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heartofsnark · 4 years

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Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter One): I'll let you in if you say it's okay

Notes: So, I’m taking inspiration from more than one lifepath start for my V and overall, I’m not sure how I feel about this first chapter. I’m not as confident in it as I have been in some of my other works and it’s undergone some heavy rewrites. But I’m officially sick of looking at it, so lets go. Still getting a feel for writing the cyberpunk characters too, tbh.

Word Count: 13083

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Internal Feels and struggles, (Aidan/V is very conflicted and struggling), Morning after sex

If you haven’t yet, please read the prologue: link here

Four years, a million miles, and a new alias later, not Aidan but V is standing in a motel bathroom, fresh from the shower. There’s a bruise forming on her chin from what she can’t remember. She touches up the two shaved slits in her left eyebrow, a pointless aesthetic choice given she wears a mask, she knows. But, she likes it and that’s what matters most. She pulls her bleached blonde hair back into a little ponytail, before brushing her teeth and changing.

She fastens her mask, a repurposed scav mask that she uses, not only to hide from her former family but to help her function in this world. No longer the green with red and pink faces the scavs use, it’s now black with white x-d out eyes and a wicked toothy grin. Vaguely cartoony and ominous, not her choice, but she’s far too nostalgic to ever change it.

Data and logistics flash across her vision, optic tech coming to life now that the mask is on. Finally, she puts in her hearing aids, the noise of the world coming back to her, the hum of a broken AC, the beat of a song coming from the radio, and a woman’s snoring drifting through the paper-thin walls. V pulls up her hood before she leaves the bathroom, ready to begin, her throat tight as she thinks of what the day holds.

I saw in you what life was missing

You lit a flame that consumed my hate

I'm not one for reminiscing but

I'd trade it all for your sweet embrace

The radio plays an old song from Ava’s favorite band, V knows the heavy drone of them anywhere, though she never can quite recall their name or song titles, only reminded of the days she pretended to give a shit about them in hopes it’d earn her at least a pity kiss. Why the hell the radio still plays music that old is beyond her. She turns her hearing aids volume down a little lower.

Music brought down to a hum, V’s attention turns to the bed, a woman who’s name she can’t remember is tangled in the sheets. Sun streaming through the window to shine on a bare freckled shoulder, the woman is around V’s age, maybe a year or two older with a pixie cut of dyed lilac hair. She fits in well with V’s track record of bedmates; unable or unwilling to give even half of what she got, leaving the nomad to take care of herself. But, as much as she’d appreciate an orgasm from something other than her own hand, she gets what she wants from them in the end; a glorified body pillow that helps her sleep.

“Mmm, you up?” The woman asks, stirring from under the blankets, she pushes a hand into her hair. She blinks her eyes a few times, before taking in V’s outfit, “you’re leaving already?”

V’s mask optics quickly reads lips, giving the world subtitles, essential when she wants to forgo hearing aids. The tech is far more advanced than the human eye when it comes to lip reading. The only downside is the mask requires someone to be facing her as they speak. So, the hearing aids are still necessary unless people are kind enough to accommodate her; which they never are.

“Gotta get back on the road,” V signs, a modulator translator in her mask speaks it in a monotone AI voice.

“You don’t wanna get breakfast or…?”

“No time,” V crouches down beside the bed, so she can properly meet the woman’s eyes and, “you remember what I told you, don’t you?”

“About not telling anyone what you look like or whatever…?”

“No whatever’s to it, if anyone comes around asking about me, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

“Yeah yeah, crystal clear, asshole.” The woman groans, not liking the aggressive tone V’s picked up, but it’s a serious matter. Most people get it, everyone nowadays seems to have enemies, but apparently not everyone understands. More flies with honey as they say.

“I’m sorry,” she signs, “it’s just important to me, life or death. I’ll order some room service for you before I go, sound good?”

“Hmm…I like pancakes.”

“Alright, I’ll put the order in then head out.”

“Okay…I won’t tell anyone, about you, promise.”

“I appreciate that,” V signs, putting in the room service order on the tablet provided.

Thankfully, pancakes are enough to earn the woman’s silence on the matter. The less people who have a bone to pick with her, the better. Though, she still hopes The Herd can’t follow her where she’s going anyway. Dufflebag thrown over her shoulder, V leaves the motel, stepping out into the dry heat of California. Even in the early months of 2077, the desert is burning hot, though it will be freezing by nightfall. The joys of the Badlands.

Yucca is a little nothing town south of Night City, surrounded by long agonizing stretches of desert. Not a place she’d give another thought to if not for her vehicle breaking down. The cargo in the trunk, locked up so the mechanic can’t get nosy, is meant for a client in Night City. The job came with forms and docs that’ll get her past the border.

She rolls up the metal garage door to the shop, seeing the older man in a trucker hat and flannel working over her car. The old Thorton Galena “Rattler”, bought off a Bakker nomad, who thankfully had no idea who her birth family is. It’s put together with rust, duct tape, and luck, bought for fifty eddies because it’s a walking tetanus trap; but it’s hers.

“Hey…drifter…” He greets her with a weary expression.

There’s two kinds of folks in these small towns that are scattered across the country like stars. Those who are weary of outsiders, know the dangers that lurk across the Badlands and have their guard up the moment someone they don’t know shows up. And for them, her refusal to show her face or speak with her own voice only adds to the suspicion.

And then there’s the other ones, the ones like that lilac haired girl still curled up in dusty sheets, eating shitty motel pancakes. The ones who see her, the people like her, the nomads, the drifters who travel the country and they see someone who can bring a moment of excitement to their dull little lives. The ones bored to tears with watching tumbleweeds all day and will climb in bed with V and their own preconceived notions of who she is just to have a night of excitement.

Each sees danger when they look at her, chaos in human form, someone who may just disrupt the status quo of their piss-pot of a town. An idea that terrifies or excites them. Then the realization hits that she’s just breezing through, a ghost without a trace. And for a moment they’ll be relieved or disappointed, then they’ll forget she was ever there.

“You got my car fixed?” she signs before she rolls the garage door down a foot or two shy of the ground.

“Not quite, electric coupling module is shot to shit.”

“You said it was an easy fix.”

“Guess I was wrong,” he turns to face her, arm crossed over his chest, “you could always find a new shop, find someone else who won’t question some scav lookin’ nomad why she’s hugging the border.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ scav, move,” she signs before shoving him away from her car engine, if he can’t get this thing up and running, she’ll do it her god damn self. She needs to get to Night City, yesterday, she’s already frustrated and him acting like he’s doing her a favor by staring at her engine for an hour isn’t helping.

“Got any idea what you’re doing?” Condescension drips from the mechanic’s words.

“Gonna, rig a hotwire, bypass the coupling.” She switches out some plugs, trying to find something, anything that will save her heap.

“Compressor will run on and on, could seize up.”

“Better than standing around scratching my head.”

She walks around her Rattler, pulling open the driver side door and climbing in. Please, any god listening right now, don’t fuck this up for her. V presses down the ignition and tries to rev the engine; sputters but doesn’t start.

“It’s like I was telling you,” the mechanic grumbles, so she tries again and another sputter.

“Fuck off,” she signs, wishing the tone of the AI voice would better convey her frustration as she begs her car, her baby, to start.

Come on baby, she thinks and her hands twitch to sign, her voice catching. Her desperation nearly making her verbal. Her rattler, her baby, her beautiful heap of rust and luck has carried her through three years in the Badlands. Just a little further, into the city, and V will find her a decent mechanic to give her vehicular child the treatment she deserves. She presses the ignition and revs the gas.

And that engine roars to life and it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard, her baby lives, she fucking lives! V can’t contain her smile, thankfully hidden behind the cover of her mask, she could scream. She’s starting the next chapter of her life with her baby by her side.

“Not too shabby, question is how long will it last you,” the mechanic rains on her parade as he shuts the hood.

“Better than whatever you were trying.”

V rolls her eyes and gets her walkie talkie radio out, hooking it to a jack in her car to try to boost a signal; she needs to let her client know she’s coming into the city, so they can prepare to pick up the cargo.

“Antennae on this heap don’t look like it packs much of a punch, doubt you’ll hear much.”

There was a broadcasting comms tower outside of the town, she saw it as she made her way in, she’ll get in and boost her signal with it. Should be fairly easy. She just wants to make it into the city, her chance at a new life. Seventeen years with The Herd, under her father’s thumb. Three years running, never able to settle down, never knowing when her family would find her when she’d be put down. Years wasted, she’s ready to live, to really live on her own fucking terms.

A flash of khaki fabric, visible through the opened gap in the garage door catches her eye and a chill runs down her spine. Trouble. Black cybernetic hands catch the bottom of the metal door and roll it up; an older man in a sheriff’s uniform with a cowboy hat comes strolling in.

“Hey, Mike, didn’t know you had a customer…” He draws out, looking over V as if she was carrying the plague.

“Just rolled in a few hours ago, I, uh, thought she would have told you.”

“Now, don’t you worry, we’re gonna hash this out,” the sheriff says, strolling over to her, he puts an arm up on her car roof, leaning against her open car door and looming over her, “Don'tcha know you owe the sheriff a word when you pay his town a visit? To tell him what brought you here, maybe even over a cup of coffee.”

“You that hard up for dates?” She signs in return, catching a muscle twitch of annoyance, and she smirks behind her mask. Five seconds in and she’s getting under his skin.

“Names Andrew Jones, you probably heard of me.”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Served in special ops in the last war, silver shoguns, ring any bells?”

“Can’t say that it does.”

“Hmm,” he grumbles, “don’t like to get along, do you?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

He scowls at her as he shifts his weight off her door and moves to walk in front of her vehicle, looking it over. His foot raises up, dirty boot now on the grill of her car and she wishes nothing more than to just drive forward and run his dumbass over. She doesn’t have fucking time for this; her client is waiting. She doesn’t even want to be in his dumbass little town; she already fucked the only good thing here and found nothing but disappointment.

“That a nomad vehicle? I might have figured. Scav mask, nomad car; what that make you?”

“You got a problem?”

“I’ll tell you what my problem is, nothing boils my blood like a fuckin’ stray. Where your clan pitch camp?”

“No camp, no clan, just little ole me, aren’t you lucky?”

“Don’t buy it, nomads always stick with their pack.”

“Got no pack, they don’t suit me much.”

“Makes you an outcast among outcasts.” He sneers at her, looking down his nose at her, like he’s something special and she’s gum stuck on his shoe.

“Let me guess, you’re the type of guy who believes every line of shit the corps feed you, that nomads are the world’s greatest evil.”

“No, I’m a man who respects order, corps brought us that order-”

“The corps pay you and have you on a leash like a dog, you know that?”

“And you don’t wanna see me bare my fangs.”

“Try and I’ll put you down,” V’s fingers move before she can give another though, no interest in making peace with this asshole.

“You threatening me, girl?”

“No more than you are me, stay out of my way and I’ll get out of yours.”

“Big talk coming from a misfit.”

She lets out a short laugh, the sound layered with her modulator, making it louder and doubled.

“Look, I’m not scared of some shithole town’s sheriff who thinks a badge is a crown,” she signs, hands moving so quick and hurried that the sound of skin hitting skin rings out, “I want to leave your town, you want me gone, move your ass and I’ll make us both happy.”

“Get going,” he moves out from in front of her car, “I got no mind to see you drifting around these parts.”

“What part of this conversation made you think I want to?” She finishes signing before slamming her car door shut.

“What was that drifter?” His voice fades away as she guns it out of the repair shop, rolling her eyes behind her mask.

Though, maybe breaking into the communications tower is technically drifting, but she needs to radio her client. Sinclaire will need to know she’s coming into the city, so they can meet up, exchange eddies for cargo, and she can figure life out from there. She takes a road that goes north and cuts through the desert, her Rattler practically born for off roading as she takes the heavy bumps of the sand dunes and drives through cacti, pulling up to graffiti covered bumpers just outside the fenced in tower.

It's an amalgamation of latticed rusted metal with satellites on top, graffiti decorating the buildings and chunks of the tower itself. It clearly hasn’t been used or maintained in years, but it should still boost her signal. V climbs out of her vehicle, trying to open the door to the fencing. It doesn’t budge at all and she pouts, then kicks it as hard as she can. Her steel toed boot works as well as a key, making it swing open.

It’s a quick little journey, two little flights of stairs she jogs up with ease. Then it’s a ladder, the peeling yellow paint sticking to her palms. And then she’s as high as she can reach, transmitter box in view. But with the view around her, wind whipping through, she takes a moment to peel off her mask and breathe. Sun beating down and warming her face, the breeze cools her skin under it’s rays, wicking away sweat that sticks to her brow.

A deep inhale of air before she forces herself to move again, the rusted front of the transmitter box breaks at the hinges when she opens it, she pays no mind and throws it aside then jacks in her walkie-talkie radio. V leans against the tower railing, radio in hand, but not ready to let go of the quiet.

The smell of rust and paint surrounds her as she takes everything in. She’ll miss this, she realizes, the open road and the Badlands have always been her home. But it’s not safe, not really. The Herd has shown no signs of letting this go. For four years, she’s dodged her sister and Ava; the two tasked with being her trackers, repeated close calls over all this time. They’ve interrogated and demanded answers from the folks in these sleepy little towns she breezes through. The mask has helped, but every day the feeling of them nipping at her heels gets worse. Her stomach churns at the lengths they’ve gone to. V’s father wasted no time in turning her sister against her, turning Eira into a weapon to do his bidding, to put down the defected child who never should have made it past nine.

He’ll kill her for not falling in that same line, for refusing to be his soldier. Forced to choose between death or conformity, practically one in the same, she tries to seek a third option.

Night City has its own rules, laws, restrictions; a city completely controlled by corps. It’s disgusting in its own right. But The Herd isn’t allowed in the city, border control of Night City has strict orders to keep all known or identifiable members of the Raffen Shiv clan out. Corps hate Nomads, as a general rule, but they really hate The Herd. A Nomad family with no respect for anyone else’s laws, a strong anti-consumerism, anti-cyberware, and anti-corp attitude; The Herd might as well send a personal fuck you to Night City. Its not perfect, not even good, a crime infested corp run cesspool, but it’s the safest option. More security, more boundaries, more faces so V can blend in. Even if Eira and Ava make it into Night City, which she’s not naïve enough to believe impossible, they’ll have six million folks to work their way through. Nomads stay in pack because groups provide safety; a sea of city faces is just an extension of that.

But that safety comes at a cost. It means no more open spaces, no more serenity, no more campfires with burnt marshmallows, or driving down dirt roads as fast as she can with her windows down, and screaming out in excitement as she takes on every bump and turn with reckless abandon.

There’s no perfect choice, every decision carries a sacrifice, but if the cost of staying in the Badlands could mean her life, her freedom, her identity… the city is the better option… she thinks…

A pessimistic or perhaps realistic part of her can’t help but feel like he’ll get his way, her father will have her head on a pike, will slaughter his own daughter like cattle. And his power over The Herd will only grow. After all, if he’d go this far to put down his own child for an act of betrayal, how could anyone else ever think to be spared his wrath. The already loyal army of followers will be further forced into submission by fear.

Maybe this is all a waste of time, she wonders, often does. Maybe it’s just dragging out the inevitable. Hell, a part of her wonders if she’d be better off begging for mercy, if he’d offer it just to maintain control. Would she be safer if she just gave in? Is she really the kind of person who needs to be half of a whole to function, to feel safe?

But, is it wrong to want something more? To be able to look back at her life, no matter how long or short it may be, and know she lived, that she gave it all she had. That she stayed true to herself, whoever that is. To prove that she doesn’t need them, that she isn’t a burden depending on others to carry her weight. She can make something of herself in Night City, can live on her own terms, even if only until the inevitable comes knocking at her door. It will be a bit of breathing room, a chance to just be, instead of constantly looking over her shoulder.

Family was meant to be her security, her safety, but were they ever really? V shakes her head, if she goes down every thought pattern, every reason, every doubt, every feeling; she’ll be here forever.

She pulls her mask back down and radios her client after another moment of soaking in the breeze, it's odd they didn’t go through a fixer, but frankly she doesn’t care. A middleman who takes part of the cut isn’t ideal for her either. She’s looking for the past possible new start and the more eddies in her pocket, the better that’ll be.

“V?” Sinclaire speaks her alias once she gets through.

“Speaking,” she signs, as always thankful her mask spares her voice in moments like this.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Hit a snag, but I’m on my way into the city now.”

“That’s what I like to hear, once you’re through the border radio me and we’ll talk meet up.”

“The docs you sent,” she signs, thinking to the falsified passport docs he had sent out her way, “they should get me through border check.”

“Absolutely, border control barely checks ID on customs, but that little pamphlet will breeze you through.”

“Okay, just checking.”

“Don’t worry V, this is a piece of cake. You’re gonna love Night City, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah? That so?”

“Mmhmm, once we finish the trade off, I’ll show you around. There’s a place in Wellsprings with synth steak to die for, I’ll treat you.”

“Sounds like a plan, I’m heading out now.” She agrees easily, it’ll be better to have more connections in the city, people she gets along with well enough and know the place better than her.

“See ya soon.”

Her client doesn’t know her exact clan, just knows she needs papers to get into the city. There’s more than one group of Raffen Shiv that aren’t allowed in city limits; hell she’s pretty sure Wraith’s aren’t. Though, corps make special deals to let them in when they need work done. As shitty as they are, The Herd has yet to whore themselves out to that degree, one thing she can still respect about her father. She fiddles with the leather cuff bracelet around her wrist, that hides the small crown shaped brand that he placed on her skin as a child, his way of marking his blood family. She’s considered taking a knife to it, but some part of her isn’t ready to.

V’s steps are hurried as she leaves the comms tower, heavy boots stomping over metal as she makes the quick journey back to her Rattler, the red beast of a car waiting where she left it. She climbs into the vehicle and twists the vehicle around. She follows the dirt road back out to the highway, headed out to the city.

She races back through the little town, picking up as much speed as she can, wind whipping through the open windows. Yucca is a blink and its gone, V having cruises right through the nothing town and continuing down the highway. Empty stretches of desert decorated with cacti as she races down the expanse of roadway.

Then the signs warn her of border crossing, nearing the city, her heart rate picking up as she grows closer to changing her life. A border checkpoint, enclosures and offices with an overpass above the divided lanes of the highway. Each lane leads to a border control officer with holograms labeling what each lane is for based on why someone is coming into the city; whether or not they have cargo to check. She slows down, so she can pull off her mask, the less suspicious she looks the better. Border guards aren’t going to stand for being questioned by The Herd, so its minimal risk.

She switches over to the lane for customs check, pulling up to the raised blockade, beyond it another car coming through is scanned. An armed border guard not far away and she waits as the vehicle is giving the go ahead to leave; blockade coming down and guard ushering her to drive forward. V drives that little bit forward; cement yellow blockades raise before and behind her vehicle. Locking her into place makes her uncomfortable, like she can’t escape.

“Stay in the security check area,” a guard tells her over the intercom, like she would have tried to drive through the blockade without his warning. A beat i silence, a minute or two passes as the scanners run along her car.

“Would the owner of the vehicle please report for further questioning.”

V grabs the falsified passport, manifest marked LOA, and the bribe chip for good measure. She keeps her head down as she gets out of the vehicle, makes her body language small as she walks into the office building. Maintaining a non-threatening demeanor in order to ease any friction that may come her way. The door automatically opens, a waiting room of people and a desk behind bulletproof glass where a worker stands. A map of the New United States across one of the walls.

“If you’re armed, leave your weapon here.” The worker behind the desk calls out and V unholsters her revolver, allowing him to check it and put it in a drawer, “report to room two.”

She nods, feeling naked without a weapon on her hip, but she knows this is the way of things. V turns the corner, finding the door with a two marked next to it. She opens the door and a lump forms in her throat. It's a small cramped little excuse of a room, a guard already at the rinky dink desk and a chair in front of it. She takes small timid steps to the chair, discolored with either dried blood or rust, she can’t be certain. The man is dressed in a neon vest; some sort of either goggles or optic implants over his eyes that scan her over as she sits down. He wastes not a second in lighting a cigarette and her nose wrinkles as smoke billows to fill the small room. She can already feel the stench of it clinging to her clothes and wishes she could snatch it from his hand.

“Papers?” he asks.

She hands over the manifest, her falsified passport, and the credit chip without a word. Metallic implant augmented fingers put the cred chip aside to look over the little blue document, then he places the paper over the cred chip, hiding it from prying eyes that may peek into the office. Meanwhile, V tries to maintain her most innocent of expression, puppy dog eyes primed if any issue arrives. Small and adorable has few benefits in this world; but she plans to take advantage where she can. Being underestimated, assumed to be weak or docile, as much as it hurts does have perks.

“What are you transporting?”

“It’s all in there,” she signs in response, because frankly she has no idea what she’s transporting. Some corp crap.

“Hmmm, tell me, who do you ride with?”

“Bakkers,” she lies through her teeth, her car was bought off one, so it seems like an easy enough excuse.

“They stop installing personal links?” He asks, puffing out a plume of smoke, his gaze on her linkless palm.

“Religious reasons, most of the clan has them, but my mom raised us to stay ‘ganic, god given, ya know?” She signs, a practiced excuse for when she’s asked about her lack of implants. Same as the excuse laid out in the passport.

“Is that so…” he takes a deep drag off his cigarette and V bites her lip not to say anything she’s hit with another face full of smoke, “you know, times like this I’m so glad not to be on the other side of that table.”

“Feelings mutual,” she signs before she can even consider stopping, aggravated by this man’s entire existence at this point. She gave him all the documents, this should be done with by now.

“Go on now.”

She jumps at the chance to be excused, taking in a deep fresher breath of air when she’s released from the smoke box of an interrogation room. V runs a hand through her hair as she turns the corner. There’s another armored guard standing beside the desk now, his eyes doing a lazy look down of V’s frame.

“Don’t forget to collect your personal items.” The worker behind the desk tells her and she stops there, giving him a raised eyebrow before he goes to collect her gun, “be careful with that toy and welcome to Night City.”

As much as she’d like to gripe about the toy comment; as if she’s a child, she can’t help but find herself smiling at the greeting. She’s finally here, finally getting into the city. A life on her terms; a little breathing room between her and the clan. V holsters her gun, grin playing on her lips.

“Those little shits all imagine Night City to be some sort of paradise,” the armored guard comments about her, but not to her, looking over her to the worker behind the desk.

“What are you gonna do they’re all young, naïve, which is just another word for ignorant.” The worker replies and V’s grin has died, maybe that’s the case for others, but Night City is exactly what she needs. Her situation isn’t the same. She doubts those young ignorant kids they’re talking about were running from their own death.

She shakes her head, not worth the effort it’d take to respond, V leaves the building. Her Rattler a short distance away, she’s nearly bouncing as she rushes towards it, climbing into the driver’s seat. Even the overpass above her has words welcoming her to the city, she’s sure she won’t find paradise, but there...she’ll make this life her own.

There’s barely a blip of distance between her and the border check when she sees them. Black corporate vans coming towards her, her heart jolts into her throat and sweat edges along her skin.

“Fuck!” V curses out loud, border fucker tipped off the corp.

“Stop the vehicle! You are transporting corporate property!” A voice rings out from the vans and V takes a sharp turn off the road, her baby is meant for off roading after all.

“I repeat, stop the vehicle!” The corporate voice yells out again.

“Stop the vehicle,” she murmurs in a whiny voice to herself, mocking the corpo, “give us back our stuff, stop committing crimes, wah, wah, wah.”

She rolls her eyes, amused by her own bullshit as she punches in the keypad of her Rattler, starting up the automated turret attached to the roof. It’s not the most high tech system, but it has a lock on function and should get the job done. The sounds of bullets pinging off metal creates a cacophony around her as she careens through an abandoned rural area, taking sharp turns to try to shake them. V takes out her hearing aids to stop her forming headache and focus on what she’s doing. The rumble of her turret shakes the car as it fires, letting her know its still working fine. Glass break out of the back of her car, a bullet piercing through, her back sprayed with the shards. She’ll be digging a bullet out of her dashboard later, she’s sure.

A bright flash of orange, flames enveloping a van as her turret hits a gas tank the right way. One down, two to go. She keeps the pedal to the floor, speed topping out as she races away from the approaching vans. Another sharp turn and she watches as a van crashes into a wall, one last stubborn fucker.

There’s a slight tense to the vibration of her turret overhead, bullets hitting the top of it, aiming to disarm it, as she goes through another turn. A shot bursts through her side mirror, assholes, do they have any idea how much it’s going to cost her to repair this heap. More than it’s probably worth.

The vibration that shakes her car settles down over her head, turret no longer firing, but the van is still chasing her. It fucking jammed, her turret fucking jammed again, of course it did. V hauls off and punches the roof of her Rattler, right beneath where the turret is, used to this issue at this point. As always, the hard punch manages to spur it back on and it fires up again, blasting at the last van at full speed.

A bullet hits the corpo van’s front tire, knocking it off path; final one down.

“Suck my dick, Arasaka!” She screams out for no one else to hear.

She’s grinning as she finds a collection of abandoned trailers and garages, pulling into one, she’ll need to call her client, figure out a meeting place. They may want her to lay low for a bit until Arasaka calms their tits about this. But she’s in Night City, finally, what could go wrong from here. Cut out a nice living for herself, solo work or maybe something else, who knows. Get herself a place and do whatever the fuck she wants from there. She slides on her mask, puts her hearing aids back in, and rings her client.

“Sinclaire?”

“V, you make it over the border yet?”

“Yep, out just south of Pacifica according to the GPS, little run in with the corps but I shook them. When and where you wanna meet?”

“Little China, you know where the old Club Atlantis is?”

“Not remotely, but ping me the coordinates and I’ll find it.”

“Sending it to you now, think you can get there by three am?”

“Yeah, no problem, prefer to do this under cover of darkness?”

“Much prefer, see you soon, V.”

