The Green Knight, Part Seven (2015-05-20)

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The small alliance of three is all she can manage before Merlin enters and all of the recruits stand to face him, more or less at attention. She doesn’t, partially because she’s already met him and he has less leverage over her than he does the rest of the group, mostly because she was never in the military and doesn’t see the point in mimicking the others.

Neither of her allies do either, and while she is pretty sure it’s not because they are following her lead, it gives a nice sense of nonverbal solidarity. Considering how well they seem to be communicating without words, she may just never speak to them.

She writes her alias on the body bag tag in kanji, so simple, only two characters and not even particularly complex ones at that. For next of kin she writes storm instead of lightning. She’s already been guaranteed she won’t die, but just in case, she figures Hayato-kun ought to be the first to know. So Vongola can avenge her properly.

When the recruits are left alone again, this time with no interruptions in sight, some of the herbivores go to pick on one of her allies. She’s had enough experience in being Ryohei’s best friend that she’s about to clamber over the bed between them to stand next to him, regardless of the fact that they would still be outnumbered, but he holds a hand out towards her and their third ally and shakes his head.

She acquiesces. But she seethes all the while as those herbivores insinuate and insult him. As if his class, as if his race, made him less worthy. And yet, he stands there with a skeptical, almost amused expression on his face.

Then she sees what their other ally is doing–not watching the spectacle, but making eye contact with the other neutral recruits. Most of them ignore him, but others nod in acknowledgment, in agreement. By the time the loudest herbivores have finished bellowing at, what she thinks even Kyouya-senpai would consider, an impressively composed carnivore their herd has decreased in number. And herds are only as dangerous as their numbers.

Before lights out her little alliance of three grows to an alliance of five, still entirely nonverbal.

~

A/N: So short. Sorry.

Into Thin Air drabble (2015-05-19)

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It’s a miserable situation for all involved. He with untrustworthy memories and contradictory stories. She with a dead hometown and the trauma of having survived. And zie with an amnesiac brother, a hateful childhood tormentor whispering in his ear, and stuck with an entire troop of terrorists working against hir employer

Well, at least they haven’t killed hir yet. But Winter the Turk certainly doesn’t have any friends amongst AVALANCHE, and hir allies number in two: said amnesiac brother and the Ancient that ran away from home under hir watch.

If AVALANCHE isn’t the one that kills hir, then ShinRa will certainly be eager to step up on that front.

But perhaps zie can make the argument that technically hir orders were to safeguard Miss Gainsborough. If she happens to throw her lot in with a group of terrorists then it’s only right for Winter, as her Turk bodyguard, to ensure that she comes to no harm during her… endeavors.

Ugh. As soon as the going gets tough, Windy will be the first left behind, or killed because of paranoia. If zie had to choose, zie’d want it to be in the line of duty, would want it to be hir choice.

But until then, Winter the Turk gets to be the disliked member of this little gang–lingering around like an unwanted reminder or a bad smell.

Perhaps the only one to not look at Windy with hate of varying levels would be Valentine. It makes sense, though, that an stoic ex-Turk gunner would be the most… sympathetic towards a silent current-Turk archer. If his placid apathy could be considered sympathy. But Valentine himself is accepted amongst the group where zie is not. An ex-Turk killed and experimented on is much different than one who still wears the blue suit.

This sucks.

~

A/N: Having some Windy feels… haven’t actually played enough FFVII to know what happens when so I’ve kept everything vague on purpose.

Some background: Windy Strife is, yes, my OC. Specifically, a gender-fluid twin sibling of Cloud who–once it came out that she was biologically female–was kicked out of the SOLDIER trials and joined the Turks instead. For more drabbles in this universe either follow the Windy Strife tag or the Into Thin Air tag.

The Green Knight, Part 6 (2015-05-18)

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There few things more frightening to a woman than a man with a larger sense of entitlement than manners. The situation is worse when it is a young foreign woman; moreover, when instead of one man it is multiple.

Regardless of her abilities, her hidden gadgets, her experience despite her age… there is still that instinctive fear. Her father hadn’t needed physical violence to strike fear in her heart. It wasn’t Xanxus and Byakuran’s weapons that had made them so monstrous. And even as she stepped away from successful missions, there were always moments when she would pause and wonder–has Reborn finally killed me?

Nervous Japanese girl somehow suckered into the role of mafia assassin; it was an easy mask to wear in front of the Kingsman because it was partially true. And so there was no difficulties in assuming it in the face of the other recruits. Arthur spoke true, she is of a different demographic than the majority of the recruits. And what is different is often misunderstood and reviled.

