#tattoo the opening frame on my gravestone

[marlahey]

it's an aortic aneurism, isn't it? yes. and when it bursts... this is all over. i don't want to leave this world without knowing love fully. you are loved. fully. Thomas Brodie-Sangstar and Maia Mitchell The Artful Dodger (2023–) 1.08: "Untapped Potential"

[a-world-in-grey]

Sola/Calling for Rain

@secret-engima and, months later, the snippet I promised!

.

Karin’s first memories are her mother’s grave and her sister’s sick bed.

She knows more than that of course. She knows how her mother died, forced to use their family’s healing ability until they’d drained her chakra dry. She knows her older sister nearly followed their mother that night, eight years old and already scarred across her arms and shoulders.

But that knowledge isn’t seared into her memory the way her mother’s gravestone is, the bamboo marker plain and unmarked, nothing like the stone markers bearing carved names for the village shinobi. That knowledge doesn’t paint itself across her closed eyelids like Kyoho’s frail form, skin too pale, breaths too shallow, wild hair tumbling across the pillows like a splash of blood.

Karin remembers when Kyoho first opened her eyes, how her sister had looked to find Karin first, and hadn’t settled until she could clearly see Karin was well.

.

Karin doesn’t know how much Kyoho’s near death changed her older sister. She can’t remember what Kyoho was like before, can’t remember a time when Kyoho didn’t braid their hair with little painted beads and thin cords of braided thread. Can’t remember a time when Kyoho didn’t hold her close at night and whisper bedtime stories in words that sound like thunder and rain.

Stories and Songs and meanings just for the two of them. Braids and beads hidden beneath hair and cloth, Clan secrets told in the dead of night in a tongue only they knew. Teaching Karin to dance, to fly.

Teaching Karin to survive. 

Kyoho trains with the determination not to learn, but master every skill she can. Taijutsu, weapons, healing, ninjutsu. She claws her way up the ranks of Kusa’s shinobi, genin at nine, chuunin at eleven, jounin at fifteen.

Kusa’s own little prodigy. A match for Konoha’s Uchiha Itachi or Hatake Kakashi. Or so Kusa likes to think.

There’s a lot Kusa doesn’t know.

They don’t know of the fuuinjutsu, of the basics learned from their mother that Kyoho took and reinvented on her own. The black tattoos spiraling across Kyoho’s skin hidden from sight under dark green clothing. 

They don’t know about the chakra chains Kyoho painstakingly learned to use. Chains Kyoho learned to modify, to shrink to the size of a fine gold chain, to enlarge to the size of the massive chains that once rose from the waves to close Uzushio’s ports.

They don���t know of Kyoho’s sensory abilities, so fine tuned she can pick out a shinobi’s specialization from the feel of their chakra alone. They don’t know of the weapons Kyoho can wield beyond her glaive and curved shortswords.

They don’t know Kyoho’s taught Karin everything she knows. They don’t know Karin isn’t the fumbling, lackluster genin overshadowed by her prodigal sister’s brilliance.

.

“My name is Uzumaki Naruto, and I’m going to kick all of your asses!”

The room goes silent, every genin present turning to stare, and Karin feels her breath freeze in her lungs as the chakra signatures around her spike with anger and disbelief.

Karin buries her own chakra, smothers it down to a spark so small even Kyoho has difficulty detecting, hiding the surprise and recognition and the tangle of emotions she can keep off her face but not out of her chakra. And she knows she shouldn’t focus her attention solely on the loud Konoha genin as his teammates and comrades converge to scold him for his recklessness. There are others in the room far more dangerous than the rookie too dumb not to draw the ire of the rest of the competition before the Exams have even begun. And yet-

Uzumaki.

He doesn’t have the red hair. But that’s the mon on his shoulder, black and purple instead of the black and blue variant Kyoho’s stitched into their clothes, in places easily hidden because there’s Clan Pride but then there’s announcing to all the Elemental Nations that they’re female kekkai genkai bearers.

Karin lessens her hold on her chakra, reaching her senses past the thunderstorm-shadow-river feeling of the three genin standing beside him.

Warmth. Bright encompassing warmth, intense but not painful, the ocean breeze across her skin on a clear sunny day. Swirling reserves deeper than she’s ever sensed, even deeper than Kyoho’s hearth-fire chakra.

Karin suppresses her chakra the moment the blond’s thunderstorm teammate glances her way, glancing away and digging her fingernails into the back of her hand so hard she’s surprised she doesn’t break skin.

She swallows back a sob.

Uzumaki. He’s Clan.

But not Galahdian. Not a child of the Storm-Father, not someone who grew up with the Clan Laws and the certainty in their bones that even if the world fell apart, the Clan would always have your back.

The Uzumaki are a shinobi clan. Karin can’t… how can she know if she can trust this wayward Uzumaki? How can she know if he will hold that same fierce loyalty that blazes in her and Kyoho’s souls?

She shouldn’t. Oh, but by the Storm-Father, Karin wants to. This long lost kinsman who wears Freedom and Protection across his shoulders. Who looks at the world with Protection in his eyes and crowned with Love.

