Outis' legs tremble as she sheathes her sword. slowly wiping the blood away, shoulders tense as iron. it's getting more difficult. fieldwork. the battles away from her desk. she always did prefer papers and ink, after the war, even when she was still nimble, spry in her steps. old injuries. scarred over and set into her bones. catching up with her, after all this time. her spine pops, straightening her back with a wince. she should've worn her supports- stubborn, stubborn, stubborn to the end. just like you always said, that twinkle in your eyes. her cane will have to do most of the work. at least, until she's back in your arms.
you glance up, the door creaking. a familiar sound, the push of one too tired to speak. Outis stumbles, collapsing beside you with a groan. pinching her brow, eyes narrowed with displeasure. you turn, setting your book down. extending a hand and carefully removing her glasses. the tension dissolves. her head tilts back to press against your shoulder. gently, you thumb over her cheek, pressing the shadows beneath her lashes.
"Long day?"
"Mm."
she merely shifts closer, tossing aside her suit jacket. it was unsalvageable, either way. 7 Association did not prioritize resistance to bloodstains in its uniforms. Outis sighs. leaning up and brushing a kiss over your cheek. warm and soft, a mimicry of gentle, familiar touches, her fingertips against yours when you exchange drinks in the morning.
"...Too good to me."
ah. she always did amuse you, saying things like that.
you dip down, pecking her forehead. tucking a strand of hair back, tracing over the twin earrings gleaming gold in the dim light.
You are the only PM fanfiction author that I genuinely like, and could you like make, a headcannon about outis being so lovey dovey with us after being months away from us the reader whose patiently waiting for her (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)(since outis is based on Odysseus and just based us in Penelope)
it's strange. unfamiliar. waking up with someone at her side, after all this time. her hand snaps to her blade before stilling. calming. it's you. just you. Outis exhales. closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. the war has made her jumpier. more paranoid. she can see the indents in the blanket, where her arms were wrapped tightly around you. clinging, desperate. as if you'd disappear again, vanishing into the night. Outis shifts. leaning her head against yours. so many years it had been. since she left for that dreaded war, drowning in smoke and ash. yet you're here. curled up against her, mumbling softly in your sleep. so sweet. so beautiful. her fingers twitch, trying to pull you closer.
ah. her heart is melting. something cracks in her composure, and Outis presses her lips to your cheek.
she drinks in your startled, drowsy laughter with a subtle smile, peppering kisses over your face and nuzzling her nose against yours. a soft, tender gaze. the sun shining gold against her dark hair. you trace each scar, every new mark adorning her skin. you don't recognize them. yet they're precious all the same. a reminder of her suffering, your shared loneliness. Outis softens. leaning her cheek into your palm, fingers curling around your wrist. stay. please. such a long journey it's been, clawing her way back home, home to you.
you simply smile. kissing the bridge of her nose, bumping foreheads with her. just like you did, all those years ago.
"I love you, Odysseus." as if nothing ever changed.
Nobody crumbles away into dust at last, and only Odysseus is left in its place.
she stares out into an field clouded with smoke. razed to the ground, gentle, swaying reeds nothing but ash. the air chokes her. the scent of burning blood and charred skin mingling, hot as fire. no. no. she left. it was over, she escaped. yet her fingers curl around her kopis. carved with every bullet, every life she took.
she did this. pulled the trigger. willingly watching the light fade from the opposing side.
"...Outis!"
her hands dig into the soot beneath her feet, searing against the scars littering her skin. searching desperately for something, anything, soil beneath the blackened earth. nothing. nothing, nothing. nothing but bones, cracked and stark white, crumbling in her hands. a bullet to the head. the ribs. the spine. a familiar pendant, tarnished and decaying.
it's your fault.
it's all your fault.
"Outis!"
Outis' eyes fly open as she lurches, chest heaving. her eyes dart around in the gloom- her quarters. neat, quiet. dusty at the edges. a hand gently squeezes her wrist, and her gaze lands on you, petrified.
"Bad dream?"
your voice is so soft. nothing like the screams, the sobs of pain from rotting bodies. Outis' head tilts. nodding. a drop of blood beading on her tongue between her teeth. the necklace she gave you glimmers at your throat, pristine and free of rust.
"...Very."
something she'd never admit, not to anyone but you. your arms wrap gently around her torso, and Outis shudders, melting into the embrace. the rigid posture of a soldier bleeds away, leaving her a pathetic, shaking mess.
perhaps she can afford to be broken. just for tonight.
her lips graze your cheek, light as a feather and twice as soft. she buries her face into the crook of your neck and exhales. allowing the tension to dissolve from her frame and pressing a secret into your skin.