V hangs up the call and punches in the coordinates he sent, GPS map firing up to tell her where to go. She pulls out of the abandoned garage and gets herself back out on the road, driving further into the city.

She doesn’t like driving in the city. V determines about a minute into being into the actual bulk of the city. There’s neon signs and adverts everywhere she looks; most displaying someones ass or tits. She wouldn’t consider herself a prude, far from it given just how many people she’s spread her own legs for, but she does appreciate some decorum… These are sleazy, dirty…

And there’s traffic. Even at the late hour, people are on the roads, and they’re slow. So, fucking slow. Move, your asses. A motorcycle might be a good investment, she’d be able to just ride between traffic or weave through the other cars.

She manages to reach the spot before three am, though she wants to scream by the time she arrives. The building blends in easily, just another large shuttered up structure with graffiti covering its outside; symbols for the Tyger Claws, because correct spelling is a bad look for a gang, apparently.

V lets out a huff of air as she gets out of her car to wait; examining the little bloody scratches on her shoulders and arms where the glass hit her. Nothing serious, a splash of rubbing alcohol to disinfect and she’ll be fine. But there is a slight sting to the injuries that make moving her arms and shoulders uncomfortable. Corpo fucks. V leans against her car, taking in her new city.

And she shouldn’t be amazed, she knows that. The traffic drove her nuts and she’s been in landfills that smelled nicer. But despite it all, she finds herself impressed at the buildings that stretch on into the heavens. The bright lights and neon against a dark sky is gorgeous; a high vantage point and she’s sure it’d look like something out of a movie. She finds herself in awe as hope nestles its way into her chest.

Not perfect, nothing ever is, but she can work with it. She can build something here.

A sharp honk gets her attention, disrupting her moment of reverie. The street and road have been abandoned mostly; only her and the limousine coming to a stop next to her. She gives a slight wave to the driver, then forms a V with her fingers, as if they needed any more indication of who she is.

The driver is not her client, instead a big bulk of a man with gorilla arms implants, black metal for fingers, he gets out of the driver’s seat and a similarly sized man steps out of the back seat. Her client’s got muscle around him it seems, maybe he just wants to make sure she doesn’t get squirrely and try to pull something.

Both guards out, they open the backseat door close to the street and her client finally emerges. He’s not a particularly tall man, though as with most adults, he is taller than her. Sandy slicked back hair and unnaturally bright green eyes; likely optics.

“V, darling, nice to see you in the flesh, you got the goods?”

“Right here,” she signs before moving behind her car, opening the trunk so he can see the Arasaka cargo crate.

“Fantastic, load it up, boys.”

“Woah, woah,” V signs and sits on the crate before the two bodyguards can grab it, “eddies first, then you take the cargo.”

“Oh, V, honey…” His voice drips with condescension and a chill reverberates down her spine, “you did good work, only a shame you’re so naive.”

“The fuck do-”

Pain cracks through her skull, knocking V off the cargo crate and onto the ground. Another sharp thwack of pain across her head and back; something blunt striking her before she can get up. She groans out as she rolls over onto her back, looking up at the bodyguard who’s holding a baseball bat, what looks like blood staining it. Her head and back hurt; her head spinning and she’s unable to get her bearings.

“Load the cargo into the car.”

“What do you want us to do with her?” One of the guards asks Sinclaire and he looks down at her, like a cockroach.

“Eh, no one will come looking for her. Might as well throw her away with the trash,” he kicks her side, sneering when she grunts in pain, “give her another hit for good measure.”

“Got it,” the guard nods and starts to raise the baseball again, high above his head for a hard swing and she instinctively twists to give him the back of her head again.

“We’ll scrap the car, ge-”

And then the bat comes down on her, a rush of pain before consciousness slips from her grasp.

Time loses all meaning when the world is blacked out, but eventually the light filters back in and her senses return. She can feel her hearing aids still in and its reaffirmed by the sounds she hears, the faint murmur of people. The smell around her is awful, disgusting, and she can feel stuff around her. Plastic bags scratching at her skin, something wet touching her arm. Her mask shifted and she forces herself to move, she pulls it back in place, blinking.

Garbage bags, some intact and others shredded. He actually had her thrown into the trash, that son of a bitch. V pushes the trash bags off of her, city lights starting to glimmer through, neon against a black sky. She finds a metal edge of the dumpster and pulls herself up, body still aching in protest as she emerges from her would be grave. Cold air hits her bare arms, the city far colder in the early months than the Badlands. She’s in an alleyway dumpster and she hears gasps of shocks, turning to see civilians shocked to see someone climbing out of the trash. She’s be ashamed if she weren’t so furious.

V punches the side of the dumper, feeling it reverberate with the force, this was supposed to be her shot at a new life and now she’s in a god damn dumpster.

She’s going to kill Sinclaire, she’s going to fucking kill him, son of a bitchfucked her over and he’s going to pay with blood. But how the hell does she even reach him? He never gave her details of where he spends his time or let alone where he lives. Hell, she doesn’t even know where she is. She needs her car back and her luggage from it, she doesn’t even have a change of fucking clothes as it stands right now.

“What time is it? Where am I?” she signs at the civilians, still straddling the edge of the dumpster, maybe they can be some help.

“Uhhh, like 10pm? And Heywood…?”

So, he dragged her away quite a bit, so...maybe he frequents the area. Still doesn’t tell her much, she needs to find him. And she needs to find her car, but how the fuck does she accomplish that?

“Don’t suppose you have any idea where I could find Luke Sinclaire, do you?”

“Uh, no,” the stranger kind of raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the whole situation, “but uh, you could always talk to Padre. He’s the local fixer.”

Of course, she’d have to get a fixer involved, not using one is probably what got her in this mess in the first place. Sinclaire knew she had no ties to her Nomad family, new to the city, and no fixer involved. He basically had license to do whatever he wanted without fearing someone would come for him or come looking for her. V touches the back of her head, fingers coming back red, dried blood matting her hair. He meant for her to die, she’s sure, but the blunt trauma wasn’t enough to do her in.

“Where’s Padre?” she signs, she doesn’t have money to pay a fixer but maybe they can work something out. She doesn’t want to lone wolf it and end up in a dumpster again.

“He has his own parish, but he’s usually at the El Coyote Cojo right about now, might be able to catch him if you hurry.”

“El Coyote Cojo, which would be…where?”

“Bar a little north of here, you really aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Thanks for your help and stunning observational skills; I’m off.”

She pulls her hood back up over her head, hiding her bloody matted hair as she leaves the alley way and goes vaguely north. New chapter of her life, she’s injured, alone, broke, and smells like garbage.

Honestly, sounds about right for her luck. But, she’s far from given up. She navigates the Night City streets, stopping to ask a stranger where the bar is again before she finally finds it. She keeps expecting to get weird looks, like the ones that were usually sent her way in the small towns she’d visit on the road. But even with her mask, no one pays her much mind. And why would they?

V passes at least four more outrageous looking strangers along her way to the bar. People’s who’s entire body is made of gold cyberware, a woman with skin that looks like plastic, a cowboy with cybernetic arms and legs, and a girl with what looks like cat ear implants on top of her head. Things that make her stop and give a second glance, but no one here even minds. Night City has its own weirdness limit and her mask doesn’t even come close to hitting it. There's an anonymity she’s never known before and its kind of nice. Even bloody, mask on, trash covered; she’s just one face in a sea of millions.

El Coyote Cujo is a lowlit bar with traditional Mexican decorations across it and as expected in the evening, it has a fair number of patrons bustling around. People shooting pool, downing tequila, and chatting amongst themselves. And for the first time, she finds eyes landing on her. Not necessarily weirded out by her masked appearance, but more so wary of a stranger. She pays them no mind, employees here should know where Padre frequents or if he’s still here. There’s two she’s able to find right away; the bartender and a busboy. She starts with the bartender, walking herself over to a stool, he’s an older man with dark hair and a golden arm. He walks over to her once she’s sat, a smile bringing out the crows feet at the corners of his eyes.

“A new face, what can I get for you?”

“I’m actually trying to find someone,” she signs, “someone told me the local fixer, Padre, is a regular here.”

“Ah, he’s probably at his usual table upstairs, not sure he’s interested in taking on any new clients though.”

“I’ll see if we can figure something out.” She steps away from the bar and heads upstairs, its mostly vacant, making her task just a little bit easier.

Her gaze is drawn to an older man with sparsely any hair and age spots along his skin, a gold cross around his neck. A few men in tacky gold jewelry around him.

“Padre?” The AI modulator voice calls out and she sees the older man’s eyes land on her. His guards around him seem to tense, prepared for if she sends up being a threat.

“I’m not sure, I know you,” Padre comments, looking over her disheveled appearance. Being beaten and thrown in a dumpster doesn’t do much for your looks.

“You don’t, but I’m looking for a fixer, need help if you’re interested in hearing me out.”

“Come, sit.”

“Thank you, sir,” she signs before sliding into the booth seat across the table from him.

“How can I assist you, child?”

“So, a guy named Luke Sinclaire contracted me to smuggle corp cargo into the city, I go to meet up with him and he tricks me. Stole the cargo, sent my car to be scrapped, and had his gangoons drop me. I need help finding him so I can get the cargo, my car, and my dignity back. Maybe kill him too, depending on how I feel, but we’ll see.”

“You didn’t use a fixer, I take it?” He raises an eyebrow with the energy of a dad chiding a child for making a stupid mistake.

“No, I was desperate and it bit me in the ass, so I’m doing what I should have done in the first place.”

“And I’m to assume, you have no money with which to do this either?” He says, having read her like a book.

“I’m sorry to be asking favors the first time we meet and I don’t expect you to do this for nothing, of course, but I was wondering if we could work out an arrangement instead.”

“And what sort of arrangement would that be?”

“I’ll do a merc job for you, your choosing, I’ll take no cut of the profit; a completely free job in exchange for you helping me with this.”

“And how can I trust you to do this job well, I do not know you or your work.”

“Well, I’d do the job for you first, so if its crap you could not help me. I fully expect to get back what I put in, if I do quality work, you do it in return, I’m desperate here.”

“Come with me, Marcus, get the car,” he tells one of the bulky men who walks off.

Padre stands and follows behind Marcus, V follows suit as they leave down the stairs and out of the bar towards a dark little alleyway. Marcus pulls up a car and parks it for them. Once parked Marcus gets out and comes back to one of the backseat doors, Padre gets into the back on his own, Marcus opens the door for her. He silently beckons her in and she does what she’s asked, sliding onto the leather seat. Marcus shuts her door before going back around to the driver’s seat,

“Embers, pull up to the back where the ramp is,” Padre instructs Marcus of where to go.

And then the car pulls out onto the road. V fiddles with a curl of hair, fidgety and unsure of what to do, why they’re driving out away from the bar. Padre has a far away look in his eye.

“You’re new to Night City, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…”

“And what is your name, I’m afraid I didn’t catch it earlier.”

“V.”

“V, I’ve lived in Heywood all my life, it’s roots are strong and watered by blood. Family is what pulls us through, no one is purely independent. The city is ecosystem, each individual playing a vital role that impacts those around them. The relationship between fixers and our mercenaries is an important one, not only is it mutual beneficial, but we keep each other safe. A lesson you’ve had to learn the hard way.”

“Can’t really argue with that…”

“People who-“

Padre pauses in his words looking out of the window and through it, V can see a car coming up alongside them. The car begins honking furiously at them. Nerves alight and chills slinking up her spine; she has a bad feeling about this. It has to be someone with a bone to pick with Padre.

“Shit!” Marcus curses, the first word she’s heard him say.

“Stop the car,” Padre says, with a calming hand on Marcus’s shoulder.

“What’s this?” V signs, worrying speeding up her hands.

“Business, you carrying?”

“Yeah….” V checks her waistband and her revolver is gone because why did she think Sinclaire wouldn’t take her gun, “No.”

Padre blinks, surprised she’s sure, because who the fuck would be unarmed in Night City. Marcus pulls to a stop, the car once beside them pulls around to park in front of them and a man comes out. He’s dressed in what appear to be green fatigues with a bullet proof vest. As he comes close to V’s window, she sees his gold implants catching the neon lights.

“Sebastian Ibarra,” the man says in a low voice, as V’s window is rolled down by Marcus, “looks like it’s my lucky day.”

The stranger leans into the window, his left hand is carrying a gun and he casually puts it into the window. Both arms are metal in nature, but they look far from top shelf, at least from her glance.

“What do you want?” Padre asks him.

“To settle our biz, once and for all. Got an offer for you, Paddy, so listen up. Get the fuck out of Vista, pull your boys off the street! I’ll give you the Glenn, done deal. No more restless nights, see how generous I can be?”

A beat of silence and V gives a glance at Padre, he seems far from amused with the man’s bullshit.

“Well, Paddy?!”

V lurches at his impatient yell, she doesn’t need this wannabe soldier turned gangbanger fucking up her deal. Her right hand grabs the back of his neck, below the base of his skull and her left grabs the gun. She slams his head against the car roof, his forehead gushing blood at the impact, the shock and pain makes his grip loosen and allows her to steal his pistol before letting him go.

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses as he stumbles back, seeing stars and touching at his forehead. She aimed for the soft flesh just before his golden mohawked implant began, blood now steadily streaming from the wound, “you’ll fucking pay for that.”

She points his own pistol at him, cocking the gun, asking the silent question of if he intends to be shot today.

“It seems our conversation has come to a close,” Padre speaks calmly, but when she turns she can see the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Careful Padre, never know who’s got a barrel at your six,” he threatens with blood coating his face like paint, “you neither shitbucket!”

“Now, I’m armed,” V signs to Padre, as she watches the man climb back into his car, defeated for the moemnt.

“Marcus, please.”

The driver pulls out and away, getting them back on the road, as if the exchange had never happened. There’s a moment or two of silence, as V tucks her new gun into her waistband. If Padre takes her up on her offer, she may need it, plus you can generally never have enough firepower.

“Many people come through the city,” Padre speaks after a beat of silence, “little shits who’s spines go soft the moment they’re looking down the barrel of a gun. And sometimes you get the odd soul, one who can truly hold their own.”

“Who was that?” She asks, unable to help but smirk behind her mask at the compliment. That she’s one of the odd souls, different from those little shits, that she can hold her own. V is far from incompetent, even if some shitbird got the jump on her.

“No one important, he’ll be gone in a week’s time. Another will take his place.”

“The ecosystem will take him out?”

“People who don’t know their place, soon find themselves without one. He’ll pay for what he’s done. You… paid for your misdeeds, for your misstep, but you’re finding your place now and within it you may thrive.”

“You got my place in the ecosystem all figured out?”

“Here,” he hands her a screamsheet, a magazine with an animated ad for a car, high-end The Legend of Aerondight, “only four in Night City.”

“That so?” It looks slick, she guesses, though certainly not her aesthetic. Its that weird rich person sort of design where it’s oddly shaped and proportioned, perhaps to be aerodynamic. All sleek silver and black, no character to it. She’d take her Rattler over it any day.

“First belongs to the Rayfield regional direction, second belongs to mayor Rhyne, third to a rental service. And my client aims to be the fourth.”

“Klep the car and you’ll help me?”

“Yes, I have a contact who works inside the parking structure near Embers, a club the current owner likes to frequent. He’s there tonight as well. My contact will cut the security camera feed and open the security gate for you.”

“Current owner, anyone I need to worry about?”

“An Arasaka corpo,” Padre informs her, because apparently, she hasn’t fucked with Arasaka enough in the past day or so.

“So, just hotwire it or?” It wouldn’t be the first time she’s hotwired a car, but fancy ones like this usually have a more complicated security system. Usually takes more than a knife and luck, which is her usual method.

“Not quite,” Padre pulls a little gadget, a silver and black device that he hands to her, “this should work like a key for the car, matches the ones used by Rayfield tech. Should open the lock and bypass identity authorization.”

“That sounds convenient…” Too fucking convenient, she resists adding.

“Kabuki has some excellent tech workers, but I won’t lie, it is a risk. I assume one you’re willing to take?”

“Got it, I’ll get the car.”

“Marcus, pull up here,” Padre tells the driver and they come to a stop, “you can jump down below, and before you go, take this V.”

He hands her a card, marked with his name and phone number, golden in color with a sword surrounded by roses. She rubs her thumb over the embossment, glad for her first contact within the city. Connections help.

“Your number?” She points out the obvious, not sure what else to say.

“Bring the car back to El Coyote Cujo and call me when you arrive, if all goes well, I’ll have your intel by then. And, I may just call on you for work down the line.”

“Understood, I’m off then.”

“Go with God, V.”

The guardrail drags along the side of the highway but there’s a breakage where it allows her enough space to easily jump over. Peering over it leads to an alley way, a closed dumpster just below. She hops over, dropping down onto the dumpster, she intends on last night being her last trash nap, so she’s more than a little thankful for it being closed. She hears a civilian let out a little exclamation but pays no mind as she jumps down onto the pavement. A quick walk down a graffitied alleway leads her to yellow road signs cutting across an open structure. Glowing vending machines beckon her to spend ennies she doesn’t have on energy drinks and burritos, a turn past them brings her to an elevator.

Slick glinting silver encompasses her as she steps into the alleyway; impressively clean compared to the absolute grime of the city. Likely to impress any corpos who come this way to get their cars. A quick tap of a button and the doors shut, elevator rattling as it descends down to the garage.

A beat of silence and the elevator opens up to a hallway; black, gunmetal gray, and teal accents. The wall declares which sector she’s in and an arrow on the far wall tells her where to turn, as if there were anywhere else to go. The turn around the corner puts her directly in front of two large black double doors; PARKING over them in clear bold lettering.

They slide open when she gets close and open up to the large parking garage, lights coming on as she sees all the slick fancy corpo cars. Sleek blacks and eye popping reds, none with any taste for design if you ask her. But nomads and corpos have...different aesthetics.

“Eh, something I can help you with?” A male voice rings out, bringing her attention to the little station next to the blocked off exit for cars. The contact, she presumes. She comes over to his open window, the man dressed in uniform.

“Padre sent me…” she signs, keeping things vague just in case this person has no idea why she’s here.

“Gotcha,” he hits a button, “cameras are blind, you got twenty minutes.”

She nods and goes looking through the cars, it’s the glow of neon that brings her to it. A parking spot marked off in the vivid blue glowing lights, they frame the Rayfield, and spell VIP on the wall behind it.

Time to test the tech, she holds the device next to the door and presses its button, a blue light flashing. And then the Rayfield’s door opens, sliding back and up in one fluid motion, exposing the deep burgundy leather seats. Shit may actually be going right for once.

She climbs into the driver’s seat, feeling wholly out of place in the plush designed car. The seat automatically adjusts to accommodate her, no doubt shorter than the owner, and the blacked-out windshield and window turn to crystalline clear glass. All that’s left is bringing the baby back to the bar and then she can get her intel on Sinclaire.

A red caution symbol flashes in the windshield and her body tenses; a bad feeling creeping in. No, her luck can’t be running out already.

Then the door opens and there’s a gun in her face.

“Get the fuck out!” A Mexican accented voice yells out.

If there is a god, he personally hates her, there is no other explanation, and she will fist fight him for his shenanigans. She looks up at the man standing before her, barrel at her forehead. He’s leaning down against the car, not unlike how the sheriff did to intimidate her back in Yucca. However, unlike the sheriff, this guy has the build to pull it off. He’s easily over a foot taller than her and wider than most doorway, all pure muscle with dark hair in a top knot, gold cybernetics adoring his face. She puts her hands up in mock surrender for a moment.

“Nothing personal, jaina, just biz.”

V goes to gun it, to stomp her foot down on the gas, but before she can the man has the back of her hoodie and is unceremoniously ripping her out of the vehicle.

“You fuckin’ deaf, chica, fuck out of the car, now!” He’s able to manhandle and pack her around like it’s nothing, like carrying a housecat.

She grabs the hand on her hood and digs her fingernails in, swinging her foot out to kick him while her other hand goes for her gun.

Then there’s a steady rev of engines, tires squealing and growing ever closer. Confusion coloring her assailant’s face and he drops her, looking around.

“The fuck…”

He starts to say and then there’s two police cars rushing into the parking lot, skidding to stops in front of them. And its fucking overkill, if she rang 911 because she was shot, they’d maybe send an officer out in three weeks. One fucking corpo has someone break into his car and it’s the end of the universe, need a full brigade.

The headlights of the cruises are blindingly bright and she struggles to adjust; putting her hands up as police officers come out with guns at the ready. It’s a car for fucks sake.

“Don’t move!”

Her attacker carefully slides his gun across the cement, to show he’s not a threat and maybe she’d consider doing the same if she cared; but she doesn’t.

“You’re under arrest!”

“Stay where you are!”

The police continue barking orders, as if the two hadn’t piece together what was happening or what was being asked of them. They’re not stupid.

“Hands where I can see them, nice and slow!”

He can already see them, why must they go through the rigamarole. She doesn’t have time for this shit.

“On the ground motherfuckers, right now!”

V is able to watch for a second, as a female cop cuffs and pushes the big guy onto the ground. Then in the next second she’s down there too, but they don’t cuff her like they do him. The officer only holds her hands down to the pavement, maybe they think because she’s smaller they don’t need the cuffs, at least not yet.

“Jackie Welles, my old pal from the hood,” a voice rings out, “See you haven’t grown an ounce wiser.”

“Hey,” big guy, apparently Jackie, responds and she shifts her head against the pavement to see him being held down in addition to the cuffs, “argh, Detective Stints, been a while, huh?”

“Inspector Stints,” the man responds now stepping out where he can be seen in front of the bright lights, he picks up the gun Jackie put down.

“Same shit,” Jackie says with a laugh.

“But you, you’re new,” Stints comments as he walks over and crouches down in front of her, looking over her face.

He waits, anticipating her to say something, but she talks with her hands and they’re currently pinned behind her back. And sure she possesses the technical ability to speak, her vocal chords do function. But she doesn’t, unless she’s alone or highly emotional. She used to talk to her mom, sister, and Ava…but those days are gone.

“Spit it out? Cat got your tongue?” Stints taunts and she still remains silent.

“Think her voicebox might be broken, Stints,” Jackie comments, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Pfft, probably just another piece of Heywood trash, another termite who’ll live and die here. Just like you Welles.”

“Fuck off, just tell us what you got planned,” Jackie grumbles.

“Gonna be booked, gonna do a stint, heh, get it?” He says with a grin.

“C’mon Stints, cut us a break, huh? You lock us up, we’ll just jerk off till trial and then what?”

She has no intention on jerking off anywhere, but alright.

“Worst case,” Jackie continues, “we get a few months, standing room only nowadays. In el bote. Hell, we’ll probably be out early.”

“These the thieves? Ordinary street trash,” a heavily accented voice comments, a Japanese man in a shimmery golden colored vest comes walking over.

“Shit, he’s here,” Inspector Stints groans before standing, “got them in custody Mr. Fujioka. We’ll be taking them, now.”

“It’s a waste of effort, I have no time to testify or play at an investigation.”

“Suggesting we let ‘em go, sir?”

“I’m suggesting you throw them in the sea; cuffed, legs broken, so this trash doesn’t float.”

And with that the man starts to walk away, making his way back to the club, she’s sure, continuing his night of debauchery as if he hadn’t ordered the murder of two strangers just because he could, because he didn’t have time for a trial. And god, she knows she probably has no room to judge anyone else’s morals, but just fuck corpos.

“You heard him,” the inspector says, because corpo cash pays his salary, she’s sure.

“Fuuuuck….” Jackie curses as they start to drag him up on his feet by the cuffed hands and she her own arms are wrenched back and cuffed.

V gets her feet back under her, moving with the pull as they manhandle her off the ground, she kicks back at the officer behind her. Her foot connects with their calf, causing them grunt out in pain as they’re knocked off balance loosing their grip on her wrists. She jumps as high as she can and brings her cuffed hands under her feet to her front.

Jackie follows suit, kicking the officer off of him, but with his size it knocks them flat on their ass. He shoulder checks another pig as V makes a dive for the Rayfield, it’s door still open amongst this chaos. She lands herself in the drivers seat and hits the ignition.

“Stop resisting!” Officers yell, fingers on the trigger, and no, that’s not happening.

“Wait up, chica!” Jackie yells out and she hits the button to open the passenger side door; he’s an asshole, but she’s not leaving him to be thrown in the fucking ocean.

He throws himself down in the passenger side and she guns it, doors shutting on each side as she takes the turn out the parking exit. She watches from the corner of her eye as Jackie, who’s barely able to fit in the bougie car, brings his cuffed hands down as low as he can. He grunts and curses, not quite as flexible as she is. With effort and twisting, he’s able to get the chain of the cuffs under his foot and then he stomps down while yanking his hands up. The little chain doesn’t stand a chance, breaking into pieces and pinging about the interior as it does so.

“Much better,” Jackie comments, looking at his wrists which now just have the manacles of the cuffs.

She rolls her eyes, bringing her attention back on the road and she expects to see sirens chasing after them, but it never happens. Are the cops not chasing them? They should be chasing them? Is she not getting in her second high speed chase since coming here?

“Honestly,” Jackie starts to talk again, he talks a lot, “I was just gonna let Stints free us, but I like the way you think, this way we get the Rayfield too.”

“What?” She takes a hand off the wheel to sign.

“Oh shit, you’re actually….my bad…” He awkwardly apologizes for asking if she was deaf earlier because, yes, yes she is.

“What do you mean, free us?”

“Stints is a softie as far as pigs go, got Heywood in his blood, would never throw us in the fuckin’ ocean cause some corpo said. And, you can slow down, he won’t chase us, chica.”

“Oh…okay,” she signs, pulling up to a curb, something else to take care of.

“We stopping here?”

“You are,” she signs before pulling her gun out and pointing it at him, signing with her other hand, “get out of the car.”

“Really, chica?” He rolls his eyes, like he didn’t pull this shit on her five minutes ago.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if I knew Stints was a softie, I got a job to finish, get out.”

“A fixer line this up for you?”