Karin knows the Colors don’t apply to the natural world. To things that are mere happenstance and genetic chance. But-

(‘Sometimes the Gods paint us with specific Colors,’ Karin remembers Kyoho telling her, ‘A message and a warning, for souls so strong the physical has no choice but to reflect it.’

Karin had looked into Blue eyes framed by Red hair, and never asked if Kyoho spoke from experience.)

For the first time in nearly ten years, Karin hopes.

She has to try.

And that means staying in Konoha long enough to get a measure of Uzumaki Naruto.

.

Karin is perfectly happy not knowing how something gets named the ‘Forest of Death.’

Unfortunately, as the location of the Second Exam, Karin’s not going to get a choice.

Kyoho would love it, Karin thinks as she miserably fills out the liability waiver. Kyoho had spoken of many places in her past life, but none so fondly as Galahd, deadly and wild and all the more beautiful for it.  

She lets her ‘teammates’ take the lead as they scout through the forest. Her head’s busy planning her next step. Should she focus on passing the Second Exam? Kyoho told her how the Third Exam was always an exhibition for clients, so she’d have plenty of time during the preparations to track down and try to get to know her kinsman. Perhaps with Kyoho’s help even - surely her mission would be finished by then?

But that assumes Karin and the two idiots she’s assigned to play chakra-battery for can pass at all. They aren’t the weakest team in the forest, even counting Karin’s careful pretense, but there are a lot of teams stronger than they are. Stronger, and all too willing to kill.

Karin could ditch the idiots. She’s kept track of where she last sensed Uzumaki Naruto’s chakra, so she could find him and get to know him in the time before the Second Exam ends. Maybe even steal the Earth scroll and bring it as a good faith gift. 

But she’d be on her own, carrying a high value target, and gambling on her kinsman caring enough about a cousin he didn’t know to trust and protect her.

Karin tugs on the loose ends of her hair in frustration. Why is this so hard?!

Kyoho would know what to do.

Kyoho’s not here, Karin firmly reminds herself. She has to figure this out on her own.

In the end, she chooses to stay with her teammates. There's too many unknowns for her to risk running now.

.

Two days later, staring up at the bear taller than her house, Karin's regretting her decision to stay.

They left me!

Stay and hide, they said. You'll be fine.

If they're still alive when Karin finds them, she's going to throttle them. Hiding her chakra doesn't matter when enemies can find her by her scent! The bear snarls, and Karin gives up any pretense of hiding her abilities. She's out of her depth, anything less than her full skill will only end up with her dead-

("Above all else," Kyoho had whispered the night before Karin left for Konoha, "survive.")

She reaches for her supply of explosive tags (way more than anyone thinks she has, way more than she probably needs, but they're the easiest seal to make and Kyoho always says there's no such thing as overkill) and prepares to turn the bear into a pile of charred meat and fur.

Only, there's movement above her, a blur of black and purple, a flash of silver-

Thunder. Lightning and rain and the howling storm as she huddles by the warmth of hearth, each flash of light in the sky accompanied by the rolling drums that echo in her chest; an invitation, a challenge, to face the storm and laugh in the embrace of the sky.

Uzumaki's dark haired teammate lunges from the trees like one of the jungle cats of Kyoho's stories, dropping down onto the bear with a spinning, flying kick, and Kyoho freezes.

Kyoho knows that kick.

(Karin stares wide-eyed as Kyoho all but flies through the air, leaping and spinning with the grace of a breeze through the prairie grasses. Kyoho's been teaching her how to dance, but those jumps have nothing on the ones Kyoho is doing!

"Will I learn to do that too?" Karin asks. Nerves flit in her gut like butterflies. She's trying to learn everything Kyoho can teach her, but those leaps are so high.

Blue eyes soften as Kyoho ruffles her hair. "You don't have to - it's not part of the Ostium Dance."

Karin blinks. "It's not?"

"It's Ulric, our sister Clan." Kyoho says. Her gaze grows distant. "Clan of Sky and Storm, Coeurl-kin, first of the Storm-Father's children."

Karin's touch on her arm brings her back to the present. "Were you Ulric first, before you were Ostium?"

Kyoho laughs. "I was Furia, Clan of Sea and Horizon, but I learned the Ulric Dance because I was Sky-born instead of Sea-born.")

She can't see a braid, but- Black and purple. A pair of well worn kukri at his back. The aerial combat she's never seen anyone but Kyoho use.

Her fingers tremble around the string of explosive tags as the genin checks to make sure the bear is dead. Then he turns to her with an easy grin. "You're an Uzumaki, right? Do you want to meet your cousin?"

And Karin has been so keyed up over possibly having Clan, over being in hostile territory with no one to watch her back, with desperate hope dogging her heels for the past three days of finding someone she can trust- 

(“You can always trust the Clans. Even the most bitter rivals will protect a Clan child, if they are threatened by Outsiders.”)

"Are you Ulric?" She blurts.

Dark eyes sharpen. "How do you know that name?" But his gaze flits to her temple, to the black braid joiner peeking out from her hair. Karin removes the grey hitai-ate and pulls her hair back to show him her braids. The Ostium Braid and the Mourning Braid for her mother, unlike Kyoho who also wears Marriage, Hero, and Revenge Braids. Braids Karin and Kyoho have never shown anyone but each other.

