This is a collection of thoughts, of split-second creativity, of bad hair days and of everything in-between. This is a selective archive of my writing. Do not steal.
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This is a collection of thoughts, of split-second creativity, of bad hair days and of everything in-between. This is a selective archive of my writing. Do not steal.
Introduction : 677 words
Date : 08 May 2014
He yawned as the headmaster spoke, rolled his eyes when the speech turned predictably redundant. It was always the same thing: do your very best, never do anything stupid, and remember what this place means—what it symbolizes. Akihiko, having gone through the motions before, was unimpressed. The very least the headmaster could do was change things up a bit—maybe announce a battle royale among the students: winner goes home with the hottest chick (or dude—he didn't discriminate) in town. And as his mind wandered into fantasy land (a favorite destination of his during bore-fest-banazas), the rest of the student body, with some exceptions sprinkled throughout, stayed tuned in, their attention completely sold.
"You're starting to drool."
Straightening suddenly, the brunette glared to his side, where he was greeted with an infuriatingly smug expression on an, unfortunately, ruggedly handsome face—the kind of face that made panties wet and women (along with some men) weak. Johann Baudelaire was both the worst and best thing to have ever happened to Akihiko at the academy. He was the worst because he never bought into the brunette's (self-asserted) stunningly, good looks, but he was the best because he was, indisputably, rich. Secretly, though, and Akihiko would never admit it, he liked Johann because Johann was a good person—the kind who took notice of the little things, who wasn't afraid to apologize to mend bridges, and who remembered birthdays without prompt.
"Oh?" Aki, with practiced seduction, slowly dragged the tip of his tongue across his lower lips.
"Yes, now stop being a two-bit whore and check your twelve."
Sighing with theatrical exaggeration, as if all of this was far too much trouble, the brunette scanned the area for whatever it was that caught Johann's eyes and, knowing Johann, there was a 50/50 chance that this entire venture would not be worth it. Having said that, this time was not one of those times. Sitting at the edge of her seat, with her legs crossed, and her lips pursed in concentration was a gorgeous redhead with a charming dust of freckles across olive cheeks. Oh, and assets to make any man (and woman) do a double take.
"You're drooling again."
"Shut up and pay attention."
Johann chuckled quietly, but wisely kept any future remarks to himself and Akihiko, reluctantly moving on from the redhead, was busy face-surfing the crowd for other potential candidates. "Too fat, yellow teeth, butt chin, tiny—oh good grief, what is that growing out of his face!?" Unable to look away, the brunette stared, wide-eyed, at the odd, bulbous protrusion.
"That's totally normal. Ugly, but normal."
"What?"
"That growth. It's normal."
"Sure." But the skepticism he wore on his face said he didn't believe it.
"By the way, partner up?"
And even though Johann was asking for the first time, neither men was under the belief that Akihiko would have agreed. It was a fairly well-known fact that the brunette picked work partners like he did bed partners: he has to want to have sex with them.
"Only if the other option was that kid." Without taking his eyes off the crowd (but finally successful in tearing his attention away from the growth), Aki searched through the sea of faces for someone—anyone—interesting. He didn't mind the redhead (he would have been lying if he said she wasn't his type), but, as with all things in life, it's always better to sample the pool before jumping in head first.
"Buckteeth, overbite, don't-even-want-to-know, and—oh my." Sitting upright with an air of perfected grace was a girl with dark-colored hair and porcelain refinement. She radiated a type of demure enchantment that Aki had always found exciting. If only for its rarity and, perhaps most important, the challenge it posed. The cake always tasted sweeter when he had to work for it. Taking note (and already planning his approach), Aki leaned back, crossed his leg, and smiled. If nothing else, this year was going to be fun.
And, if not, well, there was still the redhead.
Introduction : 1460 words
Date : 11 March 2014
The team had, predictably, split up in a quick, senseless fashion. Some went left, others went right, but Apollo stayed rooted to where he stood—statue still.
He could feel a tightness gripping his feet—pulling on them with a weight far stronger, far more persuasive than gravity. It made movement so impossible that he wasn't sure how he had ever managed to walk, much less run. So, while everyone else vanished into the space between safety and glory, their voices giddy with excitement, Apollo remained—with a fierce sort of determination—glued to the deck, his shoes stubbornly nailed in place. But, of course, those were only imaginary nails that kept his precious boots from lifting.
He would never—not even in his worst nightmares—dare to blemish his newly acquired boots, which were knee-high, ink-black perfection. There was barely a crease—no signs of actual wear—and Apollo aimed to keep it that way. After all, these shoes were a work of art—a masterpiece for the ages. Only a brute would think to defile the craftsmanship with creases and scratches and tears.
And Apollo, while many things, was not a brute.
So he stayed on deck, silently debating whether or not he should join the "festivities"—be a real pirate. Part of him wanted to brave the dangers; it wanted him to take the plunge and dive into the heart of chaos. This was what he had always dreamed of—it was the very reason he had abandoned reason and left home. But another part of him—a much bigger and more compelling part—resisted. It fought with the primal desire to chase after the emptiness. It wanted no part in the senseless parade of useless bravado and pointless heroics. No, this part of him longed for the warmth and comfort of safety. It dreamed of fine linens and gated fireplaces and hand-dipped chocolate strawberries.
It didn't want to be a pirate, who had to scrimp and save and beg for designer boots.
He sighed as he ran a gloved hand through snow white hair; his eyes closing with thought while his lips pinched into a frown. Frustration lined the shadows of his expression and irritability colored everything else an unhappy shade of dark. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to risk his neck or, worse, his boots. The inside of the ship was bound to be grease-stained, trash-filled, and rot-infested—all things that liked to cling onto clothes.
But then the ship lurched—it pulled with unexpected strength—and Apollo was knocked off balance, tripping over his own two feet as he stumbled and then fell forward into the entrance. His hands managed to brace the fall, but his body still ached from the impact. His face, which had planted against a flat surface, was hot with pain and his wrist, which had made a distinct, audible crack, burned. This, he decided, was not going well. In fact, he was fairly certain that this was going very, very badly.
With no one around to assist him or hear him complain, Apollo, grudgingly, helped himself to his feet. And despite his earlier beliefs, his wrists moved without difficulties and his face was not a bleeding mess of a million cuts. Both were still inconvenienced by pain, but not to the degree he believed (or would be telling people after the affair was finished).
Pulling out his gun, a sleek combination of ebony and genius, Apollo inched his way forward. He moved at a snail's pace with his shoulders hunched and his knees slightly bent. His gun, Fang, trembled in his grip, shaking with every step as if it was fighting its wielder for control. It was a weighted piece—far heavier than it looked—but, in Apollo's hands, it looked paper-light. Every time the ship hissed or clanked or made any noise, the mechanic was quick to whip around and point the shaking gun at what he thought was a murderous outlaw.
And despite his fear, he never once fired the gun, which should speak volumes about his self-control.
