Days like this she wishes she had a family, one that doesn't stand for mass-murder and global destruction.
She wishes she has a place to call home, a place to come back to and drain her worries. It's her fault, ultimately, since she brought it unto herself when she decided to leave her very own “family”. She refuses to call them that still, after what she'd done to them. They can't possibly be okay after all that. Not after everything they went through. Perhaps this is a superlative, hyperbole even, to stretch and exaggerate the love they had for her. But she knows it's true. They love(d) her, and so does she.
Day 1
Vert (?) Plaza
12:34pm
A red headed teenager stays close to the wall, peeping her bright blue eyes to see beyond the sandstone bricks. A fountain that marks the plaza centre, and another fountain forming in a woman's eyes, are the two things she can see. They stick out like sore thumbs in an otherwise beautifully serene landscape. The black-haired woman circling the fountain clings to her chest, perhaps scratching to reach her heart and scratch it out too.
Her hands, with flyers of a picture of a beautiful girl (albeit the flyers were in black-and-white) and a “MISSING” header, long for the “MISSING” someone.
The blue-eyed adolescent backs from the plaza centre, to get away from being recognised and so she doesn't have to see that (her) anymore. It isn't out of apathy, it's more out of pain — pain she can't stand when she looks at her own mother (it hurts her even to call her mother, the very flesh and blood of herself). She knows that the woman is looking for her. She didn't think it'd cost this much pain; that it'd make her mother turn colourless and black-and-white — much like her portrait on the sheets she carries.
Tourists and local cityfolk rush past the brunette to avoid her longing screams, all with guilty looks on their faces.
“Please, please help me, m-my, my child, she-she's missing… sil vous plait.” she mutters, inaudible and un-understandable in between sobs and sniffles and gasps for air. Some people turn their backs to her, others frowning at her though some kind hearts hesitantly take the flyers and give them a glance (though some simply throw them back down onto the floor).
To think that Astryd had been loved so much, that the woman who raised her would go two cities away just to ‘spread the word’. To think that Astryd would be so selfish to laugh in the face of her disgraced loved ones. They love her, and undoubtedly she loves them too. So she thought her own desires were enough to justify her acts. (She thought wrong, mind that.)
A home she so-easily called “home”. The people; the material objects. The very idea. The thought of this very place instantly sparks at any given point she looks up to the sky, or when scary men glare her straight in the eyes — to which she’d simply stare right back (only blankly so she wouldn’t let a little bit of herself slip past her eyes). ‘Apathy’ she would boldly call it. She’s done looking out of her metropolitan window, fantasising the sound of home. It’s finally time for her to come back.
And by come back she means stand outside, shake right in front of the gate, step back and stare. It’s been this way for several times. She’s gone and done the same and she hasn’t bothered counting any much longer. But before she can scurry out of sight, she hears the door open once more.
She acknowledges him with a certain stride. It almost feels as though the vacuum, formed over years of estrangement, had been filled by her with a spontaneity. The occasional encounters through the television screen or the magazines she’d flicked through, those which happened to contain a feature of him, must have done the heavy-lifting for the both of them. Clearly, the girl — woman, as she was now indubitably worthy — had long since seen plenty of him. But the question remains: is it plenty, or enough?
As she brushes past him with a cool melody to her voice, Jans suddenly doesn’t want to envision the remainder of the gory details. Can barely make out the pounding of the loudspeakers over the unflurried whisking of straw broom against wooden floor, either. Quintessential Astryd; bringing a feather duster to her ever-fortified barricades, mounted about as high as a fortress. Not that he is one to talk. Is it more fatal to decipher her mindset based off of a few sparing words? Or would most of his hardship be derived from second guessing his less-than-stellar public reputation?
His approach is, for lack of a better word, him. And perhaps much too him than she would like. Because these two only ever play mind games — beating around the bush with their lacking words that hold close to no, maybe even too much, meaning. And it only ever drives them both mad. Astryd wants it to stop, but she only ever returns the very treatment she receives. It’s a never-ending game of who will crack first? And by looks of it, neither of them are backing down just yet.
Swoosh, swoosh. The rustling of the straw distracts herself from her walls crumbling and from the painful bass blasting in her ears and shaking the ground. He sounds, to her, almost too know-it-all with the train of words that follow — that he hasn’t been struck with amnesia or something of the sort. The woman simply rolls her eyes (though subtly, so that the actor doesn’t catch her). That’s not the point, Jans Joakim. She would’ve thought that stardom would mess with that steel brain of his, though obviously he proves otherwise.