But the boy's eyes widen in shock and recognition, and pale fingers pull the Ulric Braid threaded with the purple ribbon of a Chief from its hiding place behind his ear.

("And if you get the chance, run. Before Kusa kills you too.")

Karin sobs.

This boy is Clan. He's safe.

[themoonwatchess-blog]

Hiraeth - 1

Chapter 1 - Laughter In The Tombs

Word Count: 3665

Warnings: Minor gore, swearing

Hiraeth; homesickness for a home you cannot return to, a home that maybe never was, a nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

Hiraeth. That's all I feel now. I'm too caught up in the past to focus on the present tense, not that it matters anyway. My life is full of running, running from the monster I have become. Every month leaves me in a new city, a new place to call "home". The nostalgia of my past life haunts my sleep. I yearn to be in my real home, to be back in normal life, but that life will never come back, for I have ruined it.

Boney fingers outstretched and touch crumbled and faded words embedded in granite. Years of neglect had left the stone blackened with muck. These words have seen years of pain and sorrow but have also seen many generations come and go. One day we will all have this slab of granite above our heads, it is certain. We all die, it is the one thing guaranteed in life, yet we fear it more than anything. I retract my hand from the stone, letting the feeble appendage fall into my lap. A cold wind blows through the public cemetery, a shiver quakes down my spine as I sit in front of the oldest gravestone that rests below the oldest oak tree. The words engraved into the stone are nearly illegible, only someone who had been there for the corpse's burial would remember the name etched into the stone. A shame, but just like the gravestone, we too wither and fade away.

"You do know it's rude to step on a grave, right?" A voice from behind calls out. The words are soft, the slightest murmurs of a giggle finish the sentence. I lift my head ever slightly to get a glimpse of the man who greeted me. He was short and skinny, head shaved clean and the hints of tattoos tease along his shirt line.

That was my lover, the man who I love more than anything, Chester. He had stuck by my side since, well, the whole beginning. At times, he's too caring. I always feel like I end up hurting him, yet he stays. I beg him to leave, to find a better life, but he insists he's happy with me. I hate myself for loving him too much, for letting him stay... but at times, I couldn't imagine my life without him in it.

"Hello to you too, Chester," I reply back, "Didn't think you'd find me."

"I always do," He audibly exhales before sitting against the old oak tree, "You need to have more faith in me."

"I do have faith in you," My face remains stern, eyes fixate back on the stone, "Do you ever wonder about these people?"

Chester is too busy picking at a hangnail that irritates one of his index fingers when the question is posed. Dumbfounded by the question, he simply quirks a brow at me in response. There are no other people around and I guess I'm not too blunt about who I'm referring too.

"The—" Chester begins but is ultimately cut off.

"The dead people," My eyes dart away from the stone just long enough to stare daggers at Chester, "D'ya think they lived happy lives?"

"I dunno," He stands from his spot against the tree trunk, wiping his pant seat from the dirt he acquired upon sitting there, "I'm sure they were happy, Brad. No one is miserable forever."

"Well—" I open my mouth to say something, but decides otherwise and shut it quick. Chester furrows his brow, a frown tug at his lips as he watches me closely. He knows internally what I want to say, I can tell by the way his eyes droop down along with the corners of his lips and he overall begins to slouch in appearance.

"I love you," Chester breaks the sudden awkward silence, "I don't think we're miserable."

Another round of silence, I feel my lover's eyes drawn on me. My heart thuds in my chest, the steady beat rings in my ears as I utter the words in my head. We are miserable. No one deserves a life like this.

"I think we are."

I state the words bluntly, completely ignoring the words of affection that my lover professed. Chester's lips purse, a sigh leaves his throat as the atmosphere grows tense. We were miserable, life had turn cruel towards us many moon cycles ago, but at least we were lucky enough to be miserable together if you would consider such thing a blessing. Long have we abandoned our fragile and tender nature, instead, we adopted the sternness and unlovable appearance after losing our own humanity to an otherworldly curse. I had fallen victim to a curse— changed me, both physically and mentally. I became a creature of legend, a werewolf. I would be a wolf in sheep's clothing if I continued to live such a human way of life, even now it seems I desperately cling to the one thing that makes me feel human; Chester, my lover for many of years before the curse was bestowed on me. It is all I have left, the only thing that keeps me from becoming an animal. I close my eyes, breathing deeply as another gust of wind blows through.

"Let's just.... let's just leave." Toneless words speak up against the sound of the wind but fall on deaf ears. Chester must be tired of having a conversation like this nearly every month, I hear him sigh again before he impatiently begins to walk in circles. He's itching to leave, I think.

"Where are we going to go?" Again, I don't even have the decency to look at the other man.

We had already traveled halfway up the west coast, it seems almost inevitable that we would run out of places to hide. We were nearing the border of Oregon now, California has already felt our taint. What will we do after we finish the West Coast? Go into Canada? The Midwest? It seems like it would only be a few more months before we would have to figure it out.

"Um," Chester sucks on his teeth, "Etna."

Our only option was to run. I had become numb, detached to the feeling of leaving once again; it was only worse to get so attached to a city. I let my head hang down, my shoulders slouch at the words. Chester steps forward prudently, cautious of disturbing me.