But she is not the only one. Three of twelve recruits, including herself, are not white. Three of twelve recruits, including herself, are not male. Sure, she is the only overlap, but she is not quite alone.

As the room fills, she is aware of a divide occurring; she automatically on one side without a choice. And so she sits, watches as a bunch of overly entitled men mob together. A herd of herbivores, Kyouya-senpai would scoff, disdainful. But even a herd of wildebeest can kill a lion.

But she is not alone. She meets the eyes of the lanky, curled up man across from her; holds the gaze until he nods and she nods back. Then she looks over at the bed two down from hers, no longer is that man reclining, hood shadowing his face, but he has sat up–feet planted firmly on the ground. As if sensing her, he turns away from the herd and looks at her. When she quirks an eyebrow at him, he smiles, a bright sickle of gleaming teeth.

Perhaps growing up best friends with the most obnoxious boy in town has skewed her interactions with different genders. Because while she finds it easy to nonverbally form an alliance with the two non-white male recruits (and somehow assert dominance over at least one of them while doing so), she can’t draw the courage to do so with the two other female recruits.

It’s true that there are few things more frightening to a woman than a man with a larger sense of entitlement than manners. One of them is another woman whose skills and motivations are unknown.

~

A/N: Slap-dash because I realized it was past midnight 😦

I must admit, it’s because I am watching Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries which is a FANTASTIC show. HIGHLY RECOMMEND (it’s on Netflix!)

Part Six of The Green Knight series… and I still haven’t gotten to the actual exams yet D:

Trailblazers drabble (2015-05-17)

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Kyoko is, as ever, efficient in drawing others to her cause–whether it be healing or partaking in pastries. Perhaps this case could be considered both.

With Vongola’s, and the mafia as a whole, decline in crime so too is there a decrease in the need for the bloodier missions. Though the few that remain had always gone to the Lightning Guardian.

From the beginning, ever since they had known each other as children, Tetsuki-nee-chan had always tried to step in place of someone else. To bear their suffering in their stead. It was the way she had been raised, Kyoko knew, scraps of affection in exchange for withstanding emotional abuse and neglect.

The Sasagawa family tried, of course, Nii-chan always being there for his best friend and even their parents, absent minded as they were, always reassuringly welcoming. But Kyoko could not have been happier when Tetsuki-nee-chan had finally decided to leave that toxic environment for good.

During her more tiring days, Kyoko sometimes daydreams of sending one of Shamal-shishou’s disease mosquitos to the Kaizas… one of the more fatal ones, maybe. Or perhaps something uniquely tailored to match–leprosy for Toichi, so concerned with physical appearances, and narcolepsy for Fuyuko who had always embodied stalwart strength.

But that is not what her patient needs. Though, true, her motives are a little bit more selfish than that: It has been over a year since she had seen her Nee-chan for anything other than medical necessities or a brief passing in the halls of Vongola Mansion. Kyoko misses her.

And, really, Tetsuki-nee-chan’s BMI is worryingly low. She really does need to put on more weight.

Haru-chan, usually so engrossed in whatever latest project the scientists of R&D present to her like childish drawings to a beloved kindergarten teacher, breaks into a wide smile at the sight of the two of them. And when Kyoko invites her for some cake, Haru-chan easily delegates what looks to be a truly fabulous gauntlet of some sort to one of her pouting minions.

“It’ll be just like middle school!” Haru-chan unknowingly echoes, clapping her hands in glee, “Ooh, let’s see if Hana-chan and Chrome-chan are free to join us! And Bianchi-san. Maybe the children, too?”

“I don’t think Fuuta-kun, I-pin-chan, and Lambo-kun would appreciate being called children anymore,” Tetsuki-nee-chan says wryly, but gamely follows both of their leads.

Surprisingly, all of them are at Vongola Mansion. Unsurprisingly, they drop whatever they are working on to join the impromptu tea party. Kyoko is not the only one who misses Tetsuki.

Which is good. It means she will not be the only one working on helping her patient. After all, every good doctor needs a good team behind her.

~

A/N: Directly follows this drabble. Some background which probably no one is interested in… meh.

The Green Knight, Part 5 (2015-05-16)

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She is sent ahead to the dorm room, and while she’s tempted to ignore the tacit order and just explore on her own, she curbs her curiosity. For one, it’s only her first day, and she wouldn’t want to waste any good will she has on such a stupid matter. For two, she doesn’t want to run into someone who doesn’t know who she is and end up in some kind of altercation that will break the Vongola-Kingsman alliance. For three, she doesn’t want to get lost. So she somewhat reluctantly heads straight for the directed door and settles in.

