#saying 'he's just a guy' would boil it down to naught but he truly is just like

[qismet]

one thing i was thinking about is how tetchō is very good at making connections within whatever team/organisation/military division the hunting dogs are placed within for their assignments. he's approachable and eager to help where possible, has been known to let others know his personally harsh training regimen and help them implement it to themselves, if they want to.

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Four

For those keeping score, I’m clipping through a chapter-a-day! Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Keeping Score Point-of-View: Savine dan Glokta

Glokta once thought this of Valint and Balk:

So this is what true wealth looks like. This is how true power appears. The austere temple of the golden goddess. He watched the clerks working at their neat stacks of documents, at their neat desks arranged in neat rows. There the acolytes, inducted into the lowest mysteries of the church. His eyes flickered to those waiting. Merchants and moneylenders, shopkeepers and shysters, traders and tricksters in long queues, or waiting nervously on hard chairs around the hard walls. Fine clothes, perhaps, but anxious manners. The fearful congregation, ready to cower should the deity of commerce show her vengeful streak. 

—Last Argument of Kings, Too Many Masters

I don’t think he ever anticipated said golden goddess to be walking in the flesh.

But she is no goddess, no. Not of the benevolent kind.

She is the Devil, kin to the devil-blood themselves.

Sparks showered into the night, the heat a constant pressure on Savine’s smiling face. Beyond the yawning doorway, straining bodies and straining machinery were rendered devilish by the glow of molten metal. Hammers clattered, chains rattled, steam hissed, labourers cursed. The music of money being made.

She is Kanedias, overseeing the workers, hot at the forges, seething with production and things that worked, just like him.

One-sixth of the Hill Street Foundry, after all, belonged to her.

Caring naught for humanity, this is another workshop set in Hell, full of Shanka, workers made to do the Master Maker’s bidding.

One of the six great sheds was her property. Two of the twelve looming chimneys. One in every six of the new machines spinning inside, of the coals in the great heaps shovelled in the yard, of the hundreds of twinkling panes of glass that faced the street. Not to mention one-sixth part of the ever-increasing profits. A flood of silver to put His Majesty’s mint to shame.

But, unlike Kanedias, this devil-blood cares more for money than weapons, the work leveraged to profit instead of done for the work itself. And, as the times go, smaller, meaner people walk beyond the shadows of greater people. 

And whose shadow better than the first to commit to the power of coin?

“It was money that bought victory in King Guslav’s half-baked Gurkish war,” said Bayaz. “It was money that united the Open Council behind their bastard king. It was money that brought Duke Orso rushing to the defence of his daughter and tipped the balance in our favour. All my money.”

—Last Argument of Kings, Answers

This devil-blood walks in the shadows of the First of the Magi himself, only further committed to the High Art of making money.

And, on a voice standpoint, just read how much Savine’s POV is precise in the details of her workshop, how much numbers and calculations factors into it. How many longer, lingering sentences and more complex vocabulary there is, compared to Rikke or Leo’s chapters. This is a thinking woman, full of ambition and comfortable in the Other Side.

But, what is a Kanedias without his Jaremias? Or, better yet...

“Best not to loiter, my lady,” murmured Zuri, fires gleaming in her eyes as she glanced about the darkened street.

A Bayaz without his Yoru Sulfur?

She was right, as always. Most young ladies of Savine’s acquaintance would have come over faint at the suggestion of visiting this part of Adua without a company of soldiers in attendance. But those who wish to occupy the heights of society must be willing to dredge the depths from time to time, when they see opportunities glitter in the filth.

“On we go,” said Savine, boot heels squelching as she followed their link-boy’s bobbing light into the maze of buildings. Narrow houses with whole families wedged into every room leaned together, a spider’s web of flapping washing strung between, laden carts rumbling beneath and showering filth to the rooftops. Where whole blocks had not been cleared to make way for the new mills and manufactories, the crooked lanes reeked of coal smoke and woodsmoke, blocked drains and no drains at all. It was a borough heaving with humanity. Seething with industry. And, most importantly, boiling over with money to be made.

Quite the ambitious woman, Savine is, and with the prerequisite lack of scruples that a child of Glokta would have. Yet, Glokta never had this sort of ambition to him, even before the Gurkhul Empire got to him. After, he was just trying to keep his head above water and do his best to win. If I had to put my finger on where Savine gets her ambitions from, first trilogy-wise? I’d say it’s West more than Glokta. Savine shares quite a few characteristics with Glokta, but it’s that need to rise that I feel she shares with her uncle Collem West.

And look at this dense microcosm of the peasantry! Full of squalor, wretched stenches, spaces full of cramped families, it’s a tapestry stitched full of misery, and all Savine sees is that very humanity being put to use for making money.

Savine was by no means the only one who saw it. It was payday, and impromptu merchants swarmed about the warehouses and forges, hoping to lighten the labourers’ purses as they spilled out after work, selling small pleasures and meagre necessities. Selling themselves, if they could only find a buyer.

There were others hoping to lighten purses by more direct means. Grubby little cutpurses weaving through the crowds. Footpads lurking in the darkness of the alleys. Thugs slouching on the corners, keen to collect on behalf of the district’s many moneylenders.

I once read about how the only differences between the great and small thieves is a matter of legality and scale. And it really shows here, how we’ll take advantage of the poor conditions that the working class must endure, only to fill our own pockets. It hardly matters whether we steal with a small pleasure given or a sharp knife at the back, it’s taking advantage of those without much to line our own bottom lines.

Risks, perhaps, and dangers, but Savine had always loved the thrill of a gamble, especially when the game was rigged in her favour. She had long ago learned that at least half of everything is presentation. Seem a victim, soon become one. Seem in charge, people fall over themselves to obey.

So she walked with a swagger, dressed in the dizzy height of fashion, lowering her eyes for no one. She walked painfully erect, although Zuri’s earlier heaving on the laces of her corset gave her little choice. She walked as if it was her street—and indeed she did own five decaying houses further down, packed to their rotten rafters with Gurkish refugees paying twice the going rent.

Then it’s not really a gamble, is it, Savine. That’s stacking the deck, reaping the rewards of it, and patting yourself on the back for being a daring risk-taker, you fool. If that’s the root of your arrogance, then, boy, is this world going to topple you sooner than later because it doesn’t treat the arrogant much better than the merciful. And, boy, is Savine not lacking in arrogance. She reminds me of a pre-bridge Glokta, in terms of how much she buys into her own hype.

