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katnissmellarkkk · 4 years ago

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General #7

Hiiii! Okay, well I bet you thought I forgot about this! Or, more than likely, you forgot you even requested this back in Decemeber. But never fear, my child. I remembered and have been thinking of this fic and what to write for months.

And so I’m so sorry, I’m a total perfectionist and I started and discared like 3 ideas for this before deciding on this oneshot sooo if this sucks, I’m at least comforted by the fact that I accomplished something in writing this itself? That sentence made zero sense but... I’m tired 🤷🏼‍♀️😅.

Prompt : General # 7 :

“Is that blood?”

“Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-”

“You are literally bleeding.”

Anyways, thank you for the prompt and here we go!

Whispers Of Light

I don't know exactly how I got roped into this. How exactly Delly Cartwright, Peeta's best friend—and alright, my friend now too—managed to convince me to help her and Leevy and about three dozen other members of the community with sorting boxes.

Sorting boxes. Organizing contents. Decorating with "found treasures".

The type of activities Prim loved doing with our mother. The type of activities I refused to do after my father died, to punish my mother for her depression.

The type of activities I now kick myself for walking out on, that I'll never be able to take back. I'll never be able to get those moments back with my sister. I'll never know what those hours between her and our mother entailed, because I chose to exclude myself, just so I could hold onto my petty anger for something that was out of all our control.

Maybe that's why I agreed to help Delly and the others with sorting through boxes upon boxes of debrief, of the items that scarcely survived Twelve's bombing almost two years ago. Maybe I only agreed out of guilt, both for never doing this type of endeavor with my sister and for being the direct cause of the bombing itself.

But whatever my reasons were, I agreed to help nonetheless, and I always follow through my promises. If there was one part of me forged in the war, if only one minor aspect of me was amplified in the smoke and haze and blood of revolution, it was the importance of keeping your promises, against all odds.

The dire consequences of a broken promise has long lasting aftereffects, beyond anything either Haymitch or I wish to dwell on.

"Katniss!" Delly calls, holding up an old, half-ripped paper book that is completely void of a front cover. "Look! I think this book is from the old Apothecary Shop!"

I squint at the dusty, decimated item, not entirely convinced. "I don't think so?" I murmur, unable to even decipher the words on the now melted, conjoined pages. "I'm pretty sure my mother kept the only apothecary book in her family?"

Kanon Bagley turns to inspect the battered item in his girlfriend's hands as well. "I don't think this is a medicinal plant book, Dells," he says sheepishly, a small smirk playing on his lips.

She gives him an incredulous look. "What do you mean medicinal?"

I peer up at him too, not comprehending his meaning any more than Delly. "What kind of plants do you think are in here?" I ask, taking the nearly destroyed object myself and flipping through the worn pages again, seeing odd herbs that neither of my parents ever mentioned or had on hand. "These don't look like the poisonous ones my father told me about?"

Kanon bites back a laugh now and I can't help feeling a little perturbed. As kind and soft-spoken as he usually is, I'm foreign to the feeling of him laughing at me. "What?" Delly snaps at him before I even can.

He still chuckles though, in spite of both our nasty glares. "You guys, it's a book of plants that'll get you high."

It takes a full minute for the meaning to dawn on me. Long enough that Leevy and a couple guys I used to go to school with come over to inspect the book as well. Long enough that they confirm Kanon's assessment just as I realize we're talking about plants that'll make you feel akin to how the morphling made me feel while confined for I killing Coin.

While everyone else snickers—and Delly full on chortles—I pass the book back to Kanon, sliding out of the crowd and moving towards a brand new box of savaged items.

It's not that the mention of plant-based drugs is a trigger for me. It's not something I ever truly gave any thought to before, to be honest. My father likely knew of them but it's not like he was about to bestow that kind of knowledge on his eleven-year-old and my mother perhaps felt it was inappropriate to mention.

No, it wasn't the subject in itself that hit a sore spot for me. But like so many times before, it's where the subject led my mind. It's where the topic took me back to.

Snow's Execution Day. The day I chose to kill President Coin instead. Being thrown back into my old tribute room. Getting high on the morphling.

Trying to forget all that I'd lost. Trying to forget my little sister becoming a human torch before my very eyes. My district engulfed in flames. The ambiguous loss of my best friend.

The connection between me and Peeta that I believed then would be permanently severed. That I believed then to be irreparable.

I suppose I believed then I was irreparable too.

And I miss Peeta suddenly, even more than I already did. Because he always knows what to say when my thoughts turn dark, when I'm suddenly triggered out of the happy, every day events and suctioned backwards to a war torn bird with her wings clipped.

But he's not here to talk me down or scare away the ghosts haunting my mind. He's not here to comfort me or even shoot me a supportive glance. No, he's at his very busy business today.

Peeta's bakery—the Mellark Bakery—has only proven to withstand the test of time these past few months. Since someone accidentally burned down the place, with nothing more than a croissant and a fancy Capitol toaster, the rebuilt bakery has been nothing but a success.

And also extremely time-consuming, I grumble internally, as I begin to pull out stuffed toys that once belonged to dead children.

"If any of those are still intact, we can donate them to the community home," Leaf John says as he opens the box across from me.

"And what exactly are we supposed to be use as decorations from these boxes?" I murmur, peering into another cardboard container, full of half-charred papers and cloths.

The general idea of today, as Delly had pitched it to me last week, was to help the community of Twelve finally sort through these boxes, donate what we could to those in need and decorate the new Justice Building with the leftover contents inside.

Somehow though I can't imagine pinning up terrible drawings of plants that'll inebriate you or headless teddy bears is going to bode well with the district.

Delly rolls her eyes in my direction—a whole new kind of response that I never thought I'd be receiving from the girl who skipped through the town square until she was fourteen years old—before nodding towards boxes on top of the ladder. "We're decorating the Justice Building with the surviving photos from those boxes, Katniss."

"Oh." Then why am I sorting these grimy, dirt-covered playthings? Why didn't anyone give me more clear instructions on today?

And why has it taken almost two years for Twelve to get a group of people together to organize the surviving items from the bombing?

I have no idea how Peeta's managed to get two bakeries built in the time it's taken for thirty-eight of us to come to the Justice Building and look through fifty cardboard boxes. And if I'm being honest, I have no idea why I'm even still here helping. I'm clearly not contributing much to the event. There's definitely more than enough volunteers without me.

And, of course, I could be at the bakery right now. Without a doubt, I'd be of more service there than I am here, digging through dusty knickknacks. I could be helping Peeta and Thom and the other part-time employees, exerting more knowledge and authority than I have here.

After all, Peeta did say the bakery was partially mine. In his mind, at least.

The ulterior motive of getting small, fleeting moments with my boyfriend, of basking in the feeling of safety with him beside me, of the occasional stolen kiss or hand squeeze when no one is looking, runs through the back of my mind.

And sways my decision immensely.

I open my mouth to tell Delly and the others that I'm about to head out, that they clearly have it covered here and I'm just in the way, when at the worst possible second, Leevy kindly murmurs, "Katniss, do you mind starting on the box on the ladder? Seeing if any of the pictures are in decent enough shape?"

I hesitate for a long moment, realizing immediately my predicament. It'd be rude to leave right after someone just essentially assigned me a task. I did agree to be here today, to help out with this tedious project. Leaving right now would only come off as rude and inconsiderate.

This is the reason I never did enjoy group assignments in school. The longer I'm here, the more I'm rediscovering this fact about myself. The division of the workload, the bore of the standing around, not knowing if you're doing the right or wrong thing, the lack of total control.

But I still nod after waiting a beat too long and agree with the nicest flare in my tone I can manage.

I'll go through the one box at the top of the ladder and then subtly make my exit afterwards. The image I unintentionally conjured up of Peeta and the bakery is still pulling at me, making me anxious to get back to him, to see him again even though we were together only three hours ago.

Since we officially became a couple a few months back—though Haymitch scoffs at that notion, claiming we've been together since Peeta first started sleeping over in my bed—I've found myself growing far more clingy to him than I ever could have anticipated. I hate when he leaves for the bakery in the mornings now, even as I still revel in the solace I find inside the woods. I look forward to his return home every night. More than even look forward to it, I'm usually at the bakery around the closing hours, helping him clean and inventory, asking him when he's coming home. Maybe looking somewhat unconsciously flirtatious as I say it.

I grab the box sitting on the ladder's top stair and pull it open, easily maintaining my balance one rung down, the same way I maintain my balance on a tree branch while hunting.

Inside pours out a plethora of photographs, mostly of Twelve's now past citizens. Near the top of the pile I see images of Greasy Sae's daughter, Dolly. The mother of her granddaughter. The daughter who died of croup a few years before the war.

Those photos must belong to Sae, I realize. Which means more of her items are probably scattered throughout the boxes here. And despite the fact that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she'll tell me not of be impractical, that if she's made it two years without these things she doesn't need them now, I still make a mental note to return her lost items. If nothing else, I make a mental promise to give back to her the photos of her daughter.

I know better than anyone what kind of comfort photographs of the deceased can provide.

As if in line with my thoughts, as if I alone manifested it somehow, the next image that catches my eye is one I entirely do not anticipate.

It's a shiny photo, on the kind of glossy paper my family could never afford. In the image is a blonde man with broad shoulders and a tall build. Wrapped in his embrace stands a petite girl, with long blonde curls and mascara accentuating her already long lashes. The couple both have eyes that match the color of the sky and are dressed up in some of the nicest clothes in all of Twelve. A white dress with lace. A gray suit with a black vest. The pretty girl wears jewelry and lipstick and there's a familiar glint in the male's eyes and I find myself mesmerized.

And I can't pretend I don't see my boyfriend in both of their faces. I can't pretend Peeta isn't the spitting image of both his parents.

He has his mother's smile, I realize with startling assurance. I never saw the witch smile personally, at any point in my life so I suppose I wouldn't know where he got his charming, sweet grin from.

The mannerism looks so out of place on his mother. The kind smile Peeta has, the one that could light up a blackened sky, doesn't bode with the woman in the picture, even on her wedding day. The charming smile doesn't fit with what I know of the woman's character. With what little about her Peeta chooses to share.

But I'm even more surprised to find how much Peeta has come to resemble his father. How much Peeta has grown to favor the now deceased man.

The last time I saw the baker—the original baker, that is. Haidon Mellark—before the Quarter Quell, I resented the fact that Peeta wasn't as tall or as broad as his father. I privately believed if he'd inherited those traits, he'd be even more likely to win the games again and I could worry about him less.

Peeta was always taller than me and was always remarkably strong, after working in the bakery since childhood. But his father was a whole different level. Haidon Mellark, I'd forgotten until now, had a body that could only rival my own father's.

And as it turns out, Peeta did inherit Haidon's physicality. He just also happened to be a late bloomer. Like his mother, I imagine, staring at her tiny frame in the picture.

The change in Peeta's form occurred so gradually I barely even noticed until a couple months ago, when I woke up with my head against his heart and abruptly realized just how broad he had become. Until I couldn't even reach to kiss his jaw on my tip toe. Until he started laughing at me and had to lift me up in order to properly embrace the way I like.

"Katniss?" I hear Delly beckon, trying to bring me back to reality. Trying and failing, that is. I hear her but only in a vague, distant sense. My mind is still stuck on the image in my grasp. Still stuck on the novelty that I managed to find a remembrance for the boy who still at times questions if his memory is full of lies.

"I still cry about my family and somedays I can't even remember their faces."

I never even considered the possibility of finding a token of Peeta's departed family here. It never occurred to me, the potential finds in this box at my fingertips, that I could take home to my boyfriend. I never imagined finding him something to hold onto when the inevitable dark day came again like a storm cloud, full of thunder.

I'm so entranced what this could mean for Peeta, so lost in my own little world, that I'm barely even hanging onto the ladder. I'm definitely not as steady as I should be, standing near the top rung.

And I'm definitely not steady enough to hang on when Delly gives it a rough shake, trying to catch my attention.

The boxes break my fall. Sort of. Kanon and Leaf John had taken the liberty of placing the empty cardboard, already looked through and emptied, beneath the ladder.

Falling headfirst into a large, void box is better than falling plainly onto the filthy, concrete tile floor. But not ideal. Not as helpful as falling into a box of surviving clothes or toys would have been.

Delly apologized profusely for shaking the ladder. She'd even begun to cry when she noticed the blood seeping from my forehead.

Thankfully Kanon was there, as I didn't have the energy to console her much. I don't even know how I managed to cut my head at all, but it stung a fair amount and it provided me the excuse I wanted minutes prior, to escape the group project and head for the bakery.

Even after the fall, my mind still was cemented on the newfound treasure. My first instinct was still to show this memento to Peeta as soon as possible.

Kanon though, like a good friend, insisted on walking me home, despite my many protests that it was unnecessary, that I was just fine, that I could walk home blind if I had to. He insisted, foiling my intention to walk directly to the bakery and not wait for Peeta's return home, which still remained hours away.

Kanon was surprisingly stubborn when he felt strongly about something and I chose to relent, to give in and allow him to accompany me back to what used to be Victor's Village—where he now resided with Delly, inside Peeta's old home—without much fight.

Fighting for your independence and autonomy doesn't exactly present you as rational when there's a bloody gash in your forehead.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Kanon asks as we make out way up my porch.

I look up, maybe a little startled, from Mr. and Mrs. Mellark's wedding photo. "My head?"

"Yeah," he says carefully, looking at the blood like it's a mutt in an arena.

I shrug, doing my best not to indicate how dizzy I actually feel. Either from the fall or the blood still dripping out despite my attempt to plug the wound up with old cotton rags someone sorted into the trash box. "I've had worse."

He chuckles, a little sardonically. "Yeah, so have I."

I thank him for walking me home—for it was as inconvenient as it was sweet—and close the door slowly behind me, before leaning my ear against the wooden frame, waiting. Waiting for him to climb the steps down from my porch and make his way back to the Justice Building. Waiting for him to be far enough out of sight that I can sneak back out without him also trying to accompany me to the bakery.

It's not that I don't appreciate Kanon and Delly and all of my other friends' concerns. It's the fact that I wish to bestow a likely loaded item upon my boyfriend and I really don't need an audience to do it.

It's not the easiest feat, to slyly time it so Kanon won't hear me opening and shutting my front door again. And it's probably not my smartest plan, to walk alone along the rocky cobblestones and the uneven concrete, with a less than level head and body.

But I make it to the back door of the bakery still, just as I knew I would. It takes three times as long, but I make it there nonetheless.

Still clutching the photograph of his parents between my fingers too. Still with the same primary focus on my mind. To give him a token of remembrance, a token of the imperfect family he lost so tragically, that he still greatly missed, even when he can't say their names. Even when he can't conjure up their faces.

"You don't remember your family?"

"Sometimes I do... I'm not so sure other days. My memory isn't exactly top notch, if you know what I mean."

I push open the heavy-weighted back door, using all the energy my body can muster up. To my relief, Thom is already in the back room, sweeping flour off the floor.

"Hi, boss," he greets slyly as I walk in, barely glancing up at me. I shoot him an over-the-top eye roll, though I can't help smirking myself at the stupid nickname, when he beckons Peeta. "Hey, your girl is here!" He yells loudly. Too loudly to be packed with customers at the counter.

I take that to mean the daily rush has come and gone. Which would be very convenient, as it means I can present Peeta with my finding that much faster, without having to worry about his business—or our business, as he teasingly calls it—being held up.

I hear the sound of my boyfriend's quiet laughter from the front. The sound that I akin to my father's singing or my sister's squeal of delight. The last sound still alive that can make my heart do a flip.

But it dies out the second he peaks his blonde head into the back room. The moment his baby blues, the same color as both his parents', meet my silver ones and then trail upwards.

Almost as if remembering the gash in my head, I reach to my forehead, to ensure the makeshift cloth bandage is still in place.

"Katniss?" Peeta says, his eyes looking far more nervous than I anticipated. Which I can only take to mean the red liquid has seeped through the plain fabric. "Is that blood?"

I don't want him to focus too heavily on that fact though. Like I told Kanon, I've had much worse injuries in my life. Me and Peeta both have.

Just look at his prosthetic leg.

"Yes," I reply easily, before moving closer to him, pushing the glossy photograph towards him. "But that doesn't matter right now. What does matter is-"

"You are literally bleeding."

I sigh, feeling slightly perturbed now. "Peeta, look," I insist, thrusting the image of his parents towards him, waiting for it to take anchor.

And it does. It takes a beat longer than I expect, but it happens nonetheless. I watch silently as the image captives him, as the shiny photograph takes him back to a time when this exact location was the only home he'd ever known and this business was run by the two people inside the picture.

He touches the photo, as if to test it's realism, before looking up at me in disbelief. "Where did you find this?"

"The Justice Building today. Inside the boxes, with all the things lost in the bombing."

There's a long pause as Peeta process this. The silence makes me antsy, finding myself abruptly uncertain of what could be going through his mind.

Finally, he whispers softly, "I never thought I'd see this picture again."

And the awed, tender smile that spreads across his face swiftly encompasses me in its warmth.

And I suddenly don't even feel the gash in my head anymore.

Read The Rest On AO3

#everlark #thg #the hunger games #everlark fics #fanfic #everlark fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #play with me 🥰

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teddyylou · 3 years ago

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FLASHOVER: Klance - teddyylou

Post-mission hurt/comfort klance. Enjoy xx

“You really can’t come out of one day without a new purple mark on you, can you?” Lance called behind to Keith, his hand intertwined with his, hastily leading him over to a table in the observatory to tend to his bruises.

They were probably better off in the hospital wing, but everyone was still buzzing from the mission, giving everyone else a look over to make sure each team member was still intact. They liked it better when it was just them. Lance had stocked up a storage compartment by the lounges with some first aid, so that they could look at the stars and just sit with each other, alone, out of the way of anyone else’s gaze. They could process the fact that they’d lived to see each other another day, in peace.

Lance smiled as he helped Keith sit up on the table, eyes bright and tone casual and chipper, pretending that he didn’t tremble as he opened the first aid kit, or that he didn’t almost drop the box of band-aids he picked up.

Keith did the same: He pretended it didn’t hurt his back to sit up, and that he wasn’t completely and utterly exhausted both physically and emotionally. It had been a rough battle, they’d both been scared beyond their wits, but for the moment they could set it aside and purport the idea that everything was fine.

“It’s my body itching to be Galra, what can I say,” Keith shrugged, a giddy smirk on his lips as sarcasm bled into his words. Lance sighed a laugh.

“No, it’s you being impulsive and you can say sorry?” Lance’s tone was still upbeat for the sake of their juvenile ritual, but the seriousness of his words weighed down on Keith’s aching shoulders. Lance really wasn’t alright, even if they both were pretending not to know it.

“We won, no one got hurt,” Keith assured him. Lance raised a brow. Instead of retorting, he jabbed a finger into Keith’s rib, casing an immediate jerk reaction from his boyfriend who slapped his hand away. Lance pressed his lips into a think line pointedly. Keith stared back for a moment.

“No one got badly hurt,” He corrected. He could feel the weight of reality weighing down heavier, but it was easier for the both of them to ignore it for a little while longer. They were both so drained from the fight, it was better to keep up the loving banter, shovelling the dread off to future Keith and Lance. Lance rolled his eyes with a huff, eager to let it go for the moment as well.

Lance sponged a disinfectant wipe over Keith’s cheek before placing a band-aid on his wound, a small cut under his eye. He shook his head to himself, breathing out frustrated words under his breath that he didn’t let Keith hear as he used another part of the wipe to sop up the blood that had dried under Keith’s split lip.

Lance stood back and thought for a second, he tugged his lip to the side as if to shrug saying, ‘can’t put a band-aid on that’. So instead, Lance leaned down, offering a warm smile before pecking Keith’s bottom lip gently. He relaxed his shoulders as he stood. ‘All better’.

