The Loading Dock

Naruto - The One Where Kankuro Gets Drunk in a Bar

sub_divided — Sun, 19 May 2019 02:40:22 GMT

^^See post title.

NARUTO is a manga series by Kishimoto that was pretty cool back in 2005 when I wrote this.

Title: The One Where Kankuro Gets Drunk in a Bar
Wordcount: ~750
Characters: Kankuro, original
Note: What it says on the tin

"Ninja aren’t even…aren’t even ninja these days. Ya know wha I mean? All these kids dressin’ in bright colors, too goddamn cool to wear black. An’ they spend all their time inventin’ techniques like bein a ninja’s all about how differen’ you are, how unique and special you are. Fer cryin’ out loud! Wha about the techniques of the ancestors? Wha about the goddamn tradition?"

The bartender nodded and slid another shot across to his best customer. "Right you are, sir. No use changing things that work, that’s what my mother used to-"

SLAM. The empty shot glass left rings of condensation on the counter. He wordlessly reached out to refill it.

"An’ then they gotta show off, gotta pull out the flashy moves. Family jutsu, they say. Nothin’ wrong with family pride, but ya know….ya know…. crap. You got another one fer me? "

Slide.

“"ight. So, you’re a ninja. Well, no, you're a civilian, I’m a ninja. Get it?" The elbow came just a little bit too fast.

"Good one, sir," he wheezed, clutching his side.

"Thank you. But these ninja, ya know, from th'other villages, they got pride sure 'nough. but they dun remember wha the pride’s for. It’s not fer you, not fer wha you can do, it’s fer the village. Pride in doin’ your job an’ not getting’ killed.

"These kids, it's like...ninja means endure, you know? Not 'glory' or 'superpowers' or whatever the hell kids think it means these days." He knocked back the shot without pausing to breathe. "Not that I'm in any position ta talk, haha...." He started to slide out of his chair, but caught himself on one arm.

The bartender was beginning to develop a horrible suspicion. "May I ask you a question?" he said.

"Long's you pour me 'nother beer."

At least it wasn't another shot. He could work with beer... discretely, he left the glass half-empty and topped it off with the soda gun while adding the ice. The ninja in front of him didn't notice, too far gone already. That was a bad sign. The bartender wasn't worried about payment -- a shinobi's line of credit was always good -- but an out-of-control ninja was trouble. Big trouble. Sure, the village always paid the damages (and a hefty compensation besides, if you promised to keep your mouth shut), but when individuals trained from a young age in mystical killing arts forgot themselves...well. Property damage was the least of it.

"What's your age and rank?" And where is your superior, and how fast can he or she be here if things get out of hand?

"Huuuuh? I'm Chuunin from Sand, age sixteen. But if you think I'm gonna tell you where the village is ...hey, is this really beer? It tastes weird."

A very bad sign.

"Only sixteen? In that case-" You aren't old enough to drink in this bar. He bit back those words in the interest of keeping his head attached to his body. "Wouldn't that make you a kid, too? Sir."

"Heh. 'm like an old man, though. Jus' ask my sister."

"Ah." The hooded cloak and face paint had been throwing him off, but now that he knew, he saw the signs of inexperience everywhere. Starting with the fact that had he not been a simple bartender, he could have poisoned the ki -- chuunin's beer just then. (Better not to think of them as kids, no matter how old they were.)

The chuunin looked like he was about to fall asleep, but at the last moment, he rallied. "There are three basic rules!" he said. "One, no suicide attacks! Yer worth more to yer village alive. Two, no head-on attacks! Much, much better ta do it safely from tha shadows. Three...have I said 'no suicide attacks' yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Four..."

Just then the door swung open. A man -- he assumed, it was hard to tell under the facepaint -- dressed in the same hooded black robe as his customer magically appeared at the counter.

"Captain, sir, it's your brother. Mist-"

His patron stood, alert in an instant. "I'm on it," he said. He didn't sound drunk at all. The bartender stared, disbelieving. Then, just like that, both ninja vanished. A single slip of paper fluttered from the air where they had been, to rest on the counter. He stared at it blankly for a moment before he picked it up. There was an address printed on the front and on the back, a hastily scrawled, "Send bill here -- duty calls."

Four, always support your own.

Original - Paradise Lost

sub_divided — Sun, 19 May 2019 02:14:56 GMT

Another original story. Originally written for Imaginary Beast's "Dichotomy" issue which, as the zine editor, I can now admit was a theme I made up purely because I wanted the excuse to write this story. In retrospect it was a bad choice, I could have just written this anyway and the other contributors had a hard time with the theme. ^^ But ah well.

IMAGINARY BEASTS is the webzine I edited with lilacfield... this story does actually belong to me!!!

Title: Paradise Lost
Wordcount: ~2800
Characters: original
Note: The rest of the "dichotomy" stories are here.

I was in the waiting room, minding my own business and wishing I'd brought something to read, when my devil showed up.

"Why are you wasting our time like this this? Go out and do something exciting!"

I'd been thinking along the same lines, but I was damned if I was going to give in. I ignored her, as I always try to do in public.

"And change into something less frumpy, while you're at it. You look like a dentist's assistant."

Sometimes if you ignore her, she will go away. Generally not, though.

"Then again, so many kids look like dentists' assistants these days. Look at that one over there. She only dresses like that because she's got a prematurely middle-aged body."

Have I mentioned that my devil can be kind of mean?

"You should tell her that those clunky black glasses aren't ironically dorky on her. They're just dorky."

Now I was starting to feel sorry for the other girl. I smiled apologetically across the room at her.

"Okay, now YOU'RE the dork. She's not even paying attention to us. Unlike you, she actually thought ahead, and brought something to read."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

The girl - young woman, really - who'd been reading the book looked up, startled. She glanced around the room, trying to figure out where the interruption had come from. When our eyes met, I grinned at her. She smiled in an embarrassed way and went back to her book. No one else even looked at us.

I was quite taken, all of a sudden, with the idea of going over there and starting a conversation with her. Something told me she'd listen. We could talk about literature. And it would piss my devil off. Just then, though, the receptionist announced my name. Ah, okay. Time for the session to start.

***

I'm not very fond of therapy (understatement), but my therapist is okay. She's more flexible than the woman I used to see. We talk about my angel and my devil like they are a normal part of being a teenager, and not signposts on the road to schizophrenia. She only says that she wishes I wouldn't separate them out QUITE so much, because both are a part of me and if I don't see how some moods bring out the angel and others bring out the devil, I'll continue to see myself as fractured and will always shun some parts of my psyche and never be reconciled to who I really am.

She's a very smart lady. But she's got one thing wrong. The angel and the devil aren't imaginary. They really are there.

***

Today I'm in the grocery store. I don't really feel like eating anything, to be honest, but I get a grocery stipend from my father every other week and if I don't spend it on food, I lose it. He checks the grocery receipts, too, to make sure I've been eating right.

What I need today is a big walloping of caffeine and sugar. Maybe I'll get a Caramel Mocha Swirl Frappuccino from the coffee bar before I do any of my other shopping. And I'll get a mint chocolate double fudge brownie. That sounds good.

"That's bad for your health, you know. I'm not saying you shouldn't. I'm just saying you might regret it later."

My angel. To be honest, she's a bit of a drag.

"The last time you had that much sugar all at once, you couldn't calm down all day. Do you remember? That was awful. That was so awful. Maybe you should just get some water."

She's so judgmental. Don't do this - don't do that. She's a bit more reliable than the devil though. The devil only sticks around for the fun stuff, she gets bored and wanders off whenever I have to do anything difficult. I think my angel LIKES to be there when I'm struggling. She's got some kind of Mother Theresa complex, being around the destitute makes her feel needed.

Therapy is the exception. I think my therapist makes her nervous.

We compromise. I get the Frappuccino and some fresh fruit.

***

My angel and my devil have been with me since I was nine - or maybe earlier. I realized they were there around the time my parents told me they'd decided to divorce, which, of course, is why I've never been able to convince my therapist(s) that they aren't psychological projections.

My angel showed up first. I was sitting under a tree in our back yard, watching a long line of ants march over the tree root. I thought I'd been chosen by God. That was how it felt: my mind's eye opened up, there was a bright light, and I saw a perfect world. I was thrilled to be the recipient of such a vision – growing up, my parents had never been religious, and I'd envied my friends who got to go to church, if only because I loved the hymns.

And what nine-year-old wouldn't love to be chosen? Singled out as special? Unfortunately, that vision of a perfect world made living in our regular, imperfect world very difficult, especially for a child whose family was breaking up.

The one good thing about the split was that anything strange I said or did was chalked up to trauma over the divorce. No one thought to lock me up or medicate me until I'd learned the right way to talk about my angel and devil – not as real people, but as metaphors for how I was feeling. I still ended up in therapy eventually, but I think I dodged a bullet when I wasn't taught at that age that there was something wrong with me, something I would never be able to fix without drugs and/or talk therapy. I was me, who I'd always been. The angel and the devil were the people I had to share my head with, like roommates you can't kick out because you need them to make rent.

Actually, I'm pretty sure I wasn't thinking about rent when I was nine. If anything, I was lonely, and they made me laugh (devil) and took care of me (angel).

Later on I realized – that's why they showed up when they did. Because they saw that I was vulnerable.

***

This is too much backstory, right? You want to know where all this is going. Maybe you don't believe me about the angel and the devil. That's okay.

You've come in at a good time, too. My best friend the science genius has been working on high-energy wave transmitter that can mimic the resonance frequencies of certain trans-dimensional beings, such that the superposition/interference patterns form regular spikes along the infrared-ultraviolet spectrum: in other words, she's figured out a way to make them visible. We're testing it tonight.

***

Midnight. We're in Sam's garage. Actually, we're in the lab that Sam's parents allowed her to build above the garage. It's got two long tables covered with spare parts and wires, and a stainless steel sink built into the counter on the far wall. There are two stools. Sam is sitting on one, and I'm sitting on the other.

"Ready?" Sam is decked out in a lab coat and goggles, and she's tied her hair back with a rubber band. She doesn't normally bother with anything besides keeping her hair out of her face, but in honor of tonight's special event she is wearing her best formal wear.

I try to beat myself at checkers. I find that this blocks out the angel and the devil fairly well. "Ready."

Sam hunches behind the radiation shield she and I built from plastic-covered lead bricks in the center of the room. She peers through the viewing window (reinforced plastic) at me. I wave. I will have no protection against the forces she is about to unleash, except for my street clothes and the SPF 50+ sunscreen (with zinc oxide) I generously applied all over my body fifteen minutes ago.

But Sam wants to do high-energy physics for a living. She'll be exposed to radiation over and over, at varying doses. It's important for her to minimize her risk over time. I am far more likely to be killed in a car accident while distracted/egged on by my devil, or to waste away because I listened to my angel and avoided all activities with an associated risk (i.e. all of them), than to die from cancer.

Besides, my angel and my devil are just above my skin, following the outline of my nervous system like tiny silver fish. We discovered them a year ago, taking pictures of ourselves with the CT scanner in Sam's father's lab. If I wear anything to protect my skin, I'll block the effect of Sam's wave beam.

Sam flips the switch to "on" and the machine makes a humming noise. If this was a comic book, she would be giving me superpowers right now.

Nothing happens. And then, very slowly, something does.

My skin starts to glow. Colors swirl around, greenish blue and reddish orange. It's like looking at storm clouds from above. The storm is blue rainclouds over an orange desert – or red dust clouds over a green field. The foreground and background keep changing, like an optical illusion. The colors shift, but they don't mix.

It's actually really pretty. I try to sit very still, so I don't disturb anything. The green/blue clouds pulse dully and expand from the center. I get excited and wave my arms around, trying to break up the pattern. The red/orange clouds swirl aggressively and shoot out little tendrils that connect up with other tendrils.

I can affect them with my mood! I feel triumphant, validated, bright orange. I look over at Sam, crouched behind her goggles, behind her radiation shield. "Do you see this?"

Sam is looking at her instrument panel. "Yeah. Calm down. You're making it hard to get a reading."

I am suddenly intensely irritated (red). This is a very important moment and I want to share it with my best friend. "Sam."

Sam looks up. She's grinning like a loon. "I see them, I see them. They're beautiful. I'm going to try to adjust the spectrum so we'll get audio. Maybe we can work out a way to communicate with them. This is so cool."

I am appeased. The colors go back to equilibrium. I take up my checkers game again.

***

Five minutes later, I am starting to get restless. Little orange flames lick over my skin. "How long is this going to take?"

"Two minutes. You're so impatient. Science takes time, you know."

I roll my eyes. Sam is always saying stuff like that. I think she picked it up from her parents (both scientists). As if other things don't also take time. Then again, her parents did get one thing right, and that was their belief that the best way to encourage Sam to be a scientist would be to bring her old circuitry and electronic junk from their labs, and then to get out of the way and let genetics do the rest.

"Okay, I think I've got the levels calibrated. Hold on, I'm going to run the program."

I lean forward, gripping the front of the stool. "Okay." I trust Sam not to screw up. Also, what's the worst that could happen?

Sam taps out a command on her keyboard, pauses, and then stabs her index finger down on the return key.

Two pure tones pierce the room. They are discordant; they are excruciating. They are inside my mind and running up and down my spine. I can feel them in my fingertips. They slide up in pitch, slowly, inexorably, both moving together so that the disharmony never resolves. My agonized screams are covered up by the noise. I have never felt anything so horrible in my entire life.

Suddenly, there is silence. The colors have disappeared. I am too dazed to think of anything. I've fallen off the stool and landed on my wrist, which I think might be sprained. I look up at Sam, and open and close my mouth like a fish, trying to remember how to operate my tongue.

Finally I manage to form words. "Is it off?"

Sam has stood up behind her lead-brick fort and is clutching the top of the barrier, looking down at me worriedly. After I speak, she relaxes a little bit.

"Yeah, I turned it off. But the sound stopped before that."

"What does that mean?"

Sam tries to run her fingers through her hair, realizes that it is tied up, and yanks the rubber band off in frustration, taking a couple hairs with it.

"I think – I'd have to run some more tests, but I think...

"I think they're gone."

***

It's not good to feel special because of something that negatively impacts your life. It's worse to feel worthless, but if you feel special, that can lead to more serious problems in the long run. My current therapist and I have talked about this. You need to let go of those feelings of specialness so that you can fulfill your normal responsibilities, and avoid feelings of persecution - or grandeur. That's why I broke up with my first boyfriend. He was an ET freak. He believed I was chosen, a high priestess of the aliens, and that some of my specialness would rub off on him if we dated.

He was a little bit crazy. I took advantage of him, and used his high regard for me to justify the times when I was high-handed and impulsive, even cruel, towards him. I'm not proud of it. We weren't good for each other. He believed me, though. I'll always be grateful to him for that.

***

Here's the deal about the angel and devil. During that one second – which felt like six hours – a channel was opened up between me and them. During that time, I learned what they are and where they come from.

The angel/devil planet has three kinds of intelligent beings. Two are energy-beings, existing mostly on another plane, anchored to this one through links to the third kind of being. That third kind is a carbon-based life form with a chemical-electric nervous system, like us.