An intriguing nugget, though, is her predisposition with presentation. That need to perform and look a certain part. It’s definitely something Glokta, back then, never felt like he had to. I get more shades of West here and his need to perform to a certain standard, but I also think the question of gender has to be considered with how Savine feels she has to perform. It’s an interesting wrinkle in how Savine zigs where Glokta zagged in terms of their respective youths.

Also, Gurkish refugees? (arches a brow) What the hell happened to the Gurkish Empire? Or, are these just people who got tired of the cannibalistic slavery? I can’t really blame them, but is the Union really that much better, guys? Hmmm. Either way, way to take advantage of marginalized people in a racist society, Savine. You’re a class act, m’am, truly.

Zuri was a great reassurance on one side, Savine’s beautifully wrought short steel a great reassurance on the other. Many young ladies had been affecting swords since Finree dan Brock caused a sensation by wearing one to court. Savine found that nothing lent one confidence like a length of sharpened metal close to hand.

Whoa, whoa. Finree wears a sword nowadays? ... Actually, given how Hal’s dead, I can definitely see this as a way to establish authority and put herself on the same level of respect as a man in the Union. And, given how much there’s institutional sexism in that society, I can’t really blame her. Though, given the round of PTSD she got last handling a blade... I’m sure she doesn’t want to actually kill anyone with it now. 

Honestly, though, good for Savine and those women of the Union. Better weigh your hopes of safety on a sword than the mercies of your men or enemies.

Savine gathered her skirts so she could squat beside him and look in his dirt-smeared face. She wondered if he sponged the muck on as artfully as her maids did her powder, to arouse just the right amount of sympathy. Clean children need no charity, after all.

Wow, Savine, has it ever occurred to you that the conditions you benefit off of aren’t as pristine as you make it out to be? Have you considered that maybe the world isn’t a projection of your own inclinations to performance? 

Just no empathy here, none at all.

She was not at all above sentimental displays of generosity. The whole point of squeezing one’s partners in private was so they could do the squeezing in public. Savine, meanwhile, could smile ever so sweetly, and toss coins to an urchin or two, and appear virtuous without the slightest damage to her bottom line. When it comes to virtue, after all, appearances are everything.

The boy stared at the silver as though it was some legendary beast he had heard of but never hoped to see. “For me?”

She knew that in her button and buckle manufactory in Holsthorm, smaller and probably dirtier children were paid a fraction as much for a long day’s hard labour. The manager insisted little fingers were best suited to little tasks, and cost only little wages, too. But Holsthorm was far away, and things in the distance seem very small. Even the sufferings of children.

“For you.” She did not go as far as ruffling his hair, of course. Who knew what might be living in it?

I’m very reminded of capitalists donating to particular charities while turning a blind eye to the very real exploitation and labor abuse they perpetuate and are supported by. They can afford to look virtuous and get ass-pats for giving what’s effectively their pocket change, but god forbid they do things like get taxed heavier or give enough to put a good dent in most cases of institutional poverty. It’s all about appearances, and so long as you close your mind to the golden pillars, stained with blood, your entire enterprise is supported on, you can justify any means for profit.

And what frightens me about this is... this isn’t some relic from the past. Child labor is still a thing world-wide! And plenty of capitalists rely on them, plenty of our industries rely on them, just to squeeze out extra money to gild their bottom line. And we turn a blind eye on them and ignore the moral horrors of them out of convenience, because to look those children in the eye would make us monsters. And Savine prefers not to feel like a monster, but is more than willing to keep up the hellish circumstances that churn out her money.

“None more blessed, my scripture-teacher once declared, than those who light the way for others.”

“Was that the one who fathered a child on one of his other pupils?”

“That’s him.” Zuri’s black brows thoughtfully rose. “So much for spiritual instruction.”

Zuri’s certainly got a character, being a more cynical follower of religion, huh. I wonder if she’s been disillusioned by her faith, just like Temple was. And why she went to the atheist arms of the Union. I also wonder if this isn’t a commentary on how our religious leaders end up falling short of the actual beliefs and commit to the obscene and awful while papering it over with their high position.

Zuri whipped out a cloth and wiped down a vacant section of the counter, then, as Savine sat, she slipped out the pin and whisked away her hat without disturbing a hair. She kept it close to her chest, which was prudent. Savine’s hat was probably worth more than this entire building, including the clientele. At a brief assay, they only reduced its value.

And who’s partly responsible for that discrepancy of worth, huh, Savine?

She planted one elbow on the stretch of counter Zuri had wiped so she could lean closer and draw out both syllables. “Savine.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

“Oh, if you enjoy the tip, you’ll go mad for the whole thing.”

“That so?” he purred at her. “How does it go?”

“Savine… dan…�� And she leaned even closer to deliver the punchline. “Glokta.”

If a name had been a knife and she had cut his throat with hers, the blood could not have drained more quickly from his face. He gave a strangled cough, took a step back and nearly fell over one of his own barrels.

Well, well, well! Glokta’s gotten quite the name for himself, it seems! Can’t exactly be surprised, given he’s the effective ruler of the Union and the Arch Lector of the Inquisition, but it’s a far cry from the simple Inquisitor he started off as, way back at the first trilogy’s start. He’s riding high at the top and Savine gets to use his name to put the screws on random dumbfucks.

Quite theatrical with her words, Savine is! She knows when to let her opponent in, so she can skewer him. Her fencing is such that she knows how to leverage her father’s name to a fine emotional stab to the throat once her opponent dips in and she lunges for the kill. Say one thing about Savine dan Glokta, say she knows how to fence, just like her father.

“If I spent all my time shut up with Mother, we would kill each other,” said Savine. “And I feel that business should be conducted, whenever possible, in person. Otherwise one’s partners can convince themselves that one’s eyes are not on the details. My eyes are always on the details, Majir.”

Oh, dang. Is that exaggeration or do Savine and Ardee not have a good relationship? Also, dang, is Ardee still alone in her home? That’s... actually really sad, given how lonely she was at the first trilogy’s start. She deserves better. 

