woah super useful blog! This helped me out big time! Do you have any zombie apocalypse prompts? Still a beginner so looking for something easy that can spark my writing! I love this blog thanksâ€ïž
Hey! Always happy to help write some classic prompts:
Characters A & B live an incredibly solitary life; itâs not like they did it on purpose, but the type of work they do means they spend way too much time indoors. You can imagine their surprise when their house loses power, and they open their curtains in an attempt to see the obstruction, only to be met with a zombie horde. But that doesnât make any sense...I mean, THEY were the ones hired by the government to invent the upcoming zombie infection in secret (for the purpose of population control), so how the hell has it seemed to have already spread?
Itâs not like Character A ASKED to be a delivery driver in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, but goddamn if they werenât brilliant at it. Maybe it was their time as a pizza delivery driver in college or their many years as an NYC taxi driver, but this whole movement of essential personnel and supplies through obstacle-ridden streets...it was like they were made for this life. Or maybe, this life was made for them?
If you ask someone what they would choose to do when they found out the world would end, some people would choose to âsay goodbye to loved ones,â âtie up loose ends,â or maybe âscrew their S.O.âs brains outâ -- very few people would choose to do this -- at least thatâs what Character A thought to themselves as they wrote their account of the past 90 days of the apocalypse by hand in their own blood and attempted to find a way to preserve the knowledge they had gained.
The Zombie infection isnât instant. It never has been. Most people watch popular media and assume that itâs something you encounter after a vicious bite, incubating for several hours, before finally transforming their victim. What would you say if I told you that the virus is already in all of us? What would you do differently if you found out that it wasnât the bite that gave you the virus, but the trauma caused by the bite that triggered it? What would you do if you knew that depending on your pain tolerance, you could become a zombie after the slightest bruise, or even a papercut? What if the trauma doesnât have to be physical...what if you could become something else after suffering from a broken heart?
Itâs been almost 200 years since the zombie apocalypse began. Survivors created safe zones, barricading themselves against the hordes and simply trying to live their lives. They were successful for centuries, but then...there was a knock at their front door. (TL;DR The surviving zombies on the other side of the wall were cured after generations of breeding out the susceptible genes, and now, they view the ZA survivors as the enemy within their barricaded zones.)
Itâs the simple stuff that makes life good; the laughter, the sweet tea, the short stories that bring about smiles -- for Character A, thatâs the meaning of life, but for Character B...well...it spells out âprofit.â With Character Bâs shrewd mind for business and Character Aâs love to make life meaningful, they band together to make a temporary safe haven during the apocalypse, a trading post of sorts that would allow individuals to offer exchanges of essentials for non-essentials, like spices, books, honey -- things that (while not necessary) make for comfortable living. They are wildly successful, but of course, there are some bumps along the road.
That's what they ask, isn't it? Right before they tell you exactly what happened, and why it did, and how much you hecked up some simple thing in your life. You know what I'm talking about.
The Intervention.
Sometimes it comes from friends, family members, or maybe colleagues, if they really care about you. But what about when you don't have any of those things? I mean, I'm not sulking, or anything. But I don't. I used to think I did, but not anymore. And I already know what happened. The problem wasn't that; it was much worse.Â
I couldnât save myself, and I couldnât even try to save them.
Not Star, not Olivyyr, not Crit, not Dusty, not Jav, and certainly not Zig. He probably would've wanted to save himself anyway. For all I know, they're all locked up in cells here, too. Knowing that makes the whole incarceration thing much, much worse.
Yeah, that's right. I'm locked up, but not by the police, because there are none. Not here. Not just by the Forcers, either, which is a surprise to me. You know them, right? You probably do, even if you don't think so. You pass them by every day, whether you know it or not.
They're all tall, though why that is, I'm not sure. If you see one, he (or she) will be wearing shades. The dark, sporty ones that make you think of spies, and the secret agents that wear suits and have earpieces.
But the Forcers don't always wear suits. No, their hallmark is red and black. Sometimes it's just a red t-shirt, black cargos, and one of those red armbands that has the Forcer insignia on it - the circle with the black 'X' inside. But if you aren't paying attention, you wouldn't know them from just a regular guy or girl with a thing for red and black.
I'll let you in on a secret - the key? It's the eyes. Most people - but not everyone, these days - have regular colored eyes: brown, blue, green, hazel. But the Forcers? Their eyes? Red. Crimson. Glowing, but not all the time. Only when they chase someone, or their blood's up for the hunt.
Oh, the hunt. I forget not everyone is born with this knowledge. Guess I'm just special.
The Forcers are trained, bred, for their jobs. Sometimes a really nasty crim, or a thorn in the Governance's side will trade their years and years of jail time (or worse) in exchange for being converted into a Forcer. Sure, some folk don't think that's a bad thing. I mean, a Governant job with loads of pay, and an Ident that lets you in just about any building in the Nation? Yeah, I can't say it's not tempting to just stop at any 5-star hotel in the Eastern Sweep and say I'm on Governant business.
But that's only a perk. No one mentions the down side of being a Forcer: you're under someone else's control all the time. Some theorize that they're chipped, so they can't not do whatever they're being ordered to do. But others think the Forcers just love the violence so much, they can't help it. They love the animalistic parts of their job far too much. They chase the teenage criminals - or crims - in the slums of Creaster, in the Fringe, below it - or sometimes in the city itself. What they do after they catch their quarry?
Well, no one's left alive to see it. So, see? I'm trying to look out for you. Of course, it doesn't really make sense to take advice from someone sitting pretty in a dank underground lab, does it?
Yep. Not only locked up, I'm also stuck in one of the old labs from the Survival Acts. They were supposed to close all these up - to bomb them out, so nothing was left but dirt and rubble in its place. The acts committed here? All in the name of survival? It disgusts even me - and I've stolen candy from babies.
I heard the labcoats talking about an old experiment once. I still don't know whether they were actually debating what happened, or they just decided to see how many trapped kids they could freak out.
Here's how it went. Years ago, a girl was stolen. There wasn't any particular reason; the head honcho just wanted to see if they could without causing a ruckus. Kids got stolen almost every day, right? So why not just try to do it for science's sake?
She was only fourteen. Just a few years younger than me. They took her and put her in a genetics program to see if they could make her something else, something she shouldn't be. Their goal? Make her fast. Not fast for a human, but faster than the eye could see. They didn't care if they hurt her. Ends justify the means, right?
They spliced her genes, cut 'em up, and blended them with animal tissue. I don't understand how that works, scientifically, but they didn't consult me, so what do I know? So years of "scientific experimentation" went by. They wanted their girl to be faster than anything, so they made a serum of the fastest animals they could.
The labcoats who were talking didn't know the exact recipe used years ago, so they speculated: Cheetah, probably. Pronghorn antelope? Sure, why not. A little bit of ostrich, a hint of hummingbird, and peregrine falcon. After serving her the genetic cocktail, changes started.
The speed they wanted wasn't the first to crop up in her genetic mutation. First, it was the horns. They grew out of her forehead, right up through her hair like a deer's. The labcoats said they read she'd been in excruciating pain for weeks, that she almost went out of her mind with it. I didn't understand how that could even happen. The labcoats must have been exaggerating, but they seemed to take it seriously.
They wove a story threaded with explicit detail: the process involved of dehorning a teenage girl, disposing of a body with gaping mortal antler wounds without leading 'Normals' to speculate, and exactly how much blood there was when she slipped during one of her treadmill tests and gored one of that time-period's Forcers. How they had to surgically remove the horns then, because they caused 'complications.' How detached from your humanity did you have to be to label a gory death as a 'complication?' I didn't get it.
I still don't.
Maybe that's why I'm still stuck here. I don't know how long it's been. Weeks, at least. Or is it days? Months? I don't know. I started out trying to keep track of when they fed me, but even that became unreliable. They'd feed me once in what I thought was a 'day' and then four times the next. Or maybe it's me who's unreliable? Trying to twist my mind around what was actually happening was more painful than some of the actual things they did to me.
Maybe I should start at the beginning? Zig always said that helps... I need to get through it. I don't want the same thing to happen to you.
I live in Creaster, the second-biggest city in the Central Sweep of what used to be North America. Some people still call it that, but only the hicks. Now it's the N.U.R., or the New United Republic, if you're feeling patriotic.
It's divided into three 'Sweeps,' which make up thirds of the nation. The state borders from years ago were broken up when the nation dissolved. Now, the Sweeps are essentially entire states of their own. You have the Eastern Sweep, which is from the northeast coast all the way from Old Michigan down to Old Mississippi. The Central Sweep starts there, and spreads west, until it reaches what used to be Colorado and Wyoming. It splits there into the Western Sweep, where all the "wild" things live.
After the nation-wide catastrophe that made our nation tuck its tail between its legs and dissolve, we got some horrendous weather. It started with the acid rain. At first, it was just a light sting, like you might experience on a spa day. Then it began dissolving cardboard. Not too bad, right? Well, it started getting worse and worse until the entire population (who could afford it) went underground to get away from it, and its devastating effects. Combine that with the earthquakes, the plate-shifting, and the erratic weather patterns - I'm talking tornadoes, geysers, hot weather where it's supposed to be cold, that kind of thing - and North America isn't what it used to be.
All you need to know? Creaster is a horrible city, and I don't want to waste time explaining the heinous details to you now. Pretty soon I'm due for tests: running on treadmills, being chased through mazes, electric shock therapy, that kind of thing. Don't want to miss that.
This whole thing started with something I've done for years: I steal things.
I steal them well, and I sell them off to the highest bidder. More often, I get contracted for jobs too difficult for the run-of-the-mill thief. My team had been together for a couple of years, but we acted like we'd known each other all our lives. There was me, of course. I'm small, but all the better for thieving. I've been accused of being angelic in appearance, but I try to keep my good looks bottled away for rainy days. Â Zig thinks I'm just egotistical.
Zig is a pretty important part of the team. He's quiet, but he's fierce. He used to hit people with a metal stick for a living. Now he hits people only sometimes. Usually me. Usually I deserve it.
He came from France right before the war started, leaving behind a cousin and a sister. Whenever I asked about them, he said they could take care of themselves. I'd learned later that Zig's cousin was a Lieutenant in the French Resistance, so he probably could care for himself. I often wondered what Zig had come from in the way of family to be so well-versed in martial skills. Apart from being a tactical mind, and religious in keeping records and information networks, he also had a surprising capacity for being human, when one would least expect it. I didn't use to value that about him, but now I do. Guess it took a few weeks in a cell to do that, but who's counting?
Star doesn't care about any of those things.
Starling Rivera â dark as they come, both in humor and in looks. With dark hair and darker eyes, a crooked smile, and pale skin to make even a porcelain doll jealous, he has the looks and he has the attitude. He stands easily head and shoulders above me, and his wiry frame lends him a coiled appearance, like he's ready to jump on you the moment his ire gets up â which is often. Star was an orphan of the streets who grew up with a penchant for computers and mischief. That, in combination with living in the undercity, made him a prime target for a hacker's life. By the age of 14 he had caught the eye of a "hacktivist" group. Within a year, he was running it. To make a longer story short, he got in trouble with the law.
After meeting all my comrades, things changed. Now I had partners in crime: muscle and a hacker. What could go wrong? Oh, me of little faith. See, none of our stories start - or end - well.
We all were in that trash heap of a city for one reason only: We weren't strong enough to eke out a living where we had been. For me, it was the New Soviets. For Zig, France. Dusty didn't remember; neither did Crit. And some people never said where they came from, or where they were going. People like Olivyyr, who lived by herself for years before admitting she needed help.
But her story isn't mine to tell. None of them are.
So now you know who I am. Who they are. We can move on. But I should tell you where it all began... That's as good a place as any to start, don't you think?
((So hereâs the ACTUAL first part. I lied before, weeks ago. So here. Welcome to my mind. I am trash.))
[[Questy Note: New story. Updating on wattpad. Hereâs chapter one, sans prologue.]]
Breathe.
In, out.
In... Out...
The rain makes it hard to think. Thmp-thmp-thmp in my ears.
Breathe again. C'mon, think.
Flexsteel windows are supposed to withstand acid rain and concussive wind blasts. The glass cutter in my hand might leave a scratch.
What do I do? What do I do?
Crackling comm in my ear tells me Zig is waiting to hear that I've gotten inside the building. Impatiently waiting. Use your brain, zadrota! Breathe!
My left hand digs around in the burglar's bag slung cross-ways over my chest. Where's the blin cutter? Blast it, it was just here--
"What's taking so long?"
I cut my finger on something sharp and I draw away my finger, glaring at the offending crimson drop at the tip.
"What's taking me so blasted long is fumbling with the stracking cutter!" My muffled voice echoes against the storm-coated flexsteel for a moment before it's choked by the murky air and hissing rain.
The only answer I get are the too-evenly-spaced words in too-cool-of-a-tone: "What was that?"
I almost swear. I could strangle him for all the help he is. I shove my hand back in the bag with a vengeance. When I yank out the streamlined cutter, feedback screeches its all-encompassing fury as if it were planned.
I fight the urge to scream abuse at the voice in my ear or to yank out the comm and throw it down to the ground 126 stories below. Instead, I seethe: "What the strack, Zig, you psikh?" If there was a growl or three in there, well... who could blame me? My ears are still ringing.
"You weren't responding to normal communication. I thought, perhaps, you were experiencing difficulty with the frequency of your comm." Yeah, and I thought you were experiencing difficulty being an insufferable-- "What is your status?"
I heave an inward sigh and turn my head upward, squinting in the mildly acrid downpour. It isn't dangerous... so long as you don't mind your outermost layer of skin peeling away. With little effort, I imagine Zig's face up at the top of the building. In my mind's eye he grudgingly manipulates the winch and pulley that lowered my agitated self to the 109th floor, wearing a smirk in place of his indomitable poker face. Probably laughing. Probably at my expense.
"My status is... complicated."
"Explain."
"Your intel," I reply, raising my voice over the crinkle-crackle of our comm-static and the cutting rain. "It's flawed." Silence fills the radio waves, and I would have laughed had it not been so devastating to our plan. Through the comms, he mutters something angry-sounding in French. "Zig, talk to me."
"Which part of the intel?"
"The glass isn't glass. It's flexsteel." I wait a moment and smack the flat edge of the glass cutter against my leg. Hard. "Ideas? Or are you going to stay silent?"
I can hear the weight behind Zig's sigh when he deigns to answer. "What grade is it? Can the cutter scratch it?" A quick bzzt with the cutter answers the question. A diagonal line a hairsbreadth wide bisects the flexsteel.
"Looks like B-grade. The cutter can scratch it, but just so."
"Score it with the cutter in an 'X.'" I murmur my assent and brace both feet against the bottom corners of the window. I stick a supporting hand on the window, gripping it best I can with nothing to grip. With only the slightest of grumbles, I begin cross-hatching the window. Scree... bzzt.... scree.... bzzt...
"That'll give you a point to aim for."
Whoa, whoa, whoa... I stop cutting, hand trembling with the effort. What was he saying...?
"What am I aiming at?" Another thought hits me and I give my rucksack a cursory glance. "And what am I aiming with?"
Silence for one wind gust... two wind gusts... Then Zig's reluctant voice: "After you score the window, kick off from the center. As you build momentum, your force will build also. You can split the faux-steel."
I steady myself on my cable, gripping it with only slight annoyance. I hook the cutter in a belt loop and massage my forehead until my Zig-related headache begins to subside. But only a bit. After prodding the dual-incision I'd begun to make with a healthy dose of skepticism, I heave a sigh. It gave a millimeter. Maybe two. "No way this works."
"If it does, I'm buying drinks." Oh. Well. That settles it then, doesn't it?
||
A half hour later, I'd hawed, hacked, sawed, sliced, and the 'X' mark began to wobble with barely enough motion to make me rethink this being a good idea - Oh wait! I didn't ever say this was a good idea!
I page Zig's comm to remind him thusly, but before I can, I am interrupted from above: "You should have penetrated the outer layer of flexsteel by now."
The rain dissipates along with my last remaining ounce of patience. I clench my fist hard enough to draw blood through my friction gloves. Adjusting my goggles, I plant both booted feet on the glass plating smack in the center. This is going to be messy.
Before I can taste the regret, or my annoyance, or the bitter resentment that I hadn't thought of the stupid idea first, I kick off the window plate and slam through the window.