“Yeah…”

“Padre?”

“Yeah…are you gonna get out of the car or…?”

“Listen, I was gonna klep the car and then find a fixer to sell it for me, but if you already got Padre involved, we’ll go halfsies.”

“You pointed a gun at me!”

“You’re pointing a gun at me, right now!”

“You did it first!”

And he laughs and she does too, because they sound like children bickering over who pushed who on the playground. Its dumb and ridiculous and why does she like him? His smile is warm and kind, something about him, welcoming. She drops the gun, tucking it back in her waistband. She press her hand under her mask, trying to suppress her giggles. The tension that’s been clinging to her has snapped. Her body feels lighter, like she can breathe a bit better. She closes the passenger side door, he may be chill, or she’s just easily charmed. But, she’s still going to fuck with him, just a little.

“Okay, fine, we’ll go halfsies.”

“See, now you’re making sense,” he grins as they pull out back onto the road, “Jackie Welles.”

“V…it’s…nice to meet you? I think?”

“Heh, not from around here, right?”

“Nah, but, from the sounds of it you’re a local.”

“Heywood in my veins, chica, where we meeting Padre?”

“El Coyote Cujo.”

“Of course.”

“You know the place?”

“I’ve heard of it,” he says, grinning wide, a joke she’s clearly not in on, “Ah, I got a good feeling about this.”

“About what?”

“Us, you and me got chemistry.”

“Do we now?”

“Oh, don’t give me that, you feel it too, heard that laugh.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” she teases as she pulls into the El Coyote Cujo parking lot, pulling the slick corpo car into a spot, “got a phone on you?”

“You don’t?”

“I literally have lost everything I own, alright? Call Padre and put it on speaker.”

“Fine, fine,” Jackie gets out his phone and calls Padre, phone in one hand and the other stretched across the back of the seats.

“Jackie? To what do I owe the pleasure.”

“Here with your newest find, V, we got the Rayfield.”

“You helped her out?”

“Well…”

“He pointed a gun at me and nearly had me thrown in the ocean.”

“Seems like I have a car and a story waiting on me, I’ll be there shortly.”

A pain aches in V’s head, migraine spreading across her temple as Jackie hangs up. She rolls the car window down, allowing the chill of the winter night seep in, hoping the fresh air will ease her pain. V wants a shower, there’s still blood in her hair and she’s sure she still smells like trash. Though, no one’s been cruel enough to point it out. But, she has no idea where she could grab a shower. Why the fuck does her head hurt so much? The pain a steady throb across her entire head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, it didn’t even ache this much when she first came too in the dumpster.

“You alright V?”

“Head hurts,” she signs, before turning off her hearing aids, hoping that shutting out the city sounds will help.

“When’s the last time you ate, chica?” Jackie says, making sure to stay in her eye line as he leans over the middle console, though his biceps nearly touch her even when he isn’t. Her mask reading his lips to give him subtitles. .

When was the last time she ate? She didn’t eat all day because she was in a dumpster passed out. The day before was the smuggle run and she didn’t eat before she left Yucca.

“Two days ago.”

“Fuckin’ for real, no wonder your head’s wonky, once we finish the deal we’ll get some grub.”

“What made you think that was why?”

“Ah, my mama gets those migraines when she stops eating from stress, Vik and me keep telling her to take care of herself, but she’s too busy taking care of everyone else.”

“You and your mom close?” V can’t help but ask, thinking about her own mother for a moment.

“Oh yeah, family’s important, gotta have people you can turn to out here.”

“Yeah…”

“What-”

Headlights shine in through the back glass of the Rayfield, bring their attention to Padre pulling into the parking lot. His arrival ending whatever question Jackie was about to ask, which may be for the best. She’s not ready to answer questions about family. Not when her head is throbbing, she’s filthy, and her stomach is empty. Padre’s driver comes to a stop and they see Padre gets out of the back. V turns her hearing aids back on, knowing it will make the conversation flow easier as her and Jackie get out of the Rayfield. Her arms collecting goosebumps from the air.

“Jackie, it’s nice to see you again, how have you been?” He greets Jackie warmly

“Ehhh, can’t complain, same old same old, making new friends,” he says with a grin, nodding his head towards V.

“Never can have too many of those. It’s always nice to chat once business is done.”

One of Padre’s bodyguards has already climbed into the driver’s seat of the Rayfield. Enging revving up and then fading off into the night as he leaves. Officially finishing up their business.

“Uh,” Jackie raises an eyebrow, “you getting senile on me, Padre, this is usually the part where eddies change hands.”

V’s smirking and trying not to laugh behind her mask. Padre gives a look at V’s direction and she looks down at the ground, pursing her lips so she doesn’t laugh.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“Ah,” Jackie nods, like he gets it, “no worries, V agreed to go halfsie with me on the Rayfield gig.”

“Halfsies?” Padre raises an eyebrow, smiling at V, he seems to find her joke at least a little funny. V can’t help the giggle that spills out.

“Am I missing the joke here?”

“Well, I’m afraid, this was an unpaid job for V here.”

“What?” Jackie shoots her a sharp look, disbelief coloring his expression.

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” she taunts.

“Fuck you!”

She bursts out laughing, holding her stomach as she cackles behind her mask, the sound echoing strangely through it. But, she can’t stop.

“You stole a million eddie car for free!? The fuck is wrong with you!?”

“No, no,” she furiously signs, “I needed info.”

“Speaking of which, I have your intel here,” Padre says, handing her a shard.

“Give me a moment, my lungs hurt.”

“I’m glad you're entertained, that info better make you a billionaire.”

“Nah, personal shit,” she collects herself, “thanks, Padre, it means a lot.”

“You’re a good kid, make him pay, V.”

“Oh, I will,” V confirms, slotting the shard into a little opening on her mask, info displaying across it.

The name of a chopshop that rumors say had a nomad vehicle come in, her Rattler no doubt. Sinclaire’s address and regular hang outs, exactly what she needs. Hopefully, he hasn’t had time to sell the cargo yet. If so, she’ll axe him and klep all his shit.

“What happened?” Jackie asks.

“Well,” she signs, before taking the shard out, “Sinclaire contracted me to transport some cargo, no fixer, so he fucked me over the second he got a chance. Bashed me over the head, threw me in a dumpster, scrapped all my shit, and took off with the cargo.”

“So, that’s what that smell is?”

“I will throw you,” she threatens, but she’s rolling her eyes and smiling.

“I’d love to see you try, chica.”

“The chop shop won’t be open until morning and it’s late. It’s up to you, but I’d recommend resting for the night.”

“Yeah…” She signs, but she can’t help the slight pout. She has no money, no clothes, no food, no shelter. She’ll be sleeping on a bench or something tonight, not much rest.

“You did good work V,” Padre pats her shoulder as he leaves,” I’m sure I’ll have more jobs for you in the future, paying ones, of course.”

“Thanks again, Padre.”

She rubs a hand down her face, migraine still thumping around in her head. Between not eating and having her hearing aids in all day, her head feels on the verge of exploding.

“So, what’s the plan, jaina?”

“My plan, why do you wanna know my plan?”

“Because, you and I both know you’re up shit creek without a paddle here, V. No home, no family, no one to turn to. Night City ain’t a place that will let you get by on your own. Need people you can turn to, if you wanna survive.”

“And what, you wanna be my friend?” She raises an eyebrow, taken aback by just how kind and friendly he’s really been.

“Told you already, we got chemistry,” he grins again and it makes her smile, “be a crying shame to waste it.”

“Okay, friend, what do we do now?”

“You like chili?

“As a concept, sure.”

“Settled then, get you a hot meal, change of clothes, a shower ‘cause you fuckin’ need it, and crash with me tonight.”

“And tomorrow?”

“And tomorrow, we teach that pendejo a lesson, sound good?”

“Sounds good to me.”

They’re all grins and smiles as they leave the parking lot, knocking shoulders together as they go, walking side by side down the neon lit streets. And she can feel it returning, that little buzz of hope she had in her chest when she first came here, the one she thought was beaten out of her by Sinclaire’s goons, it’s back and brighter than ever. Though not half as bright as Jackie’s smile as they turn a corner towards his mother’s house.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #c2077 #female v #fem v #aidan v becker #aidan becker #can you feel the sun

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mc-slowwalker · 3 years

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shipping to australia is a nightmare. anytime I go to do any online shopping I’m instantly stopped by the thought of shipping. hahahahahahaha at least that’d be a funny way to go out tho

yeah true!! every time I’m watching a vod I’ll get so startled cause they always pop up when you’re least expecting them too. I’ve only got my prime sub and I haven’t tested it but I have a feeling that twitch would still give you ads. they seem like the type

so true I’m not paying hundreds of dollars for textbooks I’m barely gonna use for half a year. oof that sucks. if I didn’t google my way through those exams I guarantee I would have failed though😅😅 then one subject that was ungoogleable, I did fail. god now I feel bad about how terrible a student I am

it’s so nice to see dream being on streams and having fun and interacting with other people !! it sucks cause I would absolutely LOVE to see dream on ppsat but I hate the idea of toxic people that would find reasons to shit on them :// like with gartic phone the other day. I felt like so toxic when the twitter updates account tweeted that dream was there cause I knew the “twitter stans” were coming. and I don’t even have a terribly negative view of stans as a whole. and then turns out it was justified and then I felt even worse. the gumi stuff pissed me off too. feeling a bit bad for dream tho. mans can’t even play with his friends without them getting attacked. I clicked on the links in your subtitle/heading/whatever it’s called when I first followed you like 6 or so months ago. was pretty funny

damnnn you’re doing all of those?? that’s tough. I dropped language (french) in yr 10 and decided to never touch maths again after I finished highschool and I loweky like maths too. oh I will 100% be telling people to touch grass that is so funny. I also can’t say anything about the nerd thing cause I just fully had the thought “what if I write an essay on the internet and it’s effect on language development”

Yes!! please tales!! where is it!! my weekly dose of happiness. I remember the last tales stream I watched like it was yesterday😪 I miss the ____ my beloved gifs that would be everywhere everytime a new character was introduced. I may have very little clue about any of the in between/the other side lore but damn were the builds insanely good. I was watching tubbo’s stream too and he said there wasn’t anything to do on the dream smp and like true ig but🥲🥲 he also said he’s been thinking about lore on twitter tho!!! so there is that !! hmm yeah I do wonder what they’re waiting for actually cause it’s been genuinely so long that c!dream’s been in the prison for. I wanna why it’s so important cause cc!dream and cc!sam put a lot of emphasis on it. and I just really really want to see what c!dream will be like out of the prison. for so many reasons

oh nooo ripppp. that’s kinda funny tho. the video was so short that was funny too. sapnap and george 2000iq moment nice. it was a nice vid tho, chill and enjoyable. so much dream content recently I feel like he’s about to drop off the face of the earth or miraculously stream something (highly unlikely but I can hope)

When streamers runs ads you gey a warning! But when vods do it it’s just a hey haha fuck you! You’re 100% right about twitch jeff bezo wouldn’t let any thing go to waste. He’s not the ceo right now but I hate him anyways. I’ve never actually used prime sub because I don’t have amazon prime, but I’ve been gifted subs a couple of times which was neat!

You know I may not be the best student but as someone who has cried a lot because of school I think it’s morally correct to be a bad student Cheat!! You’re paying then money they owe your ass so fucking much!! Abuse their resources stick it to the man. No time in life for guilt especially considering that universities are just corporations anyways they made hide behind the guise of learning but I’m calling them out no way knowledge gotta cost this much

I also love seeing dream stream with his other friends! To badly quote scott smajor, the dream team is made up of anti social sweaty fucks (affectionate). He’s always so awkward at first and ngl? Huge confidence booster /j/j. Logically I understand that twitter update accounts are useful, but I think they should all collectively take a break for a minute. Would it change anything? No. But it would make a lot of people very unhappy. I don’t even know what to do about toxic twitter stans because like, content creators and us can call them out and not at all condone their actions but we can’f actually do anything about it? It’s super frustrating. And I feel like a hypocrite too because if dream does stuff with a cc I hate I bitch about it too I just don’t have as far a reach. Like I for sure threw a whole fit when dream went on to kaceytron’s stream. Actually I tend to get upset when he goes onto streams with people who actively hate him. So I struggle with that because despite feeling like I’m justified in doing that, twitter stans feel justified in their stuff too. You could argue that it’s different because the chance that the ccs will see it is near 0 but it’s still the same behavior isn’t it? For sure not saying twitter stans are right, they piss me off how dare they say shit about gumi, but also I worry that I act similar you know?

I’m glad is was amusing I haven’t gotten any angry anons so I can never tell if the links are working or not

Listen listen it’s less that I chose this and more that they’re requirements. Spanish is a req, but I’ve always really liked spanish? I’ve found with learning languages I have to be interested in the lanrguage’s history/culture. So french makes me mad but spanish makes me feel cozy and I like it! I pick up spanish pretty fast too and I’d like to be actually fluent in it some day. Language as a whole is super interesting. Also the internet has made language even more interesting with widespread similarities and what not

Listen I would agree more with tubbo but instead Imm going to lighheartedly call him a coward who’s afraid of surprise lore! He said he would be there more often if other people logged on more often but I know for a fact other people feel the same and by him not regularly logging on he’s adding to it! I think foolish, ponk, puffy, and bbh have really upped my standards for lore. They log on at least once a week and make their own plot. Like bro if you’re bored start some shit tommy style! Personally I would make enemies with all the beets people. Tubbo has such cool lore I just wish he was willing to be a little more spontaneous. He was tired last night though so I can see his boredom beinf effected by that. I really really enjoyed bear smp those guys were so fucking funny and I will be watching more of them. Need to catch up on hermitcraft too

Who’s to say he can’t drop off the face of the planet and stream? He can multitask. Also hems been big on reddit recently so we’ll see where that leads ajddj

#anon #ask #long post

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yuzurk · 4 years

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[12.10.20] LIVE NOW : CHOI YENA 1ST SOLO VLIVE

Yuzu is a little nervous as soon as she goes live. She had done this several times but vlive was a whole different platform she had to familiarize herself with first before being able to make it work as naturally as she did with twitch. Making sure her connection was stable and the frame well captured, she continued to hold on for several seconds, double checking everything and watching people pour in. “I feel so naked without my load out-,” she muttered under her breath in English, spotting most of the chat consisting of fans that had found their way here through her announcement on twitter.

She didn’t know how many fans of heartz would actually join this stream and it was a shame she had to talk in Korean for the most part through it even though her fanbase consisted mainly of international fans but she would have to work with the limited options she’s been given.

When she was sure that there was a good amount of people in the audience she leaned back and clapped her hands together after inhaling a deep breath. “Sup everyone, this is Choi Yuzu and yer not watching Choi’s Choice,” the ex-streamer joked, a laugh escaping her lips. “Before we begin- my vlives will be mostly in Korean. With me being an idol in the korean industry now, I have to re-shift my focus. To those who don’t understand Korean- do not worry. Each of these streams will be equipped with English subtitles eventually and I can read and translate your comments if you want to be a part of the life audience. Sadly, this is the most I can do as of now, I apologize,” she announces, her hands still folded together as she bows her head. When she looks up again, there are already comments pouring in from sad emojis to people saying they understand and some confused Koreans asking what the heck was going on and why she was talking in English. So Yuzu went ahead and really kicked off her first vlive als Heartz’ Yena.

“Alright. Here I go- Let me introduce myself properly-,” she begins in korean, her head nodded once. “My name is Choi Yena, I’m the October girl and final member of Heartz 1/3! I used to be a streamer in the gaming and variety field and trained under Samsung for about a year prior to debut. I was born on the 29th September 1999, blood type A, going by the nickname Yuzu. So dun hesitate to call me that! Born in Daegu, been to primary in Japan and middle school in Canada. I came to seoul ‘bout two years ago, straight after High School. I love Games and all sorts of performing. I speak Japanese, Korean and English. It’s a pleasure to meet y’all. Please look after me well,” she introduces herself, tossing the most important facts back at her new audience right after.

“I believe I got... all important things done...,” she murmurs, looking down at her checklist before gazing back towards the chat to see the comments pouring in. People greeting her, calling her cute and funny made the girl smile a little and grin to herself. “Heh. Oh- the other members? I think they went back to the dorm already. I stayed behind to go live... eh?” Right as she says that the door slides open, revealing Luda ( @rkxluda ) who tiptoed her way into the room with a box of food. “Eonni? For me? I thought you’d gone back- ye I’m already live,” she informs the other with a grin in her voice, waving her in and tugging her over. “Before y’leave say hi, real quick!” The two girls wave at the cam together, Yuzu chuckling at how embarrassed Luda seems to be for interrupting her solo vlive. So she lets the elder female scurry away quickly and looks at what she had left the streaming girl. “Oh.... this... I love this- eonni brought me one of my fav foods ‘cause she knew I’d stay back to stream.” Opening the lid carefully Yuzu tilts her head back in bliss after inhaling the beautiful, yummy scent. “Woah... hold on I gotta do this properly-,” she declares, placing her chop sticks down before rolling the sleeves of her jacket up and then putting her cap the other way around to have her face free of any possible disturbance.

Only then she picks her chopsticks back up and claps her hands together. “Temporary mukbang intermission. I’ll eat well~,” the girl sing sungs before digging in carefully, the hot noodles tasting amazing but still hot in her mouth. “Hmm so hot- but so good.” Struggling through the first bite, she takes a moment to swallow the bite before she pokes her chopsticks into her noodles again. “Luckily the eonnis can cook well- I’m a huge mess in the kitchen. The closest to a good cook I am is playing overcooked,” she admits, a smile widening across her lips before she munches down another mouthful. While chewing she goes back to check the comments, one of them making her smile.

FoxyIrishka ( @rkirina ) : when are you buying me a box of premium grade beef

“Soon. I ain’t forget, Irishka. Dunno when I’ll have time now but it’ll happen,” the ex-streamer promises to her gamer buddy, holding up her pinky to seal the promise. Irina isn’t the only of her friends she sees in the chat and it warms her heart. Especially Chaewon ( @chaewonrk ) makes her almost snort out her next mouthful again. Instead she smiles, hamster cheeks on full display as they remain puffed up with food. “I see ya Chaewonnie~ This girl’s an amazing guitarist. We played in a band together- right! I forgot to talk ‘bout 6tunes!” The female sits up with a start, grabbing her own phone and pulling up one of the few original songs they released. “I used t’play in a band as drummer n’ vocalist. We released a few original songs before we had to disband. Chaewonnie was there- n’ my big brother too- Sungmin Oppa ( @rksungmin ) ... he’s- ah there he is! I saw you in the chat earlier, hi oppa~,” she greets, waving at the camera with a chuckle.

“Yeees I’m eatin’ well- see,” she holds up her half finished dinner before looking through her library for a 6tunes song. When she finally found one, she held the cover to the lens, making sure people could see it properly. “If y’wanna give it a listen, go and check it out!” Not certain if she was allowed to play music not made by samsung artists she decided to not play it for now and instead continued on. On the topic of music it’s then she spots her namesake.

( @rkyena ) "hi yena-ya it's yena unnie~ congrats on your debut!! will you sing a song you've enjoyed lately?"

“Ah- Yena eonni, thank you-,” she can’t help but chuckle. “This still is so weird- people ain’t ever gonna find me with how popular Yena eonni is,” she states with a chuckle before munching down another bite. “Luxe sunbaenim is too powerful... eonni is it ‘kay if I tell my fans t’ tag my posts with Yuzu instead- otherwise I ain’t ever find ‘em if I wanna go lookin’,” she asks the idol, an amused smile on her lips while she continues to eat. Receiving an okay in return she pretends to breathe a huge sigh of relief. “You heard her guys- Yuzu it is! T’get back to yer question doe eonni,” she continues, reaching for her phone again. “I’ve been listenin’ to convex new release a lot lately. I really like Jinwook ( @rkjinwook ) sunbaenim’s solo ‘Simple’! It’s a really nice song- I love it a lot.”

Watching the reactions she kind of pursed her lips together when various people asked her to sing the song right now. Inhaling and exhaling a long breath, she couldn’t help but feel like it was a request she should fulfill. “Ah- I can sing a little... I’ll do the chorus-,” she gives in, pulling the lyrics up and deciding to do a simple accoustic version solely because her voice was too soft to keep up with the instrumental and jinwook’s voice in the background. Towards the end of the chorus she gets shy at people calling her voice lovely and beautiful. She spots Xiao among them and immediately feels soft again how she can seemingly transition from one field to another and still keep some of her faithful fans. Hiding her smile behind her phone she can’t help but chuckle shyly. “Ah lleexiao ( @xiaoxrk ) enough y’gonna make me blush,” she admits cheekily, waving the compliments off before hunching her shoulders up as she cringes a little.

She’d have to learn to get used to these kind of compliments.

Leaving people to gush about her a little longer she decides to finish her food and just peeks at the comment section once in a while. It’s during one of those times she sees Kiwi in the chat as well, his request causing her to snort internally. Of course he would. “KingKiwi ( @rkxkikwang ) - please do a kda cover... okay. I’ll get to that. Got just the person in mind I could ask t’help me with that. Keep a look on insta,” the idol teases, wiggling her brows. Next she spots Wendy ( @rkwendy ) as well among those commenting on her voice, praising her for her progress and that she was proud of her debuting at last. “Ahw eonni- thank u so much. Still got long ways t’go compared to u doe,” she tags on immediately. “Wendy eonni is such a great vocalist- Androma is full of so many beautiful n’ talented girls- if you’re not a fan of them- go check ‘em out right after this stream, okay?!” Insisting on this she points her finger to the camera, narrowing in on it before backing away once more to finish her food. “Okay, cool.”

“I’m planning to actually do more vlives if I manage to find the time... one of the series I’d like to get kicking is actually related to gaming and I’ll have an androma girl with me for those,” the ex-streamer continues to tease as she wraps up the empty box and her used chopsticks. “So y’can look out for that too!” Drinking a sip of soda the female comes quiet while she reads more comments. Among her friends still being noisy and her old streaming fans yelling about more gaming content she can see some new names and comments being tossed her way. One of them catches her interest in particular.

zuzuruhanyu: say "maganda ako"

The female furrows her brows, head tilting to the side. “What does that mean? Can I even say that on a live broadcast?” For a second she ponders over it, typing the words into a google translator to see what it would spit out at her.

“I’m beautiful- is that what it means? Won’t that be a little vain of me to say,” she inquires with a chuckle. “I’m tempted to call someone who I know knows Tagalog to confirm Google Translate isn’t failing me-,” she wonders out aloud. In the end she sends him a quick message beforehand, just to warn him and ask if she could call him really quick to ask something. If she was already boosting her connections, she may as well continue to go and do that. With the okay given Yuzu calls up Johnny’s ( @rkjohnny ) number and puts him on speaker. She grins when he picks up and some people seem to actually get a clue who she just called.

“Johnny Oppa? You know Tagalog, right? Does ‘maganda ako’ mean I’m beautiful?” A grin on her lips she listens to him chuckle and confirm the information she dug up via google translate. Replying with a simple hum as he inquires if the chat asked her to say it, she lets the smile widen across her lips as he reassures her that she can say it live without getting into trouble.

“Ahh okay oppa, thanks!” Before she can hang up the call though, Johnny requests of her to do the ‘dalagang pilipina’ pose which leaves the female confused all over. “What’s that?” A pic of Johnny doing it along with an explanation follows not too long after and Yuzu can’t help but laugh. “Can I pleaaaase show this pic to the viewers,” she asks with a chuckle in her voice. When Johnny gives a confirmed chuckle right back she turns her phone to show it to the camera, still chuckling away. “Doesn’t he look like the perfect maiden?”

Cackling at her own wording she turns her phone back to herself. “Are y’watchin’ the vlive right now? I’mma do it,” she announces before going ahead and doing it, wiggling her brows for extra added effect. “this good? am I doin’ this right?” When Johnny chuckles out a confirmation, Yuzu feels herself grinning back proudly. “Alright cool. I’mma hang up then now, ye? Thanks again, Oppa. Bye!”

Looking back at the chat and having people wonder how she knew all these idols, Yuzu had to think twice how she wanted to go about this. She had wanted to avoid being compared to Jieun but not wanting to look like she was flexing and flaunting all her connections right upon reveal she had to explain somehow.

“I know most of them from before they were idols through my cousin, Song Jieun. She used to be a Samsung trainee and her connections are crazy. She told people to look after me when I first came to Seoul ‘cause she was worried ‘bout me. Everyone’s been really kind to me and looked after me well, so I feel very spoiled and grateful.” A smile on her lips she nods her head calmly.

She comes quiet again as she reads more comments, smiling at the reactions and responses she gets even if some of them call her out for riding on her cousin’s connections. To avert the topic she jumps at a comment from whom she knows to be her boyfriend ( @rkohsehun ) lurking on an alias that she admittedly has to sigh at internally. she really did love her stupid noodle.

"seahoney says: congrats on your debut !!! any new / laid back games you'd recommend?"

“hmmm,” she tilts her head, leaning back to think for a second. “with debut preparations and promotions I haven’t had much time to game much. I really do like the fall and halloween update for animal crossing new horizons but genshin impact has also been my go to game when I’m in the car headin’ to schedules. ‘s got everythin’ put together from what you’d love ‘bout open world games. the gacha ‘s a little annoyin’ but that’s gacha games for ya. the breath of the wild feel makes it a whole lotta different to any gacha I played doe. the controls are also easy to manage so that’s a plus as well,” she reviews with a smile on her lips, grinning as some people say they wish they could see her play.

“maybe I’ll see if any of my friends plays it n’ once we all reach high enough levels we can coop and I could stream.” at the mention of friends she also spots yoojung ( @yccjungrk ) in the chat and can’t help but grow soft immediately. “yoojungie~ maybe it’ll be a game for ya too? I haven’t given up on tryin’ to find one we can game together besides ddr,” the gamer laughs. She wishes she could express how much she misses her old roommate and best friend but not wanting it to seem like she was ungrateful, she comes quiet instead.