Also, Savine’s not wrong, but at the same time, I can’t read this as anything other than Savine not wanting her partners to fuck her over somewhere. Which, I can’t quite blame her for, but when she’s as rich as she’s implied to be...

My understanding runs thinner. Though, I suppose she wouldn’t have gotten the wealth she did by being a passive business partner that way.

“A promissory note from the banking house of Valint and Balk.”

“Really?” Valint and Balk had a dark reputation, even for a bank. Savine’s father had often warned her never to deal with them, because once you owe Valint and Balk, the debt is never done. But a promissory note was just money, and money can never be a bad thing. She tossed the pouch to Zuri, who peered inside and gave the smallest nod. “It’s coming to something when even the bandits are using the bank.”

Majir mildly raised one brow. “Honest women have the law to protect them. Bandits must take more care with their earnings.”

!!!!! WHOA, WHOA, WHOA. Is that a smart call, Majir? Glokta’s not wrong there!!! There’s half a trilogy detailing how awful that bank is! 

Savine, what are you doing. For such a ruthless and to-the-point woman, that’s pretty naive to assume money is money when your father himself warned you against it! Banks have ruined better people than you, and it’s indebted your father! How can you say something like that and think it smart?

(Bangs head against desk)

“True.” Majir watched her turn away, big fists pressed into the counter. “Do pass my regards to your father.”

Savine laughed. “Let’s not demean ourselves by pretending my father gives a dry fuck for your regards.” And she blew a kiss at the terrified barman on her way out.

This, along with her pinching Majir’s cheek earlier, makes me think Savine just gets off on punching down and patronizing people lower than her. Makes for a killer ending line, but it doesn’t suggest any good things about Savine as a person at all.

Dietam dan Kort, famed architect, was a man who gave every appearance of being in control. His desk, scattered with maps, surveys and draughtsman’s drawings, was certainly a wonder of engineering. Savine had moved among the most powerful men in the realm and still doubted she had ever seen a larger. It filled his office so completely, there was only the narrowest of passages around the edges to reach his chair. He must have needed help to squeeze himself through every morning. She wondered if she should recommend her corset-maker.

“Lady Savine,” he intoned. “What an honour.”

“Isn’t it, though?” She made him lean dangerously far across the desk in order to kiss her hand. Savine studied his, meanwhile, big and broad with fingers scarred from hard work. A self-made man. His greying hair was painstakingly scraped across a pate quite obviously bald. A proud and a vain man. She noticed a slight fraying of the cuffs on his once-splendid coat. A man in straitened circumstances, intent on appearing otherwise.

In short, a man Savine will take pleasure in wringing. And I must take note of the passages here, how much Savine’s POV attends to the details of her surroundings, of the appearance and small notes that others would miss. In a lot of ways, she’s the opposite of Leo, someone who takes pains to note the presentation of another because she’s very driven to it herself and thinks to leverage that knowledge to squeeze those who can be.

Also, I kind of wonder if noble titles can be bought in this world, given this assumption of Dietam dan Kort as a self-made man. Either that or Kort’s just a son from a smaller family who managed to get a good opportunity through this new age. Either way, given the way Savine’s accumulated her wealth, despite her noble title of Glokta, I imagine he’s similar to her, if only not as successful.

Zuri placed Majir’s pouch on the desk as delicately as if it had been deposited by a summer breeze. It looked very small on that immense expanse of green leather. But that was the magic of banks. They could render the priceless tiny, the immense worthless.

I’m reminded of Daniel Abraham’s The Dagger and the Coin and how the big twist was this dawn of paper money about to circulate throughout the world. And how it’s a sort of magic in its own right... but it’s always a blessing and curse, just like magic in the Circle of the World. 

“Of course!” He was unable to disguise a note of eager greed as he reached across the desk. “I believe we agreed a twentieth share—”

Savine placed one fingertip on the corner of the pouch. “You mentioned a twentieth. I remained silent.”

His hand froze. “Then…?”

“A fifth.”

There was a pause. While he decided how outraged he could afford to be, and Savine decided how little to appear to care.

Eager greed, huh? Me thinks, the raven call the crow black here. And there’s another note of projection in Savine’s POV, it’s a consistent note of Savine seeing intent where there might not be. She does it with the link-boy about how dirty he was, and now, she does it with Kort’s outrage. She just can’t seem to think that these reactions and people are genuine. Her head’s full of presentation and performance, and she just seems to internalize that there’s always a double-meaning to everything and everyone.

It’s honestly a really fascinating note about how unreliable Savine might be, how much her predilection with appearances bleeds into how much she reads into the world.

“When I confide, in strictest confidence, that you are short of investment, lacking the necessary permissions and troubled by restless workmen, it will be all over town before sunup.”

“Sure as printing it in a pamphlet,” said Zuri, sadly.

“Good luck finding an investor then, reasonable or otherwise.”

It had only taken a moment for Kort to go from bright red to deathly pale, and Savine burst out laughing. “Don’t be silly, I won’t do that!” She stopped laughing. “Because you are going to sign one-fifth of your enterprise over to me. Now. Then I can confide in Tilde that I just made the investment of a lifetime, and she won’t be able to resist investing herself. She’s not only loose-lipped, you see, but tight-fisted, too.”

Oh, very hard power here, Savine. Corporate blackmail and underhanded threats, I very well see. It must do your black heart a bundle of joy to punch down on fellow nobles. There’s barely any carrot here, mostly the stick.

“Greed is a quality the priests abhor.” Zuri sighed. “Especially the rich ones.”

“But so widespread these days,” lamented Savine. “If Lady Rucksted sees some gain in it, I daresay she can persuade her husband to make a breach in Casamir’s Wall so you can extend your canal into the Three Farms.” And Savine could sell the worthless slum buildings she had bought on the canal’s likely route back to herself at an immense profit. “The marshal’s notoriously stubborn for most of us but to his wife he’s a pussycat. You know how it is with old men and their young brides.”

In a lot of ways, this feels like a statement of the new generation, the new wave of greed that Sult disdained way back at the trilogy’s start is in full swing now. Now, Sult was a classist bigot who wanted the peasantry to knuckle down to nobility like old times, but at the same time, we see how much this attitude of greed has bled into the nobility themselves now, far beyond the realms of the merchants Sult once held in contempt. And Savine plays to get ahead of the others, already thinking reaches ahead of her competition here. Profit’s the name of the game, and she’s a natural hand at it...