But, truth is, Apollo knew very well that firing would be a last resort. Fang, for all intents and purposes, was merely a show piece. It was used for intimidation and theatrics; it had very little practical use. The gun, with its larger than standard chamber, was designed to be a one-hit-kill: missing was not an option. And, for someone like Apollo, who was more likely to end up shooting sideways than forward, Fang served very little purpose. On top of that, the gun had a highly numbered reload.
It wasn't a spray-and-pray deal (although Apollo always promised to make a sister version that was) and it relied on keen marksmanship: two things that did not describe Apollo's combat choices. In all the years he had owned the gun, he had only fired it twice—once, accidentally, the other time was for testing. And, since then, Apollo wasn't given a chance to create more bullets, which meant, of the five bullets that was loaded into its chamber, it only had three. Not that having more bullets on hand would have changed anything. Chamber size seemed irrelevant when the pistol handled like a sniper.
In any case, Apollo slowly made his way down the corridor, past a series of doors, and down a set of stairs. Things were quiet save for the occasional sounds of metal running against metal. He could feel his heart beating, pounding against his rib cage with every step. He was certain—absolutely certain—that any minute then he was going to come face-to-face with a ragtag crew of dirty, disgusting carnival freaks. Sure, he loved to watch the clowns and the acrobats do their thing, but he liked to watch from a distance—a safe, comfortable distance. After all, who knew what germs or diseases these people carried?
"Why couldn't I just stay on the ship?" He grumbled, back against the mismatched paneled walls. He could still hear his heart beat, the echoed boom blocking out almost all other noises. It was at moments like these, when his adrenaline was pumping through his body and his feet itched to run away, that he was reminded of how stupid and foolish he had been as a child. Although, to be honest, when he left home, he was hardly a child. Young, arguably, but certainly not a child.
Pushing off the wall, Apollo made the trek down another corridor, gun pointed frantically before him. He should have partnered up with someone. Anyone. He would have even tolerated the mutants. But, of course, hindsight was forever a bitch.
The corridor, dark and unlit, smelled of stale air and mischief. It promised all sorts of traps and wayward behavior to uninvited guests. But Apollo, who just wanted to find a friendly face—any friendly face—marched forward carelessly. His feet snagged on a piece of loose rope and, just as before, he tumbled forward. But, this time, he seemed to fall for hours. He screamed—unable to hold back his fear—as he plunged downward. He was incoherent, but it echoed all around him and, for a split second, he was sure this was how he was going to die. He was going to die alone, in a dirty room, with messed up shoes. No one was going to find his body; his parents would never know what happened to him.
The fall only lasted two minutes and thirty one seconds in real time, but, for Apollo, it was an eternity.
When he landed, there was an unhealthy cracking sound that seemed to bounce off the walls and space. It sounded painful—deadly. His hands met with a soft, curly mess and his face was pressed against something warm—something that didn't feel like the floor of a dirty, theater ship. His eyes blinked in surprise, partly because he hadn't expected to survive, but mostly because the landing confused him. And, it was then, that he took in where he was and, perhaps more importantly, who he was with.
The room was brightly lit, but his eyes could find no source. His gun was several feet away, too far to reach. And the door was inaccessible—interrupted by two unfamiliar faces. He rolled off the unconscious third body, but he didn't get very far before his back met with a wall. He was trapped without his gun and without anyway to reach a friend. Terrified, Apollo held up two fists—both trembling uncontrollably—and half-whispered, half-warned, "Don't come any closer. Or I'll be forced to hurt you guys."
At the last part he glanced at his boots—creased, stained. Shit, things just keep getting worse.
Introduction : 1154 words
Date : 03 June 2014
"So, this is where they've been hiding."
He was unimpressed. He had expected more from his brothers, but, in retrospect, that was clearly an error in judgment; he must have had hit his head on something awful that day. Still, he was here now and, as the saying goes, if you want something done right, you had best do it yourself. And, this time, he was going to take that adage to heart. "Well, three, two, one. Ready or not, here I come."
timeskiptimeskiptimeskipPRESENT DAY —— NOON
The search for War was not, by any measure or definition, going well.
Instead of dragging his absentee brother back to the underworld by his ears, Death was, currently, sitting behind a counter, tasked with the job of renting out surf boards, scuba gears, and what-have-yous. When he had decided to join his brothers in their search for War, he had imagined scenes of action: kicking down doors with righteous anger, weaving through traffic in hot pursuit. He had not—not in any version of his imagination—figured himself a vendor suffering near-intolerable heat, catering to the whims of those who, if they knew better, would kneel at his feet, begging for mercy.
But, then again, he had also expected his older brothers to pick different—correction, better—disguises.
And as he surveyed the beach, which had grown loud and crowded since morning, Death wondered which face War hid behind—if he hid behind one at all. There was always the possibility that his brothers, Pestilence and Famine, were mistaken. In fact, if everything turned out to be a wild-goose chase, Death wouldn't be surprised; he would be angry, but not surprised. After all, instead of hunting down their truant brother, Famine was busy serving sweets and Pestilence was wasting time with human children. And, as if their lack of progress wasn't frustrating, neither Pestilence nor Famine seemed any wiser about his entrance.
Drumming his fingers irritably against the countertop, which was rough and uneven under his fingertips, Death continued to search through the passing faces. Or, rather, he tried looking for faces. Unlike his true form, which saw with extreme clarity, this body walked around in a tight haze of misshapen everything. Despite being an athlete—Death had chosen this particular human for his supposed physical skills—he couldn't see more than five or six feet ahead. Seven, if Death squinted.
"What a useless body."
"You could wear glasses. Or contacts. Or, wait, you can just give me back my body."
The helpful suggestion was, as usual, ignored. Death, with only a slight frown, continued to stare at the shifting crowd—as if the fog of obscure faces was the most interesting thing he had even seen or will see.
"You're just making it worse."
Death stared harder; his frown tightening further. 'If I ignore him for long enough, maybe he'll go away.'
"I'm not going anywhere," the spirit sighed, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "I'm here until you give me back my body."
Death's—or, rather, Evan's—lips had thinned unpleasantly as he glowered. There were numerous things Death hated about Earth, but few things rivaled his hatred for the spirits, who, upon finding him, invited themselves to stay. As Death, ghosts were hardly a problem: snap of a finger and they were gone—vanished. As Evan, he could only sit and endure their senseless chatter. Some spirits wanted to strike a bargain: trading one useless thing for more time. Other spirits wanted a shoulder to cry on: they wanted to spill their secrets. But Evan was different. Evan didn't want to bargain. He didn't even want to mourn his death because Evan refused the idea. Evan, for whatever reason, considered the whole incident an odd, but temporary out-of-body experience.
He thought he would be allowed back into his body once Death vacated it.
"You can ignore me, but I'll still be here."
Of course, that wasn't how things worked, but Evan was stubborn. He didn't listen to Death's calloused explanations (which, to be fair, weren't very good explanations; they consisted mostly of Death yelling at Evan and Evan yelling back). No, Evan didn't listen and Death, who was never the most patience of the horsemen, gave up trying to convince Evan of his fate. After all, once Death located War, he will deal with Evan.
