Pairing(s); Gintoki x Reader . Gintama Cast x Reader
~~~
âAll men are dogs, but not all dogs are men.â
Many enter Rengokukan out of force, you regret the fact that you entered by choice. Your war friends think you dead, and you might as well be. Too bad the Shinsengumi have a nasty habit of taking in dirty strays marked for euthanasia.
A fic about a disgraced, crossdressing Joui war veteren who can never seem to escape herself even after Edo finds relative peace.
~~~
Art Credit
Tags; Reader-Insert . Angst . Crossdressing . Hurt with delayed comfort . Slow-burn . Fluff and angst . Secret Identities
Warnings; Implied/Referenced Child Abuse . Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment . Violence . Death . Crude Language
Playlist + AO3 + Quotev
Season 0 (Origins)
one + two + three + four + five + six + seven + eight + nine + ten + eleven + twelve
Just like my days in my many foreign language classes, I certainly made an attempt, and just like my poor Chinese, Spanish, and Filipino teachers, I'll leave it up to you guys to decide my grade! Did I make a passing attempt at comedy, or will I be sent back to the angst mines? You decide!!
Dont want to pressure you but any update on the Gintoki fanfic? đ im dying of desperation
I'M SAWRY!!! I really haven't abandoned anything, I'm just in a writing crisis. I know my doc hates to see me typing placeholder "BLAHs..."
In terms of No Soft Sounds Ch. 13, I finally jumped over the hurdle of corralling all the necessary characters needed for the next chapter (this is why you keep notes on npcs you introduce folks), so really the main things in my way are my day operations as a game developer and the block I've had transitioning back into writing NSS.
But!!! I have been handed new divine inspiration that I'll show off when that chapter does come!!! So let's hope after I finish my game deadline this month!!!
Also, don't be mad when I post my 3-Z zine preview right after this... I was persuaded by my friend to join and did this months in advance...
As an apology, have a measly scrap of the chapter...
The locker rooms are quiet when you emerge from the fighting grounds, quieter as the doors close behind you, the inhabitants drinking in the victor of tonight. Not Masato Okabe, the boisterous drunk that was never afraid to speak his mind to handlers and fighters alike, a man loved and loathed all the same. But you, Adzuki. Nothing of note, nothing of contribution to the inhabitants of Rengokukan's roster. Just Adzuki.
You can sense it, sensed it the moment your blade sunk into the bull's backâthe disappointment, the inequity of it all. You shouldn't have won, logistically or morally, and yet here you were, alive, breathing, knowing. You know this, and you're sure as hell the other fighters know it, a pregnant pause in their mutterings waiting for you to fill it, to offer some form of closure.
You offer none.
You are no savior, no villain, nor leader. Life had seen fit to take those titles away the day you shed the name of "Baki."
For our 2nd intro, please check out our final writer, Dolorem Ipsum @vivere-est-nocere !
In the Ginpachi-verse she is a former anthropology teacher who lost her license & was sent to 3Z after it was uncovered she never finished high school đđ
Hi! I just finished reading Jade Rabbits, I really enjoyed it! When are you going to continue? I can't wait :3
Soon I hope!!! I know I've been so unhelpfully MIA these last few months, but I've had some serious game projects going on and a development that I'll be announcing soon heheh (though I suppose the Mashle followers will not be fed by that one WHOOPS).
Anyways, I have to do some mandatory work to meet deadlines this week, but my hope after all that's done is to finally do my refresh of NSS and write Season 1's first chapter, and then come back and do the next part for JR! Gotta keep it fair with my alternating chapter schedule and all that.
In the Ginpachi-verse she's a teacher's assistant that can't seem to get any work to do, so she keeps busy by venturing on a grand quest to find the worlds best rice porridge with salted duck egg đŠđ
Just wanted to give a quick update since it's been a bit since I've dropped a chapter.
Lesson 13 of NSS is currently underway, just taking a bit because a) I'm working on making another video game (ooh interactive fiction time) and b) Because I actually have to go back and reread season 0 because I didn't write down the notes on the characters I made for Adzuki's backstory, and ~spoiler alert~, we're going to have some flashbacks!
As for JR Chapter 5, I'll begin serious work after NSS is updated, as is the usual back and forth process I have for updating the two!
Anyways, see you guys hopefully in this upcoming month, and happy holidays!!
Sorry for the continued silence! I've worked on and made multiple video games in these previous months which is my main hustle, hence my little progress here, but I'm this close to finishing my next few deadlines and then I can finally do my review of NSS Season 0 and put fingertips to keys! Happy holidays and here's to a new year!
Just wanted to give a quick update since it's been a bit since I've dropped a chapter.
Lesson 13 of NSS is currently underway, just taking a bit because a) I'm working on making another video game (ooh interactive fiction time) and b) Because I actually have to go back and reread season 0 because I didn't write down the notes on the characters I made for Adzuki's backstory, and ~spoiler alert~, we're going to have some flashbacks!
As for JR Chapter 5, I'll begin serious work after NSS is updated, as is the usual back and forth process I have for updating the two!
Anyways, see you guys hopefully in this upcoming month, and happy holidays!!
Chapter 4: Verdelune and the Notion of Friendship.
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i.
To say youâre caught a bit unawares when Lauren springs a âgirlsâ day outâ on you is perhaps the understatement of the quarter. Sure, things between you both have been as amiable as things between two Lang roommates can be, but you didnât really take your relationship as the kind where you pull each other to go out on the town. Nevertheless, a little reprieve from your studies does sound nice, and the local community has been a tantalizing trip temptation since you got hereâŠ
So, you end up saying screw it to your potions scroll (youâll finish it later and still have time to spare before itâs due since youâve been operating based on syllabus rather than day-by-day class deadlines) and don your civilian clothes.
Itâs been a while since youâve worn anything other than your uniform, and itâd be a shame for your fall wardrobe to go to waste collecting dust in a closet. Youâve just about finished buttoning your coat and wrapping a light scarf around your neck when Lauren comes out, dressed in a flowery dress and undershirt.
Surprise, surprise, sheâs going for the girly look yet again. Your male classmates just love it when she does that, and she preens off the attention. Itâs a symbiotic relationship for sure.
âSo, Iâve been meaning to ask, but what exactly constitutes a girlsâ trip for the great Lauren Cabesse?â You ask, eyebrow raised and arms folded together. Lauren wasnât exactly subtle, springing this hangout out of the blue, and youâre wise enough to see that there must be some motive to the madness. You just donât know what exactly it is yet.
She grins, giving away nothing but self-satisfaction. âOh, you know. A bit of shopping here, some relaxing treatments there. Maybe sprinkle in some makeovers while weâre at it.â
You match her sickly sweet expression, a silent indicator of your awareness of the ruse.
âWell then, what are we waiting for? My nails wonât enchant themselves.â
<><><>
âSo, Verdelune,â Lauren says, head tilted up as the spa worker slathers mandrake mask across her face in broad brush strokes. âYou and Drake have been getting awfully close these last couple of weeksâŠâ
A sliced piece of fruit is plopped into her mouth for her. She chews thoughtfully as you process the probing. â... Care to elaborate on that?â
You take a moment to crunch on the set of grapes dangling into your mouth, your face covered with a similar mixture of cobweb and collagen that keeps it conveniently neutral during such pointed questioning. There it was, the viper that hid behind a lambâs mask, and likely the reason Lauren dragged you out here. She made it no secret to you that she also had her eyes set on a high prize here at Easton, so it doesnât come as much surprise that sheâs taken notice of your⊠ârelationshipâ with Nolan.
Gods, even thinking of it like that makes you feel queasy.
While you hadnât entirely given up on Lance Crown, you knew linking with him was a beautiful, beautiful pipe dream that couldnât be bet on, and so you had dutifully followed your parentsâ requests to cozy up to Nolan, which, unfortunately, wasnât hard. Some batted eyelashes here, a kind word there, and top it all off with just the ghostly suggestion of a touch on the forearm, and he was as good as gotten. However, it was never catching Nolanâs attentions that ever had you challenged (heâd always, for some forsaken reason, had one eye on you), it was simply keeping them.
You knew how to keep themâof course you did, youâve always been one to do your homeworkâbut that didnât mean you found it any easier to follow through.
Nolan is a greedy bastard, youâll be both the first and last person to acknowledge the fact, and you have always known as such since you were children. All the best toys, sweets, and playmates went to him without much of a fuss, and his earthly appetite had only seemed to grow more warped with age. Youâd say his love language is physical touch, but you doubt thereâs any love to be found in the way he gropes at your robes whenever youâre next to each other.
Heâs a lustful, greasy sleeze, but of course, you still oblige him, just as your parents ask you to, their requests clearly written between the lines of each Yowler they send. Still, you play your cards sparingly. Just enough touch to whet his palate, but not so much as to satiate, and thus bore him. Everyone likes a good chase, after all.
Swallowing your last grape, you allow the attendant to lay cucumber slices over your eyes as you finally answer.
âJust a couple of old playmates reconnecting over our shared education.â
Lauren giggles.
âTight-lipped as ever, Verdelune? Câmon, Iâd thought this trip would help us grow closer, as friends.â
You hum noncommittally.
âYes. And Iâd say it has. Really, itâs been so long since Iâve been able to make such pleasant conversation with someone who understands the inner workings of life for girls like us at the academy.â
âAnd itâs precisely because of that that Iâm asking about Drake.â Lauren titters on, stops, pauses, and resumes, the smile evident in her voice. âBut perhaps maybe I should be asking about your little trysts with Crown, or at least, attempts at them.â
The slice of strawberry stings tart in your mouth.
âCanât a girl have options?â Youâd shrug if she could see you, but her eyes are still obscured by cucumbers, so you settle for adding the motion to your inflection instead. Honestly, youâre not really in the mood to get into your touch-and-go encounters with Lance, usually ending in him poofing off to gods know where while youâre still mid-sentence.
âThat she can, but I have a feeling youâre holding out on me, Verdelune.â
âMaybe. Maybe not.â You give the non-answer with a coy smile, careful not to warp your face too much with the mask still settling on it. âGuess youâll just have to wait and watch me work my magic when the time comes.â
Lauren huffs.
âOh, and that it will, Verdelune. That it will.â
ii.
The woods are strangely peaceful today, technically optimal for an outdoor class assignment, but eerie all the same. Professor Alan Abraham leads the charge, a group of students in tow, uniforms of navy and white walking side by side, but decidedly sorted.
Todayâs class features students from both Lang and Adler, a hybrid format meant to encourage interhouse fraternization and maintain some semblance of the fact that this is one school and not just three separate academies. Call it a godâs grace or wrath that this coincidental combination class holds not just you and Lauren, but Mashâs gang of merry misfits, Lance now included. Perfect in some ways, inconvenient in others.
Youâve skipped ahead, leaving Lauren behind to chat with some other boy in your class.
âSo, Mash, I was thinking that we could have a group study session after class? I heard you were struggling with your potions assignment earlier.â You sidle up to the raven-haired boyâs left, arms tucked behind your back in a feigned casualness that he neither could nor would care to sniff out. âI got the highest marks on my assignment, so I donât mind helping to tutor you.â
You actually do mind. Just a bit.
Not because you have anything out for Mash, of course, by this point youâve firmly established his personal harmlessness, but more so because of all the angling youâre going to have to do to accommodate for this. More time with Mash means less time studying yourself and less time with Nolan, the latter of which you personally donât mind, but you know your parents will.
Youâre a good student, you really are, but that aptitude doesnât come from nowhere. Hours of handholding Mash with basic concepts serve as good foundational strengthening, but will do little the moment your classesâ paces begin to pick up. Keeping your smile strong, you internally lament the sleep youâre giving up to maintain both of your grades.
âReally?â Mash perks up (you think he does at least, itâs hard to tell with his eternally monotone tone of voice). âYouâre so nice (y/n).â
A sour taste enters your mouth at that, but you push it down and aside, compartmentalizing with a neatness and efficiency most machines would envy. âMm. I try, Mash. I really do.â
âIâd say donât waste your time, but itâs impossible to waste something that doesnât have any value in the first place.â Lance grumbles from Mashâs right, irritable and irresistibly aloof as always.
âNow, now, Crown. We all want the same thing, donât we? To make sure our good friend Mash succeeds as we travel down the path to become divine visionaries.â You take the chance to slip in between the two boys, clapping your hands over their shoulders in a fitting show of camaraderie. Lance throws your arm off almost immediately.
âWe?â The double-liner rears his head back incredulously, as though youâve just uttered a joke fit for the lavatory. âVerdelune, I donât know what marks youâve gotten to delude yourself into thinking youâre anywhere near our league, but you need to realize that suckling off a professorâs academic teat doesnât translate into being a candidate for a divine visionary. Maybe stick to something more familiar?â
You grin, your eyes slitting into thin curves with your smile thatâs anything but harmlessly friendly. Alright. You can take a punch and roll with it; might as well see if Lance can do the same. âSomething such as your side, perhaps? Oh, Crown, if you wanted my company, you could have just said so.â
âThatâs not what I meant, and you know it!â He hisses. Looks like the answer is no, but you canât say youâre all that surprised.
âGuys, letâs not be mean.â Mash offers sagely from your side, chewing on something that you can already guess. âUnnecessary conflicts make my creampuffs taste at least half as sweet as they should.â
âMash is right.â Finn pipes up from the side, seemingly deciding now was the perfect time to intervene, now that someone else had spoken up first for him.
âAgreed.â You nod in understanding. âWeâre all friends here. No need to be snippy with one another.â
Lance scoffs.
âI donât recall ever becoming friends with the likes of you.â
âYou hang around Mash, you hang around meâweâre a packaged deal.â You tilt your head innocently as you raise your voice for a few people in your vicinity to hear. âIsnât that right, my fellow single-liner?â
Mash stops and chokes for a moment, struggling to dryly swallow down the creampuff he was munching on. After managing to recover (barely), he robotically turns his head back to the two of you and nods. âY-yeah. (Y/n) and Mash, inseparable single-liner friends who both have a line that they can do magic withâŠâ
Youâd feel bad for blackmailing Mash out of the blue like this, but thatâs what he gets for being without a line and so boldly bad at keeping that a secret from you. Allâs fair in love and war, and you, for one, are going to use everything in your arsenal thatâs at your disposal. Youâre not cruel, just pragmatic.
Lance quirks a brow and is about to protest again when another louder, even more obnoxious voice cuts him off.
âIâm number one! Number one, ya hear me!?â And you certainly do hear him, the loudmouthed redhead that makes his way through the class, parting students like the Red Sea of his own social suicide. âI, Dot Barrett, am the main character of this world! The world revolves around me!â
âYikesâŠâ Mash mutters, and you canât help but agree. Seriously, whatâs this guyâs damage?
âWhewâitâs revolving a bit more thanâWhaddaya think youâre looking at!?â You canât see his face, having conveniently positioned yourself in such a way that Mash and Finnâs bodies cover you, but you can guess the look: something akin to a stupidly slobbering dog.
âWhat a weirdoâŠâ Mash doesnât seem to care about the provocation. Neither, it seems, does Lance.
âAnother first year from Adler dorm.â He simply notes.
Sensing the raw testosterone being thrown about, Finn also seems to decide to mentally check out from the conversation.
âWise decision.â
âHey, wait a second, arenât you that mushroom head everyoneâs talkinâ about?â From behind your wall of meat shields, you hear Dot swagger up closer as he leans in on Mashâs personal space. âI donât get the hype. You seem like side character fodder to me. But then again, every story needs its supporting castâŠâ
âWho is this guyâŠ?â Mash asks a question that likely wonât go unanswered for long, considering how much this Barrett guy seems to love announcing himself. As you think this, he acts out right on cue.
âI told you! Iâm Dot Barrett, and Iâm the main character of thisââ
Dotâs craned his head so far over Mashâs shoulder that you can finally see his face, single crooked line and bandana and all. The same goes for his ability to see you.
He freezes. You keep smiling but just stare straight ahead without making eye contact. Never acknowledge losers like this. Your mother taught you as much.
âMash!â A familiar voice suddenly calls out, thankfully diverting attention away from you. Lemon Irvine, the final piece to this gang of unlikely friends, runs forward, eyes trained on Mash and Mash alone. She skips along with such innocent joy that even youâre left envying her lack of technique in the ways of wooing.
âOh, Mash, Iâm glad I found you! These woods are a bit spooky, arenât they?â She twists her heel into the ground bashfully, and you make a mental note to save the action to your personal lexicon of moves. âI donât think Iâll push myself too hard, so make sure you take care of yourself, alright?â
âThanks.â Mash takes Lemonâs worries with all the grace and enthusiasm of a bull on melatonin in a china shop. Still, she takes it in stride. Atta girl.
âI was wondering, actually, if I could tag along withââ
âHey.â
Time almost seems to come to a standstill as Mash turns from Lemon, only to be met with a mouthful of saliva to the cheek. Spit. The maniac actually spat on his face. You stare. Lemon stares. Finn stares. Hell, even Lance stares.
Mash raises a hand to his cheek. âHuhâŠ?â
The culprit, Dot, looks on absolutely shamelessly as he wipes a spare trickle from his lips, eyes burning with a shounen-esque fire that could never come close to justifying his actions.
âIâll kill you!â He roars, gripping at his head and writhing like a madman with a coat full of vermin. âGods, I frigginâ hate guys like you who get all the attention from women! Iâll kill ya, Iâll triple dog kill ya!â
He goes on to say something or other about population percentages, the male loneliness epidemic, and other such excuses for his single status, but your parents taught you that hearing out the ravings of a lunatic is decidedly beneath your station, and so you instead turn back to Lance without so much as a stray glance at the redheaded public menace.
You clasp your hands together and lean forward. âSo where were we? Oh yes, Mash and I are a package deal. So if youâre really so deadset on being his friend, I suppose youâll have to accept me into your fold as well.â
âNow, when did I ever say Meathead and I were friends?â Lance scowls as he leans back, keeping a firm space between the two of you. âIâm just looking out for potential competition, is all.â
âThen you better keep your best eye on me.â You wink and he blanches. Cheesy, yes, but keep layering on the sugar and eventually heâll grow dependent on your constant flirting, even if he resists the notion. You call it the âcast and reelâ technique. Now, if only you could cast spells with your mana as well as you could with your charismaâŠ
âAugh! Why wonât you listen to me!?â Dotâs shrieking rises to a new all-time high. âIâm ranting over here, and you ignoring me just bruises my ego! Canât you see that Iâm the mainââ
âThat is enough. Quiet down, all of you.â
Professor Abrahamâs voice cuts clear through the chattering with a decided finality, the echo of his low baritone register bouncing off the trees and shrubbery around you as a very familiar green swath of flames converges at the front of the clearing your class stands in. Even Dot, loud as he is, is made silent by the intervention, his face no longer contorting in comedic rage.
