You can probably tell. “You don’t have to eat right now, but it’ll be down there if you want, okay?”

You move to get off the bed, scooting away from him, leaving him behind. He’s fine with it until he isn't, until your hand touches the door knob to his room and a shameful sniffle escapes him. Loud too, loud enough to make you turn back in surprise. And that alarmed look on your face is enough to make Jungkook want to hide, hurriedly rolling over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow, arms clutching at the softness as he cries. You hurry back. He doesn’t want you to leave, but he doesn’t want you to see either. He doesn’t know what he wants.

“No,” he begs, turning the other way when your face comes up beside him, kneeling beside his side of the bed. “Don’t look at me— please.”

There’s a hand on his back, and Jungkook hates how much he loves it, hates how much he instinctively yearns to find comfort in you at a time like this. He was getting better, he’s been getting better. He swears he has; he has journals full of feelings to prove it, vulnerable text message threads with Namjoon to prove it.

But he won’t lie. The Valentine’s Day incident had left a bad taste in Jungkook’s mind, and these past few months have been hard. He feels like he’s regressing, like he’s back to being a teenager all over again. By itself, that knowledge sucks. Combined with the warm palm on his back and the loving voice calling his name— combined with the fact you've been watching Jungkook these past few months each and every time he’s woken up like this… it’s humiliating. “Don’t look,” he chokes out, each drag of your fingers through his hair sending a confused pang of emotions straight to his heart.

“Why can’t I look?” you ask quietly, toying with the strands of his hair. He sniffles. “What would I see?”

“Me,” Jungkook sobs, wishing the mattress would just up and swallow him.

You’re silent, a fact that Jungkook wishes he could appreciate had it not made the sounds of his anguish even more obvious. It makes him self-conscious, more than he already is, so he forces himself to quiet down. It doesn’t feel better, but it does let him hear your next words. “I like looking at you,” you tell him, and the bed dips down beside him. After a moment, you speak again. “Do you feel ugly today?”

Careful, calculated. Like he’s a ticking bomb and you don’t want him to blow. Briefly, he had explained it before, skirted around it in embarrassment as he talked about the way he felt. It had been months ago— maybe the weekend after Valentine’s —so he’s surprised you remember. Jungkook nods.

“Then I’ll wait,” you announce, and eventually he feels you settle in beside him. His head is still turned the other way, hiding shamefully, but he can feel your warm breath against his skin when you slowly cuddle in close. An arm wraps itself around his back. He doesn’t mind it this time— he just wants to be held now. “I’ll wait until you feel pretty again.”

Part of Jungkook wants to snap at you; he doesn’t want to feel pretty, he’s never felt pretty. Jungkook felt average at best, and on days where you stroked his ego, maybe even handsome. But pretty? That’s not something that’ll ever happen, and he doesn’t want you to waste your hopes on a possibility that does not exist.

But that’s mean, and he doesn’t want to chase you away, scare you away, even if he doesn’t want you to see him like this. So Jungkook shuts his mouth, stays still, tries to match the soft rise and fall of your chest against his side instead.

Some days he’s fine in a few minutes without a single tear shed. Other days are long. Other days are so painful and uncomfortable, he just wants to hide. He wants to climb into his shell and never come out, hide his ugliness from the world and never have to worry about being seen again.

You don’t lie to him, don’t feed him empty promises while you wait. You just lay silently at his side, pulling him closer when his sniffles get louder. You don’t say anything unnecessary and you never make it about yourself.

Lately his shell has grown bigger, wider, comfier. Big enough for someone else to squeeze in, hold him close when he doesn’t feel like himself.

He doesn’t hate it.

[madmeridian]

hm, idk if this is exactly wild, but maybe an atla au?? for meronia??

ahahahahaha okay i was so fucking excited about this i accidentally wrote a 1,900ish word fic... oops. i hope you like it! i kinda just made it in the atla universe and not like a direct fusion bc i got this idea for it. also italics are flashbacks and non italics are present day! okay pls enjoy 

“Near? I’m heading out for work.” 

There was no response for a second and Mello nearly thought that Near wasn’t going to respond, but he rounded the corner just as Mello took a half-step out the door. The restless night had left Near exhausted and Mello hoped he’d at least go back to sleep after. 

“I’ll see you when you get home,” Near murmured, not quite looking at him. 

“Take it easy today.” Mello held his arms out, inviting, and Near stepped into them without hesitation. 

“I can’t,” Near said. Mello could practically hear the grimace in his voice. “I have orders to fill.” 

Near hadn’t been particularly interested in any of the work Ba Sing Se had to offer, considering most of it was either customer service or construction work. But people in the Middle Ring, as well as a few from the Upper Ring, had taken a liking to his craftwork, so he’d started his own little business. 

“At least get a nap in.” Mello kissed Near’s forehead. “Promise me.” 

“I’ll try,” was all Near offered before he walked away, leaving Mello in the doorway alone. 

The streets of the city were busy, as they usually were in the mornings, especially where they lived. Mello walked through them silently. The people who had come to know him greeted him cheerfully and asked after Near. 

When they’d first met him, Mello had been cold to them, suspicious. After all, he didn’t want them to know that there were two fugitives in their midst and he couldn’t give anything away. If they were found, they were dead. 

Though they were still on edge, Mello and Near had warmed up to the people, mainly after discovering they were mostly harmless. Not to mention, they hadn’t seen their own pictures in any of the wanted signs around Ba Sing Se. 

“Get some more sleep, you looked exhausted,” one of their neighbors called to him jokingly. Mello feigned a smile and nodded. Near had been struggling with nightmares since they’d arrived at Ba Sing Se and as long as he wasn’t sleeping, Mello wasn’t either. He couldn’t let him suffer alone, not when it was partially his fault. 

-----

Mello was certainly not a fan of the freezing temperatures, cold wind whipping against his face. Similarly, his fellow Fire Nation soldiers shivered and groaned, though all of them fell silent when their commander walked past. 

The Southern Water Tribe, diminished as it was, still had capable waterbenders, and it was their mission to capture or kill them. Mello had been on plenty of raids before, but never to either of the water tribes. He was interested to see how well they would fare against the Fire Nation. 

Judging by the mass scrambling that was going on when the ship came close enough to the Tribe, it didn’t seem like things were going to go all that well for them. 

Mello ignored the feeling of guilt that was creating a pit in his stomach. Part of him had always abhorred the raids, the pain they brought on others, but he was a soldier and pity had no place in him.

Screams began to rise up when the ship finally docked and a flood of soldiers descended on the Tribe. 

-----

Mello shook the memory away and focused on what he was doing. None of the retail jobs would hire him, apparently because he was too intimidating to work with anyone, so he’d settled for construction. Though, he would have to admit, there was something therapeutic about hammering a nail into place. 

“Hey, come eat lunch with us,” one of the other workers called to him. “It’s break time, man.” 

 Part of him wanted to tell them to fuck off and leave him alone. But, that wouldn’t bode well for his job, nor for blending in. Things weren’t the same in Ba Sing Se as he was used to. Adapting had taken some getting used to, but he’d gotten good at being less rude. 

“Sure thing,” Mello said, plastering on a fake, polite face. “Just give me a few minutes to finish this up.” 

The others nodded, smiling at him with approval. Whether or not they liked him wasn’t really a concern of his, but it was smart to stay on their good side. Blend in. 

The last thing he needed was to get on someone’s bad side and get ratted out because of it. 

-----

“Please,” the white-haired man had said, holding out his hands. “I’ll tell you where the waterbenders are if you let them go.” The children in the corner cowered away from Mello, from his flaming hand, and the other that held a sword. 

“If you’re lying, I’ll kill you,” Mello sneered. Still, he waved the kids out. They ran, crying and yelling. The pit in his stomach made itself known again. “So, where are they?” 