There is a pause, intentionally staged it seems, in their conversation as she simply gulps the flood of words down her throat. They want to carelessly bubble and froth past her lips, uncannily resembling magma and ash. She swears she remembers having a cold tongue (especially to the man in questioning) but now the back of her mouth flushes and turns her head hot.
“What time’s your shift end? I’ll take you somewhere. I’m fairly certain the food served here is superb, because the music certainly isn’t and it’s driving me nuts.”
Straightforward, aren’t we, Jans Joakim? And rather insistent. And as the two have so gloriously shown, two can play at this game. She licks her lips that’ve been pecked dry by the weather and chews off a speck of skin.
Suppressing her words, “It ends in...” she checks the watch on her right wrist “around six minutes,”. She simply raises her brow at him, waltzing her way to the back of the bar where all she does is click! Suddenly the music abruptly comes to a halt.
‘Twas a few days before Christmas, and Violet Norgard was freezing her ass off.
The Gang Member had completely underestimated the brutal chill of a Lumiose City winter, and as night fell across the Kalosian capital, a vicious wind kicked up the falling snow into a frenzied blizzard. The howling gales ripped through Violet’s winter jacket, and the frantic snow buffeted her face and leaked through her boots. In a city full of millions, it seemed like she was the only person stupid enough to get caught out on the street…and with no clear path to her ramshackle apartment in sight (and her Pokemon), Violet knew that she would be in trouble if she stayed out in the cold any longer.
You’d think a woman with such fire in her soul, and in her eyes, would find some way — any way — to keep herself warm.
But of course, metaphors don’t easily slip into reality to keep people alive. The world doesn’t work like that; never did, never will. She can feel the itch living in her throat and a tickle in her nose, and achoo! She lapses into a soft yet sharp sneeze. She swears her head is spinning, or that perhaps the world is, for when she looks at the dark paved streets before her they’d play the dancing of lights that seems somewhat psychedelic.
She can’t recall if it’s been happening for a while just yet, not in her state of mind, but she now sees flakes of white flying around her — and at her. Astryd wants to give herself a hit in the head because it took her so long to realise that she’s in the midst of a snowstorm where the wind violently thrashes at her. Just great. And to think she’d just washed her hair this morning, too. She can’t see much off into the distance, with the two factors of difficulty being her awful state and the other being the fact that there is a sheet of white flying about in her goddamn face.
Ahead she thinks she sees a figure yank something off a storefront door and tosses it into the snow. Befitting for Christmas Eve, an Ebenezer Scrooge snatching wreaths and throwing it to places they’d never be found again. But this Ebenezer Scrooge bears an uncanny resemblance — this particular Scrooge seems weak, but perhaps far too weak for an old, fictional man who’s used to teach kids not to be sour pissbabies.
The Flare (if she could even call herself that without wanting to scratch her heart out) reaches for her Holo Caster, shining a bright blue light to even guide her way in the slightest. It helps, though only in the slightest, as the darkness isn’t what’s unsettling. But that lets her see the figure down the road and that they’re down to the ground in seconds. Astryd nearly ignores it, thinking perhaps that they’ve been swept by the wind, but the body doesn’t move. She’s never considered herself to be one of much justice but if bad (or more bad than Astryd, at the very least) people find vulnerable people — the unthinkable happens and she can’t let someone go with that so simply.
The redhead begins her small journey to the fallen being a few steps ahead. These steps are hard, nonetheless, with the snow brimming close to her knees. But she makes it, almost, and sees the body face-down in the snow with long hair of raven slowly fading to grey with the white corrupting the hair. Astryd reaches for the body’s apparent shoulders and gives a light shake.
“Uh... are you okay?”
Well, Astryd, that’s a dumb question. Obviously they’re not, seeing that they’re unconscious and on the ground.