Shattering sounds split the stagnant night air, as shards of acrylic fracture against the floor. I land inside a dark room. It's so dark that when I wave a hand in front of my face, I get the distinct imagery of being sucked into a black hole. I stifle long-dead feelings of claustrophobia and slip off the filtration mask to hook it to my belt.
Shaking like a dog, I edge forward in a crouch inch by inch as my eyes adjust. I reach out with both hands and brush against a door knob. Easing it open, I crawl in sans sound. Within a few moments, I can see I'm inside... not an office building. I also see I'm not in an empty room, either.
Military-style bunks line all four walls arranged in three rows, effectively blocking my view of half the room. Unfortunately, the room isn't empty - and neither are the beds.
I stand upright and almost collide forehead-to-chin with a guy wrapped in a towel from the waist down. His dark hair was dripping wet, like he'd just gotten out of the shower. Electric blue eyes shine back at me in shock. We both jerk, but only I do so effectively. He wheels back, lunging for his bunk. He comes up with a very nice-looking stun gun. The haloed 'A' on the hilt marks it as ArmaTech.
Towel-Guy takes aim, but I'm already moving away. I whip around the first row of bunks, merging with other shadowy forms milling about trying to find the intruder. The only difference distinguishing me from them is that I'm looking for a door.
Towel-Guy shouts: "Hey, stop!" and then everyone who wasn't already awake is up.
The shadows around me thrash as I push and pull; they don't yet realize that their ranks are infiltrated. Those that don't jump out of their beds with a gun or a knife have one within easy reach. One woman pulls out an impact slug rifle from the rack above hers and aims it - all without leaving her bunk. At least eight laser sights paint my chest red. About a dozen others range around the room, shifting from head to chest to leg before the guns' owners realize they had inadvertently target one of their own.
Regardless of their confusion, their reaction time is extremely impressive. I can't help the thought that maybe this wasn't the kind of resistance I was expecting, so I don't stick around.
The fact that no one has taken a shot at me tells me these are professionals. Any kind of shot would end with not just my own injury (or death), but two others, at least. The quarters are too close, but the moment someone decides hand-to-hand combat is the way to go, I'm sunk. I don't like the odds, so I duck under rifle butts and sig sauers and about twelve other types of firearms. There are a few knives in there too, though no one makes a move when they can't distinguish between friendly or hostile.
Unfortunately, Towel-Guy still tracks my movement. I can see his eyes squinting at me between racks, flickering in the black. I finally latch onto a doorknob and twist. The laser targets wink out of existence as I tumble into the hallway. It's gray like the rest of what I've seen of the building, but it's blissfully empty. I kick up and force myself to move. No one has made it outside the makeshift barracks yet, so I crouch to blend with shadow.
"Hey, what's happening? Are you still there?" Â Zig's voice startles me and I hiss indignantly. I can't risk talking now, so I run in a half-crouched position down the next hall, shooting quick glances behind me. I see a dark head poking out from the room, but I whip around the next corner before it can make me out. Ducking into a stairwell, I take the steps up two at a time. Only once I make it past four flights into a group of cubicles do I stop to breathe.
My pulse is roaring and gulping in my ears. Adrenaline makes me feel cold and hot at the same time, a combination I'd be more okay with if it didn't mean sweating and shivering simultaneously.
I lean my head back against the wall and just breathe. Four big breaths, and I'm ready to speak. "Zig, I busted into a barracks packed full of armed security with inhuman reaction times. Wanna talk my way out of this one for me?"
The comm crackles in my ear for what I know must be minutes and minutes, but when I check my wrist, it's been 8.5 seconds. Blin.
"That's a problem," replies the enigmatic idiot atop the roof.
"Yeah, net neuzheli!" I growl back, silencing some choice words as I hear guards run past my floor.
He responds soon enough: "Firearms - what do they have and how skilled are they with them?"
I run through the long and short of it - the startled towel man, the excessive weaponry, and the fact that they are likely on my tail. He whistles softly when I finish and collects his thoughts far too slow for my liking. "The ArmaTech weapons are highly unusual. They aren't cheap, and only the best private security firms contract them. Ex-military carry them, too. You're dealing with professionals, here."
I groan and suppress an additional growl.
Zig continues as if I were sitting safely beside him, and definitely not hiding behind a secretary's desk where defensive measures consist of a stapler, 37 paper clips, and twenty reams of paper. "They can't be guarding the offices, or even the bank level. Either our package is worth more than we're getting paid, or there's something even bigger in there."
Footsteps echo dangerously close. I turn and skulk alongside the wall towards a fire exit. "What do I do, Zig?" I mumble into my wrist, muffling the noise in my sleeve. "Job on? Or abort?"
Silence for a solid second before Zig answers again: "Finish it out if you can. Make your way to the vault level. If you're compromised, abort." Silence for another few moments and I wonder if he's signed off. Then a hushed voice whispers so softly that I half think I've imagined it: "This is bigger than both of us."
I squint in suspicion upward, where I know Zig waits. What does that mean?
Then, I bite my lip and slip away into the stairwell.
There was a guy on the train the other night in pre-ripped acid wash jeans and patchy preteen boy stubble and he looked just like kylo ren and he kept lopking at his reflection in the window and fixing his hair it was perfect and Iâm drawing pictures you guys need to share this experience
we were playing a pickup game of basketball and I elbowed you in the face and thatâs a lot of blood Iâm so sorry
I was in a hurry and I ran into you outside the coffee shop while you were carrying two lattes and it turns out they were both for you except that now youâre wearing them Iâm so sorry
this is my first job waiting tables and wow these plates are heavy but Iâm doing my best which apparently isnât enough to defy gravity Iâm so sorry
I love hockey, I am Ruler of the Rink and apparently I donât know my own strength because I just crushed you into the boards Iâm so sorry
running is supposed to be good for your health except I seem to have sprained my ankle and I took you out with me Iâm so sorry
I was in the middle of a sick skateboard trick when you walked into my path and I couldnât stop in time Iâm so sorry
being a bike courier is great for my legs and it makes me good money and I meet hot people by running them over Iâm so sorry
these super powers are so awesome itâs so exciting but I have zero control over them and Iâm so sorry
you look a lot like my good friend so I ran up behind you and grabbed your ass with both hands in front of everyone Iâm so sorry
I was hired to walk up to you and kiss you in public for the paparazzi and I only did it because Iâm broke but you are a good guy and a good kisser Iâm so sorry
I am the worst at parallel parking I mean I am so sorry about your fender I really hope one of us has insurance Iâm so sorry
formal events are not my thing these shoes are new and this is a very long staircase at least you were at the bottom to break my fall Iâm so sorry
Chapter: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][x]
Chapter Title:Â Spying
POV:Â Galen, 1st
AU:Â 12 Years in the future. Sort of. Youâll get it. I hope.
A/N: I swear I am going to get out of 1st person. Mostly because I suck at it.
I started awake, completely unaware Iâd even fallen asleep. I felt⊠detached. In my mind, I still could see fireflies and a sunset. My neck was stiff, because I was leaning against my wall - not lengthwise on my bed like a normal person.
It took me a few minutes to get my bearings, and I belatedly realized Iâd probably fallen asleep because of those stupid meds Alex had deigned to give me. The angle of the sun through my curtains told me itâd only been a couple hours⊠It was probably around 5-ish⊠Dinnertime.
My stomach growled, as if it approved of my accurate time estimation. I huffed quietly and leaned forward, stretching my legs out. Yeah, everything was stiff. Good job, Galen. Next time why donât you fall asleep standing up? That way when you crash down to the floor, everything will hurt instead of just your joints!
Mrrr⊠Galen, I can hear you, yâknow. I shot my head up - much to my neckâs chagrin - and noticed Stone laying on his side on the floor. âSorry, Stone,â I sighed. He just grunted as if to say âdonât worry about itâ and flopped over on his back.
I stood slowly - mindful of the cramped muscles in my legs, arms, and back. With glowering coal eyes, Stone was watchful of my movements. Tranceâs side of the room remained undisturbed, and it took me a few minutes to remember that she was out of town, meeting with her editor over the release of her next book in New York. Bumble had gone with her, mostly for companionship, partly for protection.
Ten minutes had passed before Stone got up and butted his head against my knee. If wolves could make human expressions, I'd say he looked worried. Galen. Are you alright?
I shrugged. Was I really alright these days? I'm fine, I guess.
And that's a lie. The accusation was strong in this one. I shrugged.
Yeah, well. It's hard to remember not to these days. I sighed heavily. I was talking to a halfway mythical creature about deep mental problems.
Oh. Well, uh, Stone took a moment to rub his muzzle with his paw, anyways. Alex said to tell you to get up and walk around. Because he said you'd probably fall asleep. And then he said youâd probably try to ignore his advice. I snorted a little in laughter as Stone watched me warily like if try to slip off first chance I got.
"Yeah, fine... I will, I guess..." I relented before trailed off as my eye caught a glittering piece of metal in the overflowing reaches of my closet.
What was that? I thought I cleaned that out yesterday⊠I sighed and went to shove the pile of clothes back into the cluttered closet. I stopped when I saw what the glittering thing was. It was a familiar object - a foxâs golden head and a small owl strung on a gold chain. I grit my teeth, exhaling slowly through my mouth.
I hate to be a nudge, but is everything alright? Stone's rumbling voice pervaded subconscious memories floating up from the surface.
I bit back a sharp sigh and the beginnings of a throbbing headache. "Fine. Just... fine," I squeezed the words out past grit teeth, touching the cool metal once more. Unbidden, my fingers snagged on the chain. I found myself slipping the necklace in my pants pocket and pressed my lips into a thin line. That might've been a mistake. But it may have been what would get me to have the conversation that I needed to have.
_
Well, I made my way downstairs in time to hear dinner going on full-force. Yelling and chattering and swapping stories about their days. It was probably better days for them than it was for me⊠I could hear Shift, Switch, and their kids loudly announcing their arrival. Kayr and Connerâs kids were close behind.them, the triplets - Reacher and Jack, especially - going right after the food while Raina played around with some of the other kids.
Over all, a scene that rather depressed me. So I hung a left and started to the basement instead. Iâd rather starve for another hour or so, than have to face all of that happy bottled up in one room.
I passed by the main living room - where me and the other kids used to have Movie Nights - and saw Track curled up on an ottoman, his tail over his nose. Heâd grown a scraggly little goatee over the last years. He didnât have a ton of facial hair, strangely enough, but what little he did didnât seem to grow.
He was more folically-challenged than Rayk was. Ha.
I made my way - quietly - through the room, intending to see what ole Pony Tail, as Spade used to call Wolfram, was up to⊠But I was interrupted by a quiet purring noise.
I turned slightly to look over my shoulder, seeing Trackâs black-tufted head perk up. âMurrr,â he mumbled, turning on his back in his odd feline way. His voice was soft, but deeper now; half the time I still expected a high-pitched squeak in response or somethingâŠ
âWhatâs up, Track?â I asked with half a smile. He seemed content to lay on his back, staring up at me through his wire-rimmed glasses.
âYou are, right now,â he replied, making a huff-huff-huff noise that I assumed was laughter at his own joke. Cats. All the same. âWhatâre you up to?â he asked, carrying on the thread of conversation.
My cheeks flushed slightly, not wanting to say: âOh, just hunting for Flick, yâknow...â because thatâs what I wouldâve said years ago⊠But back then that usually led up to hugs and jokes and movies and snuggling⊠and now it just meant trying not to yell or scream or cry or throw things or seizure. I hated life sometimes.
âLooking around.â That was all I said, turning to examine the wind-up clock on the mantle as if it was suddenly very fascinating. âClocks are cool,â I muttered, like I was trying to convince myself of a valid distraction.
Track watched me curiously behind strands of black hair. He looked like he was studying me, and the waving blackish-blue tail behind him only confirmed my guess. I absently noticed the small silver heart strung on a chain that dangled at his neck. I assumed it was from Camron, I guess. Who else would give him something like that? Maybe not even Camron, howâm I to know?
At any length, he murr-ed and flipped over on his stomach, his fuzzy, black hands crossed in front of him. âYeah, they are⊠I like their noises,â he answered. Despite being 25, he still seemed childish sometimes, by no fault of his own. I wasnât sure of his whole backstory - after all, there were so many, how was I to remember them all? - but I know it involved delayed speech.
I just nodded at his reply and started humming absently to myself. I doubted Track would know where Flick was, and I didnât want to go see Wolfram⊠I hated that guyâs guts. But maybe I should ask⊠Clearing my throat two or three times, I eventually glanced over at him. âEr⊠hey, Track⊠Would you, ah, happen to, erm, know--â
âWhere Flick is?â the cat-boy interrupted me with innocent-looking blue eyes. I gulped and swallowed dryly.
âErâŠ. y-yeahâŠâ I didnât bother looking up to see Trackâs curious, burning gaze. He was oddly focused and interested in this topic. When did he become a mind reader, anyway?
While I felt my face heat up and start burning, Track curled up in a way only he could and rested his chin on his long, blue-black tail. âHeâs speaking with Wolfrrrram,â he purred, resting a vaguely-paw-shaped hand on his tail as he continued to observe me. I felt a bit like a mouse under a watchful tomcatâs gazeâŠ
I thanked him and wheeled about to head down further into Wolframâs study. I normally hated going down there. It smelled of hand sanitizer, dusty old books, and sometimes the odd chemical, depending on whether or not heâd been to his secret lab or not.
I felt a chill as I descended into our basement, where he resided. He hadnât always been down here, but with more mutants moving in, heâd finally decided there was more peace and quiet in the bottom of our mansion.
âHatredâ was still the first of a long list of words whenever I thought about ole pony-tail. It wasnât my fault⊠I just⊠couldnât stand him. He kept secrets. He had a lab. He was mysterious. And sometimes he still wore that ridiculous white coat. I had anger laissues, and that fact didnât help.
The temperature lowered by about ten degrees once I got down the stairs. I was once more met with the smell of dusty leather and clinical cleanliness⊠But also something else. A scent that was somewhere between a musky earthy scent and a sharper, woodsy smell. I shook my head slightly, trying to clear my nostrils of it. It made me a little light-headed⊠probably because I knew what it meant.
Even as I was bumbling around Wolframâs initial study like a drunken bear, I began to hear raised voices. They were coming from Wolframâs inner office. The one that led to the hidden laboratory. I ceased my mindless stumbling and spotted the door in question.
Behind the frosted glass pane, I could see two figures in a⊠semi-heated discussion? One voice - though I couldnât make out the words - seemed angry and sharp. The other, calmer. Almost conciliatory. I crept closer.
A satchel-like bag rested beside the door. The scent seemed clouded around the bag. It seemed mostly empty, but it had a distinct wear to it that reminded me of being out and about, back when Rayk, Shift, and I were on the run.
Stealthily, I sidled over to it, paying careful attention to the door - and the conversation. If it was going to wrap up I wanted to high-tail it out of there.
I lifted the beat-up leather flap and wiggled my fingers down into the worn man-purse. My fingers bumped into a cold, metallic object. I pulled it out - ah, canteen. Easy enough⊠Slam!
I glanced up. Now the yelling individual was waving his arms around like a dying dancer. Great. Usually when that happened, from past experience of course, the argument was just getting good.
Rummaging through the rest of the mostly-empty pack I found assorted objects, some that made sense and others that didnât. A tattered sketchbook - I didnât open that, despite the burning curiosity. I wanted to see the rest of the contents before I let myself look closely at anything. Next came a handful of feathers - they were dull in color, so they must have been old. The shafts were brittle. A cord of leather that had various things strung on it - a polished acorn, another couple of feathers, a small locket, a Chinese coin, and what looked like a large incisor tooth from a dog or something. Some take-out menus, fortune cookies, and a couple handfuls of change. All in all, not the most interesting of caches.
Iâd just picked up the sketchbook to flip through it when I heard the conversation come to an abrupt halt in Wolframâs office. Hurriedly throwing everything back into the bag, I bolted upright and across the room to squat behind the leather chair in the corner of the room. With my back to the chair, I could still see the doorâs reflection in the fireplaceâs glass cover.
The handle clicked, and Wolfram stuck his head out. He glanced around briefly - his eyes seemed to linger a bit longer on the now-closed satchel - and then I heard a familiar voice pipe up: âWhat are you doing? We arenât done here!â His voice sounded angry.
Wolfram either didnât seem to notice or wisely chose to ignore it. His eyes rested on the leather recliner I hid. My face burned a bit, but within a couple of seconds, he withdrew back into his office. He left the door open.