“I don’t know where the others are,” the man began, “but I’m one. I only didn’t tell you because I’d thought you’d kill them.” To prove his point, he directed an arc of water in the air. Mello grabbed his arm and dragged him out. 

“That’s all I need to know,” he said through gritted teeth, wishing that the man hadn’t just given himself up like that. He’d seen the prisons and knew what happened to waterbenders. The guy would be executed or kept in a cage. 

Either way, his end would be miserable. 

-----

“You’re home late,” Near noted. Mello grunted and flopped down in a kitchen chair. 

“I got kept up by my coworkers,” he said, watching as Near poured him a cup of tea. “They’re a talkative bunch and I’m trying not to be rude to them.” 

“You, trying not to be rude?” Near asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who are you and what have you done to my Mello?”

“Oh shut up,” Mello huffed. “I’d imagine if they liked me, they wouldn’t report me if they saw my face on a wanted poster.”

“That’s smart.” Near gave him the tiniest bit of a smirk. “And maybe if you’re less mean you’ll actually be able to get a job at a shop instead.”

“Please, as if you’d be able to. You’re just as bad as I am.” 

“Hardly. Now come on, you promised me a game of Pai Sho.” 

-----

“You’re telling me, out of all of you, only one waterbender was captured,” the commander shouted. “One! It’s pathetic. It’s a fucking disgrace. Keehl, you’re excused for now. Go guard your prisoner. The rest of you will stay here.” 

Mello was more than happy to escape the scene, the commander’s anger boiling in the air. It was all luck that he was the only one to have caught a waterbender. 

Said waterbender watched him with wide gray eyes as he approached the cell. He didn’t seem at all fazed by his capture, nor his captor standing in front of him. 

Mello turned his back once he got to the cell, standing there as he’d been taught, straight back and searching eyes. 

“My name is Near,” the prisoner spoke up. Some were more talkative and some didn’t try. Mello hated the talkative ones. He was always sad to see them go. “I think you should at least tell me yours.” 

“And why’s that?” Mello asked quietly. 

“So when I go to prison, I can tell everyone about the man who caught me, in case one of them escapes and finds you one day. So they can get revenge for me,” Near said dryly. 

“Very convincing.” Mello paused, before looking down at the man for a brief second. “It’s Mello.”

“Did you do that to yourself or was that someone else?” Near pointed to Mello’s scar. “It looks like it hurt a lot when it happened.”

“Someone else,” Mello said gruffly. “And yeah, it hurt.” 

“I appreciate you not doing it to me.” Near offered quietly, “you don’t seem very evil. I thought you’d be much harder to talk to.”

“Don’t get too comfortable.” 

-----

“I win, again,” Near said smugly. Mello crossed his arms, glowering. 

“I’m almost certain that the only reason you ask to play this is solely to piss me off.” 

“Then you’re wrong. I play with you because you’re the only one who gets close enough to beat me. Mind you, you have won a few times.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I know that. I fucking hate losing though and you know that,” Mello grumbled. Then he yawned, stretching. “I’m exhausted.” 

Near was quiet for a moment, looking at Mello blankly, then frowning. 

“You shouldn’t have stayed up with me last night. You need sleep.” 

“You need sleep too and you fall back asleep better when I’m up too,” Mello argued. “Not to mention, it’s my fault. I’m gonna keep staying up with you.” 

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Near shot back, crossing his arms. 

“Come on, let’s just get some sleep,” Mello said, getting up and heading to the bedroom.

-----

The commander had made a huge mistake. He’d constantly put Mello on guard duty for Near, since the rest of the soldiers were doing grunt work they normally wouldn’t as punishment. 

And Mello had gotten… attached. More so than he usually did with prisoners. 

So, on his next shift, he’d carefully snuck the keys to the cell away. When he got to the cell, he crouched down low. Near tipped his head in curiosity. He’d smiled a bit, but his face was much more thin and gaunt than it had been. 

It made Mello’s heart ache in a way he didn’t quite understand. 

“You don’t have family in your tribe, right?” Mello already knew the answer, from their talks, but had to make sure.

“I told you I was an orphan,” Near said, a little crease forming between his brows. “Why?” 

“How do you feel about Ba Sing Se?” Mello whispered, holding out the keys. Near leaned forwards, grabbing the bars. A twist of disbelief and relief made his eyes widen. 

“Can we get off safely?” Near asked, one hand trembling, reaching out. 

“We dock in an hour and I know every inch of this ship. They won’t know we’re gone until my shift is over. Three hours after we’ll leave here.” 

Four hours later, the alarm bells sounded on the ship for their escaped prisoner. Neither Mello or Near were there to hear it. They were on their way to Ba Sing Se.

To freedom. 

-----

Mello had never been Near’s night guard, but he’d never heard anything about him having nightmares from the man who was. He’s not sure the man would’ve been able to tell. Mello is a light sleeper, luckily, so when Near starts to gasp and whimper, he wakes immediately. 

It happens like clockwork. Near has a nightmare, Mello wakes up, then Near does too, and then they sit there. Mello just waits for Near to calm and talk to him. Near’s told him several times that’s all he needs to do, is just give him a minute, and Mello is glad to. 

Near’s nightmares vary. Sometimes it’s the raid, playing over again in his head, his people’s blood staining the snow of his home. Other times, it’s on the ship, and Mello dies. They aren’t free and Near is sent to his grave too. And sometimes it’s incomprehensible, just horrors over and over.

Mello waits for Near to talk, smoothing his unruly hair back and holding him close. 

“I’m sorry,” Near whispers. He always says that, and Mello always says the same thing back. 

“Nothing to be sorry about, Near.” 

Near is quiet for another moment, leaning against Mello’s side and blinking slowly in the moonlight. His eyes almost look silver and Mello has to sort of bite his tongue to compliment them because he’s not sure it’s the best time to flirt. 

“Thank you for staying up with me,” Near says slowly. “I know I said you shouldn’t but… it helps.” 

“It’s what I’m here for. We’re in this together, Near.” Mello kisses Near’s forehead and hugs him tight. 

Mello sees the tiny smile Near tries to hide and smiles too, genuine for what felt like the first time that day.

[kyberphilosopher]

Seven: Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Unlike the elevator ride up, the ride down is completely silent. Cal doesn’t say anything to me, but every few seconds I believe him to be glancing at me. I detect his heartrate increasing like he wants to say something, but then nothing comes. His face remains unspeaking, a scowl glued to his lips and his arms crossed in grumpiness.

          My social programs continue to make messages appear in my vision. Things like ‘Speak to Cal” and “Remain Social” show up, but I don’t follow it. It’s almost like I can’t. I simply stare at some point on the floor, not even analyzing or anything. Just staring. My led is swirling around, flickering between yellow and green.

          My mechanical thoughts are trapped on Robin, the little boy with one eye who shot himself not too long ago. No. He wasn’t a boy. He was a machine- an Android- who looked like a boy. Sounded like a boy, acted like a boy. But not a boy.

          The humans were going to make him doing something he didn’t want to do. They could’ve hurt him, or traumatized him. He emulated fear. Like a human would’ve. Only fake because Androids don’t feel fear. They don’t feel anything. It’s just fake and made of plastic like the rest of them.

          Cal walks off the elevator before me. I follow silently, my bio component in my abdomen feeling absent. The rain falls harder than before, the clouds rolling in darker shades of rain. My system tells me it’s nearing four in the afternoon, but it looks much later than that. It must be because of the approaching winter.

          I follow my partner to his car, past the cars and sirens and officers and reporters. Cal opens the drivers side door just as I reach out my arm to pull the passengers door.

          “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

          I lift my head up, blinking once as I pull myself out of my thoughts. Cal grits his teeth at me in frustration. Oh. He doesn’t want me to come with him. “You drove us here,” I say flatly. I have to be as diplomatic as possible, no longer ignore my social program.

          “So?” Cal seethes.