Surrendering any attempts at trying to sift through the blurry faces, the brunette hopped the counter and made his way down the beach, abandoning his post at the rental shack. He had been there for hours and, if the afternoon progressed as it had in the morning, nobody was going to rent anything. And while Death had successfully ditched the store, he was less lucky with Evan, who easily fell into step beside him, a lecture already leaving his lips.
"You can't just leave! You're supposed to be manning the store!" Even in death, Evan was a do-gooder. "Hey, stop! You can't go!"
And just as Death was powerless in sending Evan into the afterlife, Evan was powerless in dealing with Death, who, despite Evan's constant nagging and complaints, simply did as he pleased. And, with nothing stopping him, Death walked closer towards his destination: Pestilence.
From the shack, he hadn't been sure if the kid was his brother, but, as he neared, he was certain that the kid, surrounded by other kids, was, in fact, Pestilence's host: Kent-something or another.
"Why are we here? You don't know how to play volleyball."
"I'm here to catch tail and soak up sun." Death may not have liked being on Earth, but he was quick to adapt—picking up human mannerisms without missing a beat. He may not have been a fan of the constant barrage of spirits dropping by all day and all night either, but their regular visits made the transition from horsemen to human fairly easy. Or, as Death was more inclined to believe, he was simply smarter than his brothers. Plus, sarcasm came to him naturally.
"That's Casper."
"Who?"
But Evan wasn't listening anymore. Instead, he ran over to the teal-haired boy, screaming the other kid's name at the top of his lungs. "Casper! Casper!" Death rolled his eyes; Evan could scream as loud as he wanted, but the kid wouldn't hear a thing. And, in a desperate act, he tried holding onto the other boy's shoulders. The only thing was, Evan couldn't hold onto Casper anymore than he could drag Death back to the rental store (if anything, he might actually have a greater chance of getting Death to go back than reaching Casper). His hands went through the body like hand through water and, eventually, Casper walked right through him.
"Idiot," Death muttered as he let his eyes focus on his brother. Damn, even at this range, everything was slightly fuzzy at the edges. It may be time to invest in those "glasses" or "contacts."
Introduction : 928 words
Date : 16 July 2014
Shev blinked.
The sky was blue--crystal--and the floor was green--lush, alive.
He paused.
He had never seen anything like it before, but he knew, almost instantly, what it was: grass. He had only ever seen pictures of it; he had never seen the actual thing. He had never touched the actual thing. And, suddenly, here he was, surrounded by it. It was unreal; it was--
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. He had never seen even a single blade of grass before, much less an entire field of green. He didn't know of anywhere in Arkanix with this much space--this much life. And, most importantly, he couldn't remember how he had gotten there. In fact, he couldn't remember much of anything other than the pain.
But even that felt distant and indirect--as if they had happened to someone else who was like him, but wasn't him at the same time. A clone. A double. An alternate universe him.
He took a cautious step forward, the grass crushed and folded under his weight. He looked up, but the sky was still blue--still the perfect shade. He had always like it when the stationed settled for clear, sunny days.
"Shev."
The man spun around, his arms raised defensively. But there was no one there. There was only more grass, more blue. He hesitated, confused, dropped his arms, and scratched the back of his head. Something was weird about this. Why was he here? Or, better yet, where was here?
"Shev."
Again, the voice.
Shev turned on his heels again, but, just like before, there was no one--there was nothing, but the rolling meadows of grass he had never known before and skies that unrolled endlessly in every direction.
"Who are you? Where are you hiding?" He shouted. The blade in his hand extended itself, the cyan glow humming with eagerness. "Why am I here?" He bent his knees a little; his stance ready for anything. If someone dragged him here, hoping to finish him off, then he was going to make them work for it.
Wind swept past him, brushing the grass flat as it passed. The scene seemed to change, but Shev couldn't understand what had changed: it was still green, it was still blue. But something had definitely changed. His senses told him to be on guard, but his audio receptors weren't picking up on anything and his sight didn't reveal anything. Other than himself, there was no one else around--visible or invisible.
"I need your help, Shev." He spun around again, but, this time, the voice seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It boomed and echoed, but was still soft and gentle. And desperate. It sounded desperate. "I'm waiting. We're waiting. Please, hurry here."
"Who are you?"
The winds died down and, very quietly, he could hear someone whisper, "Blackheart. I am Blackheart. I can help you."
*
Shev woke with a start, cyan eyes blinking online as he looked around his room, his sword already extended to answer any threats. But the place was dark and he was, decidedly, alone. There was no one there. There was no blue skies. And there was, definitely no grass. He sighed and the blade retracted. He had only been dreaming; it had only been a dream.
But then another thought--one far more troubling--surfaced: if it was only a dream then why was he awake? Where had the pain gone? Why was he sentient? And what was that feeling?
He looked around, half-expecting the voice again to answer his questions--to tell him what was happening--but only silence met his ears. He was alone in the room and his siblings, he could hear, were fast asleep in the other room--untroubled by anything.
And then there was a "ping." Proverbial mailman at work.
*
He couldn't really explain where he was or how he knew this was the right place. But he knew, like he knew his own name, that this was where he needed to be. It was where he was supposed to be. Plus, the letter had said to go here. Although, "here" looked suspiciously like a hole in the wall where muggers were simply waiting for an easy mark. He looked around, but nobody else seemed to stop or slow or even care that he was there. Everyone went about their night as people always did--with indifference, with self-importance.
Pulling the hood further over his face, Shev walked forward and opened the door.
Inside, the place was as small as he had expected, but it was filled with things and, generally, well-kept. Save for the dying flowers. He hesitated, this might not have been the right place, but before he had time to turn around, he noticed someone else in the room--a strange woman and a sword, playing chess. He stood at the door for a moment, uncertain of what to say. How does one usually introduce themselves in these kind of situations? "Hi, I came here because of a dream!" or "I'm ready to join you in your quest!" Either way, he sounded insane.
This was probably a joke. It was just a dream--a stupid dream. And the letter? Well, everyone got junk mail.
"Sorry, I think I've made a mistake." He turned to leave. After all, things like this didn't happen in the real world. It wasn't as if he was some sort of fictional character. Normal, every day people were not picked up off the streets to become "special." And he was an idiot for having even considered it as much as he did.
Regular : 665 words
Date : 29 May 2014
In a few minutes, Tatsuya was going to live through the longest hours of his life. It wasn't the first time he would work part-time (Tatsuya didn't actually mind manual labor), but it was the first time he'd do so with his teammates, who, despite all of their good intentions, were some of the most tiresome people he had ever met.
It wasn't that they were bad people, per say, rather, they weren't the kind of people that made social interactions "easy" for the blond. Then again, social interactions of any kind were a challenge for Tatsuya, who's default modes were "blatantly unfriendly" and "needlessly sarcastic." Still, if Tatsuya could hand-pick his teammates, he would have gone for the calmer, less invasive variety.