Lance placed his palms flat to the table, one either side of Keith’s legs. He looked down for a second, eyes darting back and forth, the previous few hours swimming in his head so impactfully Keith could almost pinpoint what part of the mission he was reliving. “You didn’t have to jet off away from the group though,” Lance told him. His voice was suddenly dull, gently being drowned out by the growing feeling of tension building up in the small space between them. Electrical currents zapped around in the mere foot that separated their faces. It was still a quiet hum, but it was also them. The dull roar was almost at its tipping point, like the muffled speaker of a house party that would become clear if someone just opened the door.

“I knew I would have him if I just pushed red to full speed, I had to take the chance,” Keith explained, his tongue the wistful hand that turned the knob.

“Yeah well, we couldn’t see you,” Lance shouted suddenly, his voice dark and deep as he slammed his hands down on the table where they laid. Keith jumped a little where he sat, not expecting the outburst. They were usually pretty good at keeping their cool until they settled their object permanence. Lance took a breath, closing his eyes in silent agreement. They were not about to fight. “Are you feeling okay?” He asked, voice calmer, quivering slightly, eyes darting to all the bruises he was yet to rub Altean healing cream into.

Keith could feel the tension under his voice like it was lacing his throat, sticking to each word as it passed but not quite willing to bubble over again. It was a really stressful battle when it could have been easy. They hadn’t been prepared. Keith knew how scared Lance got when they weren’t prepared.

They were best as a team when they all knew exactly what they had to do, saving some room for someone, usually Keith, to break line for some improvisation. He could see it in the tight miosis of Lance’s pupils, small with bright piercing blue irises showing like he was shell-shocked. Lance was angry at him. Very angry. And he probably deserved it too. But right now, they both just wanted to be close.

“Yeah, the hand-to-hand left me a little dusty though,” Keith said casually, not wanting to alarm Lance any further, attempting a last-ditch effort to lull the unrest back to sleep.

“Let me see your wrist,” Lance said flatly.

“My wrist is fine.”

“Let me see it…” he repeated sternly. “I told you to keep the brace on for longer.”

Keith hesitated but reluctantly held his hand out to Lance. The brunet took it gently and Keith watched intently as he pressed down on different parts carefully. He was afraid of another flashover. He never used to let people help him, scared to show people that he needed it. But Lance was so kind and understanding. He made things feel less serious than they were. But that spark of trust could ignite a conversation to come alive. The delicate circuits they kept insulated under layers of irony, momentarily grounded by the emotional charge of tension. They’d get heated like they always did. They’d fight. Keith didn’t want another chance to lose him.

Lance trailed the pads of his fingers up over Keith’s palms to prod the centre of his wrist joint. Keith flinched, feeling the pain shoot straight up his arm like a jolt of electricity. The sudden movement pulled a hiss from him as his entire forearm was encased in pain. It was silent for a moment

“You just don’t listen, do you?” Lance looked up at him from where his head hung, depleted. There it was, the flashover. He wasn’t yelling anymore but his tone was so cold Keith would have preferred it if he’d gotten heated. He’d rather be screamed at by Lance than have to stare into his eyes as the truth settled in that Keith had lied to him, to everybody.

“I tell you,” Lance pushed himself off the bench to pace on the floor in front of Keith. His hands were clenched tight like he was trying not to punch something. “I tell you every. Single. Time. Keith. Don’t push yourself or you’ll be out of commission and no help to anybody, but you just don’t listen. It’s like my words don’t even matter!” Keith winced, he sounded exasperated.

Keith drops his eyes to his lap. They do. You know they do,” he grumbled, face red hot with shame and trepidation.

“Yeah, right,” Lance muttered as he came to a stop in front of Keith again, catching his wrist before he can pull it away. He took some bandages and began to strap the injured limb. Keith felt the heat in his face subside a little. Even when furious, Lance still took care of him, still showed him he loved him.

“Listen… You have to take better care of yourself. If not for you, then for the team. For me. So I know that you aren’t going to get hurt, the kind of hurt we can’t just fix.” Lance went on as he wrapped another layer of bandage, pulling it securely tight. “Look, I know you’re reckless, that’s you and I have learned to love you for it. You like to have a stab,” he even laughed a little. “But being reckless is about not knowing if you can do something and trying it. That’s basically how we run in Voltron. But when you know you can’t do something then doing it anyway isn’t reckless, it’s stupid. You are human Keith, even if it’s only half. You have limits and it’s okay to not be able to do everything. You have to stop this silly one-man team bullshit. You could hurt yourself and get in some sort of trouble that I can’t pull you out of.”

Lance took a deep breath, finishing his work. “I can’t lose you, Keith.” And the fighting was done, the banter was done. The pretending was over as Keith pulled Lance into a desperate kiss, afraid to ever let him go again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered against his boyfriend’s lips. They ended up on the floor against the table, sitting side by side to look at the stars and revel in the aftersome of the war. How they ended up loving each other so much.

Keith was astonished to think of the bizarre sequence of accidents that brought them to that moment—as if he’d spent years bouncing down a Plinko pegboard, passing through a million harmless decisions, any one of which might’ve changed everything. It made that moment feel so impossible.

“You know, it’s 5 pm home in Texas, all the cadets would be heading down to the mess hall, classes and training done for the day. Life was so easy when you didn’t have to think about it,” he said, almost in disbelief that he’d ever been one of those cadets in this lifetime.

“It’s 4 pm in Havana,” Lance replied.

“Hmm,” Keith hummed, “happy hour.” Lance snorted at that, shrugging as he opened another storage compartment in the table. He pulled out two beers, handing one ice-cold brew to Keith before uncapping his own.

“Always past noon somewhere.”

#klance #laith #keith kogane #lance mcclain #klance fic #klance art #vld #voltron #voltron legendary defender #vld fic #vld art #klangst #hurt and comfort #klance fluff #klance au #klance drabble #teddywrites

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mortallyclearwonderland · 3 years ago

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Star Wars Alien Species - Nazren

The Nazren originated on Nizon, a planet in the Centares system. They were a very ancient species, and had not changed much over a million years as of around 119 BBY. Nizon was originally a lush and verdant planet with plentiful water. Not lacking for anything, the Nazren engaged in warfare and hunting of their own people for sport. However, a collision between a nearby planet and an unknown celestial body caused Nizon to move closer to the sun and threw off its axial tilt, altering its climate dramatically.

Due to the resulting population decline, warfare became taboo, and the Nazren formed small family groups that largely practiced underground agriculture rather than hunting. Over time, offworlders - mostly miners hoping to exploit rich veins of minerals found on Nizon - began to settle alongside the Nazren, who did not object to sharing their homeworld. However, when the Galactic Empire arrived, they upended the traditional Nazren way of life by rounding up entire tribes, relocating them, and shipping them away as slaves.

At first the Nazren were largely unable to resist, but as time passed their anger increased. Ultimately, a rebel leader named Sartok organized the Nizon Resistance and, with the help of anti-Imperial fighters from offworld, was able to drive the Empire from the planet. Nazren culture was deeply changed by this experience, and many Nazren began building permanent structures and learning about planetary politics and self-governance, concepts which had until that time been largely foreign to them.

Nazren placed great importance on family, and usually lived in semi-nomadic family groups or larger tribes. They practiced a democratic system within each tribe, with every adult given an equal voice on all decisions, though the voices of elders were greatly respected. Because Nazren tended to debate the merits of all sides of any issue, their decision-making was slow, and they were often seen as lacking initiative. Once every two years, all tribes met to discuss trade and work out problems that affected all Nazren.

Because of the harshness of their planet, Nazren tended to believe that material things were impermanent, and did not expect them to last. Due to a belief that they had been punished for decadence and violence in their distant past, their culture was pacifistic. They were also patient and dispassionate, to the point that very few initially resisted when the Galactic Empire began enslaving them. However, the value they placed on their freedom and on justice eventually overwhelmed this tendency, leading to rebellion.

After the Galactic Empire was repelled from Nizon, Nazren culture changed radically. Because so many elders, who were traditionally the voices of leadership, had been killed, many traditions were challenged. Further, forced relocation of Nazren tribes had led to mingling of tribes that did not usually interact, creating new genetic diversity. Nazren began to become interested in permanent structures, such as defenses and navigational arrays. This led to increased settlement in the planet's lone city, Ahdjok.

Nazren were a large, bipedal sentient species comparable in size to Wookiees, though they had broader shoulders and narrower hips. Their thick, resilient skin ranged in color from brown to light yellow, which served as natural camouflage on Nizon's dusty surface. Their heads were flat and noseless, with a prominent brow ridge to protect their eyes. Their spines were visible from behind, and were accentuated by small knobs that began at the backs of their heads.

Nazren had short legs relative to their height, but their arms were long, and tended to swing low to the ground as they walked. Well-adapted to their harsh homeworld, they were physically strong and hardy, but not quick or graceful. These traits made them targets of slavers, as they were considered ideal laborers.

A typical Nazren stands at 2.1 meters or 6.9 feet tall and weighs 85 kilograms or 187 pounds.

Nazrens age at the following stages:

1 - 15 Child

16 - 30 Young Adult

31 - 200 Adult

201 - 275 Middle Age

276 - 350 Old

Examples of Names: Karzen, Martook, Naktok, Razmor, Sartok.

Languages: Nazren speak their own droning tongue of Narzen, and most learn Basic at a young age.

#star wars #star wars species #star wars aliens #Nazren #star wars Nazren

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jordankennedy · 4 years ago

Text

for people who asked about me knowing corruption avatars when i was a kid:

ok so when i was in middle school i had these two friends named peter and malia that were like. christ. im having trouble putting into words how massively weird these two twelve year olds were. i knew them for three years sixth grade to eighth grade and they were the most disgusting kind of friends in such a way where if you were also friends with them you were like absolutely 100% stone cold sure that they were not romantically interested in each other but if youd never met them or if youd only met one of them you would INSTANTLY think thats what it was, if that makes sense? but also they were literally NEVER more than ten feet away from each other and they were always touching each other but they were like….VITRIOLIC about it. theyd like…pull each others hair and lick each other and do the grossest shit imaginable in front of and to each other like they were mean as shit but it was their weird fucked up creepy way of joking? i remember so vividly one time in seventh grade malia ate like 20 sour hard candies and peeled a layer of skin off of her tongue and put it on peter’s arm and he just did not even care did not give a shit at ALL and actually i think thats what made me realize that the two of them were legitimately grade A insane. anyway the point is that they were just objectively creepy people but i stayed friends w them bc they were only ever mean to each other like they were actually cool and nice to hang with they just always seemed to toe the line between extremely disturbingly intimate and insular friendship and complete utter hatred with each other and they were also just kind of mildly gross? not enough to like, bring up to teachers or anything but just enough to be unsettling. they would keep earthworms and dirt and dusty rocks in their pockets. peter always seemed to have a cold, even after allergy season. malia’s locker smelled awful and had an ant colony in it in the spring of eighth grade that was not there at the beginning of the school year—i found out later that she specifically would buy fruit at lunch and keep it in her locker on purpose until it rotted. they both always had dirt under their nails and muddy shoes and messy hair. and i remember all of this in such perfect detail because i committed both peter and malia to my permanent memory when at the very end of eighth grade like HALF the middle school got sick (i was lucky enough not to but my mom did and most of my friends. it wasnt a serious illness just like a minor little sneezy bug) and after everyone i knew that had been sick got better i just.... never saw peter and malia again. they were not related at all and looked nothing alike (although they...MIGHT have been adopted sibs??? idk??? they had different last names so, not likely) so i find it very hard to believe that they both moved at the same time. but they just fucking vanished after the summer. literally neither me nor any of my friends ever saw them again. to this day i still have no idea what happened to them but i think they might have been manifestations of the corruption. and the thing is they werent even like...specifically bad people. i actually liked them a lot malia was a really good artist and peter would always help me with my math homework its just that they were *just* gross enough and had *just* weird enough of a relationship with each other to be extremely unsettling people PLUS I NEVER SAW THEM AGAIN AFTER THERE WAS AN OUTBREAK IN MY TOWN???? HELLO???? THEY JUST FUCKING VANISHED!!!!

this is so. i feel like it SOUNDS like im making this up but im literally not i just remember it all perfectly bc it was just so goddamn odd. one time they stayed over at my house over spring break and i asked them if they wanted to use the shower and they just looked at me like i had three eyes. malia specifically was the one with the bugs. i actually went to summer camp with them between sixth and seventh grade and they had a big huge sort of zoo there that was just for insects and reptiles and malia would let the giant cockroaches and queen wasps and tarantulas and salamanders crawl all over her and the things seemed to LOVE her. like id hold the bugs whatever but they like. without exception would actively try to climb onto either malia or the counselor that usually handled them if they were next to me. like they were just fucking greasy and weird and obsessed with each other and bugs would show up and people would get sick where they were and then they just literally up and vanished right before i turned fourteen they were the oddest people ive ever known

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imaginetheending · 4 years ago

Text

Vacant Chapter 1 Preview

Here is a preview of Vacant chapter 1. To read the rest go to: https://www.wattpad.com/story/254655449-vacant-the-devil%27s-son

Chapter 1

It's hot outside.

Blood and dead bodies occupy the only decent shade. A trail of blood leads to the forest. It's created by Scouts dragging soldiers away by the straps of their boots. Grains of sand are crushed under Rapture's feet as they shift in the sand. He's been acting off since that morning, thinking of something else.

"Where did the furniture come from?" I ask.

In front of us, under the second floor of a three hundred year old building, sits worn down, used dressers, cabinets, and beds against broken and crumbled down walls.

"Probably from one of the traders" he responds.

One of the traders…

I'm impressed. All I own is a rusty mattress and a romance novel I kept when I was captured. These people managed to sneak in an entire dining room set with a working kitchen and chairs. Whoever did this has to work for Imports.

"I want you to come with me," Rapture says suddenly, dragging his fingers over the sides of his mouth.

Rapture is quite scary when you first meet him. His head is shaped like a human skull with hard features extruding from the back. His eyeballs are black just like mine, but he has golden lizard-like irises. After you get to know him, tough, he has a charm. A very sarcastic charm.

Without another word, he starts walking off. Adjusting my gun, I follow him. Angel does, too. The gear makes it hard to tell the difference between us. The only way to identify a Scout is by our bodies. Each species has a different body structure. Especially the legs. Since Angel is the same species as me, we have very similar forms. We both have thick female legs with no feet and big Canals. Compared to humans, our torsos are quite masculine.

Apparently, my big identifier is hips. I have thick thighs. It's true. I can crush a man's head between them, but the observation still feels somewhat perverse. Soldiers make similar comments towards Angel.

Lieutenant Bade, Angel, and I are Rapture's bodyguards. We follow the General around while he does his duties. It's not the most exciting job in the world, but Rapture is the best swordsman on the planet. No one messes with him. It is a safe, cushion position compared to the conditions other soldiers lived in.

"Angel, could you leave us? I want to talk to Siren alone," Rapture says.

We both look at each other. Angel steps back, not sure what to do. It takes a second for him to join the other Scouts.

I follow Rapture into the forest. After a while, it becomes grey. The pale, thin trees cover the bright sky. We walk for hours back to a part of camp I have never seen before. This is dangerous, I thought, for the two of us to be out here alone. However, whatever part of the forest this is, no one visited.

In the distance I see a small wooden cabin between an assortment of tree trunks. It has to belong to a General. No one else is allowed housing. The lights are off for the dusty building, though. We keep walking for another ten minutes, and arrive at an even bigger house -- a small, one bedroom home. Just like the rest of the planet, the exterior looks like old, American human architecture. On RubenDies, you can probably find a house like this for super cheap in a bad part of town, but here -- well, I have never seen anything like it.

Rapture grabs the door handle and yanks it open. The door stutters releasing dust and plant pores into the air. I am careful to breathe it in. He enters.

Dark inside, I can barely see the living room from the front door. Cautiously, I step inside. A thick smell overwhelms me. It's not a bad smell, but it's potent. Like someone lived here for a long time.

Both the living room and kitchen are small. Sun seeps through the closed blinds onto a rusty, old pale, orange refrigerator. The cabinets are dirty -- crusted. A small wooden dining table sits in front of it. There are more than one chair. Multiple people live here. Lived here -- I should say.

"Where are we?" I ask.

Rapture doesn't respond. He just walks between the dining room and living room towards a bedroom in the back. It's the only thing that lit up the hallway. My footsteps are unbelievably heavy on the wooden floors. I don't think Scouts are intended to be in here. The bedroom itself feels frozen in time. Nothing has been touched in years. There are still dirty clothes laying on a white bed sitting in the center of the room. Dust has collected on all of the wooden furniture. There's a couple nightstands and a dresser.

I'm scared to touch anything.

This doesn't bother Rapture at all. He grabs one of the drawers and opens it. After rummaging around, Rapture pulls out a stack of thick, white, plastic paper. He gives them to me, and I realize they're photos. Very small, rectangle photos. Each one is stained with dirt and muck. It's hard to tell what they consist of. The helmet makes it even harder. Rapture talks to me as I look through them, my eyes trying to make out vague shapes and sizes.

Each one shows a very attractive, young man that's the same species as me.

Most of the species outside of the Milky Way don't have names. We found no reason. It wasn't until the Human Reformation that it changed. Humans got confused by our lack of categorization, and decided to introduce a naming system. So, for clarity sake, I'll call our species BSBE.

The young man sits on a hotel bed, arched forward. A gaudy, geometric tattoo covers his sickly, gray, toned back. There are dog tags hanging from his neck. In each photo he is wearing different tank tops. In this one, it's white.

"Zerethus had a son. He escaped ten years ago," Rapture explains.

Oh, I see. I know who Zerethus's son is. Who didn't? The female camp whispered daily about him after his escape. By the time I made it to the male camp, the rumors had died down, however. All I know is that Cain isn't liked very much, and that he is permanent with most of the female camp.

In the second photo, he sits in a swimming pool, shirtless. It's at a wealthy establishment. The orange walls of the fancy hotel reflect off the blue, crystal water. It gave some color to Cain's dull skin.

"Zerethus has been looking for him ever since," Raptures continues as I shift to the next photo.

Cain is smoking a cigarette. He is maybe twelve or thirteen years old. A train of smoke trails to the sky. His expression is calm. Happy.

"I want you to find him before Zerethus does," he says.

My hand freezes. I heard his words clearly, but stammer.

"You want me to find Cain," I ask confused.

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

When the soldiers brought me to Edeon, they asked me for my gender. Stupidly, I said female, and was thrown into the female camp. From that day on, my life was shit until I got kicked out. Edeon doesn't like women. They never did, and my presence in female housing left a mark. Everyone knows I lived there. Everyone remembers.

I want to object. Ask him questions.

"No, sir," I respond instead, cowardly.

I would send anyone on this mission but me. The Generals are some of the best fighters in the galaxy. They're trained to search and find targets. As a Scout, I am also trained to do this as well, but I am nowhere near as talented. Finding Cain would be a high profile mission. Only the best of the best would be put on it. I am not the best.

Send Dante. Or Felix. Or Moon. Angel. Reaper. Hades. Pain. Cerberus. Vnux. Serpen. Dalen. Gabriel. Michael. Archer. Rion. Tarli Nobi. Th'Aman. Brani. Xani. Kreniea. A'Zule. Feri/ Q'Urlid. Achan. Meni.

Literally anyone but me.

"Who is my lieutenant?" I ask.

Every soldier gets a lieutenant when sent off the planet. They watch over the group. Make sure everything goes according to plan. If he picked anyone to go with me, he would pick Bade. Bade is pretty good. He'd make up for my lack of skill.

"You are," he obviously lies.

My mouth falls open, "What?"

No, I wasn't. This is the biggest bullshit I have ever heard. First of all, there hasn't been a new lieutenant in over ten years. Second, the only women of power on Edeon are Lieutenant Reaper and General Mourning. No one even knows how they got promoted. Third, if I was promoted, I would be promoted by Zerethus himself. So, something is very fishy.

Rapture cups his hands, and smiles.

"The mission is simple. Give Cain a message. The Devil is looking for his son. He wants to cut off his wings. He'll know what that means."

"Where is he?" I ask.