I could hear his cool reply: âBe patient, Flick. We will resolve this, but something else has been called to my attention this evening. Shall we continue this conversation in the morning?â
Flick growled his grudging agreement, and muttered something out of my hearing that didnât sound overly pleasant.
From the reflection, I watched as Flick suddenly stormed out of the room, a half-full manilla folder of haphazard papers tucked under his arm. He threw it into his cross-body satchel and shook his head angrily.
Wolfram followed Flick - but at a cautious distance. Given the anger Flick was radiating, I had a feeling that that was a good idea. "What do you intend to do?" he intoned, cool as a cucumber.
Flick, red-faced from barely-constrained anger, whirled around with fury flashing uncontrolled in his eyes. "To tell Galen what I found, where else? It's bad enough she hates me, but if I didn't tell her--"
Wolfram interrupted, suddenly shooting the recliner I hid behind an anxious look. "Flick, please calm down. It doesn't help to rage about this. She will know in time - it won't hurt any more to wait until I double check your findings. Then we can both tell her-"
"I will tell her, alright? I've almost been killed, Wolfram! Just getting this stupid file!" I could see Wolfram visibly surprised at how angry Flick was at him.
He stepped a back a bit as Flick jabbed him in the chest. "So, if I want to tell the only person I would do this for the cure, then you will allow me to tell her..." His tone was flinty as he turned back again.
He sighed heavily, his face drawn. "And now, so help me, I am going to go shave and shower."
I heard the sound of retreating footsteps as he stomped up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, his steps paused when Wolfram asked him something else: "And after that?" His tone made me wonder if he was intentionally aggravating Flick.
I could have sworn I heard the soft series of popping of knuckles cracking. "Then... I'm going  to try not to do anything I regret.â I never saw or heard him leave, but after he said his piece, Wolfram turned back to his office. He didnât go in.
Removing his glasses, he seemed to be in deep thought and I started trying to figure out how I was going to get out of here. Part of me wondered if he even knew I was here. I wondered if I knew where I was. The last 24 hours seemed to be some kind of alternate twilight zone.
Everything was numb. Cloudy. What did all of that mean? I stifled a loud groan born out of dull throbbing in my face and frustration. I pulled my arms around myself. This was ridiculous. So ridiculous. Shaking my head, I started to turn back, watching Wolfram.
Heâd been standing there awhile. Maybe if I waited for him to go into his office⊠I could just slip past and⊠âYou can come out now.â
I almost slammed my head into the recliner for all the good my hiding place did me. Maybe if I just stayed, I could just die behind the recliner of shame and never have to talk to anyone ever again. Ever. Ugh.
No. Instead, I made towards the edge of the recliner, feeling more than a little dizzy. When I met Wolframâs bespectacled eyes, I knew I was in for it. I felt like a kid caught snooping in her parent'sâ office or something. But what was even more confusing was the entire conversation Iâd overheard⊠Wolfram watched, as if he waited for me to say something⊠So I did.
âI⊠donât understand.â I wanted answers. I was sick of bush beating.
âThe human mind is something that is⊠simply unreadable. And yet the heart is far more deceitful. It is impossible to understand it,â he intoned in what might have been a sympathetic tone. I had to struggle not to lunge across the room and strangle him. More riddles. I never was very good with riddles.
Silence stretched out, and I leaned against the side of the recliner, shivering slightly. It was cooler down here, but whether that was from Mr. Ponytail On Icel or the thermostat, I wasnât sure.
After what might have been a few minutes - or maybe even seconds - Wolfram finally sighed and took a step forward. âHow much did you hear?â
My eyes snapped up to him. I hadnât expected him to actually say anything. Then I refocused on nothing, thinking back to the snippets of the conversation⊠âNot much,â I muttered, âThe end. Shouting.â
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod. âMay I make a suggestion?â he asked bravely, given my propensity for exploding.
My hazy eyes - distracted by moving lights and a few shadows here and there - locked on Wolfram. I couldnât help the sardonic look that came over me. Â âLemme guess - you want me to talk to Flick?â I could already feel that weird yo-yo feeling as my heart took a dive and some other less important organ crawled up into my throat. Cold sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes despite being cold.
Wolfram shook his head, then gave a dismissive gesture. âOn the contrary. Give him time.â
I almost nodded like I knew exactly what he was thinking, but as I glanced back at the stairwell where His Royal Dirtbag had disappeared, all I wanted to do was shout, âWhy? Heâs the only one who knows what happened, you sciencey freak!â
After wrestling with about 50 different arguments in my mind, I slumped down, feeling stretched in a thousand different directions. Biting my lip, I lifted my eyes. My head felt full of cotton. Everything in me wanted to go hunt Flick down to demand what was going on, but I didnât want to wreck the fact that he was back and here and I just wanted toâŠ
âBut⊠I need to know.â My voice didnât sound like my own.
Wolfram sighed. Then he strode forward towards me. I wanted to leave, but that wasnât going to happen right away. When he was standing next to the recliner, he knelt next to me. His knees cracked so loudly, I jumped involuntarily. He was getting old just like the rest of us, wasnât heâŠ?
It almost looked like he was going to roll his eyes at himself, but at the last minute, he pressed on: âAs does Flick. I doubt he truly realizes the implications of what his departure meant to you⊠As I recall, you two shared a very⊠inconsistent friendship, however much it meant to you both.â
âWait just a minute--â Wolfram raised a single hand to stop me. It took a second to realize I couldnât see him; just a blur. Blood welled up from where I bit my lip. It tasted sharp and it stung.
The ponytailed man continued, like I hadnât even interrupted: âBut I also truly believe he was hurt just as much - if not more - than you were, Galen. You must understand that.â As if to press his point home, he laid a freezing hand on my shoulder, like he wasnât worried I might bite it off. âHe never had the support network you did. He didnât have friends, and he didnât have allies. Even when you were running in your early years, you had your family, and he had Alex⊠the others. Heâs been running this whole time alone.â
Sometime between when he started talking and when he stopped, I realized Iâd started crying. I cursed myself silently, but I didnât even care. What was the point. I watched the man with the gray-and-brown hair stood, seeming at least partly pleased with himself as he adjusted his glasses in a mildly scholarly way. I had never seen Wolfram try to connect with anyone here, save maybe West⊠Was he trying to be less cold, or was I imagining it? And if he was, did I care?
Without words, he extended it down towards me. I took it, standing shakily on my own. With a calculating look towards the stairs, he continued his little âget-betterâ speech. âNow⊠I suggest you grab something to eat. Perhaps freshen up - I donât believe you had the chance last night. Perhaps after that, you and Flick will return to your⊠respective roles in yourâŠâ here, he stopped, like he was looking for a word.
At last, I winced and offered: âFriendship?â
With a slightly human smile, Wolfram lifted a shoulder in a shrug, making him look surprisingly young, and pressed both hands behind him. âPerhaps your âaffiliationâ would be more adequate?â
Something let go inside, and the next thing I knew I was smiling and giggling, feeling like it was held inside for too long. I didnât stop even when Wolframâs face morphed into a confused real smile. A small one. Not even when he furrowed his forehead and asked hesitantly: âDid I say something amusing?â
With a very ladylike snort, I sighed. âN-Nothing,â I negated, âI donât know anymore.â But I was still smiling, even though tears were still clinging coldly to my cheeks. I didnât even know if I felt anything. Exhausted, maybeâŠ
A moment later, Wolfram gave a short nod and his facial features reorganized themselves into a lesser smile. Then all was quiet again, save the running of tiny feet upstairs. Looking towards the stairs again, I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen up. âI guess Iâll take you up on your advice then, Wolfy,â I sighed, feeling my face harden and solidify into something less happy and more guarded. I didnât know if it did much good. All Wolfram did was dip his head, then stride back to his office. With his back turned, I took the initiative to head out.
Leaving behind the sour, sterile environment, I climbed each stair slowly. When I turned to glance back to where Wolfram disappeared to, I saw him looking at something⊠a document, or maybe an X-Ray. Regardless, heâd resigned himself to his sciencey objectives once more. All I could do was take him up on his advice.
Surprise, I'm not dead. Here take this I've worked 7 months on it and flip it all i can't find my muse and i've been saving this take it
Title: Sandy Stretches, Lonely Lives
Chapter: [x]
About:Â This is an original story that I am far too embarrassed to talk about publicly. If you have questions or need answers please send an ask and I will answer immediately.
All you need to know: This is planet earth. Almost one hundred years after a natural disaster, people have begun to build new lives. North America is divided into irregular thirds - the Western Sweep, the Central Sweep, and the Eastern Sweep. Each section of the country has vastly different subcultures ranging from warrior-type castes who live in secrecy; groups of tightly-knit friends and family living underground; middle-class residents just living like they did âa hundred years ago (i.e. us); nomadic groups moving around the country; and even rich aristocrats living in high rises. These story chapters are sections of plot-and-character development.
Sweep: Western
POV:Â 3rd
_
Her combat boots scraped against the gritty hangar floor. Dust and sand swept in with her, ushered by the arid wind.
 She wasn't very big; standing only at middling height, it seemed her demeanor carried more weight than she likely did.
With a hardened leather pilot's vest covering the white linen shirt she wore, she looked a tough character. Her clothes had been patched several times, but still had the sturdy look to them that most flyboys possessed.
Added to that still, the hardware that hung at her hip, swaying in time to her step bespoke of her immutable attitude to get the job done. Her casual handling of the metallic piece showed she knew how to use it.
A sidearm wasn't the only thing a passerby would notice upon first glance. Despite being rugged, as most pilots were, Rosco's face was fair in complexion. Her gray-green eyes were set on a slightly tilted plane, proving that Nomadic blood was somewhere in her veins.
The rest of her features followed a similar pattern - thin, straight nose; a bow-shaped mouth that was permanently tilted upwards; high cheekbones and slanting eyebrows that were set in a daring expression.
The only mar on her face, unseen unless highly scrutinized, showed itself by twin raised lines a shade darker than the rest of her skin. The pair of scars carved from a centimeter above her upper lip to a centimeter below her lower one. They didn't seem to impair her speaking ability, even whilst being set squarely on her lips.
Flight goggles held residence in her hair, positioned above a red bandana that seemed to hold the majority of her short, flaming reddish-brown hair back from her face. A thin braid dangled from her left side, segmented in thirds by small, intricately carved beads.
A bronzed, bismuth helmet that boasted many augmentations over the years was held securely under her arm, as the unique young woman made her way down the cargo ramp of her small, yet sturdy airship.
Uninterested at first, the hangar's personnel ignored her until she began the task of unloading her cargo alone. Then, seeming to notice who the aerial interloper was, hovercarts were brought to her aid, and more hands moved to assist in the arduous task of carrying crates of varying content out into the sorting bay.
Though the young woman pulled her own weight in transporting equipment from her ship, she seemed to be just as interested in watching the workers around her, never missing a beat.
_
As Rosco dusted her hands off, she couldn't help but feel a bit satisfied. Her haul had paid off - she'd brought produce, tech, textiles, and building materials to last Tract 17 a good, long while... In addition to earning enough coinage to allow her to return home for a few weeks.
At least what served as her 'home,' if one could even call it that.
As she supervised the hangar workers loading back up the empty crates, the leather-clad aviatrix went to see to her payment.
Gathering her flyer's fee by way of signing a digital order, Rosco began the lengthy business of processing her ship and her new load of cargo to disembark.
Gotta talk to whatâs-his-name, and I should be good to go, she sighed, smirking a bit. As she piloted the Stygian Hawk alone, she'd fallen to the perpetual practice of talking to herself.
It wasnât necessarily socially acceptable to speak to oneself in the middle of a business transaction, but in all honesty, no one paid Rosco any undue attention, and that was how she liked it.
As was custom, the slightly built pilot migrated towards the small lift towards the back of the loading dock. The enormous hangar door was all the way open, serving as a conductor for the hot desert air, and the stinging, gritty sand that blew in.
Most of the loaders wore facemasks and protective clothing; Rosco wore the bare minimum in the heat. While the sand occasionally stung her face, she preferred that to the stifling protective clothing. Her particular brand of humanity didnât tolerate heat very well.
As she entered the small, cramped lift, she hit the button that would take her to the lower levels of the compound. Level 12, the common floor for the higher-ups of a Precinct or Tract, was usually a first stop for pilots who brought in supplies. The documents had to be recorded, the leader of the compound informed⊠Here, in Tract 17, the authoritative figure was more responsible than most, if a bit eccentric.
Tibrus Harn, a young man in his late twenties, held office here. Unlike most Tractbound, Tibrus refused to stake claim to a second, more covert name. Instead, he preferred to use his own birth name to herald his arrival. He didn't seem overly worried about being found. That could have been a show of honesty and truthfulness⊠or it could have been simple arrogance. Upon looking at the tall figure, one might guess the latter.
Standing at an even 6â, Tibrus was slightly muscular, as many Tractbound were. However, unlike less fortunate Tracts, his had some self-proclaimed form of fashion sense. His clothes seemed to be themed black and orange. A stiff-looking, glossy black jacket with a high collar went from neck to knee. Toggles held it shut giving Tibrus a streamlined appearance. His pants were made with a leather material - probably of the skin of a mutated creature, given the odd scaley texture.
Grael, Rosco remembered instantly, taking in the slight sheen of the hide. She occasionally brought shipments of the creature to Tracts within the very limited fashion industry. It was a long, black lizard-esque creature with hooked fangs, prehensile spiked tail, and sensory sacs in its neck. A bit iguana looking in appearance, though many times bigger. Another product of the world that was unnatural, but unavoidable.
In fact, several crates of their hides had just been offloaded moments before. Her mind returned to the subject at hand, Rosco folded her hands behind her back as Tibrus came forward, a black earcom the focus of his attention: "Yes, our shipment just arrived! Captain J'osco's flight. Yes, I'll speak with Lady Syrenna once I've finished up here. Thank you, Administrator!"
As he finished, Tibrus had the grace to smile apologetically, tapping his com to end the conversation. Smoothing his spiked, gelled hair, he extended his hand to the young woman. "Welcome, Captain J'osco! It's an honor to be able to speak to you in person!"
They had met briefly once before, many months ago when Tibrus had taken over the leadership here - and subsequently, the shipping department. Obviously, the Argent didn't recall.
To boot, in almost every Tract, an intermediary would conduct the business between the transporter and the authorities of a Tract, whether it be an administrator, a council, a spokesman, or whatever they called themselves. Ostensibly, Tibrus had gotten it into his head to see who was the unseen face behind the supplies they received monthly.
With a barely noticeable nod, Rosco shook his hand firmly before responding in a concise tone: "Thank you, sir, but as I've told you before - I'm not a captain anymore... And my name is Rosco."
With a bemused smile, Tibrus recanted his previous statement: "Ah, my apologies, then. Although..." With a swift movement, the slick-haired administrator whisked out his data pad, the blue glow reflecting off of his oddly translucent hair. "It says right here in the transcript: Your name is R'iin J'osco. Is that untrue?"
His smile probably makes sunsoak worms never want to see the light of day again, the young pilot thought privately, reflecting on the glare of the man's teeth.
"The transcript's accurate, alright; that's my name," Rosco droned in a tone that sounded all too familiar with the particular thread of conversation. "But my people blend the first and last name together as one. So you can call me Rosco." As I've already told you about five times...
Blinking owlishly once or twice, Tibrus eventually nodded as if in understanding, giving the pilot a thin smile. "Ah, of course, Captain, I'll correct the records, then..." he replied hastily, as if forgetting what she had said only moments ago.
As the inept leader tapped away to "correct" his records, Rosco sighed, unsurprised. It was rare that one of her brand of humanity interacted with others unlike themselves, but the conversations still taxed her. She didnât even care all that much for her societyâs customs - but names were important to her.
Wrapping up, Tibrus flipped the data pad around to show Rosco: âIs this order form correct?âÂ
With a brief glance, she read the order. It included 30 crates of various equipment, each of which sheâd signed for herself and supervised the packing of.
The inventory memorized, she nodded immediately. âThatâs all of it, Argent,â the young pilot affirmed before tugging at one of her gloves. âNow, if thatâs all, sir⊠I have other shipments to deliver.â
With the same odd smile, Tibrus nodded, bowing slightly. "Ah, it was a pleasure, then, Captain Rosco," she had to visibly suppress a grimace, âand please - call me Tibrus!"Â
Rosco pressed her lips into a thin line and simply nodded as he finished: "I wish you well in your travels.â
Giving another brief nod, Rosco turned on her heel to march back towards the elevator, itching to get back to her ship. She dreaded the days the Tract Argents wanted to meet with her. She was just a pilot with a shipment and a destination - why bother with Tract politics?