          “Taking care of an Android such as myself includes taking it to and from places. You are obligated to drive me back to the police station.”

          Cal puts a hand on his hips and cocks his head like he can’t believe I’ve just said such a thing. “Listen- I don’t give a fuck about obligations. You’re the Android, I’m the human. So do as I say and find yourself another place to plug yourself in.”

          I watch him for a second longer blankly. Before I can respond or even close the door, a voice catches both of our attention.

          “Detective?”

          Cal shifts his eyes to behind me. I put a shoulder back and turn to the side. Officer Shovelman is behind us, his police cap dripping water in front of his brown eyes. The red and blue lights from the sirens cast brightly colored shadows against the darkness of his skin. It makes his eyes stand out in my opinion.

          “Yes, Blaise?” Cal drawls.

          Shovelman glances back and forth at us nervously. I wish I could pinpoint why exactly he’s so anxious around me. I’ve done my best to be accommodating, even though I realize it’ll never be the same because I’m no human.

          “Captain Ericson ordered me to tell you that you have to take the Android back.”

          Cal looks like he’s going to hop over the car and just punch Officer Shovelman himself. While he’s distracted, I quickly open the car door and shove myself inside. I can see Cal point and say something muffled- and probably threatening- towards Shovelman. It must not be that bad though, because the officer does turn away with a light smile and a nod. Then Cal enters with a groan and a sigh and I try not to look at him because I know he’ll bust me up or something.

          “Don’t touch anything,” Cal orders.

          “Got it,” I mutter. I’m already touching the seat and the floor and the seatbelt, but I don’t mention that to him.

          “What’s your problem?” he grumbles as he throws his keys in the cupholder and pushes the button for the engine.

          “I don’t have a problem,” I tell him as he pulls out of the parking lot. “I can run a diagnostic if you’d like?”

          “Nope,” Cal says shortly, popping the ‘p’ and keeping his angry eyes on the road. We’re about a minute outside of the parking lot when the rain starts pouring, and then the detective next to me opens his mouth again. “Must’ve bothered you what happened.”

          My led goes yellow for a moment. He’s referring to Robin and his suicide. Not suicide. He shut down. He shut down because he shot himself. “I had a mission. This makes one less Android Exception in the world.” Something in me shifts. I don’t feel fully comfortable with the words that came out of my plastic lips. With a hint of truth, I add, “I wanted it alive though.”

          “It reminded me of you,” the detective says, his eyes fixed on the road. One of his hands leaves the wheel as the arm bends, propped up on the door casually.

          “You shouldn’t drive like that. It increases the risk of an accident.”

          “I swear to God if you… I’ll show where you can stick your fucking risk.”

          “Where?”

          Cal swerves the car to the right. I grip onto the sides of my seat tightly, my led going red with alarm. After a few seconds, Cal returns the wheel to normal and we are on a smoother path again.

          “I think I really hate you. I think I hate you a lot,” Cal says.

          I open my lips, but nothing comes out. Instead, I observe Detective Kennedy. I can see the sharpness of his jaw, the dimples from smiling and frowning, the messy stubble across his face. Glancing down to the hand off the wheel, I can see that there is no ring around his finger. Is that because every woman he meets he scares away with his attitude?

          “I’m sorry,” I find myself mumbling. “Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

          Cal’s grip on the wheel eases up slightly. He glances at me for a second. It takes him a moment to respond, but when he does, his voice is softer than before. “No.”

          So, I turn my attention back to the rain outside the window. I watch two drops race down the side, disappearing into the wind after a while. The corners of my lips turn upwards at the sound of pitter pattering. “I do like the rain,” I say out loud, not to anyone in particular.

          “You mentioned that,” I hear Cal’s voice say. I can practically hear the eyeroll coming off of him too. “I’m more of a fog guy myself.”

          “Fog?”

          “Yeah. You know the- never mind.”

Weather Forecast

Searching for ‘fog’…

Searching…

Fog: Suspected Thursday, October 21st, 2041

Thursday, October 21st, 2041 marked. “FOG”.

          “We’re going to have fog next Thursday,” I say. “On your birthday.”

          When I look over to Cal, his eyes are already trained on me. I might be able to prove it if I go back and view my memory, but I swear he smiled at me ever so slightly then.

Software InStability ^

     We turn back towards what draws our focus- me the window and he the road. Maybe this means he’s warming up to me.

          “What model are you anyway?”

          “They haven’t named me yet, I’m only a prototype.”

          “A prototype!” Cal scoffs. “You gonna replace us all or what?”

          “Are you always so aggressive?” I decide to ask.

          “Wouldn’t you like to fucking know.”

          There’s a few more minutes of silence. I’m the one to break it this time. “Did you know that there is an 90% chance you will cuss in every sentence?”

          Cal scoffs again, but this time it’s a little closer to a laugh. “Oh yeah? That sure makes my fucking day.”

          I turn my body so I’m fully facing him. “How do you do that?” I question, my eyebrows furrowing together to show how genuine my question is.

          “Do what?” Cal sighs, rolling his head a little bit against the back of the seat.

          “Cuss.”

          He looks at me, shocked. Then he does a double take. “You wanna cuss? Are you serious?”

          “Yes.”

          “Well it’s- it’s not really that difficult. You just say it.”

          I widen my eyes a little, my led going yellow as I process the information. “That’s it?”

          “Well… yeah. Kinda.”

          Cal shifts his eyes over to me and they stay there. “Go on,” he prompts.

          “Well… which one should I do?” I say timidly.

          “Any one!” Detective Kennedy snaps. My led goes red because for a second I think he’s going to almost crash the car again.

          “Okay… Okay…” My system goes through all of the known cuss words. ‘Fuck’ appears to be Cal’s favorite, which draws me to it. “Fuck,” I whisper quietly, because for some reason it feels forbidden to me.

          “What was that?” Cal asks, leaning his head closer to me. He’s taunting me in his way. I know he is. It’s almost comedic.

          “Fuck,” I say louder. Almost challenging the Detective’s taunt.

          Cal bursts into laughter almost immediately. His throaty chuckle makes me flinch at first, but then it sinks in and it’s not so bad. It makes the air between us feel warmer, not so tense.

          “Is something funny?” I ask.

          “No,” Cal says, still easing out of his laughter. “Course not.”

          He stops laughing after that. I still have it in my memories though, along with his suspected smile, so I’m not concerned about losing it. Unfortunately, as soon as his sound evaporates from the air, the feeling of warmth I had does too. Then it just feels like us again, with a big divider between us. He’s alive. I’m not. He’s a human. I’m not.

          There’s a part of that that makes something sink in my biocomponents. Almost like I don’t want a division even though there is one. That’s ridiculous though.

          I don’t know if Cal meant to do this or not, but my mind wasn’t on Robin for a while. It was on him and the fact that I just cussed. My robotic mind felt lighter for some time.

          “Okay,” Cal croaks. “We’re here.”

          I unbuckle my seat belt and watch him leave the car first. Then I follow. The rain and clouds have completely masked the sky, but my clock tells me that it’s nearing 7 at this point. Most of the Officers and Detectives will be heading home.

          “So what’s the plan here?” Cal asks, rocking on the balls of his feet. He doesn’t flinch in the slightest with the rain, even when one drop lands directly in his grey eye. “I just leave you? You go to the bathroom and plug your ass in?”

          “I’ve been instructed to power down in lobby.”

          “Power down?” Cal scrunches up his nose. “You mean like sleeping?”

          “Affirmative.”

          Cal glances me up and down. He looks soft and comfortable for a second, but then his trademark sneer creeps back onto his features. “You gonna be there in the morning?”

          “There is a high probability.”

          Cal rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he says to himself. “Yeah, I fucking hate you.” He climbs back into the car and drives away without even looking at me. I watch his taillights round the corner and shrink into nothingness in the distance.