Outis strokes your hair, sitting at the edge of the mattress. a steaming cup of tea in her hand, set upon your nightstand. your favorite. only the best from your loyal butler. yet you don't want even that. shivering in sleep, sweat beading on your brow. sick, ill. wracked with fever and agony, chilled despite the heat burning your skin. Outis frowns, tucking the covers tighter around your shoulders. shielding you from the winter winds that seep through the cracks of the house. how many times had she been there, to catch you when you fell? cradling you far too softly for a simple staff member, soothing words dancing on her tongue. her hand brushes your forehead, and you unconsciously lean into the touch like a plant to the sun.
a flick of the wrist to adjust her monocle, reading quietly aloud from one of your favorite books. keeping you company, squeezing your hand from time to time. the others might complain. say that she's neglecting her duties. Outis knows the truth. knows that her duty is to you and you alone- not even duty. devotion. as deep and unfettered as the sea she had once sailed upon, the name she entrusts to only you. not Outis. Odysseus. your chief butler until the end. her gaze flickers to you as your muscles loosen beneath her fingers. a smile quirking at her lips. briefly. just barely there. she hesitates, before leaning in. brushing a soft, delicate kiss between your eyes, thumbing over your cheek and hastily retreating, heart thrumming in her chest.
ah. what a terrible butler she turned out to be, getting so attached and sentimental.
(off topic sorry..) but I would also like to see your unpopular limbus opinion . In fact I would like to choose both poison
oh good, i get to complain. you'll regret this.
Spoilers for up to Canto 9 and Twining Threads Intervallo.
also, this is opinionated and mostly negative. if you don't want to see, do not click Read More.
most of this is about Canto 9 and its adjacent things since it's the most recent content and i have a lot to say. this is all my opinion and is not fact. mostly.
Canto 9 could have and should have been so much better. it's not horrible by any means, but it does not reach the heights of previous Cantos, and there were many, MANY missed opportunities that would've improved it in theme and just pure storytelling.
the Arknights Collab should not have existed. not in the way that it did. expensive EGOs aside, it took up valuable time and actively hurt the pacing of Canto 9. there should have at least been a pre-Canto Intervallo, preferably to introduce the Distortion Detective folks.
Canto 9 suffers from character bloat. a Distortion Detective Intervallo would have helped remedy this a little, but we didn't get that. 11 new characters in the House of Spiders alone when only a select handful of them actually mattered and got development beyond a few traits is ridiculous.
Ryoshu's time-blood thing should have been foreshadowed better. right now it's just a convenient thing that led to a very specific series of events that may or may not be ever brought up again.
that being said, i'm not surprised it wasn't foreshadowed, because Ryoshu is the Sinner whose path was the least determined from the beginning of the game. there's a markable shift in the theme of her IDs. it's not necessarily a bad thing. Hellscreen is short and peculiar.
if Kira got to live, some of the other Apprentices should've lived too.
Shiomi Yoru. Shiomi Yoru. Shiomi Yoru deserved better from a narrative standpoint. i've never been so infuriated by how a character was treated by the narrative before. Shiomi Yoru is a woman who has been used, abused, and is stuck in a house she can't leave with people she despises, arguably the Nursefather with the most that could be said. there are an enormous number of implications surrounding her and her backstory that could have been explored. should have been explored. we could have had character growth. we could have had Ryoshu discovering Yoru's past and being conflicted over the fact that the woman she despised has suffered so much. she certainly doesn't have to offer forgiveness, but maybe she'd have a greater understanding. we could have delved into the horrors of a forced motherhood, how Yoru had her freedom stripped away and her entire future confined to a role she hates. we could have had parallels, nuance, character growth. it would have been heartbreaking and tragic but still respectful.
but instead we don't get that. Shiomi Yoru's backstory is barely explored, and she simply becomes another cruel older woman, because we're supposed to hate her. then she's forgotten halfway through the Canto because Araya took her place, and that's more important than giving the proper focus a character like Yoru deserves. she becomes a non-character in the only content she'll ever get, even though it was the perfect time to delve into a character like her. some might argue that the writers don't want to explore those topics, which is fine and understandable. except that they wrote her with those implications. implications that deserve weight and respect, instead of just getting pushed aside because who cares about Ryoshu's mean old mom, right? i do. i care. because her story deserves to be told. and that is the biggest problem i have with Canto 9. what it could have and should have been, but never will be. and if not in Canto 9, then the post-Canto Intervallo should have been about the Pinky, but that didn't happen either, and i am fuming. if Shiomi Yoru has no fans, then i am dead. she's not a good person by any means but she deserved better from the writing.