“The first to do so.” Where it could service Savine’s three textile mills and the Hill Street Foundry, incidentally, and sharply raise their productivity. “I daresay—for a friend—I could even arrange a visit of His Majesty’s Inquisitors to a labour meeting. I imagine your troublesome workers will be far more pliable after a few stern examples are made.”

“Stern examples,” threw in Zuri, “are something the priests are always in favour of.”

... Though it doesn’t hurt to have father’s institutions as muscle to sweeten the pot, huh. Really, Savine, this is embarrassing if you think this is a fair game between you and Kort. You stacked the deck and have the dealer on your side and I imagine this wasn’t the first time you’ve leveraged the Inquisition in your business deals. (snorts)

Kort sagged, his chin settling into the roll of fat beneath it, his eyes fixed resentfully upon her. Clearly, he was not a man who liked to lose. But where would be the fun in beating men who did?

Savine really gets her kicks off punching down people lower than her. That’s like, an inherent part of her psychology, huh.

“A notary from the firm of Temple and Kahdia is already drawing up the papers. He will be in touch.” She turned towards the door.

Hey! Temple’s business! Sounds like he’s done well for himself since Red Country, I hope he’s doing well with Shy, Pit, and Ro! Though, dang, Temple, could your business not help out a woman like Savine?

“They warned me,” Kort grunted as he slid Valint and Balk’s note from the pouch. “That you care about nothing but money.”

“Why, what a pompous crowd they are. Beyond a point I passed long ago, I don’t even care about money.” Savine flicked the brim of her hat in farewell. “But how else is one to keep score?”

Oh, oh my. I know I’ve mentioned Kanedias, Bayaz, and West, but this part? This part? All Sand dan Glokta, down on a bone-deep level. This is the part of Glokta that just loved to lord his dominance over those who couldn’t punch back. The part that just loved to feel superior to everyone else, way back back at that bridge when he thrashed those fencers and wanted to wound West when his own blood was drawn. The part of him that can’t stand to lose, the need to win at all cost.

It’s all about the conquest with her and her father. There’s no higher-minded purpose behind it, it’s just the winning.

As a chapter, Keeping Score, is a microcosm of Savine’s character. There’s an arc in it, but not as strong as one as Where the Fight’s Hottest, nor is it quite as impactful as Blessings and Curses. But it has plenty of Abercrombie snark and some great starting fencing, though, with opponents that Savine can easily take down without much effort. But it sets up a great industrial age sweeping over Adua and how much that change’s going to affect the world going forward... and how Savine’s going to take that change by the tails. 

As a character... Savine’s 100% more interesting than Leo in a lot of ways, but at the same time, wow, is she just a spectacularly scummy person in most ways Leo just isn’t (aside from him being a oblivious musclehead). A capitalist who leverages her father in power plays and corporate blackmail, just to gain even more wealth that she doesn’t need out of a need to win. There are definitely interesting aspects to how Savine differs from her father and her historical DNAs, but in a lot of ways? She feels very reminiscent of pre-bridge Glokta in a way that makes me realize that man would’ve been downright insufferable as a POV. 

I can take Savine, because I definitely think she’s got a ton of potential and, you know, there’s no way Abercrombie would let her stay the same the entire book. Though, a curious thought is that Savine strikes me less a fantasy archetype than a modern archetype in a fantasy world. Hm. That’s an interesting thought, especially considering how much Temple was a modern character dropped in a fantasy western world.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

[secretshinigami]

Fire, Water, and Government

Author: @yagami-raito-kun For: @sheepalicious Pairings/Characters: Beyond Birthday Rating/Warnings: Teen and Up, minor gore mention Prompt: Beyond is in prison, actively trying to get better thanks to some clarity and being unable to obsess over L here, but realizes self-improvement is ultimately futile once Kira starts to kill off criminals. Author’s notes: I’m not sure “disgruntled but mostly accepting” and “actively trying to get better” are quite the same thing, but I tried my best. I am so, so sorry this took so long, and I hope it’s worth the wait.

“Barbecue. Barb. Barbie. Wake up.”

Reluctantly, Beyond Birthday pried the protective mask off his eyes. “I told you not to call me that.”

A man of sense would have fallen silent if confronted by a noseless, disfigured serial killer. Randy Stephens did not. “What, Barbecue? But everyone calls you—”

“I can’t strangle everyone. I can strangle you.”

“Ha. That’s funny. There’s some sort of commotion down the cells. Come see.”

Beyond sat up slowly, grimacing at the familiar, aching tightness in his grafted skin. From the moment Naomi Misora’s handcuffs had closed around his raw, damaged wrists, his body had been his most humiliating prison, and the pain of his burns had never truly left him. Though he was as healed as he ever would be, he was far from whole, defined forever by what he had lost—and what he had not. His abortive blaze of glory had cost him his eyelids, his freedom, four fingers, his hair, and rather large swaths of his skin, but it had not cost him his sight. The doctor called that a miracle. Beyond Birthday called that a joke.

Ah, well. As the wise man said, fire, water, and government know nothing of mercy.

He joined Stephens at the window, scratching his neck. “What is it?”

“Don’t know. They just carried someone out in a bag. I can’t tell which cell.” Stephens’s eyes were eager. “Do you think it’s Kira?”

“That would be jumping to conclusions. Plenty of people on this cell block want each other dead.”

“If there was a fight, we would have heard it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Okay, okay. But it would be cool if it were Kira, don’t you think?”

Beyond had no eyebrows left to raise, but he did his best. “No.”

“Oh, come on. The guy’s incredible. Even you have to admit that.”

No, I don’t. Beyond’s cellmate was around his age, but seemed far younger, his freckled face and irrepressible cheeriness an odd contrast with his lengthy rap sheet. Though they had been cellmates for several months, Beyond couldn’t muster anything but indifference for the boy. The red numbers dwindling implacably to naughts above Stephens’s head, on the other hand—those fascinated him. A year left, maybe two. He won’t leave this prison alive. Beyond felt no pangs at the knowledge, but he wondered how long Stephens’ optimism would last if he knew.

“He’s an odd choice to swoon over,” Beyond said. “Doesn’t it frighten you?”