A gaze at the clock does tell her that it’s rather late already and the staff member supervising her also looks ready to pass out in their chair so Yuzu slides an extra soda over towards them before turning back to her comment section.

“You guys are gems... I wanna stay around longer n’ talk to everyone more but I’ll be back soon. For now I gotta head back to the dorm too and get more sleep. Please look out for us and allow me to meet you at music shows. I would love, love, loooove to see you all and show y’all my appreciation for supportin’ heartz and our first unit 1/3. We got lots of great things planed ahead for the future and are ready to gear up good, so please anticipate the future girls as well,” she concludes, hands folded together as she tilts her head to the lens, gaze soft and adoration in her eyes.

“That’s all from me for today- Yuzu aka Heartz’ Yena over n’ out!” With a salute she squints her eyes, striking a cool pose that breaks with her exhaling a chuckle before the screen does turn black at last.

#take your heartz;#era: love&live;#vlive;#q #(this is the longest solo I've ever written----)

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thomasstalsworth · 4 years

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Too Old ... Johnny Boy’s Bones

[ Prior Chapter ]

Captain Florence was a stone, stoic, stalwart and able man.

He wore grey hair with easy features. The sort of unwrinkled face that a man of his age could only acquire through studious effort at not smiling, frowning, or otherwise revealing his innards. There was no emotion about him at any time, even when pressed. The worst of weather he ever wore was on the cuff of his jacket. A ring of sweat when times were at their worst, and a clean slate of white cloth for the rest.

There was a reason -- many reasons, in truth -- why Thomas trust him so well. Old friendship was powerful, but all the moreso was demonstrable history, trust and action. Florence was a man of action and not word, that much could be seen even by the stranger. And so Thomas asked the greatest of efforts needed to the man, allows constituting such things as an offer. The two men knew each other well, but even as his Admiral now -- a feat of strength so far beyond the measure and imagination of their younger minds -- Tom never ordered Florence. He offered, and requested what needed done.

And Florence always, without fail, did what needed to be done.

And so it was that Florence stood at the helm of a thin-strop vessel, a bare creature of wood and tar and two masts that was heavy enough to ferry himself and a trusted crew to Freeman’s Bones. A neutral, freebooter’s harbour and mooring some unfettered stretch of horizon South of Freehold herself. Yet where Freehold was a den to pirate, villainy and the dealings of men’s unsavory hearts -- Freeman’s Bones were just that.

A scattered mass of scaffolding, dockways, mooring posts and stray driftwood to form a bulwark against the rest of the world. A place for men and women of the ocean to take ease a spell before they were off again. A place where you were still free, even if your feet were on land.

‘Land’.

Freeman’s Bones was barely such a thing. The wandering, rickety nature of it was all built upon the same, single spit of rock and reef. What had begun as a single dock and a bare-rattle pub with just enough grog for a man to drown in if he kept both nostrils pressed to the floorboards had become a thriving, seaside piece and trade. A freewater depth for the wanderer’s anchor.

And the current dwelling of Roderick Allhouse and Belly-Ann Hurstvale. The two freebooters, accomplished anglers, well-water privateers and occasional buskers that Thomas had asked Florence to find. Seek them out, inform them of the Admiral’s need and plan, and bring them back to Stormholme under a grey sail. Simple.

Thomas’ requests were never simple.

All hands at harbour, all hands on deck or below. Florence tread the half-scoured wooden walkways of the Bones alone. Nary a soul joined him, and with good enough cause. The most of them were green to boot, young men and women who were only of knowledge for that Florence had a pleasure’s call to the isle and her piecemeal wooden skeleton. The better and beastly and trusted of Stormholme’s harbour lay with Thomas. There was work to be done.

And Florence had his part to play. The man was not known for parting before his due was done.

Straight on the lace and burdened with principle, ethic and the equanimity of a Stormsong stream in midsummer, Florence walked through the vibrant pathways of the Bones. So many ragged, half-heart folk passed him by in all direction. An unhurried sort of congestion, ‘roads’ stacked atop each other and swollen high and wide with men and women.

Free men and women.

It was a ten-start of minutes at most before Florence found himself, prim and bucked up in the spine looking far, far apart from the generous masses, standing within the belly of the Bones. That rattle-skin pub that was the first building nailed to reef and pinioned to stand against the rock of the sea below.

‘Coccyx’.

The humor was not lost on Florence, and perhaps in the privacy of his own cabin quarter, with the curtains drawn and a disc of music playing from the gnomecorder, he might have allowed himself a single puff of air from the nostril -- to laugh. As close as he ever was to laugh.

The pub was wide, and squat. No ceiling laid higher than a man could reach up to touch. It felt so much like the hold of a vessel, all run up with the sweat, bluster and cry of sailing creatures that it jarred Florence. He was a perceptive man, though, and shucked off the peculiarity of the Bones to lay his mind to work.

Roderick Allhouse and Belly-Ann Hurstvale.

The former was a sprite of a lad who wore a fashionable face; in appearance he was many years younger than the hourglass would call to. Boyish face and skin so scuttled and soured with ink that his pale flesh was barely visible. They said he could no longer grow hair on account of it. Sailor’s ink dragged into his flesh so many times with whalebone pen that no hair could grow -- only gills and scales.

The latter was a woman of curve and compass, covered as often as she was not. More mindful and heartfelt than any combination of sea captains from the Bones all the way South to the edge of the charter, and back again until you hit the Frozen Sea. She was keen and observant, not unlike Florence himself. But she saw beyond what presence that a man’s eye could conjure.

To find a single soul of affect in the belly of the Bones was a task beyond most creatures. Even those with the powers of prestidigitation or prescience, divination or else wise. Florence had none of that. He was but a man with good cording and a sound mind, a penchant to dress in anticipation of the weather and the ability to inflict a potent right-hook.

He also knew what liquor that the latter and the former of his notion of task drank.

Somewhere, in the far corner that resembled a ‘stage’ cut into the pub’s depths, a lilting of music managed to buoy itself over the craig and call of the patrons. A few lads were having a go with a beaten string-body and a horse-hair bow, a few guitars, and a wooden drum, singing:

“Forty-five in the fox holes And of this I will boast Don't they look fine and handsome My poor Johnny-boy's bones … “

The song carried on, and the next -- and the next.

It took a few hours, but eventually after the fourteenth or fifteenth round that Florence’s purse bought for those in earshot of the pub’s counter top -- which was not far, as it stood, considering the roar of noise in the drink home -- the man and woman of his task slid through the crowd. Whether they had been there the entire time or only came about after getting word -- slowly, through the throng and sweat of sailors -- that free drinks were rolling like tidewater, Florence could not know.

“Two in the air, Bonny!” A male voice called, spirited in the way that young men usually were when they had an amiable lass on their arm and a desire to look the peacock.

“Gush it a’three, love -- thanks.” A female voice called crow to reply. Lilting moreso, but hazy in the throat in such way that constant smoke-fall down the gullet gave.

It was not useful to try to hide. Florence looked as much a member of the shifting, pierced and tattooed, sunk-heel and red-sashed, belly-raised and ‘member’-forward, cutlass-keen and pistol-first crowd as a husk of corn looked fitting in a Duchess’ garden.

He let Roderick and Belly-Ann take up their drinks before he spoke. The liquor was a revolting substance, in truth. But some peoples of the edges of the common folk took good favor to it. If the goal was to be inebriated, invigorated, and given better cause for a ‘second sight’ through the caustic waves of the open sea -- Bonemarrow was the way forward. Florence liked to think it was rum, but in truth no one but the settled souls of Freeman’s Bones knew just what in the good Godly damn was in the kegs that made it run so thick and black, like blackstrap syrup forged with intention to make children in hammocks by the groggy seaside.

-- Thoughts unimportant.

“Let us get a few down beforehand, aye?”

Florence spoke first, standing proddled and proper at the edge of the bar. In a space of pub so shoulder-to-briny-shoulder, it was quite odd how no one was willing to gather near him. Despite the way he spilled coin after shiny coin to pay off the rounds that were poured. Only greetings and raised ‘cheers!’ came his way. So when he spoke, it was noted. Roderick and Belly-Ann both looked to him, appraising each other, then reasserting their gaze.

“Better to know the after-hand first, cuff. Let’s a man know how many to get down first.”

Roderick replied with a simmering sarcasm. His tone was not any surprise. Tom had said he would be the worse of the two of them to net and drag. Liquor helped that, though -- and Roderick drained his marrow quickly from the glass, tapping an obscenely jeweled set of fingers against the vessel to demand more.

Belly-Ann had a covering over her head, some thin-spun silk sort of thing that would not have looked amiss among the caravans of itinerant merchants that often criss-crossed Wrynn lands. She did not say anything as she dragged her lips over her own pour of marrow.

“The after-hand is all gold, friend -- and Big Iron.”

The old name sprung memory back to both Belly-Ann and Roderick when Florence spoke. Few recalled Thomas’ old subtitles. Only those with more sands in the hourglass down with gravity’s flow than naught might have been possessed to know. By the sudden pause and quirk of pierced brow and ink-heavy lip, Belly-Ann and Roderick were counted in such crew.

“He wants you to come hear what he has to say. There is work to do, and a powerful need for capable souls.”

Despite Florence’s prim and structured state and tone -- the relevance and severity was cast in his voice. Even through the haze and smoke of pipe and pouch in the briny pub, his eyes cut through. His words were only buoyed by the marble cast he gave. A contrast, surely, as he was all pressed uniform and stiff collar, shaven face and unlacquered skin. -- But an understanding passed among the scream and huff and heft and lift of the crowd.

“.. I’ve an eye on the lass fifteen paces behind your stick-heel starfish. After I’ve gotten my fill, and if this marrow keeps flowing free to sole, then we’ll consider thumbing tooth with Big.”

Belly-Ann spoke first, and she spoke for both herself and Roderick. Keen and mouthy and saddled with fisticuffs, thin-man’s strength and scrawny draw as he was -- Belly was the mind between the pair. That was clear enough. Roderick nodded in obeyment, trying to eye out the lass that Belly spoke of.

Florence nod once, keeping an eye to them both. After enough of a spelling of seconds to be assured of their validity, he set his coin purse -- full and swollen -- onto the bar top. With a glance to the barman, who looked confused, but quite happy to take the coin and let the rounds keep rolling along, Florence turned and left the pub.

Thomas had said that if he managed to find them and get their mind for it, attention drawn and not quite quartered -- at worst halved -- then they’d know where to find his mooring.

And so Florence returned to his green-galley-gill crew and tried to act like he had just spent the last few hours having a go of his nethers, as had been the implication of the surreptitious voyage, rather than standing around the Coccyx and enduring the smell of spittle, beer and sour rum for hours, waiting.

And Florence waited more, sat upon a beaten old chair on the deck, by the gangway, until late -- late -- into the night, Belly-Ann and Roderick came aboard.

Cussing and ravaging and posturing died quicker than the good Captain could have thought. Florence need only tell them the most intimate of detail and none of the grandeur to gain their fallen faces -- both Roderick and Belly-Ann -- and their nod of trust. The man at the end of Thomas’ harpoon-aim had hurt his child. The man had hurt his child. Far apart as old friends could be in life, some things demanded loyalty no matter what. -- They would join Thomas’ crew and help round up the disparate old friends -- and some enemies -- that he would need to conjure up a real chance at taking down the Red Lord.

With Roderick and Belly-Ann on board, Florence called to weigh anchor and sail -- back to Stormholme. Their last port of harbour before the hunt was on.

#Canon #Too Old

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wr0ngalice · 4 years

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9:21p 4.17.20

wow i just wrote the most elaborate and elegant and honest thing i think i have conveyed in well years, and it’s gone because tumblr’s interface is absolute crap. i only hope i can remember it all again. i can’t write anything other than in a fucking tumblr text sheet. i really can’t and i haven’t been able to in years and I CANNOT CONVEY HOW ANGRY I AM THAT THIS JUST HAPPENED.

it’s 2020 and the world is on fire.

i don’t know where to begin, to pick up from sebastian, to talk about my still non-existent sex life, to talk about that it’s 2020, that there is a world wide pandemic and that i am unemployed and about to be homeless and i have no plan.

as the rain began i stood listening to my neighbors babble. high as a kite i started to not be able to take full breathes having just ingested an entire takeout container of lasagna and mozzerella sticks feeling completely glutinous and disgusting. a panic rushed over me but so did the urge to write and be honest with myself through my weird relays of my stories. i put out my cigarette on the worn out gate and rushed into my house, i could feel the anxiety attack taking over and my breath getting shorter so i specified each step of my way in....grab key....wash hands.....pee.......put my bluetooth back on so i could start music....because this was the kind of high the kind of panic only soothed by masturbating. and so i did, and here i am.

my name is deanna and i have boys on my brain (i’m laughing). i guess i should start off with the most honest sentiment i’ll ever conjure about my existence: my body image issues have held me back from every feeling like i am worth anything or worthy of anyone’s attention. i view my body as a currency, one that is cheap, of low quality and worthless to most. i have never been able to learn how to love my body or myself, i do not take care of it or feel capable of taking care of it. i spent some time feeling like it’s okay to feel like this and look like this and that someday someone will love it. but most of the time i feel worthless and like i am disgusting and that being fat is stopping me from ever truly feeling happy, being love, feeling accepted, or being truly who i feel like i am. it feels completely impossible and unachievable. and i’ve demonized anyone who ever made me feel like i’m supposed to care, or that i should feel bad for not caring enough what other people think of me. and then the cycle of shame starts, for looking this way shame for feeling this way, shame for feeling like fat people are worth less than anyone else, shame that i am one of them and stay this way. shame.

i’m sad about a boy. i met him on discord playing a killer queen black. you ever know you are enamored by tone of someone’s voice when they hear yours? feeling a chemistry that awakens your smile too quickly to feel comfortable with. it was those simple things. a shitty emoji. sending me pictures of animals, bad memes and youtube videos. sending me drawings of pokemon, seemingly genuinely interest in every silly thing i send you back. listening to the songs i suggest and the playlists i send all the way through. asking me what i am doing. good morning texts at 1pm and sweet dreams every night. being excited i am in the vc and spitting quick call backs to only conversations we’d know while everyone is listening. being there all day and making me feel like you wanted me there too, like i wasn’t just someone else to talk to. staying up all night drinking wine and watching hunter x hunter to the sunrise or until one of our sedatives takes us out. i send you my real name, and my twitter, and built up the nerve to sent my instagram and thinking there’s no way he keeps talking to me if he doesn’t like what he sees so it is safe to send him the link to my live stream that contains my facebook with my complete honestly. and then for it all to get awkward. and so i know that he feels a different way not but he’s not saying it. because it feels different now, because he’s there still always answering or messaging first, but it’s shorter now and less personal. the call backs are less because the messages are less, and the offer to stay up with me is still there but feels less genuine and more like you kinda feel like you have to. maybe it’s all in my head. maybe it’s not because when something feels weird it usually is weird. so why keep up the half ass? today you didn’t really and i am so sad, but so grateful. get this over quick if it’s happening. cause i can’t deal with being that lone right now. i watched a video about the important of discerning chemistry from compatibility and at the start felt ready to write it off because yin and yang, opposites can complete each other. but by the end i realize that made our chemistry is so bright i am being blinded into thinking we can fill each other’s gaps in compatibility but how hard we make each other laugh. i can discern all the examples of what i call chemistry, but there’s all the actions the show the chemistry is not electric enough to fill the holes in our compatibility. i want every reason to believe this is wrong and i want you to give it to me. i want you to think i am beautiful because of the person you’ve gotten to know every night for months.

i masturbated to the memories of my dream of kissing levy last night. i tasted his lips as if i had tasted his love before, the familiar warmth of his “hey yourself” feeling like enough of the familiarity and comfort i need to get myself off. the overwhelming loneliness prompting me to call him after all this time. i haven’t really thought about him in a longing way, just a passing thought on the bye, and i admire my ability to stop answering when i knew it was doing too much to me. i’m neither sad or surprised that he didn’t answer me. i think the real question is whether i will feel the need to know his love at the end of our next conversation. i guess it was probably the transition of moving to new york, and the way he seemed to be invested in me figuring out my shit sometimes. it feels so rare that people care about the person i am that when it happens i immediately only know how respond by sexualizing the love i want to give back. he seemed like he wanted to know me and understand why i do the things i did, he listened to the ways i believe the world work and he changed his opinions because of the way i expressed my thoughts. that felt so powerful to me. it felt like he wanted me there, and i liked that he liked the way i spoke about existing and he wanted to be a part of it. like he knew i was connecting my soul to his soul, and like he had been honest about really not being able to give that to another person, like he wanted me to be there but he knew he was hurting me by letting me stay because he wasn’t capable of giving himself away. it feels like this really sad thing that when typed out sounds so dramatic. and i want nothing in the world than for him to know that i think this way, and i want him to tell me that i am crazy and read so much into nothing, or to tell me that i am right, that i understand his soul and that we are connected the way that i felt we were.

i need this. i cannot understand why writing in a tumblr textbox is the only way to talk about deanna. i spent so long writing to her here, and now that i am with her again, now that i really feel like i am her, i can say here now that it wasn’t about becoming her or working towards finding my way back to her, it was about accepting that i wasn’t all the things i thought i was and that i wasn’t going to be able to achieve all these things that would supposedly make me better. i am deanna all the time and “future deanna” is here with me today. i’m not working towards anything that i am not actively doing right now.

i wanted to stop here, the rest of this might not be so in touch. maybe it will. i’ve been under quarantine in brooklyn since march 10, 2020. this reminds me i need to talk about killer queen eventually, huh? coronavirus is changing the entire globe. this is that shit that has a major red subtitle in the future history books. i can’t go to the grocery store without wearing a face mask. this isn’t some weird movie that i don’t like, this is real life. i lost my job. i have to move out of my apartment at the end of next month and i have no idea where i am going to go. people are dying at insane rates. nothing in the world feels certain. donald trump is killing people. he’s our fucking president and after all this time i still haven’t accepted that that really happened. the things that are important in my world are so much different now. and their competing forces are compounded by nihilism and salty existentialism. and this makes it hard for me to think about the future.

i’m gonna figure out a way to keep writing. this feels important.

#personal

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precuredaily · 5 years

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Precure Day 162

Episode: Yes! Precure 5 14 - “Karen, The Troubled Student Council President” Date watched: 3 December 2019 Original air date: 6 May 2007 Screenshots: https://imgur.com/a/ZVrof8Y Project info and master list of posts: http://tinyurl.com/PCDabout

Karen has a big think

It’s Karen’s turn to hold the character development conch. This time, we get to see how she handles pressure from all directions! We also find out a little secret about Otaka-san and the school’s leadership. Good stuff, so let’s dive in!

The Plot

Various clubs approach Karen, aggressively requesting budget increases. The futsal club can’t afford new balls, the drama club can’t afford costumes, the judo club can’t afford new weights, the list goes on. Karen is taken aback and tries to explain the complexities of the situation to the students, but they are insistent. After trying to come up with a solution, she approaches the Vice Principal and explains her situation, requesting a budget increase for all the clubs. He is reluctant to change the budget that’s already been agreed upon for the year, but because he respects her decision to approach him, he will take it up with the principal. The VP goes to the Principal, revealed (to the audience) to actually be Otaka-san the lunch lady, but she insists that she doesn’t believe they need a budget increase, and there are still solutions the clubs haven’t yet come up with to resolve their budget woes. Komachi talks with Karen, commending her willingness to work hard for the clubs where before she probably would have simply said that the budget was already decided and they had to make do with what they had. The influence of their determined young friends is rubbing off on them.

Coincidentally, Nightmare is also having budget issues of a sort. Although they aren’t in a pinch, Kawarino is scolding Bunbee for blowing a lot of money without producing any results, and implies that his subordinates are useless and the whole department could get restructured. Bunbee decides to go fight the girls himself to get some results.

Back at school, Karen is still being hounded by the clubs, and her attempts at de-escalation aren’t working, so Otaka almost steps in, but Komachi is actually the one to put her foot down, startling everyone. She reminds the club leaders that they agreed to their annual budgets before the proposal was sent to the school administration, and that Karen alone cannot solve everything. With help from Nozomi, she gets them all to line up and explain their problems, to see if they can work together and figure out alternative solutions within their existing budgets.

The biggest offender is the drama club, which is going way over budget because they’ve picked a play with lots of extravagant costumes. However, Komachi gets them to work with the sewing club, who were looking for a platform to display their work, and the two split costs in this mutually beneficial agreement. The Judo club couldn’t afford to buy new weights AND new uniforms, but they also got the sewing club to patch up their uniforms so they could buy heavier weights, and donated their older ones to the futsal club. Now that she doesn’t need to buy weights, Rin can afford new balls, and donates the old ones to the art club, who find their shape and texture very inspirational.

I’d like to point out that the dumbbell Nozomi is struggling to lift is only 5 KG, that’s about 11 lbs.

With everyone’s issues resolved, the girls enjoy a moment of peace as Rin takes her new dumbbells to her club space, but on the way, Bunbee shows up to cause trouble. He turns the dumbbells into a Kowaina and taunts the girls about his own superiority. They transform and fight back, but he is pretty strong. When Mint shields one of the monster’s attacks, he launches a missile that breaks the shield, and he easily dodges when Rouge and Aqua try to fight him in the air. Dream and Lemonade have no luck fighting the Kowaina and they’re all left on the ground, defeated. Bunbee boasts about how much easier it is to do everything himself, and Aqua scoffs. She says she used to feel that way, but now she knows they’d never win if they did that, and the team springs into action. Bunbee tries to missile them again, and again Mint uses her shield, but this time Aqua also blocks it with Aqua Stream and this weakens it enough to bounce off the shield. Dream and Rouge restrain the Kowaina while Lemonade attacks it with Lemonade Flash, then the two throw it and perform their finishers. The Kowaina is destroyed and Bunbee retreats, self-justifying the day by saying you have to spend money to make money.

Back at the lunch table, Nozomi observes that Komachi might actually be stronger than Karen, which gives them all pause. Otaka comes over with a basket full of yakisoba bread, claiming the principal told her how they avoided a budget crisis, and suddenly people from all the other clubs appear, all vying for some of the free bread. Nozomi cries because the crowd beat her to the stuff she really wanted, and that’s the ending card.

The Analysis

What a fun episode. Karen’s commitment to the students is really earnest and inspiring. You can see why she’s the president, and even how much progress she’s made since the start of the show. Old Karen just cared about order, new Karen has the best interests of the students in mind and wants to meet them where they’re at. She fields the ire of the various clubs like a champ, trying not to get overwhelmed, and explaining the delicate balance that is adjusting budgets: since the budget has already been agreed upon, for her to allocate more to one group than previously agreed means the money has to come out of somewhere else, and that could put the other party in a pinch. Important financial lesson for the kids in the audience, too. And when her advice isn’t sufficient for them, she goes to bat for them by requesting assistance from the VP. My only criticism is that she probably should have asked why they needed more money first to see where their funds were tied up at, but honestly I would probably do the same thing, jumping straight to “let me get them what they say they need” and not “let me look into the situation more”.

When they get to the drama club and find out the reason they’re so over budget is because they decided to produce an expensive-ass play, I about died. LOOK AT THIS OUTFIT.

gosh I wonder why

There’s a lesson in here somewhere about working within your limitations. Urara suggests they do a simpler show like Kintarou, which would have costumes and props they could reuse in other shows, but from the club president’s response I get the impression they’ve done far too many shows like that and are sick of it. Also can’t fault them for doing something different. I remember in my junior year (11th grade), my school put on a production of “High School Musical” (this was when that was still a pretty fresh and hot property) and it sold like crazy, so the next year they were able to perform “Little Shop of Horrors”, renting the Audrey II puppets from somewhere. It’s okay to dream big, but you gotta make sure you can afford it. (inb4 ok boomer) However, working with the sewing club was a very good compromise. They get a platform to showcase their work, the drama club gets good costumes for cheaper, and they split the costs. Some of the other deals are a bit more one-sided but as long as everyone’s happy, it works.

By the way, Komachi’s restraint when the club president goes “oh yeah we spent all our budget on that one outfit and we need a bunch more” is remarkable. (I looked it up and I see similarities to Les Miserables: it’s a famous story that takes place over multiple generations and features LOTS of recurring characters) Komachi is, thankfully, very good at keeping herself in check, but if you manage to set her off, she is downright scary. That’s a common attribute for shield-based Cures, and it started here.

For reasons that aren’t entirely clear, since they only have a few of the costumes done, the drama club president is only ever seen in-costume, looking like a prince with a pencil mustache drawn onto her face. If we take the bold assumption that this all occurs in one day, even one lunch period, then this makes sense enough, but it’s still kind of silly.

The first half of this episode is so good, and tells a pretty complete story, that both times I watched it I forgot what kind of show it was because I was so absorbed in the antics of the clubs, so I thought the resolution was just going to be sorting out their budgets, when that was actually only the halfway point. The fight with Bunbee in the second half, while good, feels incomplete. I’m not sure if something got lost in translation for the subtitles, because he seems to indicate he spent money on a better Kowaina mask but the subs don’t reflect him saying this, only the girls’ response that it looks the same as normal. I do like them switching up their fighting style, and it comes with one of the strangest calls to action I’ve ever seen:

previously unsaid sentences in human history

The context is that, earlier in the episode, Nozomi and Urara traded lunch items, and now Karen is reminding them all to trade opponents and work together to beat the monster. Hilariously, even though Nozomi was the one who wanted to trade in the first place, she’s the last one to get this coded message, after Rin explains it to her.

She is special.