âStudents of Adler and Lang, I welcome you to todayâs exercise. Today you will have the opportunity to earn bronze or silver coins.â Murmurs of excitement break out amongst the crowd. Your ears perk up, and you fully turn from Lance to pay closer attention. The double-liner scoffs and folds his arms, but cranes his neck as well to hear the rest of the details. The professor drones on. âBut of course, like all opportunities to advance in this school, it wonât be easy.â
âYou can say that again.â
âYou will be tasked with the extermination of forest scorpions. Bring back the stones embedded in their foreheads, and I will reward you with the corresponding coin.â With a wave of his wand, Professor Abraham conjures up flickering images of said creatures in the air above you, the visions tinted purple and pink with magical runes around the edges, the only indication that such lifelike imagery is in fact just an illusion.
He narrows his eyes.
âI must warn you, though. Most scorpions will be of the bronze variety, but a select fewâthose with square embedsâwill net you a silver coin, should you successfully defeat them. Ordinary magic users have very little chance at standing against them, but, seeing as you are all students of Easton, I donât see any issue in challenging you.â
A swell of warm pride enters your chest. Thatâs right, isnât it? Considering all thatâs happened as of recent, you havenât had much time to really let it sink in, the fact that you made it into Easton Academy of all places. Sure, you know you have areas in sore need of improvement, but at least by some metric, you are a cut above the rest, even if it comes from things that Lance and other naysayers will label as âcheap tricks.â For a moment, if even just that, your smile is genuine.
âNow, enter in a neat and orderly fashion.â The professor stops, pauses, advises. â... And do what you must to survive.â
iii.
The air near crackles with energy as the class files in towards the deeper sect of the woods, murmurs of plans to grind for coins or simply float on by without engaging filling the air.
Dot, in all his pompousness, spits one last time, this time at Mashâs feet, before muttering something about âa damn extra getting in his wayâ and stomping off. He, of course, also doesnât leave without sending you a curious glance, at which point you slide in next to Lance, who promptly slides away. Slightly more deflated, but somehow still burning with the fire of a thousand wrathful suns, Dot disappears into the brush.
âDeranged tryhards aside, itâd be nice to get some more coins under my name.â Lance says scooching away every time you try to get closer until the both of you are practically revolving around Mash like a pair of animatronics in a giant cuckoo clock. The false single-liner decidedly chooses to ignore directly addressing your antics, instead, grabbing the locket around Lanceâs neck and flashing it at him.
The moment the blue-haired boyâs eyes make contact with the image of his sister, heâs down for the count, throwing himself at a tree, both out of sheer overwhelming (platonic and familial) love for her and what you can only guess as sheer revulsion for you. You hurriedly rush over to check on Lance, considering he just smashed himself against solid bark, but Mash continues to look unmoved, signalling something about this reaction must be normal to a certain extent.
âIâm with you there.â Is all he says.
As a slightly bloodied Lance shoves your helping hands away, youâre inclined to make a move to agree with the sentiment of coin collecting, but your voice is cut off by a sharp whistle.
It seems that almost in an instant, another boy, cloaked in the familiar whites and purples of your dorm, is at Mashâs side, hand on his shoulder like theyâve known each other for years. He whispers something into his ear, something you canât make out, the smile never leaving his face.
Almost immediately, alarm bells ring in your head. Pulling from the social lexicon that is your brain, you analyze the student as you rake your memory for a matching identity.
Silver hair lies cropped short to his head, beady red eyes filled with a strange mirth as his grin stretches from one end to another, the muscle movement warping the two lines that fall from the bottom of his eyes to the tips of his ears, as well as the two piercings above his left eyebrow. Heâs taller than most other students, and thereâs a boldness to his movements that shows this isnât his first rodeo out here.
It takes a second, but soon enough, you find your match, just as silver rocks jut out from the ground and smash into Mashâs abdomen. You bite your lip and take a step back as his body collapses forward. Yes, that spell sealed it, this is definitelyâ
âSilva Iron. Red mage. First year by school rank, due to being held back for his many misdemeanors, some of which include the bodily harm of several students and professors. His continued enrollment in the academy is a testament to the potential they see in him despite this.â
Without thinking, you throw down the embroidered handkerchief you were going to offer to Lance (heâs a big boy, he can dust himself off) and hurry to Mashâs side, just as Professor Abraham turns to shout.
âWhat do you think youâre doing over there!? Iâll mark you down for misbehavior!â
Silva speaks first before any of you can interject. âSorry, Professor! Just a bit of friendly horsing around! Right, pals?â
The stare he affixes you with quickly shuts up any amendment youâre about to make to his statement. You look down, and the deathly glow of Mashâs golden eyes only shuts you up further.
Seemingly content with the reaction, Silva bids your lot a cheerful goodbye that suggests that this is far from the last youâll see from him, and departs, disappearing as the trees swallow his figure whole. Mash moves to get up, maybe even go after him, but a recovering Lance and you place your hands on both of his shoulders to ground him. Looking for a fight during a time like this, especially with Silva, is just asking for trouble.
âDonât bother.â Lance voices for you out loud as he explains Silva to the uninitiated Mash. Nothing new that you havenât recalled, all save for the tidbit he adds at the end with a special sort of venom. âLang dorm is chalk full of people like him. Itâs best to avoid them all.â
He looks at you pointedly, but you force yourself not to waver as you help Mash to his feet.
So what? Maybe thereâs an inkling of truth in what he said. After all, you know what you are, and what you are is no saint by any means, but at the very least, you have your reasons for being another snake in the bush. Besides, Mister High-and-Mighty-Hardon-for-His-Sis is certainly not someone youâre going to let judge you. Youâre just about to enlighten him to his new nickname and suffer the consequences for it when Mash (thankfully) shatters the atmosphere, as is his god-given right.
âOh phew.â He dusts off his robe and pulls out a familiar pastry. âFor a second there, I thought that dork smashed my creampuff.â
âSeriouslyâŠ?â Lance, still seemingly uninitiated to just how deep Mashâs obsession goes, turns his ire from you momentarily. âThatâs what that killer look was for?â
âHe lives and dies by his creampuffs, Crown.â You shake your head as you get up and begin to walk away. âTry to keep that in mind while youâre off collecting coins.â
âAnd where do you think youâre going, Verdelune?â Lance raises an eyebrow at your retreating from. Funny, considering that youâre giving him exactly what he wanted just moments before.
âWhile I loathe to break hearts any further with my absence, I can tell when I am not wantedââ
âMm. Experience says otherwise.â You ignore him.
ââAnd though you may think so little of me, I am, like you, a proud student of Easton Magic Academy, and intend to continue acting as such. Scoff all you want, Crown, but Iâm here to get coins, same as you.â
To that, he has nothing to say, just a sour look to make, which leaves you quite satisfied. Mash is similarly speechless, though you have just an inkling of a feeling itâs more connected to his general laissez-faire attitude and the fact that heâs too busy shoveling his robe-stashed creampuff in his mouth to care.
âToodle boys.â You give a lazy wave as you turn your back to them, setting off alone, in search of coins, and by proxy, scorpions.
<><><>
âWench!â
âAnd here I thought I was escaping the drama when I found you.â You deadpan at Laurenâs side as she cowers against the tongue-lashing one of your classmates is giving her.
Shortly after leaving Mash and Lance to whatever those two would classify their own devices as, you quickly stumbled into Lauren, who offered to partner with you on your quest for coins. Seeing as she herself had little interest in earning any, and was quite content with playing an emergency support role, you agreed to her proposition.
And so you spent a grand total of five minutes in peace searching until a boy with dirty light brown hair came barreling at the two of you, several choice words leaving his mouth the instant his eyes landed on your roommate. Now here you are, lying witness to the scolding of the century (about what, youâre still not quite sure) as Lauren cringes away from a very angry boyâs list of grievances, each one punctuated by the (attempted) threatening wave of his wand.
âReally, Verdelune, thatâs on you. You should have known me better than to expect anything other than drama.â Lauren comments, now raising her hand to shield herself from her opponentâs barrage of spittle. Honestly, is he even speaking coherently anymore? You canât quite tell. It all just sounds like dog barks at this point.
âPoo on me then.â You sigh.
âThatâs right. Poo on you.â She sniffs, then smiles wryly. âYouâre in luck though. Watch this.â
Incredulous, you wince as she screams out a cry that nearly shatters your eardrums, shaking damn near the whole forest with its decibels.
âSomeone, pleaseâhelp me!â
âŠ
âSeriously, Cabesse? Do you really think thatâs going toââ
âExplomb.â
A burst of fiery heat has you and Lauren holding up your arms to shield your faces, the epicenter targeted directly on the student who had just been berating her for gods know what. As the wind from said explosion clears it away, you lower your hands, only to see a very charred boy sinking to the ground, and behind him, another surprising sight: that weirdo, Dot, and your good chum, Mash.
âRaising your hands against girls⊠Youâre so done as a guy.â Dot says, and all at once, you notice that itâs his arm extended and wand out that must connect to the pyrotechnics youâve just laid witness to.
âInteresting⊠So he does have some sizable power to himâŠâ
The notion mildly surprises you. You had, after all, written him off as a dog with all bark and very underwhelming bite, considering his personality.
Just as youâre reweighing Dotâs potential contributions to society, Lauren shoves past you, hard, and runs up to the two boys.
âU-umâŠâ You struggle to remain upright from the force she pushed you with, and turn to see her moving to clasp both hands to her chest as she faces Dot. âThank you. For saving me, that is.â
Dot is stunned. So are you. Of the two of you, though, heâs the quicker one to recover and say something, even if it takes a few breaths for him to calm himself down.
âNo worries, maâam. All in the duty of anâACKââ He chokes as Lauren clasps her hands around his, seeming to hyperventilate at the contact between them.
âMy hero⊠Gosh, youâre so strong.â She coos, and you have to fight the urge to look away in secondhand embarrassment. What the fuck is she doing, acting like this!? Sure, youâve seen her play it up for guys in your classes, and you have as well, but never to an extent like this. This was just sickening. Insulting, if you could go as far as to say that.
âYouâre seriously so macho manlyâŠâ She purrs, and it feels like your tooth is going to crack from the pressure of the smile youâve forced onto your face.
Honestly, you have half a mind to âExplombâ the happy couple themselves.
<><><>
So⊠Here you are⊠Four students, sitting on a log in the middle of nowhere, doing absolutely jackshit.
At the very least, things have wound down, and Laurenâs not throwing herself all over Dot (at least, not yet), but that offers you surprisingly little relief. Youâre supposed to be coin hunting, damnit! But no⊠Lauren says sheâs tired, so of course you all have to sit and rest your feet and twiddle your thumbs.
Maybe you spoke too soon though, because just as you think these thoughts, Lauren pushes you away to propel herself closer to Dot yet again, offering a smile with a timid voice that doesnât suit her in the slightest.
âThank you so much again for what you did earlier.â She leans in close enough that youâre sure he can smell the blueberry perfume that emanates from her, pulling him further under her influence. âThat was so heroic of you for coming to my rescue.â
She bats her eyes. Then bats them again. Your jaw drops.
This bitch⊠She just stole one of your signature moves! And used it on whom? Dot!?
âI-it was nothing. Ha-ah-appy to help, anytime⊠Ah!â He nearly squeals as Lauren moves to make knee-to-knee contact with him, taking another set of deep breaths to calm himself down.
It doesnât seem to work, though, as he slaps his face with both hands and begins chanting âCool, cool, cool!â like some sort of charms spell.
This finally seems to break Lauren, if only for a moment, as she flinches back and gives the most turned-off look youâve ever seen in a girl.
âThe hellâŠ? What a weirdoâŠâ
âHuh?â Dot turns back to her. âYou say somethinâ?â
âO-oh!â Lauren jumps, caught in the act. âI was justâŠjust marveling at how manly and wonderful you are, thatâs all!â
âWonderful has three syllables, but I think I only heard twoâŠâ
âItâs the truth!â Lauren insists and tilts her head just so (again, stealing your moves but who cares, right!?). âLet me say it again, then. You really are so wonderful.â
Dot, losing the vague grip on reality he had grasped just a moment ago, is down faster than you can utter a quick unlock spell, smashing his head into the ground and spasming like a bug trying to attract a mate.
Lauren shifts. Looks like sheâs making a move for Mash now.
âOho no, no, no. Not on my watch.â
âCabesse, can I speak to you for a moment?â You ask, but itâs decidedly not a question as you snatch Lauren away and pull her to the edge of the clearing behind a tree, far enough away and obscured enough that your conversation will be private from the boys. Just for added security, though, you cast a silencing spell. No covers will be blown. For now.
âSo⊠What in the nine hells is going on here?â You cut to the chase immediately, nearly slamming her into the tree. Lauren winces. Youâd feel a little more bad if she didnât shove you twice before. âI get buttering up guys, but youâre scheming something weird with Dot, and to be frank, itâs disgusting.â
âReal rich coming from the girl who was throwing herself at Crown thirty minutes ago.â Lauren, upon recovering from the drag here, rolls her eyes and sneers. âIâve seen desperation, and then Iâve seen you with him.â
You scrunch your nose. True, you were being a bit more on the overtly aggressive side earlier, but circumstances called for it, and besidesâ
âWell, at least I use witty enough banter when I do it. Donât you get even the slightest bit green calling a guy âmacho manlyâ with a straight face?â
âOh yes, and Iâm sure you make good use of that witty banter with Drake when the time calls for it.â Lauren scoffs. â...And of course I do. Iâm a human being with natural sensibilities.â
You decidedly choose to ignore the Nolan comment and press on.
âThen why? Sure, the guy has some power to his spells, but everything else about that delinquent is just begging to stain your reputation.â
âThat, I actually wanted to talk to you about before the other dolt interrupted us.â Laurenâs voice drops lower to a murmur, an undercurrent of seriousness lacing the following words. âThe Magia Lupus, you know of them, Iâm sure.â
You stop.
The Magia Lupus. A small group of select Lang students that operate under the Lang prefect, Abel Walker. Being the top scholars of your meritocracy dorm, they receive the best treatment, education, and rooms. Recently as of late though, their movements have been decidedly quiet. Too quiet.
âOf course I do. Anyone with half their senses at this academy does.â
âGood. Because they have a proposal for usââ
âThat they shared with just you?â
âYes, because a certain someone was off galavanting with Adler spawn.â
âAnyways. Theyâve been contacting Lang students and offering certain rewards for helping them. The name of the game? Taking Adler and Orcaâs coins to give to them.â
Coins? Thatâs what theyâre after right now? Well, you suppose it makes sense, what other direction does the top of your dorm have to go other than towards the ranks of the magical government? Itâs one thing to rule a select number of students, and another thing entirely to rule over the populace. And focusing on gaining coins from opposing dorms not only means coins for them, but less competition as well.
âAnd so youâre charging Dot for the coins he most definitely hasâŠ?â
âOh, Verdelune, dear Verdelune. I thought you could see a pawn for what it was. Of course Barrettâs not the main target; heâs just a tool for me to get to the real meat hidden in the claw. The meat I was just about to get to before you oh-so-rudely interrupted me with this little question crusade.â
And just like that, the pieces begin to fall into place. And so do the memories.
âYouâre after Mashâs coins. And youâre working with Silva to get them. Thatâs who you were talking to earlier, wasnât it?â You whisper the answer like itâs some shameful secret, which, to your credit, it sort of is.
âAnd so returns the star student I have for a roommate!â Lauren cheers in a sing-song voice. âSilvaâs going to come in just a bit after I give the signal. For now, I need to butter up the second half of the idiot duo and then feed them the sob story I manufactured.â
âLet me guess.â You sigh, running a hand down your face as more and more of this plan becomes clearer to you. âYouâre going to say heâs taking advantage of youâblackmailing, threatening, the whole shebang. And then your new knights in shining armor will get up in arms to rush to your rescue, getting pummeled in the process by our dormâs resident delinquent.â
âAw, Verdelune, you know me so well.â Lauren squeals and pulls you in for an uncomfortable hug. âWell, now that weâre on the same page, do you mind if we head back? I still have some magic to work over one of them.â
She twirls her wand for evidence, and you sigh even deeper than before. So thatâs what she was doing earlier⊠casting charm spells. Youâre not quite sure, though, that she even needed to, but you suppose better safe than sorry.
âTwo things, Cabesse.â You hold up a hand to stop her from leaving prematurely. âFirst, I canât say I approve of this. Seems sort of scummy, but it also seems youâre well aware of that.â
Lauren snorts. âPiss off it, Verdelune. None of us came here to be the Virgin Guadalupe Hidalgo, you included.â
âSecond,â You ignore her, even if sheâs right and even if you feel like scum knowing what youâre about to let happen. Perhaps Lance was more right about you than you initially thought. âDonât think youâll have an easy time with Mash. Heâs not built the same way as the boys youâre used to.â
Lauren giggles, thoroughly unimpressed with your warning.
âOh ye of little faith. Iâve been dealing with Silva for the past couple of weeks; Iâm sure I can weather another tough nut to crack.â
âSuit yourself.â You shrug. âDonât say I didnât warn you, though.â
âI wonât.â Lauren smirks and twirls a lock of her straight silver hair around her finger. âNow, letâs begin, shall we?â
âWeaker emphasis on the âweâs,â please. Itâs not like Iâm going to help you much with this.â
âMm. No can do, my lovely accomplice.â Lauren chides and begins to walk off. âYou can play pretend and fetch with Adler as much as you want, but youâre not going to do anything to stop me, are you now? That either makes you a fine Lang student, or a really crappy friend to those muscleheads.â
She turns, leaning forward with both hands behind her back, and smiles perfectly sweet as she delivers her final veiled warning to you.
âBesides, I know how Verdelunes strive for excellence.â
iv.
Thanks to your little debrief with Lauren, youâre not surprised when she throws herself at Mash, nor when he rejects her. Nor are you surprised at her sob story, at Dotâs instinctual need to protect her, at Silvaâs appearance, and at Dotâs rise and fall from power when faced against an opponent much too strong for him.
Not once does shock coat your tongue and glaze your eyes, but a sick feeling still persists, cascading from your mouth down into your gut as you watch each event unfold like a prophetic dream youâve already been made privy to. People donât give enough credence to knowing bystanders; this role is far more difficult than youâd think.