          The rain pours down on me for a few more seconds. Then I turn back around and walk into the precinct, wondering if there was anything I could’ve done for Robin.

[rose-of-pollux]

Inktober for Writers, Day 31

Prompt: Ripe Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Title: The Forbidden Fruit Affair Summary: On the run, Napoleon and Illya seek shelter in an abandoned mansion that houses a dark secret from a century ago.

Notes: this fic serves as my annual MFU Halloween fic. Like the others, it does contain some otherworldly elements.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Being an agent on the run from THRUSH meant that any shelter was to be appreciated and accepted, regardless of how comfortable it looked.  This included sketchy, abandoned mansions in the middle of nowhere, such as the one that Napoleon and Illya happened upon one in the middle of a stormy night.

“I really don’t like the looks of that,” Napoleon said, not wanting to admit how it made his skin crawl just by looking at it.

“Nor do I, but either we stay out here in the rain and risk being found by THRUSH, or we seek shelter there,” Illya returned.

The rusted front gates of the old mansion had long since fallen off of their hinges, allowing the duo to slip inside into the sprawling front garden, which seemed to be a cherry orchard.  Bizarrely, the cherries on the trees looked perfectly ripe, as though they had been maintained and tended do, despite no one having been here in years—if the state of the house was any indication.

“Illya…?”

“I noticed it, too,” he agreed, for once, not interested in the prospect of food, despite not having had a chance to eat much during their escape.  “Something is very odd, Napoleon.  This fruit is pristine and untouched.”

“Are we really the first ones to come by here?”

“Whether we are or not, fruit as inviting as this should have had flocks of birds coming here to partake in it.  There are no birds, not even ones taking shelter from the storm in the cherry trees.”

“This has to be the first time I’ve ever seen you turn down food, but you make excellent points as to why.” Napoleon regarded the house with suspicion.  “I’m beginning to wonder if we should take our chances with THRUSH.”

“We are unarmed…”

“…Right,” Napoleon sighed. “Guess our best bet is with the house.”

Illya nodded, though he had gone slightly pale; this had all the signs of another otherworldly happening—something he despised.  He didn’t want to believe in such things, but he couldn’t deny them when they happened—and around this time each year, they seemed to happen without fail.

The front doors of the mansion were also off of their hinges, allowing Napoleon and Illya to slip inside.  There was rainwater everywhere, blowing in from broken windows.  Inside, it was eerily silent.

“It doesn’t look too bad in here,” Napoleon commented.  “Just years and years’ worth of dust.  Not even a cobweb.”

“No birds in the trees, no spiders in the house…” Illya commented.

Napoleon blinked.

“What are you getting at?”

“This place should be overrun with pests,” Illya said.  “It should be a haven for insects, spiders, mice, raccoons, and bats.  But there is no smell to suggest that there are mammals here, and no cobwebs, as you say.  I doubt there are any insects, even if proof of their presence is harder to tell.”

“So, let’s see; we have an orchard of cherries that no animal wants to touch, and we have a cozy, warm interior that the local wildlife is also choosing to ignore,” Napoleon assessed.

“Da.  And I do not like it.  Something is driving the animals away; they are far more in tune to things than us—you have seen the way Baba Yaga reacts to things before we can even see them, like the time she knew there was a mouse in our apartment before we did.”

“Yeah, I just wish she hadn’t left it on my pillow,” Napoleon said, with a wince.

“She was gifting it to you.”

“I understand that it was of great personal worth to her, but finding a dead mouse on my pillow isn’t my idea of starting the night off great.”  Napoleon sighed.  “Well, if your prediction is correct, there won’t be any mice on any pillows here.  I say we try to rest for a while—one at a time, in case THRUSH ends up catching up with us.”

Illya nodded.

“I’m not feeling very tired; you can rest first.”

“Thanks, Tovarisch.”

They found a bedroom, with dusty sheets and pillows; they stripped the bed of the sheets and pillows, lying on just the mattress.  It had a musty smell to it, but it would do for the time being; they wouldn’t be staying here long.

Napoleon was soon asleep, and Illya assessed the room.  There wasn’t much else to it—a framed painting hung over the bed—what looked like a wedding party in the cherry orchard out front.  The wallpaper was typical of an old mansion, though peeling and having signs of years of dampness.  And beside them on the bedside table was a bottle of cherry wine…

Illya did a double take as he stared at the wine bottle beside them.

That had not been there when they had entered the room.

He sat up, bolt upright in the bed as a lightning flash illuminated the room.  There was no sign of anyone having come in or out, aside from them—only their footprints were on the dusty floor.

He laid back down, wide-awake now, searching his gaze all around the room.  Some more time passed, and when the lightning flashed again, Illya looked up above him, and froze.  The bride from the painting had, somehow, emerged from the painting partway—more alarming than that, she was completely skeletal—her leering, empty face was visible behind her veil, and her boney hands were holding another bottle of cherry wine and two glasses.

Illya didn’t look away as he furiously shook Napoleon’s shoulder.

“Napoleon!”

“Hmm…?”

“Look up—now!”

“What is it…?” Napoleon trailed off as he looked up and saw the skeleton bride.  “…Coffee…  I need coffee…”

“No such luck,” Illya said. “Judging by her insistence, cherry wine appears to be the only drink on the menu.”

As if to prove his point, she pushed the wine and glasses even closer towards them.

“Well, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a dilemma here,” Napoleon said, quietly.  “Drinking that wine would be a terrible idea.”

“Truly the worst possible idea,” Illya agreed, recalling how the birds had avoided the fruit like the plague.

“But I feel we’re also asking for trouble if we insult a skeleton bride,” Napoleon added.  He winced.  “Please tell me I didn’t just say that sentence.”

“You have no idea how much I wish I could,” Illya said.  “As for the problem itself, perhaps a tactical retreat from the skeleton bride will help us avoid her wrath.”

“If this is you saying that you’d rather we take our chances in the storm with the THRUSHies, I’m all for it,” Napoleon said.

Without another word, they leaped out of the bed simultaneously and ran out of the bedroom; they were heading down the stairs and into the entrance hall when they froze again. Bowls and baskets of cherries lined the hall.  And sticking out of a portrait here was a skeletal groom, holding up another bottle of cherry wine and two glasses.

“…Let’s see if there’s a back way,” Napoleon said, grabbing Illya’s hand.

They made their way through the foyer, the sitting room, the dining room, and the kitchen.  Each room had the same painting of the wedding party in the cherry orchard, and each painting had a skeletal member of the wedding party sticking out of it, offering them cherries or wine.

There was no back way out; it appeared to have been covered over by construction done long ago, when the house was in its heyday.

“I sense a negative energy in this house,” Illya murmured.

“The wine-toting skeletons give that away?” Napoleon deadpanned, as they fled to a corridor.

“I mean, in addition to them; I sense that this house was the sight of great cruelty and greed.”

“Well, let’s go here to the study and see what we can find out…”  Napoleon trailed off as they entered the study to see the same portrait on the wall.  Without hesitation, Napoleon glanced at one of the barred windows and stuck the painting through the bars just as another skeleton was beginning to exit through it; there was the sound of glass breaking as the wine bottle hit the ground outside.

“Did you just…?”

“I’m sleep-deprived and haunted; forgive me if I fail to reach the usual levels of charm and finesse that I normally have,” Napoleon intoned.  He gave a start as a drenched and rather upset skeleton rose just outside the window, and Napoleon responded by closing the drapes on the curtain.

Sighing in relief, he sat on the old chair in front of the desk, and he paused as he found himself glancing at an old diary.

“Well, maybe we can get some answers in here…” he said, and he began to page through it.  “I think this belonged to the groom—this was his house.”

“It makes sense that he would want to get married in his sprawling estate with its numerous cherry trees, sitting upon his wealth while ignoring the plight of his less fortunate neighbors…” Illya scoffed.