The people on the planet (by which I mean the carbon-based people) are linked to one of kind of energy being, either the angels or the devils, at the moment when they become adults. The linkage usually follows family lines, but not always - sometimes more of one kind of energy being is required by society, or the family link is a bad fit with the personality of the individual. The total number of angel-people and devil-people is decided by the Scientific Council, which is charged with carefully monitoring worldwide levels and planning for future need. You can state a preference, but if the levels aren't right you could be forcibly assigned to other side. As for the angels and devils themselves, they submit to the arrangement because they can only reproduce through people.

You see where this is going, right? Which would you choose, the angel or the devil? You must choose. You will have to live with your choice forever. You can only choose once. Someone else will be assigned to the unwanted role.

All the angel/devil society needed was a slight loosening of social mores -- for the iron control of the Council to become slightly less iron -- to tip totally over the edge. Once begun, the process was very hard to stop.

Towards the end, the carbon-based people even experimented with double possession – linking one person to both an angel and a devil, so that the burden of difficult work would be shared more equally by each individual. But the two are like oil and water, they don't mix, and the extreme volatility that resulted was found to be too stressful for individual carbon-based people. The experiments resulted in many deaths and were considered a total failure.

When the planet destroyed itself, the angels and devils were cast into space, where they dispersed. My angel and my devil remained together, however, convinced that the survival of their two species could only be achieved if they could recreate the dual-possession experiment, this time with a favorable outcome.

But really, they can't stand each other. Too much unmediated exposure to the other, and each is destroyed.

***

I'll admit it. I miss them. They were a part of my life for so long. They were there during my happiest and saddest times.

But it's better this way, I think.

Original - Talking Heads

sub_divided — Sat, 18 May 2019 18:59:05 GMT

OK, so this is an original story. It's not a great original story, since the title is very literal (as in, this story is just two characters talking to each other with no other plot whatsoever) but I do kinda like the ideas. Originally written for Imaginary Beast's "Utopia" issue.

IMAGINARY BEASTS is the webzine I edited with lilacfield... this story does actually belong to me!!!

Title: Talking Heads
Wordcount: ~3100
Characters: original
Note: Written so there'd be enough entries for the "Utopia" issue. Is there really such a thing as a "utopia", though?

Elenor rang the bell politely, but when no one answered after a few rings she entered the suite anyway. Pratt, her protoge, was seated on the floor of his messy apartment with a circle of books, articles and notebooks fanned out in front of him.

"So you are awake! You haven't been answering your calls, I thought I'd stop by to check up on you."

Pratt looked up, startled. "What... why? Is something wrong?"

"Why don't you tell me - have you even stopped to eat?" Saying that, Elenor used her elbow to clear space on a low bookshelf by the door, knocking aside the cassette tapes and plush toys that had been piled on top haphazardly. A few rolled onto the floor, where they joined the stacks of paper and recording equipment Pratt kept organized according to a system only he could understand. Once the space was clear, she gently lowered the cafeteria tray she'd brought with her. She looked directly at Pratt, waiting.

Pratt looked back blankly. The entire concept of food seemed foreign to him in that moment, as if it were a riddle he would have to solve before he could answer her. Elenor was easily able to wait him out: as a Guardian-in-training, it had become second nature to wait and observe.

"...Oh. I didn't notice. I'm not hungry, anyway. You can leave that there - I'll get to it later."

Elenor handed him a fork. "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay and make sure you eat something today. I also have some questions I want to ask after you've eaten." She smiled in a friendly way.

Pratt's brows knitted together, and he seemed momentarily annoyed, but the expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared. "Is this homework for you?"

"Something like that."

***

Once they actually started the interview, Pratt opened up right away, talking quickly and animatedly about the books he'd read, the ideas that were new to him, the authors he agreed and disagreed with, and the vast amount of material he felt he still had to cover before he could even begin to understand himself and the world around him. Elenor, who was familiar with most of the works in the Core but not all the scholarly debate they'd inspired, was able to place the books in their historical context and tell Pratt which authors had remained important and which had been discredited or forgotten. Mostly, though, she was there to listen. She made a mental note of Pratt's ideas when they were different from what she'd expected, but otherwise let the words pour over her without judgment. She didn't comment on his table manners either.

After a few hours, Pratt came to the end of his enthusiastic recounting, and Elenor took the opportunity to set up their next session: "It sounds like you've made a lot of progress in a short amount of time. Based on what we've talked about today, I can think of some other books that might interest you. You can press the button under the clock on your desk when you're finished with these, and the next set will be brought to you."

Pratt bit into his sandwich and beamed at her, a lettuce leaf dangling from the corner of his mouth. "That sounds wonderful."

***

Elenor rarely talked about herself in their interviews - after all the whole point was for her to listen to Pratt and learn from his insights and out-of-the-box ideas. Nothing in her life was a secret, however. She was very open about her coursework, perhaps more open than someone else in her position would have been, and easily answered his questions about her Training and the work she'd be doing after she graduated. Pratt was always curious about would happen if she failed to complete her training course.

"How would you complete your assignments if I refused to talk to you? I mean, it would be lonely for me, but..."

"I'd be reassigned to another Oddity. I'd miss you, obviously."

"But what if I was difficult to work with? Have you ever thought about doing anything else?"

"No, I've always wanted to be a Steward."

"Why?"

"I've just felt called to it - ever since my dad brought me with him to work when I was little. It's the highest calling we can have, you know. Whatever difficulties came up, I'm sure I'd want to work through them"

"What about after you graduate? What if the job you've dreamed about turns out to be difficult? Do you ever worry about messing up?"

"I think happiness comes from working to the best of my abilities to create something beautiful. I've always done well in the program so I've never worried about it."

"Why 'beautiful'?"

"Something that works perfectly, that is unique, and that makes others happy is beautiful, don't you think?"

"But every Steward completes the same training course?"

"Yes, we're all Trained to the best of current knowledge in each subject, and we have to master all subjects before we're given our Stewardships. We have to show practical aptitude and pass the simulation tests, too. There's no time limit to the Training - some Train their whole lines"

"So if everyone learns the same things... what's 'unique' about that?"

"Why don't you tell me? You've been reading that chapter."

"You mean Jothryn? 'A complex system can evolve in an uncountable number of ways, based only on small differences in initial conditions, which are compounded through time, with or without course correction'?"

"Exactly. You're very smart."

"For an Oddity, you mean."

"For anyone."

***

"I don't want to talk today."

Elenor nodded, and set the tray down on Pratt's bedside table.

"If that's how you feel. Eat this or I'll come back in a few hours."

***

They got along well, for the most part, without the combative or competitive - or even sometimes flat-out adversarial - relationship that sometimes developed between Stewards and Oddities. Sometimes they didn't talk at all, but just sat together comfortably, with Elenor typing up her assignments and Pratt reading on his own or over her shoulder, commenting on her work. His comments were always good - Elenor was currently pulling the highest grade in her course. Her greatest worry at the moment was actually that one of her classmates would pull strings to get her reassigned, maybe by spreading rumors that their relationship was inappropriate, on the slim hope they'd get Pratt for themselves.

He wasn't without his faults, she would warn them - he could be moody sometimes, and although it was true that he was mostly very helpful, his helpfulness was an outgrowth of his desire, or actually deep-seated need, to bond, which which could be difficult to negotiate within the limits of the Trainee honor-code. The line between openness and saying too much was a thin one, and required sensitivity. (In fact, Elenor had a feeling that their conduct outside of class was another Subject they were secretly being evaluated on - another reason to not resort to any underhanded tactics to finish the course.)

In her heart, though, she was very aware of her luck - Pratt was very sharp and, for an Oddity, very cooperative - Oddities were defined by their opposition to the societies they'd grown up in, after all. Her strategy, then, was simply to mention Pratt as infrequently as possible, without violating the truth-telling code they were also bound to uphold. Elenor knew how much her status at the head of the class made her a target for students' jealousies and ambitions; that was why she tried to do things by-the-book as often as possible.

It retrospect, then, it was inevitable that she and Pratt would one day have the conversation they were now having.

***

"Elenor?"

"Mmm?" Elenor took the pen she'd been chewing out of her mouth and closed her classbook screen - something in Pratt's tone telling her that this conversation would need all of her attention.

"There's no way I can enroll in your training course, right?"

Elenor thought she knew where this was going. "That's right. The training course starts right after Primary, so you'd be too old now to enroll."

"But if I was younger, I could enroll?"

"Well... we don't generally classify Denizens as Oddities until after Secondary. In fact, even a situation like yours is really rare. Generally we wait until after Tertiary."

"But why? You said there's a profile to identify us?"

"Yes, but..." Elenor took a moment to consider her words. She could recognize from her training, and also just from her knowledge of Pratt, that they were skirting on dangerous territory right now. She unconsciously started fingering one of Pratt's plushies she'd been holding in her lap, but stopped as soon as she noticed what she was doing. Pratt had probably seen and picked up on her unease - he was perceptive like that.

"Let me put it this way. Even though we have a profile, we still take our time, because the consequences if we make a mistake are so severe. Many Denizens are traumatized by the sudden removal from their tribes - by the loss of everything they knew before. Even if they were unhappy in their previous lives, they can be even more unhappy in an unfamiliar place. That's the last thing we want, obviously.

"If they aren't truly Oddities, the removal is even more traumatic for them - then we've made an unforgivable mistake by separating them not just from their friends and family, but from a way of life they actually valued. Before Secondary is much too early for us to make that call. We need more time to observe, to make sure we're not making a mistake."

Pratt looked at her steadily, with bright eyes. "The upshot, though, is that no Oddity can ever become a Steward."

"Yes, that's a side-effect I suppose."

"I think it's the main effect." Pratt's eyes were getting brighter - she could see them shining. She started fingering the plushie again - this time Pratt gave her a look to show he'd seen her, and she set the toy aside, annoyed with herself.

"I don't think you people want us mucking up your perfect system," he said.

Elenor winced inwardly at you people, but tried not to let it show.

There was an answer in her Training for this. Generally it was for their own benefit, but she'd always been open with Pratt. She decided to go for it - she felt he deserved an honest answer, anyway.

"No system is perfect. That's the purpose of the sessions we have - by talking directly to Oddities who used to live as Denizens but rejected the world their Steward created for them, we learn more about the true nature of human fulfillment and happiness. That knowledge helps Denizens and us. Everything we learn is added to the Content - all our sessions are recorded. Humanity's knowledge is always growing and evolving - we're always looking for ways to make it better." She knew she was babbling, but under the weight of his scrutiny she found it hard to stop. Get it together, girl, she coached herself.

"'Our Only Aim Is to Serve'." The worlds sounded supportive, but Elenor could still see that gleam, the bitterness Pratt generally concealed from her. There it is, she thought. I have to be creative here, I can't stick to the script.

"You might believe this motto to be an empty platitude, but Stewardship truly is the ultimate service profession. We love our Denizens as dearly as ourselves, but they aren't even aware of us - not the time we spend, not the years of training we undergo, and not the sacrifices we make so that their lives will be better, more meaningful. It's a noble, but thankless task." She waited for the slight eyeroll before she added, "...that's the official line, anyway. You can see the power and prestige in the position, too, obviously - the freedom Stewards have to do almost anything with the worlds we've given. I haven't tried to keep anything from you, Pratt." Maybe she could convince him that she was a co-conspirator in his small rebellion.

Pratt gave her a one-sided smile. "Yes, I can see that."

Maybe flattery could get her out of this? Elenor was generally free with her praise for Pratt, who in any case usually deserved it. This wasn't a train of thought she wanted to encourage, though - once Pratt was convinced that he could see through the "lies" of the Stewardship system, there'd be no dissuading him from that line of thinking. This was, in fact, exactly how he'd ended up classified as an Oddity in the first place - although he had a strong desire to please, he hadn't been able to accept the reality of his world as his tribe's priests had explained it, convinced there were unseen forces at work.

Of course, he'd been right. Just as with all Denizen worlds, there had be unseen forces - or more precisely, extensive terraforming being dynamically controlled by remote operators - at work. His whole world had been a "lie" in a manner of speaking, a carefully constructed paradise upheld by an invisible will.

But in this case he was wrong, she thought - or if not wrong, then dealing with a system far more complex than he could possibly imagine, despite all of his reading. The Denizen world was simple compared to the world she inhabited - a world Pratt thought he was coming to terms with but, in fact, saw little of.

And there was her answer, her way out.

"I think you ultimately don't object to the power we have, Pratt. I think you can see the logic behind the system and appreciate it. I think you object to your position in the system."

"I think that's exactly what I implied when I asked about joining your training course, Elenor."

He'd caught her using his name to establish a bond between them, and was mocking her. Elenor had to prove to him that she was smart enough to understand what he saying - and not saying - but without seeming like she was looking down on him.

This was the kind of subtle manipulation her training was designed to accomplish, though Stewards usually worked with physical objects to shape the social structures of small bands of Denizens, rather than with carefully chosen words to influence a single individual.

"Let me make some inquiries for you. I don't think there's a way you can be admitted through the regular track, but exceptions are made from time to time."

"For Oddities?"

"Not that I know of. There's a system for Trainees who decide to leave the program, but later change their minds and decide to come back, though. They have to pass a placement exam, but they're readmitted."

"Hmm."

"There's also a system for Stewards who lose their Stewardship through mismanagement, so they can redeem themselves. I guess the Trainee program is pretty costly, so the proctors don't like to see their investment go to waste." This kind of frank cynicism was pretty addicting, she had to admit.

Actually... could Denizens also enroll in a "rehabilitation" program? The program was designed to completely alter the thinking of the participants from the ground up - ingrained habits and assumptions they may have held for years. Wasn't that what Pratt was already doing, alone, with his books and research right now? She'd started this speech intending to placate him, but the more she considered it, the more it seemed like an actual possibility.

"Pratt!" He actually seemed surprised her sudden enthusiasm. Now Elenor knew she was on the right track - the more she could surprise him, the more he'd be forced to let go of his (dangerous) idea that they were enemies, and she was against him.

She cleared a space on the floor and sat next to him. "I have an idea. I've never heard of an Oddity doing that rehabilitation program, but if you were admitted, wouldn't you have to forget old habits just like the Stewards who made mistakes?"

"I've had to unlearn many things," Pratt said.

"Exactly. And we already make a pretty big exception when we admit anyone to that program - integrity and trust-worthiness are the most important qualities a Steward can have. Why don't I-" She had another thought. "Why don't you write something arguing for an expansion of the program. Write a treatise, a position statement, and a program guide, like the ones you've been reading." That should buy her some time, she thought - and anyway she was really curious about the kind of work Pratt would come up with.

"Write a guide?" Pratt seemed alarmed, but also a bit intrigued.

This could definitely work. Elenor nodded, taking up his hands in her own. "Write it. I'll edit it for you - after all the help you've been been giving me with my course, it's the least I can do. I'll make sure it gets into the right hands, too. After that..." she hesitated.

"I understand. You can't promise anything."

"Right, my hands are tied. But the system isn't unchanging, we do try to incorporate your ideas as much as we can."