[ ♘ ] — How is she expected to comply with the oddness that is Flare? No take-backsies now, though, perhaps a little too late. She continuously digs her own grave, since the dawn of this new recruitment project — when she agreed (rather nonchalantly and reluctantly, at that) to take a trip to Unova. Soon enough she’s never to return ‘home’ (is there a better word for somewhere she keeps returning to, despite her seeming apathy towards it?) until she obeys the orders of her superiors.
hey guess who’s back!!!!!! y’all probably dont remember me but it’s-a-me!!! tassy aka old hugh (^: im back for arceus knows how long but i,,,, i really missed you lot so if you’d like to pick up an old thread or start a new one — do hit me up through the new IM system on tumblr or reach me at skype!!! im still on the same one (^:
i missed you guys and to any new memes of WE, hello i’m tassy!!!!! i hope we can be friends (^’:
[ ♘ ] — How is she expected to comply with the oddness that is Flare? No take-backsies now, though, perhaps a little too late. She continuously digs her own grave, since the dawn of this new recruitment project — when she agreed (rather nonchalantly and reluctantly, at that) to take a trip to Unova. Soon enough she's never to return ‘home’ (is there a better word for somewhere she keeps returning to, despite her seeming apathy towards it?) until she obeys the orders of her superiors.
Had she expected her paid vacation leave of rebellion and slacking to morph into a mission? Not in the slightest. Maybe there had been a feeling — an inner voice, if you will — telling her that she mustn't, but her drive is far too strong. Too shackling; she finds herself tethered to her will. Rebellion, revolt, is her intention with her break; she insists on slacking apathetically while others break their backs. Obviously Flare doesn't allow such.
There's a list of names in a letter addressed to her. It's spelled correctly (Astryd Hourig), too, which means it's official documentation. No one usually bothers spelling her name correctly — (or even bothered to ask). She thinks it odd that such a modern organisation would go along with old-fashioned ways, Magcargo Mail through regions, rather than a barrage of emails.
She's wrong when she hears the beep from her Holo Caster that she's been ignoring oh-so-gloriously. Temptation is bubbling inside her so she reaches for the device in her pocket, flitting across the first page of her inbox. Flare Admin, Flare Executive, Flare Admin. There's around forty-six more yet to be opened. Obviously (again) she doesn't care to pour her time into watching each holographic message because they're all the same.
Flare only sends them if they want her to do something. Other than the occasional message from them, she doesn't receive much else. (Though perhaps an untouched, concerning amount of exchanges from a certain someone she can't face anymore). There's a name that sticks out like a sore thumb, all red but blue-black with bruises.
there’s all those places we used to go
and i suspect you already know
but that place on memory lane you liked still looks the same
but something about it’s changed
The cry for a little privacy is desperate tonight. He would pull out all the stops to locate the one stinking dive in the world willing to offer him personal space worth its asking prices. There’s hope yet in a glimmering metropolis so vibrant and discriminating, his presence may do the approximate impact of just raising a few brows. That would seem to be the merry case in Kalos, where moody idols don’t appear to be in good taste. Yet again, Lumiose isn’t at all likely to be exempt from the paparazzi’s line of business, and even if so, one didn’t exactly have to be a paparazzi in order to play Spot-a-Celeb.
He decides to take his chances, try some place low-key, even though it’s in those very places where blind spots are easily exposed. Fair enough. It should be sufficient to refrain from omitting the better part of his judgment by ordering one too many drinks.
Keep reading
[ ♘ ] — The collision amounts to a silence, a rather uncomfortable one, just as she picks herself up from the ground, next to a hill of broken glass and shattered ice. It seems a few shards have cut into her, too, but it doesn’t exactly matter when the face she sees before her is someone she remembers. Not remember; someone she could never forget even if she wanted to. Her fingers wipe against the red liquid above her knees — bringing them to her lips to lick the blood off her fingertips.
Right then and there she steadies her ground, staring straight at him. She can tell that he’s recollecting his thoughts, the same way he always did, with the look in his eyes that held a void; a black hole that would suck your soul in if you stared too long. And she thinks she’s stared too long.
“Don’t we know each other from somewhere?” he asks.
Idiot; typical Jans move. He probably hasn’t reconsidered his poor choice of words. Part of her wants to laugh, the other part wants to give him a wham across his face for not remembering her. But she knows it isn’t his fault, not anymore — not when his life is full of flashing lights and fame. He hasn’t got time for her or anyone else.
“The youngest of the Hourigs… Astryd. Right?”
Click!
So he does remember her, to her surprise. She wants to semi-lunge into a hug and semi-break down into tears. A fragment of her childhood, a short-lived one at that. A privilege she was never given when she decided to leave the life she loved. Instead of succumbing to her impulses, she walks towards the bar, trampling with her boots over the glass — looking for a broom, or something that would make her seem the least bit collected.