There are a dozen beds lined up against the walls, corresponding lockers beside them. There are five other recruits beside her already in the room–their luggage sitting at the foot of certain beds. She only has the one duffel bag, because life has taught her to travel light, and so she chooses one of the beds closest to the door and stores her entire bag into the locker.

Three of the five are are crowded together, Englishmen maybe a few years older than she. While they’re not in the stunning three-piece suits that Arthur and Galahad wore to pick her up, their clothes still scream of spoiled luxury. But she doesn’t dismiss them entirely, because they’ve obviously been proposed for a reason and even then–sometimes numbers do matter in a fight.

The other two recruits, like her, are each staying in his chosen area. Unsurprisingly, they are both also older than her. The one opposite her is curled up and almost drawing his lanky limbs into a ball. In jeans and a soft-looking sweater he looks more like someone who had been kidnapped from his house than someone in the running for an elite vigilante group. In contrast, the other recruit is reclining in his bed two down from hers, the hood of his jacket pulled up and over to cover half his face. He’s probably not really sleeping, but he makes a good show of it.

As for her, she sits and makes sure to scan the room slowly and steadily. She knows the video feed can be nauseating under certain circumstances. She’d prefer not to do that to monitor team if she can spare them. Not that the dorm room is of any particular interest, but who knows. Maybe someone will want to add yet another expansion to the Vongola mansion.

Meanwhile, she wonders at the Kingsman method of recruiting new knights–how restrictive, to only choose one from each trial. But perhaps the others, the ones who fail out early, are used elsewhere? But what if there’s a test in which all of the candidates fail? Do they just not get a new knight from that particular set of recruits?

Then again, as if she’s one to talk on restrictive choices and convoluted recruitment–Vongola Guardianship still frustrates and embarrasses her. As if she were conscripted into a super sentai series where each member has unique powers and a… specific… color… Oh no.

She can’t help but cringe from the sudden onslaught of memories. Ryohei and Kyoko both had been avid fans of such shows when they were younger–her frequent childhood sleepovers at the Sasagawa household involved playacting of episodes watched earlier that day. She can never remind them. Because if she does, somehow, the weird Vongola affect will kick in and then maybe the Secchione Sezione will be unfortunately inspired in a certain direction. Or Tsunayoshi-kun will uncover yet another set of mysterious artifacts that correspond to each Flame type. Or aliens. Again.

She is so glad to be in a different country.

Her brain hadn’t been entirely devoted to horrified musings. Being so close to the door made it easy for her to keep track of entrances; and soon enough the number of recruits matched the number of beds.

~

A/N: I’m really sorry. This got super off-track. And then that ending was like blargh.

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A recording of deathbyvalentine (A.V.P)’s poem, On Literary Teenage Girls.

Word Prompts (U4): Under

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Thirteen people in a bar. Sunset passed not too long ago; light fading, sky darkening.

The bartender wipes down the counter, stoically eavesdropping on the trio perched on stools. A party of five are seated in the largest booth. They are young, the bartender thinks at least one of them is underage, and playing some inane drinking game.

One customer, leaning indolently against the wall, has already had four drinks. She has only paid for one–the others were bought for her by the three guys trying to show off at darts. The two trying their hardest are not very good, the one who doesn’t care has hit bull’s-eye consistently.

The bartender is keeping an eye on her, making sure to put the drink directly in front of her. It seems to put her at ease, irritated instead of fearful at the situation.

A chorus of yells erupts from the booth, four of the kids raising their empty steins while the fifth stares morosely at his own partially filled one.

The patrons at the bar, on hour two of nursing their first drink each, continue their baffling conversation.

“Why don’t you just give in?” Says the one on the left, wildly tousling her short dark hair.

“Why don’t you take a hint?” Responds the one in the middle, softly tapping his tan fingers on the wood of the counter.

“Have you found any clues?” Adds the one on the right, teeth gleaming in the low light.

“Have you lost your mind?” Says the one on the left, bringing the conversation back into a circle.

It’s a code of some sort, obviously. There’s not enough to decode it, and so the bartender doesn’t try, but it’s interesting all the same.

The boy from the party of five, the one who presumably lost, leans up against the bar and signals the bartender. With a minute eye roll, the bartender tends the bar.

The kid flushes nervously, licking his lips and fiddling with the cuffs of his sweatshirt with the local college’s logo on it. He asks for something, but his voice is too soft for the bartender to hear.

“What was that?”

They both lean in closer.

It is at that point when everything goes to hell.

~

A/N: I need to work on being more descriptive… And still no use of the actual word prompt.

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original post here. dated 2014-01-05.

[A/N: Decided to do this “cross-post” as a recording. So it’s not technically just a cross-post, since there is now the added layer of audio.]