Before she even made it 5 paces, Tibrus spoke up once more: âYouâll be flying over Tract 3 this evening, correct?â
Rosco stopped in her tracks, narrowing her eyes at the elevator. Meddling administrators⊠âYes, sir. Thatâs whatâs on the register,â she replied, referring to the flight log in her small ship.
Tibrus nodded shortly, waving a hand in dismissal. âFine, then. The good Lady Syrenna wishes to speak with you, Iâve been told. Please see to it that she gets her supplies on time.â Without another word, he turned around and strode away, calling instructions to other men and women speaking on earcoms.
Turning again, Rosco completed her stiff journey to the elevator, glowering and fuming in the confines of her own mind. Muttering a few choice insults about the presumed ability to control smugglers, she boarded the lift and punched in her floor number - H1.
On the journey down, she had the bad grace to kick the side of the bronze carriage several times, growling to herself as she realized sheâd bruised her toes even through the thick troughskin boots. She couldnât help but loathe the way some of the Tract administrators held themselves - as if they were above everyone else in the Sweep!
âGlorified paper pusher!â she growled, kicking the shaft once more before slumping against the wall - just in time for the door to slide open, admitting a tall girl with curly brown hair drawn up into a sloppy sideswept ponytail.
The girl stopped, silver-green eyes widened slightly, her hand midway through the motion of pushing hair behind her ear. âUh⊠Bad day?â the dry tone asked, the girlâs face rearranging into something reminiscent of a sympathetic expression.
Rosco, her foot still wedged in the liftâs supports, snapped her head up. Thinking back on the last few moments, she realized she hadnât even noticed the carriage had stopped. Jerking her booted limb back once or twice, she gave a thin smile. âYeah, you could say that.â
Metal screeched as Rosco wrenched her foot back and pivoted in a smooth motion to face the smirking girl. Seeming to examine each other for a few moments, each one took stock of the other.
Then, all at once, both stepped forward to hug each other tightly, Rosco careful of the heavy metal helmet swinging perilously close to the taller girlâs head.
Pulling away, the taller ivory-skinned girl smiled, crossing her arms across her heavy barrage jacket. The metallic plate that hung around her neck showed her ident:
'Signs.
Go-Between
Class: A
Ident #: 2246'
âBeen a long time, Rosco - howâs things?â
Giving a slight smirk, Rosco shrugged. "Same old runs, same old ship, same old crew," she replied shortly, dismissing any talk of their trades.
"As if you prefer it any other way," chortled the younger girl - her name, Signs - who was obviously getting a kick out of the conversation.
She stretched out an arm to punch in a floor number. As she drew her arm back, her sleeve hiked up on her arm, exposing lines and lines of black script in a variety of languages, tattooed into her skin.
"Yeah, well," Rosco replied with a slight edge to her voice, "I like it that way. No complications..." She trailed off a bit, glancing at the floor numbers, as if to distract from the topic. It had since stopped while Signs boarded the carriage.
"So what was all that name-calling about, huh?" Signs piped up, obviously curious about what was bothering her usually-calm friend.
Giving a pointed glare towards the elevatorâs door, she squinted down her nose at the floor. âTibrus. Thinks he can tell me how to fly my route.â
Snorting, Signs shook her head. "He should know better than to tell the Nation-Renowned flight Captain how to fly!"
Leveling her friend with a playful glare, she replied: "Yeah, except for the fact that I'm not a captain anymore, as I am constantly reminding you people."
Signs only laughed, the noise reminiscent of water flowing over river rocks.
Changing the subject, Rosco piped up again: "What about you, Signs? Still toting Grim around like yesterdayâs lunch?â
Grim, the name of Signs' partner in crime, was rarely separated from her. He was slightly older than she, and had a permanently gloomy, sardonic disposition - hence the common name he had been assigned.
Signs let loose her lilting laugh, giving Rosco a playful punch on the shoulder. âNah. Grim has his own speeder now. Which, and get this - he calls it the Splenetic Otter,â she answered with a mildly disgusted, yet unsurprised expression. âHe thinks heâs being keen, but itâs justâŠâ Throwing her arms up, she shook her head, dismissing the matter.
Rosco, chuckling, leaned against the lift - which was once again moving slowly back to Hangar One. âAnd you hang around him⊠why, exactly?â
Signs shook her head, forelock swishing from side to side. "Dunno, Ros'. We came here together. Might as well leave together. 'Together weâll die,'" she said in a monotone, quoting Grim's constant motto. Her tone left a hint of sarcasm in the words.
With a raised eyebrow at the wistful statement, the spunky pilot settled her bronze-colored helmet on her hip. âSpeaking of the Great Disappointment, where is Grim?â
Rosco watched as Signs shifted on her feet slightly, showing signs of mild exhaustion. âHeâs meeting me in Tract 24 tonight. Weâll drop by Tract 3 tomorrow afternoon sometime before evening meal,â she answered, eyeballing the floor number. 07⊠06⊠05âŠ
Rolling her shoulders to unclench the tight muscles, Signs pulled a pair of worn, battered protective goggles from her pocket, sliding them over her head. Riding a speeder bike through miles and miles of dusty terrain with only a shade canvas for protection required special measures. Goggles were one of them.
âNice, then,â Rosco replied, nodding to the ivory-skinned motorist. âSo, I guess Iâll see you tomorrow sometime, huh?â
âLooks that wayâŠâ Signs turned slightly to watch Rosco as she fiddled with some straps inside of her helmet.
As they waited for the lift to halt they said nothing. Both knew as soon as the hanger stopped, they would have their own jobs to do.
Clearing her throat, Signs tugged at the hem of her sleeves, scuffing her boots against the metallic floor. "Did Tibrus tell you what Syrenna's news was, by chance?"
Rosco shook her head doggedly, her clear eyes showing signs of annoyance. "No. I'm dying to know,â came the dry response.
Signs lifted a shoulder in a shrug, watching as the floor number finally showed: HANGAR 1.
The door slid open with a clatter of metal and servos before the gritty, sandy ground level was once more in view. Roscoâs airship had been fully off-loaded and restocked. The Tractâs loading staff had seen to that. Nearby, in the next docking port, a long-bodied, canvassed speeder hovered in parking mode to the far left.
The two smiled at each other before striding towards their respective modes of transport.
âGood luck with Lady Syrennaâs surprise,â Signs farewelled, dipping her head to duck into her helmet, flipping the sun guard down to look her friend in the eyes.
"And good luck finding Grim,"" Rosco replied, smirking impishly as Signs rolled her cloudy eyes.
"I'm already grim! How can I get any grimmer?" the biker called with a teasing smile at the terrible joke. As she waved, she leapt over to her hovering speeder, landing squarely in the seat.
Chortling at the twisted words, Rosco waved her off. "Wind with you!" she shouted over the roar of Signs' engines.
Signs, face now concealed by the face guard, and her words torn away by the sound of shifting sand and gritty dust discharging from the bike's intake manifolds, shot off a rapid stream of sign language. 'Skies above!'
The departing ritual complete, Signs gunned the bike's engines. The compact speeder was a blip on the horizon long before the agitated sand had settled back to the desert floor.
Rosco, now aimless in her reason to stay, sighed heavily. It was rare to find a friend on a cargo run. Rarer still to speak for longer than a few minutes.
Gathering her helmet in her hands, she slipped it over ruffled ruddy hair. With the color-tinted metal gleaming in the sunlight, the young, gun-toting pilot made her way back to her air cruiser.
The Stygian Hawk almost didn't reflect the blinding sunlight, its hull was so dark. Hexagonal in shape, the airship reflected Rosco's preferences: functional, jacked up, and ready for a scrap should one come knocking. Though it looked unassuming, Rosco prided herself on keeping it upgraded with all the latest toys.
As she boarded the two-tier stair ramp to disembark, she tried to piece together what Lady Syrenna - the esteemed, if a bit old-fashioned - leader of Tract 3 had in store.
She had a good head on her shoulders, Rosco knew, but sometimes she could focus too much into helping every lost soul who wandered in from eastern realms.
A bounty hunter Rosco had known - a young Normal named Halo - had crossed the border with forty dusk hounds hot on the hunter's tail.
After a scrap that ended in blood and the loss of one eye and several fingers, Syrenna had found her. Without listening to her council, the Argent had elected to save the dying Halo. Cybernetics were a recent development in the last 50 or so years, and they would be able to save her life.
After special-ordering a smuggler - Rosco, as the case was - to procure some top of the line implants, Syrenna had gone out of her way to help the young delinquent back on her feet.
In the process, the good Lady had convinced the still-youthful Normal to turn from the bounty hunt and help the Tractbound.
Though Halo still retained her freedom, she occasionally lent a helping - if grudging - hand. All in all, Rosco thought, she'd rather it be another "special errand" than another charity case.
Though the young Aloran had no qualms against helping fellow men and women in need - why else become a smuggler after all? - she didn't like being drawn into long term projects.
Finding, giving, taking, moving on... That was easier. That wasn't hard. No ties. No loose ends. All compartmentalized.
That was how R'iin J'osco liked it. And that was how Rosco was planning to keep it.
Valentine's Day Themed Drabble Prompts (Feel Free to add more!)
Pucker Up: My character receives a kiss from yours, but the phrase âPucker up, buttercupâ must be used at some point.
Love Letter: Your character writes mine a love letter, be it good, bad, funny or just plain silly.
Candy Hearts: Our characters share a sweet moment together that is promptly ruined by ____ (Anon specifies, if blank, be creative).
Chocolate: Your character attempts to make mine a candy themed gift for a present. Chocolate must be included. Bonus points for creativity and taste.
Pick Me Up: Your character attempts to woo mine with all manner of pick-up lines.
Romance: Your character tries to romance mine. Tries, being the keyword here.
A Dozen Roses: Rose petals on the bed, a flower on a desk, whatever it is, your character gives mine roses in one fashion or another.
Dinner: Our characters go out for a romantic dinnerâ or stay in. Your choice.
Blind Date: Your character and mine are talked into going on a blind date with each other.
Be My Valentine: My Character has just asked you to be their Valentine, your response?
Love: Your character confesses their feelings for mine with a simple âI love youâ.
Unwanted Advice: My Character gives yours a little bit of unwanted advice on how to ask your valentine out. Do you take it?
Bromance: Singles unite! Forget the mush, your character invited mine over. How does the evening go?
Wine: Our characters share a toast, one is a little tipsy (anon specifies which) and spills their drink on their partner. Reaction?
Cards: You remember those little cards they sold in the store? Your character gives one to mine, bad candy and stickers included.
Holding Hands: Our characters go on a walk, a little bit of hand holding included.Â
The Whole Nine Yards: Your character is a heck of a boyfriend/girlfriend and has planned an entire Valentines day surprise. How do they go about it? (This could be a longer prompt, please consider who you are giving it two and understand if they wish decline.)
So... I'm sort of going to maybe write some V-Day stuff that actually makes it on time (or thereabouts) so if you want anything... now's the time to ask.
Disclaimer: I don't guarantee to get to all of them but I'm gonna try to at least write something.
Title: The One with the Non Sequiturs
Chapter: [1][2][x]
AU: Donât look at me
A/N: Iâm so sorry. i should change the title.
_
It took ten minutes of cold cloths and slapping his face to wake him up. âCâmon, Yuucifer, wake up!â Ruin kept growling. She was far more annoyed than concerned. Sheâd seen this happen before - mostly at school, granted. Mostly around Valentineâs Day, sure.
âAhh?â came a confused grunt moments later.
Ruin backed up, arms crossed. âTook you long enough,â replied the irked mutant. Red eyes widened and Yuu scrabbled upright on the couch. For the few seconds it took to get his bearings, he refused to look Ruin in the eye.
His exasperated friend shook her head, grimacing. âWhat is wrong with you?â she demanded, gently thumping him on the head to show she wasnât taking any of his bull.
His face lit up in a blush. The color by itself matched his hair. âI-I-I d-donât know, I-I thought m-mebb- y-you and I ahhhh-- Wh-what happened before ai, ahm, yâknow?â he stuttered, hands waving wildly in front of him as if it would help him explain.
Ruin shrugged, watching her friend. Better to fix this before he self-destructs, she thought privately, resisting the urge to repeatedly slam her face into a wall. âNothing. Track knocked you down and you hit your head on the table,â she replied in a completely straight face.
Yuuâ watched her suspiciously, searching for any sign of deception. She stared at him flatly, her typical half-slump against the wall looking very wrong in a dress. Finally, the blush began to fade and he stood up, still a bit woozy. Squinting at her, he seemed to be recovering slightly despite his fractional doubt. âYouâre⊠sure thatâs what happened?â
Raising an eyebrow, Ruin shot him a dry look. âAm I ever not sure about anything?â she quizzed, smiling lazily.
The answer came in the form of rolled eyes and a smirk. âGuess that was a stupid question, eh?â
âYup. Letâs get back to the dance before someone comes to drag us back,â Ruin suggested, extending her hand to the still-sitting redhead. She breathed an inner sigh of relief that he took her word for it.
With a muttered âgood idea,â Yuu followed her back to the gym-turned-dance-floor, glancing nervously at the still-hanging mistletoe clumps. Some of them appeared to have moved. He vaguely wondered who had put them up and seemed to keep moving them. Whoever it was had cleverly stayed out of sight.
In the process of dragging Yuu back to the snack table, Ruin caught wind of a cackling laugh. âHa ha ha! Yeah, right!â Glancing to the left, her neutral expression changed into more of a daggerlike glare as a red-and-white-haired girl darted from person to person. Fyril⊠she used the name like a cuss word, tightening her grip on Yuuâs thin wrist.
âRu, whatâre you doing?â he asked suspiciously, eyes narrowing into slits.
His only answer was a low growl: âStay close.â Her face told Yuu she was entering battle mode. He had to resist the urge to either roll his eyes or protest. He eventually saw no other option but to do as instructed.
As they chose their table, Fyril bounded over, her face permanently split in a mischievous, devil-may-care grin. âHey, you guys!â she crowed, skidding to a stop at their table. Always the daredevil, her flame colored dress and knee-high red converse seemed to clash with her hair. âWhatâre you doinâ under the mistletoe over here, eh?â
Ruin and Yuu exchanged a brief anxious glance, then turned their eyes upward. No mistletoe hung above them. In unison, the two levelled Fyril with a narrow-eyed stare.
âThere ainât any up there, Fyril,â Ruin retorted, âSo whatâs your play?â She shot the spitefire girl a withering glare.
The rebellious female grinned, remaining resolutely unwithered. Yanking out a sprig of mistletoe from behind her, she flourished it in a smoking hand. Yuu watched warily, like he was going to catch on fire at any given moment. Pretty soon, the green leaves caught the spark on her hand and shrivelled up, choked by the smoke. Soon, burning to ashes in Fyrilâs hand, all that was left were a few crumbs of leaf and one or two berry seeds.
âOh, just seeing if either of you were up for mistletoe-lurking?â she queried, the typical wild look in her eyes.
âForget it,â replied Ruin. She said it in a similar tone to âdrop dead.â
âH-Hai, what she said,â Yuu agreed as if trying to keep his cool. He nodded, looking nothing but awkward. Maybe it was the fact that he was practically hiding behind the shorter Ruin than anything else that caused that effect.
Fyril cackled once more, grinning as she strode forward. âAw, câmon, Yuu! You donât get under the mistletoe very--â
She was cut off by Ruin planting her hand square over her mouth, ignoring the heat that washed off of Fyril in waves. The younger girl stared at Ruin like her gaze itself could make her catch on fire.
Ruin could feel her fingers burning a little but she kept Fyril quiet. âGet out,â she added, her tone brooking no argument. When she smiled at the younger girl, showing more teeth than a smile warranted, the flame-obsessed female got it in her head to acquiesce.
Giving a sly smile, she backed off, waggling her fingers in a wave. As soon as she was gone, Yuu let go of Ruinâs arm and shuddered visibly. âThat girl is creepy,â he hissed, shaking his head as if he could rid himself of the image sheerly by doing so.
Ruin nodded, flopping down on the chair and shaking her hand. âAgreed. Letâs never talk to her again,â she added, slouching down.