“Nah, I’m a nobody. He’s after the homicides. Not me.”

I’m a homicide. “He’ll get to carjackers, too. Give him time.”

“Relax, Barb. They’ll catch him any day now, you’ll see. Pity he won’t end up here, though.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity, mostly. They say he’s got superpowers, that he’s some sort of mutant. That he can kill people with his mind.”

“Only Alvarez says that. And he’s an idiot.” Beyond’s voice dripped disdain. “A superstitious idiot.”

“I guess. Still. I’d just like to see him for myself, you know?” Stephens pulled back from the window with a sigh. “I wonder what he looks like.”

“A human being.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. We murderers aren’t a distinct breed. Most of us look no different from anybody else.”

Stephens raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You don’t.”

“I am not most.”

“Neither is Kira. Come on, Barb. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Yes. It had shocked him, truly, the first time he heard the name L from another inmate’s lips. Now, that name was everywhere, alongside the name which had brought L’s to the forefront. The inmates spoke of Kira in hushed, reverent tones—as mice might speak of a hawk, or primitive men of their gods. L’s nemesis, they call him. Him, not me. Beyond had half a mind to cheer the man on, whoever he was. The other half wanted to scream. Kira. L’s new project.

L’s new me.

“What he looks like makes no difference. I’m more interested in what he does.” Beyond sat back down on his bunk. “And how he kills.”

“You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

The killer spread his arms, palms upward. “Do I look like a man who intended to live this long?”

“I guess not.” His cellmate looked him over, thoughtful. “Do you think he’ll kill you?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It makes no difference to me, either way.”

“You must feel something.”

Many things. Fire had rendered Beyond’s expressions nearly unreadable, but his emotions still boiled under the skin: fury, denial, despair. Pain, whenever he moved. Numb resignation, whenever he didn’t. Horror, when people looked at him with pity. Satisfaction, when people looked at him with fear. Regret, when he thought of Misora. Humiliation, when he thought of L. And on the increasingly common occasions when he thought of Kira, jealousy, amusement, and dismay.

But no fear, though. Never that.

Voices outside the cell drew Stephens’s interest, and Beyond let his arms drop, relieved. “What is it now?”

“I can’t tell. No, wait. That’s Evans.” The boy sounded startled. “They’re taking Evans out of his cell.”

“Not Donovan?”

“No. Only Evans. Which means—”

“Donovan is the corpse.”

“Yes.”

Beyond shook his head. “That isn’t possible. You must be seeing someone else.”

“I’m telling you, that’s Evans. No one else walks with that weird limp.”

“No. It isn’t Donovan. I’m certain of that.”

“Why not?”

Because I’ve seen him. Two days ago. Donovan’s numbers had been declining, of course, but not one of them had yet reached zero. Most weren’t anywhere close. For Donovan to be dead, something had to be wrong-either with Beyond’s eyes, or with the world. The former possibility disturbed him. The latter disturbed him far more.

It amused him, too.

Fire, water, government.

And now Kira.

Beyond’s name flickered red and numberless in the mirror, just as it always had. With a low chuckle, he pressed his knuckles to the mattress. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?”

“I may be afraid of Kira after all.”

[bluelilybell45]

Future (5 years) - by @festival-kitten

I’m so sorry this is late, I was tired while writing this.

Kagura lifted her glass of beer up and chugged it, not even bothering to notice the unwanted attention she was getting in the bar at first. Truthfully, it wasn’t very often you’d see a girl with bright vermilion coloured hair who was indescribably beautiful. 

She knew it wasn’t the best of ideas to drink at a bar all alone, but it was obvious that she, a mighty yato, could easily take down anyone who tried anything funny with her. She was pissed off enough already, so that would only add to her ferociousness. 

“Scurry along.” she shooed a man who was about to sit next to her in the bar stool, who from the looks of it, wasn’t backing down. “I’m warning you, bucko, don’t bother me right now.” she said, giving him a heinous glare in hopes that he’d leave her be. That only made him all the more interested, taking the seat right next to her without even caring about her warnings. 

“Do you want me to buy you a drink?” he asked, the classic question that most girls would respond with a no to. However, Kagura was different from most girls and said yes. 

“A beer for the lady and one for me, please.” he beckoned the bartender, who responded with a swift nod. Kagura briefly scanned his features, taking into account that he seemed at least ten years older than her, which might even be a stretch on her part. 

Kagura rested a hand on her face and stared off in the other direction, feeling the man’s gaze on her but only hoping he’d keep quiet and eventually leave if she shunned him. That tactic doesn’t usually work, but it was worth a shot. 

“So, pretty lady, I haven’t seen you around these parts. Are you new?” he wondered, but she didn’t respond at all. 

“Do you want me to walk you home? Or perhaps we could go do something else.” he said. She knew what he was implying but only turned his way to get the glass of beer that the man had offered, naught else. 

“It’d be best if you don’t ignore me.” he said. She could tell that the man was getting mad from his tone but that was all part of the amusement. She had a rough day, might as well take it out on somebody else without even saying a word. 

What she did not expect though was for the man to knock his bar stool over and grab her roughly by the shoulders, yanking her in his direction. All eyes turned towards them, the customers at the bar intrigued by what had just went down. The man gave her an aggravated glare, clearly unimpressed with the girl’s attitude. 

“Listen when a man talks, bitch.” he spat, causing Kagura’s blood to boil immediately after he spoke. Oh, he didn’t just pull that card on her, did he? He had the nerve to do so, in front of an entire group of people. Everyone knew what was coming for him, and yet he was completely oblivious to what was going to unfold. 

Kagura, with her hand closest to the bar, gripped the beer he had bought for her, and with one swift motion, she poured it over his head.  The crowd of people present erupted with laughter, entertained by one mere gesture. “I’m a bitch, huh? Better than being a pig.” she cackled, pulverizing the glass with her fist and letting the remnants sprinkle on top of his head. 

“Don’t mess with me.” she whispered into his ear, picking up the umbrella from the counter-top and making her way towards the exit. The man still stood idly, speechless and awestruck by her actions. Indeed, she was force to be reckoned with, and even then she hadn’t done much. 