Valencina also deserved more development. that woman was in the Smoke War. you know. the war that constitutes half of Gregor's trauma. the war that Outis was in, and is probably the reason for her paranoia. That War.
i despise Rien. he's not interesting to me, and his copious amounts of screentime could have gone to characters that desperately needed it. it's not like the Index will be irrelevant either. he's slimy and creeps me out, i hate him.
Future Sinclair did not need to exist in Canto 9. Roach King Gregor didn't either, but at least that was foreshadowed. Future Sinclair clogged up an already convoluted Canto, he did not need to be here.
anyone who genuinely calls Rien a good father while simultaneously hating on Shiomi Yoru is a red flag to me. they're both awful people, and i personally think Rien is far worse.
there is a trend to how the game treats its major male antagonists versus its major female antagonists that's becoming more and more obvious, and i don't think i like it. we'll see if Canto 10 remedies it at all.
kissing Outis' face repeatedly. cupping her cheeks and pecking her skin over and over, tracing the scars year by year. a tiny nick from a blade. a puncture, a stray needle. an old bullet wound, grazing her temple. your lips brush the bridge of her nose, and her breath hitches, nearly silent. Outis scoffs, pulling away. wrapping her fingers around your wrist and tugging you out of the main room of the bus. her own is coated with ash. swirling with each step, the door sliding shut behind her.
she abruptly turns, tilting your chin and kissing you back, a hand curling into your hair. only parting when your lungs burn, foreheads pressed together.
Outis inhales. allows her eyes to briefly close, shoulders dropping with a sigh. her head shifts to the side as she watches. waiting. expectant.
"Keep doing that," she mutters, an order to mask her longing. trusting, just once, that someone wouldn't betray her bleeding heart. never in front of the others. she has to be stiff, unmoving, a ruthless general clawing her way back home. you comply, smiling, and Outis' fingers tremble minutely.
only here can she melt into your affection, curling within the cradle of warmth you so readily offer. her sanctuary within the dingy iron cage of existence.
you met a creature, at the docks. crawling from the sea, rasping and clawing at the damp wood. not a fish. even the deeply mutated were not this warped. it drags itself forward, reaching. an attempt to grasp you. your hand. its own a tangled mess of arteries and pale membrane, curling desperately in your sleeve as you stumble back. sharp teeth split down the length of its body into a maw, biting through vessels and flesh- yet the monster simply presses against your legs. shuddering, tiny noises of pain slipping between its gaping teeth. it cries out in a warbling, garbled tune- a mermaid of the Great Lakes, singing its hopeless melody.
it does not bite. does not drag you into the depths, to be consumed by its master. it merely clings. creaks and clicks in a disjointed symphony, clumsily plastering a fin against your cheek. stroking, soothing the skin peppered with goosebumps. you shudder, jaw coated in a murky, rotten film. eyes flicking down to meet the beast's gaze, amber hidden beneath a haze of muck, before staring back out at the ocean. it watches you with something desperate, yearning. vying tearfully for your attention, scratching at its wordless throat with bloody claws, hints of olive buried by pale growth.
Look. Look at me. Please. Witness me.
the sun rises, water rippling in its wake. only clouds and mist upon the horizon. thus marks the thousandth day of waiting for your Odysseus' return.
home. a word Outis keeps repeating, over and over again. reaching towards the sky, one train car after another. endless wandering. blood staining her gloves in a thousand filthy layers. her fist crushes the spine of yet another corrupted passenger; watching them fall without a word. an obstacle. ice in the sea towards home. they'll be restored within a blink, anyway. unlike her. this eternal journey, wreathed in viscera.
not long now. surely. perhaps a few more days. weeks. years. it'll be nothing from the outside. nothing to you, drinking tea in that little house. her house. your house. that's right. you're waiting for her. even if it's only a day to you. the most wonderful day, for her. walking through that door and removing her gloves, hanging her hat from the wall. finally smiling through bandaged wounds and scars.
"I'm home."
soon. soon. one day.
blood splatters over her hand once more.
just one more infinite, repeating day, until she sees you again.
