THE MIRROR CRACK'D FROM SIDE TO SIDE.

affiliated / about veteran insurgent P-6 / uncapped guns, bombs, gold / winchester M1894 sawed-off rifle, sawed-off shotgun, large-range explosives (x2), car

[ikeatrice-blog]

ladybeato

Perhaps she felt whatever wreckage it was that now barred the door when it hit, and perhaps she heard it as well. She had no recollection of either, despite her hands pressing so firmly against the door behind her, nails digging into the wood and all.

To stare at what lay before the two of them, the mass of it all dwarfing them, was almost too much to bare. It all glittered far too terribly, that not even the eyes of a Golden Witch could stare for much longer. No, Beatrice couldn’t; she’d already stared at it too much once before, with her eyes, with one, two, three other’s eyes as well!

Her head hung to the side, eyes now fixed on the warehouse floor, stinging. How long had this warehouse been here? How long… How long had the child near her had to live in this city with such a cruel reminder?

The voice of that person eventually reached her, and with a solemn expression it was evident that no words were necessary. Just like before, they were trapped, they were bound to another and to the heaping pile of gold and bombs in the warehouse.

A step forward, an attempt to leave the door and wall she was using to stand upright; a ragged breath in a shaky attempt at speaking. But what could she say, what could she do?

Even if she had more of her magic at her disposal, what amount of magic could free them not just from this room, but the feelings of what it held? A witch brought a hand up to her face, shaking, as a name finally left her mouth.

“Sayo.”

One name--two sounds, four letters--it was hardly even that unusual. In Beatrice’s voice, it hovered in the air like a magic spell, hit that person squarely in the face like a curse. Kanon fell away. The empty vessel filled and overflowed.

Sayo. Sayo, Sayo.

Sayo was drawn up, out of nothing, into something, breaking into the air with a gasp. Sayo’s eyes filled, Sayo’s lungs heaved. No one became someone, and that someone--that Sayo--felt so much, everything, all at once...

She--he--turned suddenly, hands to her chest, glancing desperately around the room. “I’ve never been in here, you know?” What an awfully high voice, trembling, uncertain. “I knew it was here but I didn’t--I didn’t want to look at it, Beato, I wanted to pretend like maybe--like I was just some ordinary person with ordinary problems--”

It echoed. Sayo, Sayo. 

“How long can I run away from this, Beato? It’s all going to catch up to me eventually, right? I’ve made... enemies, I’ve made friends... I don’t know. People would kill over something like this, right? To have this? I can’t just... leave it here...”

“...I can’t keep doing this, Beato... I don’t know how I’m supposed to...”

Sayo’s chest shuddered. Sayo’s back curled. That person bent near double, shaking, face twisted... Gold, right? Riches, right? Who wouldn’t kill for that? Who wouldn’t be thrilled...? The shape of it lingered on the backs of Sayo’s eyelids. Shuddered, curled.

Why here, why now? Maybe here, now, was the only place for it. Maybe.

[ikeatrice-blog]

ladybeato

She merely nodded, far more intent on focusing her attention on the door. Just what was behind it, just what was so heinous that it had to be hidden away in a ware house…?

Perhaps, it should have been obvious to her, yet in the destruction and confines of this city, she simply could not fathom that what lay beyond Kanon was the very tools she had grown so familiar with a life time ago. Maybe she just didn’t want to think that that could be in this city, and that the one who had called her here had to live with the burden of it once more. Yes, that would be easier, to simply not think about such a possibility.

To even consider that her ten tons of gold, that that and other weapons of bloodshed, were in this city, in this ware house before her, was not something that she wanted to accept.

Still, despite Kanon’s words, she took another step forward, and was about to reply to him when a more grievous sound took hold of the situation. A building near by, damaged in the earth quake, had finally begun to give way – only a few yards from the two of them did remnants of it begin to fall upon and shatter on the street below.

Shock and terror resonated within her first, and then concern for the other person with her at risk. She called out to them, her palms soon reaching the door Kanon had just entered in; following him was easy, ensuring their – his – safety was the hard part. Certainly, her rush and the sound of falling debris would scare the other, but if they could be safe inside the ware house, then –

… Then, what?

With her back against the door frame, even the sound of whatever was past the door could not reach her now, as she stared at what Kanon didn’t want to show her, what that child had known better than to tell her about. Really, she should have known better, too.