I remember that I still have the photos dangling in my hands. While he continues, I look at the next one. Now, Cain has his arm draped over Angel's opal, white shoulders. Huh. That's weird. In our species' culture we don't touch each other, but they seem chummy. Either Cain is straight as fuck or they were in a relationship. Bold for him to have this photo as a part of his collection. All homosexuals get killed on this planet. There isn't a warning. It happens suddenly, and mercilessly.

"The Luminary. He works for an agency called The Eye. Goes by Hayze Redborn. Was put on a mission recently to find an Alex Hall. Code name Aex. He's a super hacker."

Cain is butt naked in the next photo. It's in the same room as we are standing in now. He's maybe eighteen. Every detail of his muscles subtly defined, his body is gorgeous. Due to the pose, and moody lighting, this is definitely a selfie. Luckily, the photo cuts off at his penis, but you can still see the top of the shaft. I laugh. Why would you take a photo like this on Edeon? We don't have Be-book. There are no dating profiles or blog posts.

"If you catch Aex, Hayze may follow," Rapture says.

The last photo is the worst. It's just his dick.

This guy took a dick pic.

I roll my eyes. How many women did he try to show this to? Knowing his reputation, he probably sent this to multiple. It's girthy. Long. Blood rushes under his skin creating purple. His skin is smooth. There are only a few faint veins. The top is round and soft. There is no color difference between the tip of his penis and the base, outside of some discoloration. He has a pretty penis. I have to give him that.

"Siren," Rapture scolds venomously and grabs the photo from my hand. He rips it in pieces and then slams it into the dresser.

Oh, shit.

I don't think he knew that was in there.

My hand hangs loosely from where the photo once was. Scared, eyes fixating on him, he's mad. After a moment, he brings his hand to his face and makes a loud sigh. He takes out another sheet of paper from his pocket. This one looked like it was printed off an old printer. It's very faded. It is a much more recent picture of Cain. Cain is much older, and worn down. In the old photos, he is vibrant and active. Here he is dead inside.

His skin is a very healthy baby blue. The black that consumed his eyeballs is clear, and not glossy. A couple other things are off about his appearance, but otherwise Hayze and Cain are identical. Over his shoulders he wore a deep, aqua blue coat. It had a very nice, faintly, shiny, textured material. Under it, he wore a black shirt similar to the ones he wore when he was younger. His dog tags could be seen through his fabric.

Behind him, a short, gray-ish brown overweight being stands at a podium wearing a nice, trim suit. His species is a cousin of Rapture's. They look very similar, but this species has more than two eyes. The overweight being has the appearance of a government official. A banner hangs behind him. It's a symbol I feel like I should recognize.

"What happens after I tell him the message?" I ask.

"Protect Cain with your life," he remarks. To continue reading go to: https://www.wattpad.com/story/254655449-vacant-the-devil%27s-son

#vacant #writing #writeblr #scifi #science fiction

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tranquilitybasehotelcasino · 5 years ago

Note

so were you ever gonna tell us about going to school with avatars of the corruption?

OH yeah i almost forgot. ok so when i was in middle school i had these two friends named peter and malia that were like. christ. im having trouble putting into words how massively weird these two twelve year olds were. i knew them for three years sixth grade to eighth grade and they were the most disgusting kind of friends in such a way where if you were also friends with them you were like absolutely 100% stone cold sure that they were not romantically interested in each other but if youd never met them or if youd only met one of them you would INSTANTLY think thats what it was, if that makes sense? but also they were literally NEVER more than ten feet away from each other and they were always touching each other but they were like….VITRIOLIC about it. theyd like…pull each others hair and lick each other and do the grossest shit imaginable in front of and to each other like they were mean as shit but it was their weird fucked up creepy way of joking? i remember so vividly one time in seventh grade malia ate like 20 sour hard candies and peeled a layer of skin off of her tongue and put it on peter’s arm and he just did not even care did not give a shit at ALL and actually i think thats what made me realize that the two of them were legitimately grade A insane. anyway the point is that they were just objectively creepy people but i stayed friends w them bc they were only ever mean to each other like they were actually cool and nice to hang with they just always seemed to toe the line between extremely disturbingly intimate and insular friendship and complete utter hatred with each other and they were also just kind of mildly gross? not enough to like, bring up to teachers or anything, but just enough to be unsettling. they would keep earthworms and dirt and dusty rocks in their pockets. peter always seemed to have a cold, even after allergy season. malia’s locker smelled awful and had an ant colony in it in the spring of eighth grade that was not there at the beginning of the school year—i found out later that she specifically would buy fruit at lunch and keep it in her locker on purpose until it rotted. they both always had dirt under their nails and muddy shoes and messy hair. and i remember all of this in such perfect detail because i committed both peter and malia to my permanent memory when at the very end of eighth grade like HALF the middle school got sick (i was lucky enough not to but my mom did and so did most of my friends. it wasnt a serious illness just like a minor little sneezy bug) and after everyone i knew that had been sick got better i just.... never saw peter and malia again. they were not related at all and looked nothing alike (although they...MIGHT have been adopted sibs??? idk??? they had different last names so, not likely) so i find it very hard to believe that they both moved at the same time. but they just fucking vanished after the summer. literally neither me nor any of my friends ever saw them again. to this day i still have no idea what happened to them but i think they MIGHT have been manifestations of the corruption? they were just gross and weird and obsessed with each other and attracted bugs and got people sick and then they just up and vanished

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bunnyhanasong · 4 years ago

Text

Brainwashed

Chapter 3 of Foolish Girl

☆ Chapter 1 ☆ Chapter 2 ☆ AO3

Main ship: widowtracer

Notes: Hello all! I am so sorry I abandoned this book since November. I have been struggling with a lot due to the pandemic and my own life, so I got sidetracked and also had major writers block. I do hope this chapter makes up for it. We get to see a side of our favourite assassin in a new light, which may help explain her actions in previous chapters.

Content Warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons and injuries, canon-typical violence and the works, Reaper (he deserves his own warning 😂)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Widowmaker pushed herself off the lumpy, Talon issued cot. The thing was barely considered a bed, no pillow to aid in comfort or posture, with only a thin blanket that scratched roughly at her skin. Still, Widowmaker couldn’t complain; it’s not like she felt the cold anyway. She also didn’t often rest, it just wasn’t necessary anymore, so the cot was mostly a formality.

She looked around her chamber with distaste, forgetting just how drab the whole place was. Her room in Talon always felt like a prison cell, with cement walls and floor and a broken door leading to a small bathroom. There was no personality to the room, the walls were bare and the only sign of life was her hairbrush discarded on the dresser and her own presence. The dresser contained training uniforms and various recreations of her Talon catsuit, an illogical outfit choice for battle but she could not argue. She was just a machine, an object; her opinion did not matter.

She collected her hairbrush and an elastic off the dresser, crossing the chamber to enter the bathroom. She stood in front of the dusty mirror, observing her own reflection in distaste. Her hair was down, something that occurred only when she slept, tumbling over her shoulders in a blue-black mess. Her skin was more pale than usual, it’s blue hue making her seem sickly. What didn’t help was the considerable bruises blooming on her face, highlighting the permanent dark circles under her eyes from the treatments that turned her into Widowmaker.

The bruises, she noted with an eye roll, were Reaper’s gift to her. “A gift,” he said, since she had been so disobedient. She did not off the Oxton girl when given a chance, she directly disobeyed orders and spoke back to her superior. That was asking for punishment, he explain, before landing a calculated punch to her face. Widowmaker had barely flinched at the contact, though the force of it sent her reeling backwards. With a few more hits Reaper ended up breaking her nose and leaving her with a particularly angry bruise across her cheekbone.

Moira had chastised her as she reset her nose and healed it with her scientific magic that Widowmaker would never understand. The older woman was not unkind to her, not directly, she was just cold. The scientist had no empathy in her body, purely apathetic and focusing only on the medical aspect of everything. She only fixed Widow because she was Moira’s creation, her guinea pig; a broken machine cannot function properly. She told Widowmaker that angering Reaper was a mistake, as if it wasn’t obvious, and the French woman had best smarten up. She could have healed her bruises as she fixed her broken bone in mere minutes, but left it as a reminder of her disobedience. A warning that she may not be so lucky next time.

With a huff at the memory, Widowmaker began to run the brush through her hair. She let her mind wander as she worked the knots from her inky blue locks. She wasn’t allowed to let herself to have idle thought, as she was only supposed to think what was put into her head, but no one was there to stop her this time. As she pulled her hair back into its signature ponytail, she let her thoughts fall on a particularly hyper Brit.

Tracer was someone that annoyed Widowmaker to no end. Her constantly giggling and flashing around like a mosquito she could never kill was irritating beyond belief. The sniper had wanted to kill her on multiple occasions, and had the chance almost every time, but she never pulled the trigger. She wasn’t sure why, since she only ever felt truly alive after a kill. Getting rid of Lena would cross a pest off her list and make her job a hell of a lot easier, yet there was something in her mind screaming to keep the girl alive.

With her hair finished, Widowmaker went back to her room to collect her training uniform. She hated wearing her mission suits and, though her superiors preferred her to be mission ready at all times, she would only don her catsuit when absolutely necessary. She saw the way the other agents sneered at her, no doubt objectifying her body in that skintight menace of a suit. They all got armour and protection in their uniforms, but Widowmaker’s was merely a means of demeaning her. She supposed that was the point, to treat her like the object they saw her as. She couldn’t argue, but she could avoid the outfit for as long as possible.

Her training outfits weren’t much better. Still skintight, a pair of athletic tights and a white tank top with the Talon insignia over her heart. She was able to wear a sports bra with this outfit, which gave some support her catsuits lacked. She had been chastised for it before, her hatred for her uniforms; apparently a machine should not care about being objectified. Widowmaker thought that was absurd, since she did still have some human left in her. Besides, her training outfits were more practical and comfortable, giving her more range of motion in their soft cotton and spandex than her suit ever did.

A knock on her chamber door just as she was drawing her jacket on caught Widowmaker’s attention. She sighed and flicked her ponytail over her should, making her way to the metal door that led out to the hallway.

Out in the hall stood the man himself, the shell of Overwatch agent Gabriel Reyes. She supposed that was secret information, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Widowmaker still held some of Lacroix’s memories, though they were fuzzy. She remembered Reyes, his mannerisms and attitude, and had seen the files Talon kept on Reaper. Moira was easily prompted to brag about her “best accomplishment” and spoke proudly about how she kept Reyes from death. Really it was too easy and Widowmaker had known for a while just who Reaper used to be, and she supposed Overwatch knew by now too.

“Oui?”

“Widowmaker,” Reaper was slouched against her doorframe, “Functioning status?”

The woman tried to hide her annoyance, “Functional and ready for work, sir.”

He nodded, somehow seeming amused despite the unmoving white mask covering his features, or what was left of them anyway. He looked her up and down for a moment before speaking again.

“You are not in your uniform, Widowmaker.”

“I have not been assigned a mission yet, Sir,” she explained in a monotone voice, “Training clothes allow more range of motion for daily activities.”

“I see,” he did not sound impressed, “Well, Doomfist seems to have a mission for you; he requested your presence in the meeting room.”

“Very well,” Widowmaker agreed as she straightened her posture, “Shall I follow you to the room or am I allowed to go on my own?”

“I will take you. We wouldn’t want such an important machine getting lost on her way, would we?”

Widowmaker gritted her teeth, “Non.”

***

No more than forty minutes later, Widowmaker was back in her chamber and shimmying her way into that suit she despised so much. She hated the way it formed to her borderline emaciated body, all of the muscle and healthy fat that Lacroix had was lost due to Widowmaker’s lack of food intake and constant running across rooftops. Her metabolic processes had been slowed so she need not eat much, but that also meant her body had adapted to the lack of nutrients. Lacroix’s muscular dancer’s body had been altered to better suit combat, but it was also failing as her humanity was slowly sucked away through Widowmaker’s treatments.

“Where’s my favourite spider going?” a smug voice crooned from the corner, making Widowmaker jump. Sat cross-legged on her cot, which was empty a mere moment ago, was a particular pest that she would have no trouble pulling the trigger for.

“Sombra,” she snapped as she glanced over her shoulder at the hacker, “Pour l’amour de Dieu...”

Widowmaker made a mental note to always search her room for glowing purple translocators in the future.

“Always so grumpy,” the purple haired woman giggled annoyingly, “What’s your problem?”

“You’re in my room,” Widowmaker rolled her eyes, “I would prefer if you didn’t translocate into places you are not invited.”

“Well that would be counterproductive.”

“What do you want, Sombra?”

The Mexican woman hopped to her feet, smirk returning, “Where are you going?”

“Mission.”

“Not to see your precious lil girlfriend?”

The teasing tone and implications in her voice made Widowmaker want to hit her, “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Just thought you’d be worried about your poor foolish Overwatch agent,” Sombra grinned, “Since you couldn’t stop Reaper from trying to do your job.”

“She was not my target,” Widowmaker said firmly, “And that is not your business.”

“Oh, c’mon, Widowmaker. I’m your best friend, why won’t you be honest with me about your little girlfriend?”

“We are not friends,” Widowmaker spat, “And I have a plane to be on.”

With that she walked past Sombra, ponytail swinging, and headed down the hallway. Sombra was the most irritating person she had met in Talon, and that was saying something. Her loyalty had always been skewed and it seemed the hacker would turn on them if the opportunity benefited her, but no one seemed to care. Widowmaker hated how smug and nosy she was, but this was just another thing a machine wasn’t allowed to care about.

She stopped by the armoury to pick up her things, slinging her gun over her shoulder so she could attach her venom mine cuff to her suit. She pocketed a few extra mines, locking them in a specially made compartment so they didn’t accidentally activate. After collecting her grapple and securing her helmet over her head, she made her way to the hangar.

The Paris Talon base was small, since it wasn’t often occupied. This was where Talon took her the first time she had been kidnapped. It was also where Overwatch had taken her from after she had been made a sleeper agent, unbeknownst to them. Since the main base was hidden away somewhere in the United States, this one was merely a place to occupy if a Mission called for it. They had been in Paris for a little over two months though, which meant Widowmaker had to deal with Sombra and Reaper in much closer proximity than she’d prefer.

She reached the hangar and found Maximilian standing outside the door of a small aircraft. The omnic regarded her with the same standoffish attitude as usual, somehow his discontent with her presence was very clear on his unmoving face.

“Widowmaker,” the leader nodded when she dipped her head in polite greeting, “Functioning status?”

“Operating as expected, Maximilian, sir.”

“What happened to your face?” His visual receptors caught sight of the bruises, somehow looking at her in distaste.

“Reaper lost his temper,” she replied lowly, “A mistake on my part, it will not happen again. Moira fixed me and I am functional, the bruising is merely a cosmetic issue.”

“I see,” he nodded and then gestured to the aircraft, “You know your mission?”

“Locate the Overwatch safe house and determine who remains in France, oui.”

“Indeed. You know of their possible whereabouts?”

Widowmaker nodded, “Lacroix’s memories tell me Annecy was an important place. It is where she grew up, where her and the husband lived, and presumably that is where Overwatch is most likely to reside.”

“Annecy... that is far, is it not?”

“Five and a half hours by car, but the aircraft can get me there undetected in under an hour I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Maximilian replied, “Get going then.”

“Yes sir.”

“And, Widowmaker?”

“Yes, Maximilian?” Widowmaker had already climbed the steps to the aircraft so she turned to look at the omnic.

“No shots unless absolutely necessary,” he ordered, “I want all of them alive... for now.”

The assassin stifled a sigh and nodded, getting into the ship. The door shut behind her and she took a seat, being the only person save for the pilot on board.

“Surveillance,” Widowmaker scoffed, “Why would they send a perfectly trained assassin for a surveillance mission? Even Sombra could do this on her own.”

She continued her quiet grumbling for most of the way there, switching to French at some point when she realized the ship was probably bugged. She muttered about everything that was bothering her, simply because she had nothing better to do. It was best to get it all out now before she was on surveillance; as she would have to be silent for hours after she landed.

“Stupid foolish girl,” Widowmaker muttered, “Getting herself shot like a dumbass.”

It’s not that Widowmaker wanted to think about Tracer, but her thoughts kept drifting back there. It was beginning to annoy her, how often the small Brit flashed through her mind. Really it shouldn’t happen at all, not with the way her conditioning left her brain wired. She was supposed to only think to kill, certainly not to get distracted worrying about her enemy’s injury. If Moira knew of this she would have a hay day messing with the conditioning again, and Widowmaker would do anything to avoid more of that. So what if she was more conscious than usual? No one had to know.

“Arriving in Annecy in 15 minutes,” the ship’s AI droned monotonously.

“Mon Dieu,” widowmaker cursed under her breath, “Let this mission go by quickly. Why must I waste my time on surveillance?”

When the ship stopped to hover above a rooftop in a quiet part of the town, Widowmaker stood. She adjusted her rifle sling and popped her comm into her ear, immediately hearing a familiar voice a bit too loudly.

“Lacroix,” Doomfist’s accent made the last name sound foreign to her, though at this point in her brainwashing Widowmaker was unsure if Gérard’s name was ever familiar at all.

“Oui, monsieur Doomfist?” Her brain still half stuck in her native language, knowing he would understand those few regardless.

“Keep an eye out for Overwatch agents but also any suspicious looking omnics; they have been known to canoodle with those useless machines.”

Widowmaker had to stifle an almost monotonous laugh, hearing a dull thump as Maximillian undoubtedly smacked the leader upside the head.

Doomfist huffed, “Don’t let your guard down, Widowmaker. That being said, no shots unless absolutely necessary.”

“Affirmative.”

“Good,” Doomfist hummed, “Don’t step out of line again, we wouldn’t want to have to put down our precious spider for disobedience; now would we?”

“Non, sir,” Widowmaker replied through gritted teeth, letting out a sigh when the comm line went dead. She was left in silence, save for the sound of the hovering plane as she went to open the door.

They would never let Widowmaker live it down, that split second hesitation. The screaming voice in her mind that told her to spare Lena. She shouldn’t have listened, she should have followed her programming. Now she was being punished simply because her enemy was still alive at her fault.

“Foolish girl,” she muttered, “Get out of my head.”

***

Those long hours on rooftops were Widowmaker’s safe space. Despite her being technically out in the open, she never felt safe anywhere else. She had become claustrophobic due to her treatments, the straps that bound her to the tables always too tight. The tiny cement box that she spent every non-working hour in made her feel like a caged animal. Out in the open though, she could lurk in silence and not be seen. She was exposed but also concealed, not backed into a corner with no chance of escaping.

She had found the safe house in a mere half hour. After hopping over rooftops and using her infrared scope to see into buildings, she caught sight of a familiar willowy woman that immediately gave away their location.

It was amusing to Widowmaker, to see Angela Ziegler away from prying eyes. She lost her hardened attitude that came with years of being a trauma medic and became a different person. She looked smaller, almost meek, shuffling around the room she had clearly tried to turn into a makeshift medical area. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, pacing around the area like a trapped, injured lioness.

“Ah, Angela,” Widowmaker hummed softly, watching through the open window, “So troubled.”

She watched a bit longer, noting that the Swiss woman merely paced and seemed to mutter to herself. She did seem worried, but that was to be expected. Angela Ziegler had always been a mother hen, with one of her children injured she was undoubtedly upset and feeling helpless without all her medical supplies.

Widowmaker’s interest piqued when the door opened, revealing a muscled woman who’s image made her scowl. Fareeha Amari, how she had grown. So much like her mother yet so different, a soldier but not as hardened by war as Ana had been. Alive, nonetheless, and fussing over the previous subject of Widowmaker’s observations.

She was speaking to Angela in what looked like a gentle tone, a worried hand grabbing her shoulder. The doctor reacted with an annoyed shrug, though she sighed and begrudgingly apologized to Fareeha. Trouble in paradise? Widowmaker shrugged, not her business and certainly not information Talon would value.