Without looking up from his phone, which flashed an e-mail from his sister (who wanted to remind him that their parents were leaving for Hawaii tonight and he should come home for dinner if he didn't have any other plans), Tatsuya made his way towards the employee's break room. Or, rather, he tried to, but then Alex happened.
Alex was a prime example of "troublesome." From the moment they met, Tatsuya could feel it in his gut: Alex Yamamoto with his flashy clothes and boisterous personality was a force he would be wise to avoid. Unfortunately, there was nothing Tatsuya could do when the other kid showed up at the club. The swimming club, which had graduated most of their members, didn't have the luxury of being choosy with who they let in: as long as there was interest in joining, they were green-lighted for membership. Being able to swim wasn't even a requirement.
And Alex, with his pink hair and Cheshire-grin, was a shoe-in for the team: motivated, talented. He was quickly outfitted as a starter and, suddenly, the other boy was everywhere. Even though they were in different years and in different classes, Alex was always somewhere--be it in the hallways, in the cafeterias, or in someone's stories about the proverbial "this one time."
It wasn't that Tatsuya hated the other kid, but Alex had a way of intruding.
"Ta-kun! Hello~ You ready to make the ladies' hearts throb?"
The blond jumped slightly from the contact, startled by the sudden presence and loss of music. He didn't have to turn around to know who it was--only one person, other than his sister, would ever think to give him a nickname (and they both would pick irritatingly childish variants). And as he stood there, thinking how he should answer, he could feel an unexpected weighted warmth press into his back--this was definitely Alex, no one else had ever invited themselves into Tatsuya's personal space. Even his sister, bold as she was, was hesitant about crowding in. "Do you need help getting into your uniform?"
From beyond the cafe's walls, a group of girls, having seen and heard and misunderstood, giggled, their laughter casting a faint blush on Tatsuya's otherwise emotionless face. It was the kind of blush that started at the tip of his ears, turning pale into red, and then, slowly spreading to his cheeks until his whole face was hot from embarrassment. And when Alex reached for his cheek, the heat in his face only seemed to grow. In fact, it felt so hot that he was surprised he hadn't simply burst into flames from contact. "Hello ladies! Come inside so Ta-kun and I can take care of you~"
They only laughed harder before looking away.
It took another second before Tatsuya responded, regaining his default composure. Feeling annoyed (but mostly still suffering from residual embarrassment), the blond, in typical fashion, brushed Alex's hand away. No, he didn't need help and, no, he didn't want help either. Heading back to the break room, the blond, now sufficiently reminded of what he had to look forward to, glanced over at the clock with a slightly resigned expression. These were, almost definitely, going to be the longest hours of his life.
Regular : 749 words
Date : 26 Jun 2014
Something smacked into his face.
Death reeled from the impact while Evan, having recovered from his pointless yelling, laughed. Loudly. Clearly, he was having the time of his life. Death would fix that, later.
"Evan?"
Death didn't answer. He had a habit of not answering. Mostly because "Evan" wasn't his name. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry, Evan! I didn't mean to hit you!" The brunette gently massaged his cheek as the other person spoke, only half-aware of the other's existence. In the short time that Death had taken over, he had grown used to people approaching him--talking to him in an overly familiar fashion. Evan, for one annoying reason or another, was actually well-liked by his peers. Probably because he was a suck-up. "I'm so sorry, Evan! Is there anything I can do? Oh! Ice! We can get you ice! That will help with the redness."
And then there was silence. Death welcomed the change of pace; he had no intentions of talking with the teal-haired, wide-eyed loser. Or he didn't until Evan--the actual Evan--stepped in and plunged his icy, spirit hands into Death's shoulder. Normally, people weren't affected by spirits. They couldn't see them, hear them, or feel them. But Death, apparently, came as the exception.
"Answer him."
Death gasped from the sensation, his mind wildly thinking that this was what dying must feel like. And, in the moment of confusion, the brunette mumbled, "I'm fine."
And, honestly, he was. The pain in his cheek was already subsiding and any mark it would leave behind was bound to fade as well. Death wasn't concerned and Evan, who was now hovering nervously around the teal-haired boy, didn't seem to care either. Of course, Evan also didn't usually care about Death and how Death was doing. Generally, speaking, Evan usually hoped for the worst when it came to Death.
The boy, however, continued to talk, unaware or unaffected by Death's lack of response or matching enthusiasm. In fact, Death was only physically there. The rest of his mind was focused on Pestilence--Kent, apparently. He had carried on with whatever nonsense drove him these days and Death, unconsciously, growled. It wasn't very loud, but it wasn't very quiet either. Certainly, Pestilence wouldn't have heard it, but he was far enough away that he wouldn't have heard most things. Evan, though, Evan heard it.
"What are you doing?" There was a note of panic in his voice, but Death ignored him. He wanted to know why Pestilence wasn't working harder--better--to sort things out on Earth. Did he forget why he was here in the first place? Or did he have a change of heart? "Hey, what are you doing?" Evan reached out again, most likely hoping to shock Death into silence, but Death, smarter than that, side-stepped him. Like hell he was going to let grabby-ghost-y hands touch him again.
He took another step forward, but was stopped by the boy with the unusual hair and unusual eyes. "Come! We can ask the other two if we can play as well! it's been a long time since we played a game together!" And, just like that, he was dragged onto the field, directly across from Pestilence. This was the first time they met face-to-face and Death, smirking, noted their height difference. He was taller. "Oh! Kent! Can we play? I know I didn't do well in the game before, but I promise that I'll try harder!"
A game? Play? Death looked around. He didn't really recognize the field and he looked over to Evan for help. Evan, however, didn't seem interested in helping. He had his arms crossed, his lips pursed, and his eyes fixed into a glare. Well, even without Evan, Death was certain the body would remember--assuming it knew how to play, of course.
He waited, closed his eyes, and, like magic, he could feel the muscles bending into place, shaping with a desire to play--to win. Yes, this body knew the game even if he didn't know it all.
Death smirked as he stared Pestilence down. "Don't worry, I'll carry us." He spoke, in part, to the weird kid, but, mostly, he was speaking to Pestilence. After all, he was Death and he was here to save the day while wiping the floors with his brothers. "Let's play."
Of course, in his eagerness to prove his superiority over Pestilence, Death had forgotten one very important fact: he still couldn't see more than five feet in front of him.
Regular : 780 words
Date : 25 June 2014
Tatsuya had two rules in life: work hard and keep to yourself.
So long as he never broke those rules, he would survive in the world--in life. Granted, this made him rather unpopular, but being popular was overrated anyway. Or that was what he had always told himself: there are more important things in life than being the life of the party.
As such, it wasn't unusual for Tatsuya to be alone. He studied alone. He lived alone. He worked alone. Or he did until, of course, Alex intruded. Alex was forever intruding and Tatsuya, baffled by the foreigner, never knew how to handle the situation. He had tried ignoring the other boy, but silence only seemed to encourage him--egg him on. So, when that failed, Tatsuya was like a fish out of water--confused, irritated, and desperate to get away.