The lights went on by themselves--not magic, just technology. One by one, they blinked and shuddered, reaching deeper, expanding endlessly the truths before him. Kanon’s nose stung, cheeks itched, eyes swelled. The pit of his stomach fell through the floor...

There had been mirrors last time. They sparkled and shined, and showed everything. They had been shattered. There were no mirrors now.

The artificial glare glinted off the gold so brightly as to almost blind him.

It was no big deal, it was fine--a simple matter of counting and categorizing and making sure everything was just as he remembered--it brought bile to that person’s throat just to think about it. Someone had to bring the body stepping further inside, keep it from keeling over, keep it from wailing and falling and, and--

There was a sound--Kanon hardly heard it. Splintering, breaking. It echoed the sounds in his head. He turned, face slack. Eyes empty, he saw her. 

“Beato,” said a small voice above the crash. “The door... is it...”

Yes--the noise had been much too close. Something had fallen on that door, something had shut it, something had barricaded them both in this shimmering death trap, right? Had he dared expect anything else? Nothing good could come of this cursed gold. Nothing good could come of these bombs.

[ikeatrice-blog]

ladybeato

The words Kanon spoke initially set her at ease – he was fine, that child was fine. Knowing that, so many of her worries were set aside; yet, given the setting, more bubbled up to the surface. What all was going on in the city? What dangers were yet to come? And… Just what was in this warehouse? Never had it come up before, and she couldn’t think of what would be worth so much concern over.

Of course, she shouldn’t be surprised that there were things of their stay that she did not know; how many things had not been shared?

“Ah, yes… This city is quite…. Unpredictable,” whatever else could they describe it as? It was a mind field, just waiting for something to set off the destruction. This time, it seemed, that it had taken such an analogy far too literally.

She hesitated before responding, unsure of how to do so; she wanted to know what was inside, but… Kanon did not. What was being hidden from her? She took a step forward as she spoke up once more.

“Are you quite sure? I mean, the earth quake could have caused some damage inside… My magic is still weak, yet if it could be of any assistance…” She trailed off, eyes still focused on the door that was waiting to be opened. Assistance, that was why she had been called out in the first place, right?

– Right?

“Yes. Of course. But it always seems to bounce back afterwards,” and he paused, looking up: the wall the wall the wall the roof. This whole building, just for that? Was it really necessary? It cast a long shadow, covering Kanon, covering even Beatrice. All that gold. Was it really necessary?

He glanced at her, and wondered if she understood.

“It’s alright, Beato. I just want to make sure that everything is safe. I don’t think there’s any danger. I don’t... want to be here any longer than I have to.”

But he bit his lip, and his hands shook. He swallowed, played with the keys, brushed the hair out of his face, wondered what it looked like inside. If this was the wrong choice. 

Kanon cracked the door open and glanced inside--too dark to really see. Kanon glanced back at Beatrice. 

“It’s alright,” he repeated.

......He opened the door further, and stepped inside. He moved to close it behind himself. It would only be a minute. Just to check that everything was there. Yes. And then they could be gone. 

It never worked out like that, though. Never ever.

[ikeatrice-blog]

ladybeato

With the earthquake fresh in her mind, the witch quickly ensured that all she knew was safe – there was only one who did not possess a cell phone, and therefore she could not assure his safety. The anxiety of such weighed on her mind, but was quickly replaced by a request. The address was not familiar, but she could merely teleport to an area near it, and make a brisk walk. It was as simple as that for the witch.

Of course, she didn’t even consider the dangerous notions of walking among the destruction – all that mattered was that that child had asked for her assistance, and for that she would venture out without any hesitation. A request from that person, and she would do anything.

As presumed, she did arrive quicker than the other, in casual clothing far less glamerous than her title; fashion was not on her mind. As she waited, Beatrice was perplexed at such a place; a warehouse that she’d never seen nor heard of. Whatever could be inside of it that was worth worrying over in the wake of such terrible destruction?

(She should have known better.)

The inevitable approach of the other snapped her attention away, and she looked momentarily surprised at the one in front of her.

“ – Kanon,” she paused, realizing how off guard her voice must have sounded. Rude, cruel witch! 

“I’m, ah, glad to see you – to see that you’re safe,” Who? Kanon? Get it together, Beatrice. “What is here that you needed me for? … Everything is alright, yes?”