The elephant in the room here is that Otaka-san, the humble lunch lady who always adds a million onto every order, who appears a little disheveled, is in fact the school’s principal. Books and covers, ya know. I don’t recall if the girls every learn her secret, but it’s revealed to the audience here. I assume she serves as the lunch lady in order to get close to the students and understand what’s going on without calling attention to her position of authority. That’s the thing about power, even if you act relatable, if someone knows you’re way above them on the totem pole, they’re going to act differently, so she has put herself on the level of students. It’s like Undercover Boss except she never reveals the ruse. And honestly, it’s a very good ruse. She is approachable to the students and they all love her, so she can listen to their problems and make sure that the school is running well from the ground level. Also, as the lunch lady, she wears plain clothes, an apron, and flat shoes. Her only accessory is her trademark silver brooch. As the principal, she wears a suit, her hair is more tamed, she wears lipstick and earrings. She even speaks differently between her roles, sounding more raspy in her disguise, while she adopts a more formal and stern tone while acting as the principal. It’s impressive. I know she appears in this role at least one more time in the show, so I look forward to seeing that.

As usual there were some great moments of comedy, wonderful facial expressions, and you can see those chronicled in the gallery.

Next time, in Precure Daily, Nozomi’s mom is sick, so she has to do the housework! How badly will this end?

Pink Precure Catchphrase Count: 0 kettei!

#Precure #Pretty Cure #Yes! Precure 5 #YPC514 #PCD162

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ick25 · 5 years

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Rockman.EXE Episode 55 Review.

STRANGER DANGER!

I’ve got the blues... For this is the last time I’ll see the Enzan I like before Axess ruins him.

We start the episode in the arcade where Rockman and Blues are having a battle!

Not as epic as the one in the tournament finals, but a little more credible.

Enzan decides to end the battle by using the Program Advance, however, Netto and Rockman figured out a way to deflect the Beta Sword with just a Sword.

This surprises Enzan and Blues because, it’s the Beta Sword... Its not something a preschooler can do with little effort, right?. XP

The battle continues until Enzan receives an emergency call on his PET and tells Netto that they have to postponed their battle for another time.

I just like their reactions.

In his limo, Enzan is still surprised about Rockman using a Sword against the Beta Sword, showing us a flashback of what we just saw, literally, a minute ago.

“The probability of doing that is just as high as Gutsman using a Program Advance”

After the title card, we see that Enzan’s emergency called was just about his dad being impatient about getting a contract signed for a partnership with a new company.

I have no idea what that stick Blues showing is supposed to be, but we have reached the MADEA... I mean MAEDA company.

Enzan enters and sees a man working on something, he tries to talk to him about the contract but the man isn’t interested in working for another company like IPC.

You know, the thing. That thing, go get the thing.

Oh, that thing... What even is that thing?!

The man asks Enzan to do more chores, like shredding some documents, when a Higure like character comes in and yells at him demanding to know who he is.

The man tells him that Enzan is from IPC and the Higure guy, whose name I forgot, gets all creepy on him until the man tells Enzan to move on to his next chore, cleaning the toilet.

I don’t know what confuses me more, the fact that the guy has a pink apron the fits Enzan perfectly, or seeing that the toilet also has a sink.

After cleaning the toilet, Enzan returns to the man and his assistant who are working on a special program with the help of some standard Navis.

Don’t ask me what that machine is because I don’t know.

Apparently the Navis have to use Swords to cut the data rock into a perfect copy of the model the man wants. And I really mean perfect because once they’re done the man analyses it, finds a small imperfection, and that’s enough to tell the Navis to destroy it, ignoring his assistant telling him that kind of precision is almost impossible to achieve.

Like everything humanity does, it took way less time to destroy it than it took to make it.

This upsets the Higure clone because of the time they spent working on it. They begin to work on another data rock, but this time Enzan offers to give it a try in hopes to speed things up.

He plugs in Blues who scares the standard Navis and even more after he performs the Program Advance to give form to the data in a matter of seconds.

Unfortunately for Mr. Child prodigy the shape is not perfect either since the man shows him that it is just a tad smaller than the model.

He tells Enzan that the Program Advance, even though its a powerful move, it is useless without control and sometimes a simple sword is just right.

So after Blues’s fail, the Navis are not afraid of him anymore and invite him to work with them, and their interactions with him are kinda cute.

My new favorite trio.

Since this is an Enzan episode we cut to and back from commercials with two cube scenes with the chibi Blues.

What’s funny is that Blues says Shakin twice the second time and Netto’s voice points that out.

We see that Blues was left working with the Navis using regular swords while Enzan is out on an errand. Suddenly, the power goes out in the work station making the data rock disappear, but wouldn’t that affect the cyberworld too?

I guess they would just lose contact with the humans.

The man suddenly says that he forgot to pay the power bill and... calmly and shamelessly tells his assistant to go steal power from somewhere.

Meanwhile, we see Netto at the Maha Ichiban talking about how he enjoyed his battle with Enzan and that he can’t wait to continue it.

They are just so adorable!

So anyway, the power goes out causing Mahajarama to give Count Elec third degree burns.

The Ex-WW soon discover that the Higure double is the culprit and they give chase to him, until he turns around a corner but goes back to kick a garbage can to stop them which was pretty funny.

Speaking of funny scenes, you can’t help but laugh with the subtitles’s sense of humor in this next one.

Even the subs are tired of having to translate Aki’s cheesy song. XD

So the Higure bootleg returns to the office just in time for some mafia looking guys from another company to arrive and attempt to destroy the man’s work for not wanting to join them. Luckily for him, Enzan returns just in time to save the day by throwing a chip at one of the thugs, karate chopping another one, and had apparently taken out all of the others outside off camera... Damn, you don’t mess with this kid. O.O

What is it with rich people and throwing collectible items a bad guys?

“That’s for making me waste a perfectly good battle chip!”

Anyway, Enzan scares off the mafia boss by telling him he is from IPC. While Enzan and the man watch the bad guys leave, the Higure copy makes a creepy face as he is doing something on the computer. Turns out he is a bad guy who steals part of the program data to sell it.

He easily runs away before Blues tells them that there are viruses destroying the original data. So Enzan sends chips to help Blues fight them.

He says, as he deletes a Metool.

Blues protects the data from the viruses and then suddenly does this.

It looks like Blues found an invisible hole that is bringing the viruses in, Enzan sends a Paladin Sword to destroy the hole and the real enemy appears.

Drillman, where have you been?! The season is almost over!

So Blues fights Drillman and...

Wow guys, you suck today.

Not even the Beta Sword can beat him, and it’s practically unavoidable!

PRACTICALLY!

Enzan is running out of ideas until he exchanges looks with the man and understands that a single Sword is more than enough. So Blues uses a Sword and cuts Drillman in half!

I bet this was edited in the dub.

So the day is saved, but their celebration is interrupted by the Ex-WWW who caught the Higure knock off and demand something in return for stealing their electricity.

Since the assistant is the ”real” bad guy here, the man doesn’t take responsibility for telling him to steal power from them and offers a trade, the stolen data for the thief.

I initially though he was offering the data he stole, but nope.

“Please boy, I’m not stupid. Why would a famous company like IPC have a kid working for them if it wasn’t the president’s son?”

So the man finally accepts IPC’s partnership as thanks for Enzan helping him out and the episode ends with Blues and Rockman continuing their battle at the arcade while a news anchor informs everyone about the newest PET that will be released.

The Advance PET is going to be so revolutionary that it will practically hijack the flashbacks for this season by making everyone forget the Plug-in PETs and even rewrite history!

How is this even possible?!

My thoughts?

I like to think this is the last time I’ll see the Enzan I know and love before Axess makes him boring. I feel that this Enzan is more of an interesting character that I would like to know more about, but instead will become someone obsessed with his job and only follows orders. The Enzan in this episode, and in this season in general, has always been portrayed as Netto’s rival, someone who enjoys Net Battles and wont let anyone get in his way, just like back in episode 20 and 21. Sure, he takes his work at IPC seriously, but he was doing the jobs his father told him to do, he didn’t look like the type of person who would stay all day in an office doing paper work, he is a kid for crying out loud! Axess basically makes him an adult, he doesn’t feel like a kid anymore, to me, he was just a cool, kind of a snobby kid who respects his father and is proud of his family’s name, but he also enjoys Net Battles and eating at fancy restaurants by himself, and even hangs out with Netto when he has the chance (mostly to show off to him).

The episode introduces Drillman.EXE who had a bigger role in the game. He was a WWW Navi, it was not known if he had an operator, but somehow was related to Bubbleman a Navi that will debut in Axess. It’s a shame that Drillman’s character goes to waste here, but at least he returns for an episode in Rockman Stream... To fight Blues again.

Looks like Capcom was already working on Battle Network 4 when this came out since it announces the arrival of the Advanced PET that will take over the next season.

#Rockman.exe #MegaMan NT Warrior #megaman battle network #anime #my reviews #anime review #dub vs sub

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nitewrighter · 6 years

Note

How about a little scene of Ana saying goodbye to Sam and little Fareeha before going off to fight in the Omnic Crisis?

I headcanon that Ana was called back to Egyptian special forces and spent several months with them before being called into Overwatch.

—-

Fareeha had been put in bed and Ana and Sam were exhausted enough to go to bed themselves, but they had resigned to slumping against each other in a half-asleep haze on the couch together. Their holovid screen was casting dancing blue lights on both of them. They knew the smart thing was to go to bed, but with Fareeha in her demanding toddling years, they hardly got much time just to be together alone like this. Neither of them was paying particular attention to what they were watching, but the stream was pleasant background noise.

At 10:37 it was cut short by a blaring beep, so loud and grating that it jolted both Sam and Ana awake.

“This stream has been interrupted by an emergency broadcast,” an automated voice blared from the holovid screen as Ana seized the remote and turned down the volume, “Please stand by.”

Both Sam and Ana’s phones started buzzing with a spill of messages. Their group chats with various colleagues around the world were suddenly bursting to life, messages of “Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” “I can see the smoke!” “Has anyone gotten in contact with Fatih? I can’t get a hold of him” “How close were you to the first attack site?” stacking on top of each other down the phone’s screens. The holovid screen cut to a news reporter, shivering in smoke and snow flurries as a column of fire.

“Oh no,” Ana said quietly.

“I’m here live in front of the site of a devastating series of drone strikes that have caused yet-untold damages to the Detroit-Windsor area. Authorities are still evacuating the area and—”

“A terrorist attack?” said Sam.

Ana put a tense hand on his shoulder and he fell quiet. She could feel his eyes flicking between her and the holoscreen.

“Satellite imaging indicates that the drones were short range, likely within the Detroit area.”

“What–Why would the states strike us and themselves?” said Sam.

Ana glanced down at her phone. “What did they mean by ‘First attack site?’” she said aloud.

Sam looked over at Ana, then changed the holovid channel where a news reporter was speaking urgently in Korean, subtitles translating is words rapidly in a red line underneath him.

“Just minutes ago Busan suffered a–”

Sam changed the channel again.

“London has not seen an attack of this scale since the second World War–”

He changed it again.

“As favelas do Rio estão no caos enquanto as autoridades lutam para entender-”

He changed it again. Ana’s stomach lurched at the sight of the familiar scroll of arabic at the bottom of the screen, and at the skyline of her own birthplace.

“Cairo was not equipped to handle an attack of this magnitude,” the reporter was saying, “We’re looking at a strike of unimaginable destruction. The human death toll is–”

Ana broke her eyes away from the screen and Sam turned it off.

“…they’re going to ask for you to come back, aren’t they?” his voice was quiet.

“They’re going to need me,” said Ana, her voice strained.

“We need you,” the words fell out of Sam and he instantly regretted them, “I’m sorry–” he added quickly, “I know it’s…” he took a deep breath.

“I know,” said Ana.

Sam clasped a hand around hers.

The next few hours were spent anxiously watching the news reports and desperately calling and texting friends and family, bouncing between stories of devastation from all around the world. The attacks were indiscriminate–striking global population centers hard and fast. It was 3 AM by the time Ana and Sam were finally able to tear themselves away from the screen and catch a few hours of light, dreamless sleep–a sleep that was more about keeping exhaustion at bay than getting actual rest. The next day they told Fareeha they were going on vacation, loaded up the car, and left Vancouver, heading for Sam’s cabin up north. It only took watching the news for a little while to know they had to get away from the cities and fast.

The call came a few days later. The flight back to Cairo was all prepped, they were even sending a car for her, Ana only needed to ready herself. Ana didn’t have much to bring with her aside from some photos of Fareeha and Sam, her old fatigues, and a handful of toiletries and other necessities. She was a minimalist like that.

“But you said when we’d go back to Egypt, we’d all go together,” Fareeha pouted.

“And we will, ḥabībti, one day, when it’s safe,” said Ana.

“Are you going to be in trouble?” Fareeha’s small hands were wringing the fabric of Ana’s fatigues.

“Mummy’s going to be saving people” said Sam, kneeling down to Fareeha’s level.

Ana dropped down to one knee as well. “Fareeha, I’m going to be gone for a long while,” she said rifling through her pockets, “I’ll talk to you and your father through the holo every chance I get, but you have to promise me you’ll be strong, all right?”

Fareeha’s pout turned into a tense, thin-lipped expression, weighing Ana’s words. “How long?” there was a shake to her voice.

Ana stroked the side of Fareeha’s face with her other hand. “I… I don’t know yet. But I’ll come back to you and your father the first chance I get.”

Fareeha looked down.

“Habībti,” Ana spoke gently and brought a hand up under Fareeha’s chin, “I have something for you.” She pulled four gold beads from her pocket and pinched a lock of Pharah’s hair between her fingers. Ana couldn’t cook worth a damn, but when it came to braiding hair, she was almost as good a braider as a sniper. Her fingers worked quickly. “These were on a necklace of your grandmother’s,” said Ana, tying off the gold beads at the tips of Pharah’s braids, “It fell apart when we moved up to Vancouver, and I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, but I think that must have happened for a reason.” Fareeha’s hair was so soft and thick between her fingers. Ana tried not to think of how long she would go without touching it, without brushing it. Without brushing her teeth next to her daughter in the morning with foam running down Fareeha’s chin. She tied off the last braid. “Our ancestors believed that gold was divine and indestructible, that it was the light of the sun and the flesh of the gods made tangible. That the gods would bless and protect the kings and queens who wore it. When you miss me, I want you to look at these and know that no matter how far I am from you, I will do everything in my power to protect you. Do you understand?”

Fareeha’s small hand went up and felt at the beads, still warm from her mother’s touch. She gave a hesitant nod. Ana was littering her daughter’s face with kisses as the jeep pulled up to take her off to the airfield.

Fareeha was hugging at Ana’s knees when Sam took her in his arms and kissed her.

“There’s gotta be a better way than this,” said Sam, tucking back Ana’s long black hair.

“The second I find a better way, I’ll let you know,” said Ana, kissing him on the cheek, “Keep her safe for me.”

“Always,” said Sam.

Fareeha valiantly stuffed back her tears for the last few goodbyes. Ana felt her stomach drop as the door of the jeep closed and they started pulling away down the cabin’s dirt road. Ana gave a shuddering breath and sniffled, stuffing down her own urge to cry as she turned and looked at the pines rolling past the jeep. She caught sight of something in the rearview mirror and her breath caught in her throat. Fareeha was running after the jeep, her face flushed and wet and the dust of the dirt road the jeep was kicking up sticking to her tear tracks. Sam managed to catch up to Fareeha and hold her and Ana could hear the wail of Fareeha’s cries. Ana bit the inside of her lip hard as both of them shrank into the distance behind her, before the road curved and they disappeared completely.

#ana amari #fareeha amari #overwatch

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mischiefmakingmuses · 5 years

Text

Tawagoto’s Gate: The Disappearance of Tokyo Ghetto

[Here is a fanfic I wrote for all you lovely people, I hope you have an enjoy.]

Chapter 1: The Adventures Of Mumu-chan

In a world where darkness and light intertwined heavily and lovingly, never fully separating from each other and always continuing through existence in their dance of love and death, lived a Girl by the name of Mumu, who was secretly the Moon in a previous life. When Link did not manage to save Termina from Majora's Wrath due to being distracted by a Massive Display of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, 2,400 Doughnuts All Shaped and Flavored Like Several Pokémon, Yokai, and Digimon (As Created For "The Great Mons Game War Against Pretentious Pokémon Fans Who Think Pokémon is the Only Mons Game When in Reality the Megami Tensei Series is the Literal Ur Example of All Mons Games"), all of Termina was banished to The Shadow Realm, but in the middle of The World of Light, and it was here that the Moon took her new form as Mumu-chan.

By Day she was a regular Schoolgirl, and By Night she became The World's Greatest Magical Girl. She was The Only One who could save the town's cats from falling prey to the Evil Tree Organization, who would often capture the poor cats and trap them up on high branches from which they could not leap down from. Every other night, she was visited by her Good Friend Tuxedo Mask...a month ago, Tuxedo Mask had begun to help out a Man from town named Mike Dawson, who was trying to find out what happened to his Totally Not Girlfriend, Rita Scanlon. Even one day, Mike Dawson interrogated Tuxedo Mask.

"Tuxedo Mask, what was YOUR relationship with Rita," asked Mike Dawson.

"My work here is done," Tuxedo Mask declared before being beamed up by his spaceship and transforming into A Whole Chicken In A Can.

It was when Things were beginning to fall apart. At One Point, Mumu-chan saw Nobita and Doraemon at a candy store!!! And she saw Kitaro and Nezumi-Otoko getting ramen at a ramen stall!!! What was going on?!

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

In this hard boiled world there is only one hard boiled detective named Gummie, who was a octopus bat alien thing given form on Jack Box's Drawful 2 one day when the Author wanted to be cute in a Twitch stream they frequented.

With a Large Pretzel Stick in their mouth, Gummie looked over the case files while her dear friend Star Sheep sat in the corner playing Splatoon 2 For The Nintendo Switch™, for the Salmonids were something Star Sheep became really obsessed with because they were Funny Fish and Very Interesting.

"Do you think this is a homicide case?" Gummie asked Star Sheep, pulling the Pretzel Stick out of his mouth and acting as if it were a cigar.

"Sorry, I'm Splet," Star Sheep replied.

"Hmm. That's true," Gummie mused, lifting up her hat to look outside the window. It was a Marvelous Night, but they had not been making much headway on the case so far. Perhaps it was time to get Reinforcements involved. "We don't even have a sus cuz the sec with a mo's got a perf al."

"Eko, You Don't Drink," Star Sheep commented wisely from the corner.

"Shut up, Maya, we're getting burgers," Gummie proclaimed loudly as he put the Pretzel Stick back in their mouth.

Chapter 3: Help Me Dr. Cox

The Next Day Gummie and Star Sheep left to find Reinforcements, first coming by Richard AKA Dr. Dick AKA Dr. Cox because the Author Wanted To Be Meta and The Real Dr. Dick knew Everything that they had planned for the week that had passed.

In front of a Dollar Tree, Gummie and Star Sheep awaited for Richard to show up, playing a bootleg version of Where In Time Is Carmen Sandiego? For The Nintendo Switch™ which landed on their doorstep one day. The reality of the situation was that the game functioned almost entirely like the PC version except that The Baron wasn't called Baron Grinnit, but Baron Wasteland Because I Think That Makes More Sense.

"When my mom and I played this game, we really liked Ivan Idea," Gummie admitted.

"How are we even doing this?" Star Sheep asked, without the monotone tone that this fanfic is read in as it's being written Because It's Ironic. It was then that Gummie squinted their eyes at the screen, only for the screen to melt away and turn into The World Ends With You: Final Remix.

"Oh hey, look, it's Neku," Gummie murmured happily. "Y'know, I really love Neku?"

"Yeah, I know," Star Sheep replied. "Comfort character, right?"

"I'm inclined to believe so," Gummie answered as he attempted to play the song Calling which was her favorite song because he first heard it in the DS version in 2012 and it really stuck with them.

It was then that Richard had finally shown up. She looked around with shifty eyes, seeming a bit nervous and unsettled.

"I don't think I'm supposed to be here," Dr. Dick admitted.

"I'm vaguely getting that kind of idea too," Gummie commented. "Anyway, so I heard from my friends Smile, Urien, Netalina, Gambit, and Jizo that their friends Nobita and Doraemon have gone missing, and have no idea where to go to find them."

"Eko?" Star Sheep began, pulling on Gummie's wing. "I'm sorry, but...how do you know about the Yokai?"

Both Richard and Gummie looked at Star Sheep wide eyed, in Gummie's case you couldn't tell very well because they always made it a point to never reveal their eyes.

"Shit. Shit. SHIT. I don't know what's going on." Gummie grabbed the sides of his head in confusion, narrowing their eyes at the ground. "Something's extremely wrong here."

It was then that Kaite20 had suddenly shown up. Yes, her name is actually Kaite20 because she feels the need to constantly append the "20" to her name even when just "Kaite" would suffice.

"Hey, you guys, I found a portal somewhere and it kind of looks like one you might see in Puyo Puyo Puyo Puyo Puyo Puyo Land. Is that...supposed to be normal?"

Gummie stared at Kaite in shock.

"Like hell it is," they responded. "Guys, we're going to the portal. Don't be surprised if we end up having Adventures in Bootleg again."

Chapter 4: Peter Was Not Available So Phoebe And Plumule Are Here

Through the portal, they had reached the home of Mumu-chan, in a place between the Shadow Realm and the World of Light. It wasn't QUITE time to play Lifelight, though.

"This feels more like how in ChalkZone, half of the world was day and half of the world was night," Star Sheep commented. And she was right, as the town was split entirely between night day, right down the middle.

"...this is cool but complicated," stated Dr. Cox.

"Focus guys, I'm inclined to believe that Nobita and Doraemon are here somewhere. I dunno how the FUCK they ended up here, but I imagine that they HAVE to be here," Gummie commented.

"Do you think it's because of...HIM?" Kaite asked.

"Absolutely not, because if anything makes sense in this goddamn world we're trapped in, it's that They Above wouldn't fucking put him in this story. Then again, I have no idea who else it could be."

"You're getting KINDA too meta, now," said Richard. "Sounds like a fanfic."

"It IS a fanfic, Dr. Dick," Gummie responded. "So that means that we'll probably meet the Kitaro Family and Ittan-Momen will be really suave and shit despite not being a major character. Also we now have an autistic girl and her baby bird monster friend on the team because They Above asked a certain someone if they wanted some influence on the story."

"Actually, he's more or less my tulpa." And there was Phoebe, with Plumule right next to her. The tiny bird monster chirped in an affirmative manner.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's tulpas all the way down. ANYWAY, you guys, we need to find Nobita and Doraemon. The first step is finding Ittan-Momen flying around because like Hell he won't be here."

As if on cue, a dashing white cloth with beautiful blue eyes flew through the area and down the street.

"Fuckin' typical; OK, let's go." Gummie spread their arms...wings and took to the air, trying his best to keep up with the white cloth. Naturally, being part of the Kitaro Family and being Objectively The Best Kitaro Character In The Universe, at least according to the Author, Ittan-Momen was very fast and hard to keep up with. "Hey, sir, would you mind slowing down? I'll buy you some sweet potato sake if you do."

"Huh, what? Are ya talkin' to me?" Ittan-Momen flipped over in the air to look at Gummie, who wasn't keeping up very well. The cloth stopped and allowed the alien to catch up to him. "Do ya need me for somethin'?"

"First of all, very honored to meet you. Congrats on actually making it into a written work made by my Ghost Writer! They really like your voice and manner of speaking...down to the subtitles that Crunchyroll gives you."

"...Huh...? What...? I don't really understand," Ittan-Momen said. He was blushing though. "Anyway, what do ya need me for?"

"Gonna take a wild guess and say your friend Kitaro is somewhere in the area! Have either of you happened to see a boy in glasses, yellow shirt, black hair, kinda looks like a loser? Or his robot cat friend, no ears, bright smile, red collar with a bell, white belly, a pocket on said belly? I'm inclined to believe that we have a trickster afoot and that those two have been taken here for some reason...as well as you and Kitaro."

"Err..." Ittan-Momen tilted his head slightly to the side. "Yeah, I think so. I'm still not sure I really understand, though..."

"Don't worry about it!" Gummie piped up. "Just let my friends catch up with us and then you can take us to Kitaro, alright?"

"Cotton shochi!"

Chapter 5: When You're Too Afraid To Wake Up

At Ittan-Momen's introduction, the group found Nobita and Doraemon, who were actually having a conversation with GeGeGe no Kitaro himself. While presenting himself politely, it seemed like a lot of the futuristic aspects of Doraemon's existence had confused Kitaro quite a bit. He was just getting used to the fact that people had Smartphones, what was this about a 4th Dimensional Gadget Pocket...?

"Really glad to meet you, Kitaro! Yes, They Above is right, you are definitely Badass Adorable," Gummie gushed.

"Um...thank you," Kitaro replied quietly. "Ittan-Momen, who are...your friends?"

"Don't know. The purple one asked me to bring them to you."

"Sorry, Eko, I'm kindof tuning out here, hahaha. Everything I know about these guys is just what you've told me before..." Star Sheep laughed nervously.

"Trust me, if this got any more out of control, then fucking Ashens would've been mentioned. By the way, he gave the whole chicken in a can a negative review because it just looked like a melted chicken carcass.

"Anyway, Nobita, we've finally found you--and GeGeGe no Kitaro, to boot--at Urien and friends' request, so I'd consider this case closed..." Gummie adjusted her glasses. "...except that someone obviously was behind everyone's displacement, including ours and Kitaro's. So that means the case is still open...until we find the culprit!"

"I thought it was just Ekoro," Nobita replied.

"Ekoro?" Kitaro asked.

"Who's Ekoro?" Richard asked as well, despite the fact that The Real Dr. Dick knew very well who Ekoro was.

"I don't know any Ekoro," Phoebe replied bluntly. Plumule cheeped in agreement.

"I thought you said it couldn't be Ekoro," Kaite responded.

"I did," Gummie said. "So that means that it's someone we don't actually know. Kitaro, do you sense youkai activity?"

"Yes," Kitaro replied without skipping a beat. Gummie's sight wandered to the top of his head, where his ahoge was pointing straight up.