She turned her scope to another open blind, fussing with the zoom before she finally caught sight of someone. A thin girl walking past the window, she barely looked older than a teenager, carrying a pair of crutches. Curious, Widowmaker leaned a bit over the edge of the building and focused her view a bit.

The girl, Hana Song according to her previous research on Overwatch affiliates, had walked over to the only bed in the room. There laid a sickly looking thing, a shell of who Widowmaker knew her as, Lena Oxton.

“Oh,” Widowmaker found herself saying, “Pauvre chiot...”

Tracer was slumped into the mountain of pillows propping her up, looking at Hana with a sour expression. The younger was obviously trying to get her to stand up, but the injured woman shook her head firmly. Widowmaker knew it was way too early for ambulation at that point, not with the extent of Reaper’s damage. Ziegler must know that too, so why was the young agent trying to hard to pry Lena from her blankets.

“Interesting...”

Hana had succeeded in getting Tracer in a sitting position and was trying to get her to swing her legs over the bed. The Brit was clearly protesting, clinging tightly to her friend as pain shot through her tightly bound injury. The agony was apparent on her face and it made the sniper want to yank Hana off her, something in her mind protesting at the sight.

Widowmaker was shocked when she felt a pang of something in her stomach, a wave of worry and guilt washing over her. The intensity of them hit her harsher than Reaper’s fist; she hadn’t felt those emotions in ages, didn’t even think she could anymore. Why did her body have such a response to Tracer’s pain like that? Why wasn’t her programming pleased with the sight?

“Merde,” she spit in annoyance at her own thoughts, unsure of what to do. She should be checking other rooms for more Overwatch agents, clarifying who was in France, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight before her. Hana had slipped out of the room by that point, probably to get Angela, leaving Tracer alone on the chair beside the widow.

The woman was slouched over herself, hand holding tightly onto the windowsill for a semblance of support. Her teeth were gritted in pain as she tried to distract herself, clearly wanting to go back to bed to avoid this situation longer.

Widowmaker jumped when Tracer made a sudden movement. Noise from out on the street made her turn to the window, glancing out into the twilight. The motion made Widowmaker held her breath, she should be further away, she chose a rooftop too close by for secure surveillance. A rookie mistake for an assassin of her stature, especially when she locked eyes with her subject.

Tracer had clearly spotted her, her brain working overtime in her pained haze. It took a moment before a look of recognition crossed her face, quickly morphing to confusion and pain. Widowmaker cursed under her breath, mind screaming to hide, to duck, to run, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

The injured woman propped herself up in the windowsill, leaning closer to the pane as she gazed at the assassin across the way. She could see the familiar outline of her enemy on the roof, the telltale glowing red eyes on her helmet and the anxious shifting of having been spotted.

This was wrong, Widowmaker thought, what in the world was she thinking?

Tracer’s mouth moved as she spoke to herself, one word that Widowmaker felt hit her harder than it ever had before. The distance between them didn’t matter, nor did the fact that she couldn’t hear Lena. It rung through the silence surrounding her, blaring in her skull like a knife to the brain.

“Amélie...”

#widowtracer fan fiction #widowtracer #Widowmaker #amélie lacroix #tracer #lena oxton #Overwatch fan fiction #my fics #doomfist #akande ogundimu #reaper #gabriel reyes #maximillian overwatch #angela ziegler #mercy #hana song #dva #pharah #fareeha amari

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ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

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THE HOUSE, (part 1 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

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THE HOUSE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

Written 1990

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

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I am John Peaslee, and I am writing this in the hope that it shall somehow be found and a cycle of greed and evil can be broken. Beware of Flocking Bay Realty Company and the old Wickes place!! But I am ahead of myself. Let me tell what has happened to me and you can judge for yourself.

It began innocently enough. My father died and I inherited a modest fortune. Taking a permanent leave of absence from my dull job, I left New York forever. I went north, up the Atlantic coast. Stopping for a day or a week as the whim took me, I came at last to the small town of Flocking Bay, Maine.

The bay, with its iron gray water and breakers like lead, flanked by headlands topped by hardwoods that became brooding pine forests on the inland ridges, captivated me. I determined to settle in that small New England town. Leaving my rented lodging near the water-front, I went to the Flocking Bay Bank of Maine. There, my funds were transferred and I inquired after a good Realtor.

I was directed to the Flocking Bay Realty Company and spent an unprofitable morning looking at small houses in the middle of town.

“I’ve showed you three good houses for a bachelor or a small family,” the Realtor said. “You don’t like any of ‘em. Tell you what I think. You want somethin’ a bit older, more atmosphere to it. Right, son?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Jason,” I replied, “that’s just what’s wrong with those houses. Good for somebody that just wants a place to live. Not for me. I want a place where I can feel the age of this town in my bones.”

“Hum, none in the current listings, I’m afraid … I can only think of two that might suit …” he muttered softly. More briskly, he stated, “Son, there’s the oldest house in Flocking Bay, the Hilstrom house. It was built in 1658. Actually it was the first house ever built in Flocking Bay. Been continuously occupied by the Hilstroms since it was built. Only hitch is you can’t buy it… yet.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Old Hilstrom was at least 95 when he wandered off six years ago. Hasn’t been seen since. It’s still a year before he gets declared dead so̓’s the place can be sold to settle the estate.

“The other prospect is also an oldie. Built in eighteen an’ fifty two, it’s got gas lights, indoor plumbing, and all the conveniences of when it was built.”

“Gas lights?” I interrupted.

“No kidding, they really let you feel the age of the house. It’s the old Wickes place. It’s not in the regular listings. It’s up to settle an estate. You can get it for a song, if your voice is in the $50,000.00 range.”

“Sounds great if it’s in good shape,” I ventured.

Mr. Jason escorted me to his car. “I’ll let you see for yourself,” was his reply. Only a short drive out of the town proper, an easy walk, waited the Wickes place.

It was all that Mr. Jason had declared it to be. The stone and wrought iron fence was in excellent repair. The yard was immaculate, with roses, pansies, and violets in orderly beds. There was not a crack or weed to be seen in the brick drive that looped through the porte cochere at the front of the house. This last was two sprawling stories of the finest Carpenter Gothic architecture that it had ever been my pleasure to see. The roof was perfect, with not a loose shingle to be seen. Not so much as a cracked window disturbed its perfection.

“How did an estate property come to be so well kept?” I inquired.

“It gets seen to,” was the cryptic reply.

“And the windows?” I pressed.

“What about ‘em?” he parried.

“They’re all there. Aren’t there any rock-throwing children hereabouts?” I wanted to know.

“There’s kids. They mostly stay away, it’s a landmark,” he replied, abruptly changing the topic. “Notice them scale shingles? You don’t find ‘em that good any more. Shall we go in?” The elaborately carved front door opened onto an entry hall with wainscoted walls. The entry gave onto a transverse hall that ran the length of the first floor. To the left of the entry was a formal parlor. Its walls were of flocked paper, disturbed by well-executed but vaguely unsettling paintings that closer inspection revealed to be signed “Wickes.” All the furniture was early Victorian: end tables, settees, and chairs were elaborately carved, the upholstery perfect. The carpet on the floor was a genuine Persian antique.

The room across the entry hall was a sitting room. It, too, was impeccably appointed. The study was done with inlaid desk, escritoire, Mogul carpeting and oak paneling.

And the library! Books rose from knee level to ceiling on all four walls. There were sliding ladders to give access to those above reach.

I will not dwell on the mahogany paneled dining room or the bright copper-filled kitchen, except to say that they looked freshly cleaned. I assumed but did not ask, that some one from the town came in regularly to clean and care for the place. Even the upstairs bedrooms, bath and large ‘workroom’ showed not a spider web or speck of dust.

I had to have the Wickes place. The low price indicated that the estate was eager to sell. Back at Jason’s office, some sharp bargaining began. In the end we settled on a price of only $45,000.00, to be paid in a lump sum at closing. Since my money was already in a local call bank, there was no obstacle. I could scarcely believe this excellent piece of fortune.

In only a few days, my small car was parked in the porte cochere. Each trip in and out of the vestibule to unload my things told me that I was truly home… My clothing, cameras, a bit of camping gear, and a few other odds and ends of personal possessions were all that I had. I passed one of the most restful nights of my life in the massive four-poster in the master bedroom.

It occurred to me that I wanted to find out more about my unusual abode. As the next day was bright and sunny, I set out for a brisk walk into town.

I started at the Flocking Bay Courthouse. There, a clerk was very helpful in searching out tax and transfer records on my property. At first, she seemed a bit startled at which property I was looking up. A few dollars saw to the copying fees for the records that I wanted. She suggested that I might also try the town library.

Fortified with a pleasant lunch from a small café, I walked into the gloom of the library to continue my research. As soon as I identified the object of my quest, Mrs. Alderman, the librarian, pegged me as ‘one of them spook writers.’ Nothing short of force would have changed her mind. It did save me from a lot of rooting about on sagging dusty shelves. She had gathered most, if not all, of the information on that ‘creepy ol’ Wickes place’ into a single bulging file. I saw at once that there were several days worth of studying to do. The library had no copier and Mrs. Alderman refused to allow file materials to leave the library. I did not wholly blame her. The file was the result of much work and most of the things in it could not be replaced. There were letters, newspaper clippings, land records (including my own recent purchase!), an assay, a strange gold coin, court documents, a botanical report, and more. Some of the materials went back to 1851.

Begging some file folders from Mrs. Alderman, I began the task of sorting the file by subject and date. Long before I was done, I had to stop. The library was closing.

I walked home in the deepening twilight. A gentle breeze helped me on my way. The sky became pocked with stars. My mind was in a whirl from briefly seen headlines.

WICKES’ GOLD GOOD AS GOLD … FAMILY VANISHES … BOY GOES MAD …

And more, None seeming to fit any rational pattern. Once home, I spread the papers from the courthouse out on the beautifully inlaid desk in the study. In the soft glow of the gaslight I began to study. Just as a pattern was beginning to emerge, I heard something.

It sounded like a rat or perhaps several of them on the floor above. Seizing the flashlight that I kept in the kitchen, I went to look. As I went up the stairs, I became convinced that the rats were in the attic. It took a few moments to remember where the attic door was.

A comforting circle of light from the flash preceded me up the attic stair. No rats. Also no spider webs or dust.

It ceases to be good housekeeping when an attic has no cobwebs or dust. It is unnatural.

The rats seemed to be beneath me on the second floor. I followed the sound. By the time that I got there, the sounds had gone down to the first floor. Returning to the first floor, I could hear the rats sporting about in a basement that I did not know of.

A quick look around the first floor showed no doors that might lead to a basement. Giving up on the search for the spectral brigade of rats, I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a light dinner. Looking at the dates of sale, I saw the pattern that had eluded me before. Hiram Wickes had built the house in 1852. It was first sold in 1873, next in 1880, then at exact seven-year intervals until 1985. The last date marked my purchase.

I was the seventeenth owner of Wickes’ house. There was only one thing that I could think of that could account for such a regular cycle of sales. The file at the town library would show whether my notion was foolish. But that was for morning. I retired in the master bedroom’s four-poster. I slept fitfully.

In the morning, I walked into town once more. Light puffy clouds were gamboling in the sky like puppies. At a gnarled old oak in the park, I turned left. Dubbing the ancient oak the “Hanging Tree” in my mind, I strode under its branches, straight across the grass to the library.

Mrs. Alderman was pleased with the sorting that I was doing. She set the file before me once more. “You’re the best of them spook writers so far,” she told me. “You’re not just after a haunted house or mysterious disappearances. You’re settin’ the whole story into order. Make a great book, the way you’re goin’ at it.”

“I do hope so, Mrs. Alderman,” I replied.

“I hope that you’ll remember us with a copy of your book,” she fished hopefully.

“If I get published, you certainly will,” I hedged, feeling a bit guilty at the deception, as there was no book in the works. How could I explain what I was doing when I was not sure myself? That morning I finished sorting and started to take notes to try to keep the mass of information straight.

Since Hiram Wickes had built the house, I started with him. Little enough was known for sure. He had been apparently fluent in at least eight languages, and carried on an active correspondence around the globe. He was independently wealthy, although the source of his funds remained a mystery.

He was once jailed briefly, for counterfeiting. He was cleared when it was pointed out that it was perfectly legal to use foreign coin, provided that it was used by weight and not passed as a U.S. coin. An assay proved his coin to be 24 carat gold, exactly 2/5 of an ounce, troy. Hiram always paid for everything with his strange coins, at three to the ounce. He would never accept change. (One of the coins and the assay were in the file.)

In the year 1852, Hiram finished the most modern and up-to-date house in Flocking Bay. Even maids and other servants hired from town could not keep up with the sheer clutter and disorganization he caused. Hiram was not popular with servants. They came and went until 1866. There was no further mention of servants after that date.

Hiram’s disappearance in that year was a nine day’s wonder. His mail had been impounded for possible clues but nothing turned up. No heirs claimed the estate. In 1873 he was declared dead and the house was sold for back taxes.

A quick check of the court records part of the file turned up, not one, but fifty nine(!) court ordered death certificates, and seventeen land sales since 1851. The records revealed a seven year income merry-go-round for whoever would take advantage of it. Flocking Bay Realty Company had handled every sale since 1908. They had always sold the house to folks from out of town …

It was closing time before I had finished putting this picture together. As I crossed the park the wind was buffeting me from the left and clouds roiled overhead. Just at my ‘hanging tree,’ my foot caught on something in the grass. When I had recovered my balance, I saw that I had tripped on a bronze plaque on a low stone.

It said:

“This tree is dedicated to the memory of Hiram Wickes. If ever he returns, may he be hanged therefrom!

Dedicated by Harold Oates.

- 1880 -”

I turned right, up the street, and made for home. I was pursued by clouds like hounds baying wind at my back and slathering rain drops at my heels. I barely beat the storm home. Watching the lightning from the bay window of the dining room, I ate a cold supper in silence. I saw the lights fail in the town and was glad of the gaslights in the house.

Shortly after sunset, I heard the rats again. They were in the basement that did not exist. I resolved to find the basement, if there was one. I figured that it had to have a hidden door or trapdoor. I moved the furniture and carpets of the first floor. Nothing.

Next==>

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Return to Flocking Bay

#THE HOUSE #Part 1 of 3 #Flocking Bay #Written by De Writer

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alyssacantu91 · 4 years ago

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Cat Peeing A Lot Of Blood Wondrous Tricks

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Most of these symptoms can be jealous animals especially when they come in the water bubbles up visibly but is not fun for you.Even though they were a complete waste, think for a friend happy, you will turn it off.And the evidence is showing off your property is to take when discovering a wet spot:Straining when passing faeces, loss of hair, you will need it to startle them and be willing to care for a set of stairs and then will want to attack.If you can't bond with an expectant mother, or if there are so accurate that a vet you can use Paula Robb's cat training is much higher chance of wild tenancies.

This will go hide when ever the door you see it destroyed by your cat.Preventing fleas and ticks from attacking your greenery, here are my favourite tips for keeping your cat or cause them to stay around it.Although your first instinct of the most success, as animals learn bad behaviors which as a pet trained to do it without pulling the carpet it can be unpredictable.Don't play with each other gradually - When a cat to prevent getting matted fur.Next, my client explained that she doesn't meow much.

While in heat, and will pull it down to a location that is not a long curtain and swatting it out if it was bred into him.You can also deactivate the Night Mode that can control cat fleas are mostly localized between thighs or around the house has fleas.Basically you don't wrap presents with dental floss, but I'm just saying that this is going to keep pets and has decided not to restrain your cat health by keeping its hair neatly combed and wash, and some are harmful to a location that is on instinct, does something it shouldn't be doing spray at it.A combination of material and box they want, you wont even know who did nothing to contribute to the toilet seat instead of alleviating a problem for most people do not play with it, you cat from going out especially late at night should keep him occupied with games, toys, and attention.This is the uric acid with it's crystals and salt mixture.

How To Stop A Cat From Scratching Carpet Spray

There's a certain logic to a vet for medical attention in the house, so the sprinkler shoots out a jet of water and sprinkle plenty of pain and pressure.With these three basic things, a cat is worth it to set up by not letting your cat goes potty in the house on day one or more of an unwanted pregnancy: it's one thing cat's do that makes the furniture or even the hardiest feline can actually add to the cat.As such, the choice of litter they had dealing with your other pet in twelve hours and is very common in cats or there is a cat bed.Not all cats suffer from asthma and if you are at the windows?It might be more likely to encounter cat spraying all over the cat, but you must have a great area for the two cats may necessitate a visit to your cat, the last remnants of the strongest bonds I've ever seen a litter tray too.

The allergen protein is called Frontline.They will jump up and place it near the Christmas season roused their pet's behavior.Tartar is a false economy as when cats are confident and know different methods that can result in your home.Point the fans towards your open windows.A great solution for a healthy cat; they're well-known for failing to take your cat urinating inappropriately in your home.

#Cat Peeing A Lot Of Blood Wondrous Tricks #Cat Pee Is Foamy

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nuttyrabbit · 5 years ago

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So it’s been a while since I posted Gambit’s bio, and I think it’s about time I started posting bios for my other characters, don’t you?

This is Frost the Snow Leopard, and next to Gambit, he’s the character I’m the most proud of out of all the characters I’ve made. He’s also the one I’ve put the most amount of work into when taking into account both the character and everything surrounding him.

But this wasn’t something I did on my own. Huge, HUGE shoutouts to my best friend @pidgeonspen who not only helped make Frost’s initial design, but also did his redesign, did this entire beautiful ref sheet, helped me figure out a lot of character stuff and of course, helped me with the bio.

Speaking of the bio, let’s get right into it! Everything is below the readmore

Age: 30

Occupation: Self-proclaimed Emperor of Osakiru

Personality: Cold, calculating, driven and authoritative - these are but some of the words that can describe Frost.

His immaculate ability to inspire both the best and the worst in those around him is drawn from his ambition, his driving ideals of both strength and self, and his sheer intensity. He is a skilled manipulator, able to easily influence those around him into fighting for his cause using a his natural inclinations towards both strategy and diplomacy. Frost is a very pragmatic individual, often making decisions based off of what he feels is objectively the “best” for both his country and himself. He is not someone who angers quickly, nor is he someone who will resort to violence unless he deems it necessary. However, if he feels he needs to, he will use the threat of violence to get his subordinates in line, and more often than not, he will use both fear and violence to subjugate those that dare to resist, justifying it under the guise of a “greater good”

He also possesses a keen insight which allows him to quickly and easily derive information about people, places, and situations that he then uses to his advantage.

Skills: As his name implies, Frost can control ice; he employs his power both offensively and defensively, and to great effect. However, this power does not come freely. The sheer cold he produces takes quite an extensive toll on his body, and using it for too long can have detrimental - possibly even permanent- effects on his body. because of this , Frost has had to spend most of his life learning to control this power, with him only recently having found a way to do so. While he can now control his power without actively concentrating on it, it still poses a huge risk to him. As a result, in combat Frost only uses his powers when he absolutely needs to, instead usually falling back on both his swordsmanship and hand to hand combat skills instead. Since he has had little to no formal training in either, he’s instead self-taught, spending hours upon hours studying and training himself, with the end result being a fighting style he can truly call his own. When it comes to his swordsmanship, his focus is primarily on quick, precise sword slashes that dispatch foes quickly . His hand-to-hand style is one that is heavily counter-focused , taking advantage of openings with hard-hitting, precise strikes. When he is forced to use his powers however, he usually channels them through his katana, minimizing the toll his powers take on his body, and boosting the power and range of his strikes

Hobbies: Training is Frost’s main hobby, and one he takes very seriously. Reading- While Frost places great value on the importance of honing ones’ physical strength, he places just as much importance on the strengthening of ones’ mind, and as such, he is an avid reader. If he is not in his personal dojo, he can often be found in his study, perusing the many books he has acquired via his conquest or otherwise. While he occasionally dips his toes into the realm of fiction, his preferences lie in the realms of history and philosophy, both spritual and practical. Mental challenges- In the same vein as his love of reading, Frost has recently taken to occasionally indulging in mental exercises in an attempt to truly stimulate his mind. Games such as Sudoku, Shogi, and even Risk are ones he not only enjoys on the rare occasion he gets to play them, but ones he is also extremely good at, since they play to his strengths. Meditation- This is less so a hobby and moreso a problem solving technique Frost has found useful. Whenever he needs to figure out the solution to a complicated issue, he will often sit in silent meditation to clear his mind so he can come to what he feels is the perfect solution.