Of course she was there when he walked up. His step almost faltered--keep it together, Kanon, this is more important than that--but. Obviously, the warehouse was the most important thing. And obviously, it was still intact.

...Still--he didn’t check its security very closely--someone might have broken in. Someone might have stolen from it. Even a little bit would have been potent. He still had to check.

“Good afternoon, Beato.” He pulled the keys from his coat pocket, sifting through them. The big, gold-looking one. Of course. “I’m glad that you’re safe, too. The circumstances aren’t exactly... well, as much as I wish they were, they’re not unusual.” Easy enough--the key fit perfectly--he realized he had never actually seen inside before. He turned it. He paused.

“I’m sure it’s alright. Yes. I just need to check on this. It won’t take long. Can you wait here for me...? And then I’d like to go somewhere safer, and... just, talk.”

You, Kanon, asking favors of a witch? Ludicrous. But.

...but maybe it wasn’t.

[ikeatrice-blog]

my semi hiatus ran out and i’m still way behind on my drafts... i’m not going to make this an rp ad but please feel free to ask if you want a thread, im down for pretty much whatever!! you can contact me here or on twitter 

[ikeatrice-blog]

Kanon felt the earthquake long before the idea struck him. It must just be an earthquake, right? Things like that happened here all the time. Things crumbled, things fell, things blew up.

Things, like, an island’s worth of potent explosives?

Kanon realized maybe he should check. Maybe he should take responsibility. The city was a mess--again--(your fault? maybe?)--so if he did check, he shouldn’t go alone. Maybe he should check that the others were okay, too.

He grabbed the key, typed in the address--‘Please meet me here. I have to check on something’--sent. Pulled on his coat. Left.

She’d probably get there faster than he would, anyway.

     @ladybeato

[ikeatrice-blog]

mediumofthestars

✯ More like where the Narrator pulled that name from. It was just one of those random ideas that came to me while thinking how to call an Ace Attorney OC. The art is making it punny while still being a plausible name in real life. A fine balance that you obtain after RPing in this fandom for a while.

✯ “It sure is! There’s this park called People Park near the office, I always go there when I want to relax after a hard day of assistant work.” Sure, Maya doesn’t actually live at the office, but considering that she spends most of the day there, she might as well do so.

✯ Don’t worry, Sayo (or should I say Potty), you’re doing a great job at being convincing so far. Don’t bother your head with Maya-style reasonings for what’s going on, that’s an art only the masters can use with safety.

✯ “Ahhhh, nothing too big, really. Let’s talk more about it once we get there.” Maya can’t make it too obvious she wants to obtain ‘Potty’’s testimony regarding this case, otherwise the other will surely become defensive or lie to her. As long as they keep this surprisingly friendly mood between them, things should be alright at that regard.

✯ Trust me, that’s of vital importance. An encyclopedic knowledge of tea brands and constant metaphors using them is Potty O’Teall’s character gimmick, so it was a good call of you to invoke it, Sayo. “Ummmm, I don’t have any preference, to be honest. As long as it isn’t so bitter my tongue will fall off, I’m okay with any tea.”

“Oh, perfect... Is that anything much like this park?” In front of them, a tremendous puddle raised, drop by drop, into the sky--slowly, at first, and then faster. The two of them paused to wait for it. “Well, not like this, obviously--but the other things, like benches and a lake and some woods...”

Nothing big. She wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Clearly Maya had something in mind, and more than likely it was something this aging teenager didn’t know anything about, but--wasn’t it worth a try? To get her out of the weather. To help her, just a little.

“Really? You don’t have a favorite, or anything? I like black tea, personally. Like Earl Grey--did you know it’s made with bergamot? The citrus taste is excellent with milk. I’m not sure where it comes from, exactly... have you ever done any traveling, Miss Maya...? It’s somewhere far away, I think, like Taiwan. My grandfather was from Taiwan,” and she keeps going, on and on, with whatever she can think of. 

It takes longer than that person expected, but maybe that’s just because they keep running out of topics--and then, there they are, the apartment building rising in front of them out of the fog. “Here, here. Come in. We’ll take the elevator,” they say, rushing inside. Did they remember to clean up? It’s too late now. 