âWhat? That all you got? Man, I knew youâd be a letdown.â Silva grins and laughs as yet another one of Dotâs Explombs fails to crack his silver rock shields, the latter male gripping at his wand in frustration at the standstill heâs found himself in.
âWhatâd ya say!?â He barks back.
Silva stops smiling and all of a sudden the air is still, chilled.
âI said I knew youâd be a letdown âcause I knew you were weak, dumbass.â His voice is menacingly serious, his bared teeth an animalistic show of aggression. You find yourself scooting closer to Mash subconsciously, even though Silvaâs ire isnât even directed at you. To his credit, though, Dot does not waver, just fixes his stance to lean in closer.
âBut just to show Iâm not a total monster, Iâm willing to give both you guys a chance.â Silva licks his lips, obviously giddy with the proposal heâs about to give. Dot quirks an eyebrow. Mash continues munching on another one of his snacks. âIf you can each endure five hits from my signature spell, Iâll leave that girl and her friend alone.â
The sour taste turns bitter in your mouth at your unwilling but uncontested inclusion in the mix of this deal. Still, you say nothing, do nothing.
âNaturally, Iâll bet a silver coin too. This is a challenge and Iâd hate to break school rules.â
âSays the guy held back a year.â
âWell,â He waves a lazy hand in the air. âDo we have a deal?â
âThatâs crazy, Dot, donât do it!â Lauren surprises you with your protest. This is what she wanted, isnât it? You suppose she really is committed to staying true to her character, as well as fairly confident that Dotâs manly pride will keep him from backing down. You almost hope he does, not just out of worry for a fellow human being, but also to see the look on your roommateâs face when he does exactly as she says. âThis is far too dangerous, Iââ
âFine.â Dot levels his left pointer finger at Silva in equal parts challenge. âYouâve got yourself a deal.â
âDonât do it!â Lauren continues to cry, and you fight down the urge to throw a hand over her mouth from how shameless sheâs being. âHe wonât let you off easy, heâs dangerous!â
The bitter taste has grown unbearable by this point. So much so that you find your mouth opening and saying something before you can even register the consequences, the heavy weight of pity that presses down on your chest, pushing out three simple words.
âItâs a trap.â
Silvaâs grin falls again, and just like before, the world seems to stop moving. He glares at you, and you cower, only to bump into a similarly annoyed Lauren, who pinches you in a way that no one else can see, but you can certainly feel. Gods, why did you say that!? You shouldnât care what happens, especially to Barrett of all people. Yet stillâ
A pressure comes down on your head, soft and surprisingly gentle. You look up and see Dot, pompous, egotistical, hotheaded Dot, patting your head.
âJust five hits.â He says softly, like heâs trying to console you when youâre not even the one taking the hits. âIâll be fine.â
Your breath stills at the sentiment, and you canât help but quickly avert your eyes from his warm amber ones that stare down at you so fondly, and so surprisingly pure. Thereâs nothing perverted or expecting in his gaze, just a gentle firmness that promises to you that everything will be okay.
Your stomach curls knowing that everything most certainly will not.
âErm, what are ya talking about?â Punctual as ever, Silva shatters the moment, hands folded behind his head in a leisurely fashion as he corrects Dot with a grin. âItâs not just you. Your friend, the mushroom head, also takes five hits from me.â
âHeâs got nothing to do with this!â Dot, to your surprise, jumps to Mashâs defense. One second, heâs spitting on the guy, and the next, heâs willing to take a bullet for him? Men confuse you. Almost sensing your confusion, Dot pushes further. âAlright, what if I take his hits for him? You canât complain about that.â
Silva whistles, perhaps equally as impressed as you are surprised. âPhew⊠What a riot. Alright, but you really think you can handle ten hits?â
âSpikey, waitââ Mash begins, but Dot cuts him off. What is it with men and speaking over each other?
âNah, man, itâs my problem, not yours. Iâll get through this somehow.â
With raised arms, Dot digs his heels into the dirt beneath, body braced for whatever impact may come his way. You cringe, remembering the way Mash crumpled to the ground when Silva took him by surprise. He may have played it off with the whole creampuff thing, but the hit looked like it hurt like hell.
âIron Fist.â Silva gleefully hisses out, as silver rocks follow in a path set by his wand. They jut up from the ground menacingly, a trail of foot-tall spikes leading in a straight line until they reach Dot, where they jump to a meter tall in order to land on him in the abdomen.
A sickening crack resounds across the clearing, and Dot opens his mouth in a silent cry, blood seeping out rather than words. Heâs thrown back several feet, clutching at his stomach in agonized pain.
You wince and have to hold back the urge to step forward and help him. This was just hit number one, how could he possibly survive five, let alone ten!? Silva, though you loathe to admit it, seems to be on the same wavelength as you, letting out a dry huff of a laugh as Dot is sent down to his knees.
âWell, pal? Think you can really take ten of these?â He chuckles, but stops as Dot slowly gets up, spreading his arms out for more.
âOf course I can. What kind of main character would I be if I couldnât?â
âIron Fistâ is Silvaâs response, another pillar of silver smashing this time into Dotâs side, sending him scrambling to his right. Still, even after being knocked down, he gets up, dusts himself off, and squares up again. Silva, eyes narrowed, chants his spell again, hitting Dot from another angle and sending him flying, and so the cycle repeats over and over again.
Through the sickening cracks, strained cries, and sharp smell of blood in the air, you find it in you to look away from the horrifying sight and instead set your eyes upon your other two companions instead. Mash, as always, gives little away, but you can see somethingâa familiar glow to his golden yellow eyes like youâd seen earlier. Lauren on the other hand, is anything but subtle, crying and jumping with every hit.
You see past the act, though. Of course you do.
While she pretends to look concerned for Dot, you can make out the barely disguised mirth that lies beneath the mask she wears as the innocent damsel, its hairline cracks only visible to the most trained eyes. Your brows draw downwards. Sheâs not just weathering this; sheâs enjoying it.
âNine!â Silva growls, and you near-snap your neck to follow Dotâs trajectory as another iron beam smashes into his head, blood pouring out in thick rivulets from beneath his tacky old headband. For a moment, he stills, and with him, so does the beat of your pounding heart.
âBet I look like an idiot,â he laughs bitterly as he speaks to no one in particular. âAt this point, even I can see it. Your offer was way too good to be true.â
He looks up, the flaming heat of the resolve that fills his eyes almost enough to melt the iron spikes that have sunk into him over and over again.
âBut itâs exactly âcause Iâm an idiot that I canât just ignore stuff and do nothing about it.â
You flinch, exposed to no one but your own self.
âLittle big boyâs got some more bite to him than I expected.â Silva cedes, the amusement still ominously present in his voice. âJust for that, Iâll make this last one extra special. Iron Fist!â
Crunch. Crack. Drip.
The sound of bones breaking is unmistakable as the silver rock pillars make contact with Dotâs core, forcing him into the air only to fall back down onto the ground in a heap of blue robes stained red.
âWhat a pity⊠But with that, youâre done! You hung in there, but in the endââ
Heels dig into dirt, feet spread out in a fighting pose. Before you, inexplicably, stands Dot, bleeding, twisted, but alive and aware.
ââYouâre done.â He finishes the sentence for a momentarily stunned Silva. Lauren gasps. Even Mash looks mildly interested. He turns to him. âHey, Mushroomhead⊠take the girls and get out of here. I can hold him offâŠâ
âHe canât be seriousâŠâ
âHey punk⊠IâmâŠstill standingâŠâ Dot begins to limp forward, wheezing out words in forced pieces as his lungs fail to expand to their natural size. â...A dealâsâŠaââ
He collapses, and at this, Silva erupts into a cackling fit of laughter.
âIdiot, idiot, idiot!â He closes the distance between himself and Dot, stomping one foot on top of him, as though laying claim to his battered body. âOf course, you couldnât take ten clean hits from me. No one can!â
âShroomhead⊠did ya hear me?â You donât know how, but Dot, ground up and stepped on as he is, somehow finds the strength to ignore Silva and worry for you instead. You feel queasy, and a part of you recognizes itâs not just from the tang of blood that encircles the air.
âIron Fist.â
His still form is barely nudged, and you realize with a sickening dread that the pillars have sunken into his body rather than propelled it.
âTake them and runââ
âYou idiot.â Now, of all godforsaken times, is when Lauren decides to make herself known, traipsing over to Silvaâs side as she regards Dot with a pitiful disdain. Perhaps it was out of a hope to put a stop to the Iron Fists, or maybe it was just out of boredom. A part of you wishes for the former in order to restore some semblance of humanity to your roommate, but she quickly dashes your hopes as she opens her mouth again. âI know youâre still under my love spell, but gods, canât you get a clue?â
Silva laughs.
âWhoa, whoa. Youâre being way too harsh. My guess is heâs got some sort of mental issue. Guyâs living a delusion where he thinks this is a movie where heâs the main character!â
âUgh, what a loser. I hate cheesy tryhards like you.â Lauren looks at Dot with a contempt you didnât realize she was capable of as he looks up, the shock seeming to cut through even the most agonizing of pains heâs been put in. Then, she smiles, not sweetly for once, but sickening all the same. âStill, it was satisfying to watch you get your ass handed to you.â
âDamn! Dissed by the girl you swore to protect. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.â Silva laments with a voice full of glee. âWhat a sorry excuse of a âman.ââ
Together, Silva and Lauren share in a fit of raucous laughter, leering down at Dot as though he were no more than a piece of dead vermin theyâd scraped off the road.
âThis is twisted.â
But really, who were you to talk? You knew that this was going to happen, and yet still you let it. Because of what? Personal greed? Survival? Fear? None of those seem to be fitting excuses as you watch Dotâs form from a safe distance away.
You could have put a stop to this early, could have warned Dot and Mash the moment Lauren fessed up⊠But you didnât. Maybe Dot was a walking celibacy charm, and Mash wasnât all there, but did they really deserve this? To be tricked, beaten, humiliated, and robbed? The answer is of course not. Of course they didnât deserve this. No one does.
âLooks like the dork singed my robe. Tch.â Silva clicks his tongue as he holds up Dotâs head by his scalp. He chides, âGonna have to make you pay up for thatâŠâ
âI want to watch you break every bone in his loser body.â Lauren coos to an all too eager-to-comply Silva. Heâs about to do exactly that when something shoots across the clearing, straight into his mouth.
A creampuff.
âAlright, that does it.â
The air shifts. The sky seems to dim. The trees still.
âYouâve gone too far. Wanna do a ten-hit challenge?â Mash steps forward and points straight at Silva, then the ground. He lunges forward. âThen letâs do it, scumbag.â
v.
Mashâs clash with Silva is anything but boring, the manic barrage of sharp iron spikes doing little more than cutting at the black-haired boyâs skin like shreds of paper as he narrowly dodges column after column. Like Silva, he tries to land hits, but the silver rocks force him to stay at bay. On the fifth incantation, he switches tactics, opting to simply grab and stop Iron Fist with his bare hands.
The rocks shatter. Lauren gasps for real. Even Silva is stunned for a moment. Mash simply flexes his fist.
âTriceps Magic. Ballista Knuckle.â Youâd roll your eyes if you werenât so taken aback by his last set of actions. Like, come on, you told him he canât just say a part of his body and then âmagicâ to make it seem like a spell. Thereâs an art to incantation structure, damnit!
Just as you feared, Silva recovers and looks unconvinced. âTriceps Magic, huh? Never heard âa that one before! Seriously!?â
Another barrage of Iron Fist hurtles towards Mash, who dodges deftly as though in some sort of dance.
âDonât make me say it again!â Silva waves his wand around like a madman, and perhaps thatâs honestly just exactly what he is. âNeed I remind you, I earned two gold coins in my first year!? My power and yours are on differentââ
Crack.
The sound resounds across the clearing as Mashâs fist makes contact with Silvaâs cheek, the impact more devastating than any of the singular hits the silver-haired boy had landed on Dot mere moments before. His body is sent flying, and even as he manages to recover (just barely) midair and land, you notice the generous gush of blood that flows from his nose.
âGive me a break.â Silvaâs voice is deadly now, completely serious and lacking in his manic sense of mirth from previous quips. âMy magic is top-tier among the second-years. Youâre nothing!â
But itâs too late. No Iron Fist incantation he utters is strong enough to measure up to Mashâs fists, which smash through each pillar with the same ease one would cut butter with. Itâs only a matter of time until Mash lands a second hit, this time right in Silvaâs core.
Blood, blood, and more blood gush out from every facial orifice imaginable. Lauren screams, and you force yourself to swallow back the bile rising in your throat. So this is what Mash is truly capable of. Two hits in, and his opponent is on the verge of death. You shiver.
âThat makes two,â Mash mutters as he goes to sit down on the jutting root of a tree. âThe deal was ten, right? If youâre so powerful, then youâll be able to take it no problem.â
He gets up, dusts himself off like itâs nothing, and walks forward, crouching in front of Silvaâs battered body. His golden eyes glint with a look that is anything but merciful. âRest timeâs up. Ready for hit number three?â
Heâs going to kill him. Heâs really going to kill him.
âCharmix!â Lauren screams before Mash can make good on his proposal, her shrill voice punctuated by the sound of distant rumbling growing closer and closer with each moment passed. All at once, the treeline to Mashâs right disappears, a figure breaking through the foliage and forcing it into the ground. Itâs a scorpion. Not just any scorpion, but a star-crested one.
Oh hells.
âWhat the fuck are you doing!?â You scream at Lauren, looking frantically at her like sheâs lost her mind, which she very well might have.
âShut it, Verdelune!â She snaps, waving her wand as pink sparks fly out, connecting it to the creature before you. You know what this isâLaurenâs signature charm spell, Charmix, which puts the victim under her influence and makes them inclined to follow her orders. Itâs a concentration spell, one that you canât afford to break now that the scorpionâs been drawn so close to you all. âCharmix. Scorpion, I command you to strike the redheaded one.â
She smiles, smug. âLetâs see what Mushroomhead chooses to save: his coins, or his fellow Adler trashâŠâ
Itâs a difficult situation. On one hand, to break the spell would mean almost certain death to its wild instincts, but on the other, you know exactly what Laurenâs aiming to do to Dot and Mash, and it isnât going to be pretty. Mashâs inhuman strength aside, heâs still preoccupied with Silva, and Dot, having spent himself, is nothing but a liability now. That meansâ
Wait.
Why should you care about what you could possibly do in this situation? Doing so brings nothing to your benefit. Itâs just like Lauren said, youâre a Verdelune, and you know what Verdelunes do best: they look out for themselves.
âYouâre so nice (y/n).â
The words echo in your head, as well as your response to them.
âMm. I try, Mash. I really do.â
That wasnât true, though, was it? Not in the context in which you responded, at least. Your effort, your socializing, your insights, they were never with the intention of being a good friend, just what you could potentially gain from the tradeoffs. Credentiality, social status, powerful but conditional allies, that was your game, your circus. Never something as cheesy as friendship.
You knew what was going to happen today from the near start, and you did absolutely nothing to stop it. You knew Dot was going to be screwed when Silva offered his challenge, and you let him receive the over ten blows still.
The sound of cracking ribs has not yet left your memory. Neither has the stupid look in Dotâs eyes when he assured you everything would be alright.
Dot. He lies prone on the ground now, blood seeping into the earth as the giant scorpion towers above him, raising a pincer to strike. Lauren realizes that Mash is off the table right now, so who else is there to go for other than Dot? The answer: no one. A shrewd insight made by a shrewd mind, one that, like you, knows its place in the school and worldâs pecking order.
The Magia Lupus are not a force to go against. Neither is Silva. Laurenâs just doing the logical thing by following in their stride. If you know whatâs good for you, then your course of action should be clear as well.
Nothing. You should continue to do nothing.
âBut itâs exactly âcause Iâm an idiot that I canât just ignore stuff and do nothing about it.â
âŠ
âScoriones.â The incantation is clear, crystal clear as the lake that surrounds the academy. Your left arm lifts, held at the perfect angle, and tilts just right when you deliver it, your focus aimed purely on the scorpion creature before you. âEvolution Reduxe.â
Almost instantly, you can feel the mana sapped from you as soon as the words leave your lips, a spell youâve only ever studied and never put into practice. Supposedly, itâs meant to regress magical beings in level, requiring an equal amount of energy to be put in in order to destroy said magic within the creature, thus weakening it into a more primitive state. An advanced spell used mainly by professors to gather weak beings to be used in classes and such.
Though that only brings into question: Are you on the same level as a silver-star-encrusted scorpion?
The answer is a grim, but likely âno,â and it makes itself evident as the corners of your vision begin to flicker and blacken.
âVerdelune, what do you think youâre doing!?â Lauren screeches, whipping her head between you and the scorpion, desperately chanting her Charmix spell over and over again, but to no avail as Evolution Reduxe nullifies its effects, only feeding off of the energy directed towards it.
âFor once in my life,â you grit your teeth, forcing the words out, âthe right thing.â
âYouâre kidding.â Laurenâs stopped now, turning to you with a wild smile of disbelief that doesnât befit her usually demure collection of expressions. âYouâre fucking kidding me.â
The profanity is foreign, but somehow well at home with her utterances of it.
âTry me.â Is all you manage to squeeze out as the still-large scorpion writhes under the influence of your magic, jade greens clashing against the pale pinks of Laurenâs spell. Barely, just barely, you begin to notice a flicker in its form. As long as you keep this up, you shouldâ
âCerebrum. Agonia.â
A sharp pain throbs in your temples, splitting across your head like a bolt of lightning. You drop your wand and scream, your spell slipping with it.
âYou know, I never got to say it, but I hate pretty girls like you, always walking around and traipsing on others like youâre hot shit.â Lauren laments, her wand tip focused firmly on directing the threads of pain that weave across your mind in a concordant harmony of agony. Tears prick at your eyes, the feeling near overwhelming. Seeing this, she laughs. âFuck. It felt good to get that off my chest.â
âI thought you said we were cut from the same cloth?â Youâre feeling along the ground for your magic instrument, blinded by the pain held over you. âYou can hate me, but then what does that make you?â
âMm. True. But hereâs the thingââ She steps over lightly, gently, the scorpion screaming behind her. âI donât like girls who are prettier than me. Call me a hypocrite, but thatâs the difference.â
âGod, youâre such a bitch.â You seethe, grasping the wand at last, only for a crash of pain to interrupt your small moment of triumph. Laurenâs made her way over and stepped on your spellcasting hand, preventing you from countering her magic. She laughs.
