#this needs work

[ririwithrice]

what started the spice war

pearl herber

[anacoluthas]

boiling rock kinda gay. what’s boiling, your sexual tension with other men?

[rubyttuesday]

my lazy comparative between greek gods and characters from the secret history (i didn't put much thought into this, and it shows)

Henry: Persephone (he likes flowers, and he's a bit creepy ig)

Richard: uhm... Morpheus? (he just dreams a lot, though it's not like he sleeps much anyways) I'm open to suggestions with this one

Camilla: Athena (blond hair, grey eyes. let's just leave it there)

Charles: Dionysus (it was too easy)

Francis: Apollo (mhm... he's fruity?)

Bunny: he's no demigod. he's a satyr. he's Dan the faun

Julian: Hermes (he's nice and all, but there's just something about him... I just don't trust him)

[pathologising]

lol biatch yo get raped again and kill yourself you worthless nigger cunt <3

this one ain't even good like can we get some more creativity ? Maybe use some different slurs I'm givjng it a 3/10

[mad-as-moriarty]

Jake Peralta. Sort of. I’m learning. 

[withastolenlantern]

The Meiji Jingu, still somehow standing after all these years, was as raucous as he remembered it. His father had taken him several times as a boy, and even then he could feel the weight of history in the ancient supports. It was the oldest operating stadium in Japan now, and it would be for some time, as it was coming up on its one-hundred and fiftieth anniversary. It was also technically part of the larger Meiji memorial complex, which lent it an air of reverence that made its total destruction unlikely. They’d updated many of the features of course; the giant holo board in right center field now glowed brightly through the crisp night air, and while the ubiquitous beer girls still circulated the concourse, snacks and souvenirs could be delivered by drone right to any seat in the stadium.

Unlike their stubborn American cousins, the NPB had realized the threats climate change posed to the country’s favorite summer pastime and shifted their season accordingly. What would have in years past been a pivotal late-October game in the in Climax Series was now just a late regular season game of limited import. The Swallows, the poorest team in the entire NPB, occupied their typical position in the Central League’s basement as they had in many years prior. Still the stadium was full to near capacity with families, young couples and the small but rabid fanbase all taking in the spectacle in the cooler autumn air. 

Yokota leaned against the railing in left-center and adjusted his cap down low over his brow. He’d borrowed it from his granddaughter, who’d be furious to know he was here without her. But this was not a social call: he’d messaged Midori and told him they needed to meet somewhere public and inconspicuous; the younger doctor was a season-pass holder, and forwarded his spare ticket to Yokota’s mobile immediately. And so he stood, taking in the first inning murmurs of the crowd as the home team pitched and fielded. On a normal night, this would be a pleasant distraction from the drudgery of hospital life. 

Midori strode up next to him, careful to seem casual. Yokota had warned his colleague to be careful, and to keep an eye out against being followed. The young man was carrying a draft beer in a plastic cup with the Swallows mascot Tsubakaru, and he leaned against the railing next to Yokota, as if taking in the game.

“Were you followed?” the old man asked, not moving his gaze from the playing field.

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure if I could tell, honestly. I’ve never had anyone tailing me before. Usually it’s the other way around.” Midori replied with a half-chuckle. “WHy all the secrecy?”

“I went to the police today. They didn’t listen,” Yokota explained. “And when I left, someone was following me. I quickly ran into the metro station and was able to lose them on a train.”

The young doctor turned from the game, looking incredulous. “Wha… who?” 

The second baseman made a diving stop on a ball sharply hit up the middle and made the throw to first, ending the inning. The stadium erupted in cheers, and the men played along, clapping half-heartedly.

“I don’t know,” he replied grimly. “I think maybe one of the police detectives alerted him. I think…” he paused at the seriousness of the implication. “I think maybe the police are in on it.”

“On what?” Midori asked. “The drugs? That can’t be possible.”

“Or at least covering it up,” Yokota countered. “Either way I don’t think it’s safe to assume they will do anything.” 

The first Swallows batter dug into the batter’s box, a wiry Japanese boy no more than twenty-five by the looks of it; his walk-up music was some J-Pop riff that Yokota didn’t recognize. The fans around them started their cheer, and the band in the higher right-center stands started up their player anthem.

Midori leaned in close to be heard over the din. “So what do we do now? Just ignore it?”

“I don’t know,” the old doctor replied, frustrated. “I don’t think we can sit on it. It will just get worse.” 

“We could go to the press,” Midori suggested.

“No, they won’t believe us either. Not without more evidence.”

The batter made solid contact, and drove a base hit just over the head of the shortstop. “HIT!” the holo board screamed, and Tsubakuro and his retinue of cheerleaders danced along the foul line. He was followed to the plate by an American, broad with heavyset shoulders and greying at the temples, he was clearly an older veteran still trying to prove he could make it. The crowd oohed and sang along to his classic rock walk-up in broken English.

“I think we should send the data to some of my international colleagues, quietly,” Yokota said. “I know a few people from an infectious disease conference I attended a few years ago in Sarajevo. Maybe they’ve seen something similar, or at the least can offer some kind of confirmation.”

The American cracked a stand-up double down the right field line, and it caromed off the wall, sending the right fielder chasing after. The base-runner rounded third and slid into home just ahead of the throw, and the crowd roared in approval. All around the two doctors, umbrellas unfurled into the dry evening sky as the entire stadium sang as one, taunting the opposing pitcher that it was time for him to retire to the showers. 

Yokota sighed at the simplicity of the scene around him, so coherent in its adherence to clear rules. The game would last nine innings, the players bat in a set order, runs were scored by rounding the bases. He longed to be a simple fan, to live only to cheer the home team and boo the visitors, to fall into the ebb and flow of the crowd as it lived on every pitch and every swing; to forget his cares for an hour or an evening. But instead he felt swallowed by the responsibility he’d gained in this mystery, reminded bluntly of his obligation surrounded by thirty-thousand of his fellow citizens. How many of them might fall victim to this new scourge, if he did not act? How many more lives might be lost under his care? 

He watched as Midori joined in the chant, knowing the words by heart, his face alight with joy. No, he must honor his oath, and he must do it alone. He could not risk dragging the younger man into this danger. The next batter flew out to deep center and the inning ended. The holoscreen began a reel of advertisements as the concourse became flooded with fans seeking the restroom, or concessions, or just stretching their legs. “Stay safe, Midori,” he whispered, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “Give my regards to Eiko-kun.”

Midori turned, confused; but the older doctor had already disappeared into the crowd. “Doctor? Yokota-san, where have you gone?”

[sarma]