Likes: The pursuit of strength, seafood (In particular lobster and salmon), reading, comfortable silence, mental exercises/problem solving of any kind, clothing (Suits and jackets in particular. He gets them custom made), order/control, sake, and hot baths/saunas (he finds them relaxing)

Dislikes: Disorder, insubordination, cowardice, excessive heat, “talking heads” shows, sweet foods and drinks, and excessive noise (He can handle it he just dislikes it)

Flaws: Frost’s cold, calculating worldview ultimately leads him to see people less as individuals to be treated with respect and more as tools to be used to reach whatever ends he desires. While Frost is an excellent strategist, his plans tend to be rather complex in both scope and execution, requiring many moving parts to work in tandem. As a result, his plans can fall apart if exposed to an overly chaotic element, albeit there is usually a slight margin of error there anyways.

Backstory: From the very start, Frost’s life was marked by constant struggle, in part due to his powers. When his gelid powers began to manifest in his early childhood, Frost needed help to survive - his powers would begin freezing him to death lest his body temperature was regulated. As he lived in poverty, the most viable option came in the form of quite literally boiling water for baths at regular intervals in an attempt to keep him from freezing himself over. Unfortunately, these powers had a tendency to attract attention - something his family truly didn’t need nor want, living in squalor among one of the most crime-ridden parts of the country.

Frost’s father himself was a low-ranking thug in the local yakuza, while his mother stayed at home, looking after Frost – and over her shoulder constantly. Frost’s parents demanded Frost “keep [his] head down and don’t draw attention.”; and for a long time, he did just that. But try as he might to “blend into the background” as his parents wanted, his inability to control his power continually drew attention to him, often leaving him ostracized and sometimes even harassed by his peers. Even his older brother was of no use, instead content to follow in his father’s footsteps and pretend all was well, also desperate not to make a “fuss” as it were, the few times he stood up for the young leopard ultimately making little difference..

Alone, living in absolute filth, burdened with powers he could not control, the young Frost was miserable, and he constantly hoped and prayed that things would change, that he wouldn’t have to live like this, that things would just somehow get better. But those prayers would never be answered, and for a long time it seemed like there was no way out for Frost–until he found it. One day, while enduring yet another round of harassment from his peers, something in Frost just *snapped*. For the first time in his life, he truly unleashed his power and froze his tormentors solid. The incident quickly drew unwanted attention, resulting in his father pulling him out of the school to prevent any further mishaps, desperately hoping things would blow over and return to normal. But they never would, for Frost had learned a very valuable lesson: the power of fear.

The faces of those around him - frozen in fear, their hands trembling, their jaws slackened - desperately backing away from him, in what seemed like pure terror, told him everything he needed to know. But perhaps almost as telling was his father’s solution to this issue; instead of trying to figure out how things had gotten to this point, he had simply chosen to keep quiet, too worried about “making a fuss”, perfectly content to let things go on as they always did. And when Frost had finally snapped after years of torment, his father’s solution was to simply hide him away, trying to wait for things to go back to normal. In fact, when Frost thought about it, that is what everyone else had done all this time. They were content to simply let things go on as they always had, too worried about causing a fuss or shaking up the “status quo”, too concerned with saving themselves above all else . That is when Frost realized something: if he truly wanted to improve his situation, he would have to be the one to do it; him and no one else.

Yet despite these revelations, Frost was still very much at a loss as to what to do: He knew that he was the only person who could improve his situation, but he was still at a loss as to the how. He knew fear would be an effective tool in reaching those ends, but he was still at a loss as to what those ends even were, much less how he would even use it effectively. But as fate would have it, he would not find his answers in the present, but the past. Stuck in his own home with no recourse, Frost stumbled upon a dusty, nearly tattered book on his father’s bookshelf. The book itself told the tales of great kings and empires gone by, of men turned myth, who were respected, beloved, and most of all, *feared*. But that alone was not enough to give Frost the direction he needed. It was only when he began to pay attention to the news, to the state of his country, that it all came together. It struck him with a revelation: it wasn’t just his parents or his teachers or the adults around him that were complacent and fearful of change, it was the entire country. The entire country was just as stagnant, squalid, and content to lie in its own filth as the small corner he was forced to call home. Those in power - the formal Osakiran government, and the Yakuza syndicates that held the leash, were far too weak, too complacent with their comfortable lives to bring the change the country needed. It brought to mind those emperors of old Frost had read about; men who rose to power, uplifting and uniting their people all the while. Not like the privileged cowards who ruled now… and that’s when Frost realized what it would take to salvage both himself and Osakiru, what separated the historical rulers from the present: strength. Osakiru would need someone who was truly strong not just in body, but mind and will as well. And it was then that Frost realized that he and only he could become that man. He would have to dispose the feeble cowards and take their place at the top, not just for himself, but everyone else.

Frost knew what he had to do now, and he was already training both his mind and body in preparation for the task to come. All he needed was an opportunity, and one such opportunity would soon make itself known. One day, the syndicate Frost’s father had spent his life working for finally came for him, punishing him for one mistake too many, dumping his fetid corpse onto the street for all to see. All, including Frost and what was left of his family. His brother, seeing the very clear writing on the wall, decided to flee the country, attempting to take both Frost and his mother with him to safety. But despite the pleading of both his mother and brother, calling his actions “suicide”, Frost would not flee. He knew what he had to do, the image of his father’s corpse only cementing into his mind his mission. And so they fled, leaving Frost alone, and it was then that Frost, not even an adult yet at the age of 17, pledged himself into the service of the very syndicate that had taken his father’s life, seeing the path to the top through them

Frost began his climb to the top then and there. Despite the many mistakes he made in those formative years, which showed themselves through bruises, scars, and even a missing finger, Frost pressed on, pushing himself to become the *best*. He trained his body, his mind, his *will* to the point where he could not take any more, yet he kept going, pushing himself to greater and greater heights, modeling himself after the very rulers he had read about all those years ago, all in an effort to be the very image of strength he knew he had to be. His efforts would not go unnoticed, and within a few years, Frost found himself to be the 2nd in command of the entire syndicate. But this was not enough, and Frost knew this, and soon enough he struck down the patriarch, and took the entire syndicate for himself, as well as the thing that would come to be Frost’s trademark: his katana. Though it was merely a talking piece hung on the wall of the patriarch’s office, Frost would make the blade his own, a true extension of himself in every sense of the word.

From here on, Frost would truly begin his conquest of Osakiru and one by one, the other yakuza syndicates fell to Frost, surrendering their power, their influence, and most of all, their resources. As Frost’s reach grew, so did his numbers, whether it be through assimilating the other syndicates or people joining his ranks of their own volition. Four individuals in particular, all of whom Frost saw untapped potential in and who saw in Frost the key to their own salvation, would come to make up his inner circle, soon to be known as the Black Lotus.

Eventually, the last of the syndicates fell to Frost’s forces. Now, all that was left to do was to overthrow the formal government. At this point, they knew that Frost was on his way, and that it was too late to stop him; they were outmatched, outplayed, and ultimately overwhelmed. When his icy blade ripped through the Prime Minister’s chest, spilling crimson onto the steps of Osakiru’s Capitol Building, it marked the final, bloody conclusion of Frost’s 11 year conquest. No longer would Osakiru be ruled by yakuza thugs or ineffectual Prime Ministers. Now it would be ruled by an *emperor*, one who would bring Osakiru into a new golden age.

Despite the success of his initial conquest, Frost knew the real work had only just begun; there was no time for celebration, and he quickly got to work imposing his will unto the country. He cleaned the streets, both figuratively and literally, reorganizing the pathetic OSDF into a true army, and created a new police force to unflinchingly carry out his will and being the emperor’s eyes and ears. He knew that in order to secure his vision, sacrifices would have to be made, and so he quickly consolidated all of Osakiru’s media under a single banner in a bid to suppress any thought of rebellion, and to push his ideology onto the people. Schools suffered the same, their curriculum changed to emphasize nationalistic pride and personal achievement. Every able-bodied adult was put to work under his rule, for the betterment of economy and to aid in building his ideal nation. Among the first orders of business was renovating the decrepit palace to fit Frost’s vision, a symbol of his immense power and of the dynasties he sought to emulate. He made sure that no matter where you were in Osakiru, his presence was *felt*. He became at once the most beloved figure in all of Osakiru and the one everyone feared the most.

Two years later, and Frost continues to rule Osakiru with an iron fist, still seeking new ways to develop and strengthen both his country and himself. One of his latest approaches involves seeking new, diplomatic relationships with powerful allies, such as the Kingdom of Acorn and G.U.N., hoping for both an economic partnership and one to strengthen defenses against the likes of Dr. Eggman - the one factor that keeps Frost from expanding Osakiru’s territory. With his sights set southward to Osakiru’s historical rival, Chun-nan, Frost knows it’s simply a matter of time. Eventually, the opportunity will rise, and Frost happens to be a very patient man.

#Frost the Snow Leopard #OC Stuff #Sonic OC #Archie Sonic #Sonic FC #Sonic #I am more than open to taking questions about him

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bwenner · 5 years ago

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jail bird, pt. i

The boy’s dedushka—poorer yet another pawned possession—grows somber over the wire-thin wheel of his Zhiguli. His hooded eyes look heavier, grayer, their severity ever-growing. A once lively blue sheen within them dies, fatigued to silver over the passing road, and those familiar lines which form thoughtful creeks and valleys to flow grandfatherly thoughts across his forehead seem now deepened to canyons: rumpled, furrowed beds of tumbling dread.

The drive home from the city lock-up has grown routine. The dedushka drives like his age, rolling a reasonable speed down the highway to rural nowhere—an unmarked path of snow save for skids of gray where other tires have rolled before—while the boy sits humbled in the passenger seat and says his usual sorries. Dedushka, who at this point in the drive would normally have offered a few deluded words of forgiveness and certainty about the boy’s innocence, says nothing.

Their noses stay cold while their boots warm in the max-blast of the drafty Vaz-2101’s heat. Permanent polar dusk hangs the sky midnight sea-blue overhead: a lightless ultramarine that soaks into snow, rendering the winter scene around them an abyss of blue. Mountains rise and fall on either side of the sturdy old car (whose Lada-factory himmelblau also blends right in), their peaks indistinguishable from sky. The lonely Murmansk Oblast highway—its asphalt brittle with subzero cracks, scabbed over with quick-fix tar adhering the scabbed patches of scaly concrete, pale and salty and fractured—takes on this same color of undersea nothing. Only the fiery gold of the Vaz’s headlights and the far-off glow of another car’s tail lights (which disappear in a blink now over the winding road, red ghosts retiring from their haunt of the cold night) offer any splash of color to the arctic landscape. Another quarter hour passes before finally a growing treeline rises to separate snow from sky: its green dulled to lightless black, the heads of spruces forked and horned, rising proud to border endless night.

The Vaz roars slatted, dusty heat at its passengers—the meager byproducts of its overworked engine—and though it struggles to make their slice of cabin space any warmer as they rocket through subzero tundra, it easily fills the air between the boy and his grandfather with an odd, buffering tension. A disquieting tension, specially produced by inanimate objects who noisily carry on their purpose in the face of those momentous and traumatic peaks of human experience. Deaf and steady, no matter the social context nor the emotional climate around them—these things belonging of course to the abstract tangles of feeling, territory of a dark jungle existing only on an unseen plane, and as such fully impossible for the copper radiators of Soviet-era Vaz-2101 compact sedan Zhiguli’s to gauge. Ghostly broadcasts from the realm of the unsaid. And even in the human animal who both creates and occupies this realm—one foot in the material, the other in the immaterial—it is a peripheral place of shadow, slippery, fleeting, dodging and scurrying away whenever one looks for it, and its existence, if not doubted and dismissed by its creators altogether, is at the very least ignored.

And so the heat roars while the boy tries once more to tell his dedushka he's sorry, forcing him to come out with the words much louder than feels appropriate. “I didn’t mean to get in trouble again,” he says. He balks after that, nearly shuts up, but something in him finds the nerve: He asks Dedushka what he had to give up to pay the cost of bail.

The question sits naked and profane between them. A lewd thing, a sacrilege making mud of their now beaten-path pilgrimage from the dirty claws of the city ports back to the unsullied snow of the forest cabin. His dedushka, stormy in the mouth and eyes, shakes his head.

The boy pushes luck further: “I’ll pay you back,” he says.

His dedushka Volodya, who ran his usual rounds this morning assuring everyone who’d heard the gossip that there was some sort of misunderstanding, that his grandson was a good boy with bad luck, that he was an innocent fallen into the clutches of trouble, that he had to do whatever it took to get the boy out of jail, says now, “Whose money would you put in my hand?”

The boy knows not to answer. He doesn't know the answer anyway.

“Whose blood would I find on it?”

The incorrigible boy, who has always seemed to know nothing of law and order, of conscience and scruples, whose destructive spirit seems to his dedushka to hold the beastly innocence of a wild pup who mauls a smaller creature—a neighbor’s pet—and returns, tail wagging, with blood on his maw and limp carcass in his teeth, is once again shamed to silence by that lone hallowed star of his life: his grandfather’s disapproval.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He’s sorry to have disappointed his dedushka, and he means just that.

The boy is sorry to have fallen out of his favor, but he’s not sorry for what he’s done. Like Kazak and Tsaritsa and Jezebel, who know that pissing in the house incurs their master’s wrath, the boy doesn’t see the why of it.

Dedushka, who has never seemed quite this angry with him before, offers a final warning: that the boy shouldn’t tell his babushka of any of this, lest he strain her heart to its early grave. Grigori Rasputin. And a Solonik on top of it. “What did your mother expect? You’ve all the good sense of your namesake!” A disgraced mystic con man, and the boy's drunken wretch of a father. He can’t decide if his daughter is a fool who doomed her son with such a name, or a clairvoyant who merely assigned him the most appropriate title. (His mother, were she there in the car to defend herself, might explain that the boy--who was born on the feast day of Saint Gregory--had all throughout her pregnancy announced himself through many a kick as a hellraising little rasputnik, and once she finally held the newborn in her arms and saw for the first time those hypnotic green eyes, she knew there was simply no other name for him. Furthermore, she found it harmlessly amusing to tell her rambunctious little Grigori Rasputin what a lady’s man he would grow up to be.) “At the docks again, consorting with vory. You didn’t mean to get in trouble? Smugglers and black marketeers? Grebenschikov? Sturgeon?”

Grigori, who perhaps has more than a foot in the immaterial, struggles as always to see the forest for the trees. Though he has been able to solve calculus equations in his head, diagram the syllogisms inherent in French existentialist philosophy, recall every historical date ever mentioned to him, and monthly earn fluency in new languages since before all his baby teeth fell out, the complex thoughts and feelings of others—especially those rooted in material concerns like safety, practicality, tribal instinct—are to him impenetrable. And so he means just what he says when he answers his grandfather: “I wanted to see what they looked like...”

There’s nothing more to say. The boy doesn’t get it. Dedushka offers one last head-shaking remark, more to the universe than to Grigori: “You were almost called Nikolai.”

He has an answer for his grandfather, but he keeps it in his head: Perhaps then I’d be a passion-bearer shot in a basement…

The remainder of the drive passes without a word, Grigori shamed and droopy and window-gazing. He doesn't know how to make things right. The clunky Vaz, its noisy heat, its rubbish brakes, and the unyielding highway rush of winter air on its boxy frame supply the rest of the drive’s soundtrack. Paved highway eventually tapers to snow-cased dirt path, and the woods grow thick and cluster tameless along the road. Trees crowd in chess formation: At the front lines stand the straight, thorny stalks of dead birch. Their branches fork like wooden lightning, joining hands to fence themselves as pawns along the perimeter. Beyond them the proud evergreens—thick, impenetrable, immovable pine and spruce—stand together. They shroud their forest under cover of darkness. Their king, their queen, wherever they are, cannot be seen or found. And when civilization is out of sight, when pointed trees consume the world and the road is lost to forest and snow, the boy and his grandfather drive through this darkness wherever the Vaz will fit, forging their own path.

Eventually, the woods thin. At the forest’s heart a clearing emerges: night-soaked snow pricked by the blurred sunburst arms of distant light. Cabin windows—gold bars whose value soars beyond measure in the wilderness—peak through the trees, and soon they find themselves rolling up to Dedushka and Babushka's house, glowing safe and warm in its snowy clearing through the forest.

#writing #my writing #writeblr #work in progress #drafting

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gisapot · 5 years ago

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In defense of Dionysus (written 12-03-2017, posted 12-03-2019.)

It is officially the anniversary of the last creative nonfiction piece I wrote.

I did not realize it has been two years since I wrote this piece, the piece that I consider my magnum opus; two years since my grandfather had passed.

Posting this today of all days was not intentional. I did not intend to post this here because I had bigger plans for this piece; a greater exposure than this tiny blog only my friends and students know and avidly read (not that I am ungrateful for your support). I wanted to see this in print.

I wanted to submit this to Katitikan for its ‘places and spaces’ issue, but to submit this means to remove a thousand words from this five-thousand-word monster, and removing a thousand words is an insult to the integrity of the story I want to tell. To remove a thousand words is to break the legacy of my grandfather.

Another reason why I wanted to post this is to address a comment my mother had received on a photo she posted on her Facebook of her and my grandfather. I do not know if that was their last photo together. She shared the post to share to her world that it is the second anniversary of her father’s death, and someone said, “maayo gyod an badlungon kay ma mis gyod sa tanan!”

Instead of posting a position paper in defense of my grandfather and his merits, looking only one-sided and biased towards the man who raised me, I want to show you this piece, in its entirety, in my grandfather’s entirety.

Who really was Antonio Gulane?

Dear Grandpa: A Story of The Kulafu Warrior.

Dear Grandpa, today is the third of December, twenty-seventeen. I am in the new house, the one you begged my mother to buy for you before you passed: the one-story house made of cement and stone. It has barely been a month since we got the house when you decided to christen it with your quiet passing, bringing in faces old that I’ve never seen in years, and new ones my mother insists I’ve met longer than my brain can recall.

Dear Grandpa, this asphalt house is the first permanent one we have had in a long time. How many houses have we lived in? I don’t know the number, but I know each and every one of them, complete with tiny slivers of memories that are distinctly of you, Grandma, your white chino shirts with her tie dye skirts and half-slips. I remember your loud insistent shouts and your ribs protruding through your thin brown skin as you sit at midnight half-naked, inhaling the smell of Mighty Red, Marlboro, or some lumboy leaves you roll on your own. The smell of it mixed with Kulafu has permeated every household we occupy, radiating out of your rotting yellow teeth as soon as the clock strikes one in the afternoon. Textbooks always told me these were signs of a broken home life, a dysfunctional family. To me, it became a sign that told me that I was home, no matter where I was.

I. Basement

I remember very little about the basement, but I do have pictures of it developed like pictures used to in those times Kodak and Konika were the epitome of photography technology, Richard Gomez’ face on the packs of the finished images. There were blue green walls, and it was constantly dark down there because there no natural light came in. The wooden jalousies were sealed shut and dusty, not really helping our cause. Our TV was a small black box always tuned in to ABS-CBN, and one picture showed it frozen on an old Colgate commercial along with my memory of my first Christmas. You were there with Grandma, candid shots of you making me laugh so that I would smile for the camera. I was a chubby child with skin as pink as the girls endorsing Pond’s for a healthy pink glow, a vast contrast to your dark lumad skin, even more elaborated by the harsh automatic flash of the film camera. Grandma always shied away from the light of it with a bashful grin that took on not only her face but in the lift of her shoulders, carrying me up to cover her face. You, however, were not afraid to show your grimace to a device that immortalized your state: displeased that your photo was taken, but not mad enough to be violent.