âOr that. That works too.â
The pain subsides, though not all at once. As your mind clears, you realize the spell sheâs cast has worn off. It seems Laurenâs realized that between you and the scorpion, her priorities should lean towards the latter. You grit your teeth.
Time to show her what a mistake that was.
With your free right hand, you make a grab for Laurenâs ankle, yanking it with all of your might to bring her toppling forwards. She screams, unprepared for the physical attack, and goes down as you pull yourself up, keeping your knee raised to effectively knock the air from her lungs and the lunch from her guts upon contact. Lauren crumples, defeated.
âThatâs for taking advantage of Dot.â
You stomp her wand for good measure.
âAnd thatâs for not taking out the trash last Wednesday when it was your turn.â
Maybe you gave Mash too hard a time. Brute strength is surprisingly effective.
You have little time to celebrate this victory, however, as the scorpion comes bearing down upon you. At least, thatâs what you would think.
In an instant, Mash is at your side, flicking the giant creature into the sky like it was a piece of lint on his shoulder. It flies, disappearing with a sparkle, and you are reminded all too well of a similar encounter in the labyrinth during entrance exams.
âYou good?â He turns to you, and as you look past him, you see a thoroughly pummeled Silva, face in the dirt, butt in the air. You suppose he had his own battle while you faced off against Lauren.
âYeahââ You exhale for what feels like the first time in ages. âYeah, totally good.â
<><><>
âOh my gosh, are you okay!? Youâre all beat up!â Lemon cries at the sight of the three of you limping your way over, Mash having to support both you and Dot on each arm, though he otherwise looks no worse for wear save for a few scratches.
âItâs nothing.â Mash answers in his usual monotone voice, and youâre sure he truly means it. Silva, the scorpion, none of it seemed to faze him in the slightest.
âSo you fought that second-year after all?â While Lemon had run up the moment she spotted you, Lance now leisurely walks over, Finn close behind. He pauses for a moment, noticing you draped like a sack of potatoes across Mash, but pointedly makes the decision to ignore you.
Good. You donât have the strength to play house with him right now.
âMmhm.â The raven-haired boy shifts, allowing your feet to slowly make contact with the ground. While Dot manages to push himself off and stand to the side, you seem to have a much harder time acclimating to something solid beneath your feet, your legs feeling as though theyâve been sculpted from trolley jellies. Laurenâs spell must have pinched a few nerves somewhere. Mash is patient, though, letting you lean on his side as you slowly gather your bearings, and before long, youâre standing unassisted.
âThatâs seriously amazingâŠâ Finn says in awe. âNot only did you beat Silva, but a silver scorpion too? Thatâs two silver coins already! Really dude, thatâsââ
Itâs at this point that you stop listening to the others gushing over Mash, and notice that Dot has (surprisingly) tactfully distanced himself from the rest of you. Wincing, you suck up the pain and hobble over to him.
âIâve never seen a shonen end where the main character has nothing to say.â You quip and he looks over in surprise, seeming to have not expected to be addressed while everyone was fawning over Mash. âIf youâre going for the strong, stoic type, youâre out of luckâyouâve already established your character this chapter. No take backs.â
âDonât mock me.â He murmurs, turning away. His ears burn almost as red as his hair, not simply out of just being flustered, but out of shame. You should know, youâve worn that expression time and time again whenever your brother showed you up for everyone to see.
âSorry.â It comes out more sincere than you thought you were capable of, leaving even you surprised at the admission.
A moment passes. Dot still is not looking at you.
âThanks. For the whole âLaurenâ thing.â Is all he whispers before he raises his voice. âAnd Shroomhead. Sorry for getting you caught up in all thatâŠyâknowâŠstuff. Thanks man.â
Mash moves past his entourage to stand in front of Dot, forcing him to face him. Dot looks up, surprised, and possibly even a bit fearful. No, fearful isnât the correct term. Maybe anxious? Yes, he looks anxious. You suppose heâs not usually the type to apologize to and thank others.
âSeriously?â Mash tilts his head. âThatâs not really like you.â
Dot freezes, and you swear you can hear the sound of his timidness shattering into a million pieces.
âThe fuck is that supposed to mean!?â Heâs up in Mashâs face now, all audacity and rage and uniquely Dot. âShut yer damn mouth or Iâll kill you for real!â
Finn sighs, Lemon gasps, and Lance just stares into space, undoubtedly thinking of his sister like a totally sane older brother would. Softly laughing, you ignore the pain that spiderwebs through your left hand. You can deal with it after class, but for now youâre focused on the moment, and in the moment a single thought, pure as the driven snow, whispers itself in your head.
âMaybe sticking with these dorks isnât so bad.â
when will you continue jade rabbits?? PLS ITS A NEED
Worry not dear anon! I had another project that lasted over a week, but it's done and dusted now, and I'm back on the case! I just need to do some rewatching to refresh my memory and then we're golden >:)
Since you said 'please' so nicely though, I've included a little snippet of what's to come! Hopefully this will temporarily sate you.
âIâd say donât waste your time, but itâs impossible to waste something that doesnât have any value in the first place.â Lance grumbles from Mashâs right, irritable and irresistibly aloof as always.
âNow, now Crown. We all want the same thing, donât we? To make sure our good friend Mash succeeds as we travel down the path to become divine visionaries.â You take the chance to slip in between the two boys, clapping your hands over their shoulders in a fitting show of camaraderie. Lance throws your arm off almost immediately.
âWe?â The double-liner rears his head back incredulously, as though youâve just uttered a joke fit for the lavatory. âVerdelune, I donât know what marks youâve gotten to delude yourself into thinking youâre anywhere near our league, but you need to realize that suckling off of a professorâs academic teat doesnât translate into being a candidate for a divine visionary. Maybe stick to something more familiar?â
You grin, your eyes slitting into thin curves with your smile thatâs anything but harmlessly friendly. Alright. You can take a punch and roll with it, might as well see if Lance can do the same. âSomething such as your side perhaps? Oh Crown, if you wanted my company, you could have just said so.â
People donât often talk to him, or even of himâthe man that lingers in the streets when night rolls around, and even the rowdiest of drunks are sent to bed. But at least those men have someone to drag them home. Not him.
There in the dark, he shambles about, lost, aimless. Pitiful.
His name, Hitoshi. His last name, you donât know. And he is a samuraiâwas a samurai. A soldier of the same war you fought once upon a time, though not a man you recognize or who would recognize you. The only one of this peaceful fishing village, a man with a sense of honor that eclipsed his peers, and which sent him down the path of bushido.
But the war has ended. The amanto won. And now, look where itâs gotten him.
You donât know how he made it back alive; no one does. One day, he just appeared, ragged, smelly, eyes dull like his blade long rusted. They tried to question him, to ask him what happened, what he saw, but he gave no response, just looked at them until eventually they let him be.
You approached him one night on a rare solo venture, arms laden with freshly sliced vegetables and fruit because gods knew he needed them. You poked, prodded, even, but he remained silent and still in his stance. That is, until you were about to shove a slice of carrot in his mouth.
âYou didnât see it, little girl. Whatâs waiting outside of this village.â He rasped. âYou didnât see it.â
â...â You didnât agree, but didnât disagree either. You had no right to either course of action.
âBe glad you didnât.â He finished grimly, still not looking at you.
âŠ
No right. No right at all.
You plopped the slice of carrot in his mouth and left, hoping that the produce you gave him didnât taste as bitter as the words he paid you with.
The basket showed up empty at your door the next morning.
Hitoshi hasnât spoken since.
-+-+-+-
When Hotaka began acting strangely (stranger than usual), youâd truly hoped it was nothing. Perhaps it was something he ate, or he somehow pulled something in his brain and was now experiencing the consequences of mental strain. But it was hard to continue denying the ways he was acting outâlingering contact, fumbled words, long bouts of staring in your general direction.
Ma and Pa were even less helpful, their gazes leering over the two of you like hungry wolves stumbling across winterâs first bounty of rabbits. Theyâd send you off on trips fit for two, had you sitting next to each other at every meal, and conveniently found tasks that needed both of your touches.
You wanted to deny it, you really did. But denial is deadly, and death is not something you chaseârather, it follows you.
So you should have known, should have noticed the way the cherry blossoms fell on a perfect spring day, and should have sensed that intoxicating scent in the air. Yes, you should have taken note of the way Pa and Hotaka went out early, how Ma insisted on dressing you in the finest garb the house had to offer, and how everyone levied crescent-eyed smiles at you as you made your way to the park to view the blooming trees.
And perhaps, maybe you did. Maybe you took note of everything and more. Maybe you sensed that something was off the moment the air switched, saw every little signal you werenât meant to see, and overheard whispered conversations meant not for your ears. And maybe, just maybe, you ignored them.
You wonât elaborate on why that is. Instead, youâd rather shift focus to now, the moment, the point of no return.
Youâre in the park, cherry blossoms floating on a breeze that carries petals from branch to stream, well-cropped grass rustling in waves like a sea of verdant green, the crimson kimono you wear decorated with the curling roots of a maple tree. Ma stands at your side, ever-dotingly guiding you along the path despite your ability to walk perfectly fine now that the sutures have healed over. You let her, though, keeping your head level and steady like a girl of your age should; proud but not prideful.
The path is worn, but well-kept, with no sign of rocks or debris littering its steps as you make your way up the crest of the hill.
On the other side should await Hotaka and Pa, a small grill set up for a barbecue and a container full of freshly caught fish and slaughtered livestock. Maybe a blanketâs already been thrown down for the women to sit and rest and drink tea from the thermos youâve brought over and nibble on cookies baked earlier in the morning. Nothing fancy, nothing extravagant, but more than enough for a happy family bonding day.
Youâre only half right in your expectations, though, as you reach the peak of the hill, spotting the bobbing heads of Hotaka, Pa, a lost and aimless Hitoshi drifting in the distance, andâŠnothing else.
No grill. No blanket. Just three men, one waiting under a lone sakura tree and the other a tasteful distance away, the other an empty distance away; the two you know robed in formalwear that has no place at a barbecue where smoke stains all that it touches, just like you and Ma.
At your footsteps, Hotaka turns from where heâs standing under the tree, hands slammed against his side to force himself from wringing them further. All of a sudden, Ma no longer seems to feel the need to guide you, gently removing her arm from where itâs interlocked with yours. You give her a curious look, but all she does is smile (were those tears in her eyes?) and nod her head in encouragement, though youâre not sure whether the sentimentâs for you or Hotaka.
âGo.â She near-whispers it, and you, ever the obedient girl, obey.
It takes only a few moments to reach Hotaka and the lone sakura tree in the clearing, but your eyes assess the situation with a coldness youâd once thought youâd retired. Seems old habits die hard as you do. Something, though you canât quite put a finger on it, is offâwrong.
â(Y/n)-chan.â He begins.
âDonât call me that.â
You want to say that, but you bite it back and simply think it instead, reminding yourself you have no right to detest such nicknames. After all, itâs as apt a reminder as any of your place hereâthe choice you made those handful of years ago. So, you do what you always default to, and smile instead, hoping the sugar washes out the bitter taste that had flooded your mouth and muscles.
âYes, Hotaka?â You say it sweetly, nonconfrontationally.
âI have something I need to tell you. Actually, itâs something Iâve wanted to tell you for a long timeâŠâ He winces, it seems, at his previous cowardice. âItâs something very important and dear to me, and I refuse to hold back any longer. The thing isâŠâ
âMm?â You tilt your head to hide your impatience. Well, what is it? Every word at this point is just stalling further.
âGet on with it already, Hotakaââ
âI love you.â He blurts out, mouth running as fast and ferocious as the rapids north of town. âThe moment I first spoke to you, Iâd fallen in love, and Iâve loved you every single day since then. Youâre witty, kind, beautiful, and so resilient. Seeing you recover over the days and months and years inspired me to push myself harder to become a better man, one befitting of you, and for that Iâll always admire you. I want to care for you, to protect you, to be the first one you think to go to when you face a challenge. Iâve seen itâthe way you force yourself to be strong for us, for yourself, but I want you to feel that you can be weak with me.â
âAll that to sayâŠâ Hotaka drops into a low bow, neatly tied-back hair nearly whipping you in the face. âI love you. Please, marry me.â
At this, Pa whoops, Ma breaks out into happy tears, nearby parkgoers cheer, and you? You just stand there. Still.
âŠ
Youâre a coward, always have been, and always will be. Itâs how youâve survived, after all.
Mr. Oda. The ring. Shoka Sonjuku. The war. Some way or another, youâd played the part they asked of you until it was time to run, to disappear and erase that tumor youâd developed yourself. So how could anyone ever be surprised when you inevitably did it again?
You donât answer Hotaka when he proposes to you, not with words at least. Youâve never been one for them after all, believing actions took precedence in the impressions they left.
It is that very belief that has your brain resuming function a few moments after Hotakaâs stunt, immediately kicking it back into motion. You look at Hotaka, really take it all in: his pleading eyes, his prostrated position, and his open hands. All it serves to do, though, is make you feel sick. What had he seen in you throughout all these years? Was your bridal candidacy what led Ma and Pa to take you in in the first place? Was that really all you were to them?
âI love you. Please marry me.â
You feel it in your sleeve, the scrap that you still call your fish plush, something you never leave home without.
âMr. Oda loves you. He loves you so, so much.â
Youâre a coward. That much about youânot your gender, not your name, not your purposeâwill always remain constant, steady. Just like your fish plush, just like your still-beating heart.
âIâŠâ
Your eyes drift to Hitoshi. He hunches crookedly under another tree, looking straight at you, straight through you.
âYou didnât see it, little girl.â
But you did. You saw it. The war, the death, the pride, the blood. You saw much of it, not all of it, not the end, but most. You saw beyond it, saw the ring, saw the carnage, saw the money. A head of dark purple, one of smooth brown, another of messy silverâ
âBe glad you didnât.â
You canât.
So you act.
You run. Run so fucking hard and fast that not even the most capable of men in the clearing can catch up after you and hold you down. You may be out of practice, but there are some memories that muscles will never forget, and being chased by men is one of them.
You keep on running, for meters, for miles, the village of fields and rivers blurring past you as hazily as the years youâve had to spend in it. People look your way, make grabs at you as your pursuers scream for someone to stop you, but theyâre unsuccessful, and you continue to move like a woman possessed. Even as the road grows harder, more defined, the voices quieter, farther, you continue to run, sprinting through burning lungs and screaming legs, knowing that the moment you stop is the moment that everything will truly come to an end once they catch up to you.
You donât know how long you run, you hardly have the oxygen to process the thought of measuring, you just know that you keep going until you physically canât anymore, knees snapping and folding under you as you skid painfully against the paved road.
Your chest heaves and wheezes as black blots your vision. You fight it, though, taking a moment to retch off the side of the road. The world clears up as you finish emptying your stomach, and you look around, swiping a shaky hand against your mouth.
Youâre out of the village. Itâs not even a blot on the horizon to be seen anymore. Itâs gone. Youâre gone. After all these years, youâve really left it.
Many things should be going through your head at this point. Considerations, second thoughts, regrets about what youâve done, but even now, as your breathing evens, all that remains in your mind is one single thing.
You just canât help but thinkâŠthat youâre so fucking thankful this is over.
ii.
Edo is a strange place.
The further you travel, the more you begin to notice things that arenât as they should be.
It starts small, an odd doohickey here, a feature with an unknown function there. Then, it begins to grow more dissonant with each mile traveled under your belt. A ship that streaks against the sky, an Amanto walking without the fear of a sword gutting them, a curious look sent your way after you realize youâve been glaring the entire time.
The war had been over for a while; this you know is true. Remote as it was, even your village had received the news of the amanto-human agreement. Every now and again, amanto goods would even come in small merchant droves, though you mainly kept away, save for the books you practiced your literacy on. But still, thanks to that isolation, youâd never really been able to come to terms with how much the world had changed.
What was it the passerby you asked would say?
âThe time of the samurai is over, little girl.â
You feel a spout of bile rise in your throat. Itâs been happening much more often nowadays. Seems not just your mind, but your body as well is struggling to adapt to the change, like itâs been running for miles only to be forced to grind to a halt in the name of âpeace.â
Still, you push it down. Itâs one of your talents after all, to perceive yet ignore, to feel yet silence.
The bell on the shopâs old door announces your arrival, the snitch that it is. You step in, wholly aware of how out of place you are in your village finery. Luckily, though, that will change soon enough.
You donât bother making much small talk with the shopkeep, though he seems well enough with that arrangement. Instead, you barter, just like Mr. Oda once showed you, earning a modest amount of coin and a shroud to keep you anonymously clothed in exchange for your efforts and garments. Then, itâs off to the next shop (never buy outfits where you sell your previous clothes), where you grumble out a few more arguments in a gravelly voice more familiar to you than your own. Your mission is simple, and so is your outfit; an ambiguous set of robes that make you indistinguishable between man and woman. The bandages you bought will fit tightly around your compressed bust beneath layers of cloth, selling the illusion even more.
Youâre about to ring out in your new ensemble when you spot something.
Itâs a mask. Not a dog, like the one you once wore all those years ago, covering your mouth with its snarling teethâbut a wolf, calm and expressionless even if it decides to bare its fangs. It covers the whole face, ornately carved lines and smooth wood blending together under layers of fresh paint.
âLike it?â The shopkeep asks with mild amusement.
âI thought dog masks were more popular.â You murmur under your breath. Still, he manages to catch your words and grins.
âYears ago, maybe. When blind bushido was still in fashion.â He toys with the coin heâs been spinning between his fingers. âPersonally, I like the change in taste. Dogs exist for their ownersâ whims. But wolves? They survive for themselves.â
âYouâre not wrong.â You concede, and he laughs.
Without realizing it, you place it on the counter with your other purchases, walking out of the shop with a new face strapped to your side.
And so the cycle begins again.
iii.
Ambiguously and generically though you dress, you still have the unmistakable features of a woman, body not bound, face not covered. Not yet.
It is these features that get you flagged down every couple of stepsâa red light district peddler looking for a new cabaret girl, a couple taking pity on a helpless woman, a man in search of a lady to escort him and his croniesâthe instances go on and on. Throughout this though, you begin to notice a rising similarity in how they treat you, how they perceive you.
Itâs not serious. Never serious. To them, youâre just a lost little girl wandering the streets of Edo like any other, ignorant to war, ignorant to peace, ignorant to change.
In a way, they are half right; your brain still unable to adjust to a world that continues spinning on without you, without Baki. The technologyâyou canât make sense of it, and the people even less so. They pass by, changing their faces like you, as easily as it is for the Sun to set and rise day in and day out, but they do so without anguish, without pause. Perhaps youâre simply weak, you think, unable to adapt as the others do, to see eye to eye with the creatures you once painted your face in.