"Well, golly gee, that was fucking easy. Which Youkai of the Week do you think could've possibly done this?"

"I don't know," Kitaro responded. "It's not any youkai I've ever encountered."

"But they're a youkai? And they're close?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't consider myself a youkai, per say..." came a voice. Everyone looked around, but to no avail. Suddenly, the world fell apart. The group panicked for a second, until the voice came back. "Give it a moment, I'll send you all back home in a second!"

They tried to focus on the source of the voice. It was coming from a definitive direction, but it still seemed like no one was there...

"I'm right here," came the voice again. Everyone looked downwards. In the middle of the group was...something. Almost exclusively what could be made out was a white mask with three heart-shaped holes in it and two horns. The rest of...whatever it was...was completely transparent. Its shaped was also inconceivable, almost as it was hardly there at all.

"The fuck are you, a Phanto?" Gummie asked in a sassy tone.

"Not...really. I'm not a youkai, either. Or a demon. Or really anything...I guess that means I'm...nothing?" It seemed to put a hand over where its chin would be. "It's kind of hard to be here, sorry."

"O...kay...so why did you bring everyone here?"

"Oh! I just wanted to have some fun and let you all construct a silly story in a world of my creation! I hope you enjoyed it! Happy April Fools'!" Nobody seemed impressed. "Aw, c'mon, I can't imagine it was that bad? I understand that all of you enjoy ridiculous humor like this! Not counting Kitaro and friends, of course, because they don't really represent anyone in The Other World, but surely the rest of you found parts of it funny!"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Dr. Dick asked.

"I don't really know! I would say I'm Nanashi but Kitaro and Ittan-Momen would get mad. But similarly to him, I have no name. No one's given me one, and I might never have one."

"Oh, I know you," Gummie responded, "you're the one They Above have been struggling with for a while; they call you Not Melon."

"Ah, but that's not actually my name. Similarly to how they've called other characters in progress 'Not Ekoro' and the like. I don't have a name yet. But, I do have a birthday! It's today! April 1st is my birthday!"

"I'm inclined to believe that's bullshit because your concept has been floating around for more than a fucking week," Gummie grumbled.

"Well, they didn't make Smile on May 18th, and yet that's his birthday, right? And Urien was conceived sometime in November or December, but his birthday is somewhere in June or July, but it's still not decided because they want a date that would perfectly reflect Urien's personality similar to how it seemed to happen with Smile, right?"

"Wait, Urien's birthday is in June or July?" Nobita asked. "It would've been great to know that last year!"

"Yeah, but the date's still up in the air. Plus, that plot thread was going to be explored with Ekoro, with Star Sheep's Ghost Writer taking the role of Ringo so she and They Above could roleplay some fluffy EkoRin stuff. And then they decided that they didn't want to do anymore, and ran out of time anyway."

"...I think that's beyond even my understanding, Mister...err...what did you say your name was again?" Doraemon asked, tilting his head.

"Ah, well...firstly, I'm not a mister...and secondly...I don't have one. However, my birthday being today was inspired by Subeta's Elwood's birthday being today, and that Elwood's Pizza is in between time and space, kinda like me! Ultimately They Above decided they actually wanted to go down this route for me!"

"...OK." Both Nobita and Doraemon had given up at this point.

"Actually!" they piped up, clapping their hands together...or something? They were so intangible it wasn't really clear. "They Above decided to plan all this out as a way to introduce me, even though I kind of don't fully exist yet! That's part of the reason why you can't really tell what I look like...the only thing confirmed is my mask, you see?

"Anyway, that means that you, I, and the Yokai might all meet up sometime soon, in another universe! Exciting right? I'm really looking forward to it!"

"Did you understand any of that, Kitaro-san?" Ittan-Momen asked.

"No," Kitaro answered bluntly.

"It's OK, you aren't really involved. They Above are just such a huge fan of you guys that they wanted to include you. Anyway...as much as I'd love to stay and chat with you all, it's time for you guys to go back, and for this story to come to a close.

"It was really nice meeting you all! Especially because...I don't really have any friends yet! But, again, I hope you all enjoyed your time here, and I'm looking forward to meeting you all again! I'm not sure when or where, but it'll definitely happen!"

And all will fade to black.

Chapter 6: Home At Last

Gummie awoke with a start. Apparently they had fallen asleep on their desk. Star Sheep was in the corner, playing Splatoon 2 For The Nintendo Switch™.

"Star Sheep, what the hell happened last night?"

"I'm not really sure, but I had a really crazy dream where we went to solve a case...something about two people going missing? And then Kitaro was there?"

"Kitaro? You mean like GeGeGe no Kitaro Kitaro?"

"Yeah. Also there was that guy, there was that guy you like."

"Ittan-Momen?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck yes. I had the same dream too. Ittan-Momen was fucking incredible." Star Sheep turned to her friend's general direction and gave him a warm smile.

"Glad you liked it."

At the end of the day, much fun was had...and also Nezumi-Otoko Is Still Underground.

Thank you to @astarrymusenight, @jellipuddi, @robocatandboy, @timeandspaceandmagic, and my Twitter friend Peter Puzzling for letting me use your characters/personas!

#fanfic

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greenteafiend · 6 years

Text

Stream of conscious thoughts about VLD season 8

Super messy sorry:

Surprised they decided to make Allurance cannon with a date and a kiss and everything in episode 1. Hunk is a good friend, Coran is hilarious, they look nice in their date outfits.

I appreciate the time jokes. I too get confused between dobashes and phoebes and vargas.

Did…. Did Haggar and Zarkon have a pervious miscarriage before they had Lotor?

Galra-hunting monster in episode 3 was cool. (Remembering that idea for future fics)

Keith got a gun form for his bayard!!! Huge ass blaster like Hunk!!!

Bye Shiro, bye Atlas.

rip Olkarion

Nice Pidge and Allura bonding.

Kinda nice that some things are being touching on again, Weblems, the monster Keith and Krolia released

Omg Axca that’s so funny xD what a cute Galra.

OMG INA YOU CAN’T SAY THAT.

I love the contrived ‘we must take off our suits,’ yesssss, let me see them without their suits.

Victoria and Axcaaaaaa <3 <3 BONDING. Ok I ship it. That’s cute as heck

Wow Axca’s like Keith, so angsty.

Lookin’ good in just the undersuits.

xD the Altean, the big one, the small one, and the loud one.

Is…. Is Keith gonna get captured!??? Why’d he go off by himself?? This masked fella must be someone that has a grudge against Keith specifically… who has he pissed off?? OH IT’S ZETHRID SHE WANTS REVENGE FOR EZOR DOESN’T SHE??? (I was right.)

Hang on, Ezor just dumped her, she isn’t dead. Zethrid, I don’t understand your logic, why is it Keith’s fault she dumped you? (Also she only has one eye left now.)

Victoria saved Axca <3

Holy shit Keith, she’s like, 3 times your weight.

Ok ok I think she’s trying to drain quintessence from the universe to bring back Lotor….

Matt and N-7, huh? (Perks of watching with subtitles)

Atlas is so big! Such a big boy.

Honerva is a cult leader. She’s brainwashed them all.

Did Ezor’a VA change?

Okay Shiro pulling a gun on the bridge was hot.

Matt is so pretty with long hair.

OMG SHE DID IT SHE GOT HIM BACK, LOTOR SHE GOT HIM. Well, his mecha made of trans-dimensional ore.

Also, why you attack immediately?? Can’t they chill and talk for one second??

I wanna see Lotor, is he a zombie now?

Hunk: What the heck just happened? I’m confused too buddy.

So… Allura picked Lance over the rest of reality… :O

Ohhh Ryan speaks. That’s right, he wanted to be a photographer, videographer.

Kolivan gives me Captain Holt vibes.

OMG I LOVE CORAN XD

Hunk is such a sweet boy. BAD BEBE xD

CARNIVAL EPISODE

Keith slicing his way out of the ride is relatable.

‘oh, just gorgeous’ xD

I could see Shiro as a cage fighter in another life.

OMG THE WARDEN. What an unexpected turn lol

Ouch hurts when characters like Coran are serious and disappointed.

Aww Lance is such a good boy.

This seems like a bad idea……

WHY DID HAGGAR’S MIND TAKE EVERYONE BUT KEITH?

OMG SCARY ALLURA

I THOUGHT THE FIGHTERS LOOKED FAMILIAR

I really like young Alfor’s VA

OH KEITH DOESN’T HAVE ANYONE TO FIGHT CAUSE IT’D BE SHIRO/ZARKON.

What a touching moment between Coran and Alfor.

The Paladins are like the past lives of the Avatar.

The Garrison is a military facility, why’d they map the human brain? Random.

This entity is bad business yo, why you let it in your brain Allura!?

So, 2 and a half episodes left, and I haven’t seen Lance’s sword yet…..

No wonder Haggar’s crazy, she’s harboring everyone she’s ever killed in her head.

Lance is riiight why you no listen?

Bit reckless to go hacking in the mind like that.

Omg pre zombie Zarkon! Confrontation with the old Paladins.

The multi-reality theory came back.

They’re like ‘we did it!’ Did what exactly??? Ohh they know why she wanted Lotor’s mech.

Haggar’s lieutenant with purple/pink hair looks like the Altean from the alternate reality.

CREEPY CREEPY YELLOW EYED ALTEANS

She totally wanted all of team Voltron there to steal their energy etc.

Oh no why did you bring a Balmera here, free energy source you idiots D:

Ok… they merged into one mecha??

Oh wow Atlas and Voltron merged

HUGE ASS SWORD FOR A HUGE ASS ROBOT

Young Sendak!!

EXCUSE ME? SHE WON? SHE HAS WHAT SHE WANTED? >:(

Bby Lotor is adorable. MVP.

Haggar is so bitter.

Wtf is that???!! Huge ass wings?

Prediction: Allura will sacrifice herself, go down with the ship to end it because she’s been infected by the entity. Allura will sacrifice herself to restore the lost realities? (I’m right. I was right.)

Poor Lotor.

‘I’m afraid this is where we part ways’ EXCUSE ME EXCUSE NE aweuilfgweg;hioasvNO I REFUSE

EVERYONE IS CRYING I’M CRYING. (Except Keith, Mr ‘I-said-I-wouldn’t-cry’ isn’t crying.)

wegSDVNINPNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Did…. Did she just make Lance altean somehow?

Wtf WTF I am confusion?

ok 1 year later

‘Tragic unfortunate series of events’ says Keith lol

LONG FLOWLY HAIR KEITH YESSsss

But Matt cut his hair :( and Pidge’s robot is creepy

Lance’s face looks weird with the Altean marks. Is it healthy to be reminded of her everywhere?? Huh, he’s a farmer now? A farmer??

People are easier to reason with when they’re full, wise words from Hunk.

Turns out that those leaks weren’t totally fake after all yo

I think the moral of the story is don’t mess with trans-dimensional comets yo. Don’t make ‘em into ships.

#vld spoilers #vld season 8

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jackyjango · 7 years

Note

“I get where you’re coming from dude, but honestly shut the hell up and don’t talk about her/him that way.”

Thank you for the ask, @ikeracity! Sorry it took this long to get back. And sorry for the length of the answer.

—-

The Genoshan public know the Professor and Magneto as veritable adversaries. As Mutant activists, Professor X and Magneto have rarely, or never, seen eye to eye on mutant issues and rights. They oppose and contradict each other even they fight on the same side– as rare as a blue moon the occurrence is. With Magneto becoming the leader of the extremists’ club called ‘The Brotherhood of Mutants’, and the Professor’s followers declaring themselves as the ‘X-Men’, announcing Dr. Charles Xavier as their leader, their radically different viewpoints have made them something akin to cult figures.

‘The young front of Mutant Politics,’ the Genoshan Daily reports.

What would have been benign arguments with anyone else turn into raging wars when these two are involved. Their infamous debate in the Parliament on the Mutant Registration Bill, though a thing of the past, is still on the common tongue.

‘Things get very furious very fast with these Mutants,’ MP, Steve Rogers quips about Professor Xavier and Magneto.

The press seems to love them; for when they share a screen– or even breath the same air– there’s no dearth of drama.

When he’s not the acclaimed HOD of Genetics at the Genoshan University, Professor Xavier is a socialite, the darling of the Genoshan elite club. His step-father, the late Kurt Marko, was a member of the Congress. His mother, the late Sharon Xavier-Marko, founded most of the charities in the country. However easy the Professor’s entry into the Parliament was, the telepath quickly gained popularity and became the leader of the Integrationalists by his cogency alone. He’s loved by subsets of the human and mutant population alike for this very quality. The Parliament, however, seem to love him for another reason entirely. For the reason that he’s their only shield against their abominable opponent, Magneto.

Magneto has a murky past– more based in rags than in riches. His cryptic persona is a hit amongst the mutant youth, and paired with his phlegmatic character and baritone voice, it has garnered him the support of the mutant masses. It is safe to state that the leader of the Separatists and master metal bender has street cred. That, however, hasn’t stopped him from making his presence felt in the Parliament from time to time.

And when the Professor and Magneto come face to face, the Genoshan public is in for a treat, for their fights are nothing less than a display of fireworks.

-x-

They fight at home, too. Only here, they’re Charles and Erik, and their fights are the kind that come with a terrifying sense of domesticity.

‘Charles, I can’t find my other sock. Have you seen it?’ Erik shouts from the walk-in closet, scowling at the grey sock in his hand.

‘Just a minute,’ comes Charles’ reply after a pause.

‘Keep scowling like that, and you’ll give yourself more wrinkles,’ says Charles as he walks into the room. He’s dressed in Erik’s track pants and sports a pair of mismatched socks on his feet– both in close variants of grey.

‘Keep stealing my socks like that, and you’ll make me an old man ahead of time,’ Erik retorts on spotting his missing pair.

‘Hey, you know my feet get cold quickly. Besides, it’s not my fault that you own only grey socks. It’s hard to differentiate.’

‘You have the same kind of tea with different names in ten different boxes. You don’t see me complaining about it.’

‘Just like I don’t complain about your stupid hat collection that doesn’t see the outside of the coat rack?’

‘Hey, firstly, they’re not hats. Secondly-’ Erik stops and sniffs forcefully. ‘Something is burning on the stove.’

Charles’ eyes go wide in remembrance and the alarmed oh dear ricochets between their minds. They both run to the kitchen at once.

It’s mundaneness at its best at the Xavier-Lehnsherr household.

With over three million followers– and growing– on each of their social media, the Professor and Magneto’s accounts quickly turn into combat zones without much instigation. While Professor Xavier– a.k.a Professor X– is well known for his diplomacy, the infamous metal bender, Magneto, is celebrated for his ripostes. Their interesting dynamics have encouraged their followers to deride those on the other end. To add fuel to the fire, the Professor and Magneto choose to mutually censure each other publicly. When the Genoshan Mail asked for his opinion on Magneto rallying for Genosha to become an all-mutant state, the Professor said:

‘Magneto is an impetuous narcissist. He can rally all he wants. It won’t change the fact the Genosha is for everyone.’

In 2016, the Professor made a verbal jab at Magneto’s suit and his lopsided cape.

‘It’s tacky and belongs to a circus,’ he said.

Magneto himself has called the Professor ‘a naive fool’ on multiple occasions. Once during the UN Peace Summit, no less.

When asked about the Professor’s trust in the Government to pass a bill banning suppressants, Magneto has been reported to have said:

‘Professor Xavier is a pretentious know-it-all in a tweed suit. The fact that he’s an all-trusting fool on top of it will be doom of mutants.’

Acting by their leader’s examples, several prominent heads from both the sides have indulged in verbal wars over the years, slamming the other down with slanderous comments.

The Professor and Magneto, however, seem to hold the rights to mutually disparage each other just to themselves. When Mark Blackwell had asked the Professor on how he felt being associated to a supremacist monster like Magneto on Follow the leader, the Professor’s outburst had stunned the filming crew– and the larger part of the population when the show was aired.

‘No man is a monster, Mr. Blackwell. And certainly not Magneto. He might be an extremist and blunt in his approach, but his intentions have never swayed from Mutant equality. Please choose your words more carefully in the future.’

The Professor’s blue eyes had reminded one and all that inciting the ire of an omega-level telepath isn’t the wisest idea.

Magneto, too, has made it clear that he isn’t the one to fall behind. The proposal for a dynamic medical insurance scheme for those with extreme and physical mutations had taken the mutant community by storm. Magneto had cried that the scheme was a sham in a rather colourful language, and the Professor had assured that the Government was amicable for negotiations. The Genoshan Broadcasting Network had brought the two leaders and their supporters for a Prime time face-off, witnessed by audience from all fragments of society. The steady stream of subtitles on the screen had run through several speeches and arguments– including that of the two leaders.

With the last half hour of the show dedicated to audience questions, a mutant by the name of Leech had taken the stand behind the microphone and thrown his question at the Professor.

‘Give this stupid scheme a chance? Trust the Government to treat us fairly? Look at me, Professor,’ he had said, pointing to his green skin and overly large head, ‘Do you think a hospital would be willing to take me in if not for monetary benefit? An entitled mutant like you will never understand the plight of the likes of us. Who are you to fight for our rights? What have you done for us other than looking pretty and writing fancy books? Hell, why do we need an enemy on the outside when scums like you are amongst us?’

Magneto had snapped immediately, face stony and voice as hard as iron,

‘I get where you’re coming from, dude. But honestly, shut the hell up and don’t speak about him that way. Charles Xavier has done more for mutants than you’ll never know.’

Though the transcript on the display had read ‘hell’, members of the audience had heard it differently– something the network chose to politely omit.

‘That still doesn’t stop them from calling each other names,’ observes comedian Remi Lebeau.

-x-

On their sofa, Charles turns in Erik’s arms to face the latter. The thick blanket that is careless

thrown over their laps wrinkles with the action. Here, too, they call each other names– if endearments and sweet nothings could be categorised thus.

‘You didn’t have to break his camera, darling. He was only doing his job,’ Charles scolds mildly.

Erik rolls his eyes. ‘I didn’t break it. Just disabled it. Besides, he wasn’t doing his job. He was condemning you.’

Charles sighs. ‘Why won’t you listen to me when I tell you that I can defend my own honour?’

‘My point precisely, liebling,’ Erik takes Charles’ hand and interlaces their fingers. ‘You can, but you don’t. So I don’t care how many times you prohibit me to, I’ll do it-’ Erik pulls Charles close and whispers against his lips ‘-because I love you.’

Charles looks at Erik then like he’d handed him the moon, and brings their foreheads together. ‘I love you, too,’ he coos.

‘Not more than me. No,’ Erik says shaking his head against Charles’ petulantly.

‘You’re such a child, Erik,’ Charles says chuckling fondly. ‘A six foot child.’

‘With a nine inch dick,’ Erik completes.

Charles looks bemused when he pulls back– torn between laughing over and punching Erik.

He settles for punching Erik in the ribs.

With all the hype that surrounds the Professor and Magneto, little, or nothing, is known about their personal lives. It’s only business when these two mutants are in the Primetime Bulletin. While a golden band has made the Professor’s ring finger its permanent residence, what resides under the metal bender’s leather clad hands remains a mystery.

A small fraction of the society, however, have a notion that the two were, or are, involved. To what capacity, is the goal of their mission. A steady stream of blogs run on the world wide web that decrypt their speeches and catalogue their appearances against plausible theories of their coupling.

‘They’re fucking for sure,’ says Kitty Pryde (24), founder of Ishipprofessorxandmagneto.com. ‘The fact that the Professor is married be damned.’

Professor Xavier has been evasive on the topic– neither confirming nor denying the rumours of a significant other.

When Syrin confronted Magento for mutantlove.com, the metal bender responded,

‘Whom I fuck or don’t fuck is none of anybody’s business.’

Very few have dared to broach the topic publically after that.

-x-

Charles sighs standing at the foot of their king sized bed. ‘I thought we decided not to get presents, love.’

‘It’s not a present. I saw this and thought that it would look good on you.’ Erik says as Charles picks up the lilac sweater laid out on the comforter. The label reads: ‘Happy 10th Wedding Anniversary, Charles’. The telepath holds it to his torso and smoothens his hands along the soft wool. ‘Look, it even brings out your eyes,’ Erik says with a pleased smile.

Charles places the sweater on the bed carefully and closes the distance between them by looping his arms around Erik’s neck. ‘That’s cheating, because I didn’t get you anything,’ he drawls.

Erik circles his arms around Charles’ waist and pulls him impossibly close. ‘You’re more than enough,’ he says with a dreamy smile.

‘Romantic!’ Charles giggles.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are!’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Do you want to fight me on this one, too,’ Charles aks with raised brows.

Erik grins with far too many teeth. ‘Only if it’s foreplay.’

The Professor, with his Oxford education and the three PhDs that come with it, is regarded highly amongst the intellectuals. His students often see him in frumpy cardigans and floppy hair. But on the rare occasions when he chooses to grace the read carpet to raise funds for charity, he’s a dashing vision in bespoke tuxedos and stylised hair. His rather charming personality, posh British accent and manners complete the ‘gentleman’ image of Charles Francis Xavier. His ‘No Violence’ policy only ramps it up to higher levels.

His students, colleagues, and acquaintances have nothing but high praises to offer about the good professor.

‘Charles is the kindest man I know,’ says Dr, Moira MacTaggart, HOD of Criminal Law at the Genoshan University.

‘We love the Professor. He’s been a guiding light in many of our lives,’ says Jubilee, a student in Professor Xavier’s Mutations class. When asked what vexes the Professor the most, she laughs. ‘Expletives. He hates them!’

-x-

‘Fuck…’ Charles moans impatiently below Erik– his skin flushed and hair disheveled– and levels a smack to Erik’s backside.

‘What was that for?’ Erik asks cluelessly, eyes wide and mouth ajar.

‘Come on, Erik, move. Put your back into it, and use your dick,’ Charles growls, bringing his hand up to twist it in Erik’s hair.

‘Mein Gott, Charles,’ Erik gasps out in mock indignation. ‘What a dirty little mouth you have.’

‘It’s the same mouth that sucks your dick and kisses you every morning. Unless you want to change any of that, shut up and fuck me.’

That puts an end to Erik’s line of rejoinders. ‘Yes, your Highness,’ he groans and promptly complies.

Very few to none have seen the man behind Magneto’s helmet. The image of his Maroon bodysuit backed by his lopsided cape, however, has become the definition of the Government’s nightmare. The Press and the media in general have an on and off love affair with the metal bender. One one hand, he can shoot their TRPs heavenwards with his instigating speeches that move the masses and sets them afoot. On the other hand, he can break their cameras and recorders when it pleases him, leaving them as eyewitnesses as proof of their news.

While a devoted fragment of the society worships him as their hero– embodying his moto of ‘Mutant and Proud’, and willing to follow him to the ends of the world– not many are pleased by Magneto’s violent approach to solving issues.

‘You can love him or hate him. But you can never ignore him,’ says Claire Ferguson, host of the Late Late Show.

His displays of his powers have simultaneously induced awe and terror in many.

‘I’m terrified of him,’ says Samuel Wilson, recalling the time when he had simply watched in horror as Magneto uplifted a football stadium. ‘The man can melt metal for fuck’s sake!’

-x-

In the kitchen, Erik melts a bar of dark chocolate and stirs it steadily. On the counter, a metal sheet bends in the shape of a heart. A red gift wrap and ribbon lie still to be used.

‘Where is my husband, and what have you done with him?’ Charles deadpans when Erik enters the study with the box in hand.

Erik chuckles and floats the box to Charles. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, liebling.’

Charles beams, but just to be difficult, he adds: ‘Aren’t we a little too old to be celebrating Valentines’?’

Erik walks to Charles’ side. ‘That reminds me. What do the kids ask these days?’ He makes a show of thinking, and with a smouldering smile, asks: ‘Will you be my Valentine, Charles?’

Charles laughs and pulls Erik in by his shoulders. ‘You old fool, I already am,’ he says fondly, and crashes their mouths in a searing kiss.

-x-

They’re either furiously fighting, or passionately making love. There seems to be no in-betweens for these two mutants.

—

Prompts here

#cherik #cherik fic #ikeracity #protective sentences prompt #sorry it took so long to reply #i hopw this fulfills the prompt #vaguely atleast #jjcherik

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realityisnoplacetolive · 7 years

Text

Lost In Translation | Phandom Big Bang

Author: realityisnoplacetolive

Artist: @themessafterthemarty (the art is awesome omg)

Beta: @always-okay-katie (thank you so much for all your help!!)

Word count: 11k

Rating: PG

Warnings: None

Summary: In a world in which everyone is born with their soulmate’s first words to them tattooed somewhere on their body, it would seem that loneliness is finally cured. But Phil Lester has a problem. His tattoo is in a language he can’t speak.

A/N: Additional thanks to @awesomesockes, for being Danish and therefore occasionally helpful in the endeavor :p And to Gina, for giving me really awesome advice about pacing, which i was too stubborn to actually implement, but I appreciated nonetheless <3 (you tried)

His situation wasn’t exactly common, but it wasn’t unheard of either. Phil’s mum often tried to assure him of this - he wasn’t the first person on Earth to have a language barrier between him and his soulmate. But that was easy for her to say, when she was born with the words ‘Have you got a partner for the assignment yet?’ tattooed in neat script across her collarbone. Phil’s father had asked her this question at the start of year five, and despite the response she’d given him of ‘Sorry, Charlie’s just asked me’, the two had been fast friends ever since. Those five words covered his dad’s left calf, and he often teased his wife about how her first words to him were rejection.

But Phil Lester would’ve given anything for something as simple and direct as that. The twenty-two year old sighed at the foreign phrase printed across his right forearm for what felt like the millionth time.

“Yeah, well, beats mine anyway,” his older brother had assured him. Phil had to giggle, remembering the ‘Would you like to order drinks?’ tattoo on Martyn’s bicep.

As teens, a group of his brothers’ friends had started a sort of competition for who could find their soulmate fastest. Of course, it didn’t really work that way. The first meeting was something predetermined before birth; trying to rush fate was pointless. And while they believed that on some level, impatient young people were notorious for trying to manipulate their situations to make it happen a bit sooner.