[ikeatrice-blog]

ladybeato

It was hard, difficult, and she couldn’t understand why. Just talk, speak – wasn’t she so good at expressing herself, at talking in a booming, grand voice? Where was that voice now, the voice of Beatrice? Clutching her chest, she was not even sure that she was Beatrice anymore.

Somewhere in that body, one that could have belonged to her so long ago, there was an ache. She felt it, dull and soft as it was in that moment; it would grow, it would hinder her. At one point, the same ache had consumed someone, and made them think to commit acts worthy of a cruel witch. That someone, as far as she knew, had done those things, those atrocities, and that was how it was supposed to happen.

So, then, why were the two of them looking at each other in this small space? She, whoever she was, Beatrice or no, was struggling to recall. Why was Sayo Yasuda alive, here facing her like this, looking different? Was this a good thing, to be alive, could they find reason, purpose, happiness in it?

Even with a body such as theirs’, was happiness something attainable?

She didn’t know, she couldn’t tell. Yet she follows, still staring, still thinking, still listening.

“I… Am I the same? You, you and I… is this okay…?” The words more so tumbled out, rather than her having spoke them.

Was it fine for them to live, to exist? “I don’t know what it is I desire either…” Anything, really, anything? For if they could not die, then what was left for them?

“What – what can we do? You and I, like this, what… What are our options? To live, to be happy, I…”

It was then, by chance of her looking to the left, where the microwave stood, did she see her reflection, and that she was crying. Oh, when had that started?

“...Beato?”

It’s all they can do, for a second, just to stare at her. Stare, and stare, and wonder--what kind of person was she? Who? From when? She was so beautiful it hurt. Shimmering, sparkling, like stardust, like moonlight. They looked at her and she seemed so-- so far away.

Shivering. Like a ghost. Impossible. 

She was crying. That person blurred, all warm and wet and rocks in their throat. Why was she crying? They were crying, too, suddenly. That person with their silver hair swallowed and choked and turned away, not even quite sure why. The teakettle settled down on the stove. The gas heat flickered on.

“...We don’t have much choice, do we? Just living, without any desires... I don’t know if that’s any kind of life. But I-- I mean-- this body... I must have learned to live in it at some point, because,” they turn away (she turns away), touching the chest, touching the hair. “Because what else am I supposed to do? Because it’s not the same--not really--and I, I just...”

What a mess. Stop talking. Stop talking. Give her a chance.

They almost want to reach out and touch her--just to make sure that she’s here, that she’s real--but it all seems like too much. What if she is here? What if she is real? What does that make you?

“I don’t know how to do this, Beato,” that person says. “But I don’t know what else I can do.”

[ikeatrice-blog]

valhallaswell

The outburst of someone other than herself, the mere notion that anyone would stand up for (or, much less, stand up for the worker she’d so rudely yelled at), was almost as infuriating as being handed the wrong order. What did they thinking they were doing, meddling in business that didn’t affect them?

Of course, her own yelling had bothered everyone in the place, so it was logically everyone’s business; but, the pilot didn’t think of it that way. It was just another insult, another annoyance.

Even if the other person, who too was yelling, who too was upset, happened to be some fancy looking woman, in a fancy looking dress. No, that only served to anger Anemone further, now finding a whole new outlet to unleash her initial rage upon.

“Then he should get the crap out of his ears to do it properly!”

“Fine! I’m not paying for it!” she made a point to glare at the blonde, rather than the poor boy who’s shift she’d probably ruined, and the red mess that was on the floor because of her.

To her, if they couldn’t get the order right, they were in the wrong regardless of her own reactions. The same could be said for the woman before her. They were wrong, she was right. Any words otherwise would probably fall short, even if she got a replacement order that was actually what she wanted.

– And she was not leaving that place without the cake she’d ordered.

So it was her fault, now? Well, of course--that’s just how these things work--she was sticking up for this poor soul, which meant they had both conspired together. Beatrice shivered. She could feel eyes, staring at them, peeling away every glamour she’d so carefully constructed--or reinforcing it--she planted both heels on the ground and glared.

“People make mistakes all the time, you know--you have no right to scream at him. You’re not any more important than the rest of us waiting here... He clearly didn’t hear you the first time, so--tell him again.”

Everyone’s waiting, pinkhead.

The girl in the wig was furious, absolutely. Furious and uncomfortable and absolutely willing to stand her ground, or someone else’s ground, against these raging forces of immaturity, yet--she shivered and looked away and poked at the red debris with the toe of her boot. 