And gods, do those things love to rub it in. Once upon a time you raised your sword in defiance of them and were cheered for it. Now, however? Not even the blades you once cherished have a place in this country, let alone the men who died for itâleft discarded, to rot, just like Hitoshi.
âBe thankful weâre in a time of peace and the amanto are so merciful.â
Itâs a sentiment that follows you wherever you go, be it lobbed at you during the odd jobs you complete for scraps of coin, or the small, sparse breaks you catch in between work sessions. At first it made your blood boil, but now the substance has cooled like jelly in your veins from the repetition of it all. It seems the people of Edo, and perhaps by extension, most of the people of the nation, find it entirely their business to voice their opinions on what a young girl should be doing nowadays.Â
Running through the streets, laughing with friends, being chased by boys, but most importantly, smiling.
âGirls are prettiest when theyâre wearing a smile.â
Your employer of the day at the laundromat tells you this with a grin, one they expect you to emulate. You do so, but it feels off, like youâre pulling a muscle thatâs not meant to be stretched that way, showing something you donât want seen. Your mask taunts you from your satchel whenever you return from a busy day.
It aches; Aches in a way that feels not so unsimilar to the pain that rocked your chest whenever you would see the Big Sisters in the district. Expected to smile, to laugh, to perform, to pretend that they can not smell the blood beneath or around them. Made to swoon and crowd over their captors, cooing their praises, kept like fish in the tank of a restaurant, always on display, always being sized up, always expected to perform docility in waters that masquerade themselves as peaceful and clean
But here you are. All those years, spent fighting, bleeding, killing, dying, to not be them, to not be the âLittle Fishyâ Mr. Oda kept caged between wall and chest, gone. You realize it with a hazy clarity one night, lying awake in your hospice cotâthe sickness forcing you outside to retch in the back alley, hands shaking and drool piling on the ground in puddles. You feel strange, off.
Running, running, running, then suddenly told to stop. To smile, teeth showing but not bared.
Itâs a similar feeling to the days you had forsaken from your memory, a restless, ravenous aching hunger that screams for action, for safety that is earned, not given on the condition it may be taken away.
They say the world is at peace, but you know they are lying. They must be. They always do.
So then, with this all in mind, it is only natural that when the whispers begin to reach your ears, whispers of an underground fighting ring by the name of âRengokukan,â that muscle memory takes hold and guides you to its entrance. Only natural that you don your bindings and mask, pass the guard to the gate, not bothering to heed his words of warning, and drag yourself down, down, down, until there is nothing beneath you save for packed bloodsoaked ground and bodies, the rest of the world above lying in wait for your grand entrance. Natural, that you heed the call.
A wolf may be wild, but a dog always knows where its home is.
iv.
The sword they gave you is shoddy, absolute shit somehow forged into the shape of a stick, but for your current purposes, itâll have to do. After all, following the sword ban, itâs not like a good blade comes cheap anymore.
You fiddle with its decaying handle, forged for someone with a hand preference different from your own, and sigh. You wonât complainâbeggers after all have no place acting as choosers, but that doesnât mean you have to like it, this pathetic excuse of a blade. Instead, you tell yourself itâs fitting as resolution to your own internal protests, a sham of a weapon for a sham of a samurai. The thought shuts you up quickly.
âYa look pale, boy.â Masato (as he told you his name was, moments before) claps a hand on your back. âFirst fight jitters?â
âNo.â You answer plainly, truthfully.
âWell, no shame in backing out now. Probably would be for the best anyhow.â He shrugs when you shake him off, taking a swig from his canteen. It reeks of custom-brewed alcohol. âBut if youâre deadset on it, âs not like Iâll stop you.â
You ignore him, turning back to the Sisyphean task of sharpening your sword with the communal water stone handlers left down here in the arena locker rooms. Push too softly, nothing happens. Force it too hard and the piece of crap chips.
Masato bends over your shoulder, humming some jaunty bar tune as he watches sweat bead down your neck from straining to get your slices just right. Itâs been years, but even a joke of a blade like this feels warm and heavy in a comfortingly crushing way to you. Not pleasant, not loving, but inexplicably right.
Your right knee bobs up and down, as though your heartbeat was not content with simply pulsing through your veins, but now needed the rhythm to be seen in your limbs as well.
Masato stops humming.
âWord of advice, though?â He clears his throat to voice his thoughts again, unbothered by the continued wet âshlingâ of blade against stone. âWhatever youâre looking forâyou wonât find it here.â
You nod, no longer listening to a word that he says.
-+-+-+-
Itâs loud. So loud. Your heartâitâs pounding in your chest, begging to be let out.
The blood streams through your ears, a torrential downpour that refuses to allow you to hear the announcerâs words as youâre pushed up and front to center stage.
âItâs time.â
The opponent youâre facing off against, you donât know him. Not his name, not his face, not his story. Not even his species, though his monstrous appearance clues you onto something. All that you know as the gate closes behind you is that both of you will leave, but only one will leave breathing.
You look up, the breath catching in your throat. You canât make out what he looks like. The lights here are too bright, washing him and his alien face in the whiteness of anonymity. Youâd be sure you looked the same if you were thinking from his point of view, but youâre not. No, instead it feels as though your brain has melted through your head and seeped from your hands into your sword, nothing on your mind save for the taste of metal that coats your mouth.
The man stands crooked, not straight. Bold, but not proud. One who knows the ring is never proud. Pride is for the stands, for the betters, the charlatans lining their pockets with sinew and teeth.
âI wonât go easy on you.â He growls when the two of you pass each other on your way to your positions. You simply nod.
The blood still hasnât drained from your head, the raucous cheer of the crowd melting in with the waves of red and white platelets that run through your veins. Your body is numb, but warm, like the futuristic engines they rev up on the streets, tensed and waiting for permission.
⊠Waiting like a good dog.
âBegin!â Itâs the only word that manages to permeate through the thick and hazy fog that clouds your mind, a sharp needle in a stack of burning hay. With not so much as a start, you get low and charge forward. So does your opponent.
The two of you meet in the center with a screech of metal. Your blade is grasped in your hands in a primitive way, nothing like how a teacher once taught you, but it is done with purpose, with intent. The only similarity to that era is the left hand you wield it with. The rest is an echo of your youth, a callback to the times drunk samurai would toss you swords to fight to the death with, a deadly game of childâs play.
And like your youth, you do not rise above playing dirty.
Retracting your right leg, you extend a kick, right into your opponentâs groin area, grabbing his shoulder with your nondominant hand and dragging it down to slam into your other knee, the rough scratch of demolded teeth unmistakable against the cloth of your pants. You let him go. He staggers, falling to his knees in a clump, the crowd wincing in a rare display of masculine sympathy for his plight. But, you do not stop.
How could you? Now?
You look down and see the head of a monster.
Faces flash before you. Children you could not save, women you could not protect, men you could not heal, bloody sacrifices to a war you never asked for, one you never managed to finish, to escape from. Another flash. Amanto you slaughtered, leering down on you with grins only their inhuman maws can form.
âThe time of the samurai is over, little girl.â
Hack and slash and hack and slash, you beat him to a pulp with your pathetic excuse of a weapon, meat splattering your mask and clothing left and right. Faintly, you think you hear him beg for something, but you do not bother to listen further, continuing on in your dance until your partner lies still.
âŠ
âŠâŠ
âŠâŠâŠ
The crowd cheers. You stand there, alone. A pile of something you struggle to call a man in front of you.
Thatâs it. Heâs dead.
But, somethingâs not right.
Pieces. There are pieces of something on the floor. His monstrous faceâa mask. His blood, itâsâŠred. Human.
It dawns on you, suddenly, cruelly: For the first time in years, youâve killed a fellow human being, the last drop of blood you had once shed being that from Sakamotoâs wrist.
Sickness crashes down upon your shoulders like a waterfall. You look downâthe red on your hands smells more pungent than ever. You fall to the ground and vomit.
You were wrongâRengokukan isnât like the ring, the district. Back then, you didnât have a choice in the matter, fighting and maiming and killing to survive. But now? You had an out, had a chance of living a normal life, one your fellow opponents died dreaming about when you finally set them to rest. You had it, and you threw it all away.
Thatâs when you look up, and see them. The amanto. Real ones. Screaming, crying, cheering for the show youâve just put on for them. The stage you willingly walked onto.
You retch again.
The cleaners arrive as you process this, shuffling you off to be towelled, to be handed your yen and other winnings, to be congratulated, to be scouted, to be revered with the bloodthirst that only those who frequent this establishment maintain. In the crowd you see human men, yes, but they are a minority. No, the ones who parade you, who don grins like crescent moons and eyes like slitted streaks of stardust in the night, are the amanto.
You killed a man for the amanto.
It has been years since you plunged the sword into yourself. Years since you fell off the cliff into the waters below. But, it is only in this moment that Baki truly dies.
Have you seen one of these dipshits? If you post regularly on ao3, chances are YES, but more likely you didn't notice nor suspect it was a bot. Sometimes they start off nice, or even praise you before getting nasty out of nowhere, like so:
But much like Grok, their newest obsession is nazism.
I don't know where they come from, or what purpose this could possibly serve other than suicidebaiting random people in the internet, I guess; but apparently they've started parroting names from real users to send these comments and shifting their general length to go by undetected. Maybe those are scrappers trying to train 'reviewbots' to be sold as part of some scam service promising to give feedback for newbie writers, who the fuck knows.
Here are more examples of the tone and backhanded compliments you can find in these:
If you regularly post on AO3 or interact with writers in it, please pass this along so they don't feel insane receiving bombs in their inbox. This is ridiculous.
Hai hai hai!!! I hope this is ok to ask but are you alright with us AKA me sending in asks about the characters in no soft sounds?
I love your gin fic and go back to cry over it at least once a week! Pls never die...
Hello Anon!!! Yes, I would love it if you'd do that!
My dusty ol' inbox is open to anyone and everyone. I've been meaning to post more things related to my fics (like musings and behind the scenes stuff I'm sure most people following wouldn't care about lol) but I've been channeling the writing and posting grindset so hard that I haven't got around to it, so thank you for sending me this sign to be more sociable!
P.S. I'm sincerely flattered and will do my best to remain alive for the forseen future ;)
Lesson 11: War is a game for men, not little girls who like to play dress up.
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i.
Itâs before early morning when a strange feeling rouses Gintoki from his mind-numbingly boring watch over the camp.
Itâs a wriggling worry, something not so foreign ever since the incident, and itâs enough for him to rouse Katsura and Takasugi from what one could barely call âsleep.â They havenât been able to see eye to eye as of lateâKatsura and Takasugi going back and forth over how to treat a guilty party who refuses to fight for any semblance of innocence to their name, and Gintoki not willing to meet any eyes or questions at all. Still, they share a bond stronger than blood: that of being Shoyou-senseiâs, and by extension, Shoka Sonjukuâs students.
Together they leave the tents, following a singular set of footsteps in the dirt, in what surely must be nothing, just some silly little feeling that has Gintoki a bit too trigger-happy.
But then they see Baki.
And then he slits his stomach.
And then, he falls.
Katsura does not stop running, even when itâs obvious thereâs nothing to be caught in time, does not stop screaming curses Gin has never heard him utter before, even during their grimmest of moments. Takasugi is the opposite, having long stopped his pursuit and now standing in place with a dark look of determination upon him, turning the moment he hears a splash in the water and never once looking back after.
And Gintoki? He does nothing. Absolutely nothing. He does not keep running, does not turn around and go backâjust stays there, still and sentinel as screams and splashes and rain cloud his senses.
Baki is dead. He killed himself. And for what?
For nothing.
~~~
Word spreads. It spreads fast.
The Black Inu is dead. Committed something that could barely be called seppuku and threw himself off a cliff. âGood riddance,â they say and leave it at that.
Sakamoto leaves a few nights after the news reaches him and heâs well enough to get out of bed. Claims itâs his lust for the stars and sailing that beckons for him to leave. Gintoki does not bring up his horrible seasickness in response. He also does not leave with him when asked either.
He just stays.
~~~
Itâs all nothingâreally.
Gintoki does not think about Baki after the fall. Does not spend his nights awake instead of dreaming as he should. Does not patrol the water banks when he inevitably canât sleep, in search of something, anything.
Before each battle, his eyes do not sweep over the faces of his men and wonder where the anomaly, the absence, lies and festers like a cavitied tooth. He does not allow stray blows to tear at his skin where another once covered his six. He also does not sit there numbly on a cot, scaring away what few medics they have with muted growls about how heâs fine and doesnât need treatment.
And when the war ends, when Shoyou-sensei is dead and buried, and when he is no longer White Yaksha, but instead, Yorozuya Gin-chan, he does not think of you. Not even once.
Thereâs a lot of things he does not do. He claims it all out of laziness, of lack of care, of ambivalence. But maybe itâs because doing requires change, change requires admittance, and admittance requires him to stop running.
And that?
That is something Sakata Gintoki simply can not do.
ii.
You wish you could say that your descent into the waters below was calming, soothingâa cool relief to contrast against the searing pain in your abdomen. But games of war aside, youâre not much of a liar, and so you must concede that this isnât such the case due to a little known notion known as surface area tension.
Instead, what follows after your fall is a crashing, all-encompassing shock throughout your body as you make contact with the waves.
Pain rolls through in punctuated rhythms, a broken handful of bones here, a set of internal injuries from shifted organs there. From a medical standpoint, itâs a logistical nightmare. From a dishonored warriorâs point of view, itâs just another bump in the road of atonement. The one remaining saving grace is the vague notion that surely the pain will overwhelm you and send you off into blissful unconsciousness before you die. And so you sink, and hope, and wait.
⊠You should know better by now that hope is a stupid, stupid thing.
So, eventually, when the blissful black darkness takes over, your expectations of a final rest can not be further from incorrect.
~~~
There is pressure on your chest.
Itâs not the usual suffocation youâre used to, the bindings that keep your chest compressed and in place being an uncomfortable but necessary, and eventually comforting, presence in your life. At least with those, you knew their purpose, knew that you yourself had placed them in service of your own self-preservation.
This current predicament though? You have no clue what to make of it.
After all, you should be dead, shouldnât you? Last you remembered, you were slicing out your stomach and throwing yourself into the waters below.
And now?
It takes a decent amount of effort, but you manage to reactivate your senses slowly, one by one.
A metallic taste in your mouth, the smell of antiseptic in the air, high-pitched ringing in your ears, a dull aching pain throughout your body made worse by the pressure on your chest, and finally, a big wet nose pushed up right against your vision.
Blinking, you stare at the dog perched upon your ribcage, its narrow, goofy face lighting up in excitement at the prospect of finally being acknowledged by a conscious being. It licks your cheek, coating it in slobber, and you grimace.
Is this really what death looks like? A lanky dog thatâs three-quarters of your size flattening you against the mat beneath you?
âAndii! Down! Bad, bad boy!â A scream breaks out from your right side and you grimace again. You sorely miss the inky black nothingness you had come to expect from death, exchanged here for an overwhelming assault on the senses.
The pressure bounds off of you, running towards the voice, but instead of a mouthful of fresh air, all that you receive is the breath stolen from your lungs as youâre used as some sort of cruel launch board for this so-called âAndii.â
âOh gods, are you alright? Actually, noâdonât answer that. You shouldnât be pushing yourself right now.â The voice, thankfully, is no longer screaming as it draws near. Itâs light, and as you (painfully) angle your head towards it, you discover its sourceâa boy around your age, long dark brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail and bangs tied back as well. He catches the big dog thatâs come bounding his way, and scratches it around the ears whilst giving it a stern look, then you an apologetic one.
âIâm so sorry MissâAndii can never seem to remember that he isnât a small puppy anymore.â
Youâre about to open your mouth and reply, but quickly snap it shut again.
Miss� Miss!?
You bolt upright, ignoring the nauseating pain and the terrified scream of the boy in response to your actions, hands flying to your chest. Your bindingsâtheyâre gone.
âMiss! You really canât push yourself like that!â His face has paled and he rushes towards your side, trying to gently guide you back down onto the cot. You donât let him though, forcing your casted arms hard against his chest. He chokes out a breath as heâs pushed back and affixes you with a worried look.
Slowly though, it morphs into understanding.
He takes a few careful steps back to you, making sure to keep his hands up in surrender as he slowly closes the distance between the two of you, like heâs trying not to scare off some wild animal. For some reason, that only seems to make you more frenzied as you try to ward him off.
âI⊠I understand you must be frightened, Miss.â Frightened? Oh, he has no idea the half of it! âI donât know what youâve gone through to end up in such a state, but believe me, Iâmâweâre here to help you.â
Finally, it seems the mysterious boy notices the look youâre giving him and he stops.
Good. Youâve still no idea what the hellâs going on, but you do know that had he taken even a single step closer, no matter his pretty words nor your extensive injuries, you would have given him matching scars with your bare hands.
âBut⊠We can only do as much as you let us.â He stands there, still, allowing you to get a better look at him. Big, kind blue eyes meet yours, long lashes fluttering against his ivory skin. Heâs built lean, white robes hugging his frame with a muted red flower-patterned haori hanging over.
While you will admit, even from the multiple paces he stands from you, you can tell he towers above you, you're fairly certain you could take him down easily in a fight. You see it in the way he holds himselfâlightly, carefully, his breath seemingly always held for one reason or another. Fit as he may be, the boyâs no fighter. This thought is the only thing that manages to give you some sense of solace.
He notices your gaze and shyly tucks a stray bit of dark brown hair behind his right ear.
âIâm sorry. Where are my manners?â He bows his head. âMy name is Yamane Hotaka. You can just call me Hotaka, though. And thisââ
He ruffles the ears of the dog that had almost suffocated you moments prior. ââIs Andii.â
âHotaka,â It takes all you have in you to keep your voice calm, steady. âWhat is all ofâŠthis?â
You motion to yourself and the room that holds the three of you. Itâs sparse: woven tatami mat floors, shoji screen walls, and a singular futon that holds you. There are a few tables and a sink which house a variety of ointments and wrappings from what you can make out, but aside from the occasional hung scroll or potted plant to add some greenery, thereâs not much else to the place.
The same can not be said for you, though, as nearly every inch of your body has been wrapped up in bandages and casts, a simple white cotton nemaki tied loosely around your waist. As previously assessed, not only are your old robes gone, but so are your bindings. It doesnât take a genius to realize youâve been treated, and judging by how Hotaka is addressing you, itâs also safe to say that your true identity as a woman is being put out on full display.