"Right." Pratt thought for a moment. "Give me three months."

***

He needed a lot longer than three months, and Elenor was able to use her contributions to their joint paper for her final dissertation. She graduated far ahead of schedule, with honors. After that she lost track of Pratt for a while - the first few years of Stewardship are the most crucial, her dad had told her, when you have to establish the routines and structures that will allow your tribe to grow and flourish in the future, maybe even into a chieftainship or a kingdom. She was so busy with work, and she was learning so many new things - the simulations didn't really prepare you for the full complexity of Stewarding a tribe - that she didn't remember to wonder how he doing, honestly.

When she finally did meet up with him, it was in an unexpected way - at a commencement dinner for her Alma Mater.

Pratt wasn't an inductee, though. He was the speaker.

"A Treatise on Arrogance, Addressed to the Philosopher-Kings" was title of his speech in the program guide.

Loveless - Call Me Anytime

sub_divided — Sat, 18 May 2019 02:02:07 GMT

So here it is. My unfinished multi chapter fic for Loveless. Why post this now? Why DIDN'T I ever post this back then? I guess, at the time, I wanted the entire thing done and edited before putting the "final" version here. And I guess, right now, I'm just feeling kind of nostalgic and looking to put all of my writing (good or bad) in one place. How about this, if Yun Kōga ever (finally) finishes the manga then I will (finally) finish this story.

LOVELESS is a perpetually unfinished manga series by Yun Kōga. But she did eventually finish Earthian!

Title: Call Me Anytime (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4)
Wordcount: ~6500
Characters: Soubi, Ritsuka, others
Note: When I started this I had no idea where it was going, and I still don't. So. Fair warning. This also needs a trigger warning because Ritsuka is an underaged abuse victim and Soubi is a creep and abuse survivor who hasn't done enough processing on his own trauma.

PART ONE

Soubi stared at the ceiling, wondering why he'd woken up.

...only's Ritsuka's calls were programmed to ring with that tune.

Suddenly much more alert, Soubi sat up and half-turned to face the dresser, legs still under the sheets. Groping for his cellphone with one hand, he pushed his glasses on with the other.

"Yes, Ritsuka?"

"...come pick me up."

Soubi reached back for the light switch before consulting the digital clock on the wall above his desk. It was three in the morning. But had he not told Ritsuka to call at any time?

"I'll need to borrow a car. Hold on."

"Okay. Just don't take forever."

"And I'll need to get dressed. I sleep nake-"

It is physically impossible to violently hang up a cellphone, but Soubi nevertheless got the impression that was exactly what Ritsuka had just done. He sighed and hit re-dial.

"What?! Soubi."

"You need to tell me where you are," Soubi said patiently.

***

"Where you are" was halfway to Nikko, huddled on the side of one of those scenic mountain overpasses with his arms wrapped around himself. Ritsuka didn't say anything when Soubi pulled the car up, just crawled into the back seat, shivering a little. He was in his pajamas, with no jacket. Soubi used the observation area to turn the car around -- the road was narrow -- and discretely turned up the heat.

At least he was wearing shoes.

"What happened?" Soubi asked. He kept his eyes on Ritsuka's reflection in the rear view mirror. In the backseat, Ritsuka was leaning against the window, seemingly asleep, but his ears were up and his eyes opened slowly to meet Soubi's in the mirror. There was something like loneliness or longing in them, although it was hard to tell in the dim lighting. Not for the first time, Soubi wished that...

"Don't look at me, keep your eyes on the road!"

Soubi obediently shifted his gaze away. He could still feel Ritsuka's eyes on him. He wondered if he should repeat his question, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

"...Mom woke me up and said we were going to visit Grandpa."

Bingo.

"She said I shouldn't pack anything, we'd go shopping once we got there. But I had to come out to the car right away because otherwise we wouldn't be on time to see the sunrise over the mountains. She was really excited. She started talking about how much I liked Grandpa and how much fun it would be to go fishing together again, just the three of us, and she was just...really happy."

There was a sound like Ritsuka sliding down to curl up on the seat; Soubi resisted the urge to check the mirror again.

"Do you like fishing?" he asked.

"I don't know. Maybe."

Ah. Soubi signaled his change onto the expressway, even though they were the only car on either road. In the backseat, Ritsuka sighed a little.

"You're a much better driver than Mom. She was all over the road."

"Is that so?"

"It was making me sick, but I didn't want to say anything because she was so happy. It got really bad when we left the highway for the mountains, though, so I asked if we could stop for a minute, and she got really upset and asked if I was carsick. I didn't want to say anything but she was really insistent so I eventually said a little, and then she got really upset and said I couldn't be, Ritsuka loved car rides and he never got sick."

"That sort of thing can change."

"Mmm." Ritsuka sounded like he didn't believe it. "I lied and said I was fine. I was feeling really nauseous, but I didn't dare lie down or open the window... My head was pounding. I could taste McDonald's cheeseburger in the back of my throat and it was suddenly really gross-"

"McDonald's cheeseburger is always gross."

"Hey! Don't interrupt!"

Soubi didn't say anything.

"...anyway, I thought I could stand it but after maybe half an hour I threw up all over the dashboard." Ritsuka waited, and when Soubi still didn't say anything he harrumphed.

"I might throw up in this car, too, you know." He said it like a challenge.

Soubi smilied. "I don't mind. It's not my car anyway."

"...you're so weird."

"Thank you."

"It's not a compliment! ...anyway, that's what happened."

"Thank you for telling me, Ritsuka."

"Eh."

"I love you, Ritsuka."

Dead silence.

***

They'd almost made it back to his house before Ritsuka noticed.

"Soubi."

"Mmm."

"Where are we going?"

"Home," Soubi said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes. Whose home?"

"There's no one at your house right now," Soubi said reasonably. "Mine is closer."

"That has nothing to do with it!"

"Do you want to go home, Ritsuka?"

"...not particularly," Ritsuka admitted. There was a thump as his tail lashed against the door. He was nervous, how cute. "But that doesn't mean I want to go to your place! Besides, my Mom might be waiting for me at home."

Soubi kept his thoughts on the likelihood of this to himself.

"Or what if she comes back during the night?" Ritsuka continued. "I need to be there in case she does. Take me home, Soubi."

"Is that an order?"

"Yes!"

***

It was six thirty in the morning by the time Soubi pulled up to Ritsuka's home and parked. Ritsuka stepped out of the car, then hung on the door like he wasn't sure what to do next.

"Thank you," Ritsuka said.

"Call me anytime," Soubi said.

"Goodnight," Ritsuka said.

"At this point it's closer to good morning," Soubi said.

"Good morning, then," Ritsuka said, and for the first time he smiled -- not the wide fake smiles in the photographs, but a small, secret smile that lifted the corner of his mouth. He probably didn't know he was doing it.

"May I come in?" Soubi asked, before he could think about it.

Ritsuka's tail lashed, and his eyes widened. The sun was rising over the townhouses across the street and in the cool dawn light Soubi saw that his eyes held that mixture of joy and terror that always made him want to pull Ritsuka down by the ears and ravish him.

"Sure," Ritsuka said.

*****

PART TWO

*****

Ritsuka stood in the entrance way, more unsure than ever. "So..." he began, then trailed off. He avoided eye contact, but kept sneaking glances at Soubi's hands or chest or feet. His back was a mess of tension, while his ears twitched forward in nervous suspicion.

As if he expects that in the next second, I'll jump him, Soubi observed. The thought was tempting; but Ritsuka also looked like he might, in the second after that, fall over.

He's had a long night, Soubi thought generously. I'll let him sleep it off.

"I'll make tea," he offered. "Which way is the kitchen?"

"You don't know?" Ritsuka asked. A tiny bit of confidence returned to his posture.

Soubi didn't know, but he could guess: it wasn't a large house, and there were only two doors leading away from the front hall. Ritsuka looked happy to have found an advantage, though, even if it was only knowing where the kitchen was when Soubi didn't. Soubi decided to let him have it.

"This is my first time seeing the ground floor of your house," he said.

"...kitchen's through here," Ritsuka said, and turned to lead the way. "Should I show you where the tea things are?"

"Please." Ritsuka's pajama top rose up when he reached for the topmost shelf. Setting a dusty tea tray next to the pot and kettle on the counter, he swayed slightly.

Soubi reached out from behind to steady him, a hand curled around either shoulder. "You should get some sleep," he said, bending forward to whisper in Ritsuka's ear. "You must be very tired." He turned his cheek to brush the fine hair on the back of Ritsuka's neck.

Ritsuka shuddered. "But I haven't gotten out the tea yet," he said.

"I'll manage," Soubi breathed, and steered him to the futon in the living room. He wrapped an arm around Ritsuka laying him down, then moved a hand to cup his cheek. Ritsuka batted it away. "Don't get any funny ideas," he warned.

"I'll be good."

"You'd better be. If you do anything while I'm asleep, I'll know."

Soubi doubted it. "Yes, Ritsuka."

"As long as we're clear." Ritsuka settled down into the futon, his tail wrapping around his legs. Curled up into himself like that, he looked smaller than ever. He was asleep in moments.

Soubi virtuously returned to the kitchen. He looked at the tea tray with a critical eye. It was covered in dust. Ritsuka's never had company over before, he realized. I'm the first. Suddenly much more cheerful, he filled the kettle and set it to boil; then he dumped the tray in the sink and reached for the detergent, humming a little.

***

Ritsuka couldn't say at first what woke him. It wasn't the sun -- the curtains were drawn as they always were, with the shades pulled down besides. In the deep gloom, Ritsuka couldn't tell what time of the day it was. He guessed around noon: with Soubi in the house, no way he'd have been comfortable enough to sleep longer than that. It would be mid-afternoon at the latest.

As his eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, he picked out Soubi silhouetted against the front window, barely standing out in a grey sweater against the heavy, grey curtains. Or no: Soubi had just tied one side back, and was pulling down on the Venetian blinds to peer outside. Now he stood out clearly, outlined by the edges of the light coming in through the blinds, parallel lines of light that cut off in the shape of Soubi.

He was speaking softly into his cellphone. Soubi glanced towards the couch, and Ritsuka hastily shut his eyes and ducked his head. Then, to mask the movement, he pretended to turn over on his side, until he was facing the back of the futon. He forced himself to relax, so that it would look like he was still asleep.

There was a pause, and then Soubi resumed his conversation. Good, he'd bought it. Ritsuka strained to listen. He could just barely make out...

"Mmm. No. I'm not. ...Why?"

Pretending to be asleep, Ritsuka actually did fall back asleep.

***

"You aren't doing anything to him, are you?" Kio asked.

"Mmm." Soubi said. He was looking at the couch, where a slight movement had caught his eye just a moment ago. Turning to look, he'd seen Ritsuka duck his head, then turn over. Now he was trying to feign sleep, but he couldn't hide his cat ears, which were swiveling back and forth, straining to catch Soubi's voice.

He's so cute.

"Soubi! Are you listening to me?"

"No," Soubi said.

"Ah, Sou-chan, you're so mean!"

"I'm not." He was watching the tip of Ritsuka's tail as it flipped, first one way, then another. Adorable.

"You are! I bet he feels safe there, a big strong guy like you around. His white in knight in a borrowed car -- and when are you going to return it, anyway? -- come to save him from the wicked witch, and now he's back in his own home, nothing to be afraid of...well, he should be afraid!"

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why! Because you're there! It's a false sense of security! Every second he spends only with you, he's in danger! If the worst thing that happens is that he loses his ears, he'll be lucky!"

"Don't exaggerate," Soubi said.

"It's not exaggeration, it's the truth! ...by the way, why are you being so short with your answers? Is he listening? Don't you want him to know what you're really like?"

"I always talk like this," Soubi said. Actually, Ritsuka had fallen back asleep several lines ago, but telling Kio that would only encourage him.

"Liar!" Kio screeched, and Soubi changed the volume on his cellphone from "soft" to "barely audible". Now that Ritsuka was asleep again, it would be a shame for Kio to wake him up.

Soubi would be the one to do that.

He hung up.

***

"Liar!" Kio screeched. "...well, okay, maybe it is true, a little. But seriously, Sou-chan, you shouldn't take advantage of him when he's like this. Even ignoring the part where he's still in elementary school -- which I don't forget for second, by the way, and you shouldn't either -- consider the situation. You said his mother left him there? I know it's summer, but it gets cold in the mountains at night, and he was outside for more than an hour waiting for you. He's gotta be feeling vulnerable right now. I bet he only let you in because he didn't want to be alone -- yeah, that has to be it, why else would he invite a pervert like you into his house? I bet he was afraid you'd abandon him! Listen, Sou-chan, if you do anything to him when he's like this, it won't count as consensual. It'll just be manipulation. Okay?"

The other end of the line was silent.

"...Sou-chan? Hello?"

Kio checked his cellphone to see if the call was still connected. "Call ended 00:05:02" blinked innocently on the display screen.

"You bastard, Soubi!" Kio kicked Soubi's coffee table in frustration, knocking over an empty coffee cup, which rolled in a short circle on the floor. After a minute, he bent down to pick up the cup and brought it to the sink. Soubi's apartment didn't deserve his anger; Soubi did. It was nice appartment, very tastefully decorated. Soubi was not nice at all, although he did have good taste... in everything but the company he chose to keep.

Kio excluded, of course.

"Soubi hung up on him!" a voice crowed.

Another voice joined in. "He did! But he didn't even notice, and kept talking anyway! Isn't that funny?"

"It's funny."

"Really funny."

Zero laughed. How much had they heard? Kio felt himself blushing. Damn, being hung up on was embarrassing enough without those two around to make fun of him for it. Who were they to Soubi, anyway? Why were they staying at his apartment?

"You guys..." he said.

"If it had been us, we'd have noticed right away" Youji said.

"Because we're connected," Natsuo said.

"Right, because we're Fighter and Sacrifice."

"You guys are awful!" Kio said, stormed away. He gave the apartment door a vicious slam on his way out -- he'd been stupid to be careful before, after all these days Soubi's place was their place as well. Zero looked at each other curiously.

"Why was he so upset?"

"We were only being honest."

"Maybe he was jealous."

"Of Ritsuka and Soubi? He shouldn't be."

"Right, because Ritsuka and Soubi aren't a real Fighter/Sacrifice pair."

Natsuo and Youji took each other's hand, then leaned forward to press their foreheads together. "So there's no way they'd have the same kind of connection," they said.

****

PART 3

****

Ritsuka turned around and around, trying to orient himself, but the forest didn't have anything that could be used as a landmark, just an endless number of trees in every direction. The sun was already down, even the twilight was fading, and meanwhile the moon hadn't yet risen. When the last of the light faded, he wouldn't even have the trees for company: just himself, and the darkness.

He tried not to panic.

Where was Mom? He hadn't come here alone, he'd been following her, but sometime in the last few minutes he'd lost sight of her. If he'd only walked a little faster. Then he wouldn't be lost, alone, in the woods, at night...Ritsuka could feel the sky darkening with every quick irregular breath he took, and it was only with a supreme act of will that he forced himself to breathe deeper.