Martyn’s friend, Jack, for example, had been born with the tattoo ‘Try not to move - it might be broken’. He’d taken it as an open invitation to try all kinds of extreme sports, from BMX biking to water skiing. By the age of seventeen, Jack had already broken eleven bones with no luck on the soulmate front. In the end, he’d had to trip over a rolled up floor mat and sprain his knee while walking into Asda before finally meeting Emma.

Not one to be outdone, poor Martyn had taken nearly every penny he’d earned from his summer job at a bowling alley and spent it trying out various restaurants and sneaking into bars. He’d get his hopes up with each new server, only to have them dashed again every time the waitress remained unphased by his drink order. Eventually, he’d made peace with it. He’d meet her when he’d meet her, and that was that.

But with a line like ‘Er det dine briller?’ inked into his skin, it seemed foolish for Phil not to prepare a little.

The phrase was in Danish: are these your glasses? Translating it had been the easy part - his parents had done that for him with the help of a Danish-English dictionary they’d purchased about a week after he was born (after first spending a few afternoons in the library determining the tattoo wasn’t German or Dutch or Swedish). What to do with that information next, however, was a little less obvious.

When Phil was little, having such a mark was almost a relief. Much like a child taking their first steps or graduating school, meeting one’s soulmate for the first time was considered such an important milestone in someone’s life that it wasn’t uncommon for parents to hover over their children’s first interactions with strangers, hoping to hear those magic words. But with Phil’s odds of simply bumping into his soulmate on the playground at next to nil, much of the pressure involved in making new friends was off. In a way, it was nice.

For his thirteenth birthday, Phil’s parents had bought him a ‘Teach Yourself Danish’ book series, complete with audio tapes to practice with. But after a few weeks of struggling to wrap his mouth around the foreign words, Phil’s enthusiasm dwindled and the series took up residence in the corner of his book shelf where it collected dust for years to come.

Phil was nineteen before things changed. He and one of his best friends, Amber, were spending the day at a funfair. She was eating candyfloss off a stick, while he was a very pale shade of green and trying his best to keep his lunch down after the Tilt-A-Whirl.

“Want a bite?” Amber said, offering the sugary pink substance to him. He grimaced and looked away. “Might help.”

“Doubt it.” He moved toward an empty bench a few feet away and sat down with a little groan, closing his eyes. Amber plopped down next to him, and they rested for a few minutes.

Phil had met Amber on the first day of sixth form. She was one of the very few girls Phil knew who didn’t place much stock in the soulmate system. Amber had a bit of a rebellious streak, and never shut up about how dumb she considered it that some unknown force in the universe was supposed to decide who she should spend her life with.

“When I do meet him, I bet I won’t even like him,” she often complained. “I feel sorry for the bloke, honestly.”

She’d gone out with several different guys throughout their school career, which had earned her a certain reputation with many of the other students in their year. She rarely ever did anything with these boys, she’d confided in Phil once, but she found everyone else’s assumptions about her fascinating. Plus, there was something so liberating about spending the evening sitting on the sofa, “wasting her time” - as her grandmother often chided - by getting to know someone who’d only leave her in the end.

“But that’s exactly the point,” Amber would argue back. “There’s no pressure this way - no promise of a future. Just right now.”

Honestly, Phil wished he could have such a flippant attitude about the whole matter. Amber was on a whole new level.

“You’re not gonna eat that?” a male voice interrupted Phil’s thoughts.

Phil’s eyes snapped open again, and he noticed a young man approaching them. Amber sat frozen with one arm reached out, just getting ready to drop the last bit of her candyfloss into the bin next to the bench. Phil’s heart leapt and he shot his friend a look of amazement.

“Why?” Amber replied to the stranger, a mixture of nervousness and excitement in her voice. “You starting a half-eaten candyfloss collection?”

“Holy fucking shit on a stick!” the stranger exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with the same excitement. “That’s my tattoo!”

Grinning, Amber lifted the leg of her jeans just enough to show the ‘You’re not gonna eat that?’ tattooed on her ankle. “And you?”

The stranger, with an even bigger smile, held out his forearm. “Half-eaten candyfloss collection! Who even says that?” He laughed. “I was worried I’d never find you! My name’s Matt by the way.”

As Phil walked along the rest of the day, listening to Amber and Matt chat excitedly several paces ahead, he began to understand the meaning of the term “third wheel”. He also resolved to sign up for Danish lessons as soon as he got home.

It was another three years before Phil finally got his chance to visit Denmark. Amber and Matt - now recently engaged and sharing a flat - had booked him tickets to Copenhagen as a part belated birthday, part ‘sorry that we found true love and ran off together while you’re over there all alone’ present. But he wasn’t about to be one to turn down a free trip, even one born out of pity.

Phil greatly increased his language studies in preparation. He’d found an internet proxy that allowed him to stream the Danish national television channels, and was thoroughly enjoying Danish X Factor. It turned out horrible talent show auditions were universal.

“So are you like, fluent now?” Martyn asked him that evening when he came to visit, the night before Phil set off. He stood in the doorway to Phil’s room with his arms crossed, leaning against the frame, as he observed his younger brother. Phil was sprawled out in his bed with his laptop, watching Huset på Christianshavn - a sitcom from the late 70s featuring an odd bunch of Danes living in an apartment complex who did an appalling amount of drinking and not much else.

“Uh, no. Not quite there yet,” Phil answered without looking up. That was an understatement - his eyes were currently glued to the rapidly moving subtitles, which gave him his only hope of comprehension.

“Ah, well, I’m sure you’ll do fine,” his brother said. He moved from the doorway and sat down on Phil’s desk chair. “Cornelia says hi by the way - she wanted to come along and send you off properly, but she’s got some huge chemistry exam tomorrow morning. Says her professor is a nightmare.”

Even just mentioning Cornelia’s name, Martyn’s face seemed to light up. Phil had noticed this with most of his friends who’d found their soulmates and a familiar pang of bitterness hit him. He swallowed it down before he spoke.

“It’s alright,” Phil said dismissively. “It’s not like I’m gone a year. Just six days.”

“Who knows,” Martyn grinned, “you might just be so smitten after you meet them that you decide to stay.”

The words struck a nerve. “You know, I wish everyone would stop putting all this pressure on me,” Phil snapped. “There’s no guarantee that I’m meeting anyone on this trip - there never is.”

“Hey man, it was just a joke…” Martyn tried.

“No, it’s not! It’s the one person that the universe has decided is compatible with my soul and I have to fly to bloody Denmark to even have a shot at meeting them!”

“That’s not true, you-”

But Phil cut him off. “All my friends are getting engaged or moving in together or just out having their own adventures because at least they know they have an equal chance of meeting their soulmate wherever they might end up, but here I am, preparing myself for my one chance to meet someone I won’t even be able to communicate with!”

He paused for a breath. It was as if a dam had been opened - now that all his worries were flooding out, he felt powerless to stop them. He went on, “And if this fails, then what? Wait to save up enough and try again? Move there? What if I don’t even like this stupid country?”

“They all speak English there,” his brother reminded. “They learn it from like, year one. They’ll probably be better than you.”

“But will they think English?” Phil asked, something akin to desperation in his voice. “Will they feel English? When we lay in bed and tell each other our deepest secrets, will their words come out effortlessly in English, or will it constantly be work for them to translate their every thought to a language not their own because I’m a piece of shit who was literally born with an assignment printed on his arm but put off studying for twenty-two years?!”

Hot tears were sliding down Phil’s face now. He slammed the laptop closed and pushed it aside before sitting up on the bed and pulling his knees up to his chest.

Martyn rose from the desk and moved over to sit next to Phil on the edge of the bed. He offered his shoulder, and his brother, grateful for the comfort, lay his head against it. “You are way overthinking this, mate,” Martyn said softly.

“I know…” Phil breathed back. And deep down, he did know. “It’s just…” He cut himself off with a sigh.

“Just what?” his brother prompted.

“Just… what if it all goes horribly wrong? You know, like Great Uncle Ronnie….”

Martyn rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Phil, your soulmate speaks Danish and you don’t. That man was born with the tattoo ‘Time of death: 7:46’ on his chest. Your situation is not even close to that level of depressing.”

“But what about-” Phil began.

“Enough,” Martyn cut in. “You have six days of free travel in a beautiful foreign country. For once in your life, let’s just forget about this whole soulmate business and focus on that. Can you manage that?”

Slowly, Phil nodded his head.

“Good.” Martyn ruffled his brother’s hair with his hand before turning to the empty suitcase lying on the floor. “Now let’s get you packed. And bring an umbrella - I just checked the weather and it looks like six solid days of rain.”

Phil let out a sigh. “Fantastic.”

Keeping his word to Martyn ended up not being nearly as difficult as Phil had imagined. There was plenty to do and see in Copenhagen besides soulmate searching. In four days’ time, Phil had already seen The Little Mermaid statue (which was significantly smaller than he’d imagined), visited two castles, explored Tivoli Gardens, gone for a canal tour, a bus tour, and a bike tour, and posed for his mandatory selfie in front of the capital guards.

But even with all the activities to occupy his time, he’d be lying if he said choosing to wear his glasses rather than contact lenses that week was just a coincidence, or that the few instances where he’d left those glasses sitting on restaurant tables or park benches had been complete accidents.

It turned out, most Danes kept to themselves. He was rarely spoken to by anyone, though one man did give a small cough and incline his head in the glasses’ direction. Phil had acknowledged him with a nod and gave a slight smile before retrieving them. Non-verbal interactions seemed to be Denmark’s speciality.

But finally, after several of these such attempts, a stranger fell for his bait. Phil had taken off his glasses and set them on the cafe table where he’d been sipping a latte. He’d walked halfway to the door, and was just about to complete his routine of acting as though he’d suddenly realized they were missing and backtracking to the table, when he heard a phrase that sent a chill down his spine.

“Excuse me, are those your glasses?”

Phil spun around excitedly at the words, but his eyes met those of a woman in her mid-fifties. She wasn’t exactly his type, but then again, platonic soulmates, though rare, were still a possibility…

“Mine b-briller?” he stuttered back, the words sounding all thick and wrong in his hopeless accent.

The woman looked puzzled. “Nå! Er du dansker?” she asked.

“…What?” Phil replied.

“I guess not.” The corners of her mouth turned up a bit into a smile. “I asked if you were Danish,” she explained, a slight accent to her voice. “I think you left your glasses on the table.”

“Oh, right, thanks,” he mumbled. Phil picked them up and stuffed them into his bag. He didn’t even need them at the moment - he was wearing his contacts anyway.

The woman was already moving to join the queue at the counter, and Phil considered just letting it go. But no, he’d come all this way; he had to be sure.

He hurried back over to her. “Sorry, excuse me?” he said quickly. She turned to look at him. “I’m sorry, I just have to ask something. When you asked me about the glasses the first time, were you speaking Danish or English?” He’d been so startled by her question before that he hadn’t even noticed.

She frowned. “English, wasn’t it? I saw the book you were holding, so I just assumed. Something wrong?”

Phil could’ve kicked himself. Of course. When carrying a book titled “Tourist in Copenhagen”, he wouldn’t look exceptionally Danish.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I guess I just got my hopes up for a second.” Feeling he owed her an explanation, Phil gave a small sigh and pushed his right jacket sleeve up to reveal his tattoo.

The woman squinted to make out the words, and then her expression instantly changed to one of understanding. “Nåh. I’m afraid I’m taken.” With a kind smile that crinkled up the corners of her eyes, she tugged down the top hem of her shirt just enough to expose the writing on her collarbone: Mine underbukser har fået hjemve. Then she held up her left hand and wiggled the fingers. The sunlight glinted off her wedding ring.

If she hadn’t been so sweet, Phil thought he might have died of embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, really. I’ll go now.” He spun around quickly toward the door.

“It’s alright!” she laughed after him. “And count your blessings - at least your tattoo doesn’t declare to all the world that your soulmate’s first words to you were that he had a wedgie.”

Even with his cheeks burning as they were, Phil had to giggle as he ducked out of the cafe and back to the walking street.

Despite his horrible luck on the soulmate front, Phil had managed to enjoy his time in Denmark for the most part.

Martyn had been wrong about the weather after all. Or, mostly right - it had been storming all morning, but the clouds above had parted in the last twenty minutes and the sun was shining brightly enough now that Phil stopped walking to shrug off his jacket and locate his sunglasses.

He’d just managed to free them from his bag when he felt some kind of strap hit the back of his knees, tripping him up. Three large, eager dogs had suddenly appeared on his right, accompanied by a woman on his left who was simultaneously riding a bike and struggling with one arm to hold on to three leather leashes, which were wrapping around the back of Phil’s legs. Two of the dogs crossed in front of Phil, twisting the leashes even further around his ankles and pulling both himself and the cyclist off balance. The bike toppled over, while Phil fell backwards, smacking the back of his head on the landing. Suddenly all five of them were lying on the pavement in a pile of tangled limbs and barking animals.

“Undskyld! Undskyld!” the woman apologized profusely, then proceeded to babble on. Context, plus the limited Danish he could comprehend, told him she was explaining something about how her dogs had gotten away from her, how she was terribly sorry about that, and then asking whether or not he was alright. Not wanting to cause a fuss, Phil simply nodded as they disentangled.

A headache was already building from the jolt. He slowly made his way up to standing and started brushing off his pant legs, which now had damp spots on the back where they’d touched the ground. His possessions were scattered over the street, and the woman, still rambling on in Danish, was hurriedly trying to help him gather everything again.

“Er det dine briller?”

But it hadn’t been the woman asking the question. A new voice had joined the mix. The words startled Phil and his heart leapt in his chest. He spun around to see another guy, late teens or early twenties, stooping down and holding out Phil’s sunglasses.

Are these your glasses? The words seemed to be sung in angel chorus. This was his moment. Phil Lester had had twenty-two years to come up with an answer to that question. He’d rehearsed in front of the mirror, night after night, what fluent Danish response he might say back. He had taught himself affirmative replies, negative replies, replies that were somewhere in the middle - hell, he’d even learned a pick up line or two.

Yet despite all that, when presented with the question that had been inked into his skin since the day he was born, Phil became a blubbering mess. “Ja!” he pointed to the glasses excitedly and then to himself. “Du er min!”

The stranger raised one eyebrow and cocked his head to the side curiously. “Snakker du til brillerne? Eller til mig?”

“…What?” Phil questioned. The stranger deposited the glasses into Phil’s open hand, looking amused. “Jeg snakker kun lidt dansk,” Phil admitted, using one of the first phrases he’d ever learned of this language: I don’t speak much Danish.

“Clearly,” the man snorted under his breath.

“Oh! Engelsk?” Phil squeaked hopefully. “You speak English?”

The man was grinning now. “I should hope so,” he replied. “Twelve years in the English public school system should have taught me that much.”

Phil’s world was spinning now. He brought a hand up to his head, which was throbbing. “Wait, does that mean… you’re not Danish?”

“God no,” the man snorted out a laugh. “I’m from Wokingham.”

“But you spoke…?” Phil trailed off, looking confused.

The stranger nodded, having grasped Phil’s not quite finished question. “My dad lives here, so I’ve been picking up the language. Plus there’s some online Danish program I do when I can be arsed to remember it.”

“Oh, me too I guess…” Phil mumbled. “Er, not the dad part. Just I’ve been trying to learn, I mean.” The cyclist had managed to gather the dogs and bike together again and was starting to limp away. He’d offer to help her, if he wasn’t also slowly dying himself.

“Cool,” the stranger remarked. His look changed to one of concern, as Phil had gone quite pale. “Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah, just… my head…” Phil slurred, bringing his hand up to prod at the rapidly swelling lump. “I-I should sit down.” He glanced around desperately for a chair.

“Oh. Um…” After a second of hesitation, the man took Phil’s arm and guided him back into the cafe, and then into a booth. He disappeared and then reappeared a minute later with a bottle of water, which he offered awkwardly.

Phil gave him a small smile of gratitude and took the bottle before letting out a tiny groan. “This wasn’t how I planned this day to go.”

The man smiled kindly at him. “That’s life, isn’t it?” He extended his right hand. “I’m Dan, by the way. Dan Howell.”

“Phil,” Phil replied, shaking it. Clumsily, he reached into his pocket, mumbling, “I can pay you back for the water…”

“Oh, no.” Dan waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not everyday something like… this happens.” The words seemed to trip him up at the end.

Phil changed the subject. “You said your dad lives in Denmark?”

“Yeah, he works for an international shipping company,” Dan explained, perking right up. “I live with my mum though, back in England. But I usually come visit a few weeks every summer and every other Christmas.”

“I see…” Phil nodded, then regretted that as the throbbing in his head increased. “But you’re fluent in Danish?”

“Oh no, not even close,” Dan snorted. “I don’t even think most Danes are fluent. Have you heard this language? You might as well just cram a large vegetable down your epiglottis - that seems to be what it would take to choke out half their vowel sounds.”

Phil was starting to feel a little foolish now. He brought the water to his lips, but pulled it away again before taking a sip. “I… I’m sorry. I’m just having a little trouble taking all of this in. I think I hit my head when I fell. But you’re saying you’re not Danish? Not at all? Not even like, half?”

“I mean, if you go back a few generations on my dad’s side, there was a bit of scandal that may or may not have involved the Crown Prince, but nothing was ever confirmed….”

Phil nodded, slower this time. Again, he tried to take a drink of water, but the questions were bursting inside of him to get out. He set the still full bottle back down on the table. “Right, sorry, still trying to get this straight. You’re telling me that the last twenty-two years of my life have been a lie? That all along you were just some English bloke I could have met at home?”

Dan seemed to take offense at this. “Hey, I’m not just some Engli-”

Phil cut him off. “I-I planned my life around this! I picked a course at uni that I could transfer internationally! I learned Denmark’s history! I studied this bloody language - do you know how hard is it to find Danish courses in England?!”

“Actually, I do,” Dan replied stiffly, “but what has any of that got to do with-”

But Phil pressed on. “All the nights I spent lying awake, worried I wouldn’t be able to communicate with my… my soulmate -” He spat out the last word in disgust, “And… And now…”

At the mention of that word, Dan’s gaze shifted away; suddenly he appeared very interested in the salt and pepper shakers.

Phil stopped abruptly, feeling ashamed. He could understand Dan’s response. Personally, Phil had known he was bisexual since he was fifteen, so the fact that the universe had paired him with another male didn’t come as a complete shock to him. But he had no way of knowing yet where Dan stood on the matter. Regardless, he definitely wasn’t making the best first impression.

“I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this.” Phil gestured an open hand vaguely around his head. “I - I hit my head,” he finished lamely.

“Yeah, you mentioned. Like three times now.” Most of the stiffness had gone from Dan’s tone. He watched as Phil rested his elbows on the table and brought his hands up to cover his face. This seemed to soften him even further. “Uh, how bad is it? Do you need to call someone?”

“No, no… It’s fine,” Phil muttered into his hands. “Just hurts.” He lowered his hands again and looked back up. “But… you did ask it, right? I mean…” For the second time that day, Phil held out his bare forearm to a stranger, revealing those four troublesome words: Er det dine briller. “These were your first words to me?”

Dan shifted in his seat. “Er… Well, yeah, but…”

Phil felt himself deflate at the response. “But you have a different tattoo,” he finished. Of course he did - how could Phil have been so stupid? “I’m so sorry, I should have known better. God, this day has been awful. I’m so sor-”

“Ja, du er min,” Dan whispered.

“Sorry?”

A little more confidently now, Dan spoke again, “Ja, du er min. That’s what you said back.”

“Wait.” Phil frowned, recalling the incident. “Didn’t I say det er min? As in, they - the sunglasses - are mine?”

“Nope.” Dan grinned and shook his head. “You definitely said du er min. As in, you are mine.”

“Aw damn it,” Phil muttered, “I’m always messing up the pronouns in this language.”

Dan snorted in amusement.

“Can… Can I see your tattoo then?” Phil asked tentatively.

Dan’s eyes darted down to his own lap. “Oh. Uh… Maybe another time.”

Phil looked hurt. “If this is because of what I said before, I really am sorry. I never should have implied you weren’t who I thought you’d be. I was just so shocked and-”

“No, it’s not that,” Dan said quickly. “I just… don’t really feel comfortable showing you right now.”

Phil drew in a long, deep breath before biting his lower lip. This didn’t make any sense - nothing about this meeting had gone even remotely like he had pictured. His throat was tightening and he had to blink a few times to keep his tears in check. Crying in front of the man would really put the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?

“You… You don’t want to show me your mark?” Phil questioned. He was fighting to keep the pleading tone out of his voice, but it slipped through anyway.

“Er, not right now, no,” Dan confirmed. Though he looked apologetic.

“But you’re sure we’re soulmates?” Phil pressed on. “Like, sure sure?”

“Du er min,” Dan said with a nod.

“Then, I just don’t understand.” He was thoroughly exasperated now. “Why can’t I see it? I mean, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but we just met, so-”

“Exactly! We just met. Which is why I’m not particularly comfortable showing you such a private thing.”

“But then how will I-”

“It’s on my bum, alright?!” Dan exclaimed in frustration.

Phil blinked at him. “Sorry, what?”

“On my arse, in huge fucking block letters, I have a tattoo that says ‘Ja du er min’,” Dan clarified. “I can assure you, you are the first person to ever greet me with those exact words.”

At that point, Phil realized his mouth had been hanging open and quickly shut it. Virtually all soulmate tattoos were on perfectly innocuous parts of the body: arms, wrists, ankles, collarbones, feet. He’d heard once of a German teenager who’d come out claiming his mark was on his penis and that was why he’d been harassing half the girls at his school with dick pics. The story had been on the news and everything. But the mark had turned out to be fake - his real soulmate tattoo was at the base of his neck, covered by his long hair, and simply said ‘Nein’.

With wide eyes, Phil leaned in closer and whispered “…For real?”

His soulmate nodded miserably. He seemed thoroughly embarrassed.

“But… But that’s so cool!” Phil grinned.

Now it was Dan’s turn to blink back. “How is being tramp-stamped from birth in any way cool? Do you know what they call tattoos like that in Denmark?” he demanded.

Phil shook his head.

“Røvgevir. Ass antlers.”

But as Phil dissolved into giggles, Dan gave up trying to act annoyed. “Alright, it’s a little funny,” he admitted. “But realize that anytime I wanted to see my soulmate’s first words to me, I had to take down my pants and read them backwards in a mirror.”

“And it really says those exact words?” Phil giggled on.

“It really does. ‘Yes, you are mine’,” Dan recited back the translated version. He was snickering too now.

“God, you must have thought I’d be a serial killer!”

“Or perhaps a raging drunk,” Dan put in. “Speaking of…” His gaze traveled down to his backpack, then over to to the door. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

After exiting the cafe, the two found a grocery store and stopped in to get some sandwiches and paper cups and plates to take with them. The rain had managed to stay away and, for the first day since Phil had arrived, the sun was actually shining. But even if they had walked directly into a hurricane, the day couldn’t have seemed anything but gorgeous to him.

Together, they crossed a few streets, and several minutes later arrived at the large square garden that surrounded Rosenborg Castle. Around them, there were people walking their dogs, riding bikes, or just relaxing in the rare bit of sunshine. Dan guided him over to a spot on the grass near a statue of Hans Christian Andersen and surprised Phil a bit by pulling a blanket from his backpack and spreading it out on the slightly damp grass.

But if the blanket had been unexpected, it only got stranger as Dan proceeded to pull an unopened bottle of champagne out of the bag. Phil looked at him curiously.

Dan shrugged at the reaction. “I always like to be prepared.” Noting Phil’s look of incredulousness, he laughed and explained, “Nah, I bought it when you went looking for the paper plates. It’s funny not getting asked for ID here - there’s no drinking age in Denmark, you know?”

Phil picked up the bottle and scanned the Danish label. “Looks fancy.”

“My dad told me this brand is the best.” Dan popped the cork off, seeming a little surprised as the fizz rushed out. Phil handed him two of the little paper cups and Dan poured them each one.

“Cheers,” Dan said. “Or I guess we should say skål.”

“Skål,” Phil repeated, tapping his paper cup to Dan’s. He took a sip of the liquid, but immediately had to fight to keep from scrunching up his face at the taste. Not wanting to offend his soulmate any more than he’d already done, he hummed, “Mmmm…”.

Dan, who had also sipped his, now frowned and peered into the cup. “Huh. Tastes like ass.”

“Yeah…” Phil agreed with a giggle. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but…”

“Should’ve known Dad was taking the piss.” Dan scooted over to the edge of the blanket and poured his cupful out into the grass. “So much for that.”

“Still, it was a nice thought,” Phil said. “I should have thought to do something cool for you…”

Dan glanced down and his cheeks reddened again. “Oh no, it’s no big deal,” he mumbled quickly. He looked back up. “And you said you’d been learning Danish, didn’t you? That’s a huge something.”

Phil gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, that was a great use of my time, wasn’t it?” With a sigh, he lay back on the blanket and brought his hands up over his face again. “This day has been so humiliating,” he moaned. “Why does this soulmate business have to be so complicated?”

Dan laughed and joined Phil in stretching out on the blanket. “Tell me about it.”

Phil made it about thirty minutes into their picnic before an acute increase in pain and dizziness upon sitting up caused him to vomit his half-sandwich and ass-champagne over the side of the blanket. Mortified, he tried to stand up and move away, but his world was spinning so much that he would have toppled right over if not for Dan grabbing his arm to steady him.

“Whoa, hey, hold on,” Dan commanded as Phil tried to pull away from his grip. “You need to sit back down.”

“I-I need to g-go,” Phil slurred, not entirely sure where he was trying to get to. Besides away, that is. Preferably some place dark and quiet and far removed from other humans. His head was pounding.