"How long is the drive?" I perk up, dark eyes follow up Chester's skinny figure. Our eyes lock, the standing man offers a sympathetic smile as we look at one another.

"Three hours, I'd think," Chester extends his hand to help me up, though I don't take his offer. I help myself to my feet. The bags underneath Chester's eyes weigh heavily on him, their dark image reflect the thousands of tears he shed and the years of pain that besets him. I hate myself for doing this to him, at times I wish he would just go back to his normal life and leave me to rot here, "We can leave today."

"Today?" I reply with a groan. My eyes wander back down to the gravestone I had been so fixated on before Chester arrived. I suck in my lip, letting my teeth bite down in the dried skin. I pick at it for a few seconds while I begin to wander in thought, a red streak of blood paints the waterline of my bottom lip now. The metallic taste draws me back to reality.

Emotional inertia besets me, overwhelming guilt fills my cruelly treated heart. Thoughts wander all over the place, barely leaving a second of thought to peg out the irrationality of some of my thoughts. My brain just draws illogical conclusions, making me believe that I am someone to be feared, that I don't deserve love. However, another part of me pulls towards my humanity, begging me to retreat back home with Chester.

"I don't wanna leave," I speak breathlessly, my tongue wets my lips, the metallic taste of the crimson liquid is all too common of a sensation for me, "I'm— I'm tired of running."

There's a moment in which we both just stare at one another wordlessly. Chester's mouth hangs agape for a hint of second before he scours for an answer to give me. My legs tremble with my sudden jolt of anxiety, again my mind rolls through an infinite number of irrational outcomes to this conversation, most of which end badly.

"We don't have any other choice, Brad," His words run sour, "Just— I'm sorry... I'm sorry."

"I— I'm sorry... for... for everything..." I crumble with those words, Chester immediately swoops in to wrap my frail figure in a hug.

Life is hard, but we are stronger. I can't keep going without his support. All we have is each other. Chester's lips grace against my forehead, he mumbles something incoherent as his arms travel up my back in a soothing manner. I am vulnerable now, but at this moment I know I am safe in his arms.

"Don't," He squeezes my frame, "It's okay."

I lean into his chest, sniffling against the black fabric of his shirt. We stand in the middle of a cemetery holding each other as a bitter autumn wind continues to rumble through. His arm continues up my spine till they find a spot to rest on top of my shoulders, another kiss plants itself on my sweat-dampened forehead.

"Why don't we head to the car?" He asks me quietly, he is torn down by hearing me bite down a whimper.

"I don't— don't wanna leave yet," My words come out jumbled and fight against the urge to sob. He squeezes me tight again before finally letting me go. His arms drop to his side, unsure of what to do.

"We won't leave yet," He reassures me quietly, "We can... we can just go get something to eat, you get emotional when your stomach rumbles."

"I do not--" I protest his little joke, forcing a quick smile as I reach up to wipe my teary eyes, "But some breakfast does sound good right about now."

He giggles as a smile tugs at his lips, he reaches out to take my hand. I let our fingers interlock, his hand is cold and clammy, nauseating at best, but I love him nonetheless. His cheeks dimple as he catches me studying our intertwined fingers, he playfully sticks out his elbow to shove me but I dodge his petty attempt for a laugh. Hand in hand, us two walk together towards the well-worn cemetery gates. The metal fencing is rusted and starting to corrode, vines cover most of the surface area now. The front gate reads 'Hogan Cemetery', underneath is a small engraving detailing the year the cemetery was founded.

"So," Chester looks over at me as we walk, "Did you know that guy?"

"What guy?" I furrow my brow at his question which in turn causes his smile to drop into a frown.

"The--" He shakes his head quietly, "The dead guy, Brad, you were sitting there for a while, touching his tombstone and shit. Please tell me you knew him or else we're gonna get cursed."

"Why'd we get cursed?" I ask stupidly, "I didn't know him, though, no. His gravestone just... had an energy to it."

"If you step on a grave, they say that person'll haunt you," I snicker at how worried he sounds. He was always one to believe every conspiracy he heard and would stay up at night after I told him half-assed ghost stories that I would make up on the spot. Those were simpler times then when we had the time to be young and dumb, "If we wake up dead tomorrow 'cause you pissed off a dead spirit, I'm gonna beat yer ass in the afterlife."

"Shut up," I roll my eyes, "Have you ever even seen a ghost? Much less one that can hurt you?"

He looks up at me with eyes wide open, his face is drained of color and his body goes frigid. I roll my eyes again, this time I'm sure he's watching me. He opens his mouth to say something, popping his lips together for added effect.

"There was a ghost in our last motel room, in-- in Red Bluff," He's bluffing, I can tell by the way his eyes can't sit still, "Scared the shit out of me, I tell ya."

"Whatever," I extend my free hand and forcibly shove him, he yelps stupidly, acting like I just hurt him, but we both end up laughing it off together.

We pass under the cemetery gates, leading us into the parking lot. It's quite out today, the only other car here is owned by the cemetery workers, I guess because we didn't see anyone visiting some dead relatives out there. Chester leads me to our beat-down but still ass-kicking, Camaro. The paint shines a pristine white against the early hour of sunlight. She was a birthday present I got Chester back before we had to run, he always used to gush about how he wanted an old Camaro with white walls and pitch black glass windows. I wonder if he still likes the car as much as he used to.