He had to think. Maybe it wasn't too late, and he could still catch up with her. He looked down -- there was a path. Relief surged through him. If he followed the path, he'd surely find Mom at the end, waiting to welcome him back home. His eyes on his feet on the ground, Ritsuka started walking.

And walking.

And walking. Mom was around the corner, behind the next tree -- somehow he knew this, although he didn't know how he knew. He came abreast of the tree, passed it, and...

She wasn't there. That was fine: she was behind the next tree.

She wasn't there either. Ritsuka broke into a run. The trees began to blur, until they were a solid line of black on either side, then a tunnel with only a small circle of dark grey sky in front of him. Ritsuka ran faster than he ever had, so fast he was nearly flying, but no matter how fast he ran he wasn't fast enough. He ran for what felt like hours, and when he finally stopped he wasn't in the woods anymore, he was standing by a scenic mountain overpass.

He padded to the guardrail, then leaned over to look down. Below was only an endless, aching darkness, and Ritsuka pulled back, horrified; but it didn’t matter, somehow he'd lost his balance and he was falling end over end into nothingness...

Warm arms wrapped around him from behind. "It's alright," Soubi said, and Ritsuka believed him.

He stopped falling.

***

His face was pressed into the back of the couch in a way that was sure to leave a mark.

A dream, Ritsuka realized, then corrected himself:

A nightmare.

Relief loosened every muscle in his body; his spine turned to rubber and toes throbbed. Soubi had been the one to wake him, and Ritsuka had never been more grateful than he was at that moment -- but in a minute he'd have to open his eyes, and then the feeling was sure to fade.

So he kept his eyes closed, because he could still feel Soubi's arms around him.

Soubi's hold was loose, and his breathing was even. His chest rose and fell at Ritsuka's back with reassuring predictability. Ritsuka could almost imagine that he could feel Soubi's heart beating, exactly sixty beats per minute like a metronome. With his face pressed to the back of the couch, he wasn't getting enough air, so Ritsuka turned until he could tuck his head under Soubi's chin. He kept his hands limp at his sides -- if anyone asked, he was still asleep.

Soubi slid his hands over Ritsuka's pajamas until they came to rest at the small of his back, right over his tail.

Ritsuka kept his eyes closed.

Soubi kissed from the top of his forehead to his human ear, small light kisses in quick succession.

Ritsuka held back a twitch, and kept his eyes closed.

Soubi's hands found the boundary between Ritsuka's pajama top and pajama bottom; one hand slipped between to his bare skin, and spread, the fingers splayed over half his lower back.

Soubi's got big hands, Ritsuka thought distractedly. He kept his eyes-

"You're awake," Soubi said. His fingers flexed staccato, and the odd sensation traveled all the way up Ritsuka's spine, a shivery, shuddery feeling. Ritsuka's breath caught. Before he could decide whether the feeling had been good or bad, Soubi followed it up by mouthing one ear.

That was just weird and gross.

"S-Soubi!" Ritsuka brought his hands up to Soubi's chest and pushed, which had the unfortunate effect of bring his hips even closer to Soubi.

Soubi smiled. "Good morning, Ritsuka." His arm at Ritsuka's waist, if anything, tightened.

A small noise escaped from Ritsuka's throat. He couldn't breathe. "Don’t 'good morning' me, what do think you're - ah, s-stop that!"

Soubi pulled his mouth away from Ritsuka's collarbone, leaving a small wet spot on the skin. "No?"

"No! Get off!"

Soubi sighed and shifted away, and Ritsuka fought himself to keep from following. He followed Soubi with his eyes as Soubi very slowly stood up. His hand at Ritsuka's back stayed there until the end; Ritsuka watched it retreat. With his other hand, Soubi picked his glasses off the armrest. He started to put them back on.

"Wait," Ritsuka said.

Soubi waited.

Ritsuka pushed himself up with an elbow until he was sitting, not lying, on the couch. The change made him feel a little less vulnerable, but only a little. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. "Don't go away, because I don't want to be alone," he didn't say. "Stay, because I don't want to be abandoned again," he didn't say. "I don't want this, but I need you to be here" he didn't say. He stared at Soubi's chest, two feet away.

Suddenly two feet felt like an ocean. Even losing his ears would be better than drowning.

"...let me hold you," he said, finally

"Yes," Soubi said, and took his glasses off again.

As Soubi sat beside him on the couch and leaned in, Ritsuka reasoned that he was only going a little further than he had before; and if he allowed this, Soubi wouldn't have any reason to leave.

***

He intercepted Soubi's kiss with one hand. "Before you get any weird ideas...there's a rule." He swallowed.

Soubi met his gaze calmly, but with obvious interest. If he'd still had ears, Ritsuka thought they might have pricked forward. His face burned, but he doggedly continued, "You're only allowed to kiss me, okay? Just kissing, absolutely nothing else. Got it?"

"Yes," Soubi said, and something about the tone...

With one hand, he tilted Ritsuka's head up for a kiss, full on the lips. The other hand slipped down - "

"Mmph!"

"I'm only kissing," Soubi murmured against his lips. "This is for balance."

Ritsuka wasn't sure he believed that. But, well, it was true that in their current position -- half twisted towards each other, but with their legs dangling over the edge of the couch -- there was only Soubi's arm at his back to hold them together.

It didn't need to be so low, though. Soubi's fingers brushed the base of his tail and Ritsuka shuddered. This wasn't how it supposed to go! This was just like before, Soubi always acting and Ritsuka always reacting.

Before he could change his mind, Ritsuka swung himself around until he was straddling Soubi's waist. "M-My legs were falling asleep," he said, defensively, when Soubi raised an eyebrow.

Soubi just smiled. Ritsuka clutched at his shoulders; Soubi moved both hands to Ritsuka's waist. His head dipped low, until his lips were at Ritsuka's throat. His breath was warm, and his kisses went lower and lower...

The shirt is in the way, Ritsuka thought, but he didn't move, just tilted his head back to stare unseeing at the ceiling. His grip on Soubi's shoulders tightened. Soubi sucked at his collarbone, and Ritsuka leaned back; only Soubi's hands at his waist kept him from tumbling backwards onto the floor. Then Soubi's head came up and they kissed lip-to-lip again, deeper this time.

With a sudden, disorienting rush, Soubi lifted, twisted and leaned, changing their positions from vertical to horizontal mid-kiss.

Ritsuka's hands landed on either side of Soubi's head. He stared down, incredulous. Soubi just smiled and reached up to place a hand on either cheek.

"I love you, Ritsuka," he said, and before the words could affect him the way they usually did -- before they could cause that painful little stab in his chest -- Soubi pulled him down and kissed him again.

Which was probably why he didn't hear the front door open.

***

"Ritsuka! Ritsuka! Are you home? I was going to visit Grandpa, but I couldn't leave without --"

Masaki paused at the entrance to the living room. From his position underneath Rituka, who had been stiff a moment ago but now looked ready to go into shock, Soubi had an excellent view of her silently opening and closing mouth. Whatever she was trying to say, it seemed that her vocal chords were not cooperating.

Maybe it ran in the family.

"Mom!" Ritsuka said, horrified, after he'd finally managed to recover somewhat. He scrambled off Soubi, adjusting his pajamas. "Mom, it's not what it looks-"

"...not my son," Masaki said. Ritsuka's mouth snapped shut, a pained expression passing over his face. Soubi took his time sitting up.

"Not my Ritsuka," Masaki went on. "He would never." Her fingers tightened around the keys in her right hand, the knuckles turning white. "Never." She slowly raised her hand -- it was shaking -- and there was a glint in her eye that Soubi immediately disliked.

He stood, deliberately, and her gaze shifted from Ritsuka, who was drooping so low he was almost melting into the floor, to him.

"What are you doing in my--"

"An invisible fog descends on your thoughts," Soubi said. "You become insensible to your surroundings."

The effect was instantaneous. Masaki trailed off, her eyes going wide and vacant. Her hand dropped, the fingers loosening until her keys dropped through them to the floor. She stood diffidently, looking at nothing in particular.

Soubi had lost the knack for anger a long time ago, but he was definitely annoyed. It was an annoyance that bordered on rage -- but out of respect for Ritsuka, who for some reason cared about her, he didn't give voice to any of the several thousand extremely painful punishments he could imagine inflicting on this woman.

Instead he said, "Your most recent memories are fragile glass shards, they shatter into ten thousand pieces," and had the satisfaction of seeing something die deep in her empty eyes, and knowing she wouldn't be using what she'd seen to hurt Ritsuka.

Who was staring at him with an expression ten times more horrified than the one he'd had for his mother a moment ago.

***

Ritsuka looked at Soubi and saw someone completely different person from the cheerfully perverted University student who'd come to pick him up in a borrowed car. Someone completely terrifying. Soubi had just used Words, without even declaring a Battle.

He'd used Words on Ritsuka's mother, and he'd made her forget what had just happened.

Voice shaking, Ritsuka said, "Undo the memory loss."

Soubi's face showed confusion, then a dawning realization.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but that Spell is irreversible."

It was like something snapped. As Soubi looked on in concern, Ritsuka went from shaking to completely still.

"Wake her up," he said, in a flat voice.

Soubi snapped his fingers, and Misaki blinked in confusion.

"Now leave," Ritsuka said, "and don't ever come back."

"Ritsuka..."

"Get out. Right now."

Soubi left.

****

PART FOUR

****

On Monday, Ritsuka went to school because it was better than staying at home.

He didn't want to talk to anyone, so he was glad when no one talked to him. He practiced his thousand-meter stare: just look past them as if they don’t exist. Shinomine-sensei left him alone, and his classmates all took the hint. Except...

"Ritsukaaaaa. You haven't said one word all morning, are you ignoring me?" Yuiko bent over to peer down at him, paying no attention to her low cut shirt and what that looked like from his perspective.

Ritsuka ignored her. He had other things to think about.

"Hello, Ritsuka?" She set her lunch -- a convenience-store boxed lunch like his -- on the closest desk, then dragged a chair over sat sideways facing him. "I'm going to sit next to you, okay?" she said.

He considered telling her off, but -

"Do what you want." She probably wouldn't have left anyway.

Yuiko smiled as if this was the best thing anyone had ever said to her. It was amazing how little encouragement she needed. ("Stupid people are always happy," Ritsuka had said once, but that wasn't it, exactly.) He hoped that this time, she'd know better than to talk to him.

No such luck.

"Yesterday I went with some friends to see this movie, House of Stairs, have you heard of it? It's about a ghost that lures people into this house full of stairs, and then feeds off their, what's it called, their fear and anger. The house is full of traps, I forgot to mention that, and there isn't enough food so everyone is always fighting for it, and then some of the people kill some of the other people, and then the dead people's ghosts go out to bring in more people and it happens all over again. Anyway I thought it sounded reaaaaally scary, so I didn't want to go, but Mayumi said it wasn't that bad so I went. It was SO SCARY I thought I was going to die."

"I don't care," Ritsuka said. "Could you just keep quiet?"

"And then Mayumi and Naoko and Masumi all started laughing at me and -- what?"

"I don't care," Ritsuka repeated. "Is there something wrong with your ears? Also, it's really pathetic when you want to be with your friends so badly that you keep letting them hurt you. I can't stand that. I-"

Do the exact the same thing.

Yuiko looked at him uncertainly and a little tearfully. "Ritsuka?"

"Don't talk to me," Ritsuka said. "I'm not in the mood." He picked up his lunch and moved to another desk, tail lashing behind him. Yuiko looked after him like she was going to cry.

But she didn't cry. Class started again, and Ritsuka stopped thinking about whether he'd been too harsh. Yuiko hadn't deserved that, but that was life. He'd make it up with her next time.

With Yuiko, there would be a next time.

I don't want things to stay like this. I don't want to stay dependent like this. I want to call him. I don't want to call him. If I don't call, I'll never see him again. I'm afraid.

What am I afraid of?

Thinking through what had happened, Ritsuka realized that he hadn't really been scared when his mother had driven away from the overpass. He'd been hurt, but at the same time, he'd known there was someone who'd pick up when he called. (Next time, there might not be.) The memory thing was harder, but he was willing try to let it go -- to try, at least -- if Soubi promised not to do it again. He didn't know whether he could trust Soubi but that didn't matter, because he already did. It was frightening, though, because there was so much he didn't know about Soubi and he had the vague idea that theoretically, there were some things you weren't supposed to forgive.

In the end, none of mattered. Not forgiving hurt too much.

On the other hand, just because he'd decided to forgive Soubi didn't mean that he had to do it right away. At the very least, Soubi should have to suffer a little first.

Even if that means I have to suffer, too.

***

"If you suddenly had a hundred thousand yen, what would you do with it?"

Soubi added another dab of blue paint to the canvas in front of him. "A hundred thousand yen isn't that much money," he said. "It isn't even enough for a down payment on a townhouse. Don't you mean a hundred million?"

"No, a hundred thousand is more exciting. If it's a hundred million, you'll just buy a fancy car or open a grocery store or something." Kio leaned over his shoulder. Soubi was painting a perfectly normal vase of blue roses, how boring. His trademark butterfly was absent; he always added that last.

"Most people would say they'd invest it."

"Ugh, you're so boring! Why I am even friends you!"

"For my looks," Soubi said automatically. He mixed a little red and black in with the blue on his palette, and mechanically began to shade the inner edges of the petals purple.

Kio watched for a little while, but it really was a very boring vase of roses. "Don't you want to know?" he asked.

"Know what?"

"What I'd do with the money."

Soubi said dutifully, "What would you do with the money?"

"I'd take two weeks off from school, and go on a motorcycle tour of North Japan. I want to go all the way up, past Hokkaido, and then try to sneak into Russia without a passport. I know some Russian drinking songs, the peasants will all love me. Russians and Ainu are the best alcoholics in the world."

"Is that right?"

"That's right."

Soubi rested the palette at his side and looked at the canvas measuringly. Or maybe just blankly. "I suppose I'd eat at five or six expensive five-star restaurants. Try out a few chefs."

Kio made a face. "They'd have to be really expensive, for six meals to cost a hundred thousand yen."

"Twelve. I'd take someone else. You can't eat at those kinds of places alone."

"I suppose you'll take the shrimp," Kio said, with the air of the long-suffering.

Was it Kio's imagination, or did Soubi look wistful? "No, Ritsuka wouldn't appreciate the food. It would only go to waste."

Ah, that made -- wait.

"Wait, does that mean you'd take me? Sou-chan!"

"You, or a girl. It really doesn't matter."

"I always knew you loved -- what?"

"I'll memorize the flavor," Soubi said, "so that I can cook it for him myself." His smile was wistful.

***

He was out of his seat and headed for the classroom door before the bell rang, pulling his school bag across one shoulder as he went.

"Ritsuka! Wait!" Yuiko tried to follow him, but her hastily closed bag caught on the back of her chair and spilled open, papers and notebooks scattering across the floor. Ritsuka, already halfway into the hallway, pretended not to see her distress.