Yuu, now all-smiles, nodded. âRuin, yes.â
Smirking, the reckless girl shrugged her agreement. âRuin, yes.â
_
âPenn, can you please explain to me why you wear bandanas to a dance? With tuxedos? And dresses?â
Penn smiled down at his older friend - a girl of 18 who only stood at 5â3â. Her curly ruddy brown hair was drawn up in a sloppy bun, exposing her sightless, cloudy eyes.
âHey, I donât complain when you wanna wear four hoodies at a time, do I Wily?â he replied in a wry tone, raising an eyebrow despite the fact that he knew she couldnât see it.
Wily shrugged, a miffed expression on her face. She stared aimlessly across the dance floor, towards where she assumed the DJ was. She was off by about 30 yards. âEh, I guess. But the difference is - Iâm blind. You can actually see how tacky it looks.â
Penn snorted, glancing down at his apparel. It was sorta true, he guessed. He was wearing dress slacks, a white button-up shirt with the sleeves buttoned to the elbows, and a black vest. It was similar to almost every other person in the room. The only difference was the blue bandana tucked in his pocket like a pocket square, and the red bandana tied around his neck in place of a tie, and the bandanas around his elbows, and wrists.
âYou could too, if you wanted,â he piped up, referring to her subtle ability to âborrowâ certain peopleâs sight capacities. Unfortunately, it mostly only worked with pure-blooded humans, of which were in short supply in the house.
Wily snorted audibly. âYeah, I need to see that like I need to see a Russian wrestler skinny-dipping,â she retorted, sticking her tongue out for added effect.
Laughing, Penn shrugged as he looked out over the dance floor. âThis dancing is pretty sad, isnât it?â he asked, changing the subject.
âOh, yeah, look at that one guy, whatâs he even doing?â Wily asked, looking in completely the opposite direction. Her expression bland, seeing nothing.
Penn lightly biffed her upside the head, disliking the sheer sarcasm she gifted him. âShuddup,â he growled, eyes narrowed.
âJust sayinâ!â she protested, holding her hands up in innocence.
Penn watched in silence, Wily sitting beside him and tracing the tiles on the tabletop with an idle finger.
They were only interrupted when a girl about Wilyâs height wandered over. She had a relatively pale complexion, her dark hair cut short but stylishly. She wore a dress, a bit of makeup maybe? Neither Penn nor Wily could tell - Penn because of his lack of observation skills, and Wily for obvious reasons.
âHey, who dat?â Wily drawled, looking once again in the wrong direction - more for comedic purposes than anything else.
Penn started, constantly amazed by his friendâs unerring tendencies of knowing where people were⊠even when she stared off in the opposite direction.
Turning, he spotted the intruding girl. âOh, hey, Devyn,â he greeted with an easy smile. She levelled him with a flat stare. Apparently today was one of her more emotionally detached days, Penn summed up, still smiling.
Wily stuck up a hand, waving to the dance floor. âHey,â she greeted. In the distance, a very confused Track waved back.
Devyn didnât say much, she just remained standing there, her expression a mask that hid her current mood. Penn didnât mind. He didnât know much about her, but he liked pretty much everyone. He didnât much care who they were.
Sitting in silence, Wily got bored very quickly. Concentrating, she searched outwardly with her mind. Casting a mental net, she found that Devynâs mind provided suitable âpatchingâ abilities. Smiling to herself, she latched onto a near-invisible mental thread that led straight into the optic nerve, borrowing the new girlâs mind.
She couldnât see anything except what Devyn saw, but through peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of dangling green and white above Pennâs head.
Sequestering herself back inside her own mind, Wily smirked. Suddenly, gasped, hitting Pennâs arm with perfect accuracy and pointed straight up. Despite her vision once again fading to black, she still managed to point straight at the plant.
âLookee there, Penndulum! Mistletoe!â she spouted, her milky eyes staring instead a few inches to the right.
Both Devyn and Penn looked up, Penn with mild interest, Devyn with a scowl. âYeah, looks like,â Penn replied, for a moment before staring at her. âWait, how did you see it?â
Wily shrugged, staring at Pennâs face with an eerie intensity. âI borrowed Devyn.â
Looking confused, Devyn shot them both a slightly-suspicious look - especially at the word âborrowedâ. âYeah, ok, whatever,â she mumbled grouchily. âIf you try to kiss me, weâre gonna have a problem,â she said to Penn.
He shrugged with an easy smile: âEh, itâs okay. Iâm just here âcause I was bored. No kissing necessary.â
Devyn nodded, eyes narrowed like she was mulling that answer over. âAlright, good,â she mumbled, uncurling a fist Penn hadnât realized she was making. Without another word, deeming the two fine company, she plopped down in a chair, saying nothing.
Penn exchanged a puzzled, one-sided glance with Wily before crossing his legs and resuming his observation of the dance floor. Wily simply smiled, her mind trying to comb the crowd for someone less likely to whack her friend if she borrowed their eyes. Maybe someone else was more willing to mess around than Peaceful Penn or Devyn.
Title: The One With the Sugar Spikes
Chapter: [1][x]
AU: Christmas, some mischievous prankster hung excessive amounts of mistletoe around Wolframâs mansion. Now, during the Christmas party, no one is safe from the mistletoe ambushes.
A/N: I donât know some of the characttesr well, so I probably will mischaracterize some at any given time just for the record
POV: Semi-limited 3rd, it switches around often
A/N/2:Â haha this is such a stupid title and i don't even care
Watching Shift and Switch was always something else. Two felines, one of which who could have easily been a world-class acrobat, had the tendency to swirl with the music, sway with the beat, and weave between crowds like no other couple.
To anyone watching, they would have been convinced that the couple had no idea anyone else was in the room with them. From the changing expressions on their faces, it was implied that they were communicating with their minds rather than their words.
Shift, wearing his tux as he did for every school dance, grinned down at the pink-and-blue-clad Switch. Unlike school dances, her cat parts were unhindered, her tail swaying with the beat and her ears pricked with interest.
Despite their unconcerned attitude with the world, somehow, every time the passed beneath a sprig of green and white, they paused, smiling to themselves. They would exchange a series of kisses - eyelids, cheeks, ears, nose, nothing escaped their attention. If it had been anywhere else, they probably would have been kicked out for PDA. At least, thatâs what Galen had absently mumbled to Lucas on her way to the punch bowl.
Lucas had noticed - barely, what with all the snow and cake in abundance - that she tended to head for the punch, as if she could forget a dance was going on if she focused on the crimson liquid.
He didnât really care about that, though. It was hard to when a diminutive blonde wielding a baseball bat was following him around demanding cake.
âLucas! You have to share! Câmon! Itâs not that hard, you dolt! Just give me some!â
Eyes narrowed, the blond boy levelled her with a stare: âI might! Just wait, to heck with it!â
Still tugging at his sleeve, she waved her bat around - ever present, even during a dance. âShare!â
âNo! Thereâs more for you over there! Go eat that!â
âI want the cake you have!â came the protest.
The argument progressed for several more minutes. No one paid much attention, except for the two figures seated at a table exchanged money, murmuring about how the argument would turn out.
As the argument reached its height of disagreement, Lucas threw his arms up - and a bit of the cake, too - and growled loudly: âFine! Take some of the danged cake!â
With that, he shoved the plate at her. In the process, Aiko had been working towards leaning up and snatching it. Somehow, without much of a warning, their mouths bumped.
Money exchanged hands behind them, the girl at the table repeatedly banging her head on the hard surface. The boy beside her snickered and laughed, counting his newly-acquired currency, sharing a light-hearted wish of condolence to his monetarily-lacking friend.
When the two blushing blondes pulled away, Lucas scowled, eyes narrowed. âNOW YOU HAVE YOUR CAKE, ARE YOU HAPPY?!â Shoving the plate into Aikoâs hands, he stalked off, shoulders hunched and face burning. Heâd go outside to cool off. Thatâs where the snow was anyways.
After the outburst, the boy behind them slid a five dollar bill back to the girl. She in turn grasped it like sheâd won a lottery.
As Aiko stood there, bat tucked under her arm, she glanced up at the mistletoe above their heads. It made her wonder whether or not the kiss had been accidental or not. Without much more thought, she scarfed down the cake, looking the picture of irritation.
She remained there until the young man with the purple hair came over. Ponytail swishing from side to side in what some would call a magnificent display of the use of hair product, Flak paused, staring up at the green spring.
Wary of the newcomer, Aiko squinted up at him - farther up than she had to look to see Lucas.
She was expecting some snide comment about two people meeting under the mistletoe. What she wasnât expecting was what came out of his mouth: âHmm⊠It makes excellent conditioner and skin moisturizerâŠâ
She paused, mid-chew, and stared some more. His orange-and-red eyes met hers in confusion at her lack of response. âI said, it makes--â
âI heard what you said!â she snapped, turning catty-corner to him. âDonât you know anything about mistletoe, you moron?!â
The dark-skinned lad tilted his head in puzzlement. âYes⊠The berries I use for excellent conditioner and skin moisturizerâŠ?â His eyes narrowed in warning, talon-tipped hands digging deep into rose-colored pockets.
âNo, you idiot!â Here, Aiko deigned to brandish her bat as if to make a point. âYouâre supposed to kiss someone under it!â
Eyebrows rising steadily, Flak nodded at the dangling greenery. âThe conditioning plant?â
At this point, her patience utterly destroyed through combination of snarky ocelot boy and this purple-haired dunce, she swung her bat at his shoulder, irritated beyond reason.
It was as if Flak never moved at all when he caught the bat, bronze fingers wrapping around the weapon. When he spoke, his voice changed from the unassuming, cool murmur to a threatening growl. âNo one⊠No one⊠is permitted to mess with my hair.â His eyes were blood-red slits, glowing as if from some deep source within.
Aiko, completely unabashed, shook her captured bat up and down, grimacing. âNo, you idiot!â she retorted, âit means you have to kiss me!â
She didnât even know the guy - nor did she necessarily want to kiss him. He seemed like a big jerk to her, in all honesty. The young heiress was simply flabbergasted by his defunct knowledge of traditions.
It was, naturally, at this time when Lucas chose to return to the scene of the crime. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. Who was this guy? What was Aiko saying? None of this made sense. Heâd only been gone for a few minutesâŠ
Letting go of the offending bat, Flak straightened up, brushing himself off. Staring down at the young girl, he narrowed his eyes into glowing slits. âI would not lower myself to kiss a being who tried to strike out at my hair.â
With a low growl, Aiko lunged at him, causing Lucas to grab both her arms in an attempt at keeping bloody noses to a minimum. âCome on, Aiko⊠Leave the weirdo alone. Letâs go find some different cake,â he muttered, dragging her behind him. Even as he did so, however, she still stuck her tongue out at the offended Flak, sneering at his oddness.
Flak watched her go, neither delighted nor bitter at their departure. He was often puzzled with the way humans acted. Perhaps it was simply the way he saw the world, he reflected, taking in the bright hues of the lights that swirled around the room.
His musing was interrupted by a dry, sarcastic voice: âWow⊠That was either the dumbest thing Iâve ever seen, or the bravest.â
Without a hint that heâd been startled, the lavender-hued young man turned to face the newcomer. His eyes widened a bit at the stark white, stick-straight hair. He doubted heâd ever seen hair more glorious - aside from his own, of course. A completely pale girl - truly colorless, not simply lacking much pigment - was standing behind him, dressed in all black.
Quite the quandary, he thought to himself, why such a beautifully colorless person would choose to dress in a void of color. Especially when such magnificent spectrums of color existed in the world and in fabric. As he cogitated on color, the albino girl started nibbling on something just as white as she was.
âWho are you?â he asked, voice inflectionless.
The girl shrugged, glancing around. âNo one of consequence. Just someone under the mistletoe, same as you.â
âAh, yes, the conditioning plant,â he murmured silently to himself, thinking back on a conversation heâd only just had with a blonde girl minutes before. Mistletoe is for kissing, you idiot! he recalled her voice.
As if he had no qualms about it, he leaned down and pecked her square on the lips. A surprised, agitated squeak sprang from her mouth. Flak had only briefly touched her before he pulled back, a quizzical look on his face. âThat is the proper use of mistletoe, is it not?â he queried, eyebrows raised.
Crystal, so rigid from shock and anger, simply stood frozen. Her mouth twisting in a grimace, she glared up at him, the hint of near-banter gone. âWhat did you do that for?!â she hissed between clenched teeth, magenta eyes focused in a daggerlike stare.
âAccording to human tradition, I was supposed to⊠and you didnât insult my hair.â With a smile - one that more closely resembled a grimace than anything - Flak turned on his heel and strode off, as if proud heâd mastered one of the elusive human traditions.
Now it was Crystalâs turn to be left scowling after an individual. She wasnât even sure of what his name was - but she knew that as of tonight, she hated him.
Her anger was about ready to spill over into little black sparkles of destruction when a female cackle split the air. A lower chuckle soon followed. Eyes slit, Crystal followed the sound to a nearby table. There, a short-haired blonde and a familiar dark presence sat.
Leeâs voice was the first one that addressed her: âThat was something close to perfection,â she rasped between bouts of laughters, smirking but not quite smiling.
Rayk was similarly preoccupied, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. âDidnât realize you and Grape-Hair of Wrath over there were a thing,â he smirked, eyebrows raised in amusement.
While he looked on, Crystal strode forward with something close to murderous intent in her eyes, only to be stopped when Lee stood up in front of Rayk. âSorry, but you look pretty mad, huh? Maybe you wanna chill down a little before you go all ragnarok on him or something, eh?â
There was an edge to Crystalâs voice when she spoke: âIâm not gonna hurt him.â
âWell, weâre gonna go dirt biking tomorrow, so try to not break him, yeah?â Lee replied, hanging close by behind Raykâs left shoulder.
âYeah, donât break me, Crystal, I have so much to live for,â came the snarky tone from Raykâs corner of the table. Dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, nothing had changed about his general appearance.
In the space of two seconds, the possibility of a civil conversation was killed brutally. The argument built up in moments, causing a very-argument-weary Lee to roll her eyes and receive the urge to repeatedly stab something - preferably in the face.
As she glanced over, she noticed something out of the ordinary - at least in everyday life. More of the nefarious green-white-berried plants. She couldnât help letting loose a snorting laugh, snickering at the irony.
The raucous disagreement was interrupted by the intrusive, knife-wielding girl. âWhat?â came the dead-toned reply from Rayk, glaring daggers - daggers not intended for Lee.
âHeh. Just irony,â she replied easily, pointing at the mistletoe.
Crystal began hissing loudly, ranting about how it was everywhere, and who possibly could have done that?
Rayk, ever the sarcastic one, simply threw a Hersheyâs Kiss at her face. She snatched it out of the air with a fair amount of grumpiness. âHere, this fixes everything,â he replied with an easy tone, leaning back in his chair like he was done with the discussion.
Nodding to herself, Crystal unwrapped her newfound treasure, stuffed it and a marshmallow in her mouth, and excused herself from the table and thereby the argument.
As she departed, Lee sat down with a smirk. Rayk simply stared, eyebrow raised: âIâm not thanking you for that,â was all he said before reentering their rousing discussion about the benefits of motorcycles verses BMX bikes.
Title:Â The One With the Mischief
Chapter:Â [x][2]
AU: Christmas, some mischievous prankster hung excessive amounts of mistletoe around Wolframâs mansion. Now, during the Christmas party, no one is safe from the mistletoe ambushes.
POV: Somewhat limited 3rd - constantly switching
A/N: Some foreign languages don't have a proper google translate equal for 'butt' or 'behind.' It is not my fault.
Also two titles because I made myself cry laughing over Mistle Command after Chuck vs. Tom Sawyer sO I'M NOT SORRY
_
No one knew who had done it. No one knew where it all came from. They only knew it was everywhere. There was no escape. Everywhere one looked, they saw green leaves tied together with drops of white peeking between the foliage, all together tied with colorful ribbons. No one could avoid it. Not when the offending plant hung from nearly every doorframe, every chandelier, and every out-of-the-way corner that most introverts frequented.
It was December 23rd - the date of the annual Christmas party in the house. The local high school had one too, but unless Zahra decided all the students should attend, the majority of the residents tried to avoid it. Here at the house, however, the parties were good, and everyone - including the younger and older kids - enjoyed themselves.
Streamers were strung across the room, blue and silver balloons floated all over, and peppy Christmas music blasted from the 12-foot speakers on either side of the room, courtesy of the red-haired Xido, who was always front and center, spinning the turntables.
Every mutant - and human - in the room was either dancing to the beat, chatting on the sides, or chowing down at the refreshment tables. 75% of said mutants-and-humans were consciously avoiding the dangling plants of doom. A good 20% didnât care one iota, and the other 5% were actively searching for mistletoe targets.