Itâs a bitâŠmortifying to say the least.
Hotaka looks at you, brows furrowed and bottom lip worried between his teeth. âHow much do you remember?â
Tricky question, isnât it? Not like you can just tell the straight truth of the matter: youâre a disgraced cross-dressing Joui war veteran whoâs supposed to be dead after committing some sort of sham seppuku.
âŠ
Thatâs right. You slit open your stomach, pierced what you need to. At least, thatâs what you had intended. And yetâ
You can not die. Even if you want to. Even if itâs all that you wish for.
Something inside of you just wonât allow it. Maybe itâs cowardice, or a sick sense of self-preservation, or sheer dumb luck, but something has kept you from dying. Not to Mr. Oda, not to the ring, not to war, and certainly not to your own self.
âI rememberâŠfalling.â Itâs not a lie, now is it? It just isnât as much truth as youâre technically able to give. âI was bleeding. Badly.â
Your eyes slide over to the figureâHotakaâand widen in surprise when you see how dark his stare is. You donât know him, not in the least. But from what youâve seen of him, he struck you as the gentle type, barely even being able to meet your gaze moments ago and fiddling with the sleeves of his haori. Now, however? If looks could kill, youâd be dead three times over.
âYouâre right, you were.â Heâs stopped playing with his sleeves, instead opting to move over to the sink next to him and stare daggers into it instead. The water runs over his hands, splashing into the basin below. âTakes some kind of monster to cut a girl like that.â
You blink.
â... Sorry, sorry.â He wrings his hands with a towel. âI shouldnât be talking like that in front of you. It must have been terrifying and painful. No need to relive it.â
Hotaka turns back to you, hands cleaned of dog and sleeves tied up neatly. He gives you a hesitant look. You sigh and nod. Smiling, he makes his way towards you, gauze and mugwort salve in hand as he resumes speaking.
âWe found you on the riverbank unconscious and bleeding. It looked badâPa wasnât sure you were even going to make the trip back to the village, but Ma insisted and somehow we managed to get you here and in stable condition. Thank the gods.â
His eyes soften, and you notice how they crinkle at the ends. All previous darkness has vanished, and he once again looks so soft you doubt he could ever even hurt a fly.
âMind if I change your bandages?â He makes eye contact with you and he jumps, raising his hands up in defense as his cheeks and the tips of his ears turn pink. âJust some of the ones around your head and arms! Ma will take care of the rest like she always does. Promise!â
â... Alright.â You shrug and wince. Hotakaâs quick to steady you.
âCareful now. Youâve been out for almost a month.â
âA month?â
âŠWell considering the extent of your injuries, it does make sense. Just a bit.
You canât help but wonder, though, whatâs gone on in that month youâve been gone, or, wellâdead. How is the army faring? Whatâs the progress with the war? Is Sakamoto even alive?
The last question fills you with an unspeakable guilt. One you wisely decide not to dwell on in the moment. Youâre not Baki right now. Baki is dead.
Instead, you decide to do something else.
â...Thank you.â You murmur it softly enough that youâre half sure he doesnât even hear you while he bandages you up. That is, at least, until he gives a gentle smile, eyes not leaving where they focus on his handiwork.
Thus the two of you stay like that for a whileâslow, mending.
iii.
A few weeks later and youâve finally graduated from bedrest to monitored sitting.
In that amount of time, youâve been able to piece much more of your predicament together: after your fall, the waters washed you ashore near a small country village, right as a small fishing family (the Yamane) was getting ready to make their way home. Hotakaâs mother, who refuses to give you her name and insists you call her âMa,â was able to use her medical training as the villageâs doctor to miraculously stabilize your condition from the brink of death, placing you under the care of the Yamane family for the past month.
In return, youâve given the Yamane a handful of explanations of your ownâall with varying degrees of truth to them.
Your name is (y/n). True. You have no known surviving family. Also true. You fell into the waters that brought you here after having your stomach sliced open by a samurai.
âŠ
Not quite.
But, in your defense, the last one was less of your own handiwork and more so thanks to the vivid imaginations of the people that saved you. And in a way, they werenât wrong. Itâs just that you had conveniently chosen to leave out the fact that the disgraceful samurai (you would have loved to pin your injuries on the amanto, but the blade you were found gripping onto was undeniably human in nature) was in fact you.
Still, it felt a bit strange listening to them curse out the samurai who did this to you.
â(Y/n)-chan, you need to eat more! Remember: the more food you get in your system, the faster youâll recover!â Ma chastises you from across the table, making sure to pile on a healthy dose of fish and rice onto your plate. âReally what is it with you youngins? Youâre not samurai, you donât need to starve like them.â
Sheâs a plump, jolly old woman, the one you owe much of your miraculous survival to. The moment Hotaka had gone through the screen door to deliver news of your awakening, she had come barreling in, armed with about a dozen soft foods for you to ingest. Maâs a bitâŠmuch, to say the least. But beneath her jaunty antics you can feel it, a hardened medic whoâs seen more than her fair share of horrors. She was able to save youâit had to take more than just some village hobbyist doctor to get that done.
Regardless of your feelings on your survival, you will acknowledge that you are indebted to her in a way you likely can never repay. In fact, upon your insistence of it, she merely shook you off and told you to âlive wellâ with a strangely soft look in her eyes. Whatever that meant.
âLet her eat at her own pace, Ma. Wonât do any good to have her bursting past her stitches.â Pa grumbles good-naturedly, swiping an extra-glazed sweet potato from under you. Cheeky bastard.
Whereas Ma was all soft curves and circles, Pa cut a much more severe figure, taught muscles pulled against a tall, bony frame deceptive in its composition. Weather-worn though he appeared, his years of fishing made him strong and sturdy, unable to be blown over by even the strongest of typhoons. He was the one who found you, fishing you out of the water and bringing you to shore like some sort of start to a classic childrenâs folktale.
When it was clear you wouldnât die from a spare gust of wind aimed in the wrong direction, he even joked that the soaked rag you called your fish toy was what led him to haul you in.
However, when he wasnât busy pulling salmon and girls that were supposed to be dead from the waters, he spent his time gambling at the local cockfighting ring. Money seemed to slip through that manâs fingers in a way fish never could, and you werenât unused to him coming back late with nothing but the next morningâs meal in one hand and an apology in the other (all to be met with a double-handed walloping from his less than forgiving wife). Still, he was never so careless as to let his family lie in need, and so you graciously looked the other way from habits you yourself found to be less than savory.
âSorry about them, (y/n)-chanâŠâ Hotaka mumbles against your ear from his place beside you.
You donât flinch, even at the lack of space between you two, long since used to this dinner routine of Ma insisting you eat more, Pa pilfering your plate for the juiciest bites, and Hotaka apologizing for every little so-called slight upon you. Instead, you simply roll your eyes, snort, and scoop another wad of rice into your mouth. You make sure to do so elegantly, like a proper samurai, or in this case âlady,â should.
âThank you for the food.â You make sure to say it clearly, enunciating every syllable in a perfectly proper fashion. Gods, how strange it feels to talk in your normal voice. You find yourself having to cut off the huskiness youâve grown so used to injecting it with.
âIs that all youâre eating, dearie?â Ma shoots you her signature stern look, despite the fact that even without Paâs help, youâve polished off at least three plates of food. Your stomach gurgles. Maybe two plates would have been wiser, but damn that fish was good.
âMa, sheâs going to get sick if you make her eat anymoreâŠâ Hotaka rises to you and your bellyâs defense.
âDonât you lecture me on what it takes to get sick âTaka! Who do you think raised you to be the big, healthy boy you are today?â She looks offended. âYour father!?â
âItâs true.â Pa nods sagely.
Hotaka groans, a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment coloring his cheeks pink as he still continues to rise to get up and help guide you back to your room.
âFeed the rest to Andii if you neeed to.â He shoots back.
Logically, youâre thankful for his help, but another part of you still feels the humiliation and shame well up at how useless, how vulnerable, how female you are to him. Hotakaâs been a nice boy thus far, but what difference does that make? You know better than to trust pretty faces and gentle smiles, and every time he addresses you, that same sinking feeling comes back with a vengeance.
âHe could do anything to me and I wouldnât be able to stop him.â
At least as a man, you had some visage of protection, the illusion of camaraderie shielding you from glances of lust and desire. But now? Now you were like any penned bitch waiting for the wolves to tread in for their supper.
Still, itâs not like you have an out. All eyes are on you now, and all you can do is worthlessly shamble about as you try to play the part of a lost girl. You suppose it helps that in a sense, you are one. Maybe thatâs what you always were, whether it be under rags or robes or armor: just a lost, little, stupid girl playing with men whose appetites were unaware that they could be sated by her.
As Hotaka takes your arm, you force yourself not to flinch. You make sure to smile and nod and thank him. You show youâre grateful, but not too much.
Too much would get hopes too high for something you can not, will not, give him.
Pity so that despite this awareness, your eyes are not privy to the way Ma and Pa knowingly smile across the dinner table, hands finding each other as they look at the two of you, and notice things that anyone would notice when man and woman stand side by side.
~~~
âSorry about them, (y/n)-chan.â Hotaka murmurs as he guides you towards the room, hands steadying you and your uneven, still-relearning-how-to-walk gait. âThey mean well, but I know from personal experience that that doesnât negate howâŠmuch they are.â
You nod your head, already starting to feel the exhaustion youâd been putting off from that session at the dinner table. The leftover onigiri from lunch wasnât the only thing being grilled during that meal.
âSeriously though, if they ever give you any more trouble about something and you donât want to fight your way out of it alone, just kick me under the table and Iâll cover for you. Iâm kind of a certified pro when it comes to handling them. Tonight excluded.â
You snort, pushing open the sliding door as the two of you reach your destination.
âThanks, Hotaka.â You mean it, sincerely. Heâs a nice boy, a good boy youâd even venture forward to say. Does that mean youâd put your unwavering faith in him? Of course not. But youâve spent enough years around guys to have some semblance of reliable character judgement. Hotakaâs your classic case of a kind, if not too timid for his size, village boy whoâs yet to truly face the grisly realities of the world. Back in the army, youâd get them all the time: the wide-eyed, still green types who had heads full of ideals and bellies full of their mamaâs bentos.
But then again, look where those got them. Heads skewered on spikes and lobbed back over camp walls.
You have to stop yourself from letting through a pitying look at Hotaka, instead straining your arm towards his head. He freezes at first, unsure of what youâre seeking to do and whether itâll stress your stitches, caught halfway between stopping your arm or going back to steadying you, but when your hand finds the top of his head, ruffling his hair under your fingers in what youâve come to learn is an amicable gesture, he eases up, loosening his shoulders and lowering his head for you.
â...âS no problemâŠâ He mumbles, mouth quivering beneath his raised hand as a traitorous pink begins to build in his ears again. Gods, heâs so easily flustered.
After a couple more strokes, you lower your hand, hobbling over to the futon you could almost call âhomeâ for the past couple of weeks. Hotaka takes one look, gets the hint, and nods, making his way back to the door and offering you his services as âone call awayâ before sliding it shut.
âŠ
Your smile falls.
Thank the gods itâs over.
You flop onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you conduct your daily ritual of apathetically absorbing your day. Medicines in the morning, physical therapy in the afternoon, a game of twenty questions in the evening. All as you, but not you, as (y/n).
Itâs been weeks, but you still canât seem to wrap your head around it. The fact that Baki is dead and (y/n) is alive and Sakamoto is in godsâ know what state.
You should be dead. You really should be dead. If not from your botched seppuku, then from an amended one right here, right now. You know where Ma keeps the knives, where Pa hides his fishing lines, death is only one effortful hobble in the night away, and yetâ
You canât do it. That same force that diverted your blade that infamous morning keeps you stuck in bed, actionless, useless, surviving. You donât deserve this, this care, but it seems that deep down you donât feel as though you deserve death either.
Your blade sings forward, hot and burning in your hands as though it had been cast straight into them. And just like fired metal, it cuts throughâcleanly, neatly, and without discrimination.
Through Mr. Oda.
And through Sakamotoâs wrist.
You turn your head, gazing into the mirror that stands at your bedside. Long hair spills forth, thick eyelashes flutter, and delicate lips part ever so slightly. A woman.
Perhaps this was it. Someone like you, a liar who masqueraded as a samurai with stolen honor, did not deserve death, nor the peace that came with it. No, you deserved something much worse, something that lingered and forced you forward day after day in wretched existence since you couldnât find it in yourself to part with it.
â(Y/n)-chan.â Hotakaâs well-meaning, but grating, nickname echoes in your head.
âŠ
Yes, it seems that your punishment has only just begun.
iv.
Days turn to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. The seasons change, as they always do, and with them so do you.
Baki is dead. He died not during the instance in which the sword pierced his stomach, but the moment that he cut down Mr. Oda, and by proxy, Sakamoto. The men who you fought against likely know this, but the villagers you live alongside now remain unaware, the plights of foolish samurai as foreign to them as the amanto who come with honeyed offerings of peace.
It is with this knowledge, that you know you must move on, must forgo your previous desires and dreams and regrets, and live the life you so selfishly granted to yourself.
You are (y/n) (no last name, you never once needed one), just a lost little girl whose appetites align with the crowds, the masses. When they wake, you wake. When they eat, you eat. When they pray, you stare blankly at the temple alter and wonder if a god really is there listening to your silence. You are what they dress you up as, what they project onto you, and ultimately, what they decide is best for you.
Youâve lost the drive to be anything else.
No longer are you the girl with the price tag, the district ringâs champion fighter, the student of Shoyou, nor the Black Inu. You are simply nothing.
Slowly but surely you fall into new patterns, forgoing your bindings for modest kimonos, cooking with Ma while the men go out to fish, and smiling blankly whenever a conversation or allusion to marriage is thrown your way. This is the hell you forsook your honor for, and it is the corpse you will wed.
â(Y/n)-chan! Are you ready for temple?â Hotaka calls out through the halls.
You stand up from where you were perched, reading some amanto book the nearby occupying forces had gifted the village. Itâs been years now, and you no longer need an aid to stand. The wounds cast in your flesh have healed for the most part, though you doubt even Maâs careful stitching will allow you to ever wield a sword in the manner Shoyou taught you again.
Good. You donât deserve to.
âComing!â You call, running to the entrance to grab your parasol and slip on your sandals.
Itâs a peaceful Spring day, one like any other as you make your way to the local shrine, newly built from fancy, imported space resources. The birds sing, the flowers in the trees flutter down fully bloomed, and the sky rings a crystal clear blue.
And yet still, you feelâŠnothing.
You smile and nod and do what is expected of you. You respond when spoken to and bow when approached. You even giggle when the need arises as some man cracks an unfunny joke and then you smirk when his wife berates him. Life is peaceful in the village hidden in the fields. It is also empty.
Years pass. They feel like decades. The samurai fade, and the amanto reign supreme. The people of your village do not seem to mind, lives blissfully unaffected by the loss of something they never needed and the gaining of something they never dreamed of. Through it, you say nothing.
Itâs a clear, sunny day. No clouds that allude to possible storms nor overly strong winds that threaten to knock you overâthe perfect weather for an interhouse Duelo match.
Bodies soar over and past your head at speeds easily breaking the usual records, the riders gripping onto and leaning against their brooms as they clash midair, a flurry of warring colors of red and violet.
Todayâs the day of the Adler v. Lang match, and the colosseum is packed with students of all houses in cheer. As you sit next to your roommate, Lauren, you watch as players rise and fall, taking to the air with a gusto you never could have imagined leading with during your own broomriding classes.
That, however, is a story for another time.
What matters now is the one player who does not follow suit with the others, his feet still planted firmly on the ground. That player, being Mash.
âWhat is he doing?â
You look on, but are careful not to let too much concern enter your eyes. You are a Lang student after all, and after your little sorting fiasco, you donât need any more rumors of you being Adlerâs reject. Moving your gaze from field to stands, you spot Lemon and Finn on the opposite end of the colosseum, their expressions showing off the same confusion and worry that youâre feeling deep down.
The gameâs started, Langâs winning, and Mash, the Adler MVPâs personal invite, is doing absolutely nothing.
Ding!
The familiar sound of the Duelo bell rings across the surrounding area as Lang scores their forty-ninth point over Adlerâs measly ten.
Seeing this, Tom Knowles, the same guy who went out of his way to pressure invite Mash flies down and lands upon the ground, pulling said raven-haired boy into a terse huddle. You canât make it out fully, but there is the occasional yell of âburningâ and âbambooâ that echoes into the stands. Mash looks unmoved.
A thought then creeps into your head, one you hope that is surely off the mark.
âDid Tom even explain the rules to him?â
You watch as Tom points out the players riding on brooms, the ball, and then the ring, motioning wildly. Mash nods his head in a new, vague understanding. Ah, so he didnât.
Forcing a rousing war cry from his throat, Tom jumps back on his broom, rising into the air as he motions for Mash to join him. Heâs so focused on Mash that he completely neglects to notice the flash of violet heading right towards him.
With a crash and a sickening crack, Tom Knowles crashes down into the ground, body long since separating from broom as he tumbles straight into the colosseum wall. Gasps break out from the Adler and Orca dorms as the Lang students around you cheer in approval. You keep a straight face, stopping yourself from cringing as you watch his body crumple up in an unnatural way. Lauren bites her lip in rapt excitement. You hope that her energy covers for your lack of.
The Lang student that crashed into himâCrispin Blaise, if you remember correctlyâlooks less than apologetic as he stays in the air, not even bothering to check on his victim. With a self-satisfied smile, he goes back into the fray, scoring a sixtieth point for Lang as the rest of the stunned Adler team helplessly flail at their captainâs predicament. Mash is over to Tom in an instant, helping to prop him up into a sitting position.
A sinking feeling enters your stomach as they exchange words that someone from a distance like yours could never hear. Taking your wand, you mutter a simple set of words, Audius Exto, pointing in their direction and flicking the tip to your ear. With it, youâre able to make out the tail end of the conversation.
â...But Mash, I want you to knowââ Tom starts, a hand gripping Mashâs. âIn the end, what matters isnât winning. Itâs just the fact that you gave it your all.â
Ding!
ââAnd with that, another point goes to Lang! With a score of ten to sixty, the outcome of this match seems plain as day!â The announcer calls, ending the little moment between the two of them. You cheer along with the crowd, despite how rotten it feels doing so. Thereâs something to be gleaned from Tomâs words, but you know for a fact that some part of them is misguided. Winning does matter, and anything said against that is either losers trying to cope with themselves or winners feigning humility for the sake of a further image boost.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Three more points to Lang. With this, the gameâs end feels all but assured.