As soon as Kagura stepped through the doors, she did not expect to hear an all too familiar voice mock her. “Not a pig, huh? You sure do seem like one, though. You ‘ought to double check yourself.” he said. Kagura glanced to her right, finding a guy who had changed way too drastically in appearance. Sure, he did the same thing he always did, leaning sideways against the wall with his arms folded, but he grew his hair even longer than hers. 

“I didn’t know this bar was a Kenshin Himura cosplay convention. My apologies, it’s a good thing I left then.” she remarked, taking in his more masculine stature. His face was as deadpanned as ever, possessing no hint of concern but his voice was laced with playfulness, as always. She guessed that it was true that most boys don’t grow up until they’re far older. She knew that firsthand when she lived with Gintoki. Her heart began to ache at the thought of him, but she held in her emotions, not wanting to revisit the thought of their long gone caretaker. 

“So what are you doing at a bar at 2AM?” he asked, sounding a lot like the police officer he used to be.

“None of your business. I’m wondering though myself why you’d be hanging out right outside this very door at such an hour?” she inquired, a smile twinging at the corner of her lip but staying tame. 

“I was just lurking around, searching for any criminals who ever so happened to impose their way into other’s lives, when I heard a commotion going on from this bar. I should’ve guessed it was one of the two of you from the Yorozuya–”

“The Yorozuya is no more. Don’t even talk about it.” she bit back, resting the fairly large umbrella on her shoulder and opening it wide. She began to walk away, heading to who knows where to sleep. 

Sougo, not wanting to let this opportunity go, ran under the umbrella with her, evoking a rather negative response from the woman.

“G-get out of here, you idiot! There’s a clear reason why I don’t want to talk to you!” she said, shoving him out lightly, only for him to quickly get back under.

“And that reason would be?” he asked, causing her to scowl. 

“That you’re a complete and utter idiot and I don’t want to talk to you.” she stated. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t being as forceful, rather it seemed she wanted someone to talk to. He could tell from the way her eyes were downcast towards the ground that she had a lot on her mind. To him, it made no sense that she hadn’t tried to punch him yet or sweep him onto his bed. 

“Oi.” he tried getting her attention, succeeding when she slowed her pace and eventually stopped. 

“What?” she responded, taking into account his serious expression. 

“If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. Just thought I’d let you know.” he assures her, his eyes possessing an odd warmth she had yet to see. She fixated her gaze on his eyes, noticing that he was examining her features, probably because they hadn’t even spoken to each other in two whole years. Of course, a teenage girl would develop at least a bit between that time. He had to admit, he definitely could see her as a woman now. His thoughts broke off though as soon as he came to the realization. 

“Well, I’m off.” he concluded awkwardly, finally realizing that they had been lost in each other’s eyes for one long moment. Heat rose into his cheeks, thinking about what he had just done. Not just him though, her as well. 

Kagura stood still, taking in his broad back before he turned around for a brief moment, capturing her azure blue eyes again. 

“Take care.” she muttered, audible enough for him to hear. He was about to walk away when she took a moment to breathe before mustering up enough courage to say the words she truly wanted to convey. “U-um, can we talk tomorrow?” she asked, not caring who heard. Sougo’s eyebrows raised slightly, shocked that she’d take up his offer.

“Sure, meet me on the bridge at dawn.” he said, turning his back towards the China girl just to make sure she couldn’t see his smile, despite being in the dark. 

[purrincesskittens]

Marichat May: Day 29; The Argument

*Slap* the sting of the girls hand hitting his face along with the sound itself seemed to echo around them. He knew now that what he said had been too much. And he regretted it. 

A routine patrol brought him near Marinette’s house. He saw her bedroom light was still on so he thought he might stop in and see her. He liked spending time with her as Chat it was fun and interesting to see her react differently then when he was Adrien. 

“Well hello purrincess.” He purrs peering in her hatch. She blinked from her seat on her chaise tears in her eyes. “What do you want Chat?” She asks in a broken hollow sounding voice. 

He dropped in landing on her bed and quickly moving down to her side wanting to comfort her. He had no idea why she was crying but he wanted to make it better. “I just thought I might drop in on a fur-end to say hi.”

She snuggled against him after a moments hesitation when he wrapped his arms around her. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?” He asks concerned. “Oh Chat I’ve just had a really bad day is all.” 

“You can tell me about it if it will make you feel better.” Chat suggests quietly to her. “Well there is this guy in my class and we are really good friends well not good friends but friends and I really want to get closer to him but every time I do things go wrong and today was like that.”

She sniffed rubbing her eyes.  “What do you mean?” “Well I tried to bring him something to eat for lunch but I forgot it at home so I had to turn back half way to school and go get it and then I was late to class because of it. And the teacher called me out for it.”

He winced remembering her coming rushing into the classroom that morning in too much of a hurry to consider sneaking in. She refused to meet anyone’s eyes during the lecture she received.

She took a deep shuddering breath before continuing. “Chloe teased me about always being late and made my day even more miserable. And then the food I brought got knocked off my desk later on so it got mushed a bit. By the time lunch came around my day really hadn’t been going good. I had made a complete fool out of myself at every opportunity tripping over my own feet and stumbling over my words it was so humiliating. “ 

Her moans as she told him this just accented to the whole thing. He winced again remembering all that happened and thinking of just how she was taking it. “The food was still editable so I figured just apologize for how it looked but then Chloe found me before I could give it to him and informed me that he was on a strict diet and I was ruining things for him and making him feel bad by tempting him with foods he cant have. She told me he would never want to eat anything so disgusting especially made by me.”

The girl in his arms gave a whimper more tears running down her face. He was really wanting to go have a ‘chat’ with Chloe right then about bullying his friends. 

“She dumped the food on me and smashed it into my clothes making me have to go home and change so I missed lunch and got yelled at for being late again. I was hungry since I missed lunch and my stomach growl in the middle of class and everyone laughed at me it was so humiliating!!” She cries in despair. He didn’t comment on her use of the word humiliating twice. He felt she deserved to use what ever language she wanted.

“And then *hic* and then I got splashed with dirty water after school. So my clothes were ruined twice!!” She hiccuped part way through her sentence her sobs being held back. 

  “This happens every time!!Every time I try to get closer to him something happens!! I’m beginning to wonder if he even notices me!! Everything I do is for naught!! I tried sending him a card and what do I do?! Forget to sign it!! Try to give him a present and what happens?! He doesn’t know its from me!! Why is it that everything I do is completely and utterly useless!!” She shrieks breaking down into sobs. 