Our hands detach from one another, we crisscross each other to get to our respective side of the car. Chester never lets me drive, not like I really care, I'm a terrible driver anyways. I look over at Chester, his fists around in his pocket for the car keys, after an eternity of me pulling on the door handle, he finally manages to pull out the small key. He pushes the unlock button and the car chirps a sound to signal that it unlocked.

~ ✦ ~

The diner, named 'Mama's', was our second stop for the day. Chester chose it because it was on the way to our motel room. He's still pushing for us to leave today, I finally agree with his decision and decide it is time we leave Redding.

The diner is full of churchgoers, their fancy suit and ties and dresses stand out against Chester and I's ill-fitting and (most likely blood) stained clothing. One man's suit catches my eye, his hair, though matted and greying, rests strongly against his shoulders; the red undershirt from his suit brings attention to his face, illuminating the dark features. It reminds me of my past life again. No, I wasn't a churchgoer, but I did attend Temple every Saturday that I could. I remember having Chester stir me awake one Saturday morning, griping about how I'd miss Temple again.

I, of course, abandoned my religion when I became a lycanthrope, but there is still a psalm that holds true to my heart. "They bend and fall, but we rise and stand firm." I always would speak that into the air right before bed, more so since my affliction. I always have hope that maybe He would save us, would forgive me for my actions, but G-d is cruel. Cruel like his own creations.

Chester and I get seated together at a window booth. The hostess smells of cheap wine and cigars and for a moment I curse my lycanthropic sense of smell, as all I can get a whiff of is her flavor of cigars— and they smell (and taste) cheap. Chester shoots me a look, obviously catching me wrinkling my nose as our hostess walks off. I wave him off, mouthing an 'it's nothing,' to him so he doesn't become a worry wart.

There's a small television bolted on leverage above our booth. The screen faces me. A sudden face pops up on the screen, drawing my attention. It's a family photo of an old grandfather, his face is painted with sunkisses and scarred with wrinkles. He looks vaguely familiar, I zone in on the news report about this elderly man. 'Missing Person,' the headline reports, 'Last seen August 30th,'.

Then it clicks.

A vision of a hunting bolt into my head. Visions of the beast I was a moon cycle ago. I know this man, he had fallen victim to that unholy creature; to me. Another vivid memory comes to mind, the morning after that big hunt in which my body was painted with gore and dried mud. His lifeless, nearly unrecognizable body lay next to mine, the trauma of the event must have caused me to block it out from recent memory. Now though, reawakening, I remember the day after more and more clearly. I remember Chester helping clean the crimson lifeblood off my sickly pale skin, I remember him saying a mantra of how 'you couldn't help it'.

My head suddenly finds itself buried in my hands, I cradle my head as I come to terms with what I've done. Now I know why Chester is itching to leave this city... because I've killed again. I feel my lover's hand extend and touch the top side of my hand. His fingers are cold, colder than mine. I peek my eyes through the crack in between my fingers only to be greeted with a soft smile.

"It's gonna be okay," He speaks sweetly, "We're leaving after this."

I don't respond, I can't respond to him. How can he let me live like this? I close my hands tight, covering the rest of my face from his sympathetic gaze. A waitress walks by with a coffee pot, she stops over our table and asks if we want coffee. Chester nods and mouths 'please'. I'm still angry with myself to speak and my obvious unwelcoming presence drives her away before she can even ask if I want any. All I want to do now is leave.

Chester drinks his coffee loudly, making a slurping sound as he sips. The atmosphere grows tense again, I had been nothing but rude to my lover today. Sensory overload hits me full force, my ears fixate on the sound of Chester's lips touching together, the pitter patter of children's feet, and the overall noise from the diner causes my head to throb. I dig my nails into my temple, hoping to gain some clarity. Those cold hands touch mine again, gentler than before.

"You're hurting yourself."

"I—" I drop my hands onto the tabletop, my eyes lock with Chester's, "I'm sorry. I'm just—"

"You're hurting," He takes my hand in his, "Why... Why don't we just leave? We can grab something to eat on the road."

I stare at him without making a sound. Slowly my head begins to nod, Chester simply smiles in response. He thumbs around in his pocket for his leather wallet, pulling out a ten dollar bill and leaving it on the table for our waitress. He always tips excessively. Together, we leave our window booth and head towards the entrance to leave. A few of the churchgoers stare at us as we leave, their eyes send a chill down my spine, it reminds me of how impious I have become. The entrance to the diner chimes as we open it to exit, the bell above hardly stands out against the clammer from the people talking inside.

The parking lot is, as expected, packed full of fancy cars. Clouds loom overhead, their dark visage contrasts greatly to the morning sky. An ill omen, I think. An omen that a storm awaits us in our life, that we will be caught in a hurricane of distress soon. One of the clouds glows with lightning, purple streaks rumble against the clouds and a boom of thunder follows. Maybe this might be a good thing, maybe the rain will wash away my sin and let me start anew. Maybe that is the omen.

"Are you gonna sit there and cloud gaze all day or are we gonna leave?" Chester calls from the driver's door, a cocky smirk imprinted on his lips. I crinkle my nose, though I don't outright say anything to him.