“I know, we’re going, just hold on,” Dan assured, though he sounded nervous. Once he was convinced Phil could stand on his own, Dan ducked away to gather everything back into his bag. Phil let his eyes close as he swayed in place, just focusing on remaining upright.

Things were a blur from that point on, due mainly to the persistent ringing in Phil’s ears. Dan moved him to a park bench and then started asking him all kinds of questions. But Dan’s voice was hard to make out - almost like Phil was underwater - so Phil couldn’t give many answers. The questioning finally stopped when a concerned-looking Dan took out his phone and stepped a few paces away to make a call.

About ten minutes later, Dan was ushering Phil into a taxi. Phil had a vague sense that he really shouldn’t be getting into a cab with a man he’d just met an hour or two before, soulmate or not, but he was feeling too out of it to protest. Next thing Phil knew, he was being led into a reception area of a bright waiting room and nudged toward a chair.

“…This a hospital?” Phil mumbled as he sank into his seat. The change in location had made him feel a bit more coherent.

Dan scratched the top of his head, looking awkward. “Yeah… I think you need to get your head checked.”

“Rude.”

“What?” Dan frowned at first, but then his eyes widened in understanding. “Oh no, not like that! I just meant because of the…” He trailed off as he noticed Phil was smirking at him. “Oh. Got your sense of humor back, I see.”

Phil giggled a bit. Gingerly, he lifted his hand up to feel the lump on the back of his skull and winced. It had definitely gotten bigger.

“I should go sign you in,” Dan decided, glancing to the front desk. “Have you got an ID on you?”

Nodding slowly, Phil reached into his pocket and pulled a card from his wallet. “I hope they speak English here,” he mumbled, passing the card to Dan.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Dan dismissed him with a shrug. “Pretty much everyone here does.” Once again, Phil felt dumb for having spent so many years worrying about the potential language barrier.

Dan examined the card. “So it’s Lester, is it?” he mused. Phil gave a small grunt of confirmation. “Philip Michael Lester… I like it.” Nodding to himself, Dan turned and took the card up to the reception desk.

The waiting room was surprisingly quiet for a hospital, which Phil greatly appreciated. If only it wasn’t so damn bright. He let his eyes close to block the light out. He must have started drifting off because a few moments later he felt someone gently nudging him back awake. Phil opened his eyes to see Dan had returned and was poking his shoulder, holding a clipboard in the other hand.

“You really shouldn’t sleep with a head injury,” Dan said as he sat down in the chair beside Phil. “This happened to my cousin once and I remember my aunt had to keep waking her up.”

Phil gave a tired grunt in response, his gaze falling to the clipboard which Dan had balanced on his lap.

“Normally they’d just have you scan your ID and then all your info is in the system already, but it won’t work because you’re not from Denmark so we’ve got these forms instead,” Dan rambled in explanation. Phil really couldn’t have cared less how the Danish healthcare system worked at the moment, but he nodded anyway. Leaning forward in his seat, Phil rested his elbows on his knees, allowing him to support his forehead in his hands.

“Do you live with your parents?” Dan’s voice asked.

“Just right now,” Phil mumbled back into his hands. “I’m planning on moving out soon… just don’t have things quite…” he trailed off feeling slightly embarrassed.

Embarrassment was really the emotion of the day for Phil. In the past twelve hours, he had accused a random Danish lady of being his soulmate, then gotten knocked down by a pack of dogs and helped to his feet by a man who turned out to be his actual soulmate, spluttered at him in a foreign language only to discover he spoke English all along, offended the man, and finally made up with him only long enough to puke all over his picnic.

“It’s okay, I live with my family too, whenever I’m home from uni,” Dan said, cutting his thoughts off. “Do you know your mum’s phone number?”

“Er… seven, one…” He closed his eyes tighter and rubbed at them. “Or…Or maybe it ends in seven one?” Normally he knew the number, but his head felt fuzzy and he was tired - so tired.

“That’s alright. What’s her name?”

“Mum…” Phil answered sleepily. His eyes were closed, so he missed Dan’s eyeroll. The tiredness won out and Phil drifted back off again until Dan’s voice startled him back to reality. “Wha..?” Phil mumbled.

“I asked if you’re on any medications,” Dan repeated his question.

Phil frowned. Soulmates or not, surely that wasn’t appropriate to ask someone you’d just met. “No? Are you?”

“Huh?” Dan replied. “Why?”

“Well why did you ask me?” Phil tried to demand. But it came out more like a whine.

Dan giggled a little, tilting the clipboard Phil’s direction as he did so. “Because it’s line twelve on this form.”

“Oh.”

After having filled out as much as he could, Dan returned the forms to the desk and Phil’s name was soon called by a nurse. Dan helped him to his feet and followed him to the doorway, but the nurse stopped him there.

“Sorry, only family is allowed in the exam room,” she said gently.

“Oh okay, I’ll wait here,” Dan said, turning.

“No!” Phil protested, more forcefully than he’d intended. Both Dan and the nurse froze. “I just mean, can’t he stay?” Phil pleaded. “We’re… we’re soulmates.”

Dan looked uncomfortable. “It’s okay,” he assured, glancing down to his feet. “I can just wait.”

“Please?” Phil begged. He wasn’t scared of hospitals exactly, but they always made him nervous, especially now when he wasn’t thinking totally clearly. Plus, having finally met Dan, he had no desire to let the man out of his sight so soon.

The nurse cast him a sympathetic smile before giving a quick nod and leading both of them back to the room.

The exam was fairly straight forward. First Phil had recounted the story of how he’d injured himself after being tripped by a cycling dog-walker (which the doctor declared with a chuckle to be the most Danish accident he’d ever heard). Then he’d been given both a physical and neurological exam, the latter requiring Phil to repeat certain words and solve a few very simple puzzles. In the end, he was diagnosed with a mild to moderate concussion.

“For the next 24 to 48 hours, it’s important that someone monitors you,” the doctor went on to explain to his increasingly drowsy patient. “Since it doesn’t seem to be too serious, it’s not necessary that you stay here overnight, so long as you have a family member or friend who can check you regularly to ensure your condition doesn’t worsen.” He glanced over to Dan. “The two of you are traveling together?”

“Er, well, not exactly…” Dan began sheepishly. “We sorta met today.”

“…But we’re soulmates,” Phil added groggily. Dan’s cheeks reddened.

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations are in order then. This is a big day for the two of you - a shame it had to end in meeting me,” he chuckled. Turning back to Phil, he asked, “Do you have someone who can stay with you to monitor your condition? Otherwise I’ll have to admit you.”

“Uhh…” Though Phil’s head was feeling better than it had two hours ago, he still felt like he was in a fog. He recognized all the words being spoken to him but it was as if they were devoid of any meaning. “I… what?” he asked. He glanced over to Dan and gave him a confused look.

“He’s asking if you have friends in Copenhagen that you’re staying with,” Dan clarified. “Or if you need to sleep here.”

Phil latched onto the second part of that question and frowned. “No, I don’t wanna sleep here.”

“I understand,” the doctor said kindly, “but someone needs to look after you for the next day or two.”

Whether it was from the concussion affecting his emotions or the realization that he might have to spend the night alone in a foreign hospital, Phil suddenly felt like crying. He bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering.

“I can stay with him,” Dan piped up, then turned to address Phil. “I mean, if you’re okay with that of course.”

Quickly brushing the tear that was threatening to roll down his cheek away with his hand, Phil cast him a grateful smile.

Satisfied that his patient would be monitored, the doctor went on to explain to Dan exactly how to do the neurological checks and what to do if Phil’s condition changed. Phil used this opportunity to let his heavy eyelids drop, not exactly sleeping but not really listening either.

After a few more minutes, he heard the door click shut as the doctor left and was nudged back to alertness.

“Alright, time to go,” Dan said gently. He helped Phil to his feet and guided him through the door. “I’ll need to call my dad when we get outside to let him know I’ll be staying with a friend tonight.”

Phil looked confused as they entered the hallway. “I thought… I thought you were staying with me?”

Dan rolled his eyes and gave a half-laugh. “It’s you, Phil. You’re the friend.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Phil smiled sleepily. Dan was good company, he decided.

“Phil? Phil, time to wake up.” Someone was gently shaking Phil’s shoulder.

“No…” Phil groaned back without opening his eyes. He tried to tug the duvet up higher around his neck, but the someone was sitting on it. “Tired.”

“This will only take a few minutes,” the voice continued on. Under his breath, he added, “Just like the last five times…”

Eventually, Phil managed to pry his eyes open. He was in a small room lying on a double bed, engulfed in a very white duvet. Next to him sat a man who looked exceedingly familiar, but whom Phil couldn’t quite place. His confusion turned to panic and he sat up quickly. At the sudden movement, his head rushed and then started pounding.

“Whoa careful there…” the man warned. He reached out a hand toward Phil’s shoulder, but Phil scooted himself back against the headboard.

“Who are you?” Phil demanded.

“That was actually my first question for you,” replied the other with a smirk. He held up a small notepad and waved it in Phil’s direction. That also was definitely familiar. “Go on then, who am I? You know this one - at least you did an hour ago.”

Phil’s face screwed up in concentration. It was on the tip of his tongue. “Er….”

“I’ll give you a hint. Starts with D.”

“D?” Phil’s face screwed up in thought. “D… Don? Dave? Dan!” It was all flooding back now. “You’re Dan. I met you today. We had a picnic and you made me drink champagne that tasted like ass.”

“Ooh you’re getting better at this,” Dan remarked. He jotted something down on the notepad. “Took you three more hints last time. And you are?”

“I’m Phil.”

“Good.” Dan made another note. “Know where we are?”

Phil looked around. There was a desk in the corner of the room containing a phone, a mini electric kettle, tiny coffee cups barely large enough to hold two gulps of liquid each, and a stack of what looked to be tourist information brochures in mainly red and white colors. “A hotel,” he deduced. “In Copenhagen. Because I’m on holiday.”

“Excellent,” Dan confirmed. “And that goose egg you’re currently sporting on your skull which necessitates this hourly game of twenty questions is because…?”

Phil screwed up his face in thought. “I think… I fell?”

Dan snorted. “Technically, yes, you fell. Multiple choice bonus question: a group of what species animal tripped you? A, pigeons, B, dogs, or C, squirrels?”

Phil grinned. “Did you know that a group of squirrels is called a scurry?”

“You’ve mentioned that a few times now.” Dan smiled and shook his head slowly as he made another note on the pad. “Funny how that detail sticks when I can’t for the life of me get you to remember the current prime minister…”

“…And a group of ferrets is called a business,” Phil added helpfully.

“Yes, yes, moving on…” Dan answered without looking up from his paper. “What’s the square root of sixteen?”

“Uh… eight?”

“Amazing,” Dan remarked, making a note on the sheet. “No matter what your level of coherency is, you consistently believe that to be eight.”

Phil frowned. “It’s not?”

Dan gave an exasperated sigh, indicating they’d gone over this a few times already. “It’s four, Phil. Four squared is sixteen. Ergo, the square root of sixteen is four.”

Phil gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah… I haven’t had maths for a few years…”

“I’m starting to gather that much,” Dan muttered. He ran his pen down the list one last time. “Alright, you passed. You’re cleared to sleep.”

Phil’s smile faded. “Oh.” He was feeling a lot more alert than he had in awhile and wasn’t quite ready to return to unconsciousness. He glanced around for a clock. “What time is it?”

“Around midnight,” Dan answered. He stood from the bed and transferred over to the desk chair, settling right down into it. “We got back to the hotel at half six and you’ve been out since then. Except for our little interrogations every hour.”

“What have you been doing in between?”

Dan gestured to the small TV on the wall. The sound was muted, so Phil hadn’t even noticed it was on until now. The camera was panning out to show a group of islanders participating in some kind of physical challenge involving paddling a raft full of coconuts.

“What show is that?” Phil asked.

“The Danish version of Survivor, I think. That or it’s a really weird porno - with this country you can never quite tell. I’ve seen four dicks so far. They don’t even blur them out.”

Phil giggled at this. “I saw a bunch of Danish films to help me practice before I came here. I understand.”

Dan raised his eyebrows. “You really went all in, didn’t you?”

“I guess I was just nervous,” Phil said with a shrug. “I wanted to be sure I could relate to you, you know?”

“But isn’t the whole point of a soulmate that you don’t have to worry about that? That you have a promise from the day you’re born that someone out there is going to be perfect for you?” There was something odd about the way Dan said it - an almost bitter undertone.

“Well, yeah, in theory,” Phil defended. “But can you honestly say you never worried about getting along with your soulmate?”

“Didn’t really have to,” Dan mumbled under his breath.

Phil was about to ask what he meant by that when his soulmate brought his hand up to his mouth to cover a massive yawn. “Haven’t you slept at all?” Phil asked.

Dan shook his head. “Not yet. I was going to see if maybe they have a rollaway mattress I can borrow.”

“Oh.” Phil felt a little twinge of guilt. He glanced to his side. “You can take the bed if you want. I’ve slept a lot already…” But even as he suggested this, he felt his own eyelids drooping. Stupid head injuries.

Dan gave a half-laugh and waved Phil off with his hand. “There is no way I’m kicking the guy who’s so concussed that he was unsure of his own name a few hours ago out of the only bed in the room. I’m fine here.”

“Or…” Phil glanced over to the space next to him. “We could just share?”

Dan looked skeptical. “Oh. I don’t know…”

“I mean, unless that’s weird for you,” Phil backpedaled. “I just thought, you know…”

“No, it’s not that,” Dan said quickly. “Just, I don’t want it to seem like, I don’t know, like… I’m taking advantage?” His intonation went up at the end of his sentence, making the words sound more like a question than a statement. “You know, moving too fast?”

Phil thought this was a bit of an odd thing to worry about, given that the universe had already quite literally granted them its stamp of approval. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for newly discovered soulmates to actually sleep together on the eve of their first meeting (though each generation denied to their parents that this was the case). But he just shrugged. “You’ve already seen me fall on my head, throw up my lunch, and forget my own name. I don’t know how much more intimate we can get.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Dan admitted. He flicked off the TV and stood to his feet. “Alright, budge up.”

Dan and Phil got up late the next morning, exhausted from the hourly coherency checks. Or, at least they started out hourly. By three am, Phil had declared himself (in a rather whiny voice) to be “completely healed” and Dan hadn’t been awake enough to argue, so they’d finally silenced the alarms for good and eventually woken to sunlight streaming in through the curtained window. Thankfully, the extra rest seemed to have done Phil a lot of good - his head felt much clearer.

“What exactly is this?” Phil questioned, indicating the very dark, dense bread his soulmate was currently spreading - no, spackling - with butter. The two were seated in the small dining area of the hotel, eating their complimentary breakfast.

“It’s called rugbrød,” Dan explained. He added a piece of cheese on top before passing it over to Phil. “It’s like pumpernickel on steroids.”

Phil took a small bite and chewed it slowly. He’d never been much of a fan of cheese, and this grainy brick-like bread wasn’t helping.

Dan smirked at him, before taking a bite out of his own piece. “Kinda gotta get used to the texture,” he explained with his mouth full, “but between this stuff and potatoes, that’s like 90% of the Danish diet right there.”

“I’m starting to think I might not be cut out for the Danish lifestyle,” Phil said. He wrinkled his nose up and carefully set the bread back on his plate. “First the bicycling dog walkers… now this.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Dan reassured. “Even my dad can’t stand rugbrød and he’s lived here seven years.” He passed Phil one of the plain white bread rolls they’d grabbed as back up.

Phil took the roll gratefully. “It’s funny, really.” He started spreading it with butter. “All my life, I just assumed that I’d end up living in Denmark. It’s weird suddenly feeling like… I dunno, like, I have a choice, I guess.”

Dan nodded thoughtfully. “Like you’re in control for once.”

“Exactly.” He added a piece of ham to his roll and took a bite. “It’s a weird feeling.” Privately, Phil wasn’t sure whether or not he liked this feeling. There was something comforting in the idea that the universe - God or whatever was up there - was looking out for him. That he was part of some greater plan.

They ate in silence for a few moments before Dan said quietly, “You know… sometimes I wonder if this whole soulmate mark business isn’t more trouble than it’s worth.”

“What do you mean?” Phil asked, looking puzzled. “If we didn’t have our marks, how could we ever be sure we’re with the right person?”

“But even with them we can’t be sure sometimes,” Dan countered. “Like my parents for instance. Both of them have ‘Hello’.”

Phil winced in sympathy. Greeting word marks were among the most common soulmate tattoos for sure - he’d had three classmates with ‘Hi’ in primary school alone.

“Nearly everyone they met was a potential candidate,” Dan went on. “They’d known each other four years before they finally decided they might be soulmates and went ahead and got married. Never really could be completely sure.” He paused and then added in a subdued tone, “I kind of think it was the uncertainty that made them split up in the end.”

Phil didn’t really know what to say to that, so he settled for making a small humming noise in his throat. Dan was looking as though he regretted adding that last part. It was understandable; due to most folk’s fervent belief in destiny, divorce was rare. The soulmate bond was something that was meant to be unbreakable.

Quietly, Dan began gathering their used plates and cups together. “It goes the other way too,” he went on after a moment. “One of my uncles… well, he and his wife were definitely soulmates. I can’t remember quite what their tattoos were but it was something completely random, to the point where there was no question they were meant to be. But after a few months, she started being really awful to him - verbally, mostly, but then sometimes she’d hit him too. And my uncle wouldn’t leave her. He said they were meant to be together and nothing should ever separate what fate had joined.” Dan paused and shook his head slowly.

Phil was floored. “But how could that happen? If they were really supposed to be soulmates, how could she treat him that way?”

There was distinct bitterness in Dan’s reply. “Yeah, well the Howell family has never had much luck with the soulmate business.”

Together, they rose from the table and started walking their dishes over to the cart in the corner. “I’m sorry,” Phil said softly. “About your family.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dan said with a shrug. “It’s not really anyone’s fault.” He inhaled deeply before adding on the exhale, so low that Phil just barely made it out, “And that’s the worst part.”

Phil’s flight back to England would be at seven that evening, so after their meal, the two made their way back to the hotel room to prepare to check out. Though they’d been chatting easily earlier in the day, Dan had stayed fairly quiet since their conversation at breakfast. He sat on the floor next to Phil, seemingly lost in thought as the other stuffed his final dirty socks into his mess of a suitcase.

“What are you thinking about?” Phil asked finally, in what he hoped was a casual voice.

“Nothing really,” Dan replied, without looking up. “Just… well it’s weird, isn’t it? To think we just met yesterday and now you’ll be leaving again.”

“Yeah, but we’ll see each other again,” Phil promised. “Once you’re back home, it’s only about a four hour train ride from my house in England to yours. And there’s always Skype.”

“I guess.” Dan sighed lightly. He noticed the corner of a t-shirt sticking out from under the bed, pulled it out, and tossed the shirt over to Phil.

Phil caught it with a grin. “Thanks.”

Dan hummed in acknowledgement, then let his gaze move back straight ahead of him. Phil started zipping the now overstuffed suitcase closed.

“I swear this all fit when I left home,” Phil grunted as he struggled.

“That’s how it always is, isn’t it?” Dan mused. He seemed to be mustering up the courage to say something. “Er… Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh…” Dan began again. “Before you leave…”

Phil paused and looked over. Dan was tugging at his shirt sleeves absently now. “I meant to say it before,” Dan went on. “But I just didn’t know the right time and then you were hurt and all wonky so I didn’t want to do it then…”

“What is it?” Phil asked. His heart was beating faster now.

“I just…” He took a deep breath, which seemed to strengthen his resolve. “It’s about my tattoo,” he blurted. “It’s…” Another breath. “It’s not like it’s…” He started again, then paused. Two breaths this time. “I didn’t exactly… “ He trailed off.

But he couldn’t seem to get the words out.

Finally, Phil spoke instead, his voice low. “It’s alright. I know.”

Dan looked surprised. “What?”

“I know, Dan,” Phil repeated softly. Abandoning the suitcase and crawling across the floor to Dan’s side, he let out a half-laugh of irony. “God knows I’ve been trying to convince myself otherwise, but I’ve known.” Now it was his turn for a breath. “We’re not really soulmates.”

In a flat voice Dan asked, “When’d you figure it out?”

“I’ve had doubts the whole time,” Phil said. “You won’t show me the mark, you look uncomfortable every time I say the word…” He smiled sadly. “I just couldn’t figure out why you’d lie about something like this.”

“But I didn’t lie…” Dan started.

Phil rolled his eyes. “Dan, c’mon. In that cafe, I flat out asked you if we were soulmates.”

“No,” Dan said quickly, “You asked I had a different tattoo. Which I don’t.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. Look, I’m sorry - I wasn’t honest. I don’t have your mark.” At Phil’s frown, Dan’s words started tumbling out even faster, as though he was scared if he didn’t let them all out at once, Phil would cut in. “But I didn’t lie - not exactly! I was watching you, because… well, because I thought you were cute and I knew I could never have anyone like you for real, and I know that makes me sound like a stalker but I swear I’m not!”

He paused for a breath before diving right in again. “Then you tripped. So I came over because I just wanted to see if you were alright, and your sunglasses were just laying there so I picked them up, but your sleeve was rolled up and your tattoo was right there. And I read it and it just fit so perfectly - like it was meant for that exact moment! And so I asked it - er det dine briller? And your eyes just lit up, and for once in my life I felt like destiny was on my side.”

“But you don’t have my mark,” Phil countered. “We don’t match. You’re meant for someone else.”

“I’m not! I’ll prove it!” Before Phil had time to register what was happening, Dan had stood up and whipped off his own t-shirt. Next came the socks. But as Dan started unbuckling his belt, Phil regained his wits.

“Whoa! What are you doing?” Phil exclaimed, throwing Dan’s shirt back at him. “Put your clothes back on!”

Dan made no attempt to catch the shirt and it fell to the floor next to him. “But don’t you see?” he asked desperately, fingers still fumbling with the buckle. “I’m nobody’s! I have no mark! Nothing! No one!”

Tears were starting to run from Dan’s red eyes down his cheeks now. His words came out thick with emotion. “The universe - God, or whoever is up there - looked at me and decided there was no one compatible with my soul. My parents thought I’d die young - maybe that would have been better than growing up knowing from the start that no one would ever love me like that!”

Phil sat frozen in shock. When a baby was born unmarked, it was always a sobering occurrence. Usually, it meant that the child would die before ever speaking their first words. One of his cousins had been unmarked and died a mere six hours after birth. But to live to be Dan’s age without a tattoo at all was unheard of.

Phil’s attention was drawn to a long, jagged scar on Dan’s otherwise unmarked torso. It started just below his ribs and stretched several inches to the top of his belly button. Dan seemed to sense Phil’s gaze. “A doctor told my parents once he had a theory it might be on the inside,” Dan said in a whisper, running his fingers over the scar. “I was seven years old when I decided I had to find it.”

Phil felt faint. “You… You did that to yourself?”

Dan nodded. “Used the pocket knife Dad got me for my birthday that year. Mum had a fit when she walked into the bathroom and found me in the middle of my little surgery.” In a lower voice, he added, “It was one of the last fights they had before they split.”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Phil stammered.

Dan laughed humorlessly. “No one ever does.” His tears had stopped just as abruptly as they’d started and he wiped them away roughly with the back of his hand.

It was a long moment before Phil spoke again, and the words came out cold. “You still lied to me.”

“And I’m not trying to get your sympathy - I swear,” Dan assured. “Just… trying to give you a reason.”

Phil let out a long exhale. Finally, he stood and moved back to the suitcase to finish zipping it. “I think I’m going to go now. I’ll get a cab to the airport. It was nice meeting you, Dan. I just… I need to think.”

“I know,” Dan whispered. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too.”

With that, Phil turned and starting walking to the door, wheeling his luggage behind him. But upon reaching the doorway, he stopped and spun around again.

“One question,” Phil demanded. “Your mark - why’d you say it was on your bum?”

Dan looked sheepish. “I panicked,” he answered simply.

Phil waited a second for an explanation, but none came.

“Alright then,” Phil said finally, the faintest hint of a smirk visible on his features. “I’ll see you around, Dan.”

And then, Phil really did leave.

It was a chilly morning in November. Dan paced the platform of the train station anxiously. The butterflies in his stomach had given up fluttering the moment the train had arrived and taken to dive-bombing his insides instead. His eyes scanned the crowd, taking in each arriving passenger as they stepped off.

It had taken Phil five days after he’d flown back to England before he’d even replied to a message, and another three after that before he’d agreed to a phone call. He’d said he needed time to think over everything, and Dan had thought that more than fair.

Now, four months and countless Skype calls later, the two were finally meeting up again. Dan spotted his friend in the crowd.

“Phil!” he cried. Dan waved an arm in the other man’s direction. Phil turned his head at the sound and broke into a grin. He pulled his backpack on and rushed over before throwing his arms around Dan and pulling him in tightly for a hug.

“Whoa,” Dan giggled, caught off guard. “What happened to ‘We’ll take it slow this time’?”

Phil shrugged. “Slow is a relative term. We’ve already slept together.”

“Platonically!” Dan argued, releasing himself. “And that was when you were convinced that fate had already given us its stamp of approval.”

“I mean, didn’t it though?” Phil asked seriously. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot the last four months. Your first words to me are tattooed on my skin. Isn’t that how this whole game works?”

“Yes but I cheated,” Dan pointed out. “I read your arm.”

Phil shrugged. “Who’s to say you weren’t destined to cheat?”

At this, Dan rolled his eyes. “Sure Phil, that’s totally how this works.”

Epilogue:

*Seven years later*

“Dan? You almost done in there? I need to shower!” Phil’s voice called from outside the bathroom door.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Dan called back to his boyfriend. Reluctantly, he began pulling up his trousers, covering the still healing script of the freshly aquired tattoo that he’d been admiring in the full length mirror. He giggled at the recollection of himself and Phil, stumbling drunk into the parlor last week, declaring they’d had the most brilliant idea ever.

His ass now agreed. “Ja, Phil,” he giggled, “du er min.”

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