#peyton-rose laborde

[alabastertempest]

OC thing: My life is not a game, My light heart is also sincere, My bravery is never foolish

I have given up my name, and gained freedom I have never known.

I have given up my ties, and gained an ally like no other.

I am a knife, I am a scalpel, I cut to remove and I cut to heal.

I am no longer a plaything. I am no longer a tool. I am not to be trifled with.

I am Goswin Vanadis, and my life is not a game.

—

Strife does not need to create anger in the hearts of men. There will always be justice, so long as there are those that seek it. There will always be hope, for those that look for it. Love will always answer after hate leaves it’s claws in you, and will find you when you need it most. There will always be those willing to fight for these things, to put themselves on the line to protect the innocent.

My name is Peyton-Rose, and my light heart is sincere.

—

I’m not selfish, or I try not to be at least. I’m not a brave person, or a foolish one. I only do what’s expected of me–what’s expected of a Doctor. This bare amount of effort isn’t worth fucking commendation.

But I suppose people call me so anyway? People call me strong, but I don’t feel it. People call me brave, but I’m not. Not until someone’s bleeding out in front of me. At that moment, I cease to exist. I’m a reaction, I’m a force of nature. There’s nothing bad about that.

I’m Blake Evans, and my bravery is never foolish.

[alabastertempest]

They drew their hand down their face, eyes half lidded, hair even more a mess than it’s usual disarray. Their reflection stared right back at them impassively. Clean shaven despite not having seen a shower in two days, small delicate lips, dainty cheekbones--they felt their stomach turn at the sight of it all.

Doll-like. Pretty. The words ate at their mind.

It took a significant display of strength not to slam the soap dish into the glass to break the mocking image. Instead, they turned away from it, though they could not escape the reality of what it showed and what it meant.

It had been years since they had last felt this low. Why did it have to resurface? Why did it have to reappear? Deep down in their gut, they already knew the answer to that. The shower faucet groaned and sputtered as they turned it.

Kota.

Or, rather, facing the fact that their partner--their friend--had gotten himself involved with a gynoid. Jealousy came paired with a sick sense of knowing. They had fooled themself into thinking that they had a chance with the other young detective. They had toyed with the idea of running their hand through those wispy blond curls, allowing someone so close to them without fear of anger or hate. It was a lie. All of it was a lie.

Just like the lie staring back at them in the mirror.

They stepped into the shower, flinching instinctively at the hot water. It didn’t matter. None of it really mattered. Kota was straight as an arrow, and they were a broken mess of pieces trying their best to look like a man. Maybe if they weren’t so, it’d be different. Maybe if they didn’t feel like stabbing themself in the eyes at the notion of appearing like a woman, they would have had a chance.

They put up some effort into cleaning their body. They ran their hands over scars and burns and scratches etched into their skin. The metal abomination attached to the stump of their right leg. Broken pieces, fused into the idea of a man.

The shower had gone cold before their timer had gone off to remind them to get ready for work. They didn’t care. It didn’t matter if they were early, if they were late, if they didn’t even show up for work. The status would remain quo, nothing would change.

Nothing ever would.