"Ta-kun~Kazawa-chan and Ryo-kun are in the back playing baker. I don't want to be third wheel. I'm so bo~red."
Between fighting for something to say and fighting to get out of the one-sided hug, Tatsuya ended up succeeding with neither. He had one hand on Alex's right wrist and his head turned to look at the pink-head, his expression dark. "You--"
A bell jingled in the storefront and, just like this morning, Tatsuya froze. A voice in his mind was shouting for him to push his teammate away--injuries be damned--but that voice sounded vague and distant as the blond stared blankly ahead, more curious about whether or not the floor could open up beneath him and swallow them both. Thankfully, Alex disentangled himself and went ahead with greetings. He was all smiles, all energy.
Nothing fazed him.
Even after Alex had welcomed them, seated them, and redirected them to Tatsuya, the blond was still standing frozen in place. He could feel every pair of eyes on him as he stood there and he could almost--almost--hear their thoughts (he was absolutely certain that they were laughing at him, mocking him).
"Ah, Ta-kun, are you okay?" The girl who had spoken earlier asked, her eyes narrowing slightly in concern while her friends sat at the table, some giggling, some whispering inaudibly to each other. She looked over him, as if there was something to be worried about. "Should I get your, uh, friend to come back?"
The mention of "friend" kicked his brain back into gear and Tatsuya shook his head rather aggressively. This had to stop; he needed to get things under control. This was a job. Alex was a kid. He could handle both. Walking over to their table, the blond reached down for an order ticket and pen, but realized belatedly that he had neither. He hadn't expected customers and the apron holding both the pad and the pen were still hanging on the door--unused, but not forgotten. He glanced at the back room and sighed. He hadn't even been on the job for an hour and already he was wishing he could clock out for forever.
Forgoing the pen and paper, Tatsuya surveyed the group and, figuring he could remember a few orders, asked, "What can I get everyone today?" His voice was a rich tenor sound, its smoothness reflecting none of his internal struggles. Likewise, his expressions were muted and uninviting. Contrast his current disposition to Alex and Tatsuya might as well have been the personification of the Arctic.
The girl--the one who had spoken--blinked up at him, her lips pursed with another question or comment unrelated to drinks. She looked him over again and, dismissing her thought, asked for iced coffee instead. Her friends, following suit, named equally ordinary drinks. "I'll be back with your orders."
Of course, any time Tatsuya succeeded in working around a problem, a new one would rear its ugly head. The group had, without a doubt, ordered simple, ordinary drinks. They were coffee-variations: light-roasted, iced, affogato. The last one, Tatsuya had never heard, but figured it was Italian for "complicated." Standing behind the counter, Tatsuya glanced over the machines. They gleamed in the light, shinning with challenge. Tatsuya blinked, shoulders sagging slightly in defeat. He could remember their orders easily enough, but this was an entirely different monster.
He glanced over to Alex, who was rummaging through the stacks. He could ask Alex for help. Or he could claw his eyes out. And since he didn't really like either options, Tatsuya decided to go alone. It was a simple order. He'll tackle the orders he did know--iced, cafe au lait, and black. After he was done with that, he could try his hand at the others. Affogato. It sounded like avocado. Was that what she wanted? An avocado in her coffee?
Regular : 466 words
Date : 23 June 2014
From where he stood, Aki could see the rising of a vein, the ever subtle tightening of the jaw. Mihos didn't say a word, but his thoughts were loud and they trumpeted over the surrounding conversations like a heard of wild buffalos over meadow-green grass. He had struck a nerve. And as Aki stood there, admiring how little things changed, he wondered if he was as obvious and as readable—if every smile and every wrinkle was an essay waiting to be understood, waiting for Mihos to scrutinize them for the truths he didn't have the courage to say
He blinked, slowly, and waved the thought away.
Even if Mihos could read him—could understand him—it didn't matter anymore. Mihos would never stumble into his room, late, to whine about the beautiful girl on the next floor and Aki, tired, would never laugh with the robustness of the past, the freedom of an unhindered, untraveled future. Things had changed even when they hadn't.
And then the canons thundered, announcing the start. Freshmen, unaware, were launched into the forest, half-screaming, half-laughing, half-wishing-they-weren't-there. Aki smiled. He remembered when he had been standing at the edge of the cliff, unaware of what to expect, unaware of what would unfurl as red bore into black. And as the end of the line came closer, Aki's grip tightened on his staff. Would it really be so terrible if he met Mihos' eyes again?
"I’ll take your sight before we make eye contact again."
Apparently, it would be terrible.
"I'm rather attached to my eyes, unfortunately. So you'll have to settle for something else. Sex, maybe? I've been told that I'm amazing." He raised his eyebrow suggestively. If Mihos answered, Akihiko didn't hear it because, as soon as he had finished, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet and wind pressed firmly against his cheeks. This felt the same: strong winds, adrenaline unwinding throughout his body. This was the same except he didn't grip his staff so tightly his knuckles turned white or clench his teeth with such determination they ached when he spoke again. No, this time, Aki was calm, prepared.
He landed expertly, rolling into a perfect dismount. And, when he gathered himself to meet with his other half, a small part of him imagined seeing black again. If red met black once more, he would be kinder this time; he would be better. But the black had turned blue and all the mysteries of darkness disappeared with that. If he was disappointed, the smile he wore hardly reflected it. The grin stretched from ear-to-ear as he sauntered over, his stride confident. "This must be Fate. Clearly, we're meant to be." He swung his staff around, letting it retract into a smaller form. "How about a kiss to celebrate?"
Regular : 512 words
Date : 20 May 2014
The whole thing was a giant wash of chaos and more chaos. One minute, Apollo was inches—nay, centimeters—away from freedom and, in the next, he was standing in an unfamiliar space facing a very, very familiar face. It was familiar in the way that people were familiar with celebrities—recognizable from distance, but unlikely to be anything more than strangers.
He gasped aloud—in part because of Fairbanks, but, in truth, it was mostly directed at the guns staring him down. There were more guns pointed at him now, in this moment, than there had ever been in his entire life—combined. Still, somehow, he managed to stay quiet. Although the look of absolute terror said more than enough.
By the end of the show, Apollo was still as pale as snow; his hands were trembling and his legs threatened to give out. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Desken slumped over, angry or upset or something with the turn of events. Apollo didn't really care. After all, the loss of the Grey Lady wasn't really Apollo's problem. And while others (specifically the bird-monster) made quick recoveries, Apollo was a bit slower to find his voice (or his color).
The first thought to enter his mind was the loss of his personal amenities—expensive shampoos, rare conditioners, and his twenty-two different hair care products (how was he going to achieve the perfect fluff now?). The second thought was despair—how were they, a group of idiots, supposed to find Paradise? With the exception of himself, everyone else on board was about as smart as a brick, which is to say, not very. Still, it wasn't as if the crew (and the carnies) had a say in the matter: either do or die. 'Well, in this case, it's probably more like die or die.' He frowned at the thought, but, unlike Jackie, wisely kept it to himself. After all, who knew what constituted as punishable behavior to Fairbanks?