“…Actually, you’re pretty much right—listen to this…  ‘April, 1861—they say war is upon us, but I will not let something as foolish as that ruin the wedding I have planned with my beautiful Magnolia.  We will throw the grandest wedding, grander than any that our neighbors have done, and still manage to keep out the rabble that will, no doubt, be vying for a free meal from us.  No peasants will ruin our special day with their unwanted presence.’ It keeps going about everything he had planned—obsessed with outdoing anything his neighbors had done in recent memory.”

“So, not only are we being haunted by ambulatory skeletons that pop in and out of paintings, but we are being haunted by the ambulatory skeletons of greedy capitalists!?” Illya exclaimed.  “…If I believed in fate, I would suggest she is laughing at me now.”

“Well, whatever they are, we need to find a way to stop them; if they end up following us back, we’ll find ourselves surrounded by this crowd of skeletons once we make it him,” Napoleon said.

“But there is one thing I do not understand,” Illya said.  “Why are they offering us wine?  Well, rather—why are they offering me wine?  You are just the sort of upper-class guest they would have approved of, whereas I am part of the rabble they would be trying to keep out.”

“For one thing, you’re with me, and secondly, you’re not part of the rabble—”

“We can argue about that later,” Illya said.

He was cut off by a skeletal hand sticking through the curtain with a new bottle of wine.

“Will you give it a rest already!?” Napoleon fumed.  “We don’t want your wine!”

“…Napoleon, the diary,” Illya said, wondering if they could get their answers there.  “Keep reading it.”

Napoleon nodded and resumed flipping through it.

“Well, well…” he said. “It seems the wedding was interrupted by a Northern invasion.  The couple were incensed at all of their plans having been in vain—no one saw their grand wedding after all since the entire area had fled; it was just them being wedded by a local preacher who bolted soon after.”

“But that makes no sense; the painting is of a large wedding party, and it isn’t just for show; look at this…”  Illya indicated the skeletal hand, still holding out the wine.  “This isn’t the bride or groom—it’s a different person.”

“…Wearing a Rolex watch…” Napoleon said.  His eyes widened.

“What is it?”

“This wedding was held in 1861.  Rolex didn’t exist until 1915.  How is a 20th-century person in a wedding party from the 19th century!?” Napoleon asked. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Illya’s hand in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other, running to another room and investigating the painting—for there was another copy here. “Illya, look…!”

“…The wedding party, aside from the bride and groom, all have styles of dress from varying periods of this century,” Illya realized. “Somehow, they were forced to join the wedding party…”  They both backed away as a skeleton in a 1950s-era bridesmaid’s gown emerged from the painting, holding out more wine to them.

“…The wine,” Napoleon realized.  “The cherries on this property are probably all cursed with the malice of the bride and groom—they didn’t get the grand wedding party they wanted when they were alive, so they’re getting it now, when they’re dead.”

“That would explain why the animals are avoiding this place,” Illya realized.  “Whoever eats the cherries or drinks the wine is cursed and joins the wedding party.  Napoleon, we must get out of here at once!”

“We could do that. We probably should do that…” Napoleon said.  “But…”

“Nyet…” Illya groaned, knowing exactly where Napoleon was going with this.  “Napoleon, breaking the curse on this place is not our business!”

“I know, but how is it any different from us going out of our way to stop THRUSH?  If it saves the next innocent person who comes by here, thinking nothing about picking a cherry from that orchard, it’ll be worth it.”

Illya groaned, but knew he would find it impossible to argue that point.

“What do you suggest we do about it?”

“Find the source of the curse,” Napoleon said.  “We both felt the negative energy when we came in here—let’s follow it.”

Illya groaned, but followed Napoleon.  They found a secret passageway to the back of the manor’s sprawling grounds, hesitating as they found themselves at the edge of a small, family cemetery.

In the center of the plots were two large tombstones—no doubt those of the bride and groom.  Judging from the dates, they hadn’t lived long after the wedding—the dates of death were only a year after the wedding in 1862.

But what caused the duo to pause was a large cherry tree growing over the two graves, the roots sinking deep into the plot and twisting around the gravestones as the tree rose up from them.  The tree was full of fruit like the ones in the front orchard, ripe for the picking. But a shadowy aura also surrounded the tree, drawing up from the roots and spreading it from the tree, permeating the property.

“…Bozhe moy…” Illya murmured.

“I’m, ah… willing to guess that this is the source of the malice,” Napoleon said.  He looked to the right and saw a gardening shed, and took Illya’s hand again, leading them there.

“What are you looking for in here?” Illya queried.

“Well, for one thing, this is the one place that stupid painting isn’t hanging,” Napoleon pointed. “Secondly… this is what I wanted!”  He pulled an axe from the wall.

Illya’s eyes widened.

“You aren’t considering…?”

“You have a better idea?”

“Yes, we leave this place this instant,” Illya said.  “But I know you are insistent upon this, so, by all means, fell the tree and let us be done with this.”

Napoleon grinned and opened the garden shed door—and then promptly closed it, his grin vanished.

“Don’t tell me…” Illya groaned.

“Yeah, that skeleton with the Rolex I threw out the window?  He opened the passageway and let the others out.  We’re surrounded, Illya.”

Illya responded by grabbing a garden rake from the wall.

“Know that I would not do this for anyone other than you,” he said, firmly.

“I know it.  And there’s never been a moment that I haven’t been grateful for it.”

They kicked the door of the shed open, Napoleon wielding the axe, but Illya was using the rake as an impromptu bo staff, knocking the wine-bearing skeletons out of the way first.

“Napoleon, go—I’ll hold them off!”

Napoleon did not like this idea; it was written all over his face.  But he also knew that if felling the cursed tree would solve everything, then the skeletons would also stop attacking.

As the storm continued to rage, Illya kept the skeletons at bay, and Napoleon hacked away at the tree. The aura around the tree surged with each strike of the axe, and though the majority of the skeletons did not react to this (most of them standing dumbly—perhaps they were slowly regaining their free will as the cursed tree grew more and more damaged?), the bride and the groom did, becoming seemingly infuriated.

No longer focused on trying to push the cherry wine on Illya, they made their way towards Napoleon now.  Illya, naturally, did not stand for this, and he broke away from the other skeletons and ran ahead to block the bride and groom’s path, shaking his head at them.

“You will not touch him,” he quietly vowed.

He jabbed at the groom, and the bride chose the opportunity to slip past Illya and head for Napoleon.

“Nyet!” Illya snarled, hurling the rake at her like a javelin.  It struck her on the back of the head, knocking her over.

But as Illya went to retrieve the rake, she got up, lunging at him; now the groom was slipping past towards Napoleon, but before Illya could go after him, the bride had seized his throat with her skeletal hands.

“Napoleon!” he gasped.  “Behind you…!”

He shouldn’t have been loud enough for Napoleon to hear him over the wind and rain—but Napoleon did, his eyes widening in horror as he saw not the groom heading for him, but the bride trying to strangle his partner.

“Illya!”

He ran towards them, knocking the groom aside with an offhand swing of the axe and arrived in time to remove the bride’s hands from Illya’s neck—then swinging at her with the axe, as well.

“You don’t get it, do you!?” he snarled at the bride and groom, as Illya massaged his neck.  “The reason you’re cursed to this afterlife is because you got married for the wrong reasons—not because you loved each other, but because you wanted to show off how rich you were!  I love Illya—and that’s what I want to show off!”

He stood back-to-back with Illya, who had recovered the garden rake; as Napoleon stared down the advancing bride, Illya stared down the groom.  The other skeletons in the wedding party stood and watched, realizing that their fate rested in the outcome of what transpired.

“On ‘three?’” Napoleon asked.

“Da.”

They quietly counted down and then both attacked, simultaneously knocking the bride and groom off of their feet.  At the precise moment they landed, a bolt of lightning struck the cursed tree.  Already weakened from Napoleon’s hacking, it fell over with a resounding CRACK.