"Yuiko didn't mind! They were only teasing, friends are friends!" he thought he might have heard, but by then he was already a dozen meters past the door; by the time he had connected her words to their previous conversation, he was squeezing through the main doors with a hundred other students, all just as eager to leave.

Was she thinking about what I said this whole time? That's-

Pathetic, he decided. It wasn’t anything else but pathetic.

Which made him the most pathetic person of all.

He walked faster.

***

Soubi set his brush aside. "Finished," he said.

Kio looked up from his own painting. "Already? We're only halfway into our studio time. I know you work fast but-"

"I don't work fast. I work steadily. And-"

"And you don't make mistakes, I know. It's unfair, that's all I'm saying."

Soubi finished gathering his things. "Perhaps." He was almost to the door when Kio called after him.

"Hey! Is it alright if I stop by later? Since your squatters left last week, I thought I'd keep you company. I can bring dinner and-"

"It's not a good time," Soubi said. "Sorry."

"Awww, that's too bad."

Soubi shrugged, and left without incident.

Which had been the point.

***

Ritsuka was taking the long way home. This meant that although he normally walked through only quiet residential neighborhoods, today he was passing through a busier shopping district. Surrounded by people, high school girls mostly, he found that no one paid any attention to him. There was something comforting about that. Feeling calmer now that he'd made a decision (even if it was only the decision to put off dealing with what had happened for a little while longer), he even stopped to peer into a few windows.

The face that looked back at him from the glass was somehow very young. He narrowed his eyes at it, which helped, but the effect was ruined by his ears -- they were large, which made his face look smaller.

Oh, well. There was nothing he could do about it, anyway.

He was calculating the longest he could stay here and still make his curfew when he noticed two adults, a man and a woman, standing behind him. He watched their reflections in the storefront window for a moment to make sure they were really looking at him, then turned around, smiling broadly.

"Hi," he said, as cheerfully as he could manage. "Can I help you with something?"

Say no.

"Yes, er, actually, we were wondering...that is, I was wondering, and my wife suggested we ask you since you seem to be about the same age-" the man seemed taken aback by Ritsuka's forwardness, which had been the idea.

His wife smiled ruefully and elbowed him into silence. She crouched so that her eyes were level with Ritsuka's. "We're sorry to bother you, but we're looking for a gift for the son of my husband's boss. It's his tenth birthday. We don't have any children ourselves, and we're a bit stumped when it comes to the latest trends in toys. This might be forward of us, but we’d like to ask your advice."

"I'm fourteen," Ritsuka said.

The man winced, and the woman froze. "I see," she said faintly. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize. I didn't mean to offend you, please accept my apologies. We'll ask the store owner, sorry again." Her husband nodded along behind her.

What strange people. Quick to apologize, careful not to give offense...they reminded him of Shinomine-sensei.

The thought made him smile. "No, it's alright," he said. "I know exactly what to get a ten year old."

His mother still treated him like he was eleven, but this was close enough.

***

Soubi stopped on the way home to buy cigarettes. Pausing outside the shop to light up, he considered the walk home. Zero had been gone from his apartment when he'd woken up this morning, and although they hadn't left a note, something about the way their bed had been provocatively left undone told him that they didn't intend to come back. He hadn't told Kio yet.

That would have been too much like trying to start a conversation.

Still, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that they'd be there when he went back. Soubi ground out his cigarette and lit another. It was possible that a little company would help to take his mind off Ritsuka. That was the way it usually worked, after all.

Soubi knew better.

Looks like I won't be going home, he thought, and headed back into the store to buy another pack of cigarettes.

the end... unless lightning strikes and I figure out how to finish this... which doesn't seem likely...

Twelve Kingdoms - Leadership

sub_divided — Fri, 30 Mar 2007 22:59:30 GMT

I had this posted to 12k_drabbles until I realized I wouldn't be able to edit it there.

TWELVE KINGDOMS is a novel series by Fuyumi Ono

Title: Leadership
Wordcount: ~750
Characters: Youko/Keiki, in a GEN way.
Note: I could write about the downfalls of emperors until the end of time.

"Ran-ou: his reign ended in a civil war of his own making. By favoring one province over the others, he created division within the Kingdom. His war utterly destroyed the fields of eight provinces, and his armies and those of his enemies co-opted the harvests of another fifteen. Thousands were killed in the fighting. Tens of thousands starved to death. The war was fought for eight years, three before and five following his death. His kirin fell to the shitsudo disease: this is an Emperor who went astray.

"Sanshi-ou: his reign ended in corruption and depravity. A great scholar, Sanshi-ou became convinced of the truth as taught by a heretical philosophical sect. Believing in the incurably flawed nature of human beings, he reorganized the kingdom so that the people’s fate would be decided not by men of ability and character, but by scraps of paper. He refused all petitions, his law being "no exceptions." The kingdom fell into the clutches of immoral men, and many suffered. His kirin fell to the shitsudo disease: this is an Emperor who lost his way.

"Jun-ou: his reign ended in a series of storms worse than any our kingdom has seen before or since. A vain and sensitive man, he appointed men and women on the basis of their looks and artistic skills. His court became a renowned center of youth, beauty and poetry. His lands suffered from mismanagement and the high taxes necessary to support his extravagant lifestyle. His kirin suffered shitsudo: this was an Emperor who forgot the purpose of rule.

"Sansu-ou: her reign ended in terror. Following the abortive assassination attempt of an insane former minister, she became convinced of a non-existent plot. Unwilling to trust even her closest friends, she surrounded herself with the most unsavory of characters. Her fear of assassination drove her to murder her enemies first, and her court was soon swallowed by fear. With less a dozen of the kingdom’s sages remaining, her kirin finally succumbed to the shitsudo disease. This was an Empress who lost sight of the righteous path.

"Terun-ou: her reign ended in bureaucracy. Disturbed by the simplicity and roughness of peasant life, she endeavored to improve the lives of her people. Although her aim was noble, she misread the needs of the people and wasted the imperial funds on unnecessary endeavors – concert halls, five-carriage wide roads, collections of obscure scrolls. Eventually the apparatus of government became more than that which could be supported by the lands of the kingdom. Her kirin died of the shitsudo disease: this was an Empress who did not understand the needs of her own people, and who ignored the traditions of rule.

"Retsu-ou: his reign ended in a bloody popular uprising. Believing that the citizens should not waste their time on unnecessary things, he banned all forms of entertainment. His laws were strictly enforced. He did not distinguish been small and large infractions, but sentenced every offender to death. Countless citizens were killed. His kirin was killed while in the terminal stages of shitsudo; he was killed soon after. This was an Emperor who misinterpreted his oaths.

"Lei-oh: her reign ended in suicide. A generous and trusting person, Lei-oh dissolved much of the imperial army to pay for food for her people. Sensing the weakness of the army, bandits haunted the roads and provincial lords encroached on their neighbors’ territories. In desperation, the Empress dissolved all of the imperial army but those retainers who vowed to continue service without pay, and used the money to purchase mercenary enforcement. But the mercenaries were no better than bandits themselves. The remains of the army were unable to preserve order. Noticing the beginnings of the shitsudo disease in her kirin, Lei-oh threw herself off a cliff: this was an Empress who could not follow the path of a ruler.

"Taking these and other failed reigns into consideration, the path of good leadership becomes clear. A good ruler must be firm, yet yielding; she must be sensitive to the needs of the people, yet also able to take a broader view; she must judge each case individually, yet impartially; she must limit the drain of government on the people, yet also spend when necessary; she must remain wary of her ministers, yet allow them to do their jobs without interference; she must-"

"I have a better idea," Youko interrupted. She gazed imperiously across the ministers and minor functionaries kneeling before her, until she caught the eye of a man hidden in the shadows of the far wall. Keiki raised his head, but he did not straighten from his depressed slump until she smiled at him.

"Why don’t I trust in the people to whom I owe my Emperorship," she said, her voice soft enough that the ministers strained to hear, yet loud enough to carry to the back of the room.

"And, trusting them, why don’t I trust my own judgment, and rule without fear."

Almost imperceptibly, Keiki nodded.

***

AN: Retsu-ou is a character in the original series. Ran-ou is a character in Discussion, with Tea. Other characters are original to this story. Except for Retsu-ou, reign names are completely made up and don't mean anything.

Jojo (Part 1) - An Honest Day's Work

sub_divided — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 02:22:40 GMT

Victorian ghost story! XD

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure (is the weird and wonderful creation of Hirohiko Araki)

Title: An Honest Day's Work
Characters: Dio and Dario
Summary: There's a graveyard. And um.

He motioned the boy for the lamp, forgetting that in this pitch darkness the boy was unlikely to make out the gesture. Covered to avoid their being detected by wandering constables, the lamp illuminated only a ragged circle of the ground and their feet. The night was damp, and cold; there was no moon and clouds obscured the stars. They'd made it this far following a path he knew by heart, one which wound like a drunkard's through the crowded, unordered plots of the pauper's graveyard. The air between them hung heavy and still, filled with that scent peculiar to lower-class cemeteries, of cheap pine and well-churned earth.

Dario was not a man prone to reflection, but on nights like this he often found himself considering how the world was all of a piece. On the hill, the bodies of the rich lay in stately isolation, each separated from its neighbor by a proper respectful distance. Here below, in land too muddy to be good for anything else, the poor lay jumbled together, their final resting places approximated by small stones with inexpert engravings.

As we are in life, so we go in Death. He doubted the preachers had had this in mind.

"The lamp, boy," he hissed. "Give me the lamp!" He held out his hand and felt the chilled metal of the lantern's handle pressed into it. Without a word he snatched it away. Bending, he thrust the light over a stone that looked more recent than the others.

"Saaaa...chhhh....damn these Germans, anyway!"

"It Schowalter, father," the boy said in his crisp light voice, pronouncing it show-vaulter. Dario groped until he found the top of the boy's head, then drew his arm back and punched him hard enough to knock him over. He landed in the mud with a muffled gasp and squelch.

"Don't you condescend to me," Dario told him. "You think you're better than your old man? ...This is the one we want. I'll stand guard. Well, what are you waiting for? Take the shovel and start digging."

The boy's voice, when it came, floated softly out of the darkness. "Mother will have a difficult time getting the mud from these clothes," it said. Dario tensed, wanting to hit him again but held back by the note -- he couldn't be sure he'd heard it, but by the note of quiet menace in that voice, the subtle vengeance it seemed to be promising.

He shook himself. Letting the atmosphere get to him -- him, an old pro! Nonetheless, he said gruffly: "Nevermind, boy. You've got the sharper eyes. Hand me the shovel and I'll dig." Without fully understanding what he was doing, he placed the lantern on the ground like an offering. After a long tense moment, the sound of the boy leveraging himself up from the mud sounded out like salvation; when the shovel was pressed into his hand, he let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Hold the light so I can see, and don't let anyone come up unaware," he said, louder than he'd intended. Before the boy could reply -- or not -- he turned and stuck the shovel viciously into the mud by Schowalter's burial stone. Soon he fell into a steady rhythm of thrust and pull, all thoughts of the boy driven from his mind. The work was soothing and familiar to him -- others, those with less experience, perhaps driven by momentary hard luck or a bad turn at the cards, gravitated to the hill, to a quick twenty or fifty pounds plundering the gold and jewels of the well-to-do. Such work could yield momentary reward, but the final result always the same: discovery, trial, and a trip to the gallows. Men killed in this way often ended up here, in the pauper's graveyard. In the end it was Dario who prospered from their efforts. He smiled, cheered by the thought. It was almost enough to drive away the discomfort, the smell, the cold, the creeping fog.

His shovel struck wood. With a final heave, he cleared the dirt from a two-foot space on what he guessed was the upper end of Schowalter's coffin. His client, a naturalist, had only specified a skull, not caring whose it was. But Dario knew that Schowalter had two gold teeth, which he intended to remove before delivery. Absently passing the shovel up -- the hole, though by no means six feet, was perhaps a good three or four -- he crouched to brush the last clods of dirt from the surface of the coffin. Sometimes the deceased had enough saved up with the neighborhood undertaker to afford more than a plain box. In those cases, Dario's job was easier -- the presence or absence of a clumsy "family seal" told him if he'd gotten the direction right, or if he'd have to clear the other end as well. In this case, a seal was plainly visible, the charring so recent he could still smell burned wood. Dario grinned, in the best humor he'd been in all night.

"Pass the shovel, boy!" he said. "A quick smash and slice and we'll be away with what we came for!" He glanced impatiently up, eager to finish the work and be home where it was warm and dry, and didn't smell quite so strongly of rotting flesh.

He was brought up short by the...vision of what was above him. Dio had placed the lantern on the ground and partially uncovered it, crouching to block the light that could have given them away. The candlelight caught in his hair, that unnatural, shining gold hair Dario recognized nothing of himself in. His face, lit in flickers from below, seemed to Dario to hold the expression of a demon. And his eyes, though in shadow, seemed to faintly glow with malevolence. He held the shovel in his left hand -- the devil's hand, Dario thought, forgetting in his fear that religion was mere superstition, and had no power over him. For one truly terrifying instant, he feared for his life -- feared the hatred and violence he saw in his son's eyes.

Then the boy passed him the shovel, and the moment passed.

***

Legend of the Galactic Heroes - Elections

sub_divided — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 02:17:49 GMT

I'm not sure how canonical this is. Hopefully it's okay? Another one for chain_of_fics.

LEGEND OF THE GALACTIC HEROES (is older than me)

Title: Elections
Rating: PG
About: Politics
Characters: Reinhardt et al.
Set: Some unspecified time after episode 72.

"Rivals."

The man paled. His hands tightened almost imperceptibly around the cap he held in front of him. "Your Excellency, I apologize, there's been a misunderstanding, I merely meant that any elections on Novi would naturally-"

"I like the sound of that," his Excellency cut in.

The man gave Reinhardt a startled look. In that instant he seemed torn between disbelief, hope, and terror, but in the end wariness won out and he returned his gaze to the paperweights decorating Reinhardt's massive wooden desk. He looked so unsure of himself that Hilde couldn't help feeling sorry for him. Reinhardt often had that effect on people. He'd even had that effect on her once, though she'd hidden it better.

Reinhardt gave a small, cool smile as if oblivious to the man's plight -- which, in all likelihood, he was. He tapped an elegant fingernail against burnished mahagony. "The Empire is stagnating," he explained. "The families in power have been there too long, are too complacent, their methods too heavy-handed. We need a system that will give those with ability the opportunity to rise to the top. This is why you were invited here."

The man nodded. Reinhardt continued to tap. Belatedly realizing that he was expected to make some reply, the man said, "Yes, Excellency."

Reinhardt waved a hand. "I've had all the 'yes, Excellency's I can stomach today. What I want is for you to tell me what you believe must be done in order for that to happen."

"Um," the man said. "I- I couldn't really say in a general sense, but in with regards to Novi, to our group, if we were given adequate time to prepare I'm sure something could be- that is, there are certain people who need to be informed, networks that need to be- that is, my fellow republicans and I-"

"If it is a question of time," Reinhardt said crisply, "You will have as much as you need. This is a preliminary meeting. Couldn't you tell me something else -- something more concrete?

"Well?"