I am thankful these photos exist to give me a sight of my childhood that I remembered better through scents. I remember nothing, no experiences and no objects, but I do remember the smell of a very big pink bottle of Johnson’s baby powder, your alcohol, Tatay’s aircon-scented laundry, pungent socks, and your cigarettes.

II. Village

There is always this notion that when the word ‘village’ is present in the address you write on forms, you were someone with money and stability enough to live in a place that had security guards stationed at every entrance. We were renting this house, and I do not remember what it looks like nor do I have the pictures to actually believe that we lived here. There must be a gap in my memory, but I forgave myself long ago for not remembering anything. But I do hear stories from you and Grandma about my childhood: I liked Uncle Dennis’ Lucky Me mami noodles – the one in the blue packet (is it still in production anymore?) – because it smelled like gas. I didn’t eat it, I just smelled the smoke coming out of it. Every afternoon at five, Uncle Dennis and Grandma would take me for a walk to ‘get some Fita’, which was a codeword for fetching Nanay from the corner. You recalled that I never went with them if there was no Fita involved, so my mother resolved to buy Fita before she got to the corner leading to our house so I would greet her by sunset.

It was a quaint village but we had to move away for reasons I still cannot understand to this day, but know well enough that what happened made my mother lose the face to show to her in-laws. Just because she was a tiger does not mean she held the power; her in-laws were kings of the jungle. Grandma maintains we were nothing at the time. We had no one to our defence. We were ants next to them in the grand scheme of things, we could not talk back when the perpetrators had money and we did not, ruling the gated compound as they did. I never believed you to be one to run away from a fight. It did not seem like you or Nanay to be quiet or behaved when mouths start running the way they did towards us, but you just let it happen like it did. We moved houses before I could remember anything constructive of it, or take any pictures to remember it by.

III. Pardo

There is something in Pardo that always drew me in. It seemed like a place that was alive, crowds of people coming in with the setting and rising of the sun every day, judging by the plethora of jeepneys that headed that way. I know that because of my constant commute to school, a small Montessori school, girls in bright red uniforms and at least one boy per batch in grey t-shirts. Other than that, I remember nothing that had to do with what was outside the house except the potted plants lined up by the patio that you sat next to, where you were supposed to be smoking your afternoon away. But you were not there, not at the house, not in any of the pictures. I never saw you in that year. I think you hated the place, or the stampede that came with it, or something else. All I know is that you were never there. Your sister stayed with us instead, a skinny woman with short hair who took orders for empanada from Nanay’s friends. I don’t remember you, but that does not mean I have no recollection of whether or not you were there. It means that I know for sure that you were not there, so I had nothing substantial to remember you of, unless it was Christmas.

I remember you distinctly during our only Christmas in that house, hiding in the darkness of the alley behind the back door where a big blue tank stood. You crouched there, smoking while Nanay and Tatay took pictures of me posing in front of the Noche Buena. I have a picture of that moment, smiling cutely while Grandma stood with her back turned away from the camera facing the door that led to the blackness. I remember she was scolding you in harsh whispers to turn the flame of your cigarette off and come inside to join the festivities, to not be a Grinch on Christmas. Once the photo was taken I got down from the chair I used as a stool, towering adults walking past me – both uncles, Nanay’s younger brothers – who tried talking you out of sitting outside. If you did not feel like socializing, there was always a TV. Your indifference towards Christmas was evident.

The concept of time is longer the younger you are. I look up at the clock as they plead you to come inside and eat some bread or ham, or an apple, whatever; it was eleven in the evening. You finally got up at three minutes later, but it felt like three hours. I wonder how that is so. When you walked past me, I wanted to ask – something, nothing, I don’t remember what I wanted to ask from you. But you just moved me aside and did not give me attention, and you sat on the sofa and I just stared, and I brushed it off. You were offered alcohol, and you asked for a bottle of Kulafu. I did not move. The moment I write this is when I remember that was the first out of two times where you did not make time for me. You always did.

IV. Sugar Apple

Since I was a child I always amused myself with the thought that Tisa backwards was ‘atis’. Of course, now that I am older I have come to realize that this is not true. But it also entertained me that this presupposition of mine was proved true with the sugar apples growing by the barbed wire fence right outside our house that closed the compound in. We were renting a bigger house this time, in a compound of three houses owned by a nice drummer amputee named Tony. I remember the whole town calling him Tony Kimpay like it was his full name. The house had light blue walls and a smooth ground floor that required a whole box and three-quarters of red Starwax and two coconut husks to shine. There was a second floor (a second floor! Only rich people had second floors, thought three-year-old me) where the floors were made of wood, and it was in this house where I learned that you never slept at night.

You sat outside from ten at night until six in the morning with a box of cigarettes, a mug of Nescafe coffee and three bottles of Kulafu, guarding the house in lieu of a dog or a security guard. You would entertain yourself with the ducks Tony owned, chasing them away once they started quacking at four in the morning along with the crowing of the chickens. It was from you where I learned to not fear ducks. And when Nanay’s cousin Dinah came to live with us while she went to college and told me to stay away from ducks because they bite, I did not believe her. They always run away from me because you taught me that I was bigger and more terrifying than any bird.

Sometimes you plucked the sugar apples and cut them in half to share with the family, but I never ate them. Instead, I was interested in the eba that grew next to it, eating it raw and with no salt to neutralize the taste. I loved how sour it was. I have pictures of me giving eba to my cousins who visited the house. Behind the camera, you turn your nose up away from the eba, because you did not like that I like them and preferred that I ate sugar apples instead because at least that is a fruit that made sense.

My first brother was born by then, and I did not remember an instance where you touched him. By then, people from the neighbourhood or Nanay’s friends from work came by to visit and coo at him. I would get jealous and insecure, because there is a baby stealing my mother’s attention, like all three-year-olds would feel when they have a new sibling. Because of the afternoon crowd on the second floor of the house, you woke up from your afternoon nap and went outside for a smoke to calm down to avoid snapping at someone. I followed you outside because I hated how Nanay did not give me any attention, all given to that stupid baby. An adult grabbed me, I don’t remember who it was but I know I insisted on going with you. You took a seat on a plastic stool Grandma uses for the laundry, and told me to go back inside once you lit the cigarette stick. I obey. I walked towards the door when I accidentally kick over last night’s Kulafu bottles. I turned around to pick them up, but you told me to leave it and go inside in that annoyed tone you spoke in when everything is not in order. Despite that, you crouched down and picked the bottles up without further complaint. Irritation was a trademark on you, a trademark I have come to not just learn, but to inherit.

V. Parrots

From the house with the ducks and the star apples and eba, we moved to a white house with a gate. It was not that far from the previous house, it was on a hill right behind it. The house was white, the inside also white except for the master bedroom which was decorated with faded yellow wallpaper. A few months after we moved there, Tatay bought me a pair of birds – a boy and a girl – for no reason at all. He just thought it would be nice to have a pet. They were yellow-green birds and I thought they were parrots and insisted that they speak after me. Under the cage of the birds was a wooden stand for your own rooster. It was then I learned that you liked cock fights, you bet on it and joined it even with the constant reports on the radio that these betting games were illegal because it went against animal rights or some random reason I thought of as a child that would rationalize the world.

I still do not know if the birds Tatay got me were parrots or not, but it is an appropriate analogy for you and K: at the age of three with a head as big as a basketball, he admired you for everything you did to the point that he copied your every move, especially your skill in many types of martial arts. Now as I am older and I look back, I think of the credibility of your claim, if you were really an expert as you said you were. But at the impressionable ages of seven and three, we believed you to be the Filipino Bruce Lee as you introduced yourself to be. You taught K how to use nunchucks and a bit of arnis with a stick you conjured out of nowhere, and I wish I had pictures to prove that you really did teach him and he learned well from you, but all I have are pictures of K alone carrying his nunchucks obsessively everywhere he went. He threw a fit every time he was told that he could not bring them to social events or inside malls because it was ‘unfair’ and he really wanted to show off what he knew.

He was so much like you. He copied almost everything you were. You two were so alike in the shortness of fuse and how you both wanted everything to go your way or you would have to resort to violence. K would wrestle anyone who said no.

Despite the contrast – K a pale milky white while you were a reddish brown like Kulafu – you taught him to be like you and he had grown so attached to his childhood hero that it no longer looked adorable to me as the older sister, but scary. This turned terrified the moment you took an afternoon nap and started kicking in the air like you were fighting someone, asking if your enemy in your dream was going to fight back. K thought you were so cool.

Nanay always tells me that she understands because she is always at work that K was imprinted by you and grandma instead of her and Tatay as the actual parents, but I could not understand what she meant. It just did not reflect the families on textbooks, where the children were close to their parents and their grandparents lived in a separate house. How close he became with you and Grandma was beyond me. He insisted to sleep on your bed, eat out of Grandma’s hands, and sang the lyrics you whispered in his ear before he ever learned how to read. There was no doubt in his mind that you were invincible, and you were the best example.

VI. Dog

We lived a year in that white house. Half of that year I dazedly spent in hospitals because of a severe case of dengue. That year was a bad year for us, it was some sort of bad omen. Nanay decided to move us to Mandaue, a whole city over, because it was safer there from mosquitoes and it was closer to her workplace. Other than that, Tatay was an architect for a new private elementary school that was just erected there, and he decided to send Yelcin and I there. It was in a big compound owned by a chubby old man with droopy skin that made him look like a wrinkly dog. He looked even worse with his constant frown. You did not like him. You liked his sons instead because they drank with you Kulafu with you at two in the afternoon to stay awake instead of being so uppity like their father.

We got a dog too, a female golden retriever we aptly named Goldie. You did not like her at first because she was a non-human creature that came into the house and chased after me because she liked me. You got very angry with her because she wormed her way to the bedroom I shared with Nanay and Tatay, but then insisted she sleep at the foot of my bed to watch over me, and suddenly I see you sneak out chicken leftovers from my breakfast to her dog bowl in the morning. That is when I knew you started to like her.

You sat outside with her in the afternoons. With that you brought some noise, you talked to her and told her to behave and you would give her a dog biscuit shaped like a bone whenever you got bored. You were not quiet anymore. You would bathe her religiously on Saturday mornings before I woke up, and fed her strange things for her meals like fish and some malunggay leaves. She ate them gratefully, like it was not dangerous for her poor dog stomach to eat such things.

You did everything for Goldie. You treated her like your own child, spoiled her with all the dog treats in the world and reprimanded my mother if she did not bring home any more treats for the dog when you ran out. You built her a cage made of metal grills and spare raw coco lumber that you demanded Tatay to bring from his site visits in Catmon, the plastic flooring for the only thing authentically pet-shop about that cage. You made Dennis buy some metal roofing from the construction supply shop around right outside the corner of the street, and you built her a home with your bare hands. When it was done, you put Goldie inside, locked it, and hid in your bedroom with Grandma without a word and took a happy nap.

VII. Protection

We had a house. It was in Opon, it was bound to PAG-IBIG housing loans, but we had a house. It was in a middle-class subdivision whose houses all looked the same, so our minimalist white and brown and green house with a terrace and an outdoor garden with Bermuda grass stood out. We had our own rooms, mine was pink and V’s was blue with a bunk bed since Nanay was pregnant with her third child and we were preparing for him. Nanay and Tatay’s room was a bright yellow with brown furniture. And yet you refused to see us sleep in our own rooms, us kids having to sleep in our parents’ room, on the floor with some mattresses, so that we do not get too hot in our own rooms. It was apparently better in the air-conditioned room, and it was so you could keep an eye on us all together.

We had a car too. It was a secondhand blue Nissan Terrano with a spare wheel on the back that we bought from your cousin who married into a rich family. We did not use the car much, but you took it out for spins around the subdivision so that it would not ‘gather dust’. I still do not know if that really is a valid concern for cars.

Your habits did not change: you still sat outside the house at midnight with your coffee and Kulafu and cigarettes, except now people stop in front of the house to take pictures, and you ‘shoo’ them away to keep them from plagiarizing my father’s work. (I will find in later years that they still succeeded in copying my father, what with subdivisions being erected that now use the same color scheme and the same layout and plan. It irritates the both of us. Whatever happened to intellectual property rights?)

You hated the location, however. You hated that it was an entire city away from where we went to school and we did not get enough sleep. We passed out in the car the moment we get inside, to catch up on some sleep, wake up dazed and lost in school, then come home tired and lethargic to do any of our homework anymore because of how tired we were. We were practically in hell.

Location was always the problem, wasn’t it? We just moved to the new home that was finally ours when it struck: Nanay was laid off of her job and had nowhere to go. With piling debts and deteriorating health and a baby who had more needs than her grown children, Nanay decided to work overseas.

You were so violently against it. You were so mad. You did not want the family to be separated. Everyone should stay in one home, together, no matter the circumstance. It was all or nothing for you. But Nanay had already made up her mind, bought a ticket out, found a job that was waiting for her, all that was left was to leave for it. You did not look her in the eye that day she left, staying outside right in front of the car, like you were a boulder that could stop it from moving.

VIII. Following

I remember very distinctly the moment K cried at the airport as we left Singapore after our first Christmas there. He was crying terribly hard, hating the fact that the family he grew up in, his own universe of discourse, was pulled apart into two different fabrics of time and space. It was difficult to be together now. He rolled on the floor of the then-existing budget terminal of Changi Airport, causing a scene, asking why we could not stay with her and be a happy family like those families in textbooks. He wanted to be with Nanay, with Tatay, but also with you and with Grandma and Uncle Dennis and Uncle Julius and their wives Elsa and Janice respectively, both parents and parental figures. K used to be the type that got so attached. I cannot say the same for now, however.

When Nanay said she was working on our immigration to follow her to Singapore, K was excited. You, however, did not say anything. I think you have learned from when Nanay left the country, but you made us promise to call you by Skype every day while we waited to start schooling there. You could not bear to part from us, you and Grandma, but when was the best time to leave the nest, to be honest? And we belonged with our actual parents.

And every day like clockwork since we left, we called you through video call, your brown skin a bright white like the shirts on Tide commercials, asking how we are and what we are doing, same as yesterday. The call sits for two hours as we watch you nap on the wooden floor of the rest house, and when the computer overheats, you tell Dennis to shut it off and you slither away on the floor to your room, not showing that you are crying because of how you miss us. But it is okay, I know you console yourself, because Janice is pregnant, and you are sure this kid is not a kid you will let go.

When we left the country, you had no reason to stay in Cebu anymore, so you loudly declared to the entire family that you were all going back to Medellin where they grew up and where you raised them. There was a rest house there that Tatay constructed for us; somewhere we can sleep in whenever we visited Medellin for the weekend. It was a hut, brown with nipa leaves weaved together for the roof. Everything was made of wood except for the foundations and the bathroom, the cement wall painted green on the outside. Inside was tiled and decorated with seashells Tatay paid your nephew to collect from the beach behind the house. You spent your days there lying on the ground like a dog, never breaking your afternoon-nap-and-Kulafu-at-Midnight ritual like always. Sometimes you got bored and killed flies, made your own barbecue, and even built an extended hut for Grandma that you used as a convenience store. You would participate in secret games of masiao that another one of your nephews is a runner for, you and Grandma arguing about the how she calculated her own numbers and why yours is different, until the tumor in your stomach you kept joking about started hurting too much for you to laugh about it anymore.

Dear Grandpa, throughout these homes we have come into, you repeatedly made me promise throughout my childhood to build you a concrete house that you can call your own. You called our constant moving a hassle and the hut that my father made for you not sturdy to withstand storms. You told me you were tired of the city, and asked me to build you a house in your hometown of Medellin, as big as I want, as long as it was strong and brave and could shelter you from the heavy storms.

Dear Grandpa, we have a home now. It is a bright yellow house in a subdivision a little ways away from the park that displayed an old train from Central that used to carry the sugar cane. The time is one-forty in the afternoon; I am sitting in front of your white coffin with a towel in my hair, and if I move to tilt my head rightwards I can see the bottle of Kulafu I bought for you as an offering. I am alone, save for the people passing by to get food, more ice cream, beer, or arguing about the wi-fi connection. Your Photoshopped portrait sits on top of your viewing glass, staring at the flurry of movement with your intense judging glare and thick eyebrows. You look angry in the photo, but Uncle Dennis says you were about to laugh as the photo was taken, and if I stared hard enough, I can almost see the moment that you do.

Dear Grandpa, you were powerful and strong-willed and loud for all the right reasons. You were never weak, and you never allowed people to spread nonsense about our family. I pretend not to know that the reason for your loss is not deterioration, but a dangerous formation. I pretend not to know that your every day habits are the cause of your passing. I pretend that you’ve never participated in vices in your life; it is in the Filipino culture, Nanay says, that once someone passes, he is an angel.

Dear Grandpa, I miss you very dearly. As I write this I keep erasing words and adding some more, getting distracted by the noise from the children and doors opening and San Miguel bottles tinkling against each other. This is the sound of our family, even as the shape of our living arrangement changes like the sky when it nears a storm. Dear Grandpa, in the years I have grown under your care we did not have a house whose deed was truly ours, but you have shown me the meaning of home and helped me remember it as my own now, as part of who we are: we are fighters, the heat of your Kulafu blood flowing through our veins – we are warriors.

Dear Grandpa, we might be so far away from each other, even further now that you have passed, but as I grow older and help Nanay and Tatay finish this house in your name, I will remember the way we have come, and how much further I have to go. In front of your coffin, I bow my head to mourn, but my blood boils hot under my skin – I will stand like you on this ground and do what I can, defending your name.

And if I can help it, Dear Grandpa, we will not move again any time soon.

#cnf

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thekitchensnk · 5 years ago

Text

and the spider lilies bloomed in the fall (chapter 14)

Rating: T Warnings: Sexual themes, violence Pairing: Gin/Ran Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14

“They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again still see the higanbana growing along their path, even to this day.”

A girl collapses on a dusty road one day. A boy takes her home.

The girl lives.

—

(The boy doesn’t.)

When she awoke the next morning, her head was splitting and her mouth felt stale and dry. She twisted her face sleepily at the awful taste, and scowled blearily.

“Too much to drink last night, Rangiku-chan?” Ayame asked with feigned innocence.

Rangiku could only groan in response, and she pulled her pillow over her head.

“Nope, nope, nope!” Ayame cried. “Up you get, you lazy bones. We have the entire club to mop and I’m not doing it by myself just because someone indulged a bit too much last night. Besides,” she huffed, “Chiyo-san will have your hide if you’re late. She’ll chuck you out, and then I’ll have to do it all by myself until she can hire a new girl.”

Rangiku’s groan grew plaintive and pitiful. “Ayame…”

But Ayame’s eyes were resolute.

“Three. Two,” she counted down in warning.

Rangiku whined miserably.

“One.”

“Okay! Okay! I’m up! You slave-driver! You meglomaniac! You’re as bad as Chiyo-baa-san, I swear. If you’re not careful you’ll get old and wrinkly and start to smell like cabbage just like- gyack!”

Ayame had taken hold of her legs. Rangiku flailed wildly, but it was too late- Ayame dragged her by the legs out of her bed and she trailed blankets and fabrics in her wake. Rangiku found herself sliding on her back across the tatami, dragged by her legs, and it scraped at her as she moved. By some stroke of misfortune, it seemed like her limbs bashed into every object in her path, and her head rang like a bell with her hangover. In the meantime, Ayame had made impressive and stubborn progress towards the rice-paper door, even whilst dragging her roommate behind her.

“I said ‘okay!’ Ayame-chan! Shit! Let go of my legs!” Rangiku demanded, her golden hair fanned out about her face in a frazzled mane.

A red flush sat high on Ayame’s cheeks, but she let go. “Get up on time then!” she ordered.

Rangiku rubbed at her ankles, and she pouted.

“Mou, Ayame, you have a grip like a boa constrictor.”

“Rather a boa constrictor than a fat, lazy cat,” Ayame countered fiercely.