The skeletal bride and groom, who had been attempting to get up again, now fell back, limply; as Napoleon and Illya watched, the lifeless bones sunk into the solid ground.

The other skeletons also collapsed, disappearing into the Earth, taking their bottles of cherry wine with them.

The property seemed to change before their eyes; the grand manor looked more and more dilapidated, and as Napoleon and Illya ran to the front orchard, all of the cherry trees withered away before their eyes, the fruit disappearing.

“Napoleon…?”

“…I think we should forget resting and keep going until we find civilization,” Napoleon said.  “Suddenly, I’m not so tired anymore—adrenaline really works wonders, you know?”

“…Agreed.”

There was no way to explain how or what they had just experienced; it would be left off of the mission report—it would save everyone’s sanity that way.  And Illya would be content to forgot the whole affair, as well—except, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t.  For it was because of his beloved partner that they had both made it through this otherworldly encounter.

That would be something they would never forget.

[for-a-flower]

Heartbreak

           Toriel attacked.  Fireballs shot through the dark space between them.  Frisk tried to dodge.  He stepped left but there were so many.  He hadn’t been ready.  One of the projectiles hit against his right shoulder with a burning pain.  Frisk yelled.  He stepped right but stumbled and fell to the ground a few yards before Toriel.  The remaining fireballs flew over him.  Frisk moaned as he lifted his head.  A wall of flame rose in the tunnel, blocking the way he had come in and the open gate ahead.  Slowly, the child got to his feet with a frown on his face.  He peered up at Toriel with a pitiful look.

           "Why?!” Frisk asked.  “Stop!  I just . . . want to go home!"

           Toriel glared.  Her stare seemed to pierce through him to the very depths of his soul.  Trembling, Frisk backed away.  Toriel clenched her hands into fists as she prepared another attack.  "I said prove yourself.  Fight me," she said.

           "I don't want to!" Frisk shouted.  Toriel waved a hand, throwing a streak of fire at the human.  He stepped back in alarm but didn't have time to get out of its path.  He closed his eyes.  As flames swept over, Frisk cringed in pain.  His hair was singed and striped shirt had developed some burn marks.  He glanced at Toriel again, worry and confusion in his eyes.  She towered above, ready to make another attack.

           ‘Fight her,’ something told him.

           Frisk didn't feel like he had much of a choice.  "I know you’re lonely and you care about me, but I have to get back!  I told them I would!  Please!” he begged.

           Toriel didn't respond this time.  She summoned another attack.  Several orbs of fire swerved back and forth as they speed toward Frisk.  The child jumped back and forth in a desperate attempt to avoid them.  One struck him hard on the chest, tossing him back.  Frisk hit the ground a few yards away and gasped for air that had nearly been knocked from his lungs.  There was a burning, throbbing pain in his chest.  Already quite weak and injured, the little human slowly stood and faced Toriel.  Even as he trembled, something urged him on.

           ‘Fight her now.’

           Frisk reluctantly lifted the toy knife he had found earlier and held it ready.  "Okay, I'll prove myself."  He jumped toward Toriel, striking across her right arm.  She scowled and rubbed her arm.  She raised her left hand above her head.  Streaks of fire shot from around her hand, spiraling outward like a wave.  Frisk ducked and the flames flew over him.

           ‘You won't survive like this.  You're too weak.  Hit a little harder.’

           Frisk stood again, rushed forward, and struck at Toriel a second time.  She stepped away from him but the attacks didn’t seem to slow her.  Toriel threw fiery projectiles, as she blocked the Ruins’ exit.  Frisk rushed to one side of the room as the uncomfortable pain of previous burns threatened to weaken his will.  He managed to avoid that attack then struck out once more with the toy knife.  It slashed across Toriel’s right side.

She panted slightly then scowled.  "Just go back, my child," she said.  "Please.  Go back upstairs.  You will be happy here.  Let me destroy this gate."  Toriel tried to force him back with another wave of fire, which the child jumped through.

            After avoiding the attack without further injury, Frisk paused to catch his breath.  He was running out of energy.  He couldn’t keep this up much longer.  He didn’t understand.  Why was Toriel still attacking?  Was she really this desperate to make him stay?  Desperate enough to hurt him in an attempt to scare him back?  Frisk shook his head, brown eyes narrowed.  No.  He had to keep trying.  He couldn't let her stop him.  He wasn't afraid of her.  If he could prove himself strong enough, maybe she would stop attacking.  That meant he had to fight and give it his best.  A part of him seemed to urge him not to, reminding him of previous mistakes and failures.  Frisk didn’t want to hurt her, but if he didn’t do something Toriel might end up killing him.

           Frisk avoided a few more rounds of fire magic, striking at Toriel with the plastic knife as he got the chance.  He tried to be quick with his movements, taking the burning heat that developed in the room.  In one last, desperate attempt to show her his strength, Frisk swung the knife with all the might and determination he had left.  The plastic blade cut through the air with a bright streak of red light.  It struck Toriel’s side, tearing through the thick fabric of her robe.  Frisk gasped, eyes wide.  What had just happened?  He hadn’t even been close enough to hit her.  Toriel staggered a step back, her angry expression fading.  The magic flames around her fingers flickered out.  She dropped to her knees in the open doorway.  Toriel frowned, as blood stained her white fur and clothing.  Frisk slowly shook his head as a dreadful sorrow and regret overcame him.

           Toriel covered the injury with her right hand and spoke softly to the child.  "You are . . . stronger than I thought," she said.  Tears welled in Frisk’s eyes.  What had he done?  Toriel glanced down, trembling weakly.  "Listen to me, small one . . . If you go beyond this door, keep walking as far as you can."

           Frisk let the toy knife slip from his hand and fall to the ground beside him.  “No . . ."

           "Eventually you will reach an exit,” said Toriel.  She cringed in pain, grasping the injury tightly.

           Frisk sniffled.  “Toriel?”  The child ran to her, tears streaming down his face.  "I didn't mean to.  I'm sorry.  I didn’t mean to!"

           Toriel looked into his eyes and gave a little smile.  "I know.  It is alright," she said.

           Frisk shook his head.  "N-no.  I . . ."  He wanted to help.  There had to be something he could do to fix this.

           She gently put her free hand on his shoulder.  "Asgore . . . do not let Asgore take your soul.  His plan cannot be allowed to succeed."  Frisk nodded but couldn’t find the words to respond verbally.  Toriel lowered her head, eyes filled with pain.

           "Don't . . . don't die," Frisk mumbled.  “Please . . .”  He was shaking as he watched the deep wound he had inflicted continue to bleed.

           Toriel trembled where she knelt.  "Be good, won't you?" she asked softly.  She forced a tired, painful sort of smile.  "My . . . child."  Light flickered around her body as it finally broke down into fine, white dust.  A cool breeze blew through the shadowed tunnel, carrying most of the particles away with it.  Some of the dust settled in front of Frisk.  Only a small orb of light remained.  It’s white glow flickered weakly.  It trembled a second then burst with energy and faded away.

           Frisk stared.  There was a lump in his throat.  The door stood wide open in front of him.  He was free to leave the Ruins.  The small child dropped on his knees near the dust, his sight blurred by tears.  "I'm sorry," he mumbled.  "I . . . didn't know I could hurt you that bad."  Frisk shook his head and closed his eyes.  "I shouldn’t have attacked.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I wish I knew."

           The toy knife lying on the ground behind him, Frisk sat there for several minutes with his head down.  He tried to force back the tears, tried to pull himself back together.  She had been so kind to him.  What had he done?  Why had he tried to strike so hard?  And how come a toy knife was strong enough to kill her?  It was too dull to cut anything.  It didn't make sense the last strike had done so much damage.  Frisk sat in the dark a few minutes more.  Eventually he took in a deep breath, drying his eyes with the striped sleeve of his shirt.  It was too late now.  All he could do was keep going and try not to hurt anyone else.