"Yes, your - I mean, yes." The man cleared his throat. His gaze didn't rise from the paperweights. Hilde frowned. This wasn't going well at all. She'd meant for this to be a casual meeting, not an interrogation. The setting was all wrong -- the informality of Reinhardt's study, rather than put the man at ease, had only made him more nervous, as if he were determined not to be taken in by it. Making matters worse, the room was too small for the number of people who currently occupied it. Though Reinhardt had cut his staff to a half-dozen of his most valued officers, the atmosphere remained imposing, particularly as the officers were all dressed in uniform -- the only decent attire many owned.

The man, in contrast, wore patent leather shoes, heavily scuffed, and a neat but unfashionable suit that looked as if it had only recently been dragged from storage. The scent of mothballs hung faintly in the air, almost but not quite disguised by the man's lilac corsage and the expensive rose scent Reinhardt favored. He presented an image of honest respectability fallen on hard times.

Hilde found she could sympathize.

"Your Excellency," she said. "Your time is valuable. Perhaps Chief of Staff Oberstein and I could discuss matters with this man privately?"

Reinhardt tapped at his desk -- a sign she knew meant that he was thinking, not that he was impatient. "Oberstein?"

"It would seem wise," Obserstein said neutrally. Reinhardt waited but Oberstein failed to elaborate.

"Very well," he said after a moment. "You have my permission."

The man turned nervously to leave, but Hilde stopped him with a friendly hand on one shoulder. He flinched. "I thought we could use this room," she said.

Reinhardt raised a single perfect eyebrow. "Are you asking me to vacate my own study?" he asked. In the background, someone coughed hastily, covering up laughter.

Hilde only smiled politely.

"...I see," Reinhardt said. "Fine, the room is yours. I expect a full report." He rose from his desk with a great deal of dignity and was preceded out of the door by his officers.

"Much better," Hilde announced when only she, Oberstein, and the man were left. She turned to him and smiled in what she hoped was a friendly way.

"Now then, Mr. Grier. Would you like to sit down?"

***

Outside, Reinhardt paced the hallway while those members of his staff with nowhere else to be looked on. Finally, he erupted. "I was supposed to have my study back hours ago!" he exclaimed. "Really, what could be taking them so long."

"These things take time," Mittermeyer said, though he looked as if he were wondering the same thing himself. Reuenthal, characteristically, said nothing.

"I don't see why this meeting was necessary in the first place. Not now. It is obvious that democracy must come and equally obvious that it cannot come today, with matters so unsettled. When Yang Wen Li's faction is caught and the war definitely won, there will be time for such things. What can be decided at this stage?"

"Hilde says it's a matter of trust," Mittermeyer said uncertainly. "You need to show that you don’t intend to remain Emperor forever, that you've begun to make arrangements."

Reinhardt snorted. "I don't believe in doing things merely for show. Rather than waste time on empty gestures, it's more important to focus on the problem at hand. Elections are tomorrow's problem."

"Well, these things can't be arranged overnight."

Reinhardt stopped to run a hand through his hair. "Now you're patronizing me. Of course I understand that the process won't happen overnight. Our people aren't used to democracy. Proclamations will need to be made, parities organized, leaflets printed, school curricula altered, teachers sent out, administrators, technicians. We’ll need an accurate census, full registration, volunteers to tally the votes, judges to arbitrate, investigators to prevent fraud, and the use of municipal centers on voting day. It's all a question of logistics, but we'll deal with that when the time comes."

Unexpectedly it was Reuenthal who disagreed. "This isn’t a military operation," he argued. "It's a civilian matter. You're going against five hundred years of history, you cannot command that the status quo be altered."

Reinhardt looked at him in amazement. "Why not?" he said.

"Why..."

At that moment the door opened and their guest walked out. He seemed much more at ease than he had previously, though he still had an air of suspicion about him. He was startled to find them in the hallway. Reinhardt nodded, civilly. Grier appeared to hesitate.

Finally he returned the gesture. "We're counting on you," he said, fiercely. "Don't let us down." He stared a challenge at the emperor of all known space.

"Of course," Reinhardt returned coolly. He waved, and the man was escorted away.

"That poor man," Hilde observed. Seeing that their attention had shifted to her, she dredged up a smile. "He needs time to gather the old opposition groups together and convince them it's safe to poke their heads above ground. He used to have the contact information, but he's forgotten it."

"Isn't that irresponsible? Is there someone else on Novi we should contact?" Mittermeyer worried.

Hilde shook her head. "No, he's responsible enough. Novi's ruling family was a bit repressive, that's all. Difficulty with names is endemic to men in his position. He'd forgotten mine halfway through the interview."

"Why would-"

Obserstein spoke flatly. "If he were to be caught, the police could do nothing to make him give away his companions." His face was as unreadable as ever. Some of the officers looked shocked (Reuenthal only smiled cynically), and silence fell over the hallway.

It was broken by Hilde. "Mr. Grier told me that any elections held in the next few months will most likely return the old nobility to power. They own controlling shares in industry and have connections to the police, the secret police, and organized crime."

"That's..."

Hilde's smile turned grim. Reinhardt smiled too -- cynical, but also determined.

"Yes. We’ve a long way to go."

Nodame Cantabile - Type B Orchestra

sub_divided — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 02:09:42 GMT

November was not a good month for fanfic. ^^; Originally for chain_of_fics.

NODAME CANTABILE (isn't mine)

Title: Type B Orchestra
Rating: G
Word Count: 944
Genre: Exposition-heavy character study
Note: Based on the drama, not the manga, despite the fact that I have only seen the first two episodes. I also don't know anything about music.

...feel free to beat me with sticks okay?

What will be, will be. Or at least, those were the words of their fearless conductor when normally-shy second-year violinist Tawaka Rie, bolstered by alcohol she was technically not old enough to be consuming, had given voice to what they'd all been thinking, and asked how was it that a group of players who hadn't been able to fit into any of the school's conventional orchestras was now expected to fit together in this one?

Actually, Streseman's exact words were, "What will be, will be, baby!"

***

A week later Rie paged through their newest practice piece looking for potential rough spots and noting tricky signature changes in pencil. She paid particular attention to unexpected shifts in mood -- her more inwardly focused neighbors wouldn't necessarily honor them -- and pragmatically ran through the a few of the more technically challenging fingerings.

Her approach would have been standard in any other orchestra. In this one, it was exceptional. At the end of the row, their first violinist stood beside his seat (his creative energies, he claimed, made sitting impossible) holding his instrument in one hand and sheet music in the other. From his closed expression and the way he was swaying back and forth, it was clear that he was hearing the music already: not in a mechanical way, but with his entire being. It was as if, merely by seeing the notes on the page, he had already begun the process that would transport him to a world of allegro and marcato and mezzo piano. Molto con brio -- again, with feeling.

***

Personally, she wasn't a great genius or a virtuoso. Her solo performances scored well -- "wonderful precision" was the usual assessment -- but at the same time she always lost two or three points for mysterious reasons. She got comments like "Not memorable" or "Lacking something..." Her favorite comment was from Chiaki's piano instructor, who noted that while beautiful, there was nothing in her performance to mark it as hers.

That was fine. Her strength as a violinist didn't lie in her solo work, but in her ability to adjust within a group -- to smooth out the sound, to provide continuity, to compensate for the excesses of others. Given a choice between first and second violin, she'd take second. She didn't care if no one realized why.

***

Had Stresemann had some kind of plan for their group when he'd created it? She couldn't be sure, but was leaning toward the "insanity" end of the genius/insane continuum. Who else but a madman would create an orchestra from all Type B personalities? Were they supposed to be held together by the stars, to rise and fall with Neptune? Their group lacked balance, all water and no earth. In a group with so many Pisces, an Aquarius like Streswmann was the last thing they needed; it took a Virgo like Chiaki kept them in the realm of the real.

In return they adored him. Nodame was their group's official pet but it was Chiaki they'd adopted, from the moment circumstances had conspired to bring him within reach. Whether he liked it or not he was theirs now, and even if his former acquaintances asked for him back, they wouldn't give him up easily.

Rie sometimes wondered whether the adoption was mutual. Chiaki had the power to change them, but did they have the power to change Chiaki? His time with them felt unreal. In the end it was impossible to imagine him, ten years in the future, as anything other than a world-class conductor. The year he was spending with them -- his senior year -- felt almost like a diversion.

***

Their first concert was an unexpected success, though there'd been little doubt in their own minds that they'd succeed.

Rie pushed through the crowd of students offering congratulations without difficulty, even with her violin. As the least flashy member of S Orchestra, she could be certain that none of them were looking for her. She was surprised when two underclassmen from the piano department stopped her, and assumed they were looking for someone else.

"Mine-kun is over there," she told them.

They looked at each other in confusion. "Who's Mine-kun?" the short one with glasses ventured.

"Our first violin...I'm sorry, I thought you were looking for him." She set her case down so she'd have a hand free to point out whoever it was they were really looking for.

"We're looking for Tawaka Rie," the taller one put in. "That's you?"

She was so surprised that it was a moment before she remembered to say "Yes."

"We wanted to congratulate you! Nodame told us you're the most important person in the orchestra."

Rie wasn't sure she'd heard right. "Nodame said that?"

Both girls nodded. "She said something about binding the sound together. It sort of went over out heads..."

Rie nodded absently. "Thank you," she said. She herself was looking over heads, to where Nodame was enthusiastically sketching something in the air for Stresemann while a few feet away, Chiaki glowered powerlessly, hemmed in by well-wishers. Suddenly she smiled. Whatever Nodame had said, she could only have heard from Chiaki.

However he might feel ten years in the future...now, at this moment, he was paying attention.

Mainichi Seiten! - Summer Shopping

sub_divided — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 02:02:39 GMT

Mainichi Seiten is a BL series about four brothers who are all gay (but not for each other). It's great. This ficlet is not so great, but you shouldn't let that discourage you. Originally for chain_of_fics.

MAINICHI SEITEN! (doesn't belong to me)

Title: Summer Shopping
Rating: G
Characters: Yuuta, Mayumi
Is it Shounen Ai: You decide.

"Good," Mayumi huffed and tried not to smile. "Nine o'clock, remember. I want to get an early start." Wanting to look imposing, he planted his feet shoulder-width apart and crossed his arms. He was fully aware that it wouldn't work -- he didn't take up more than half of the doorway, and he was wearing the pajama pants with the ice cream cones on them. Still, one had to start somewhere.

"The serious look don't suit you," Yuuta observed, tugging at the towel around his neck. He brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the lamp in the hallway. "Somethin' up?"

"It's an experiment," Mayumi said.

"Experiment in what?"

Nothing much, Mayumi thought. Breaking a habit. Being more genuine. Growing up -- hadn't Yuuta been the one to point out that his innocent kid act wouldn't work forever? But what he said was: "Testing whether or not you'd notice. Congratulations, you pass!"

Yuuta gave him an odd look. "Course I'm gonna notice, you smile all the damn time."

Mayumi smiled. "I'll probably be asleep when you get back," he said. "Don't wake me up, kay?"

"Gotcha," Yuuta said, picking up the plastic bag with soap and shampoo he'd set beside himself a minute ago. He turned to go. The hallway lamp cast their combined shadow halfway across the street, where it looked like one person with two heads. Like most of the streets in this neighborhood theirs was narrow, barely more than an alleyway. The small older houses that lined it were packed tight enough on either side that a conversation like the one they'd just had -- in the doorway, half in and half out -- wouldn't be private, no matter how late the hour.

In fact, there was Mrs. Yamato right now, shamelessly leaning out of her kitchen window to listen as Yuuta reached the bottom of the front steps and paused.

"Hey," he said, turning to look back at Mayumi. "Why d'ya want me to come, anyway? I mean I got nothin' better to do, but I doubt I'll be able to help."

Did he need a reason? Mayumi wondered. He was bored, and Yuuta was free. "That's not true, you're practically a member of the family!" he said.

Yuuta snorted. "I'll bet."

"Anyway, I'm turning in."

"'Night." They each stood at the doorway a moment, then Mayumi yawned and closed the door, and Yuuta shrugged and swaggered off toward the public baths, whistling a little.

***

Yuuta crashed on a park bench, dropping the shopping bags he'd been carrying all morning to fan himself with both hands. "Hot," he observed.

Mayumi moved the bags out of the way and sat next to him. The heat didn't seem to bother him. His shirt was buttoned all the way up and yet he wasn't sweating at all. Yuuta noted this sourly. Maybe on the way home he would make him carry everything.

"Wouldn't Osaka at this time of year be hotter?" Mayumi asked. He sat with his arms braced close to his body, kicking his legs out. From Yuuta's perspective this constituted unnecessary exertion on an overly hot day. He sprawled backwards, taking advantage of the shade. Behind them, a line of moderately-sized trees marked edge of a city park. The sidewalk in front of them was filled with casual shoppers and the occasional business lunch.

"Hot's hot. Growin' up with it don't make you immune."

"Eh? It doesn't?"

Yuuta rolled his eyes. Knock off the innocent act, he thought. You aren't fooling anyone. But it was too hot to quarrel, so he let it go. They sat watching the traffic together until Yuuta felt his brain cool down.

"...least we finished before three," he said finally. "That's the hottest parta the day."

"Yeah. Hey, after lunch, why don't we go somewhere cooler?"

"Like where?"

"Ehhh, Mayumi doesn't know. Anywhere." He said this carelessly, as if he really had no opinions on the subject at all.

"Museum's air-conditioned," Yuuta offered. "And don't cost nothin'." He watched the line of skin between Mayumi's collar and his haircut, where maybe - just maybe - a few beads of sweat had begun to form. Mayumi chose this moment to turn towards him, and Yuuta swiftly pulled his gaze up.

"Sounds good! Where do you want to eat?"

Distracted, he waved his arm in a random direction. "There," he said.

"Good choice!"

Something occurred to Yuuta. He hesitated for less than a second, wondering whether it was something he'd be better off leaving alone. Letting off wasn't his style, though.

"Mayumi," he said.

"Mmmm?"

"Why'd you really want me to come today?"

***

"I told you, it's because you're a member of the family," Mayumi said evasively. Hadn't he already answered this question?

"Bullshit," Yuuta said. "I don't know the first thing about your brother, an' even less 'bout pickin' appropriate birthday gifts."

"That's not true," Mayumi said, staring out across the street. He didn't mean it. It was just something to say. Yuuta probably noticed -- he was perceptive like that. "Anyway, think how much more it will mean, coming from both of us."

Yuuta snorted. "Akinobu an' I don't talk much," he said, blunt as ever. "I doubt it'll mean anything."

Mayumi weighed his options and decided to give it a try. Why not? He turned back and around in time to catch Yuuta staring again. Yawning, he laid his head on his arms on the back of the bench, mere inches from Yuuta who gave him an odd look but didn't move. "Maybe I wanted to spend time with you," Mayumi said, deliberately looking deep into Yuuta's eyes. Yuuta lifted his head from the back of the bench to stare back...

"Bullshit," he said. "I bet you're just lonely."

"Why would you say that?" Mayumi asked, wide-eyed and innocent. Inwardly he asked, how did you know?