Chat winced his ears flattening at her high pitched shriek. He wrapped her more firmly in his arms trying to comfort her murmuring sweet nothings to her to try and offer her some sort of comfort. 

Anime and manga had not prepared him for this. What was he to do with a crying female? Ladybug would know but she wasn’t here. Lupine might know she was female after all but again she wasn’t around. 

Him and Corvus hadn’t talked much about girls so he had no idea if Corvus had experience with them or not other then  kind of flirting with his princess on the rare occasions they crossed paths.

So he did the one thing that came to his mind at the moment. He decided to dis the guy who was so oblivious as to not see wonderful sweet Marinette in front of him.

“Princess if this guy can’t see how wonderful you are then he isn’t worth your time. He’s an idiot, stupid to not see you and how hard your trying to be friends with him. A guy like him is probably to self centered and shallow to notice someone as kind and caring as you. You should forget about him. If he can’t even eat the food you brought because of some diet then he definitely is self centered to busy worrying about his looks. Forget him Princess and move on he isn’t worth your time.” 

He tells her all this in a calm earnest voice completely believing what he was saying. If they couldn’t appreciate her then she should forget them and move on with her life she had friends who loved her for who she was she didn’t need to be friends with someone who couldn’t. 

Marinette froze when she heard him speak but as he continued on her head tilted up to stare at him her eyes wide seeing that in his eyes he was speaking the truth but the look on his face was what seal it. The anger in her grew. 

How dare he judge Adrien when he didn’t even know him!! Adrien was nothing like that!! By the time Chat was done she was furious and shaking. The anger boiled over in her taking the place of the misery she had felt earlier. 

Her hand came up on its own accord and struck him slapping him across the face with a loud distinct noise her face twisted into an angry scowl. “Shut Up! You don’t know him at all Chat!! You can’t say that about someone you have never really met!He’s not like that at all you have him all wrong!! He would never hurt me!! He is truly kind!!Get out!! Get out and don’t ever come back here again Chat Noir!! I never want to see you again!!”

She smacked and hit him driving him backwards towards her loft forcing him to retreat before eventually shoving him up through the hatch tossing things at his retreating form slamming and locking her hatch.

Chat Noir raced across the roof tops confused and upset he knew he had said something wrong he had said to much she really cared for this boy and he said the wrong thing and it upset her worse. He regretted it but now he didn’t know what to do to make it better.

“Ow!! Watch it kitty!!” A sharp voice yelps cutting through his cloud of depression over upsetting his friend and getting kicked out. He had crashed into someone or rather run them over literally. 

Lupine Alpha sat up rubbing her ribs were Chat Noir had trodden on her. Her gold eyes glaring at him with slight irritation nothing more. She had been stretched out on a roof relaxing watching the evening clouds when Chat Noir came racing through not looking where he was going and stepped on her running right over her.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so very sorry!!” He apologizes profusely not wanting another friend to be upset with him. Lupine just gave him a confused puzzled look. “I’m not that mad kitty just a little irritated nothing a simple apology won’t fix.” She explains taking his hands in hers to calm him down from his panic.

“Now mind telling me what has you like this that you didn’t even smell me? Or see me for that matter? Your senses are sharper then this kitty. Now talk to me.” She sits him down beside her gently sensing something was wrong with the black cat.

He poured out his story to her in one big rush. He admitted to being stupid through out it over and over again before finally finishing up with “And now I’m banded from her place and she never wants to see me again and I was such an idiot and I don’t know how to make it up to her.” He cries wailing pathetically.

“Wow you really were stupid. But at least you acknowledge you were thats something many guys don’t see  how stupid they were when they do something like that. Believe me I know I’ve dealt with it with Corvus plenty of times before.” Lupine commented her brows furrowing causing her mask to bunch up in between her gold eyes. 

“You do realize she was talking about you right?” That broke through the haze he was in clearer then anything else she said. “What do you mean?You’re not making sense.” Chat was confused there was no way Marinette was talking about him.

“She was talking about your civilian self, Adrien.” She mutters exasperated rolling her eyes at the boy. He froze. Lupine Alpha had just said his name. His secret identity. He turned his head his eyes wide as they focused on her. 

She smiled at him slyly. “What you don’t think I figured it out? Come on how many people know someone with the name Plagg who gets into trouble and likes cheese? You told me the first day we met you had a friend named Plagg and then the second day I met Chat Noir’s kwami Plagg who likes cheese. Between that and your scent after the whole skunk incident at the zoo and both Chat Noir and Adrien being allergic to feathers it was pretty easy especially since you don’t wear wards like I do. Accalia just confirmed it for me is all.” 

She looked rather pleased with herself and smug while he was left scrambling. “Since I wear wards for the purpose of making people over look me and not notice the similarities between me and Lupine Alpha I’ll give you a hint. Both my selves have scars on there back that a bully took pictures of. We are from Japan and we live with a guardian not parents. I’m allergic to shell fish and mushrooms as well as lilies. I have a friend named Accalia who gave me this.” She tapped her miraculous grinning at him as she did. “Who am I?”

It took him a while for his brain to put two and two together. A long while probably due to those wards she mentioned making him over look it all. “J.J.” He breathed as she let her transformation go with a simple “Paws Off.”. 

“Took you long enough”, A familiar wolf kwami growled flying up into his face. “Now are you going to go get flowers, chocolates, a card and some new yarn and fabrics as well as a replacement for the plant you knocked off her balcony when you were running away your tail tucked between your legs?” Accalia snarls earning a sigh from her miraculous holder. 

“Yes yes I’m on it right away!!” Chat says quickly retreating to go do just that frantic to find all those things before the shops closed for the night. J.J. just sat on the roof top watching him leave before commenting to her self more then her kwami. “Now how do I get down from here?” 

[liebeztod]

cheap sex and sad films

Once again, the overwhelming sense of inadequacy inhabits the pit of my stomach. There’s something about your best friends being in love--and happily so--that really puts a sour spin in every sunset and song. Suddenly... it’s hard to sleep again... even when fatigue weighs at my eyes with the day’s worries. My irrationality serves as the best caffeine; keeping me up at night with its usual doldrum anxieties... 