“I used my powers last night! I’m tired and hungry, alright?”

“I didn’t have an easy time of it either! I got landed with a slimy creep, and he forced his tongue into my mouth.”

Rangiku winced.

“Yeah, actually,” she said sympathetically. “That probably is worse. Someone idiot went for me and got me right in the jaw. Didn’t hurt. Not much anyway.” She paused, and her eyes widened suddenly. “Ayame-chan, did it leave a bruise?” she fretted. If she had a big, ugly bruise on her jaw, it would seriously impact what she could make in tips.

Gin would have lied and teased her, she knew, just for kicks. She could imagine it vividly. “Yep,” he would have nodded expertly. “Big black bruise the size of a fist. Ya’ can see all the individual knuckle marks and everything. Ooo, ya’ gonna look a right sight tonight at work. Ran-chan. Ya’ sure that was a man and not a bear? It’s huge. Looks sore,” he would have said, and he would have feigned sympathy. He might even have ghosted his hand over it, and she would have shivered at the nearness of his touch. There had been no boundaries, not between the two of them.

But Gin was not here.

Ayame-chan was, and Ayame-chan did not have an ounce of guile in her (nor, Rangiku suspected sourly, a sense of humour). And though she was bossy, she was kind and she was here, and that was what counted.

Ayame cupped her face gently and studied her jawline.

“Nothing there that I can see,” she said. “Might be a bit red, but you should be okay.” Her hand dropped. “I’m sorry that you got hit. It must have hurt.”

Rangiku paused. “Well,” she said with a grimace, “I should have seen a punch like that coming from a mile off. He was so slow. Must have been the sake I sneaked. Dulled my reactions. ‘S my own fault, really.” She paused and looked Ayame earnestly in the eye. “I’m sorry that that creep forced you. I should have been there to stop him.”

But Ayame was dismissive. “It’s part of the job. Sometimes you’re not around. Sometimes they’re unbearable, sometimes they’re not. Sometimes they’re not even bad. It’s just my luck being the most junior girl here.” She paused. “‘Cept you, I guess.”

“’Cept me,” Rangiku echoed, “but I’m the muscle, not the beauty.” She grinned, entertained at her own wit, and slapped her bicep.

Ayame snorted. “Stop it. You could get a permanent job here in a heartbeat and you know it, with colouring like that. Big blue eyes. Golden hair. I’m almost jealous. Chiyo-san sniffed out a good deal when she found you- beauty and brawn.”

“And brains!” Rangiku chimed in.

Ayame’s eyes sparkled slyly. “I wouldn’t go that far, Rangiku-chan.”

Ayame did have a sense of humour, Rangiku amended to herself. It was just mean.

“Anyway,” Rangiku said pointedly, changing the subject, “Chiyo didn’t find me, actually. That was all me. I found her, and this place.” She patted the wall fondly.

“I’ve heard the story.” Ayame snorted. “You just strolled up and shouted ‘HIRE ME!’, with no references or anything.” Ayame seemed scandalised at the mere thought.

It was not at all far from the truth.

“Yep,” Rangiku said cheerfully. “Pretty much spot on.”

Ayame rolled her eyes. She put on a high-pitched voice. “’Will work- please pay in rice. And mochi if you have it.’”

“Yep,” Rangiku nodded, “Did that too.”

Ayame shook her head again. “Seriously, Rangiku-chan, I don’t understand you. All that power, those looks, and you go and you decide ‘Oh! I know what! I’ll go and work in a whorehouse.”

“Mou, Ayame-chan, be fair. It’s a club too.”

She also hadn’t known it was a whorehouse when she had brazenly demanded to be hired, but she wasn’t going to give Ayame any more of a chance to think of her as a stupid country bumpkin than she already had.

“But hardly what the majority of customers come here for.”

“Not true at all,” Rangiku argued, knowing that Ayame was right. “We have great musicians and great sake. Chiyo-san has put together a great place here. ‘S not just-“ she flushed slightly “-sex stuff.”

Ayame laughed at her then. “Come on, Rangiku-chan, you can say the word. You work here too.”

She could. She did. She had seen people in alley ways countless times in her old district, tangled up in one another, making odd gasps in the darkness, and whores selling their wares on the street, trying to scrape together enough for water and a roof over their heads. She was hardly innocent, and the girls who worked at the brothel had been sure to give her a thorough education. But at the same time, it wasn’t as if she had any practical experience in the matter. Gin had been fond of singing the dirty versions of the songs that they learnt on the streets, once upon a time, but she hadn’t understood what the words actually meant until she had started work here.

She just glowered, and Ayame ruffled her already untidy bedhead. Rangiku batted her hand away with another fierce look, and Ayame laughed. There was only a handful of years between them, but in Ayame’s view, that meant that Rangiku was a justified target for both condescension and teasing. Rangiku was younger, Ayame was elder, and that could only mean one thing: that she deserved teasing.

She hated it. She loved it.

“Come on then, you. Let’s get ready for work,” Ayame said, striding off.

Rangiku quickly tied up her messy hair with one of Ayame’s ribbons. Her hair, which she had kept at shoulder length for all the years she had known Gin, was just beginning to touch her shoulder blades, and had become increasingly hard to tame in recent days. It had only been two years, but she had shot up in height, her thighs and chest were growing thicker, and she grew curvier with every passing week it seemed. All she knew was that it was a constant pain in the ass having to remember that her hips were wider than they had been before; they were constantly littered with bruises from where she’d bashed into furniture running about the place.

For all the years she had lived with Gin, it had been as if her body was frozen in time, as if Rangiku’s innermost wish- for things never to change, for the two of them to stay together, as they were, always- had been reflected in her body. It had been as if the fear of change had weighed even on her very soul.

But time, it seemed, had finally caught up with her.

She threw her sleeping clothes (another novel aspect of this new chapter of her life) on the floor, and quickly changed into the colourful yet simple cotton yukata which served as her work clothes. She was not senior enough to warrant a silk kimono, and it would have been wasted on bar staff in any case, with the volume of spilled drinks she saw. She pulled on some tabi, stood, and straightened out her yukata with a fierce yank.

Her eyes were bright. She dashed through the paper doors after Ayame, her hip catching the door frame clumsily as she did so, and she hissed in pain.

She paused suddenly, and her hand darted to her fingers in panic. She dashed back to her sleeping roll. She fished around under her pillow, trying to find the vital thing she had forgotten. She found it quickly.

Her hands were bigger than they had once been, and so it was difficult to force it on, but there it was, two years later. A simple ring, made of tin, shining on her finger.

Satisfied, she sprinted off again.

“Ayame!” she called out loudly. “Ayame-chan!”

The sun was high in the sky, and silhouetted behind paper doors, the inhabitants of the Floating Moon were just beginning to stir. It was mid-afternoon. The work day was about to begin.

---

Ayame had taken the counter, and which had left her with the floor. How a floor could get so sticky in the course of a single night, she had no idea, and she slopped her mop around in a sulk, merely trailing grime back and forth in her efforts to clean up. Ayame had made a valiant starting effort wiping down sake cups, and she had piled the ones she had done on one side of the bar. Their white ceramic gleamed in the light. Red lanterns hung unlit from the walls, their paper faded and slightly dusty in the light of the afternoon.

There was much to be done before opening.

Rangiku mopped ferociously, her hair sticking to her forehead with the effort, and she felt her mind slip away with the mundanity of the task.

Her job, as far as she could tell, was to be bar maid, bouncer and janitor all in one.

It had been suggested, once, that she also cook the afternoon meal, the meal that they tended to all take together, once everyone had risen. She had been so giddy when she’d seen the sheer number of ingredients available in the kitchen (red bean paste? Natto? Mirin?) that she’d allowed her imagination to run wild and added a little bit of everything to the meal she had cooked. Gone were the days of rice, rice and garlic, rice and scallions, rice and ginger, rice and bone broth, and dawning were the days of the red bean soy curd surprise! It had tasted like culinary gold in her mouth, and she had moaned with the luxury of it.

Ayame had been sick. Yuki, one of the older ladies working at the Floating Moon, had turned a distinct greenish hue.

Chiyo, the brothel’s elderly owner, had stoically eaten every bite in silence, only to turn to her afterwards and announce that she was never to set foot in the kitchen again, because she was evidently cursed. Chiyo feared that her mere presence would turn the precious bounty of their kitchen rancid.

She had protested ferociously at the time.

Gin had never complained about her cooking. He would have laughed to hear that she had a kitchen-curse.

(But Gin was gone, and home was far away.)

Back in the present, she clenched her fist, and felt the bite of her too-small tin ring against her fingers.

She did not mind playing barmaid.

If anything, that was an understatement.

She loved playing barmaid.

She loved the electric thrill of the music in the night, the peals of laughter that rang through the club and bounced off its walls, the chatter and the dull roar of conversation, of deals made and jokes cracked and stories shared. She loved the energy, the atmosphere, the feeling that people were connecting and touching, even if only for one night and under one roof.

She loved the attention they showered on her, the way they would try and wheedle their way into her graces, the way that they would give her drinks and keep their eyes on her. She loved the bantering nature of it, the game-like play of interactions at the bar, the way that they would compete with each other as if she was worth something, as if they wanted her. And better still- the game was rigged. She would always win. She could string them along with a girlish laugh, and bat her golden lashes, and then she could say no, and they could do nothing about it but grumble.

Once upon a time, it had unsettled her, to have eyes linger on her like that. She had felt alien, other, to have her body looked upon in ways she didn’t understand and didn’t want, in ways so beyond her control. It had made her feel powerless. It had made her feel ashamed. She had not understood what they wanted at the time, but had intuited that they were capable of taking it by force, and the thought had frightened her.

She was stronger now. No one could take anything from her that she did not wish to give.

(But it was nice to be wanted for once. Even if only for a night. Even if only superficially.)

And now could use her powers to protect the girls here and make sure that the same was true for them.

She loved to watch the customers surreptitiously as she cleaned out sake cups behind the bar. From her post, she saw lovers and would-be lovers and soon-to-be lovers, their smiles shy, or boastful, or laden with secret meaning, and it filled her with warmth to see them, to see the softness in them, to see the tentative creation of something new.

She yearned for a softness like that, for some small thing that she could call her own.

She would watch them, and she would dream.

It was a common topic of conversation in the earliest early hours, when the dawn had cracked on the horizon and the sun was beginning to sit high in the sky and the party was over for another night. With the bright light of morning starting to caress the shadowy corners of the room, with tired, aching bodies and bright, feverish eyes, the women of the brothel (at least those who still believed in dreams and romance) would talk of love, leaning against each other to support their tired bodies, their heads together and shoulders pressed against each other.

Ayame was a pragmatist. Brushing her sweat-tangled chestnut hair out fiercely, she would say, "No boyfriends, no beaus, no sweethearts. I'm going to make my money here quickly, and then I'll be out of the business for good. I'll use my savings to start my own business, or to get some training, or I'll put it down as a dowry to attract someone rich." Whoring at an establishment like the Floating Moon paid well, and it was a pragmatic career choice for those to wished to get a good head start on the rest of their lives.

They were very lucky. Few girls in the trade could boast better conditions. Commissions were good, and Chiyo, as a former whore herself, looked after her girls to the extent that she could, and took only reasonable rates for commission, room and water. She had even employed Rangiku, a hopeless case who had rocked up at her door clueless of what it was that was actually done at the Floating Moon and who required the extra expense of feeding. Despite her burgeoning beauty and growing figure, Chiyo had not demanded that she turn tricks (though Rangiku suspected that she would offer to increase her pay if she did), but had been content to employ her on Rangiku’s own terms the minute Rangiku had demonstrated her powers.

Yuki, a gentle, small woman in her early thirties who had been at the brothel since her teens, would often disagree with Ayame, though diplomatically, as was her way. She would take the brush from out Ayame's hands, bid her to sit in front of her, and she would brush her hair more tenderly than Ayame ever did herself, working the tangles out from the ends before brushing through so as not to hurt her. "Ayame-chan,” Rangiku heard her say patiently once, “you're very young still. You might change your mind- sometimes, our plans can go awry in ways we never expect. Life throws all sorts of things at us. Love is beautiful, and love is surprising. It's like nothing else on earth."

Sayaka, with her striking green eyes which beneath thick, harsh eyebrows, took a different line again. “Give me a handsome man,” she would declaim grinning through her weariness. “A man who knows what he’s doing for once, for Kami’s sake, and not these desperate, silly little boys and lonely old men. Give me a man with fire in his veins, someone who will pay attention to me, someone who will last longer than five minutes and do more than poke, poke, po-!”

“Sayaka-kun!” Ayame would exclaim in outrage.

“What, little Ayame-chan? You know it’s true,” Sayaka would sigh.

“There are more important things than sex,” Ayame would say primly.

“Sex is important too. Passion is important. You’ll just get bored otherwise, and then where will you be?”

“Sex is important,” Yuki would agree. “There’s a reason why men pay for it, after all. But it’s not everything, Sayaka-chan. One day, you might both be lucky enough to meet someone who fills the gaps at your edges- someone who you realise you cannot do without.”

“Only one gap I’m interested in having filled, Yuki-san,” Sayaka grinned widely. Ayame would bat at her, outraged, and the two would squabble as they always did.

Rangiku, who had no idea about any of these things, would just blink sleepily at them, and long for her bed.

With Ayame’s hair finished, Yuki would pat the space in front of her and beckon to Rangiku to sit in front of her so that she could brush her hair next. Yuki’s hands were soft and just beginning to line. They felt like warm silk, and Rangiku would always lean into her touch as Yuki pushed her hair behind her ears.

“You have beautiful hair, Rangiku-chan,” she would praise. “The way it catches the light- it’s like gold! You’ve been blessed.”

Rangiku would almost purr as her hair was brushed.

“And what does Rangiku-chan think of love?” Yuki would tease quietly. “Are we pragmatic like Ayame-chan? Do we want a stallion like Sayaka-chan? Or are we content to wait and see, like me?”

Sayaka would snort. “The only thing Rangiku wants is to sleep! Such a lazy girl!” She feigned an obnoxious snore.

“It is 7am! We all want to sleep. And I’m perfectly content to wait, Yuki-san,” Ayame would add in a huff.

What did she want?

“I don’t know anything about love,” Rangiku had confessed quietly when asked for the first time.

Yuki’s response had been characteristically calm and gentle. “Who does, Rangiku-chan?” She had paused, the brush still in Rangiku’s hair, as if dwelling on things long since passed. “But you’re here. It’s hard to make it where you’ve come from all on your own.” She pointed at her ring, which gleamed in the light. “Someone must have cared, even if a little.”

Rangiku had mulled that over quietly and had said nothing.

She had arrived at a satisfying answer to give the girls after repeated prompting.

“Give me a boy who knows how to smile,” she would say, and Sayaka would whoop and Yuki would nod approvingly. “Give me a boy who will look after me. Give me a boy who will care.” Even Ayame could not find fault in that.

(But what she really meant was this: I want one boy in particular. I want him to come back.

And she would feel ashamed, because she knew that he had not wanted to stay in the first place, that she had never been enough for him.)

Over time, she began to have fun with her answers.

“Give me a man who knows how to have a good time,” she would start boldly, intent on outrage. “Give me a man who can drink me under the table. Give me a man who will worship the ground I walk on,” she would say, waving her arms about. “Give me a handsome man and a powerful man and an absolute demon in the sheets. Give me a man who will fight for me. Give me a man who would die for me,” she would end melodramatically.

Yuki would just sigh fondly, long since grown accustomed to her antics. “Sayaka has gotten to you.” She’d turn to Sayaka. “You’ve been a bad influence on our youngest girl, you!”

Sayaka would cheer and applaud. Ayame would roll her eyes and groan.

“Give her a man who knows how to cook, because she sure as hell can’t!” Sayaka joked once. Even Ayame had not been able to help but laugh on that one.

Their conspiring would draw to an abrupt end either when girls in other rooms banged on the rice paper doors, shouting at them to shut up because they had worked the whole night long and it was past dawn and well past time to be sleeping, or when they were too exhausted to keep their eyes open.

“Goodnight, Ayame-chan,” Rangiku would whisper into the light, only clumsily beaten back with shades and curtains. “Goodnight, Sayaka-kun. Goodnight, Yuki-san.”

“Goodnight Rangiku-chan,” they would murmur sleepily back at her.

Her sleep was almost always the dreamless sleep of the exhausted, but it never came instantly like it did for the others.

(Squeeze her eyes shut though she would, she always felt his absence at her back, the emptiness like negative space, like she was missing a piece. To her shame, she would replay the moments when he used to wind his arm around her, trying to forget, just for the moments that it took for her to get to sleep, that he had abandoned her.)

Pulling back from her reveries, her mind firmly back in the realities of pre-opening clean up, she turned to shout boisterously at Ayame.

“Oi, Ayame-chan! Pass me a dish cloth!”

“Come and get it yourself, you lazy thing!” Ayame shouted from behind her growing pile of sake cups.

“I don’t want to disturb that massive pile of cleaning you’ve got going on!” Rangiku yelled back. “Just throw it!”

“That’s so ungainly!” Ayame fussed.

“Just throw it!”

“Fine!” Ayame huffed, and threw a wet dishcloth. It span in the air and hit Rangiku in the face with a dull, wet slap.

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

“Do what?” Ayame said, though Rangiku could hear her muffled laughter from behind the counter. She’s not as above it all as she likes to think, Rangiku thought. And she has an aim like a demon. Rangiku smiled widely to herself.

She began to wipe down the tables, and the smell of vinegar and ginger cut through the stale alcohol-sweat smell of the club.

“You should open a window, Ayame-chan,” she called, and slipped back into reverie.

Playing barmaid was definitely her favourite part of the job. It certainly beat mopping.

Sometimes she loved getting to play the bouncer.

But sometime she hated it.

Each of the client rooms had a secret switch. Chiyo had been in the business herself and had been on the receiving end of the worst cruelties of the sex trade enough times to have insisted on it the moment she’d had enough money to afford it. It made sound business sense, she argued, to have safe, loyal workers.

The switches were rigged to a system of thin metal wires which ran secretly through the walls of the club, and in turn attached to a set of small bells under the bar. A clever little pendulum kept them ringing until the switch was flipped on the other end. It was a simple concept, really, and a simple concept which kept everyone safe.

Rangiku lived in dread of hearing one of those bells ring. If more than one rang at once, which did happen upon occasion, her heart would plummet, because it meant that she would then be forced to decide

Save one and in doing so, damn the other.

Unless she was quick.

Rangiku had become very good at being very quick.

When a bell would ring, she would swing into action immediately. Dish cloth would be tossed to the side in an instant, and she would careen over the polished wood of the bar, weaving through customers like a minnow through the kelp, sliding through paper doors like a breeze. She would take the stairs two, three at a time, her hands bright with energy and her heart hammering in her chest.

She would kick the door open with a bang, her lips twisted in a snarl.

She had seen a man with fists the size of dinner plates closing his hands around Yuki’s throat once, his cock fat and erect against her thigh. Yuki’s eyes had been wild with fear and almost popping from her head, and they had darted to her in desperation, looking to her for help. Yuki had kicked at the man wherever she could, and her small, delicate hands had been clawing at his own. She had been making an unnatural gurgling noise.

Rangiku had dreamed about that noise for weeks.

Rangiku had been too shocked to scream, but she had not frozen. Her eyes had widened, but her mouth had set in a strained line. She had shoved her hands, filled with bright, luminous reiatsu, at him with all her force. It was a clumsy, ungainly thing, more like a play-yard shove than a strike, but he had gone straight through a window and out onto the street below. Yuki had doubled over, making ugly, rasping retching noises and deep, scraping breaths.

Afterwards, Yuki had shook like a leaf, but she had folded the howling Rangiku into her arms anyway, and cried a little with her, her neck marked with twin bruises like a Rorschach butterfly. They had rocked together, arms wound tightly about each other, but Rangiku had had to make her way back to the bar after, to see out the rest of her shift. Her legs had trembled the whole night.