_
âCome on, Rivvy! You have to dance with at least one of us!â Jay - or was it Wren? - called to the dark-haired ophidian; the one who was cautiously staying square in between mistletoe bunches on either side of her.
It was decidedly Jay, Riven assured herself after a brief moment of mental focus. He was always the one with the distinct flavor of edginess and hard core destructiveness. That was how she thought of it, anyway.
âNo. Dancing is out of the question. With either one of you,â she intoned, eyeballing both of the citrus-headed bean poles with varying degrees of suspicion. She knew what usually came next, but the thought of dancing - in public, with people, especially Jay-and-Wren people - was not a pleasant one.
Wren sighed, shaking his head as if he were regretful about something. A quick diving expedition into his mind told Riven he was anything but. âWell, then, Riv, weâre sorryâŠâ
There wasnât even a moment of pause before Jay picked up on his thread of thought and the two spoke in terrifying unison: âYouâll have to pay the penalty.â
Riven shouldnât have been surprised when they picked her up by either arm and physically carried her beneath the dreaded dangling greenery. âI hate that plant,â the seemingly-emotionless girl growled. Fangs poked out over her lips, digging into the bluish-pale skin.
âAw, whyâs that, Rivvy?â Jay crooned, pulling her closer as if to make it better.
Riven didnât even turn to look at him, glaring holes into the wall as Wren himself sidled beside her with a devilish grin. âBecause itâs a parasite - just like the two of you,â with that, she stuck out her tongue at the nearest citrus head, slitting her eyes.
âHmm, I wonderâŠâ started one of the two, slowly working Riven into a corner situated underneath the mistletoe.
âWhat would happen,â Jay continued, âif all three of us are standing underneath the mistletoe?â
Looking up, Riven spotted the sprig. âKiss yourselves and let me leave,â came the unbridled response, a dry look on her face.
âI donât think so,â the two smirked, leaning down close. With thin fingers wrapped around both wrists, Riven squirmed enough to show she was getting ready to bolt.
âThe penalty,â they whispered, âis doubled, since you tried to get out of it. You have to kiss us both.â
âWill you let me alone, then?â Riven growled, flinty eyes glaring. Her face was flushed in something between anger and embarrassment.
The identical brothers exchanged amused glances before smiling like a pair of chipper cheshire cats. âMaybe,â they purred in unison, eyes slitted with devious intentions.
Saying nothing, their person of interest vaguely made a roundabout gesture as if she couldnât bear to say: âahhh, get on with it.â
Both boys leaned down at once, grinning with more than a little malevolence in their gaze, and paused on either side. âWhich one first?â they asked impishly, eyes flashing.
A red-faced Riven firmly belted out: âI donât give a pacova guza!!â
Grinning, the two pressed closer - until one of the two began to turn her chin towards him--
âWow⊠I feel like I should be surprised that both of you are ganging up on Riven, but⊠somehow? Iâm not,â came an exceedingly dry voice, matching Rivenâs for monotone, but succeeding her in sheer sarcasm. âThat seems a little unfair, huh?â
Two heads turned towards the new voice; Riven tried to squirm away unsuccessfully.
âAh, Ruin, youâre looking lovely this evening,â greeted two identical voices, smiling cattishly at the newly-arrived female.
For the festivities of the evening, a group of mutants had worked together to take all of her casual, androgynous wardrobe, leaving her with only a sparkly dress. Sheâd been whisked away by Cassidy - along with a fair number of other cantankerous females - for hair and makeup. Instead of the short, ponytail-in-a-bun-covered-with-a-beanie, Ruinâs hair had been styled in loose curls framing her face. The result was someone who looked almost nothing like Ruin - aside from the permanently-impassively expression.
âThanks, I usually do,â came the scathing reply, deflating a bit of the twinsâ mojo. She shot her reptilian counterpart a wry smile, crossing her arms in front of her nearly-nonexistent chest. Riven gave her a look that said: âThese guys, huh?â
Jay and Wren exchanged disgruntled looks, unhappy their game was interrupted. Seizing a newfound opportunity, however, Wren detached himself from his brother and Riven, sauntering over towards the shorter Ruin.
âIf you wanted to join our games, Ru, you shouldâve just said so,â he purred, snaking an arm around her bare shoulders as if to steer her towards the shady corner.
Ruin, eyes now tilted upwards into gray slits, became dead weight, refusing to budge. Wren kept his shiny-two-bit smile, despite his attempt at moving her failing. âI wasnât going to.â
âWell, you donât have to,â Wren breathed, leaning down. Riven stifled a snorting laugh, causing Jay to look on with the slightest hint of concern. Usually females were more willing to go along with their games. âYouâll get your turn, too, you donât have to worry.â
Ruin raised an eyebrow slightly, as if amused by the excessive flirting. âI wasnât.â
âYou look it. I know you are,â he replied, half-teasing, half-trying to regain the control of the game.
âYeah, actually she isnât,â Riven contributed, a smirk that showed a single protruding ivory fang.
Jay leaned down whispering with a smile: âDonât interrupt; this is interesting.â A confused Riven shrugged, like she almost agreed, and leaned back against the wall.
The two watched on as Ruin was replying to Wren in a sincerely bothered tone: âIâm actually more concerned over where the strawberry bonbons keep disappearing to. I canât find any anywhere, and Sam just set out a plate of them.â
Ruin was interrupted when Shift and Switch flounced by, giggling to themselves. Oblivious to the tryst going on, they stopped beneath the mistletoe, barely taking the time to look up at it. With zero warning, Shift twirled Switch, lowering her in an elaborate dip. Ruin turned her eyes away, uncomfortable with their proximity, as they kissed - both giggling like school children. Which they were.
As they departed, Wrenâs grin grew wider. Refocusing on their conversation, he sidled closer to the girl, causing Ruinâs own mock-anxious expression to diminish a bit. Without saying a word, he reached his right hand into the pocket of his dress pants and pulled out a handful of the bonbons in question. âOh⊠You mean⊠these?â he asked in a voice lower than a murmur, his grin widening as Ruinâs fell.
Gray eyes narrowed again and glared up at Wren with the force of a contained tsunami. âYou⊠areâŠâ she dropped away, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.
âA butt,â supplied Riven, grinning. âHe is a bu--â she was interrupted when Jayâs bony fingers wrapped over her face, stifling her comments. A murmured âshut up or elseâ came from their corner and then silence once again.
Ruin, still somewhere in her food-induced anger, snatched at the candy, looking on the verge of pouncing into battle. âGimme those, you citrusy son of a motherless goat!!â she growled, only to be held back by a skinny arm.
âAh, ah, ah, Ruin... â the source of her distress murmured, smiling the whole while. While holding the bonbons high above her head, he pointed above her head at yet another sprig of green. âItâs going to cost you.â
Scowling, the dusty-haired girl turned back to the food table as if to scope out the possibility of there being any more of her candy over there. She was met with disappointment.
âWhatâs the all-mighty penalty this time, Wren?â came the accusing question, still glaring up at Wrenâs extended hand. She had a feeling she already knew, and it was making her annoyed and apprehensive.
Assuming an innocent look - one that Ruin thought made him more devious in appearance than angelic, he leaned closer. âWell, weâre standing under the mistletoe, Ru, what did you think it would be?â he maintained.
Still hesitating, Wren saw he was losing her in his game. Quickly adapting, he chose one of the strawberry treats and held it close enough to Ruinâs face that it would quickly overwhelm her olfactory senses. Her eyes screwed up a bit, but it was more from the sudden motion than the smell itself.
âHere, look, Iâll even give you one, free of charge,â offered Wren, smiling in his own attempt at âkind.â Ruin, eyeballing him with slightly less suspicion, snatched it away before he could renege his offer.
Grinning almost to himself, Wren leaned down before either of them could change their mind - and while Ruin was focused solely on her newfound candy.
âRui--!!â Rivenâs warning squeam was interrupted by Jay.
âI told you to hush,â whispered Jay. By the time Ruin looked up after chomping down on the bonbon, Rivenâs mouth was preoccupied with something else - and Jayâs along with her.
âWhoa, wai--â it was her momentâs hesitation that cinched up her fate. Wren swooped down in time to catch her mid sentence, catching her lips in a butterfly-soft kiss. Pulling away before she could finish mumbling her grievance, Ruin was left spluttering. âWrendall, that was unfair! I wasnât expecting itâ protested the unawares Ruin. She didnât, however, argue against the punishment itself.
Her complaint was met with a firm tsk-tsk-tsk. âAh, ah, ah,â chastised a regretful-sounding Wren, âtwo more for arguing.â
Before she could blurt out any negation, Wren was back at face-level, doling out a brief smooch, grazing the skin and then dumped the remainder of strawberry candies in her hands.
He then proceeded to bound off with a smirk. âBye, Ruin⊠Iâll find you later for the last one,â he called with a wink, smoothing his hair as he wandered off elsewhere.
By the time Ruin had recovered, still flushed slightly, eyes narrowed to the point where they might as well have been closed, she turned to growl a threat to Jay. Instead, she found the other couple just pulling apart.
âGreat! Now I have to deal with his royal Wrenniness alone. Thanks, guys - boy, youâre a comfort,â she growsed, striding over to thump Jay in the chest none too gently. If she couldnât whack Wren into the next century, sheâd settle for pretending his twin was just as good.
Riven snorted, nothing changed from her normal taciturn appearance apart from her pink-tinged face and the fact her breath came a little faster. âI tried to warn you,â she offered, shrugging sympathetically. She could see Ruinâs discomfort, annoyance, frustration, and every other feeling that roiled around in her skull. It couldnât have been pleasant.
âWhatever,â Ruin grumped, turning to tuck the strawberry bonbons in a pocket - a pocket that sheâd specifically said had to be there for her to wear the dress. âJust shove a spike somewhere unpleasant next time you see him,â she mumbled.
In less than a second, a startled Jay yelped in surprise and pain. Turning back, Ruin could see a new bleeding scratch mark alongside his jaw. Riven, an ivory spike just sliding back between layers of skin, looked surprisingly innocent, eyes wider than ever.
âWhat?â she asked innoxiously, spreading her hands. âI thought I saw Wren?â The phrase came almost as a question, and her usually-scowl-graced face was slowly upturning into a smile.
Jay, abnormally growly, grabbed Riven - carefully - by the wrist and dragged her towards the dance floor, declaring: âIf youâre gonna be mean, then you have to dance with me! Itâs the rules!â
Chuckling to herself, Ruin shook her head. Between her family, Rivenâs, and the Twins, it was shocking they hadnât all killed themselves yet.
âAh!!! Ru!! Iâve been looking for you everywhere, where the crud have you been??!â An unsurprised Ruin turned to see a redheaded, tux-clad, red-heelyâs-wearing Yuu come loping over towards her, carrying two and a half plates of snacks.
âRelax, Yuu, Iâm fine. Everything is fine. Weâre all fine,â Ruin rattled off, hunching her shoulders and glaring at nothing.
Yuu, eyebrows raised, shrugged and shoved a plate and a cup full of eggnog into her hands. âHere, take this, I made you a plate but I couldnât find any of your bon bons.â
While Ruin glared across the room where she could see a tall, lone redhead, Yuu continued: âOh, and hey! Spade said that if we couldnât find them that she would go to the store for us, and--â
Ruin tuned him out as Wren turned to catch her gaze. A devilish smile etched over his face, As she watched, he waggled his fingers in a wave and raised his other hand to blow a swift kiss. Irked, Ruin stuck her tongue out at him and pointedly turned away. As she did, she couldâve sworn he was smiling to himself.
âRUIN, YOU DOLT ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING ME?! I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU HERE!!â Yuu was shouting in her left ear, making her lips press into a thin line. When she turned to give him a warning look, he grinned sheepishly. âOop-- G-Gomenasai,â he murmured, eyes dropping. An angered Ruin was something to avoid indeed.
âAlright, whatever,â she replied, staring across the room at nothing. âLetâs go sit down or something, Iâm starving.â
Acquiescing, Yuu followed her to a nearby table - the kind that had been set up for anyone not interested in dancing. Unfortunately⊠the tables were not void of dangling green plants, either.
The friends were halfway through their plates when something fell to their table. Ruin, curious, picked it up. âHuhâŠâ she mused, finding a white berry that was very out of place.
Yuu squinted at it, just as puzzled - until he looked up where it had come from. âAHH!! NOPE NOPE NOPE!â he yelped, nearly falling out of his chair.
Ruin looked up to see a section of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling with a purple ribbon tied around it. âHuh. Weird that theyâd put it there,â stated the girl who was clearly more focused on food than on another offensive holliday plant.
âB-But R-Ruin!!! Wh-what about th-the???â Ruin looked up to see Yuu fairly shaking and pointing at it. He looked like he was going to shake himself to death.
Shrugging, Ruin put her fork down. âYuuexander, if youâre cool with skipping it, so am I. Itâs been a long day, and two kisses are enough for me,â she scowled, obviously in a bad temper.
Seeming to be relieved for now, Yuu sank back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He muttered several choice lines in Japanese that Ruin was glad she couldnât understand. Within a few seconds of foreign swearing, Yuu went back to eating, though he would shoot Ruin a strange look every once in awhile.
They continued in peace until the table they were eating on disappeared. It didnât vanish, or melt; it simply was there one moment, and then was crashing into the nearest wall within the next. Both Yuu and Ru stood at the same moment, on their feet and standing next to each other before they themselves got sent flying.
What they didnât see was the cause - a very skittish, nervous Track had leapt clear across the room from a chandelier to their table, slamming it aside and landing on his back on the floor. Neither of the observers saw him, instead looking around for an external force.
A stormy Robin was stalking towards them, smoke swirling from both hands and eyes constantly becoming gold and then green, and then gold again.
Yuu and Ruin exchanged nervous glances.
âWhere is he?!â Robin roared, his voice coarse with anger.
âWhereâs who?â the cohorts asked in sync, Ruin squinting at him and Yuu staring wide-eyed in pure and utter confusion.
âTrack!â the curly-haired boy demanded, sweeping his arm around the dance floor. âI was about to ask someone to dance, and he ruined it! He rammed into me and sent me falling, and I fell into the punch bowl!â Yes, indeed, he had, according to the red stain square in the center of his shirt.
âOkay,â Ruin started, voice monotone once again, âI donât see him here, but if youâll take a little advice, youâd stop being a jerk, because no oneâs gonna dance with you, hotshot, if you donât chill it.â
âRuin, no,â Yuu hissed, tugging at her wrist.
He was met with a quiet: âRuin, yes,â hissed right back at him.
Robinâs eyes fairly glowed, his mouth twisted in a sneer. âSays the crossdresser who beats up the humies at school every other week?â
âDarn straight,â Ruin retorted, jaw set. Her fists clenched unobtrusively at her sides and Yuu began to shake his head slightly. If angering Ruin was dangerous, insulting and/or offending her was positively suicidal.
Chest thrust out aggressively, Robin strode forward and poked Ruin in the shoulder: âWell, maybe youâre out of your league this time. And maybe the little girl should run home before she gets hurt,â he sneered, smiling as Ruin shifted her weight, interpreting it as her becoming uncomfortable. He also conveniently looking over the fact that the two of them were already home.
âDonât touch me, Robin,â Ruin warned, her voice not the usual monotone, but a variant sing-songy tone. She knew the way this was going down, heâd start swinging punches soon. And with the way his fingers were sparking, that wouldnât be a good place in a room filled with helium balloons.
Another grinning snarl came from Robinâs face. âAnd whoâs gonna stop me, huh?â
Ruin glanced around the room in a millisecond, ears tuned for Samâs bubbly, laughing voice. She didnât hear him. Screw it, she swore to herself, adding a few choice Serbian words to her mantra. As if to steel herself, she slowly turned her head to one side, eliciting a series of sharp crack!s
âOh, boy,â Yuu breathed, planting his face squarely in his palm.
Robin shot a wary glance at Yuu but apparently completely missed Ruinâs cautionary stance. âWhatâs wrong with him?â
Ruin smiled - causing even Robin to watch her a little warily - and shrugged: âOh, nothing. Heâs just allergic to violence, is all.â
âViolence? Why would he be--?â Robin was interrupted when Ruinâs foot whipped up and around to nail him right in the jaw. In the same movement, as if heâd had practice, Yuu backed up three paces, allowing Robinâs unconscious body fall to the ground with an almighty thwump.