Shuddering at the memory of the recently deceased, and having no desire to end up like them, the snowy-haired mechanic steeled his resolve: he was going to get through this. He was going to make it work. And, most importantly, he was going to get out of this alive.
Clearing his throat, but it was a feeble attempt at getting people's attention (and, honestly, he wasn't even sure if he wanted their attention), Apollo said, "I'm going to check the engine, there's, um, there's—things to be done." He gestured vaguely with his hand as he made his way towards one of the many doors—his stride quicker than, perhaps, absolutely necessary. He was careful to avoid touching anyone—just because he had to share the same space as filth, didn't mean he'd get cozy with it. Plus, once he gets away from the freak show, he can try to salvage his shoes, which were not only horribly creased, but scuffed at the sides, and possibly poke around for materials to craft a new gun.
But first, his shoes.
Regular : 1656 words
Date : 30 June 2014
Note: This is an anomaly in posting.
"Is everything okay?"
No, he wrinkled his nose in thought, I'm not okay.
But the moment passed and whatever plagued his thoughts went with it. "I'm doing fine."
"Good," the redhead laughed as he took a seat beside Apollo, who's expression was equally pleasant. His name was Rory--no last name or none that Apollo knew of--and he had dark, olive skin with burgundy markings that ran from his cheeks to his neck. He had vibrant green eyes--the color of rain forests--and violet lips, which he claimed were natural. He spoke with a slight accent--an accent that Apollo, try as hard as he did, could not place. Still, none of that seemed to matter--not the tribal markings, the purple lips, or the unfamiliar accent.
To be honest, nothing seemed to matter very much.
"So, are you going to drink that?" Rory eyed the glass in Apollo's hand, which was filled to the brim.
In answer, Apollo drank it all at once--sparing nothing. Turning the glass over, he set it onto the table, a smile gracing his features. "Sorry, did you want some?"
"Oh, I was just planning on have a taste"
Without any warning, the redhead leaned over and captured Apollo's lips with his. It was a short kiss--no more than twenty seconds, maybe thirty--but Apollo was losing himself to feelings he didn't know existed. It was like a fire that burned at the base of his stomach and it fanned out--moving wherever Rory touched him. And, much to Apollo's dismay, it ended all too soon. Suddenly, the fire was gone and everything felt colder, which was ridiculous because the heat was, moments earlier, absolutely unbearable. "Delicious." Rory grinned wolfishly at Apollo, absolutely unabashed for his actions. "Good wine."
"Pretty sure it was me that was delicious." There was a note of uncharacteristic challenge in Apollo's voice and Rory, who had always lived walking forward, happily accepted.
A part of Apollo's mind, a small and distant part, protested the actions. It wanted Apollo to stop--to leave the fire alone. It wanted Apollo to get up and run back to the ship and find Desken. It screamed for Apollo to find Desken and Apollo, annoyed by it, ignored it. He couldn't understand why he should leave. He liked being kissed by Rory. And he couldn't understand why his mind insisted on finding Desken--who cared what the grey-faced, green-eyed mutant was doing? Chances were, he reasoned, Desken was doing the same thing. He had seen the man engage in such activities more than once during his tenure with the Grey Lady and he had no desire--absolutely none--to witness it again. Or be brought in. He couldn't decide which was worse.
Still, the voice wouldn't stop yelling. It wouldn't quit and Apollo, annoyed and angry and confused, broke the kiss. He stood up, fists clenched, and disoriented--he didn't know why he had done that, but it seemed to have appeased the voice slightly.
"What's wrong?" Rory asked, concerned. "Should I have not kissed you?"
Yes.
"No," Apollo hissed. He couldn't make any sense with his thoughts--couldn't understand why his brain was fighting him on every little thing. Or why his brain was yelling again--yelling for him to look for Desken or Jackie or Mav or even Doc. "It's not you," he confessed as he took a seat again. His head was hurting and the world was still spinning oddly out of control. "It's just... I think I'm a little tired from traveling."
Yes, that sounded right. His mind was definitely sleep-deprived.
Still, the voice nagged at him. It insisted--with absolute certainty--that it was not because of a lack of sleep. And, to throw the proverbial cherry on top, it wanted Apollo to run as far and as he could because he was in grave danger. Grave danger, it repeated.
"Here, drink some more. It'll keep you hydrated." Rory handed Apollo another glass of juice--the contents also filled to the brim.
"Thanks."
The juice was sweet and delicious--it tasted nothing like normal alcohol, which was bitter and, oddly enough, slightly metallic in taste. And as he finished his seventh--or was it his eighth?--glass, Apollo sighed contentedly. That definitely did the trick. Clearly, he was dehydrated. "I feel better already. I mean, earlier, I had this crazy thought about"--he paused, his brows furrowing as he tried to remember exactly what he had been panicking about earlier--"something." He waved it away. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been very important.
Desken.
He blinked. He didn't know why his captain's face surfaced to mind or why it stared disapprovingly at him.
"Apollo?"
But, with Rory's voice, Desken's face vanished and, immediately, Apollo was back--surrounded by delicious aromas and no floating-faces. He could hear the music blaring in the background; its beat energetic and lively. It pulsed through the scene and Apollo felt restless. Maybe he would feel better if he wasn't sitting down. "You know, what? Let's dance!" He didn't wait for an answer before grabbing Rory's hands and dragging him onto the dance floor.
They melded into the crowd, which jumped and swayed with the beat. Everyone moved freely as if all of their troubles and worries were dashed away with the change of pace. He was finally somewhere nice--somewhere fun--and he was going to enjoy it whether or not imaginary-Desken approved. Plus, when did Apollo ever seek out Deksen's approval anyway? He was just a lowly mutant.
"I love this song!" Apollo yelled as the tune changed and the beat jumped. Of course, that was a lie. Until that moment, Apollo had never even heard the song before--Kodak? Time Square? Ne-Yo? He had no idea what the artist was talking about and he didn't care. It wasn't about the words. It was the beats. It was the flow. It was the intangible factor that made songs unbearably catchy. And Apollo lost himself in it. He threw caution to the wind and, at the first invitation, accepted.
This isn't right.
It was the voice again--back from the grave.
It was always the damned voice. But, this time, instead of letting it direct him or summon any random images of his mates, Apollo locked it out of his mind. He wasn't going to go back to the ship. He wasn't going to find Desken. And he sure as hell wasn't going to look for Doc--like, what would even possess him to do that?
The music changed again--the beat slowing almost to a crawl. And then--
"Mister Worldwide!"
A bald, tanned man walked into view, standing at the stage that Apollo didn't even realize was there. He wore dark-tinted glasses that hid his eyes from view, but not the ear-to-ear grin. He had blindingly white teeth that gleamed as sunlight landed on them. And he walked with a slow, confident gait and the crowd seemed to quiet in his presence--although the music, Apollo noted, did not. He raised his hands into the air, as if wanting to high-five the gods, before asking, in a lightly accented voice, "Nothing like the heat in Cartivillage, amirite?" The crowd answered with a roar of approval, some of party-goers stomping their foot. "And, oh mama, it looks like we have some beautiful guests, si?" He peered over his sunglasses and winked in the direction of said guests. "Mami chula.."