With my head hanging from my shoulders, I walk over to the passenger's door of the Camaro. I open the door, ready to leave, but instead, I look towards the sky again. Clouds now cover over the sun, yet its light still beams. I finally let my gaze drop and I sit down in the passenger seat. Chester puts the keys in and starts the motor. We waste no time leaving the diner and heading towards the interstate, I-5, it leads all the way up to Washington State. We don't even need to stop at our motel, we always keep our belongings tucked away in a holdall in the trunk.

And so, here we are again. Riders on the storm, running from our troubles. Chasing the sun, as it's our only solace from the night. One day, we will stop, one day we'll run out of road to travel. One day we will be free from this prison... but not today, not anytime soon.

"Hey, uh," Chester speaks up as we merge onto the interstate, "When we get to Etna... maybe we should sit down and have a, uh, a fancy dinner? Somethin' dim-lit, maybe have an expensive wine?"

"If you can scrounge up the money for a fancy dinner," I smirk quietly in his direction, "We can go. It's been, what, like... six months since we've been able to go, huh?"

"Yep," He smiles lowly to himself, "I think we deserve it."

"I think so, too."

For a moment, I feel... at peace. I'm reminded of how much I am loved, how much Chester fills me with joy, even in these trying times. We run, we leave everything behind and start anew, but at least I'm doing it with him.

[zenlesszen]

Kidnapped: Yoosung

A/N: What if MC was nearly kidnapped in Yoosung’s route. This is one of my earliest fics don’t judge.

TW: Major Character Death

Yoosung was furious. He and Seven had just been preparing to go to Mint Eye headquarters when Seven got an alert on his phone. It couldn't have been good, judging by the way Seven’s face paled. And he was right.

“Uh.. Yoosung.. Are you..” Seven stammered out. Yoosung was whipped out of his thoughts.

“What the hell are you doing. Why are you just standing there! You tell me that the bomb was hacked again and now you're not moving anything?!” Yoosung’s voice rose to a shout. Seven looked terrible. His face was ashen, and he was flustered, unable to move. This infuriated Yoosung even more. “SNAP OUT OF IT!”

Seven blinked and hurriedly grabbed his laptop, laptop charger, headphones, and a few other things that Yoosung couldn't quite recognize. Yoosung got into the driver's seat of one of Seven's cars. “I drive, you hack.” Seven nodded mutely and punched the address into his GPS. Yoosung floored it. Sure it had been a long while since he had driven, but this couldn't be that hard. They arrived at the apartment in record time, breaking quite a few traffic laws along the way. That's fine. Yoosung thought. Seven could pay the fines. He owed that much to MC for not removing the bomb in the first place. Yoosung took the elevator and angrily pummeled the button for the fourteenth floor. He'd left Seven in the car to hack.

By the time Yoosung had reached the apartment, his emotions were all over the place. He was angry that no one had removed the bomb. He was scared that this time, it was unrepairable. He opened the door slowly. The first thing he noticed was broken glass. The next thing he noticed was MC being dragged out the window. Yoosung didn't realize he was moving until he had reached the window and yanked MC back inside. He fell back on the glass pieces and hissed in pain. He caught MC before she could hit the glass, holding her against his chest.

“Damn!” The captor hissed. “What the hell are you doing! I'm taking her to Paradise! How dare you interfere.” The man was about as tall as Seven with whitish-pink hair. He had a black choker around his neck. A leather jacket hung loosely on his frame, one side slipped down revealing a black tattoo. Yoosung pulled MC closer. She was trembling.

“How dare I? How dare you kidnap my girlfriend!” He puffed his cheeks out. They were dusted pink. The man just laughed, his mint green eyes sparkling. Yoosung’s attempt to look and sound intimidating had failed. Yoosung chalked it up to the fact that he was on the floor, with glass pieces digging into his skin. He shakily stood up, and set MC down away from the glass. “MC. Go down. Seven is waiting in the car.”

“No! I won't leave you here!” She responded, adamantly. Yoosung bit his lip.

“MC, plea-” Yoosung began, only to get cut off by the intruder.

“How cute. I'll tell you this though. She steps out of this apartment, and the entire building goes boom.” The man smirked, brandishing a small device with a button on it. Yoosung paled. Now how could he protect her?

Suddenly the door clicked open. There stood Seven, glasses glinting in the sunlight. The only sound was the crunch of his boots on the glass pieces as he approached the man. “You…” Seven started, but trailed off. “No way.”

The man scoffed. “Surprised, are we? You threw me away and didn't expect me to come back?”

Seven looked almost hollow. “I… Saeran..”

“DON'T SAY THAT NAME!” The man, Saeran, bellowed. Yoosung saw MC flinch out of the corner of his eye.

“Why… what happened? Who did this to you? Rika said..” Seven seemed to be tripping over his words.

“Don't say that name either.” Saeran bit out harshly. “You'll taint it.”

Yoosung didn't know what was happening. He slowly backed up towards the door. Seven noticed and smiled grimly. “Yoosung.. take MC and leave. I need to talk to my bro-”

“I AM NOT YOUR BROTHER!” MC flinched again. Yoosung grabbed her arm and left the apartment. The last thing he saw was Seven pushing his glasses up his nose and mouthing “Go.”