Watching through slitted eyes, Yuu stared at Ruin in a mixture of resignation and disbelief. âYou just had to knock him out.â
Still shaking her foot like it hurt, Ruin smiled - a rare, genuine one this time. âAw, câmon, Yuuseph! Whatâs the fun of a party without a bully to whack?â Then, to herself under her breath: âBut, dang, son⊠His face is harder than steel!â
A snort came from her flame-haired friendâs general direction. âYour shoeâs missing.â
âYeah, I know. Do you see it? Iâm trying to make sure my foot isnât broken,â came the snarky reply. Despite the teasing in her tone, Ruin was truly examining her foot and wincing like the blow had hurt.
Yuu came forward, grousing to himself about the fact that every time this happened, Ruin always got hurt, and he always had to find whatever sheâd lost. This time, however, his quarry was located merely three feet from where it had been lost.
Still muttering to himself his disgruntled complaints, he dutifully brought back her shoe. Reaching her hand up to nab it, neither were prepared when the unthinkable happened.
A flurry of black-and-blue motion, and then Ruin was being bludgeoned in an enormous, feline, cat-hair-covered hug. A voice mewled a loud: âThank you, Rrrrrru!â
What Track didnât account for was the extra weight in tandem with her awkward angle. As Track leapt onto her right side, she stumbled forward - towards Yuu. Trying in vain to backpedal, Yuu only fell to the floor, already seeing what was going to happen.
âNo! No, no, no, not again-!!!â Ruinâs alarmed cry was cut short when Yuuâs face got in the way of hers.
Track fell down, very, very, very puzzled when he saw two people - who he thought were best friends? - kissing. Hm. The human race was very strange to him, he thought. Without another glance, he detached himself from Ruin and began pacing the floor in search of Camron.
As soon as she could, Ruin untangled herself from the insanely red-faced boy, she brushed herself off. In all honesty, she was more frustrated and feeling sorry for Yuu than anything else.
When she extended a hand to help him up, she stopped when she realized his eyes were shut. That wasnât normal⊠He shouldâve been up screaming in Japanese about how terrible it was. âYuu? You can get up now.â She was too concerned to even laugh at her own âyou/yuuâ joke.
Reaching down to try to rouse him, Ruin shook so hard he flopped over on his face. âYuu?â
It took her about 0.2 seconds to realize heâd passed out. Sighing with the force of a hurricane, Ruin shook her head. She looked towards the dance floor where no one was the wiser. Growling, she struggled to pick up the body and take it somewhere where it couldnât be stepped on.
âSo help me, if I throw out my back, Iâm gonna knock you out again,â was the last thing she muttered before hauling him up and slowly making for a couch.
Title: 12 Years
Chapter: [1][2][3][4][5][6][x]
Chapter Title:Â A Civil Discussion
POV: Limited 3rd (Flick, Wolfram) im probably using wrong terminology
Disclaimer: I have no experience with stuff half of the medical stuff is guesswork whee I donât have a medical degree.
A/N: This one is short but it should sort of explain some things I guess????? and i had to do a lot of research is why it took so long, i apologize
Flick was sure that at one time, Wolfram's office must have been clean. But if that was true, it had been before Flick had dumped several files' worth of papers on the older man's desk.
Some of the documents were pictures. Most of those were different phases of a brunette girl's life. Some were close-ups of wings, teeth, scars, wounds. Several were MRI scans of the brain; X-Ray photos of wings, of arms, of broken bones.
The rest of the scattered documents were expense reports, order forms, written permission for certain actions, more field reports. All part of a paper trail leading... somewhere.
But where? And to what end?
That's one of the things the green-eyed, grizzled, young man had come to find out.
Flick just watched Wolfram methodically saify through the information - first flipping through a stack of photos, then reading through report after report after report.
The fox-like boy thought he would die of boredom. Ever one for action - usually impulsive action - Flick had a hard time standing still. Even after two nights without sleep, he couldn't stop moving. Unbidden, his eyes wandered to the door, to the basement window, to the scattered files...
He was sure Wolfram could hear his heartbeat. He'd only been there 7 minutes and 38 seconds - another recent habit of his included counting the seconds - and already his palms felt sweaty, his fingers twitched, and his nose throbbed in sync with his thready pulse.
In the quiet office, Wolfram finally looked up, drawn out of his silent reverie by Flick's quiet groan of pain as he absently touched the bridge of his nose.
"Flick..." His voice might as well have been the crack of a whip, given Flick's startled reaction. "Why don't you... take a seat," the spectacle-adorned man intoned, gesturing to the brass-studded leather chair across from his desk.
Giving him a level glare - most likely not intended for Wolfram - Flick sat. He still fidgeted and, after the space of two full minutes, he leapt up again and began pacing the room again, the visage of a caged lion.
With a single precise motion, Wolfram adjusted his glasses and swept the file back together in a collected, deliberate movement.
"I heard from a trusted source of a... situation... in eastern Canada. I presume that was you?" The silence could have been split with a meat cleaver.
Flick only nodded, an uncharacteristic grim look to his face. "It was."
"And the flight decoy in Tibet?"
A pair of narrow shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. "I never set foot out of the country... But you knew that." Wolfram took note of the edge in Flick's voice and filed it away mentally for later reference.
Losing interest in the direction of the conversation, Flick yawned and shifted his glare elsewhere.
Meanwhile, the pony-tailed man lifted a single sheet from the stack to examine. "Hmm..."
Flick's laser-like gaze flipped back to the man behind the desk. Once more, Wolfram mused near-silently: "Well... That's interestingâŠâ
If it had been his aim to capture the attention of the green-eyed man beside him, heâd accomplished it. âWhat is it?â The response was practically a hiss.
âThe frequency of MRI scans increased between the ages of 7 and 13âŠâ Wolfram flipped forward several pages, raising an eyebrow as he scanned the next page.
To the casual observer, Flick looked like he couldâve easily spontaneously combusted. âWhat does that mean, Wolfram?â
With the slightest of glances, Wolfram turned his back to the young man and strode over to a file cabinet across the room. âI donât suppose you recovered Mr. Herricâs files as well?â
Clenching and unclenching his fists, Flick dug through the pile of folders heâd dumped on the elder manâs desk. Finding the one he was looking for, he slid it across the desk with barely concealed agitation. Wolfram didnât respond as he silently ran his fingers along the edges of labelled file folders in the cabinet.
Finding the one he was searching for, he turned back around, brow furrowed. At Flickâs curious gesture, he tapped the manila folder. âAll the information Mr. Herric and Mr. Dare were able to provide of their family when they first arrived.â
Flick had to bite back the words: âAnd us too.â A cold feeling in his chest reminded him that the anniversary had been yesterday. Absently, he sat down, feeling the weight of his actions bombard him for the 73rd time in 24 hours.
Flick jerked awake unwittingly to the sound of shuffling pages. Nearly sliding right out of the chair, he sat upright once again, causing the stack of books at his feet to topple over. He inwardly cringed at Wolframâs inscrutable gaze. Straightening, he bit his lip so hard it bled just to keep awake.
Wolfram turned back towards him, holding out three separate sheets of paper. Taking them with bleary eyes, Flick skimmed them before looking to the elder man for explanation: âWhat are these?â
âBlood screens, surgery reports, and X-Rays,â he replied, pointing to each in turn. âThe blood reports imply there was a drastic change in Galenâs biological functions around her twelfth year--â
Flick interrupted in time to pick up his train of thought: âWhich was when Shift donated blood. Is that when her head scans started increasing?â
âIndeed,â was the only reply Wolfram graced him with, producing another stapled-together selection of papers. âAs well as many other tests. PT scans, X-Rays, CAT scans, MRIs⊠The sheer amount of scans involving radiation increases more than tenfold..."
Curiosity piqued, Flick learned in. Watching a man read files he'd already committed to memory was one thing; watching a man discover something he'd missed was another.
"It never stated clearly the exact amount of radiation used - not definitively, though there are certainly clues here..." The bespectacled man ran his fingers down the page, eyes searching for something. Entire paragraphs were sometimes redacted. Mostly just small sentence fragments. "Nor does it state the final count of radiation tests."
"Come on, Wolfram, what does that mean?" The green-eyes boy watched the elder man as if he were his last meal ticket, and he were a starving man.
This could be it - the piece of information that would change everything he needed it to. Everything that would make his absence okay.
Wolfram silently regarded Flick, then ran his hand through his graying ponytail. Removing his glasses, he sighed heavily. The aging man sank into his chair, the file again splayed on the mahogany desk and took a cautionary stance: "It means⊠that all this will take me time to go through these, my boy."
Though he didn't say anything, Wolfram saw the spark of defiance light up the young man's lackluster eyes. Wolfram continued: "I suggest you clean up and return in the morning."
"Just like that?" Flick asked, his voice rising in pitch. His eyes were wild from lack of sleep, a suspicious glimmer deep within them that might have hinted he was bordering on madness.
Wolfram regarded him silently, unruffled by the unspoken accusation. He didnât answer right away, first pulling out a what looked like a cell phone. While he examined the screen, he answered in clipped tones: "Just like that. I need to run some tests. Consult some colleagues."
Flick sighed forcefully, nostrils flaring. âGalen could be dying, and itâs going to take you time?!â
âLanding on the moon did not take a day, Mr. Jones. Please go and clean up. Rest, recuperate, and weâll continue this discussion in the morning.â
As Flick watched incredulously, Wolfram stood and headed for the door. As he cracked it open, he strode forward, grabbing a handful of the older manâs white lab jacket. âWhat are you doing? Weâ arenât done here!â
When Wolfram turned around, his eyes were narrowed fractionally, a warning gleam prominent in his gaze. When he spoke, however, his voice was unbothered and collected: âBe patient, Flick. We will resolve this, but something else has been called to my attention this evening. Shall we continue this conversation in the morning?â
Bristling, Flickâs grizzled jaw clenched, flinty green slits focused on the ponytailed man. He growled audibly, fists clenched into tight balls at his side. Wolfram, as if to attempt to bridge the ever-widening gap between them, rested a hand on the younger manâs shoulder.
Flick jerked away visibly, glaring daggers. âDonât touch me,â he uttered, rolling his shoulders as if to get the nonexistent stain of Wolfram off of his clothes. He strode to the desk, picked up one of the folders heâd brought with him, and spun on his heel towards the door.
Without a single backwards glance, he slammed the door open. Examining the wrathful Flick, Wolfram observed him throw the folder into his satchel with a rage rivaling the full force of Galen herself. He followed a pace behind.
His fingers fumbled and he spilled some of the documents over the side. Hissing under his breath, jerking hands gathered the papers. A flash drive could be seen stuffed between the sheets. Silently, Wolfram mused over the possible contents.
Taking a breath, Wolfram posed a question: âWhat do you intend to do?â
Flushed with anger, Flick whipped around to face him. The words that left his mouth were biting and daggerlike: âTo tell Galen what I found! Where else? Itâs bad enough she hates me, but if I didnât tell her--â
Wolfram interrupted him immediately, waving a hand to cut him off. Flick shot him a very confused look when the scientist shot his reclining chair an almost nervous look. "Flick, please calm down. It doesn't help to rage about this. She will know in time - it won't hurt any more to wait until I double check your findings. Then we can both tell her-"
When Flick opened his mouth again, Wolframâs eyebrows rose in accordance with his words. "I will tell her, alright? I've almost been killed, Wolfram! Just getting this stupid file!" Apparently, Flickâs wrath knew no bounds.
Without warning, Flick squared his shoulders up to Wolfram, the veins in his neck standing out visibly against his flushed skin. A single finger stabbed into Wolframâs chest, causing the elder man to take a step back with the strength behind the simple motion.
"So, if I want to tell the only person I would do this for the cure that could save her, then you will allow me to tell her..." Flick continued, cold and unforgiving as he turned his back, as if Wolframâs very presence disgusted him.
As if spent, Flick took a shuddering breath, his narrow shoulders shaking subtly. He kneaded his forehead, eyes closing like it pained him to exist. When he opened them again, Wolfram saw a thin film of moisture clouding them.
When he spoke, his tone was calmer and much quieter. âAnd now, so help me, I am going to go shave and shower."
Wolfram said nothing when Flick turned, striding to the stairs and taking them two at the time back to the upper ground level. Before he could completely escape, the scientist called to him again: âAnd after that?â His tone was challenging, one might think, the way his cocked his head, eyebrow raised quizzically.
Looking at nothing but Flickâs back, he heard the subtle pop-pop-pop! of knuckles cracking. âThen⊠Iâm going to try not to do anything Iâll regret.â Green eyes flashed dangerously before they disappeared behind a mask of hair and anger.
With a flash of movement, the younger man was gone, leaving Wolfram standing in the doorway to his study. He groaned softly, removing his glasses to massage his temples much as Flick had done earlier.
Everything could come crumbling down if Flick refused to relent from his streak of brash behavior. The radiation is key, he reminded himself, glancing back at his now-covered desk. The X-Rays, the redacted files⊠They all pointed to one thing. One common denominator that was constantly thrown back in his face:
Radiation. So much radiation.
Enough that shouldâve killed a grown man. It couldâve killed him, had he been the test subject, he mused silently, stroking his chin, deep in thought. With careful calculations and the help of one or two of his older contacts, he could be able to determine how much.
But if Flick had known the details of his train of thought, the brash man would have taken off immediately, chasing the lead like a bloodhound chasing a scent.
In a way, it was refreshing to see any member of the human race so passionate about something, but Wolfram took a fraction of a moment to remind himself - someone had risked death for this.
It wasnât until his eyes began to swim behind slitted eyelids that he realized that even if he stayed in his current position for weeks on end, it would bring him no closer to resolving the final issue. His mind was spent. He needed to rest before he overthought the matter.
Replacing his wire-rimmed glasses upon the bridge of his nose, he turned towards his reading chair in one fluid motion that belied his age. âYou can come out now.â
It took to a count of six until the hidden person slowly edged past the recliner. First, golden-brown hair, then puzzled blue eyes. Galen stared in utter confusion, and possibly a good amount of pain. Her eyes were unreadable, they switched emotions so quickly.
âI⊠donât understand.â All preamble was omitted, leaving blunt, dumbfounded dialogue.
âThe human mind is something that is⊠simply unreadable. And yet the heart is far more deceitful. It is impossible to understand it,â responded the worn man, spreading his hands as if to comfort her from afar.
Galen rubbed her bare arms, as if cold. Hunkered against the leather reading chair, she seemed much smaller than she was. Childlike, almost.
Wolfram allowed the silence to flow both ways between them until he deemed she had taken enough time to mull it over - and he could reasonably stay focused. âHow much did you hear?â
She shrugged, eyes glazed as if she were a thousand miles away. âNot much. The end. Shouting.â Her voice was a whisper.
Wolfram nodded, having expected as much. âMay I make a suggestion?â
Dizzy eyes suddenly snapped into focus, pinning the older man in her stare. Her expression seemed to take on an ironic disposition. âLemme guess - you want me to talk to Flick?â
A negative gesture quelled any thoughts of that. âOn the contrary. Give him time.â
Galen chin dipped in a facsimile of a nod. Her eyes had slid away from his again, as if she had a hard time keeping her mind parallel with the matter at hand.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet, confused, and guileless. âBut⊠I need to know.â
Wolfram sighed heavily, striding forward until he was standing close enough to kneel beside her. Absently, he inwardly winced when his knees creaked loud enough to cause Galen to jump. He tried to ignore the signs of aging as he continued: âAs does Flick. I doubt he truly realizes the implications of what his departure meant to you.â
He had to raise a hand to silence Galenâs imminent protest, as well as the shimmering of tears in her eyes. âBut I also truly believe he was hurt just as much - if not more - than you were, Galen. You must understand that.â To emphasize his words, he rested a cold hand on her shoulder, as if heâd never noticed the hostility Galen had had for him over the course of the years.
âHe never had the support network you did. He didnât have friends, and he didnât have allies. Even when you were running in your early years, you had your family, and he had Alex, and the others. Heâs been running this whole time alone.â Wolfram could see each word struck home by the way drops of liquid grief slipped down her cheeks.
Wolfram, his brief moment of understanding completed, stood, adjusting his spectacles with one finger. With the other hand, he extended it to Galen. Saying nothing, she took it, pulling herself up.
âNow⊠I suggest you grab something to eat. Perhaps freshen up - I donât believe you had the chance last night. Perhaps after that, you and Flick will return to your⊠respective roles in your... â he paused, searching for a word that wouldnât feel like a train hitting her.