"Just a hunch," Yuuta said, and lay back again, closing his eyes. His arms were spread across the bench and he looked very nonchalant.

This, Mayumi felt, was completely unfair.

"No fair!" he said. "You have to tell me."

"Don't have to tell you nothin." Yuuta cracked open an eye -- to watch him fume, Mayumi had no doubt. He switched to a pleading look. At first it didn't seem to have any effect, but then...

"Stands to reason, don't it?" Yuuta said. He brought up a hand to tick off points with his fingers. "Jou's been trainin' like crazy, Akinobu's buried in thesis junk, an' your favorite brother's been locked in an editor/writer deathmatch with Shuu all week. 'Course you're lonely." He let his arm fall back down.

Of course. Mayumi laughed and leaned back against the bench -- and, incidentally, Yuuta's arm. Yuuta shifted uneasily, but Mayumi found the new arrangement perfectly comfortable. "You're too perceptive," he said. "Next time I'll ask someone else."

Yuuta stopped trying to withdraw his arm. "Nah," he said. "It ain't like that."

"What's it like, then?"

"Well," Yuuta said, examining the sky through the branches above them.

I'm lonely too.

***

Loveless - The Anti OTP

sub_divided — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 07:13:34 GMT

For tin's "subvert your OTP" challenge.

LOVELESS (continues to be the intellectual property of Kouga Yun)

Wordcount: Around 800
~~Pairing:~~ Ritsuka/Soubi
Summary: Soubi takes Ritsuka shopping
Note: Challenge is here

Sometimes Soubi doesn't remember to keep their games inside the bedroom.

They're shopping for furniture for Ritsuka's dormitory room. Ritsuka thinks this is unnecessary. He's only going to high school, not moving into his own apartment; meals and a very basic set of desk, chair, bookshelf, bed and mattress will be provided. It won't be a bad set either. The last time he'd seen Soubi he'd pointed out, reasonably he thought, that his social worker had succeeded in convincing his mother to enroll him at St. Michael's precisely because of the academy's reputation for spoiling its students rotten. He won't need to cook his own food. He won't need to clean his own room. He won't even need to do his own laundry. In Misaki's universe, Ritsuka is still eleven and incapable of caring for himself.

But Soubi, the hedonist, had insisted that wasn't good enough. He'd wanted deep, comfortable rugs to cover the grey tiled floor and bright, patterned fabric to cover the plain white walls. He'd talked about throw pillows and end tables and ornamental lamps. Ritsuka had accused him of wanting to turn his room into a bordello.

"You'd look sexy in a dressing gown," Soubi had agreed. "You could draw the curtains closed, bolt the door, order me down on the carpet and take me hard from behind without even taking it off."

Ritsuka hates it when Soubi does this. The constant insinuations, the way every conversation seems to circle around to sex, the unrelenting perversion of Soubi's fantasies make him uncomfortable. He's tired of being the owner, the bad cop, the immoral teacher, or even just the one in control. He longs for what they had in elementary school, when Soubi's awareness of their age difference, his bottomless reserve of self-control, had held him back.

Ritsuka is sixteen, and there's nothing holding Soubi back now.

"Look," he says, taking one of Ritsuka's hands in his own -- they are nearly the same size -- and guiding it to the carved headboard of the bed they are examining. Ritsuka revels in the simple contact but dreads what's going to come next. "You could tie me to this."

"That's-"

"With your school tie," Soubi says, staring into his eyes like there's nothing else. His gaze is heavy-lidded and penetrating, and Ritsuka is already off-balance because Soubi's arms are still longer, and he's holding Ritsuka's hand so far over the bed, it's all Ritsuka can do to keep from falling onto it and taking Soubi with him. His face is burning and if he still had his ears, they'd be all the way back. Soubi is so close, he can feel himself reacting, and he knew this would happen. It always does.

"Soubi," he manages to get out.

"Hmmm?"

"We're not buying it. And we're in public! Let go of me."

Soubi complies instantly -- he always does that too -- and smiles at him like they're sharing a secret. Something small and precious in Ritsuka's chest warms to that smile. It's a fluttery feeling, delicate as a butterfly's wing.

But he isn't deaf or insensible to his surroundings, and he can hear what the other shoppers are saying. He's so embarrassed he could die; he wants to melt into the floor and disappear. The butterfly struggles valiantly to free itself from the oozing black tar of scandalized disapproval, then with a final spasm dies, is covered over, might as well have never existed at all.

Once upon a time, when Ritsuka had been young and innocent -- or at least innocent enough not to know that "role-play" didn't just mean video games -- he'd thought things would be better if he overcame his nervousness and did the things Soubi wanted but would never, ever ask of him. They'd be closer. Their purity of their bond would increase.

But there's nothing "pure" about Soubi's desires. Worse than the physical abuse is what it implies -- about him, about Soubi. Ritsuka tries to tell himself it doesn't matter, it's only pretend, but the bloodstains are real and lately he feels like they'll never wash off.

The worst thing of all is that they don't turn him on.

But he loves Soubi, so he pretends. It's all pretend anyway, right? That's why when Soubi says something mortifying -- like he'd done over the phone, or like he's doing right now -- Ritsuka pretends that he's aroused and only a little embarrassed, and hides the degradation.

There's a black chasm at the edges of his mind. On the nights when he's alone, he can feel his sanity unraveling like an ornamental rug.

---END---

Maybe a little heavy-handed, but hopefully it was as horrifying as it was supposed to be, as per the rules of tin's challenge.

Loveless - Cigaretta

sub_divided — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 06:33:36 GMT

Another one written for chain_of_fics.

LOVELESS (is the property of Kouga Yun)

Title: Cigaretta
Word Count: 743
Characters: Ritsu, Soubi.
PSA: underaged smoking is bad!

Maybe he'd done it because Ritsu had told him not to, who could tell. Ritsu caught him with the evidence, a pair of scissors in his hand and a small, circular hand mirror with roses on the handle propped in front of him. He'd wedged it cleverly between the wall and some old filing cabinet; it was the perfect height and angle to reflect the cracked vanity mirror behind him. The mirror reflected Soubi's straw-colored hair, which was now short and even all the way around.

Very neatly done. He was impressed.

Ritsu looked on mildly from the doorway, allowing Soubi the first word. Soubi, an old hand at this game, said nothing, though when Ritsu had first opened the door to the storeroom he'd been so startled he'd nearly stabbed himself with the scissors. He reached behind himself to lay them on the vanity. The movement stirred a cloud of dust.

"Ritsu-sensei," he said, eventually.

"I told you to keep your hair long," Ritsu said, in the tone of one stating a fact.

"I felt like changing it," Soubi said, trying for the same equanimity and failing. "I don't have to listen to you, you aren't my Sacrifice." He'd learned enough to keep his shoulders relaxed and not hunched forward, but he couldn't help his ears, which lay back almost flat against his skull, or his tail, which bristled.

Ritsu would miss them. He was, at best, an indifferent judge of mood or character -- but with only a basic knowledge of adolescent psychology, it was possible to judge by ears and tail alone the mental state of most people who had them. Only the naturally reticent had any measure of control over the core mental processes that controlled such reactions; Soubi had none. He practically broadcast his thoughts with them.

Which was why, sooner or later, the ears had to go.

"Are you going to punish me?" Soubi asked. His hands, clasped together in his lap, trembled.

Ritsu was an indifferent judge of mood and character, but he wasn't blind. There was no way he could miss the eagerness in Soubi's posture, or the hopeful look in his eyes.

"No," he said. "I don't think I am."

Soubi drooped.

Ritsu pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, in a completely unscripted show of nonchalance. "You don't deserve to be punished," he continued, mercilessly. "And I don't have the authority to punish you. As you said, I'm not your Sacrifice. In fact," -- he paused thoughtfully here, to inhale, then exhale a lungful of smoke -- "I shouldn't have told you how to keep your hair in the first place."

"Does that mean I have your permission?" Soubi asked. He reached up to nervously brush his hair back from his face, and seemed startled when there wasn't more of it.

"It means you don't need it," Ritsu corrected. "I have no stake in any part of you, aside your training. As long as you remain fit for that, I don't care what you do with yourself. It's none of my business."

Soubi looked at him. Ritsu couldn't decipher the look, though to be honest he wasn't really trying. It really wasn't any of his business. On a whim, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the package of cigarettes.

"Want one?" he asked, holding them out to Soubi.

Soubi hesitated, then reached into the pack to withdraw a single cigarette with slender, boyish fingers. He put it to his mouth with the same movement he'd seen Ritsu use many times before, and Ritsu lit it for him.

When he inhaled, he didn't choke or gasp. He held the lungful long enough to burn. When he exhaled, he closed his eyes. Ritsu tapped the ash from his own cigarette.

"Progress check. Why did you take the cigarette?"

Soubi's response was automatic. "Because I was curious."

Ritsu nodded. "Clear. Anything else?"

"Because it was something to do."

"Clear. Anything else?"

"Because..." For the first time, Soubi hesitated. "Because it was Ritsu-sensei who offered."

"That's no good. You can't get attached to me, I'm not your Sacrifice. I wonder what I should do."

This time, Soubi didn't tremble. "Are you going to punish me?"

It was a better acting job than Ritsu would have credited him for, but it wouldn't work.

"No," Ritsu said. "I think that part of the training is over. It doesn't have the same effect anymore."

Loveless - Obedience

sub_divided — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 06:23:17 GMT

Written for chain_of_fics. Had to start with a pretty difficult first line.

LOVELESS (is the epic tale of a six-grade catboy and his stalker college boyfriend, and doesn't belong to me)

Title: Obedience
Word Count: 927
Characters: Ritsu, Nagisa
Note: I have kidnapped Ritsu-sensei and replaced him with someone more talkative.

"You horrible creature!"

"Bogarting is only for cigarettes," Ritsu said. He waved an arm in the general direction of the wires tangled on the floor. "These are office supplies."

Dr. Nagisa made a show of stomping her foot, a wasted gesture as Dr. Ritsu had yet to look up from his computer screen. "Don't argue definitions with me! Whether you call it bogarting or thieving or hoarding or whatever, I was using this converter!"

"Which is why it was in the spare parts room, I suppose."

Nagisa was cornered, but she managed a quick recovery. "That was temporary! Until I could put it to good use!"

"Hmmm" Ritsu said, as if he didn't much care.

"Better use than you," Nagisa said. "Whatever you're doing, it could not possible be as vital as the research I'm doing."

Ritsu didn't even reply, only took another long drag from the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"Nothing to say? Because you know I'm right? In that case I'll just take this, since I need it more than you do." She reached for the converter, which was on and humming a little.

"I'm using that," Ritsu said.

Nagisa smiled sweetly, her hand an inch from the plug. "Weren't you listening? So am I. For important things."

With great deliberation, Ritsu closed the cover on his laptop. Finally. He brought one hand up to the cigarette in his mouth, looking on with a contemplative expression -- but, infuriatingly, still not at Nagisa.

"Your projects are a waste of time," he said.

Nagisa snorted. "Says the man whose "greatest work" is a failure. You know why, right?"

"No," Ritsu said, sounding bored. "But I suspect you're going to tell me." He still wouldn't look at her, but was instead admiring the wall to her left. Nagisa turned to look -- it was covered in framed blue butterflies. Supposedly he'd bought them. Nagisa could understand the urge to pin helpless creatures to a piece of Styrofoam, to watch them die; what she couldn't understand was Ritsu's clinical fascination with the corpses.

She shook herself back to the topic at hand. "Your toy Fighter does exactly as he pleases. 'Absolute obedience'? Don't make me laugh! He's like a lawyer, always twisting his orders around. In his last Battle-"

"Exactly."

"...what?"

Ritsu ground out his cigarette. "I'll tell you a secret," he said, "if you agree to go away."

Nagisa huffed. "It had better be good."

***

"Soubi," he said, beginning with the obvious, "is the perfect fighter because he twists around the words and makes them work for him. To him, words, orders, are absolute. But he thinks within the system for a way to turn them to his advantage."

As Nagisa should already have known. This was basic. He was already regretting his offer -- telling this woman anything would be a waste of time.

"He's too independent," she said. "If it was me-"

"You would have failed. I know this, because I used to think I'd failed with Soubi." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nagisa perk up. No doubt she was interested by his mention of failure; such a petty woman. Ritsu decided to finish the story quickly. The sooner he finished, the sooner she'd be out of his office.

"I didn't know what I had, when I singled him out for intensive training. I thought I'd made a mistake, picking someone so strong-willed to break. No matter what I did, I couldn't get rid of his sense of self. The training program was never completed. In the end, I gave him away to someone who didn't deserve him."

Nagisa rolled her eyes. "Does this story have a point? Or are you going to wax poetic about Agatsuma Soubi until I agree that he's perfect just to make you stop?"

A petty and impatient woman. "Do you remember the Fighter I trained after Soubi?"

"No..."

"I picked someone with less will. Then I completely eradicated it. No opinions. No desires. Technically proficient, a precise Word user, would follow orders without question. His Sacrifice was from a wealthy family and was used to ordering other people around. The pair was a complete success, but..."

"But?"

Ritsu smiled fondly. "They were unstoppable in battle, but...poor Siegfried, he was much too literal. 'Go take a hike,' and he would actually take a hike. 'Bathe more often,' and he would camp out at the public baths for a week, to emerge looking like a prune. He was once arrested for stealing a kite. His sacrifice thought it was funny."

"What do kites have to do with anything?"

Ritsu just looked at her, until she flushed and murmured, "Never mind, I get it now."

Ritsu doubted it. But he was wasting enough of his time already; he wasn't going to waste even more explaining such a simple thing. He continued the story.

"One day, after a particularly hard battle, they argued. It's impossible to say what happened exactly. But one thing is clear: Siegfried was told to 'just go die,' so he bit off his tongue. He was dead within the minute, while his sacrifice looked on. The poor rich boy committed suicide soon after."

Nagisa looked a bit shocked at that. For once, she had no smart comment to contribute.

Ritsu leaned over and gently pried her fingers away from the power cord. "And that's why Soubi is my masterpiece. To have gone through the training I put him through, and still emerged with the will he has, well. It's a remarkable thing.

"Now go away."

On her way out the door, Dr. Nagisa turned to say: "You really are sick, you know that?"

"So I've heard."

Twelve Kingdoms - Short Vacation

sub_divided — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 06:16:00 GMT

This was written for an anonymous requester on obakesan.

THE TWELVE KINGDOMS (is also known as Juuni Kokki, and isn't mine)

Title: Short Vacation
Genre: Romance
Rating: G
Pairing: Youko/Rakushun
Note: 50 bu = approximately the length of a football field

The news traveled back in waves -- the Empress is almost here, the palanquin bearers are passing through the gates, they're through! The crowd cheered. The number of people who had come was simply amazing. Already they spilled out of the square and onto the surrounding streets. Those in the first few dozen rows pressed forward toward the dais, eager to catch a glimpse of the woman behind the curtain -- and she hadn't even arrived yet! When Kei Taiho, leading the procession, mounted the steps, the crowd began to cheer in earnest.