Yoosung took the stairs down, with MC following close behind. The yelling had faded in the distance. Soon they sprinted out into the sunlight, Yoosung still holding MC’s arm. “What about Seven?” MC asked.

“We'll wait for him.” Yoosung said, leaning against the car. “Are you hurt?”

MC shook her head. She opened her mouth to respond when the building behind her exploded.

There was fire and gas everywhere. Bits of concrete and stone were falling in chunks. It was horrible. MC was screaming, trying to reach for the building. She was yelling Seven's name. Yoosung was crying. He could barely see, through the ash and the tears. Yoosung went down to the ground holding a shaking, sobbing MC with him. There was no way Luciel could have survived that. But some part of him was hoping for a God Seven miracle. There was no such thing.

Every Sunday, Yoosung and MC got up early in the morning. They drove to the graveyard and sat down in front of Seven's gravestone. MC would tell him some jokes, about the parties, he job. He would talk about his new internship at a veterinary hospital. He told him that he hoped heaven was nice. And that he missed him. And they would leave a red roses. Every Sunday.

Years went by and Yoosung could easily say he was the luckiest man alive. He had a daughter, who he named Haneul. His wife, MC had just given birth to a baby boy. He held his child in his arms.

“What shall we name him?” MC asked, although he knew she was thinking the same thing. Yoosung looked up at the sky knowing that his friend was watching them.

“Luciel.”

[biofunmy]

Disney’s Haunted Mansion at 50: The Ghosts Are Still Grinning

One summer visit to Disneyland after another, a young Tom Morris stood outside a mysterious set of locked gates, peering up at a stately, old-fashioned manor sitting just out of reach and wondering what awaited inside.

When those gates in Anaheim, Calif., finally opened in August 1969, Mr. Morris and others entered what became one of the most beloved and long-lasting attractions at any of the Disney theme parks: the Haunted Mansion, a macabre ride filled with mystifying illusions, eerie inhabitants and 999 grim, grinning ghosts, having a delightful time in the afterlife.

For Mr. Morris, who later became an Imagineer (a Disney employee who designs resort attractions), every element of the dark ride was fascinating. There was something about the music — the theme song, “Grim Grinning Ghosts,” plays throughout the ride — the smell of the hydraulics, the “old-fashioned showmanship.” He took a spin through the Mansion twice each trip, a rare sign of dedication back when two rides at Disney required two separate tickets. And he found himself doodling pictures of the ride in class.

Surely, Mr. Morris thought, he was the only one with this level of adoration for the Haunted Mansion. Fifty years later, it’s clear that has never been the case.

The Haunted Mansion, treasured as one of Disney’s quirkier rides, has long maintained a fan-favorite status for its distinct balance of the spooky and the sprightly. Varying iterations of the attraction, including the Dutch Gothic-style Tudor version at Walt Disney World, in Orlando, Fla., have become staples at five Disney resorts around the world.

Other rides over the years have come and gone (and been given face-lifts to reflect recent Disney films). But with remarkably little deviation from the original design, the Mansion has been a constant for five decades.

Mysterious From the Start

Built in the early 1960s to resemble an old New Orleans estate, the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland sat vacant for years — its exterior finished, its insides a mystery. The longer it sat, the more the mystique built. An advertisement at the gate for “post-lifetime leases” hinted at the type of ride future visitors might expect: Inquiring spirits were directed to contact Disneyland’s “Ghost Relations” department.

There were rumors among visitors about what had rendered the house off-limits for park guests. Maybe Disney had already tried to open it as an attraction, but the ride had been too terrifying. Perhaps Walt Disney himself was planning to move in, and the house would never open as an attraction.

In the end, the delays boiled down to something more mundane: Between creating other future favorite rides like Pirates of the Caribbean, breaking ground on a new park in Orlando and getting ready for the 1964-65 World’s Fair, Disney’s Imagineers were simply swamped. After Disney died in 1966, finishing the Mansion became a focus.

A creative debate between the project’s two driving Imagineers, Marc Davis and Claude Coats, inspired the Mansion’s complementary moods. Davis was in favor of a lighter, humorous approach to a haunted house. Coats wanted the opposite.

“The beginning of the attraction is more Claude Coats,” his son Alan Coats said. “It’s scarier, it’s more moody, it’s darker, it’s ominous. You think, ‘Uh oh, this is going to be scary,’ and it does really frighten a lot of people when you enter those doors.”

But as the ride’s vehicles, called “doom buggies,” whisk visitors along, the mood starts to brighten — Davis’s influence. Spirits dance through the ballroom, and the journey culminates in an upbeat graveyard party. For many fans, it’s that combination of fun and frightful that has made the ride a favorite.

“I think the Mansion taps into our wanting to be scared and realizing that we made it through safely, that we were able to overcome our fears and deal with them and come out O.K.,” Mr. Coats said.

Susan Thompson, who lives in Lakeland, Fla., spent her first ride through Disney World’s Mansion in Orlando, as a 5-year-old, crying with her head buried in her mother’s side. When she went back a year later, determined to keep her eyes open, she fell in love with watching the Mansion come alive.