Offering a slight sympathetic smile, Wolfram clasped his hands behind him. âPerhaps your âaffiliationâ would be more adequate?â
Unexpectedly, the small wolvish girlâs despondent face spread into a smile, her voice lifting up into a contagious giggle. Wolfram couldnât help but allow the corner of his mouth to uptilt. Slightly.
âDid I say something amusing?â
Galen shook her head, snorting with zero elegance, and sighed heavily. âNothing. I donât know anymore,â she replied, still smiling. Her eyes, though still tear stricken, were hollow now, as if every iota of energy she once had was disappearing along with the final strains of laughter.
The moment passed, Wolfram nodded decisively and let a small smile replace the smirk he had possessed for mere seconds. The silence stretched out again, leaving the two standing soundlessly in the subbasement.
âI guess Iâll take you up on your advice then, Wolfy,â Galen murmured, her expression once more withdrawn into a stoic expression. Despite the sobriety of her countenance, even a complete imbecile could have seen the fragility of her painted facade.
Wolfram graciously inclined his head, he paced to his office doorway again, giving Galen her opportunity to depart.
Heâd done his part , he thought - a part of community life that often didnât include him in its confines. He knew he had done as well as he could, given the circumstances. He crossed his office in six strides, closing the distance between himself and his desk.
Idly, he picked up a transparency. A ribcage was depicted on it. He could see by looking closely at the sternum that the third and fourth true ribs had completely snapped away from the breastbone. A circular chip disrupted the sternumâs shape. He let his fall to his desk, clenched hands gripping the mahogany of his workplace.
Perhaps he had done something good, he reflected in stillness. Or perhaps he had done something unsavory.
Regardless, the next step had been taken. And that was what mattered most.
Title: V-Day
Chapter: Drabble
Fandom: Revolution-M
Characters: Ruin, Yuu, plants, mentions of various others
Pairings: Ruin <> Yuu
AU: N/A
Disclaimer: This was written last year and my writing sucks I am sick currently and didnât bother editing it much and I finished it today donât shoot me. nONE OF THIS IS CANON unless it is and i dek why itâs humid in february please dnât kill me whawt have i done
aLSo I don't even know any of this the writing is sloppy but it was FOR FUN OK
and also caps lock because yuuâs a dork
Fridays.
I hate Fridays.
Why? Because of this particular Friday⊠It was the horror of all horrors, the heinous of the heinous, the⊠well, you get the point from my suitably awful analogies. I never did do well in English.
It was Valentineâs Day today. Okay, first it needs to be mentioned that I hate Valentineâs Day. Itâs not for the typical: âI donât have a significant other!!â sob-story reason. It was because, I mean⊠Well⊠Itâs sort of embarrassing.
Since I could remember, itâd been easier to act tough. Eventually people started assuming I was male. I went with it, because girls ran into problems when they were on their own - especially me, since I was completely solo. I didnât have a Flock, I didnât have a friend, and I didnât have a brother. Not anymore.
And Iâd seen a good many girls get harassed and intimidated and picked on and other things⊠So it was easier - and probably safer - to go as âunknown.â I mean, I loved being a girl - but for the sake of safety? Yup, androgynous was better.
So, when I came to Wolframâs megahouse, I was used to acting tougher than I actually am. Iâm pretty small - small boned, skinny, whelp-like. Easily whupped. But as a teeny whippersnapper, I can still cause some problems. And, in turn I had problems of my own, I would later find out.
What problems could there possibly be?
It was only 12:15 p.m. and I'd already gotten six valentines. From, uh. People. Mostly girls who thought I was not one. I did not like this situation. Not. At. All.
My friends were perhaps slightly disturbed, I thought. More likely, amused. But they didn't talk about it much. It made me uncomfortable.
But Yuu. My friend? My bro? My partner in crime? The guy had gotten probably around 20, if not more. Yeah. I know. The goofy, dorky skater dude with a snazzy fashion sense. That's who we're talking about here. You did not misread me.
I had the honor - nay! the privilege! - of sitting nearby, watching the whole spectacle play out. He was freaking out, the poor guy. A gaggle of girls had approached him during lunch all shy, to which he'd blushed furiously at before theyâd even begun to talk.
When they had started talking, all they did was embarrass him; then theyâd just thrown a bunch of heart-shaped papers in his face and watched, giggling. I hated that. And then people wondered why I hate Valentineâs Day.
Look, Iâm all for quiet couple-y people, so long as they celebrate on their own time, leave me out of it, and keep their traps shut. But if youâre gonna spew out a bunch of fluffy crap, then get out. There ainât room for you here.
I had to keep the laughter stowed firmly under several layers of "cool" - I'd learned from the not-so best - as Yuu tried to overcome the Awkward.
"HEH, ah s-sorry l-ladies, ai have too, ehm, too go!! Ahhh Riley's cousin--!" He jerked, kneeing me under the table as if there was something I could do to stop him from talking.
"Something important, er, hospital!" With all the sense he was making, I figured I was a feather away from winning the 'worst wingman of the year' award.
Jerking my knee under the table in return, I shot him a glance. Get outta here Y-Man, I tried projecting my thoughts in a Shift-like manner. It didn't work.
Finally, his whole head a tomato, Yuu stood up jerkily. "Kuso," he cursed under his breath, sliding his tray forward in a form of finality.
Flashing a broad grin, he gave his best "I'M NOT EMBARRASSED!!" face and turned on his heel, waving frantically. "Find me later and Iâll take your valentines then - bai bai!!"
He retreated in all haste, performing his "haha Iâm totally cool man!" strut as fast as he possibly could without colliding with anything. He passed Shift on the way out, who in turn shot me a quizzical look. All I could do was shrug.
The girls, still forming a 'U' around our carefully-vetted table, giggled and pointed and I swear I was this close to standing up and dumping tomato basil soup (if that's really what it was) on their faces. It galled me that these idiots thought it was funny.
The poor guy had been in shock! He was shaking! Ugh! It was a disgusting display of the human race as a hole, and I wished fervently theyâd break a nail in home ec class.
Growling to myself, I covered for Yuu when he bolted. Iâd kind of expected it. I took care of our lunch trays, made an excuse to the teacher watching (food poisoning - not uncommon at all) and then went after him. He had a few bolt holes I knew of, and some I didnât. I knew the skating places heâd go, and I knew of one other place⊠It was out of the way, concealed, perfect for brewing over an embarrassing situation five million times in your head.
Iâd check there first.
__
I was right.
Yuu was sitting outside in the schoolâs courtyard, knees drawn to his chest. He was smart enough not to sit in an obvious place: We had - over the course of time - dragged some of the bigger, smellier potted plants behind the stairwell, all around that empty space so it⊠well, so it didnât look empty.
It effectively cut off access to the space and allowed one to hide behind the closed-off corner. The only way to get in was by dropping down between 9 and 6 feet of empty space, through the gaps in the stair slats. Only a really skinny person who had a head for heights and darkness could slip through.
You couldnât even really see him - not unless you looked really hard with a flashlight through the stairs.
It was humid outside. So humid, that those icky flower-plants stunk to high heaven⊠or maybe that was just me. Ick. By the time I got down to the right stair step, I heard a slight scuffling noise. Yep. Yuu was definitely here.
I grabbed either side of the railing on the stairs and threw my backpack down to the ground. It landed with a dry thunk! and then more rustling noises. Through the gap, I saw my bag slide out of view. A pale hand was visible for a second.
âComing down,â I muttered quietly.
Kicking backwards, I hovered in the air for half a second, supported by the railing. I slid my legs down, scraping my knee on the rough metal edges of the step. My feet hit open air, and then I scooted my butt down off the step. Soon enough I was falling. The falling was always awkward⊠and it was the part that scared me most.
Flying, I could handle. But falling? It wasnât my cup of tea. I twisted my ankle a bit as I landed, and grunted accordingly.
âR-Real smooth,â Yuu commented from behind me, not meeting my eyes. Heâd drawn his knees up to his chest, but even in the dark shadows from the stairs I could tell his face was still bright red.
âYeah, well, Iâve had practice,â I replied easily, dropping to my knees and sliding in reverse until my back was against the damp stone wall. Yuu stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact.
It took a few more moments to settle into the cramped spot, elbows and knees knocking together every few seconds. Yuu returned my bag to me moments later, balancing it on two fingers.
Silence took over the courtyard once again as we sat in companionable silence. Couldnât see much back here. It was a pretty sad little area, to be honest. The only living things back here were crawlers that potted plants, and the only reason they were still alive at all was because of the weird glass roof over the courtyard.
Who put a greenhouse-courtyard in the middle of a school. Just tell me. Who even does that. And a better question - who puts a sign that reads: âWelcome to Paradise!â inside said monstrosity of a space.
Itâs like a bad travel advertisement. Hey, itâs snowy and dirty and gross outside! But no, look on the bright side! Inside this here courtyard you can walk in stifling humidity for 16 feet and then turn around and walk those same 16 feet back where you came from! You can look up and see the beautiful gravel-gray of the sky! The overbearing, unchanging, monotone clouds! The unending nothing of winter. But wait! Thereâs more! Weâll even throw in a few cactuses here and there! A few stinky potted flowers! Some bushes! Enjoy!
I was interrupted from my jaded thoughts by a slightly-shaky voice. âI-In case you were wondering - and I know you were - I had everything under control.â
With a sidelong glance, I saw Yuu was staring determinedly at his shoes. His face wasnât quite as flushed, and he looked like he was trying to breathe steadily. âRight,â I responded. âOf course you did.â I tried to sound reassuring. I probably sounded sarcastic. Oops.
Yuu took another breath, like he was struggling with himself over telling me more or not.
âSorry, go on. What were you planning to do? Were you going to accept them? For real?â I asked in a more concerned voice.
Red eyes stared at me in shock. I wasnât prepared for the rampage I was about to receive. âNO OF COURSE NOT ARE YOU INSANE, RUIN?? I told them Iâd take their valentines because I canât just turn them down!! And I donât have the strength to deal with those girllsss!!â Yuuâs voice was slightly accented while he was yelling at me. âIf I tried Iâd die! Iâd be killed! DO YOU WANT ME TO BE KILLED RUIN?!â By this point one hand was pulling at my sleeve and it took me a moment to remember Yuu didnât have super strength or something, what with all the shaking he was doing.
With a herculean sigh, he continued on, rubbing his temples like he had a headache. âAnd even if I do manage to get through it alive,â he continued in a tense voice that was bordering on shouting again, âtrying to carry all that chocolate home will kill me!! And if that doesnât kill me, then trying to eat that much chocolate will kill me!! It really just sounds like you want me dead, Ru!!â
I didnât bother stopping his rant. It was too amusing. I was probably going to heck for that thought. âAnd then I wonât be able to eat all of it and Pikk will get into it and eat it and share it and then die! And then Slate will get some and eat some and die!!! AND THEN THEYâLL BOTH DIE FROM CHOCOLATE POISONING, AND NO ORE WA SHIMASEN YO!!â At the end, he was flailing his arms around. âForget just wanting me dead, you want the whole house dead!! Youâre terrible!!â
By the end of his spiel I just smiled and shrugged. âYuu, itâs not that bad--â
âNOT THAT BAD, what are you, a sadist?â Yuu demanded, thumping one hand against his clenched fist, as if to emphasize his point.
I shook my head and nudged him. âWow, calm down, you goof!â I insisted, shoving his shoulder once more, hard enough to distract him.
He actually let out a quiet little grumble in Japanese when I did. âOkay, look here, Yuu,â I intoned in a firm voice. I had to keep from laughing at the unintentional pun I made. Ha⊠I cracked myself up sometimes, but for Yuuâs sake I had to be strong. No laughingâŠ
Angry and confused eyes watched me as I kept going: âWeâre going to go back out there--â He tried to interrupt me but I plowed on, âWEâRE GOING TO GO BACK OUT THERE, YUUSEPH, and so help me weâre going to overcome this insane crowd of girls that have become so enamored with you!â
I said it so decisively that for some reason I thought maybe even Yuu would go along with it. Instead he stared at me like a scared, red-headed gopher. I sighed and facepalmed.
âOkay, so you know what? New plan.â
âNew plan?â he echoed in a disbelieving voice.
âI beat up and threaten everyone who freaks you out.â To punctuate my statement, I cracked my knuckles and pulled my hat down a little further.
Then Yuu decided to have a disagreement with me. âRUIN NO.â
âRuin, yes!!â I argued, staring at him with a dramatic expression.
"RUIN, NO"
"STOP SHOUTING."
"YOU ARE A SHRIMPLET LIKE ME WE WILL BOTH DIE," he was shouting again, gripping my sleeve in a death grip.
"Ruin, yes!!" I growled again, nodding emphatically. "I will make it, and so will you!" I giggled at that, then shook my head. Yuu puns were the greatest... but no, gotta focus...
He slumped back against the concrete stairs, shifting like he as uncomfortable. Then, barely moving and refusing to meet my eyes, he muttered something under his breath in Japanese.
"Sorry, what was that, Yuucifer?"
Another grumbled reply, this time in English.
"Sorry, yer gonna have to speak up," I replied, slowly reaching over to dig a finger into his ribs.
He swatted my hand away with tenacity, but still wouldn't look at me.
With a last efforts I wiggled my index finger at him threateningly. "If you don't answer me, I'm tickling you until you pee."
This time Yuu grabbed the offending finger and glared at me with the force of a great typhoon. I thought maybe he was about to crack a smile. "FINE, fine!!! Okay, we can go back!! But you can't hurt anyone!"
I have him my best practiced 'innocent' smile. "Okay, I won't hurt anyone... But I'm not being nice to them, either."
He seemed satisfied with that. At least I thought so. It was hard to tell when he was being tickled mercilessly.
__
"Yuu! Yuu! I have something for you!"
I heard it from 20 yards away and shoved Yuu into the boys' bathroom face first. I heard his startled: "AHH!!! RU-!!"
But then the blonde girl was standing in front of me, blushing, and his protests were cut off. "Uh... hi!" she chirped, glancing at the bathroom door, then at me, leaning against the door frame like some lame skater model.
"Beat it," I intoned, narrowing my eyes in what I assumed was a threatening way. She looked hesitant and unsure now that she was talking to someone who was not Yuu. And she was still blushing.
"But I have something for Yuu...?" she pressed, holding out a pink card and a small box that was probably chocolate. I was about 70% sure it was for Yuu, and about 30% it was 'you.'
"Scram. He's in the john," I growled, examining the nonexistent dirt under my fingernails. I went with the assumption it was for Yuucholas.
She blushed more and finally shoved it into my hands. "Okay but can you make sure he gets it?" Yes! I was right! 10 points, me!
I snatched it and raised an eyebrow at her. "Sure, fine, whatever. I have business to get done, so are we through here?"
She giggled again and nodded before flouncing off in a cloud of girly perfume.
As the bathroom door opened, I examined the chocolatey contents of the box. I picked out a piece and stuck it in my mouth.
Hm... Not bad.
Yuu's timid, tomatoey face led the way back to me as he watched the hallways. He looked scared she was coming back. "Don't worry, she's gone," I replied, shoving the remaining chocolates at him, sticking the crumpled up card in my pocket. No point in flustering the poor guy further. From what I'd seen of it, it was a gushing doozy.
"Ah, thank goodness," he muttered, slumping against the wall.
"See? This isn't so bad!" I reassured him, bumping his shoulder as I spun the combination on my lock.
Throwing my books in, I hooked my thumbs in my belt while Yuu set the remaining chocolates in with Chemistry 101. "Yeah, it could've been worse, that's for sure," he mumbled, slamming the door shut for me.
We grabbed our respective books, bags, and boards and started to head out in comfortable silence.
Turning towards the doors, Yuu hustled to keep up, his skateboard bouncing up and down on his back as he did so. "Hey, Ru?"
"Yes, Yuustopher?" I kicked the door open and clicked my helmet over my short, messy hair.
There was a slight pause as he dodged the door. "Uh... Thanks. Y'know. For not letting Valentine's Day suck."
I dropped my board and turned back towards him with a smirk. "Hey, what are friends for, huh? Now c'mon!" I interrupted myself to loop an arm around his narrow shoulders, grinning. "Let's go find see a movie or something."
Yuu cracked a grin and shot me with a finger gun. "Just as long as it's not a romance!"
With that, we started boarding towards the Cineplex, laughing at his insanely lame joke.
titsay
stormborns
gummygunk