The thing about seeing, was being seen--and the thing about being seen was being known--there was pounding in her ears, like the cake smashing over and over. Ridiculous. 

“I’ll pay for it,” she repeated, “if you’ll clean up your mess.”

[ikeatrice-blog]

whyamisweaty

    “Hey. Hey. It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.” He pats them on the back, breaks the hug a little bit.

    He doesn’t have much more to say, and he doesn’t know what they’re thinking, not in the slightest. Were they happy? Sad? There was a disparity, from their voice to their face, it didn’t match up and he couldn’t figure it out, but he’d have to say something, right? He always thought himself to be terrible at this, this whole heart-to-heart comforting thing. All he can do is say what he knows, what’s true. Just state the facts, give the advice he can glean from that. 

    “Look, you don’t have to be sorry, not for that. If anything I should be the one apologizing for that weird outburst.” Oh, he remembers that. Awkward teen years and too many hormones for his own good. What a mix. “But… I think if none of that ever happened, we wouldn’t be as close friends as we are. You know that, right?”

    But, he still can’t stay on the topic. It’s too awkward. “Anyway, do you want me to make coffee or something?”

“Mm. Mhm. Sorry. I, um.”

It’s ridiculous, right? Her shoulders shake, her chest shudders open and closed and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so they end up grasping and holding and touching each other, and it all feels very unnatural and strange. Come on. He’s just a kid. (Sort of. Sort of just a kid.) You can’t go throwing all the weight of your shoulders onto his...

That person looks around awkwardly for tissues--there, on the table--blows their nose, wipes their eyes. They can’t quite look at him. They glance shyly up and down, feeling like a child.

“Okay. If you say so. Maybe you’re right. I, just--” that person sits, folds her hands in her lap. “--don’t want it hanging between us, still--uh-huh. I think I just... feel bad. I don’t know. I’ve done a lot of things wrong. But, but... I’d like to be able to get there, someday. Like you said. Be happy.”

Her throat hurts, her nose hurts, the bones around her eyes hurt. She nods, a bit too fast. “Uh-huh. Coffee. Thank you. I think that would be nice.”

[mediumofthestars]

✯@Ikeatrice, @Notthatspiky: A Bittersweet Turnabout

[ikeatrice-blog]

mediumofthestars

✯ Ohhhh, Beatrice seems happy! This is only confirming Maya’s suspicions, hehehe. After all, all this chat about ‘planting the seeds of love’ or whatever kinda sounds like what she did with this wonderful chocolate box, right? Maya’s initial nervousness was quickly turning into a fit of giggles.

✯ She’d waste no time in replying to the witch. Time for some Valentine goodness!

✯ [FROM]: Maya Fey ✯ [TO]: Beatrice the Golden

✯ [Text]: ahahahahaha, yeah, luv is a delicios fruit!! ✯ [Text]: Well, I got ths choclatr box tday nd i was wonderng if… ✯ [Text]: did ya send it to-

✯ Before Maya could hit send at the last part, a message from someone else arrived. Who could be interrupting her first attempt at getting a Valentine with someo- Nick?!

✯ [FROM]: Maya Fey ✯ [TO]: Nick

✯ [Text]: Nic what th hellllllllllll?????? ✯ [Text]: How do u kno I got chcolates? ✯ [Text]: And how cold she hav tainted mis Beatrices choclates???? ✯ [Text]: Mis Batriced have turnd her in a frog!!!!

@ikeatrice @notthatspiky

If, if, if? If what? Chocolates?

There’s no mistaking it--Beatrice, the Golden Witch, is being asked on a date. A, a Valentine’s Day date. By a girl. A psychic. That witch who spent a thousand years crawling through hell--has she really climbed out the other side? Are things that simple? That she would be asked on a date, just like this?

Her head was spinning, her face was red. She put her phone on the table and stood up and paced in tiny, agitated circles. It was all wrong, all wrong! She wasn’t even in costume. Her hair fell darkly over her eyes when she leaned forward. 

TO: Maya Fey FROM: Beatrice the Golden MESSAGE: 1 /2 If?

What? Huh? What’s your answer? Don’t you understand, Beatrice, you’re digging yourself a hole you won’t be able to climb out of?

2 /2 What are you trying to say? My powers do not include mind-reading, I’m afraid.