Tonight is no different, as I mull over the same insecurities while listening to my own infamous playlist chock-full of songs of self-loathing and/or melancholy. 

How do I always end up here? Well, I have wonderful friends, and of course, I want them to be happy. But there was a comfort in not being single alone... what I mean by that is... since Nat and her boyfriend broke up earlier last year, suddenly it was nice not to be the odd one out. However when she started dating again, and we all got together for brunch with she and Juby and their beaux--I the only one without having brought “someone”--suddenly the empty chair to my side felt very noticeable.

Not to mention the comments made a little while later... when Juby’s boyfriend mentioned how he felt sorry for me when I didn’t have anyone to bring to functions, and how setting me up with some mutual friend was the best possible option... suddenly I felt like that Old Maid I always read about in books like Gone With The Wind or Pride & Prejudice... this undesirable old hag who needs her matches made for her... 

The thing is, it’s a thought that crosses my mind more often than naught ever since it’s been brought up. I think about it all the time. And I mean this... all the time. I have conversations with myself daily... imaginary, silly discussions about whether it’s an inability of mine to find a SO, or a deep desire of just not wanting one in general.

I entertain both notions.

On the one hand, where’s the good in having a boyfriend? When I think of the men I have been with, or the type of men I attract, I am... disgusted. In my last physical venture,  I felt sick to the stomach. Not that the guy I slept with was absurdly unattractive or a bad person, but because I knew I was. Because he mentioned dating, and I was just in it for the meaningless sex.

And then there are all the other men I’ve been with (excluding my darling Martin from Munich) who all had to make some kind of disclosure about my weight... like “you’re pretty for a chubby girl,” or “I like bigger girls” yadda yadda. As someone who still struggles with the comments made to me in my adolescence about my weight, it’s still very hard for me to unlearn the “conventional” body ideals I grew up coveting; and with friends like I had in high school, the jokes made at my behest have made their mark rather permanent.

And then there are the moments when, if I do want to engage a man in what my generation calls “talking,” I am put off by the “busy” trope. Of course, men are always busy when *I* want to start a conversation, or they are short--can’t be bothered. But when the night hours are in session, when a guy has a boner he wants to rub out with the help of my textual expertise, then suddenly they’re Charles Dickens, getting paid by the mouthful.

They’re all the same.

Which brings me to my next point: has my loss of desire in the opposite sex evolved into a straight-up inability on my part to find any necessity in finding an SO? Suddenly I find that I am no longer in want of the occasional hookup, nor do I get the itch to download a dating app, or talk to random men when going out with my friends.

In the now WEEKLY events that my friends suggest introducing me to someone, I panic. I become drenched in dread, and talk my way out of it. Truly. 

There is something about the incessant dredge that is “talking” to a guy that feels like I’m going through an embalming process; like when I have to sit through a conversation that sounds like ALL the others, it’s as though my blood is being drained from my body. Every attempt a man makes at flirting makes me roll my eyes; every winky emoji boils my blood, and any indication of “kicking it” or “chilling” is all it takes for me to put down the phone and quit replying.

And I am just tired. When my friends find their weekly opportunity to pitch a new beau to me, it is hard to respectfully decline. Each man I have encountered all seem to be working from the same script... the same stupid jokes they think I’ll find funny... the same nighttime schedule which prompts them to only text me at night when they’re horny and bored.

Love has eluded me. 

Life has dealt me the blow of meeting the love of my life at the premature age of 13. It has also added insult to injury by putting him on a completely different continent, ensuring a personal meeting ten years after the fact, and once again separating us by the sole reality of different nationalities, families and incompatibilities. 

I think... what did I do in my past life to deserve this? I am being punished for something I cannot remember doing, and to make it worse, I am very much alone in this lifetime sentence of unrequited love.

If I am the villain, and it sure feels that way, I wonder if “tragedy” is inapplicable to my plight. I feel neurotic at times, feeling the way I do for someone I spent a whole of perhaps 30 hours with. But when I psychoanalyze the phone conversations, and try to find hidden meanings in what he says... I chock it up to us being one in the same; beating around the bush, being afraid of saying what we mean, etc., etc.

But, in my momentary laps of sanity, like this moment, I know I am alone in this. P does not work from the same script as all the other idiot men I have let try to woo me; however it is similar, in that he has his own schedule. And similar to my own script, he ignores me, as I ignore the other men.

It is infuriating as much as it is deflating when my text messages and calls to P go unanswered. Especially so this week... now that Nat has found someone new, it feels a bit like salt in the wound; of course, I am happy she is happy. But naturally, there is a envy I do not know how to detach myself from. 

It’s one thing to be kept up by my sorrows. But to hear her gush about her insomnia brought on by her happiness and excitement of this new guy is... distressing to say the least.

There is a worry that this feeling will elude me indefinitely, as much as I want it, and as much as I have tried in the past to move on from P. My friends tell me I need to open up, and that I will find someone who is “great,” but hard as I try, I cannot see anything but a man’s ulterior motives, their insincerities, their comments about my weight, their disclosures and disclaimers.

I feel brash enough to say I feel trapped in my love for P; I am a prisoner of my own dissatisfaction for what life has dealt me, and because I am either in love with being sad, or just stupidly devoted for P, or both, I refuse to help myself.

And yet, like some caged bird staring out at other birds, flying free against the blue of the sky, I am jealous of it. Hearing Nat smitten by this new player has me so curious; when was the last time I felt butterflies? At what point did cynicism invade every fiber of my being? I would like to be like my friends who are excited after meeting a nice boy who wants to talk to them, and take them out. 

The butterflies in my stomach are lifeless, and are only revived after a word or a ring from P. And when a week or two passes by of not hearing from him, they die again, which is time’s way, I suppose.

The thing is... I do not find other men to be nice. And when they are, they are not. And I know I am not nice. And through my P-tinted glasses every suitor just looks like a poor substitution. And when the humiliation of being single gets to be too much, I will finally do just what I am most afraid of doing: settle. 

It is just hard going on three years of this accursed want for P, feelings that have only gotten stronger with the distance and time and the reality that I will most likely never see him again. In being denied the only person I have ever wanted, you would hope this makes me a better person but I doubt it can. 

In lieu of the the melancholy that keeps me up all night, I will reside in the memories where he felt attainable and hope they will suffice.