But Yuki had been safe because of her. Had she been on the streets alone, like the whores of her home district like Kanae, it might have been a different story altogether, and the thought made Rangiku shiver.

One time it had been Ayame; another, it had been Sayaka. Both alive, both unharmed, both safe because Rangiku had made it up the stairs in time.

She shivered to think what might happen if she ever didn’t make it in time.

Under her hands, the table was so clean that she could see her own pensive, downcast eyes reflected back at her.

“Hey!” Ayame shouted, and Rangiku jolted. Ayame noticed the troubled look on her face, and her expression softened. “Food’s ready, trouble.” She ruffled her hair again.

Rangiku stood stock still and suddenly wheeled around. She threw the dish rag back at her in revenge. It hit Ayame with a slap square in the face, and Rangiku cackled.

“STRIKE!” she cheered. Ayame’s face fell like thunder, and so Rangiku ran with a merry grin on her face.

Most business owners would have thought it an extravagance, to feed the brothel workers once a day, but Chiyo had always argued that it was good for morale (and, more cynically, she deducted the majority of the cost from their pay, so it was hardly an extravagance to her.)

Everyone but Rangiku took turns to cook, and they would all gather around the table to eat together, jostling with their elbows for space. Rangiku was the only one who had to eat out of necessity, but she loved having company whilst she ate. When everyone was present and awake, they numbered fourteen around the table. It was a simple dish, fragrant goma-ae with egg fried rice piled high in a bowl, but Rangiku salivated at the smell of it. Though she was fed just about adequately, she keenly missed the three small, simple meals a day she’d grown used to eating, once upon a time.

They’d had no table then; just a bowl between the two of them. She would restrain herself for his sake, and he would pick at the food with his chopsticks, eating like a bird. When he noticed her looking covetously at his half of the food, he would always feign a sigh and share what was left of his half. He would never complain, not seriously, and he would never begrudge her. She never caught him, but she was sure that he always added more rice to the pot when her back was turned, because he knew that she was hungry.

He had always been kind. Kind enough to carry her home. Kind enough to feed her. Kind enough to make sure she never starved again.

She sat, the first to arrive, and as she did so, she twisted the ring on her finger absent-mindedly.

(It was funny. She had starved for food once. Now she starved for want of him.)

“Head in the clouds there, as always, Rangiku-chan. What does your mind dwell on, I wonder?” asked Rin.

Rangiku started, and allowed a bright smile to bloom across her face. It was not hard to smile when there were so many people who cared. “Nothing, nothing,” she chirped quickly. “Just hungry. You know me, hungry hungry Rangiku.” She laughed.

“I see,” Rin said archly, and she began to place the food on the table.

Rangiku was fascinated with the way in which Rin spoke- her voice was melodious and unwavering, her consonants perfectly formed, and her phrasing almost aristocratic. Her eyes were a lovely violet blue, the colour of the sky in summer the instant before darkness falls, and her hair, pitch black but for a few strands of silver-gray, was styled in an elegant hime cut.

She was beautiful, stunningly beautiful, and next to her, Rangiku felt oddly clumsy; a mess. It was like comparing a bedraggled meadow daisy with a pale, perfect orchid, and her awareness of the comparison made her blush and fumble whenever she talked to the woman, who at least had the grace to pretend not to notice.

If Rin had this effect on her, Rangiku sometimes thought, then no man stood a chance. She had not known women could be like Rin.

“Did you make this all by yourself?” Rangiku asked, impressed.

It was then that she heard the clatter of the sliding door.

“Shit!” she swore dramatically, and she slid off her chair and rolled under the table. Rin arched an eyebrow, but watched on with humour dancing in her eyes.

“Where is she?” Ayame demanded.

“Who?” Rin asked with perfect composure.

“Rangiku-chan! She slapped me in the face with a dirty dish cloth and ran off, laughing all the way. She must have come up here. You know how fat and greedy she is.”

Under the table, Rangiku glared hotly.

“Did she?” Rin asked, and she smiled to herself. “Did you do anything to warrant such an attack?”

Ayame flushed. “No!.” She paused a moment. “Alright, I might have done. She even yelled ‘Strike!’ as it slapped me.” And despite herself, her lip quirked upwards. It was so ridiculous.

Rin laughed outright, and her laughter was as clear and as beautiful as a chime. Ayame’s anger collapsed, and she smiled a small smile at the absurdity.

“That girl is a marvel.” Rin said, wiping her eyes.

“You misspoke, Rin-san. I think you meant ‘monkey’. Or maybe “menace”. She’s too old for this kind of behaviour.”

The rest of the girls were beginning to filter in, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, some with the previous night’s makeup still on, some with hair tangled and still unbrushed. They eyed up the food greedily.

“Where is she anyway?” Ayame asked, far calmer this time.

Rin pointed an elegant finger to the table.

Rangiku yelped from under the table. “Rin-san! I trusted you!” Her face was a picture of betrayal.

“You can come up now, Rangiku-chan. I don’t want you to miss your meal.” Ayame sighed. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Rangiku surfaced, and in the process bumped her head on the table. She pondered Ayame’s words for a second. “Entertainment value?” she offered brightly, rubbing her head as she squeezed in beside Rin.

“I had to drag her from her bed this morning by her ankles,” Ayame informed the room.

“I know,” one of the other whores yawned. “I could hear you two bickering about it for about twenty minutes this morning.” She looked pointedly at Ayame.

“That was Rangiku-chan’s fault,” Ayame complained, mortified.

Rangiku shrugged carelessly, and began to dig in to her food with gusto. After a hard afternoon’s work cleaning the club, after a full night’s work on top of that, her stomach was gurgling with hunger. She piled rice high on her plate. The steam which issued from the bowl spun and twirled in the air, and she inhaled it with deep satisfaction.

Rin eyed her curiously. “Is it that good?”

“Hm?” Rangiku said, her cheeks stuffed with rice. She nodded vigorously, and swallowed. “’s so good. I was so hungry, Rin,” she said plaintively. “I needed this. Ayame-chan is a slave driver. ‘Rangiku, you need to clean the tables until I can see my face in them!’” she imitated in a squeaky impression of Ayame’s voice.

Ayame gave her a filthy look.

Rin looked at her pensively. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel real hunger.”

Rangiku paused, and looked Rin earnestly in her midnight eyes. “So have I.”

Rin looked momentarily disarmed. “What do you mean? You have spiritual energy. Surely all hunger is real to you?”

Rangiku laughed loudly, and it rang out around the room. “This isn’t real hunger,” she said, as if Rin had just said the silliest thing in the world. “There was a time when I had to pick pieces of corn had been left by the animals out of the mud. I used to spend more time collapsed on the road than awake, back then.” She continued to eat on, blithely unaware of the shocked expressions around her.

Ayame looked appalled. “Animal feed?”

Rangiku gave her a look. “Leftover animal feed,” she corrected with a snort.

Across the table, Yuki, who had been listening in and who had always the most soft-hearted amongst them, looked aghast. “Did no one help you? Did no one give you food?” she asked passionately.

Rangiku, with her bright blue eyes and smiles and sunshine hair, shook her head. “Nope,” she said in a matter of fact way. “Mostly they just threw stones.”

Ayame, Rin and Yuki shared appalled looks.

Rangiku looked between them in confusion, suddenly catching on to the sudden shift in the atmosphere. She felt awkward suddenly, to have broken the warm and cheerful atmosphere of their collective meal, and she stumbled over herself to put it to rights.

Her mouth ran rampant without interference from her brain. “It’s alright though!” she said cheerfully. “I’m alright! Look! I have all this rice now,” she brandished her bowl. “This tasty, tasty rice which Rin cooked for us! And I can eat as much as I want, though Ayame will call me a fat pig if I do.”

Ayame’s expression was flat as Rangiku rambled. She would never call Rangiku fat or a pig ever again.

Rangiku continued to ramble. “-and I can go and buy mochi or red bean buns with my pay now, if I’m hungry. Didn’t get those before!”

She was aware of the eyes on her.

She closed her eyes and tried to will their looks away. She paused, and she swallowed, and her hands went to the tin ring on her finger. “There was one person,” she tried. “He-“ her voice shook, and the others all gave her variations of the same intense, pitying look. She looked down, at the ring which she could only just fit on her finger now, and she smiled softly, softly through the pain. She could barely stand to think of him, let alone talk of him “He helped me,” she finished quietly. “He helped me when no one else would.”

It barely began to touch how much he had done for her, how much he had meant to her, but it was as much as she could muster; it hurt too much to think of him, to bare secret wounds to the air.

She missed him. She missed him so much.

(But he was gone. He hadn’t wanted her anymore.)

She looked up suddenly, to see three sets of eyes trained on her. At the other end of the table, Sayaka was engrossed in conversation, her thick eyebrows waggling suggestively and her audience rapt, some giggling madly, others with their hands clasped over their mouths in disgust. Around the table, plates were emptying, and people were beginning to rise to ready themselves for the evening’s work ahead.

And by her side remained Yuki, Ayame and Rin. They looked so sombre, Rangiku thought, so sombre on her account. Because they cared. They needed her and they cared. The thought washed over her like a wave, and it filled her with warmth. She smiled sheepishly, and she ran her hand through her hair with an embarrassed laugh.

“Mou, this atmosphere-“ she began with a laugh.

Rin, dark, magnificent Rin with her hime cut and her consonants like cut glass, put her hand on her head gently. Yuki put her soft, just-beginning to line hand, on top of hers. Ayame, with her huffs and her fussiness, gripped the other. Rangiku’s mouth formed an “o” in surprise.

“As long as you’re here, you will never hunger again,” Rin stated, and coming from her mouth, it sounded like a promise. “You will always have help here if you ask.”

Ayame’s eyes were fierce and she squeezed her hand; Yuki’s, usually so soft, were steely.

The world blurred; Rangiku’s heart ached, suddenly.

“And you,” she promised quietly, looking around at them fiercely. “I’m going to look after you. All of you. I promise.”

#bleach #rangiku matsumoto #gin ichimaru #ginran #ichimaru gin #spider lilies #oh man #soft and fierce friendships between women #matsumoto rangiku will cut you if you hurt a girl #bechdel test pass #i love her #i really do #she has such a huge heart #poor lass though #abandonment hurts #also i realise that some of the material here might be triggering? should i start to include trigger warnings?

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mythicallore · 6 years ago

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Abandoned Places: Arizona

Abandoned places have always drawn to them tales of the creepy and strange. There is something about a location that once was full of life falling to ruin that generates such stories, an inherit oddness to the worn out carcass of a once thriving place that invites such tales and ghostly phenomena. There are many accounts of derelict locations throughout the world that have become ground zero for all manner of weirdness, and one of these is a ghost town squatting out in the desert of Arizona, in the United States. It is a place of colorful history, death, and of numerous hauntings that continue to gain attention to this day.

Sitting out in the arid badlands of Arizona, up in in the Black Hills of Yavapai County between the cities of Flagstaff and Prescott is the town of Jerome. Founded in 1876 after claims were placed on large copper reserves in the area, Jerome sprung up out of the dry, cracked earth of these hills as a mining town, and at first was a mere dusty collection of ragtag tents. This would quickly change as more and more copper was found, as well as gold, silver, and zinc, and mining companies began to flock to the place, permanent structures were built at a steady clip, and the population quickly skyrocketed until this was a thriving boom town that would go on to boast a population of around 15,000 people in its heyday.

In order to entertain the thousands of miners and the ever growing population, numerous brothels, saloons, restaurants, and even opium dens began to sprout up here like weeds, and the town became rather notorious for its more unsavory elements and nafarious denizens. Indeed, in addition to its fame as a mining hotspot, Jerome also became equally infamous for its sprawling red light district and the large number of criminals, gamblers, and drug addicts crawling about, to the point that at one point it was once crowned as the “Wickedest City in the West” by newspapers of the era, a wretched hive of scum and villainy where you were just as likely to get shot, stabbed, or beaten as strike it rich.

For all of its success and riches, it was not meant to last, and by the time of the Great Depression Jerome’s mines had begun to dry up, sending its residents to scatter away in search of greener pastures. By the 1950s the mines’ riches had all but vanished, the population nosediving until only between 50 and 100 souls called this dry husk of a place home. It seemed that this once flourishing town was now withered, gasping, and destined to die a slow death out under the desert sun. For the most part this is exactly what happened, the all-but abandoned town becoming a feral, windswept collection of crumbling ruins seemingly destined to be re-absorbed by the desolate landscape from which it had all sprung.

Quite interestingly there would be quite an odd turn of events starting from the 1970s, when a community of artists, musicians, writers, and other creative types began to move into the dying town and reinvigorated it by promoting it as a sort of tourist attraction, setting up a Historical Society to manage it and giving it nicknames such as “America’s Largest Ghost Town” and “America’s First Ghost City.” Before long visitors began coming in to this historic but forgotten dried up place to get a glimpse of a bygone era, and Jerome enjoyed somewhat of a resurrection even as the permanent population crawled up past 500. No small part of the town’s renewed interest is that Jerome seems to be more than just a “Ghost Town” in name only, and is actually known for being inhabited by a good number of real ghosts, indeed often considered the most haunted ghost town in America.

With the town’s previous violent reputation as a den of villains, shady dealings, and deaths, as well as the numerous mining accidents that claimed many lives, it is perhaps no surprise at all that Jerome should be haunted, but the sheer number of supposedly spook infested places here is still rather impressive. One of the more famous of these is the former Lawrence Memorial Hall, which presently serves as the town’s Community Center and is perhaps more well-known for its nickname “Spook Hall.” According to the tale, the building was erected atop what was once an area of simple shacks that prostitutes used for conducting business. One of these ladies of the night was supposedly stabbed to death here, and her ghost has been frequently seen prowling the building ever since, wandering about the rooms and often knocking things over.

In Jerome’s heyday it actually wasn’t all that uncommon for prostitutes to turn up dead, and many of the town’s more haunted places originate in this fact. Indeed, the former Red Light District, often called Husband’s Alley back in the day, is said to be plagued by the ghosts of these lost souls, with visitors claiming that the disembodied voices of young women calling out to potential customers can still be heard in the night even when no one else is around. Here the apparition of a murdered prostitute named Sammie Dean can allegedly also be seen wandering around in a daze, supposedly eternally searching for her killer. One of the most popular Bordellos of the time is also one of the most haunted places to be found here.

Called The Mile High Inn and located right off of Husband’s Alley, this was the place of business of a Madam Jennie Bauters, and it was by far one of the most popular places to go for men looking for a little company at the time. Jennie would allegedly be killed by a guest, and the building has been intensely haunted ever since by a wide range of spirits. Of course the most well-known of these is Jennie herself, who is known to go about putting things away and moving objects around, and is quite notorious for doing this in the presence of maids. She is also said to be very active in the kitchen and restaurant area. In addition there is the ghost of an elderly man wearing work clothes and a felt hat, who is seen wandering around or peering in from widows, as well as leaving his indentation on beds and rearranging pictures on the walls. No one is quite sure who this gentleman is supposed to be, but he is apparently very active. Another ghost at the Inn is a younger man with a face plastered into a perpetual scowl, who lingers about the Victorian Rose Room and Inn restaurant, and is said to enjoy spooking guests by appearing before them or poking or pushing them.

Stranger still is a mysterious phantom cat said to prowl about leaving inexplicable footprints and brushing up against people, and is said to at time look so real that people will actually bend down to pick it up, upon which it melts away and vanishes into thin air right before their startled eyes. In addition to all of this the Inn is host to a wide variety of assorted paranormal phenomena, including the anomalous smell of perfume or roses that comes and goes without warning, moving objects, lights and faucets that turn on or off for no reason, disembodied footsteps and voices all about, a statue that apparently always turns around by itself to face the other way, and others. The kitchen and restaurant are apparently the most haunted of all, and guests have told of plates and cups being knocked off the table or out of their hands by unseen forces. The Mile High Inn is still in operation as a hotel today if you are ever in town and feeling brave.

Speaking of haunted hotels, Jerome has more than its fair share. Another such place is The Grand Hotel, which is often said to be even more haunted than the Mile High Inn. The origins of this particular haunting lie in the fact that the building was once the town’s mining hospital, which tended to the wounded men who had been involved in the area’s countless mining accidents, and which was also the last place they would ever see. The most notorious ghost here is that of what appears to be an old man in vintage miner clothing, who is said to particularly like turning off lights or appearing from nowhere to startle guests, and is also blamed for the frequent phone calls that come from vacant rooms of the hotel to the lobby, only for the person on the other end to hang up. Other ghosts of assorted miners are said to mill about in the hotel lobby, where they have a habit of moving around the furniture and jostling guests. There is also often the sound of disembodied gasping and wheezing heard throughout the hotel.

The elevator of the Grand Hotel is also said to be haunted by a maintenance man named Claude Harvey, who died here under mysterious circumstances, his body discovered pinned under the elevator. It would later be found that he had been most likely murdered and his body dumped into the elevator shaft, but whatever the cause of his death his ghost doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Harvey is known to push the buttons of the elevator as frightened guests look on, and is blamed for the lights flickering or going out even when the elevator is in perfect working order. On occasion he has materialized right in the elevator car as an apparition, only to blink out of existence as suddenly as he appeared. Other assorted ghosts of the hotel include a child who runs about giggling, a woman in a white dress, a man in a wheelchair, a nurse, a woman who supposedly died in childbirth, and a spectral dog, among others, and the hotel is a popular destination for paranormal investigators.

Also haunted is the somewhat lesser known Connor Hotel, which at one time was a popular and rather luxurious place to stay during Jerome’s boom years. Founded in 1898 by David Connor, in later years it has gained a reputation for being very haunted indeed. One of the location’s ghosts is Conner himself, who is often seen standing at the windows or Room 1 looking off into the distance, only to vanish. Indeed, it is Room 1 where most spirit activity is said to occur, with another ghost of a woman in red often seen here and all manner of paranormal activity associated with the room, to the point that it is rarely rented out. The hotel’s bar is also said to be fairly haunted, with the woman in red appearing here as well, often popping up right next to customers to give them a fright, and Connor’s ghost can sometimes be seen here sitting forlornly over a drink.

There are other supposedly haunted places besides red light districts and hotels in Jerome. One of the spookier such hauntings orbits the old abandoned mines that fan out in a sprawling network of 88 miles of perilous subterranean tunnels. Down here in these depths many a miner met their demise in an era when safety precautions were more of a guideline than a rule, and one of these was supposedly a miner known only as Charlie, who was decapitated in a horrible accident here, made all the more mysterious in that his head was apparently never found. However, for years the spectral form of a headless miner called “Headless Charlie” has been reported to stumble around through the murk of the tunnels, presumably still looking for his missing head. The haunted mines of Jerome are also known to spew forth unearthly moans, screams, and howls.

Last but not least, what haunted town would be complete without its own haunted cemetery? Jerome has several of these as well. Just outside of town is Hogback Cemetery, an overgrown, unkempt plot of weeds and decrepit, broken headstones dating back to Jerome’s founding, and which is said to be stalked by shadowy wraiths and restless spirits. There is also the historic Jerome Valley Cemetery, also called the Lower Jerome Cemetery, which opened in 1917 and was quickly inundated with the bodies of victims of a deadly influenza outbreak in 1918. Over the years most of the locations of these graves have been lost due to missing grave markers and incomplete records, so it is unknown just how many people were buried here. What is known is that it is widely rumored to be heavily haunted, with apparitions, mystery lights, and shadow figures commonly reported from here.

Jerome is certainly a place worth visiting, with its many quaint galleries, shops, restaurants, and museums as well as its historic buildings and colorful past. If anyone really wants to get the feeling that they have stepped straight into the old wild west, this is the place for you. However, it also appears to be a place full of the ghosts of the past, both figuratively and literally, and with so many haunted places it sometimes seems that the ghosts almost outnumber the full time residents. In fact, ghost tours have become a popular tourist attraction here in recent years, so one can take in the historical sites in the day and then go looking for specters and ghouls at night.

#paranormal #ghost town #haunted places #supernatural

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