~

She used to think he was the dumbest, most overly trusting person she knew. It turns out that her idea of deep secret and his were just vastly different. She used to get so angry at him for telling other people the secrets she’d whisper to him, curled up together under the blankets. It never stopped her from sharing them with him, because she shared everything with him, but it was still annoying.

So she doesn’t know how to feel now. That she’s the first person he’s ever told the truth to is touching, it’s a warm feeling and an affirmation of her importance to him. That he’s been hiding this from her since the very beginning and only told her now, so late in their lives, hurts. It means that he didn’t really trust her before.

–

They find each other again, the earliest yet, and don’t notice the changes because their sight is blurred by tears of joy. He holds her close, arms wrapped around her waist, and she cradles his face in her hands. They press clumsy, eager kisses to each other’s faces, breathing each other in, sobs and laughter mingling, noses bumping. It’s messy and noisy and out of the blue and so happy it’s perfect.

He doesn’t have his beard anymore, or doesn’t have it yet, the skin under her hands smooth and soft. His hair is shorter, not the tangled, matted mess she knew. She’s heavier, or maybe he’s weaker, but the way he can’t feel her bones and the way she doesn’t seem like she’ll break with the slightest touch speaks otherwise.

It worked. It worked. Humanity is saved and those who remained had their lives torn apart, or erased, or restarted depending on who you asked. Five years in the future, they had met for the first time, fought over dwindling resources, promised the rest of their arguably short lives to each other. Then the Kronos project succeeded, and the small percentage of the population who had still been alive had woken up the next day to find that the end of the world hadn’t happened.

They knew each other as much as two people could; but they had never bothered to give each other their last names–what was the point when civilization was dead. Brief recollections of the past that was now the present, that was all they had to work with. And they finally found each other.

–

They have to prove themselves. Climb or play, those are the only options. Climb up a never ending cliff face until your arms feel like they’re falling off then keep climbing; or fall off yourself. The other choice is to play. To play a game against Death and all his friends. One game, one chance to win.

It’s not just one of them that has to do this–it’s both of them. They don’t have to speak or even look at each other to know what the other is feeling, just the tightening of their interlocked hands until they’re forced to separate.

She’s first which means the patch of earth he’s standing on shoots skywards so quickly that his shout of surprise is lost to her ears. On her other side a round table large enough for five sprouts from the ground, four of the seats already occupied. They look hungry; the cards sickeningly laid out. Climb or play.

She looks up, the pillar is too tall for her to see the top, to see him, but she knows he’s trying to see her too. He must be. He’ll have the same decision to face, after her. She chooses.

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A recording of frenchkey‘s Assassin AUs post.

[I suppose it could be considered related to this previous ramble of mine.]

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Untitled (2015-05-11)

You are running. You are panting and there is a stitch in Your side. Your feet slap against the stones in a frantic rhythm.

Faster. Go faster.

You only have three minutes. They only gave You three minutes. That is all the time Your wish was worth. That is all the time Your life is worth.

You run faster.

“Stephanie!” You sob, eking out what is left in Your lungs.

The woman You love–the woman who You were chasing, the woman who You only have two minutes and fifteen seconds left with–turns. She is surprised to see You. She hasn’t seen You in five years.  

“Stephanie,” You say again, hands braced on Your knees as You try to catch Your breath. The bands around Your wrists are like manacles, despite their bright colors. They remind You that Your time is limited. That it is slipping away like water through Your fingers.

She looks at You with concern, and a little fear. You are sorry for frightening her, but You will say what you came here to say.

“I’m sorry,” You begin, and relief spreads across her face like a gentle wind.

“I love you,” You continue, and lightning quick, her expression turns to anger.

She readies herself to turn and walk away, but You are desperate. You stand up and reach out–but do not try to touch. You only have one minute and ten seconds left.

“I know you don’t love me any more. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you back then,” You blurt an apology again. Hoping that at least she will stay to hear You out.

She does, but the fire in her eyes remains.

“I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving me back then. Thank you for finding something in me that was worth loving.”

Suddenly Your heart aches; the vines of a creeping plant squeezing the life out of it. They are becoming impatient. You have thirty seconds left.

“I love you, and I am so grateful that once upon a time you loved me too. I know that nothing will come of this, but I wanted you to know–you are loved.”

She is confused; but before she can ask, They take You away.

Your body disappears. The brightly colored wrist bands are the last of You she will ever see.

~

A/N: In my mind it was connected to these posts, but it could be a stand alone. I tried to time it properly so it was three minutes exactly.

Also, obviously, I had Welcome to Nightvale on my mind.