That is, until Mash stands up, plucks his broom from the ground, and takes to the air.
âSo he can flyâŠâ Lauren mutters beside you, she and the rest of the crowd watching in amazement as he remains floating in place. Soon enough, he jets forward, almost knocking the entirety of Team Lang off their brooms completely. With one hand, he grabs the ball and tosses it through the ring, its speed as fast as a bullet, not to mention the curvature of its throw that allows it to boomerang back to him.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The score bell continues ringing, but this time in service of Team Adler over Lang, the ball never once leaving Mashâs position. In fact, he neednât move at all as he hovers in place.
At least, thatâs what it appears to be.
But, upon closer inspection, you notice something strange. HeâsâŠkicking. Rapidly. Itâs almost as though whatâs keeping Mash afloat isnât the broom at all but simply the displacement of the air from his legs. But that should be physically impossible without magic, right? And to use magic during a Duelo match would be cheating! And Mash really doesnât seem like the type to cheat, or even care enough to try.
Besides, you didnât see him perform a spell. You donât even think he has his wand on him.
Of course, this could all be the work of someone else, but to do that would mean theyâd need to keep their concentration on Mash to control his rapid movements. Scanning the crowd, you find people focused on him, but none of them in the middle casting a spell, which meansâŠ
Mash is doing this on his own. Without magic.
âŠHave you ever seen him perform magic in the first place?
You think back, concentrating on the entrance exams where you first met. You didnât want to entertain the thought at the time, because doing so would be insane, but everything he did could technically be explained by something other than magicâa finger trick here, a few rapid movements there. Normally, you wouldnât even think to consider the alternatives. After all, who can just lift a boulder with their thumb or run fast enough not to sink in water? But then again, who could do that without uttering a spell or so much as pulling out their wand? Even less possible.
The frown on your face this time is not one feigned to appease the displeased Lang crowd as you watch your team lose. And when it finally does happen, you get up from your seat, ignoring a bummed Lauren, and make your way to the colosseumâs underground tunnels.
You and a certain musclehead need to have a talk.
<><><>
Wandering around, you pass swathes of friends and foes alike, the twisted results of the match the hottest topic to discuss. Adler students grin, Orca students recalculate their Duelo bracket predictions, and Lang students are on the prowl to berate a certain losing team of theirs.
Through it all, you navigate the crowd, moving like a salmon through opposing rapids as you go against the flow of foot traffic. It takes a bit, but finally you find who youâre looking for.
Mash. He stands, surrounded by newly-earned adorers. Your eyes meet his.
He turns, looks at you, and raises a hand in greeting. You donât greet him back, instead grabbing him by the collar and yanking him away from the festivities, though you have a feeling that if he cared, he wouldnât have budged an inch.
Steering him through the inner workings of the Duelo colosseum, you watch as the number of surrounding students begins to fade until there is no one left around to hear you. Good.
Turning, you affix Mash with a cold stare.
âYou donât have any magical affinity, do you?â
<><><>
âNot once have I heard you utter a spell, and I mean a real spell. Listing muscle groups and then saying âmagicâ after does not count.â You chide, pacing back and forth, listing inconsistencies on your hands. âYou donât even use wands unless itâs to stab or hit something. If anything, all the power is coming from your biceps. And another thingââ
Mash sits in the corner of the now deserted Adler Duelo locker room, looking absolutely defeated as you give him the point-by-point breakdown of your hypothesis. Not once has he tried to speak up in protest, though youâre not sure whether it be out of an inability to deny what youâre saying or a general respect to not interrupt a woman when sheâs speaking.
âIâve had my doubts, since what the implications of this would mean...â Your tone darkens.
This is a world where your propensity for magic dictates everything in your life. To be magicless? Itâs unthinkable. Not just out of social rejection, but the very scary and very real reality that governmental termination in the name of âgenetic purityâ waits around every corner.
You care about power, you do. Youâll be the first to admit how scathing the thoughts that come to your mind are when you see someone stumble on a simple spell or act above their marking amount. Youâre not a perfect person, and you wonât even venture to say youâve got the greatest personality around when it comes to ideas about lines and potential and such. But damn it if it isnât a bit extreme or horrifying to think that there are people below you whose very existence is threatened for something out of their control. You donât like your life as it is being a single-liner, but at the very least, you have a working one.
Maybe thereâs a method to this power-scaled society that you give in to, but you still donât think people deserve to die for it.
But they do. Every day.
âEverything youâve done up to this point, while it should be physically impossible, can still only be explained by raw might over any sort of use of mana.â You eye the locked door for what feels like the twentieth time in the past five minutes, making sure to lower your voice despite casting a silencing spell over the surrounding area. âIs your magic line even real? Or is that another trick too?â
Getting up in Mashâs personal space, you wait for him to push you away. He doesnât. So, you look at his face closely. The mark is the usual deep black, seemingly seared into his skin like it would be on any other person.
âI mean, it looks real⊠Do you just have mana channeling difficulties or something?â
âNo. Bradâs just really good at counterfeiting. Kinda scary since heâs supposed to be a cop, but, yâknow.â Mash speaks up for the first time since you dragged him here. He shrugs his shoulders, rubbing at the mark in demonstration.
âWho the hell is Brad?â
âThe guy who blackmailed my family and wants to mooch off of me becoming a divine visionary.â He says it with utter apathy in his voice. ââWhich is fine, since all I want is to live in peace with Pops.â
You stop, taken aback by the earnestness thatâs entered his voice. Not once in the many days youâve known him have you heard much emotion or care for anything besides creampuffs come from Mash, so this is a surprise.
â... That wonât stop the Bureau of Magic from coming after you. You know that, right?â You shake your head. âEven if you become a divine visionaryâwhich is next to impossible, mind youâdo you really think one guy can make a difference like that?â
âI do.â
He says it, not with his usual uncaring naivete, but with a stubborn sureness so sharp, you canât help but look up in surprise. Thatâs weird. For a second there, you almost wanted to believe him.
You massage your temple in hopes that the feeling will bring you back down to Earth. If societal change were that easy, then things wouldnât be the way they are now. This is your life, you canât just start to doubt it because some boy with insane core strength says and thinks he can do whatever he wants. Thatâs not the way the world works, and it definitely is not what your family has taught you time and time again. So fine, if Mash wants to play pretend and say that heâll become a divine visionary, he can do just thatâyou, for one, wonât encourage him, but you wonât try to stop or expose him either.
This is something between him and the rest of the world. You have your own life to manage.
âAlright.â You concede, making your way over to undo the door lock youâd set. âBelieve what you will, but just knowââ
The lock comes undone, and with it, the silencing spell. You open it, swinging the door open with a bit too much force. Finn and Lemon appear on the other side, faces filled with excitement morphing into confusion at the sight of you leaving Adlerâs changing room. You ignore it, and you ignore them.
You look back at Mash, just for a moment.
ââIf someone like you thinks they have a shot, then donât be surprised when you see me taking mine.â
ii.
A week has passed since the now-famous Duelo match, as well as since you last spoke to Mash.
Itâs not that youâre avoiding him on purpose (or maybe you are just a bit), but you donât really know how to approach him now that the catâs out of the bag. You mean, Mash doesnât have a magic mark! He should be dead! But he isnât, and itâs all because of his absolutely insane musculature. How do you just casually continue to hang out with someone like that?
The answer is: you donât. Itâs probably better off this way anyway. Even if Mash were some normal single-liner guy, his rapidly developing friend group wouldnât have done you any favors with your parents. A poor girl, a musclehead, and a painfully average nobody. You were obviously slacking in the socials department.
Mother and Father seem to think so as well, if their latest Yowler has anything to say about it.
â... Itâs been almost a month, and all you have added to the Verdelune name is humiliation after humiliation. Threatening the headmaster with your wand, letting the Sorting Unicorn read your weaknesses, and getting involved with the delinquent who tried to bury Vice Principal Cregos alive!? Unbelievable!â
The unmistakable voice of your mother screeches from the unfolded red parchment. Around you, fledgling owls squawk in aggravation, some even coming down to peck at you and the hands holding the Yowler. Perhaps you shouldâve waited to unseal the enchanted envelope after you exited the owlery.
Your fatherâs voice rises next, like your parents are operating as some sort of tag team squad to berate you.
âAnd donât bother with any excuses! If you were really serious about this, then you would have been placed in a dorm next to Crown as planned. Instead, youâre off gallivanting near the bottom rungs of Lang like some common tail-chaser.â
âPerhaps itâs time we pivotâŠâ Your motherâs voice has calmed, but contrary to what one may think, this is a sign opposite of good. Your mother is the type to enjoy hearing the sound of her own voice, so the moment she goes silent, you know sheâs plotting something, and whenever sheâs plotting something around you, you usually have a good idea of the nature of her plans.
âNolan Drake was also placed in Lang, yes?â Her words are slow, deliberate, like a snake swallowing its prey. âThe Crowns have a more prestigious bloodline, but theyâve been a pain to attempt to infiltrate. The Drakes, on the other handââ
Your father finishes for her, seemingly having entered the same page.
ââThey were always a much more amicable sort. Especially when it came to their Nolan and our (y/n).â
Itâs like a peach pit has taken root in your stomach and has begun growing its tendrils. Not Nolan. Anyone but that slimeball they call a mage. Heâs always been such a tough act to be around, ever since you were kids, and you have a strong feeling that things will only get worse once you start courting.
But itâs not like thereâs much room for you to protest. Yowlers are prerecorded letters, so screaming back at one will do nothing but further invoke the owlsâ wrath upon you. And even if you were face to face, you doubt your parents would listen to anything you have to say. Youâre not your brother, your thoughts donât matter, and, in the end, what theyâre doing is whatâs best for you. Maybe if you were born a better mage, things would be different, but in a society based on power scales, you were lucky to even have led the life youâve lived up until now.
Youâve been throwing yourself into your studies, you really have, but outside of your usual areas of comfort, you havenât shown much of any progress. The time for being selfish is beginning to wane.
âTwo lines are two lines.â Your parents agree in unison, voices laced as sweetly as a poisoned apple. âMaybe itâs best we reevaluate our expectations for you. Perhaps even asking for mediocrity has its limits.â
You stand there and take it, the reminder of what you are, what you lack to be, and let a familiar feeling climb up from your feet, through your back, and settle over your chest as disappointment after disappointment is expressed. They were overbearing, but, ultimately, rightâjust like the headmaster, and just like the Sorting Unicorn. Youâre nothing, no one, a little fish thatâs nothing more beyond the predators it attaches itself to to clean. How could you ever dream of becoming more than what was already expected of you?
Youâd never realized before just how greedy you are.
â... Well, I suppose thatâs all for now.â Your mother sighs, resigning herself to their newly concocted plan B. âJust, remember (y/n)ââ
Your father finishes for her again, but you know the sentiment is shared between the two. âWe love you. Just⊠in the future, try to make it less difficult to do so.â
With that, the Yowler settles, folds back up, and tucks itself away into your hands.
You stand there for a few precious moments, allowing the owls to continue in their pecking as the last words of your parents fully absorb. You donât want to go after Nolan, you really donât. But for themâŠ? You suppose everyone has sacrifices they must make in life.
After all, did you really ever think you had a chance with Lance Crown? How laughable.
<><><>
Youâre exiting the owlery when you hear it: the sound of voices talking, terse with the unmistakable crackle of magic in the air. Straining to make out what theyâre saying, you once again cast Audius Exto (such a handy spell for curious people like yourself) and slink closer into the bushes.
â... Weâll have a duel for each otherâs silver coins. The school may look down on magical duels, but itâs not like you have any choice other than to accept. Not as long as I hold this, that is.â
That voice⊠Itâs Lance Crown, but what is he doing out here? Not to mention, a duel? And what was this about his opponent not having a choice? Your usual logic tells you that this isnât your business, that the best course of action is to flee and leave the flashy displays of power to the double-liners. But another part of you, some twisted sense of reasoning, perks up at the mention of silver coins.
Becoming a divine visionary isnât easy, and it isnât cheap either. Easton Magic Academy runs on a system composed of coins: gold, silver, and bronze. A certain amount of gold coins allows you to enter the competition to become a divine visionary, with five silver coins or ten bronze coins being able to be fused into a singular gold coin. Though, itâs always better to err on the side of caution and gather as many coins as you can, even if you meet the requirements to enter the Divine Visionary Candidate Exam.
Through your studies, youâve amassed a singular bronze coin, nothing particularly special in of itself, but still considerably impressive considering how long itâs been since youâve entered Easton. Of course, there are those like Mash or Lance, or even the Magia Lupus who boast a host of silver coins, but they are examples far above the normal crop you lie in.
âAnd judging by your personality, the fact that I could use a trick like this to get you out here says enough. Not that Iâd ever need the handicap to beat you.â
Arrogant, but, likely correct.
âYou know, I saw what you did during the entrance exams, how soft you were. Prioritizing a couple of girls over your own goals.â You stop. That description⊠Could he be talking to whom you think he is? âSome would call that selfless, but I call it a loser mentality.â
Youâve stopped moving, electing to crouch still in the bushes by this point, and by the gods, are you lucky that you did. A shockwave erupts from the direction of Lance and possibly Mash, the wind whipping your face even when concealed behind the foliage. The ground in front of your bush is forced down, trees shooting back, and grass being packed into a sturdy dirt pit, almost like an arena floor. Noticing the pulsating dark purple mana in the air, you quickly come to a conclusion. This is the work of a Crownâs gravity magic, no doubt.
Covering your eyes from the impending dust and debris, you make out the two figures that stand tall in the manmade clearing. Lance Crown and Mash Burnedead, just the men you expected, as well as the two men you most wanted to avoid, Nolan aside.
âThere. Now we have some clear boundaries.â Lanceâs voice rings clear and true across the field, the concentration of your spell broken but no longer needed.
âIâm not into flashy displays.â Mash lunges forward at an incredible speed, fist pulled back in preparation to strike. ââIâm a more direct kind of guy.â
âTrying to win against me without magic?â The blue-haired double-liner scoffs, flicking his wand with a practiced ease. âGraviole.â
Instantly, Mash is forced into the ground, flat with cracks spiraling out from beneath him. He looks pitiful next to Lance, who stands tall and proud, and who you notice is holding something quite curious: an ornate bottle that contains Finn, Lemon, and Tom. You recognize it to be an antique, able to hold multiple people inside upon the openerâs removal of its seal.
âWas this what he meant by Mash not being able to refuse his challenge?â
If that was true (which seems likely), then Lance really was being absolute scum, endangering the lives of his fellow students to start a fight with an uninterested party. You understand the desire for coinsâthe sooner and the more one gathers, the betterâbut this was just being plain reckless. What would happen if a prefect or professor were to find out? Heâd be at risk of losing a lot more than a silver coin.
ââScum like you can spend the rest of your lives crawling on the ground.â
Mash stays pinned down and silent, struggling and failing to raise himself any higher than his hands and knees. Lance sneers. âDonât bother trying to stand up. No human can bear the force of this gravitational spell.â
But, you notice, Mash isnât trying to do thatâno, heâs shoving a fist deeper into the ground, burying himself to his upper arm. He stays there for a moment, then pulls back, the ground splitting beneath Lance as he does so. From it erupts thick roots, the remnants of one of the trees blown away by Lanceâs Graviole spell.
Falling back, Lance waves his wand, gliding through the air before landing in a crouched position a few levels below Mash.
âFunny. Now youâre the one crawling on the ground.â
âGraviole!â Lance is quick to the draw, but Mash is quicker, rushing in with another punch even as the modified gravity takes its effect on him. He misses the attack, Lance managing to dodge out of the way, but he doesnât stay down for long, somehow moving even quicker than before. On and on they continue like this, Mash on the attack whilst Lance maintains defense. You have a feeling this can go on forever, their skills equally matched.
Then, Mash throws an uppercut. It misses Lance, but not his pendant, the chain snapping free as it soars through the air right in front of Mash. Lanceâs concentration breaks, and with that, his gravity spell disappears. Mash crouches down, picks up the locket, and opens it, pausing for a good long while before slowly looking back up at Lance in a rare, never-before-seen display of horror.
âL-l-loliconâŠâ His voice wobbles, and he takes a step back in disgust. âI need to call the police. Y-youâre a pervert.â
Your eyes widen. You canât see the image in the pendant from the bushes, but judging by Mash of all peopleâs reaction, it must be bad. Or completely innocent, and heâs just being the usual idiot he is.
âI donât have a Lolita complex, you idiot. I haveâŠâ Lance speaks with a deadly seriousness. â...a sister complex.â
This is too much. It is at this moment that you canât help but trip over yourself in the bushes, mind reeling from the revelation that Lance Crown is an incestuous, perverted, and possibly still lolicon weirdo. So he was rejecting you and every other girl in the schoolâŠfor his little sister!?
On your way down, your ankle snags on a branch and a small gouge cuts into your flesh, making you hiss in pain.
âWho was that!?â Lance snaps, his head swiveling in your direction. You freeze, your hands midway through to cuddling your leg. Maybe if you donât move further, heâll think it was just a deer or a bird or something harmless. You then notice the extremely inconvenient head-level hole in the bush, allowing Lance and Mash a crystal clear view of your face.
âVerdelune.â The double-liner says with bared teeth. âGet over here, you damn stalker.â
âWell,â you look around at the flattened ground and blasted trees, âToo late to try and run now.â
Ducking down and out of sight for a moment, your bush rustles before a figure pops out of it. Itâs you, obviously. You make your way over to the two men, trying your best not to let them see the way you hobble. That damned branch had drawn blood.
âGentlemen. What fine weather weâre having today.â You look up at the sky in wonder, hands clasped loosely behind your back. âI just love taking walks out in nature during my free periodsââ
ââSave the bullcrap for your Lang man-slaves.â Lance spits, cutting straight through your little front with an absolutely brutal look of disdain. âWhat the hell are you doing spying on us here? This duel is between the idiot and me.â
âAm I an idiot?â Mash asks earnestly.
Stopping before them, you shrug your shoulders noncommittally. âI just happened to be in the area, is all. By the way, is it true youâre into your little sister?â
âW-what!?â Lance sputters, looking absolutely appalled. Funny, he was so adamant and proud about saying he had a sister complex just a few moments ago, and now heâs the very picture of scandalized at your words. What was different now? Was it the fact that a girl was calling him out on his perversions instead of a guy? Was that it? Or maybe you were more charming than you remembered, and he was utterly embarrassed at having a girl such as yourself specifically lay witness to his fetishes.