Astryd replies with a chuckle, a rather smug one at that, just to seem cool because that’s the way she’s always been. She’d always been cool and aloof, apathetic at that too.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” she admits, grabbing the wooden broomstick with her right hand; a dustpan with the left. At this point she sees the posse of teenage girls staring at the man with interest, and probably recognition — but they don’t interrupt. Which is good of them. But at this point Astryd doesn’t really think she should be talking to him. It’s much too overwhelming for her.
“Ever.”
Whoosh, whoosh — the sweeps that bring the clacking remnants of the empty glasses and debris of the ice onto the flat surface of the dustpan. Now she can’t really tell which is ice and which is glass, but she sweeps them as if they’re the same. It doesn’t matter anymore, they’re useless either way now.
“And even then, I didn’t think you’d remember me.” she adds.
But she’s glad he remembers her. Not because she had completely lost contact because that’s not true at all. She knows how he’s been — he’s pasted all over magazines and starring in movies and TV. She’s glad because he remembers her and that means showbiz didn’t mess with his head. Or not in the wrong way.
[ ♘ ] — Stubbornness comes with a price in a world like this. And she hasn’t found it yet, nor does she really care for what karma it leaves her. Her tongue is so sharp it nearly scars her gums when she licks them — teeth chewing and ripping skin off her lips. Perhaps this is an act of rebellion, or revolution, stubbornness even — against her Flare superiors; acting exactly against instructions and idling days away in a far-off region West of her homeland.
Unova is an urban setting that seems too picturesque, less postcard-type and more PokéStar Studios-. A concrete clusterfuck that abides by laws of movie-script ideals, battled by the motorcycling gangs — almost similar to the bike-riders of Lumiose, but so different in indistinct yet undoubtable ways. Her supposed mission for ‘gathering intel on Team Plasma’ turns into a session of observing the alleyways and dark bars that Castelia offers — with nighttime predators, blood running down their stubbled chins and reeking of booze.
The moon falls and the Sun rises at its best yet again, painting a façade of innocence over the rascals of midnight. Nothing eventful has happened for her. The night prior was spent much too pathetically — a date with a cigarette, perched on a hostel iron-barred balcony that overlooks the city. It’s odd, yet quite funny she finds, that the attitude of the city is easily displayed to her from a single windowsill. Every nook and cranny; every little whisper echoed into her little personal space.
Rebellion — to her — is loitering lazily outside gyms, apparently.
Thirst parches her throat, so like any sensible person, she waddles her way to the vending machine that hoards drinks that would do the job she seeks. It isn’t even far away, nor is it particularly any more than five strides away from the bench she resides on. Though it’s enough to stir up trouble, like the kind she can never get herself out of. Her body jerks back to the sudden collision, and down onto the cement.
A man — one who looks like someone Astryd thinks she should know. An immaculate suit on a rather disheveled man. Profanity, followed by more profanity and what seems like rudeness is thrown out of his mouth. Her tongue is sharp, but his is sharper.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?
You might want to watch that tongue of yours, Sir.”
Finally finished! I’m pretty proud of this one. Love the game and the art really inspired me. Now excuse me while I drown in the emotions that the game and the OST gave me.
[ ♘ ] — Flare doesn't amount to much of her income, so finding other sources of that cold cash is another one of Astryd's pastimes — whether or not she really likes doing such. This month (until she gets fired, that is) it's waiting tables in a rather shady bar in a vibrant part of Lumiose; a corner that smells of distant smoke and blinds occupants with the bright neon. Yet despite the midnight cries — she finds herself at peace. It's one of the more quiet shifts, even in the midst of endless chatter and pounding bass.
There is no ringing, not tonight, in her ears when she can sense something (bad, usually) is about to happen.
“Hey, sweetheart, take this to table nine, yeah?” calls her co-worker from the small window that separates the bar and kitchen. She barely gives him a nod, grabbing the bowl of wedges and making her way to said table. A few teenage girls, not regulars here, though apparently it's not uncommon for young girls to be hiding away in the pining hours of nighttime. High-school graduation, usually, at this time of the year. They don't look old enough for drinks, so it doesn't seem they're having any — but it doesn't stop them from obliging to bar snacks.
“Wedges for the young ladies. Take care tonight, gals, the dogs come out at this hour,” she reminds with concern.
They offer her thanks with a smile, ‘nice girls’, she thinks — grabbing a few empty glasses of what-was coca-cola and ice to the direction of the bar, until she smacks! Straight into someone else who appears to have just flown in quite suddenly, too.