Powers--please--aren’t you tired of this? This, lying? This, someone you’re not? Being loved, being hated--what’s the difference? It’s all so false, so far away. 

But-- that’s not quite true. 

@notthatspiky

[mediumofthestars]

✯@Ikeatrice, @Notthatspiky: A Bittersweet Turnabout

[ikeatrice-blog]

mediumofthestars

✯ (Continuation of this)

✯ [Text] OMG THESE CHCOLATES ARE SO PRTTY MISS BEATRICHE!!!!111111

✯ [Deleted]

✯ [Text] Thks for the Valntines <3<3<3!!! We shuld eat thse togethr ;)

✯ [Deleted]

✯ Maya was having some difficulty with coming with the best way of thanking Beatrice for the chocolate box she’d gotten earlier. Of course, it wasn’t actually the ‘witch’ who sent it to her, but that’s what Maya wanted to believe. Her Golden Truth, if I can call it that.

✯ She thought that, after her blushing incident at the Mystery Shack, that she’d lost all her chances with the blonde, but it seems like she was wrong! Ahhhh, Maya is feeling so happy right now~. And nervous. Terribly, excruciatingly nervous. Her hands shouldn’t be shaking this much just for trying to type something good.

✯ At last, she decided on what to send.

✯ [FROM]: Maya Fey ✯ [TO]: Beatrice the Golden

✯ [Text] So errr… happ Vday, Miss Batrice!!!! ✯ [Text] Hw are u doin tday?

✯ Good thing you don’t need to stutter while typing.

✯ While Maya is doing this, the cursed chocolate box is right there at her side, sitting at the sofa of the apartment she shares with Phoenix. She hasn’t eaten any of the treats yet because she wants to be sure she’s right about who sent them first. Hopefully, Phoenix won’t take too long to arrive after his own chocolate incident…

@ikeatrice > @notthatspiky

Had it really, really, really been a year? 365 days. One sixth of a millennium, a half of a third of a thousand. Really, really, really, and the days had crawled and dragged and ached and now she was here. Here, at home, alone--still alone, always alone--making up some silly lie. Not even in costume.

Her phone buzzed.

Today? Of all days? The hand that reached over was slow. She hesitated. Good, bad? No--maybe it was just a coincidence.

It wasn’t.

Beatrice remembered what happened last time, and something in her lungs swelled, shook--good, bad? Just some childish crush. On you. On everything you’re not.

The girl turned away from her dark-haired shadow and thought.

TO: Maya Fey FROM: Beatrice the Golden MESSAGE: 1 /4 Oh, very well, very well! Did you know that love is the root of all magic, Miss Maya?

Her hands shook.

2 /4 The building block that makes up a universe... there are so many happy couples for a witch like myself to prey upon, you know? ☆ 3 /4 You simply plant the seed, and wait for it to grow... but, you must tend the flower, if you truly expect it to bear fruit. 4 /4 Tell me--why do you ask?

You know why. Yet you still ask. Hope? Anticipation? The flutter of being loved--even furniture like you, even for everything you’ll never be--it’s too warm to ignore, isn’t it? 

Surely you must have learned your lesson. Surely you’re still grieving. 

If Maya was serious, if she did anything, asked anything, Beatrice had no plan. What could she possibly do? She thought of it--going out, dressing up, holding hands--and felt sick. Sick with what? Longing, fear? Remembrance?

She hit send.

@notthatspiky

[mediumofthestars]

✯@Ikeatrice: Trick or Turnabout

[ikeatrice-blog]

mediumofthestars

✯ “Actually, I wouldn’t have a problem working as at a restaurant or a store, to be honest. Might not look so for us, but working as a waitress demands a lot of skill and cuteness! I’d know about it. I had to work as a waitress at a restaurant once, during a case.” If only Très Bien was a place one could be proud for working at… “I still have a picture of me at that uniform in my cellphone, wanna see it?”

✯ “That reminds me… For some reason, the scientists have given me one of those uniforms among my initial clothes, but I never got to use it. If you want, I could bring it to work so you can prove it and I can take a photo of it! I bet you’d look super adorab- er, I mean, cool. Yeah, totally cool.”

✯ Poop, another slip up! This’ll end with the two of them getting too embarrassed to even look at each other, at this rate. Look, Beatrice’s face is already getting pink. Maya’s must already be as red as that red part of the witch’s dress- No, she doesn’t want to stare at Beato’s breasts!