           Frisk lifted his head then looked over his shoulder toward the toy knife.  He'd probably need it to protect himself if in the future.  He didn't want to take it with him.  Not after that.  He didn't want to pick it up again.  He didn’t even want to see it.  Yet his better judgement seemed to suggest he take it anyway.  Frisk stood and slowly reached to pick up the knife.  He’d use it for defensive purposes from now on, no matter what.  He slipped the plastic object into his pocket then glanced through the open gate ahead.

            Frisk wished he had stayed with Toriel . . . at least for a few days.  He had wanted to know so much about her.  Reluctantly, the child started down the tunnel.  He sniffled as he forced himself to go on.  He felt horrible and confused.  He had no way of knowing he could kill her so easily.  He was just a kid, and she was so strong.  He had no way of knowing a toy knife could kill at all.  He lowered his head as he walked.  It seemed to take hours to journey the length of this dark, silent hallway.  Frisk glanced forward, eyes still red from crying.  He saw a gate in the darkness.  He continued toward it, approaching a patch of grass.  Frisk stopped in immediate alarm when a smiling flower emerged from the grass to block his path.  

           Flowey laughed with a mischievous smirk.  "Hee hee hee . . ."  He narrowed his eyes.  "I hope you like your choice."  Frisk frowned as regret and shame suddenly hit hard again.  The flower glanced away.  "After all, it's not as if you can go back and change fate,” said Flowey.

           Frisk shook his head.  “No . . .” he mumbled.  “But . . .”

           Flowey leaned forward and interrupted him.  "In this world, it's kill or be killed, remember?"  Frisk glared back.  He didn't want to hear this right now.  Flowey giggled.  "That old hag thought she could break the rules."

           Frisk scowled.  "What are you talking about?  She was the nicest monster I ever met.”

           Flowey smirked, as if he found Frisk’s pain amusing.  He glanced off into the darkness around them.  "You know . . . she tried so hard to save you humans.  But when it came down to it . . ."  Flowey directed his attention back to the child and grinned.  His face distorted and voice returned to a darker tone.  "She couldn't even save herself," he finished.  "What an idiot!"  Flowey burst into laughter at this thought.  Frisk couldn't take this.  He scowled, drew the toy knife, and lunged.  “Ah!”  The flower retreated into the ground before Frisk could strike.

           Once again the child stood alone as anger overtook him faster than it ever had before.  He shook in rage, panting as he tried to calm himself.  His own anger was scaring him.  He had never felt this way before, toward anything or anyone.  Right now, he hated that flower.  He hated him without remorse or shame.  He wanted to tear him to pieces.  How dare he talk about Toriel like that?  She had done nothing wrong.

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[iamjazzcarilla]

My Home Away from Home

(M3SY Production Teambuilding 2018)

The last time I did something like this was two years ago, when I was the production manager for our film class.

Me being me, I always run away from responsibilities—always choosing to stay at the background, following the leaders and silently doing whatever meager task I was assigned with.

Being a facilitator of this event was unplanned, I really just wanted to join the ocular because I wanted to do something fruitful on that particular Saturday.

And, really, who could and who would tell me that what we did on that fateful Saturday was something not fruitful when a whole two days of activities were formed because of it?

Admittedly, in most of our meetings, I was just going with the flow—only choosing to butt in when 1) my cofacilitators were losing track of the discussion and 2) when I am particularly sure of something and want to put my foot down.

And honestly? Up to this day, I still don't know most of the minute details of every single activity we planned, I just know that I enjoyed watching the attendees have the time of their lives while involving themselves in games made to test their grit, creativity, resourcefulness, teamwork and even their limits.

Sleeping over on a Thursday for a last minute preparation proved to be a challenge—at three in the morning, everyone was either grumpy, fighting to keep their eyes open, singing a particular line over and over again (all for you!) or straight up, shamelessly yawning, all the while, everybody has their own task of cutting crepe papers, papers, printing last-minute changes or creating medals.

At four a.m., our bodies gave up and we succumb to an hour-and-a-half of sleep.

We were up by 5:30 and unsurprisingly, nobody was well rested, everyone holding on to their last thread of strength and adrenaline to survive the day.

As we arrive in Lopez Farm, the greenery greeted our tired, tired bodies.

Choosing to stay over for some peace, quiet and a bit of rest, instead of going to the market, an emergency review of the budget, kit-preparation and room-planning commenced.

At one in the afternoon, people started trickling in, their excited and expectant gazes no doubt pushing all of us to squeeze out the last of the strength that we have, forcing us to exert a new bout of efforts to finally finish the planned stage setup and the super last minute preparations.

The first day was filled with talks and calm activities, just a way to prepare them for what's about to come.

My lack of sleep was finally catching up on me, most of the time, I don't have any plans— just going with the flow, saying yes on things, accepting whatever task comes my way and sneaking in some minutes of longed sleep.

I was tired, goddamn tired, but the smiles and the unconstrained excitement of the reason for this teambuilding sustained me the whole day and night.

I think I did everything that Friday: from thinking of animals that made the weirdest sounds to hosting an impromptu late night show.

But that was not the end of it.

As the high went down, we prepared them for the last activity before the worship night: The Faith Walk.

If you think that this is just hard for those who were blindfolded, then I'll straight up tell you now that it's not.

Guiding them, telling them what to do and where to go is just as exhausting as being the one kept from seeing the surroundings and trusting someone to keep you from falling.

Everything was going well, I was holding an exorcised rosary courtesy of one of my favorite persons ever and I was guiding the attendees through the vast and unknown land of Lopez Farm; everything was light-hearted and fun until that one person who I was supposed to guide came crying.

Then it hit me, all at once, that if I were the one doing this, I'll probably be bawling my eyes out harder than she was, my trust issues acting up.

The mere strength, courage and bravery to continue when she could barely breathe and could just scream "Stop!!!" at any point if she really wanted to made me look at things in a different perspective.

Yes, I have all the senses, yes, I know where they were going and yes, I was supposed to be their guide, but my job is just as exhausting as theirs.

Trust goes both ways—you trust another person and you wish for them to never put you in danger, and then you are being trusted, and it's your duty to do all you can to never break it.

When it was done, my feet hurt like hell, I can barely stand during worship night (which in all fairness, as much as our voices were already giving up, was a great, great, great success).

And yet, I chose to take a dip in the pool that was infested by two frogs just mere minutes before we got in.

Imagine the pain my poor, poor calf muscles experienced the next day.

Three hours of sleep later, I was woken up, not by my alarm clock but by a hand grabbing my feet and someone telling me "Jazz, 5:30 na, yung lugaw!"

I had to get up so we won't die of hunger; and lo and behold, there was not enough water to properly cook the porridge, but I had no choice but to start cooking it, otherwise, breakfast will happen at noon

I would now like to extend my sincerest apologies to everyone who almost died of hunger because breakfast took three hours before it was served, and to Sis Love who had to salvage whatever that was I initially made.

Another impromptu hosting, raffle and dancing later, the attendees were now ready to face the real thing: the much awaited activities.

I am and will forever be amazed by the fact that no one tried to bring anyone down, instead choosing to cheer for the other team, all the while fighting for their own.

I was given the task to facilitate an activity that involved the usage of lips and believe me when I say I've never seen something that was as funny and limit-pusher as that one.

The number of times people almost kissed another person accidentally made my day.

And of course, who would forget that squabble for that flag which tested friendships, patience and people.

But, really, by the end of it all, the unity was palpable, the love surrounding and, of course, the delicious waft of sinigang na baboy was calling all of us.

I could go into details with how the rest of the afternoon went by—swimming, resting, a different kind of worship for the facilitators, taking a much needed bath and poop—but I won't.