The crowd cheered again and, someone, somewhere, started chanting, "Queso pantalones!" Apollo had no idea what was being said, but it sounded nice--pleasant. He'll have to ask Rory what it meant later.
With his glasses resting securely on his face again, the man addressed the crowd, his energy infectiously dynamic. "And how do we like to welcome our guests, here in Cartivillage?"
"Served on a platter!" Someone shouted--it sounded like the guy who had started the chant.
"Drunk!" Another yelled, this time laughter followed.
The man at the front laughed as well--the sound rich and deep. Apollo didn't know who he was (did he introduce himself as "Mister Worldwide?"), but he didn't care. This guy made him feel good; he made him forget about everything. "Si, si, then why don't we get this party started?" He clapped his hands and a procession revealed itself. They carried a large silver sheet--plate, Apollo guessed--on their shoulders, their expressions hidden by masks. The plate was decorated with greens and fruits--all fresh, all ripe. But the most surprising thing, however, was not the size of the plate (or the fact that it only took four people to carry it), but the centerpiece: Doc.
Apollo blinked. He had to be seeing things. There was no way Doc was on the plate. This was just another trick--another illusion conjured by his tired mind. But something, perhaps the voice he had locked out, said he wasn't seeing things and the person tied up on the plate was, in fact, Doc. She wasn't wearing her usual rags and all the grim that usually covered her was suspiciously cleaned off--something he had never, personally, witnessed. She was dressed in a simple toga--beige, knotted cleanly at the shoulder. She was also gagged.
But before Apollo could move--take even a step closer to see if it was Doc--Rory was behind him, his arms circling around Apollo's waist. He was warm and strong--stronger than Apollo had originally believed. And even though he should feel fear--certainly the voice from before was screaming at the top of its lungs again--he stayed put, enjoying the warmth, the strength, and the scent of strawberries. It was a good feeling and he liked it and, honestly, if Doc was up there, it was probably because she had tried to kill someone. Or maybe she had actually killed someone. Either way, she was there because of her own mistakes.
"Tonight's entree!"
The crowd erupted into cheers and while the voice in his mind begged him to listen--to get a grip--Apollo stayed in Rory's arms, laughing and smiling with the rest of the party-goers. God, he loved it here.
Regular : 420 words
Date : 06 August 2014
"Are you always this popular?"
Death gritted his teeth, grinding them together so tightly it was a miracle they hadn't turned to dust already.
"Someone, please, help me! I don't want to—"
"No! No! No! This can't—"
"It's just one step. It's just one step."
"Stop! I can't—"
He shook his head, but that didn't help. It never helped. Or, if it did, he never noticed. The voices were so loud and so numerous that everything he did only seemed to make things worse. In the beginning, he thought if he ignored everything, everyone would go away. The spirits would tire out and move on. They'd find other things to do, like, die peacefully. Naturally, that didn't work and now he was at a private viewing of Mortal-Scream-A-Thon III. Plus, Evan wasn't helping.
Ever since the afternoon, the brunette had been in a fit: foul mood, unpleasant remarks, and unhelpfully rude. Of course, Evan's usual helpfulness tended to range from "not" to "barely." Still, today was worse. Much worse.
"Is this punishment for stealing my body? Glad someone is finally doing something about this." The brunette laughed, but the sound was hollow, naked of any actual joy. He didn't even smile; his gaze focused squarely on the ground. He didn't even stand by his friend.
Casper—Death had finally gotten around to using the other kid's name—was there with them as well. He had tagged along—insisted that they should catch up or some other nonsense. Death hadn't been listening or, rather, he couldn't hear what the teal-haired kid had to say. And Evan, well, Evan had finally given up trying to make a connection with his once-upon-a-time friend. Or lover, Death still hadn't settled on their actual relationship and something wiser in his brain said he'd be better off asking Evan on a different day.
"No, I don't want to do this! You don't have to—"
"You won't get away with this! You're not gong to get away!"
The screaming grew louder, but the voices thinned—there were fewer now than there were before. But even though there were fewer spirits harassing him with their cries, their pain was not dulled or lessened. They screamed, they cried, and they yelled. They were desperate like the way mortals were when faced with, well, Death.
It was as if everyone was reliving their worst moments—their lowest days.
"It's kind of foggy," Evan remarked casually, looking up for the first time since Death decided they couldn't stay in the cabin. He eyed one of the passing ghosts, a woman clutching her face, screaming in pure agony.
Death grunted in agreement. It was foggy—unusually so. In fact, the thickness of the mist was bothersome. And because of his reduced vision, things looked even worse. He couldn't tell if he couldn't see because of the weather or because Evan was an inferior human.
"It's probably because we're near the ocean," Death muttered, forgetting the fact that he was talking to thin air. "Just keep walking." He picked up the pace, lengthening his stride with every step. Right now, he needed to get to the beach, clear his head, and, hopefully, get away from the pack.
"Why are you going to the beach anyway? It's not like they won't be at the beach too."
Death paused. Why was he going to the beach? 'To get away from the spirits!' His mind quickly supplied, pleased that it had summoned an answer so quickly. But further questioning broke down his answer. There was no real reason to head towards the beach. Evan, despite how much Death loathed to admit it, was right. There was nothing stopping the spirits from showing up. The only thing he could say was that, for now, there were less. They weren't everywhere; it only sounded like they were everywhere.
"Spirits don't like open bodies of water. Don't you know anything?" Death answered haughtily as he resumed walking. He couldn't quite explain the need to head towards the beach, but it didn't matter and Evan didn't need to know that. Plus, he didn't think he could handle anymore snark from the brunette for the evening.
Looking back, Death yelled, "If you were going to follow me, you should at least learn to walk faster. We don't have all night."
And, without waiting to see if the other boy would pick up the pace, Death marched ahead and, this time, Evan didn't linger back. Maybe he had finally given up on trying to convince a human being he existed. Death could only hope; he wouldn't be able to stomach it if Evan was screaming constantly. But even though Death was heading forward, he didn't pick up the pace. He actually slowed down (although he won't admit he did) because, in his stomach, something said he'd want Casper with him.
God, Earth sucked.
Regular : 503 words
Date : 22 May 2014
If Apollo had been more combat-savvy, he might have heard the child's footsteps long before he actually saw her, but, as things were, he was, more or less, the furthest thing from "combat-savvy." So, instead of expecting company, Apollo nearly jumped out of his skin, flustered.
"Who—"
"You are.. paaaaale. Has anyone told you that?"
The rest of his question died at his lips. He blinked at her, unsure of what to say or do or even think. This was a child or she looked like a child—he could never really tell with these Outland-freaks. But before he could gather his wits together and come up with something coherent, she added, "So.. much.. white."