✯ Welp, Maya’s reached critical gay levels. All she manages to do is to spit a disconnected excuse to Beatrice before running away to see if there’s any dignity left on her to be saved. Sheesh, she doesn’t get why she’s this bothered. She calls Haruka and Mabel cute all the time but doesn’t get nearly as nervous. Why is it just with the witch that her heart beats faster like this…?

Skill and cuteness? No, no, that was someone else’s job. Maya could, if she wanted--Beatrice, never. She’s halfway to making a decision about the cellphone, and the picture, and the uniform, it’s all so distracting, until she can hardly think in a straight line, hardly figure out what she’s supposed to be doing and how she’s supposed to be reacting and, and--

No. She won’t wear a uniform--that’s not the witch’s job--she won’t degrade herself like that, nor take any risks she doesn’t have to, but before she can say anything, Maya is gone.

She’s red in the face and flushed and flustered and then she’s gone, and Beatrice feels her head swoon and swell.

Why? How did she work herself into this state? She’s imagining something, casting some magic of her own, and in it, Beatrice is a witch--or she’s human--Maya is falling for her trap, seeing things that aren’t there, and it makes the woman in gold feel sick. She closes the door, curls over the desk. The book sits there, desolate. Sick sick sick, furniture furniture furniture--

But there’s something else--there’s always been something else--that’s why she’s doomed. It reaches through the bars of her ribcage, warm, soft, threatening to strangle her. Something sweet. No, no, please no. To love? To be loved? You aren’t thinking. Don’t be ridiculous. Have a little sense.

Forget her. 

She curls over the desk. She peels back, straightens her spine like a rod. She gets back to work. 

[ikeatrice-blog]

bubonem

Eto was beaming.

Is that it? A challenge? The way she said it so caused a tremor of delight in the author, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away now; no, this girl was far too interesting, far too fascinating! 

Just like a book too captivating to put down.

“You tried, right? Just the attempt means wonders, it means you were smart enough to realize you were being challenged!” Words meant as sympathetic, but would the other believe it? “Challenges are meant to be failed at, in one way or another; but you’re right… We shouldn’t, as loyal readers, we have a duty.”

A duty to think critically; to learn; to tackle any challenge.

– Lonely? Oh, a girl after Eto’s own shriveled up heart. Takatsuki Sen resisted the urge to reach out and hold the other’s hands in enthusiasm, but she refrained. The other girl looked that she may just disperse if she did, if she touched her. That only made the author want to do it more. A real challenge.

“You’re the type with her bar set high,” One step, one inch closer. “I’m the same way. No hints, no clues; if they’re dedicated enough, it should be obvious. It’s their fault if they’re not looking hard enough.”

Her eyes... something about them, ...crawled into that girl’s spine, and shivered; chills--thrills--something that fizzed and popped and threatened to burst.

What? There were layers she couldn’t quite read. What? Something was strange.

“Meant to be, failed? By whom...? What’s the point of proposing a challenge if you aren’t hoping for success?” Shannon was peeling, falling in flakes of gold to the sidewalk, leaving behind--what? Or--who? “But that means knowing your audience, too... and she couldn’t have expected children like me to try. Or to succeed. And you?”

It came out sharp--a drifting scale of armor, weaponized to protect herself--as if she could tear something out of the other. But isn’t that pathetic? What do you really hope to accomplish?

“Maybe,” she agreed. Too close. Hollow, fragile. “You must be quite the reader... or, are you a writer yourself? Surely, you must have recommendations for someone like me?”

Why Shannon, such edges in your voice. Isn’t that inappropriate? You’re having a civil conversation, that’s all--bonding over literature--that’s all--so why feel so threatened? Why act like she’s doing her best to get under your skin? Never mind that she is--there’s no proof of that. You’re just two people. Strangers. That’s all.

[ikeatrice-blog]

8bithope

She hadn’t been paying attention to the time recently. Through the amount of sleep she wound up getting, to the strange events regarding time itself in the city the passage of time was fuzzy for her. But it had felt like years since she’d spoken to Shannon, let alone gotten to see her.

A smile had grown on her face as soon as the plans were set.

Making sure to leave plenty early so she didn’t miss the other, Nanami found herself not to be the first there. Shannon was already waiting, waving at her with a smile. One was mirrored on her own face as she approached, giving a small wave.