Ms. Thompson, now 51, has since acquired her fair share of Haunted Mansion souvenirs: a dress reminiscent of those worn by Mansion staff and a backpack patterned with the manor’s signature wallpaper, among other items. On her twice-a-month visits to Disney World, she always returns to the ride.

For R.J. Crowther Jr., a bookseller in San Diego, the Mansion is the first attraction he has a vivid memory of riding at Disneyland. He’s since been on it more than 200 times, earning him a certificate from Disney staff that declares him an honorary citizen of the park. Mr. Crowther has also collected an “embarrassing amount” of Mansion merchandise, primarily sculptures inspired by art within the ride.

“When you’re younger, it’s just all real and magical,” Mr. Crowther said. “There’s just something wonderfully otherworldly about it that just captures people’s imaginations.”

Alyssa Ottum, another superfan, is planning a tattoo sleeve composed entirely of Mansion-related images: The exterior of the Disneyland manor is already finished, and pieces with the Mansion’s gothic wallpaper and some of the ride’s most famous characters are in the works.

For the 50th anniversary, Ms. Ottum attended an overnight event at Disneyland, complete with ghoulishly named snacks and photo ops with Mansion characters. Tickets went for nearly $300.

Haunted Memories

The Haunted Mansion’s fans extend beyond the ride’s regulars; it’s a favorite among Disney Parks employees, who are called cast members.

“Everybody that says they want to work for Disney?” said Robert Brauchler, who was a cast member for 16 years at Walt Disney World in Orlando. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, they say they want to work at the Haunted Mansion.”

The work itself isn’t extraordinary. Like those at any other attraction, cast members (clad here in green polyester tuxedos and dresses) still spend hours parking strollers in the Florida heat or loading guests into ride vehicles. What sets this attraction apart is how workers, acting as the Mansion’s eerie butlers and maids, can melt into their somber, creepy characters as part of the ride’s ghoulish aesthetic.

“If you’re having a bad day, that’s a great place to be working,” Mr. Brauchler said. “I would just stare at people and just not smile. It’d be like, ‘Hey! You work at Disney; you’re supposed to smile!’ No, I’m not. I would just walk away from them, and it’s all part of the theming.”

Mansion cast members still find time for more upbeat moments: Mr. Brauchler and another employee would sometimes sneak black-and-white photos of themselves into the picture frames in the ride’s ballroom scene. And when employees at the attraction complete their training, they crawl underneath the “doom buggy” tracks — flashlights in tow — to sign their names alongside hundreds of others on a wall beneath the ride.

Some riders, though, have a different way of leaving a mark. Every once in a while, a cast member discovers gray powder on the floor — the ashes of deceased park-goers who had a particular affinity for the ride, spread by loved ones hoping to add another spirit to the Mansion’s collection of happy haunts.

“It was like, ‘Ugh, somebody spread Grandma on the carpet again,’” Mr. Brauchler said. “We’d have to shut the ride down and go investigate it.”

He added: “All these people that think that their loved ones are going to be in the Haunted Mansion forever? Well, Grandma’s getting vacuumed up into a vacuum and getting sent out to the landfill somewhere.”

But there are plenty of other park-approved memorials at the Mansion. Many Imagineers who worked on the attraction were honored in a mock cemetery at Disneyland bordering the ride queue, its gravestones etched with rhyming epitaphs. (The cemetery was removed to make room for longer lines, but a similar one remains in Orlando.)

“At peaceful rest lies Brother Claude, planted here beneath this sod,” Coats’s reads.

It was a bit too dark for Coats’s wife, their son Alan said. She was not a fan.

Voices From the Beyond

Another Disney employee was immortalized in the ride itself. Madame Leota, the Mansion’s floating head who summons ghosts from inside her crystal ball, is the face of Leota Toombs, one of Disney’s first female Imagineers.

Her daughter Kim Irvine, Disneyland’s art director, was a teenager when her mother was practicing for the role. Toombs was the face of Madame Leota, but not the voice, and Ms. Irvine remembers her mother lip syncing the incantation in front of a mirror downstairs for days.

“One day my friends and I came home, and she was down there doing, ‘Witches and goblins and ghoulies!’” Ms. Irvine said. “They were like, ‘What’s wrong with your mom?’”

Toombs did, however, lend her voice to the end of the ride at the California park, where a small spirit — lovingly called Little Leota by fans — ominously bids visitors adieu. When Toombs died, in 1991, Ms. Irvine’s visits to the ride with her own daughters gave them a chance to hear their grandmother’s voice again.

“I always had to laugh when we would be going up the exit escalator and seeing Little Leota over there going, ‘Hurry back,’” Ms. Irvine said. “And I’d go, ‘Girls, say hi to Grandma, there’s Grandma!’ and I’d hear people around me go, ‘What a weirdo.’”

When Disney decided to create an annual holiday-themed makeover for the Mansion, Imagineers needed to record a new incantation for Madame Leota in order to match the overlay. When they approached Ms. Irvine for the part, she was initially unsure — but she knew she didn’t want anyone else to do it either.

Now, every winter, she and her mother are both a part of the ride.

“I go out in the park in the morning before guests come in to check things out and look things over, and it’s so quiet out there in New Orleans before they turn on the music,” Ms. Irvine said. “But Little Leota never turns off. So to walk by the exit there and hear her little voice just talking away to me makes me smile.”

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