And, with that, his expression went from mildly confused to totally and utterly insulted. For some reason, Apollo took offense. It might be because of the time he had spent flying the Grey Lady—every day was an uphill battle of emotional this and that. Or it could be that he was a sensitive soul—easily offended by everything and anything. It was, most likely, an unhealthy mixture of the two, but, either way, Apollo was nonplussed. Standing straighter, the snowy-haired male's lips curled into a sneer as he said, "Oh yeah, well, have you looked into a mirror, kid? Now scram."
He pushed past her—nothing too forceful, but hard enough to make it clear: he didn't want her around. And as he was about to walk away, he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck—the kind of feeling that made his hair stand on its end. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder—and expecting to see only the little girl—he was shocked to find one of the masked-carnies standing in the background.
The thing was taller than Apollo and, from the way it looked, stronger too. He couldn't make out any other distinctive features—not with the mask obscuring the face—but, from the little bits of skin showing, the thing was just as pale as the child. 'Her brother? Why is he just standing there? Wait, are they here to kill me? They're definitely here to kill me!' His hand reached for his holster, but his fingers grappled with air. 'Right, right. Fang is gone. Right.' His mind was unusually calm and his expression was oddly relaxed, save for the residual sneer. But rather than actually being cool and aloof and unaffected by their presence, Apollo was, in reality, paralyzed from fear and his mind, desperately trying to work something out, was at the end of its rope. The lack of expression was merely a result of his brain's inability to process an emotion.
If it could put in its two-week's notice, it'd have done so months, possibly years, ago.
In an unexpected turn of events, the mechanic stayed his ground and, with a strange confidence, repeated himself, "Go away."
If he was going to die, well, at least he'll die wearing nice clothes. Albeit, slightly dirtied nice clothes.
Regular : 634 words
Date : 01 August 2014
"Well, just make sure you don't go full yellow or anything," Shev answered, a smile catching on his lips. "Chicks don't really dig the--"
His senses pinged loud, cutting him off from his thoughts and stopping him from finishing his sentence. He didn't have time to collect his thoughts before the door burst open with a bang, slamming into the connected wall.
Of course, the door bursting open had nothing on the girl standing under its frame. She, by design, wasn't very large in stature, but her presence filled the room without any trouble. Shev took an instinctive step back, his hands balling into tight fists at the mention of "authorities."
He didn't know who the girl was (he barely knew who anyone present was), but if she was determined to run and tattle, well, he wasn't above slitting her throat to keep her silence.
But before anyone could do or say anything, the pink-haired girl laughed. The laughter echoed off the high ceiling, bounced along the walls, and filled his audio receptors almost completely. It had been a long time since he had heard anyone laugh and the thought--or the reminder, as it was--made him frown.
Unfortunately, Shev didn't have the luxury to contemplate the state of his life because the sword--presumably Blackheart--had started talking. He explained, briefly, what he had done and, in equal brevity, what they were about to do: take down Shadow Sun. He had said that with the same candor someone would talk about going down to the markets to buy some chips or noodles. 'Of course, easy for you to say--you're a freaking sword,' Shev noted privately, resisting the urge to say anything aloud. Just because Shev didn't usually voice his opinion didn't necessarily mean he didn't have an opinion.
Truth was, Shev usually had a lot to say about something. He just happened to be smart enough to keep quiet. After all, can't fault the guy who doesn't say anything.
It was during the tail-end of the grocery list of chores (aka assassination before brunch), that Shev felt another ping on the back of his mind. It wasn't a metaphorical ping like the ones that some people felt as they walked down dark, creepy corridors. Rather, it was an actual ping: ill intentions. He didn't know who or what or where, but the feeling that something bad was about to happen stayed strong. 'Someone or something is coming.'
And, to confirm his fears, the pink haired girl--Elysium--announced the arrival of GC.
Shev didn't need the reminder to step away from the door; he also didn't need anyone to tell him to get ready. The blade on his right hand extended itself, the cyan color glowing in the dimness with eager brightness. Even his eyes seemed to "turn on"--working overtime to case out the place: weak points, possible points of entry, why were there so many dead plants everywhere?
There was a faint tap, a mechanical whir, and then a familiar beep. It was barely distinguishable--even to his enhanced audio receptors--but he had heard that noise often enough to know it wasn't just a trick of his mind.
"There's a bomb." He didn't shout--years of work experience told him there wasn't any point in yelling. Unless, of course, he wanted to wake up the next day with his voice hoarse and his throat scratchy. He might not have been shouting his thoughts across, but there was a twinge of urgency in his words. "Everyone. Go. Now." He didn't know the people gathered--for all he knew, they could have been true-blue terrorists, waiting to wreck havoc--but he wasn't about to let would-be civilians wait around to be target practice for the Guardian Corps. He knew what they were capable of and mercy, well, that just wasn't their strong suit.
Regular : 480 words
Date : 16 August 2014
Only two thoughts crossed her mind when Achilles spoke: punch him in the face and punch him in the face again.
She resisted the temptation, but her hands had already balled into fist—tight, controlled, and ready to break a nose. Logically, Gavriila knew better than to take the bait, but emotionally, she wanted to get some sort of justice for her suffering. Unlike some of the other agents, Gavriila had never been very good with words. She didn't have an arsenal of witty comebacks and she definitely didn't have the quick-thinking to cut someone down with a few, well-placed remarks. So, she didn't say anything. She'll get him when they get back. Maybe on the plane ride, maybe at his house. It didn't matter where as long as it wasn't here in the middle of an assignment—their most dangerous assignment to date.
"What if this is all a trap?"
The brunette looked around. The thought had crossed her mind: what if this whole thing was a setup? What if they were being played—all of them? After all, who was the informant? The Regents hadn't exactly been eager to pony up that piece of information. And then there was the question of how did the informant come across the information? It's not like The Red King was careless.
'She's not careless at all.' In the year that Gavriila had been assigned to The Red King, the team had gone from one wild goose hunt to another—chasing after dead-end leads and red herrings. It wasn't that The Red King was merely good: she was beyond compare. She didn't leave evidence behind; she planted evidence to be found. She was always one step ahead—forever slightly out of reach. But even that had felt suspicious. It was like a game to The Red King. 'Like a rat maze,' Gavriila frowned at the comparison. It wasn't the first time her mind had linked the two, but, just like the first time, the thought unnerved her. If The Red King couldn't be touched then why would The Red King being found now?
She didn't need to dig deep to know that she didn't like this.
"Even if it's a trap, we can't leave. We stay on this until we're certain she's not here," she spoke with more confidence than she felt. Truthfully, Gavriila wanted to check in with the other team. It wasn't that she doubted their competence. She was positive they could hold their own against the average Reaper, but this wasn't a run-of-the-mill Reaper. This was The Red King and, as experience as taught her, The Red King wasn't that easy. "Stick together and stay on guard.
"And don't be so loud." The last remark was definitely aimed at Achilles. She may not have said his name—code or otherwise—but the look she gave him said volumes enough.
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