“Hello Shannon-san…. I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”

“I’ve been fine, sleeping a lot…. How have you been? Ah, and Kanon-kun as well…I haven’t spoken to either of you in a long time.”

She waved, she smiled! Shannon’s own smile, flushed, grew bigger, and then, embarrassed, tried to withdraw. Her cheeks were tight, her face was warm. 

It was nice.

“N, no, not long at all! I came early, that’s all. You know, the buses, and... and, um, and I was looking forward to seeing you.”

Looking forward... yes, she had been. It had been a long time, hadn’t it? A strange time. And now that they were here, she wasn’t sure what to say.

“Well, I hope you had nice dreams, then, and got some rest...! You must have a lot of energy, from all that sleeping! I... Kanon-kun and I have been alright. We’ve had some very odd experiences! You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Please, Shannon--in this city, nothing is unbelievable. 

[graymortality-blog-deactivated2]

Whose Is That Face In The Mask

[ikeatrice-blog]

graymortality

“…”

Loneliness. Despair. Suffering. Familiar feelings, those emotions that drove her onward; Czernobog could feel them. Though her ability was lessened by a considerable amount since waking up, she was able to sense enough to know someone had hurt the way she had.

What point was there in making allies here, though? She had no goal. No motive, no plan to end anything. Yet, it wasn’t in her nature to let these things slip through her fingers.

“Madame. You and I have something to discuss.”

“Huh?”

It fell like a gasp from her lips as she turned, took in the sight of the one before her--Shannon, you’re Shannon, remember! Be scared! After all, there’s no way of knowing what this person wants, or what they might do to you...!

“Wha... what do you mean? I don’t know you--” Or did she? Hard to tell, with that mask on. “--I don’t know what business we could possibly have... If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be--”

Work--yes, work--she needed to pick up her check, so she had to go, now. Couldn’t stay to find out who this person was, nor what they wanted. Not now.

[ikeatrice-blog]

valhallaswell

@ikeatrice

– It was simple, really, anyone should be able to get it. A medium sized chocolate ice-cream cake with buttercream frosting, chocolate shavings, and chocolate dipped strawberries on top; it was easy to understand, and she’d made herself very clear! A treat decadent enough only for herself, with the meager cash she’d somehow strapped together just for this.

So, one could only imagine her anger when she was presented with a completely wrong order; a regular cake, with no strawberries or shavings, and bright red frosting. The toppings, or lack thereof, was one thing, but the red was a slap in the face – her least favorite color, it sickened her.

Whether it was out of rage, or perhaps a knee-jerk reaction to seeing the color red, Anemone smacked the box of cake out of the server’s hands, causing splattered mess that got on at least a few other patrons of this poor bakery.

“This isn’t what I ordered!”

In her shrieking directed solely at the now alarmed staff, Anemone only barely heard the complaints of other customers she was disturbing; until, she snapped her head around at the first one she saw.

“– WHAT?!”

It wasn’t Beatrice’s job. Sure, she listened to the exchange, sipping her tea nonchalantly, like watching, in slow motion, the start of a catastrophic train crash. The employee was inattentive and overwhelmed, that was for sure. (She hadn’t asked for chamomile, she had asked for earl grey, and the fact that she sat here sipping miserably instead of sending it back was only evidence that she was too pathetic to dare.) But this girl was so intent, and so aggressive, that surely, surely even that employee couldn’t mess her order up. 

But he did, though.

What excuse was there? An honest mistake, maybe, if only she hadn’t been so careful with her order, if only he had written it down correctly, or the baker hiding in the back had baked it correctly, or the person stacking boxes had labeled it correctly, or--no, something in the works had gone truly wrong, and this girl’s indignation must have been justified! But...!

--But the way that beautiful cake, the product of someone’s hard, earnest work, was crushed, crumpled, smashed, splattered... the way the boy behind the counter flinched and stared. Her shouts, her screams. Beatrice could feel the way his hands shook.

She stood without meaning, spoke without thinking--

“Stop it! Be quiet, ...look what you’ve done...!”

It was his fault, the boy behind the counter (or, someone else he’d spoken to, whose work he had approved), but this? The witch felt steel in her chest, and scowled. “Have a little respect--he’s just trying to do his job--! I’ll pay for a new one, if it’s such a big deal!”