⊠Nah. Not likely.
âThe only thing I have for my sister is a pure, brotherly love!â
âThen I donât think you know what a sis complex isâŠâ Mash shakes his head, still keeping a fair amount of distance between himself and the pervert. âAnyways, hi (y/n). Long time no see.â
âHey, MashâŠâ You reply awkwardly, not quite sure how to hold yourself in front of the guy youâve been avoiding for the past month.
âEnough of this!â Lance cuts through the weird tension that hangs in the air. He points at Mash first. âGive it back.â Then you. âStay.â
You both obediently obey, Mash tossing back the locket and you standing next to Mash, not daring to make another run for it now that youâre in recognized Lance Crown range. He catches the keepsake with one hand, stuffing it into his robes before leveling the two of you with an even glare.
âTell me, what is the most precious thing in this world?â
âCream puffs?â Mash ventures forth.
âMagical power?â You offer up.
âHuman life?â
âBloodline status?â
âLove?â
âGenetics?â
âFreedom?â
âMoney?â
âCream puââ
âWrong. Wrong. Wrong!â Lance interrupts your brainstorming, growing more agitated with each incorrect answer. He grips at his head in frustration, teeth grinding and hands clenching. âGods, could you be any more dense or vapid!? Itâs as simple as one plus one equals two; blue and yellow make green! The answer is obvious!â
âWhat is it then?â You ask.
Dragging a hand down his face, he levels you with a dark stare you canât help but shiver at. His eyes are focused, but wild, glaring at you with an intensity youâre only used to receiving from your family. âMy little sister.â
âŠ
âŠâŠ
âŠâŠâŠ
âCreep.â Mash summarizes skillfully for the two of you.
iii.
Youâre nine years old. Face still full of baby fat and knees always inexplicably covered in scrapes.
For what feels like the thousandth time over, you brace, leveling your wand at the practice dummy, and shout. âAestus!â
You can feel it before you see it: the suctioning force of environmental mana moving into your body and through your wand, a pale green glow emanating as the particles bunch and join together. A heated breeze wafts over you, even though youâre indoors, and your left hand, which holds your wand, begins to warm.
âAestus!â
Lights flicker, thereâs a slight tremor in the ground, and the wind picks up, swirling around your form as you hold on and grit your teeth. But beyond that, nothing happens. The dummy remains untouched.
âAestus!â You repeat again.
Nothing seems to change as you recite the spell over and over and over again, the channeling energy beginning to phase out and give way to empty air.
âAestus! Aestus! Aestus!â
The glow dims, the buzzing recedes, and you are left alone in a room with nothing to show, save for a dripping spurt of light from the end of your wand, pathetic and useless. Youâre about to readjust your stance and try again, when a clear voice rings out from the doorway behind you.
âDonât bother.â Virid steps out from the shadows, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. For a twelve-year-old, he looks surprisingly stern, more serious than many of the tutors youâve met with. âSloppy form, thin concentration, and youâre tripping over the pronunciation.â
Your cheeks burn a deep red as he points out the last part. Try as you might, youâve still been struggling with the last remnants of a lisp thatâs come from your younger years, though by no fault of your own efforts. Day in and day out, whenever youâre not in lessons or training, youâve been running those word exercise drills your mother hammered into you. It was bad enough having your parents breathe down your neck whenever you tripped on your teeth, but Virid now too?
âYouâre pushing yourself too hard.â He shakes his head as he walks up, stopping beside you just to pluck the old training wand youâd snatched from your tutorâs satchel out of your hands. âMana doesnât respond to insecurity.â
You bristle, your face still swelling from the last slight. You canât even get a word in edgewise as Virid rolls the wand between his fingers, spinning on his heel and pointing it towards the still untouched dummy.
âAestus.â
There are no surrounding effects; there doesnât need to be. In an instant, the mana surrounding the two of you is channeled into Virid and travels out of the wand, erupting with gusto in a show of glowing emerald tides which engulf the training dummy. The waves swell, crashing into the wall and almost touching the ceiling before they neatly drain down into nothingness, taking the dummy with them.
â... Show offâŠâ
Virid doesnât turn back to you, doesnât even bother addressing you directly as he lowers the wand.
âLeave the spellcasting to me, sister.â Is all he says before he leaves the training room, the clacking of his heels punctuating your thoughts as he exits. The doors slam shut behind him, and again you are alone, fists clenched and eyes watering.
He embarrassed you. Again.
You look dumbly around the room, legs wobbling and hands useless without a wand, though something tells you they would be equally ineffective even with a magic tool in their clutches. Cursing your brother and giving the spot where the training dummy used to sit a final glance, you hang your head in defeat, trudging out of the room only once youâre sure thereâs a sizable distance between your brotherâs and your departures.
Table manners lessons are next, and you know how much your parents loathe when youâre late. An hour of memorizing forks and spoons and knives.
⊠Maybe thatâs all youâre good for after all.
<><><>
âIâm going to drop this bottle off the cliff. Then, Iâll speed it up with my gravity spell.â Lance dangles the antique over the edge. You look down. The fall is easily tens of feet, no way survivable for a normal human, much less a bottle full of tiny ones. âI know youâll try and catch them. But just know that when you do, Iâm going to make a bid for your silver coin.â
He stops, falters, if just for a moment, before readjusting his grip on the bottle. âIâll do anything for my sister, even if I have to play the monster.â
Your brows furrow. Freak nature aside, what does he actually mean by that? Why does he need to become a âmonsterâ for her? You rack your brain for clues.
Lanceâs younger sister, the second Crown, Anna.
You donât know much about her, just that she's a few years younger than you and that sheâs a single-liner like their parents. She hasnât been seen in public in recent years, whether it be due to sickness or scandal or something else, youâre not quite sure. Her parents never seemed to give much away, didnât even look all that concerned when she stopped appearing with them. It was only after Lance rejected them that they started to scramble.
But, whatever it is that ails the Crowns, it canât possibly be able to justify endangering human life over a singular silver coin. Keep excelling in class or break sports records like Mash, you donât careâbut a move like this? Itâs a level of scumminess that even you feel the need to take a step back from.
Youâre about to do just that, to step back and wash your hands of such an illegal situation, because Nolan Drake is slimy scum, but at least he isnât an attempted murderer, when it happens. Not even Mash can react in time to intervene. Lance lets go of the bottle, just as he says, and mutters âGraviole,â forcing an even quicker, deadlier descent.
You scream, you canât help it. Finn, Lemon, Tomâtheyâre relatively low-level nobodies, but that doesnât mean they deserve to die! Tom has a Duelo team, Finnâs brother is a divine visionary, and Lemonâwell, all human life has some inherent worth to it, doesnât it!?
âWell, whatâll you do?â He turns to Mash, ignoring you entirely.
The scream has died down in your throat, and you too turn to Mash, expecting a similar look of helpless horror. Instead, you find him stripped down and stretching like this is all some sort of elaborate pre-workout. His robes lie to the side, the silver coin sitting atop them out in the open and ripe for the taking.
âIâll do hamstring magic.â He gets down into a sprinterâs crouch. âBig Bang Dash.â
âIs that supposed to be some sort of spell?â
âThe choice of losing, and the choice of not rescuing themâŠâ Mash raises his head, an almost magical glow emanating from his golden yellow eyes. âNeither are choices Iâll settle for making.â
With that, he breaks away, running at a speed almost imperceptible to the human eye. Shockwaves and dust ripple out, just like when Lance first cast the gravity magic to make his field, and within the blink of an eye, Mash is gone. Now itâs just you and Lance, the two of you standing atop a cliff with a silver coin just begging to be snagged.
You look at it out of the side of your eye as it gleams atop Mashâs shed clothes. So open, so free, so vulnerable. You could take itâŠ
âŠ
⊠But you wonât.
Yes, the thought is a surprise, even to you, but the staunch tug of your heart keeps you from making a grab for it. Conflicted as you are about everything youâve learned of Mash, you still canât find it in yourself to betray the same simple-minded guy who came to your and Lemonâs rescue during the entrance exam.
The same canât be said for Lance, however, as you see the look of dark determination in his eyes.
He warned Mash. He said heâd do it. And now here he was.
You take a step forward, placing yourself between him and Mashâs robes.
âMove.â Itâs not a request, itâs a demandâyou know the difference well. Still, you do not budge, moving closer to intercept him. When Lance takes a step to the right, you do too, and when he slides to the left, you follow, like some sort of goalie on their way to confront the offensive line.
âI donât care if youâre a girl, Iâll use my magic on you all the same if you donât get out of my way.â Lance threatens, brandishing his wand. There are still a few meters between him and you and the robes which hold the silver coin. For once, you don a serious look, no longer all sugar and smiles, and puff out your chest.
âTry me.â
âGraviole!â He commands, the familiar dark purple and black magic bursting from his wand to form a column of raw mana over you, forcing the world down. Grass flattens, a bird flying overhead plummets, and youâyou look Lance Crown in the eyes, and smile.
Back straight, legs strong, you stand tall. Lanceâs eyes widen, brows raising in utter disbelief. You donât blame him, even Mash couldnât help but be affected and forced down by his spell, so why were you unaffected? Itâs not like you could have slipped out a counterspell in the moment; you didnât even have your wand pulled out.
Speaking of that, you reach into your robes, retrieve said wand, and rush forward.
Lance flinches, not being able to help the instinct to step back when being rushed, the confusion and surprise of you resisting his magic not helping him. You close the distance between you within a few strides, getting right up in Lanceâs face andâ
âAnd pass right through him.
Lance blinks, turns, and comes face to face with you. Youâre standing, but not on the cliff.
âWhat the hell are you doing?â He hisses, reaching out to cast his overused gravity magic again. He may be a double-liner with a family signature, but thatâs no excuse to overrely on just one spell. What is this, amateur hour?
âStalling for time.â You answer simply, motioning behind him. He turns and looks, only to be met with the sight of Mash, bottle in one hand and silver coin in the other. He freezes, likely wondering the same as you did in that Duelo match all that time ago.
âI donât have time for this. Graviââ Not one to give in to defeat so easily, Lance turns his wand from you to Mash, just about to fire off that same damn spell. You move to try and intercept, but Mash holds a hand up. You stop.
âYouâre right. Letâs stop this.â Mash dons his robes, tucking his silver coin safely inside an inner pocket. âYou donât seem like a bad guy. I donât think weâre the ones that should be fighting here.â
â... What?â
âThe bottleâs empty. You dropped a fake.â
â... Huh? So all this about threatening Mash wasâŠ?â
Mash tosses it to Lance, walking over before pulling at the double-linerâs robes with incredible speed and precision. Before long, he pulls out a bottleâthe real bottleâand shrugs as his friends cheer from inside. âAndâŠweâre done.â
âHuh!? You canât just stop this here!â Lance shouts. âWhy would you give up the chance to win my silver coins? Are you trying to screw with me!?â
âNo, not really.â
He bristles. âThen whyâŠ?â
Mash isnât even looking at either of you anymore, busy trying to unscrew the bottle without ripping the thing in half and shattering it entirely. He answers with the same casualness as though heâs been asked about the weather. âI guess Iâm not really the type to make rational decisions. Call me clumsy.â
You donât know what it is exactly, but something in Mashâs words seems to strike a chord in Lance. He stops, drops his wand, and rubs at his temple with an exasperated sigh, looking between the both of you. Dropping his head, he mutters, âIâm done. Iâm heading back. The fight will stop here for now.â
He walks past, not even bothering to spare you a glance, but looking at Mash for a brief moment instead. âBut, a dealâs a deal. Take it.â
He tosses him one of his silver coins, and walks away. Mash catches it, pockets the coin, and goes back to releasing his friends, who fly out from the bottleâs opening with a puff of gray smoke. They swarm him in an instant, Lemon swooning and planning their wedding, Finn crying in gratitude, and Tom whooping with way too much energy.
Mash just looks tired, and a pinch regretful for being so trigger-happy about opening the bottle.
âBy the way, thanks for the assistââ He turns in the direction where you were standing (levitating?), but finds nothing, no one.
Youâve gone, and this time much more quickly than you appeared.
iv.
âI never took you as the soft and sensitive type, Crown. Just another new facet of you I canât help but admire.â
Lance stops in his path, not bothering to turn and look as you appear, leaning against a tree behind him. He doesnât deign to give you a proper response, instead opting to switch the subject around.
âCheap trick you played back there, Verdelune.â
You smile, and maybe just a bit of it is real for once, a semblance of pride at getting the best of the Lance Crown, if only for a few moments. âReally? Because the professor had a much more charitable assessment of my âtricksâ when I presented them to her.â
âExcellent work as usual, Miss Verdelune.â Professor Mevitable shakes her head in clipped approval. âCombining Dupliply Ipso with Audius Exto? Itâs unheard of in the realm of illusory spells to amalgamate sensory spells this way, but genius all the same! Full marks!â
âDupliply Ipso. Manufacturing visual clones of the self. Audius Exto. Projection of auditory stimuli. Quite handy for when you want to make people think youâre somewhere you really arenât.â You explain sweetly, doing your best to keep your voice modest. It was quite the lucky shot, being able to cast it so fast when Lance called out to you, but it paid off in dividends (thank you, foliage). After all, gravity magic does jack squat to the incorporeal.
Lance rolls his eyes, opting to continue forward and leave you behind in the brush. âLike I saidâcheap.â
A slight pep in your step, you walk along after him, arms folded behind your back, and your usual charming mask cranked up to eleven. The walk back to the academy will take a bit, so how could you even think to waste it on anything other than charming Lance? The answer is you wouldnât, and you wonât. Your parents may want to pivot to Nolan now, but that doesnât mean you need to give up on Lance entirely. Self-preservation is all about the self, isnât it? You canât be faulted for being a little selfish in the social game that is your life.
ââCheapâ, âbrilliantâ, whoâs keeping track of what my thinking would be described as?â You just barely make it to Lanceâs side, completely aware of the way he speeds up every time you get close. But, itâll take much more than that to deter you. You quicken your steps until youâre essentially jogging. âEnough about me, I want to hear about you. Graviole, wasnât it? Iâd love to practice form with you some timeâŠâ
Itâs cliche, but easy bait. After all, if youâve learned anything from shadowing your parents at social events, itâs that people with pedigrees and passed-down power love flaunting said assets as their own when asked.
âYou say that like you could ever keep up.â Lance ducks to the left, letting go of a branch he pulled back. Luckily (or unluckily for him), your ever-present poise allows you to duck in time, avoiding a stinging whap to your face. âYou act smart in class, Verdelune, but Iâve seen your pathetic attempts at casting more than the basics, so donât act like weâre equals.â
You keep smiling, and it reaches your eyes, but itâs more so in a bare-teeth display of primate aggression than genuine amicableness. So he has the gall to act all high and mighty even after you beat his ass in a battle of wits?
âYouâre so right.â Your pride swallows like a large pill, but by the gods, do you get it down with gusto. Just accept it and smile and turn it into an opportunity. âThen maybe I need some pointers from the top student in our class. How about it, Mr. Crown?â
âDonât call me that.â
âOh, so youâd like us to be on a first-name basis? How forward Laââ
âDonât call me that either. In fact, donât speak to me at all, Verdelune.â Lance stops, and you, unable to acclimate to the sudden change in speed, barrel right into his elbow. You rub your nose. He continues glaring, nary a hint of sympathy to be found in his expression. âDonât touch me either.â
You flutter your eyelashes. âWaiting until marriage? How romantic.â
â...â Whatâs the opposite of interested? Disinterested? No, thatâs not a strong enough word. Perhaps repulsed? Yeah, thatâs how he looks. Repulsed. â... Youâre unbelievable, you know that, right?â
âSorry, Lance, but if your desires and their antitheses had any effect on me, then I wouldnât have tailed you this far during a free period.â
âOf course I do, Crownââ
ââAgain, donât call me that.â
âI get told it allllll the time.â You put a finger to your lips in thought, making sure to drag your teeth across them so they redden ever-so-slightly. âThough usually the connotation is more positive than this.â
He gags. You choose not to dwell on or take offense at the gesture, instead finding a strange sense of pleasure at his discomfort, as though it makes up for your own deep unwillingness to be in this situation either. This is actually kind of⊠fun.
⊠What was that thought just now?
You blink a couple of times, eyelashes batting in that overextended way youâve trained into muscle memory. It takes a moment to register, but you tally the expression on your face. Youâre smiling, but not in the usual forced way that hurts your cheeks and pulls at your mouth. Itâs almost subconscious the way your eyes have crinkled and your lips have lifted, and you quickly scramble to undo it.
Before long, the approved-style smile is back on your face, but now Lance is looking at you weirdly.
Great. You overstepped, got a little too ballsy pushing his buttons (something which your father would vehemently reject for a girl like you), and now you were grinning like an idiot in the middle of the forest.
You clear your throat, smoothing your skirt, and wincing ever-so-slightly when you hit the snag on your leg from that little fall earlier. Still, the smile stays on.
âApologies.â Youâre careful not to call him anything when you finally address him again, now with a drooping, puppy-dog expression. âIt seems I was acting a bit too forward. Letâs start over.â
âLetâs not.â Lance is walking again and avoiding your eyes. You limp after him.
âIs this about the silver coin? Iâm sorry. I just didnât want you sullying your image withââ
Again, you get a faceful of back as you smack into Lanceâs still body. You pull away, already ready with your next spiel, but the words on your tongue die away the moment you lock eyes with his icy blue ones.
âItâs always about âimageâ for people like you, isnât it?â He hisses, eyes narrowed and cold. âAlways about making yourselves look good and hurting anyone you need to in order to do just that.â
âWell, thatâs unfair.â
âThatâs notââ You start, but unlike Mash, Lance seems to hold no qualms about interrupting a woman.
âI told you, Verdelune. Iâm done. Piss off, leave my sister and me alone, and go find some other double-liner purse dog to wag your tail at.â He pulls out his wand, and once again, you force yourself to not flinch. Youâre with him in the flesh now, meaning your presence no longer holds immunity to his Graviole spell.
Lance ignores you, though, muttering something under his breath as green flames spark at his feet and engulf him, burning at his figure until nothing is left standing in his place. You stand there, looking dumb for what canât be the first time in the day.
âAh. A teleportation spell.â
Honestly, youâre surprised he didnât do this sooner. Maybe your irresistible presence was enough of a distraction to him that he didnât think to do it⊠Or maybe he just enjoyed your conversation that much?