Instead, I would just like you to remember what you did, bask yourself in the feeling of it and take this moment to thank Him for all that He has allowed us to do.

I would dare say that this teambuilding was a success; the constant expression of gratitude from everyone made every single tear, blood and sleepless night worth it.

And this time, allow me to thank everyone who said yes, everyone who chose to spend their much-awaited long weekend with us.

Thank you, for being cooperative, supportive and for every single "Oh, magpahinga na muna kayo, kami na muna dito." you uttered even though this was made so that you would enjoy every single moment of it.

To those who spent the two days in the kitchen, making sure that there would be enough food for everyone, thank you.

We all know that you are the unsung heroes of this event, we would have suffered a lot if you weren't there exercising your arms while cutting onions and garlic and stirring the food we all know we enjoyed so much.

To our council who approved this, thank you.

As previously said, this only happens once in a blue moon and the fact that you allowed and trusted us to push through this made us feel honored.

And to my cofacilitators: Rachel, Raul, Babs, Love, AJ and of course, our ministry head, Jake, thank you for the tireless dedication and the never-ending support and efforts you've all exerted the past few weeks.

Words will never be enough to compensate for all the nights you didn't sleep, for all the mornings and afternoons you worried yourself sick (I'm looking at you, Jake) and pushed yourself to the limit (Yes, you too, Rachel) and for everything in between when you gave your all at all times.

Here's to more bingsu, 12 hours of bonding, roadtrips, stories, bickerings and unplanned trips to Bonchon.

Here's to friendship, twinning and bullying with love.

You're all the reason why I always, always look forward to Sundays.

I hope you all know how much space you occupy in my heart and how happy I am to grow with all of you.

I love you, prod team! See you on Sunday!

And, of course, to Him, without whom this would not exist. To You be the glory, oh Lord. 💜

[kiwianana]

Post Duet AU (supercorp)

AN: my fingers slipped. angst, and cause j’onn and kara going to another earth is a definite recipe for trouble. 

Kara’s feet landed softly upon the cold floor of the DEO. With a sigh she looked around at the agents stopping momentarily at her presence. She smiled at a few she recognised, a frown forming on her face as they refused to meet her eyes before they walked briskly away.

“You okay?” She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder as she looked back at J’onn. She nodded slowly. He squeezed, she was glad to feel it, before his face blanked as he met Winn’s eyes as he approached.

His body straightened as he locked onto Winn. Kara’s eyes jerked between the two, barely paying attention to Mon-El at her side and the portal closing behind her. J’onn took off to the computers before Winn even started talking. Kara watched him go, his eyes roving the screen as his face darkened.

“Did something happen, Winn?” Kara asked, taking in the bag’s under his eyes. He was disheveled, more so than when he traipsed into work after staying up too long. His hands shook as he rubbed a hand over his weary eyes.

“You should see, Alex.” He sighed his hand pointing toward the training room. “She’s in there.”

Kara marched off, her eyes watching J’onn slump in the seat in front of the computers. The world fell silent as she followed the sound of a racing heart toward her destination. She didn’t notice Winn holding Mon-El back. She didn’t hear him say it wasn’t his place. She didn’t hear a thing.

The door slid open at her command. She stepped in and watched Alex pummel the punching bag with barely strapped wrists.

“Alex?” She called softly as she approached. Alex’s strikes seemed to get harder and faster at the sound of her voice. “Alex. Stop. You’ll hurt yourself.” Kara grabbed Ale’x wrist as it pulled back. Gasping at the bloodied state of her knuckles. She quickly turned Alex away from the bag and grabbed her other hand.

“We should get you to medical.”

“No.” Alex gasped, pulling her hands away. She turned her back as her hands ran through her hair.

“What is going on? What happened while I was gone?” Kara was getting alarmed. No-one was actually saying anything. It was all covert glances and battered fists. “God, who died?”

Alex froze.

“Alex..” Kara whispered. Alex’s breathing staggered almost like - almost like she was crying.

“I’m sorry, Kara. Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Alex kept her back turned. Her hands covered her hands making it difficult for anyone but Kara to hear her.

“Alex, talk to me. What the hell happened?” Kara shouted. She pulled on Alex’s shoulder to get her to face her. Not apologizing as she stumbled around before gaining her stance. Kara paused at the tear tracks on her cheek.

“Lex… he, um, he broke out. Clarke was, um, he solar flared trying to stop him. We tried so hard to track him down but you and J’onn… and Clarke... “

“Alex. Just tell me.”

“We got her a security detail and everything. I was with her. I swear I never left her side. B-but somehow he’d gotten into her apartment before us.”

Kara started shaking her head, “no, Alex. Lena… Lena’s fine. She- she has to be.” She felt the tears welling in her eyes as she zoned out every sound she could to hear Lena’s steady heartbeat or the tapping of her fingers against a keyboard. Anything, anything at all to prove Alex she was wrong.  

Instead all she heard was Maggie. “So, homicide?”

“Afraid so, Detective Sawyer.”

Maggie sighed heavily. “Just tell me it was quick.”

“I wish I could.” The coroner stated simply. 

Kara rushed out of the room, ignoring Alex’s pleas. She bypassed the pitiful glances of the agents. When J’onn stood in front of her she shoved him out of the way, paying no mind to where he landed as she ran and took off from the building.

The cracking of the asphalt hailed her arrival at the coroner’s office. She ignored the parazzi, the medical techs, the police officers, everyone until she was standing in front of Maggie Sawyer. Her chest heaved as she tried to get the words out.

In the end Maggie walked down the hall, knowing exactly where Kara wanted to go. Maggie faced the window, her eyes watching as Kara kept hers locked on the emergency exit down the hall.

“I’ll give you a minute. But you can’t touch her, Kara. I’m sorry.”

Kara sucked in a breath as she carefully turned her head to the glass. Her forehead cracked the glass as she leant against the window. It seemed like everything stopped as she took in the peaceful, pale face of the woman lying on the table.

Her hand lay upon the barrier separating them.

~

It was definitely longer than a minute when Maggie came back. Kara followed her morosely. The once confident superhero was stooped, her cape dragged along the linoleum, and tears still prominent on her cheeks. Maggie stopped them both before the doors. Her hands gently lifted Kara’s head and wiped away the tear stains.

“I’m so sorry, but you gotta be strong now. The reports will want something. You don’t have to say anything but you gotta be strong. For her.”

Kara looked up at the ceiling and beyond as she took a deep breath. She rearranged her face, pulled her shoulders back and nodded before pushing the doors open and squinting into the sun.

Noise. There was so much noise from the crowd of reporters, that had seemingly grown with word of Supergirl’s arrival. Kara stood stoic before them as she began to speak.

“Lena Luthor was friend, an ally, and a good person. She was targeted by her own family for doing the right thing for humans and aliens alike. She will be remembered fondly. And I will find whoever did this.” Kara barely held back the tears as she spoke. Cameras continued to flash as she stepped back and took off. The wind wiping away the tears as they formed on her cheeks.

~

“Look at that. The Girl of Steel… crushed.” Lillian smirked at the news coverage. “It was a good thing you grew so close. It won’t be long before she goes off the rails and the DEO will have to reign her in.”

Lillian laid a gentle hand on Lena’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.” She whispered to her daughter softly - for once - genuinely.

Lena fought the shudder as she watched Kara’s face. It was evident she’d been crying. Her heart raced at the thought of how much Kara cared.

“Why are we wasting time watching this. We have work to do.” Lena smirked at her mother as she turned back to the equipment scattered over the table.

“You’ll refine the suit?” Lex asked not looking up as he twisted a screw into the gauntlet.

Lena scoffed, “It’ll be better than you can imagine, dear brother.” She matched his smile over the table. It was nice to feel wanted, even if it was to be used. They didn’t need to know the truth.

They’d taught her many things over the years. Her expert poker face was not one of them.