It seemed the whole world had come to see him, and to see the Empress behind her curtains of state. The balconies overlooking the square had been filled since early morning, mostly by regional officials who'd paid for the privilege. Several enterprising young men had climbed the eastern watch tower and were enjoying a precarious view of the proceedings from an alcove three stories up. Altogether there were more than three thousand people: practically everyone in town, several bands of traveling entertainers and merchants, and twice as many people from the surrounding villages.

And out of all of them, only two were trying to leave.

"Walk normally!" she said. "We don't want to draw attention."

"I think we'll draw attention no matter what," he said.

It was true: although he wasn't in his beast form (too conspicuous), they were both pushing against the crowd in suspiciously heavy cloaks, in the process drawing a considerable number of half-curious stares. However it wasn't until he attempted to navigate around a group of enthusiastic Shusei -- half of them sitting on the shoulders of the other half, all cheering -- and stumbled, that the stares became serious.

"I'm really very sorry," he told the tiny old woman he'd accidentally run into. "I didn't mean to at all, are you hurt? I'm sorry, that was careless of me, please accept my apologies..." The old woman, already nodding her forgiveness, began to shift impatiently, in a way that said he was blocking her view. Meanwhile three of the Shusei had turned from the spectacle on the dais to regard the two of them with interest, and maybe something more...

She grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowd. As soon as they were free, she broke into a run.

"Run!" she said, belatedly.

"I can't!" he said, although he was anyway, his hand still in hers. "Stop, I can't run in these clothes, I'll fall-"

Her only response was to run faster. He closed his mouth and focused on not tripping over his robes. They tore down the main road, passing dozens of brightly colored festival tents. The tents lined both sides of the road, narrowing it from wide enough to accommodate carts in both directions to barely wide enough for a single rickshaw. Most were unmanned, even those with items for sale clearly on display. Still trying hard not to trip, he spared a moment of pride in Youko, who'd managed to instill such trust in the occupants of this town, a huge change from the lawlessness of just ten years earlier.

She abruptly changed direction, yanking him between two tents and into an alley.

"There was a patrolman ahead," she said, panting a little. She threw back the hood of her cloak and he was momentarily lost to the contemplation of the brilliant red of her hair. His distraction only lasted the single instant it took for him to remember to breathe -- Rakushun, in contrast to Youko, was gulping for air.

"Haah," he weezed.

"Soft," she teased, not even breathing hard. "We've only run fifty bu."

"Professorship," Rakushun said with mock-dignity, "is not what one might call an active profession."

She smiled at that, and Rakushun smiled back. Then, at the same time, they broke into laughter. Youko slid helplessly down the wall of the alleyway and Rakushun, gasping, followed her, until they both sat shaking on the ground.

"It wasn't that funny," he said when he'd finally gotten his breath back.

"No," Youko agreed, "it really wasn't." They grinned stupidly at each other.

"Maybe it's the thrill?" Rakushun ventured. "I've never had to run from the authorities before."

Youko raised an elegantly sculpted eyebrow. "Never?"

"Never."

"I guess I haven't had to either -- not in the way we're talking about, anyway. In Hourai I was the good girl, and here I'm the good Empress." She said it with such obvious satisfaction that Rakushun found himself smiling again, involuntarily. At the same time...

"Um," Rakushun said. "About that." He trailed off. He picked at the fabric covering his arm -- at his sleeve. It itched, but not in an unbearable way.

"About what?" Youko prompted, when it was clear that Rakushun wasn't going to continue.

"No, I shouldn't say anything."

"Rakushun. Tell me." She shifted a little bit against the wall, getting comfortable. I can wait as long as it takes, her posture said, but you will tell me what you're thinking.

Rakushun conceded to her superior position. "About that...is it really okay to sneak off like this? So many people came to see you."

"Is that what you really think?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," he said.

"I don't think so," she declared. "I've done this tour every year for the last eight years, visiting all of the regional capitals along with my retinue, and in my experience no one really wants to see the Empress."

Rakushun peered at her. She looked like she was completely serious. He wrinkled his nose, unaware that the expression looked completely different (in Youko's opinion, much more adorable) when he was in human form. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

Youko shrugged. "When I suggested an annual tour of the country, my ministers immediately seized on the idea. It seems that in ancient times, the tour was a well-established ritual of Kei, and there were many traditions surrounding it they were overjoyed to see revived."

"Not only Kei," Rakushun said. "Ren, Hou, Han, Sai, and Shun also have similar traditions."

"That doesn't surprise me. In any case, it seems one of the most important traditions is that I only appear before the crowd hidden by the curtains of state. No one but officials of Daibu rank or higher are to see my face, it would be improper."

"Pardon me," Rakushun said, "but I can't imagine you let that stop you."

"No, I worked out a compromise. On the first day, I appear in my palanquin. But on the second day, and the third, and the fourth, for as many days as it takes, I hold informal audiences and hear complaints. The thing is, getting back to your question, most of the people who come to see me on the first day aren't interested in an audience."

"What are they interested in?"

"Oh, food, fun, the excitement, trade goods. I think most of them just want to say they've seen the Empress. Whether they actually see me or not, what's the difference? They're still having a good time. The townspeople love me because I'm good for business, so they come to cheer in the main square, but I doubt they really care who's sitting in the palanquin."

He hadn't thought of it that way, but now that he'd heard her explanation, he had to admit it made sense. But all the same... "It still seems dishonest, somehow."

Now it was Youko's turn to pick at her sleeve -- or in her case, to shift guiltily and look away. "I'll be there for the audiences tomorrow," she said, and was it his imagination, or did she sound a little guilty? She wasn't meeting his eyes.

In Hourai I was the good girl, and here I'm the good Empress, wasn't that what she'd said?

Rakushun suddenly felt terrible.

"I think you should have picked someone else," he said, miserably. "I'm no good at this kind of thing."

"What do you mean?"

"Playing hooky...what's so funny?"

"Nothing, just...that phrase...and you..."

"I fail to see the humor," Rakushun said, but his eyes were sparkling. The corner of his mouth twitched, and that was enough to set her off again.

"Any-anyway," she said, after she'd recovered, "who was I supposed to take? One of my ministers? Shohaku? Keiki? They're good people, but they would never have agreed to it."

Rakushun went back to picking at his sleeve. "Kei Taiho would have."

"Yes, but he wouldn't have enjoyed it, and that kind of misery is contagious. It was bad enough telling him what I planned to do. He got that disapproving line on his forehead, you know the one I'm talking about?"

"I don't know the Taiho that well," Rakushun said, "but if he's as proper as you say he is..."

"I'll have to make it up to him somehow," she said. "Later. But you see why I'm glad it's you here." Her eyes met his across the alley -- and really, it wasn't a very wide alley, two bu at most. She reached out to catch his hand, still worrying at the sleeves of his robe, and stilled it.

"I don't know," he said. "What about Shokei? This is exactly the sort of thing she would enjoy."

"You're right, it is. That's why she's the one pretending to me."

"Your other friend, then -- Suzu."

"Rakushun."

He gave up and looked up at her. "Yes?"

"I wanted it to be you."

"Oh," he said, in a small voice.

It was a very small alley.

Mushishi - Pillars

sub_divided — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 02:27:49 GMT

I totally hated this when I wrote it but I guess I hate it less now.

MUSHISHI (is a very cool anime and manga series that doesn't belong to me)

Title: Pillars
Fandom: Mushishi
Characters: Ginko, Original
Genre: Psuedo-episode type thing
Notes: Absolutely no knowledge of Mushishi required to read this. In fact it might be better if you don't know anything. Based on the anime, up to episode twelve.

Walking on foot through thinning vegetation, a man in grey pants and an open-collared white shirt, maybe thirty years old, paused to adjust the pack strapped to his back. Leaning pines crowded the trail in front of him. They ended thirty feet ahead, on the other side of a slight incline, where the thin soil gave way to flat, gray rock. The air smelled strongly of salt. Almost there, the man thought. After three weeks of forests, it would be good to see the ocean again.

He broke free of the trees. The path continued off to the right for another fifteen feet, then vanished over the edge of a cliff. He could vaguely see water merging into sky far, far away. The cliff was made of the same flat, gray stone, strewn liberally with pine needles.

A large, white pillar stood directly in front of the ocean, blocking his view. It sparkled in the late afternoon light, pinprick spots of light, as if covered by a million tiny crystals.

On closer inspection -- although he wisely did not attempt too close an inspection -- the pillar was not solid, but a lattice of sharp, approximately conical outcroppings, a few pointing straight up but most angled slightly outwards. Each cone connected to the sloped side of another, lower cone, packed tightly enough together to look solid from a distance. The entire structure was barely half again his height, and was almost that size around.

It was beautiful. Breathtaking, the man thought wryly: even the air around him was still, as if the wind was holding its breath. At this time of the day, dropping temperatures should have pulled the cooler air at the cliffs out to sea. As if prompted by his thoughts, the wind restarted in fitful gusts, and from the pillar came a wild howling melody even more beautiful than its appearance...

***

He picked his way down the side of the cliff, gingerly. Sea spray had almost worn the path away. At the bottom was a rocky beach. Seaweed lay all along it, from the waterline to the cliff face, indicating that at high tide there would not be a beach at all. Heading south, he walked with the cliffs to his right until they became an embankment barely higher than his head, then further until they dropped away entirely.

After more than two hours' walk, he reached a shallow bay. The stones of the shore here were finer, about the size of swallows' eggs. At the edge of the shore, tucked up against a mountain, was a small village of simple wooden houses.

The man walked uphill across the beach -- several hundred feet -- and through the village. It was quiet -- no, it was deserted. No one called out to him. There were no dogs or children; he saw no laundry hung out to dry. Most doors stood open; the houses typically contained a few items of simple wooden furniture, but no wall scrolls or bowls, cooking utensils or bedding. They appeared to have been abandoned, everything portable or difficult to replace carried off.

He continued through the village to the foothills of the mountain looking over it, and found a path leading into the forest. A large, fine house occupied its first clearing, two or three hundred feet up. In contrast to the single or double-roomed houses below, this one had carved wooden eaves extending over an outer hallway. Its roof was tiled and its sliding doors were papered and in good condition. The man walked through several rooms that were nearly fully furnished, but didn't see a single other person. In the inner courtyard, the rock garden was overgrown with grass.

There was a spring behind the house. The man stopped to drink, then filled two bottles with fresh water. I wonder, he thought. Where had everyone gone? Whatever had driven them out, it hadn't done any damage to the property.

When he left the spring, it was almost sunset and there was a boy standing in the middle of the path to the village.

"I saw you climb up here," the boy said.

The man squinted into the sun at him. "Ah. I was looking for someone."

"For the people who lived here? They're gone."

"No, not for them. Only someone." He took a longer look. The boy's robe was threadbare, but had once been of average quality; the boy was sturdy and clean and looked well-fed, about ten or eleven years old. He was wearing wooden sandals. "I guess I've found what I was looking for. Are you the only one here? I'm Ginko."

"Natsume. I live with my grandfather. Come on."

Natsume led Ginko down the mountain and through the village in a more-or-less straight line. The streets were as empty as they had been, but Ginko noticed that the dirt on the path they were following had a well-formed groove worn into it, and that it had been tracked through the overgrown kitchen gardens of the abandoned village houses. It didn't seem like a path that would have existed while the houses were occupied.

"So, what happened here?" he asked, but Natsume didn't even turn around. Seeing that he was falling behind, he gave up conversation to save his breath for the walk. They came to a small, weathered house on the far side of the village. An old man rose from where he had been crouched by the door to greet them.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Jiro. It's been so long since we've had any visitors here, I sent my grandson to fetch you, I hope you don't mind. Come in, have some tea. And there are fish and radishes from the garden for dinner, nothing much, but of course we'd be glad to share them with you. You'll come in for tea, at least? It's been so long since we've had company."

"Tea would be wonderful," Ginko said, smiling. "Thank you for your kind offer. I'm Ginko."

"Good, good! Very good! Come in!" He took Ginko's hand and all but dragged him into the house.

Inside, the house was not any larger than the other houses but it was in much better condition. The slightly elevated wooden floor was swept clean, and brightly colored netting decorated the walls. The only furniture was a low wooden table in the center of the room with several cushions laid out for seats, and two neatly folded mattresses tucked into an alcove on the far wall.

"It's only the boy and me," Jiro explained. "We don't need much."

He gestured that Ginko should seat himself at the table, and turned to a stack of clay bowls on a shelf by the entranceway. He selected a large, decorated bowl from the bottom of the pile. Lifting the other bowls away, he stumbled slightly. "I can help with that," Ginko started to say, but the grandson, Natsume, had already taken the stack and lifted it gently aside. Taking the bowl from his grandfather, he exited through the door and then disappeared into the space under the house, which Ginko belatedly realized must be a storage area.

Ginko shrugged and seated himself on one of the cushions by the table. He was the guest, after all. The cushion was low and not very padded, so he sat cross-legged.

"How long has it been just you and your grandson?" he asked.

"About five months," Jiro said, picking up a covered pot and shaking it experimentally. Water sloshed around inside. He set the pot over the embers of the fire pit. "Before that we lived with my daughter-in-law, in the big house on the hill."

Aha, Ginko thought. Finally, some answers. "So it's only been five months that this village has been abandoned? Pardon me, but I was wondering what had happened to it."

"You've been here before? I don't remember you. And, no offense, but with hair and clothing like yours I would have remembered." The old man wore a robe like Natsume's, clean but worn. He prodded at the embers.

It was interesting that Jiro mentioned his clothes and not the first thing most people noticed, his hair. He wasn't alone in wearing Western-style clothing, though it was rare; but he'd never met anyone else his age with white hair.

Maybe he was getting old. "I was only here for half a day, in the late fall," he said. Three years ago? Four?

"Ah, during the sardine run. That makes sense, I was always busy mending nets in those months. That was what I did," Jiro explained, abandoning the pot to settle cross-legged across the table from Ginko. "I mended fishing nets. Did good work too." He inclined his head at the nets on the walls, and Ginko obligingly turned to admire them. They were handsome.

Natsume returned with the bowl held carefully in front of him. It was half-filled with rice, topped by several pounds of radishes. On top of the radishes lay two small and one large fish. Ginko, on the verge of protesting that a small fish would be fine for him too, caught the old man's challenging look and thought better of it.

Natsume knelt to turn over a log and blow gently on the embers, and very swiftly a fire caught. He watched long enough to make sure it wouldn't go out, and then was just as swiftly out the door again.

"He isn't used to strangers," Jiro explained. "Shy. But a good boy."

"I can see that."

"He's a good cook. You'll think so too. You're staying for dinner, aren't you? It shouldn't take more than a half an hour for the food to cook. And," Jiro said, forestalling any interruptions Ginko might have been considering, "after dinner, I'll tell you what happened to the village. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Good, good!"

Natsume was a good cook, at least of fish.

As promised, the old man began his story after dinner.

***

"This is a rough part of the coast, no real harbors but ours. A good thing! We never had any competition. Back in the old days, everyone fished. Before my son died, he was a fisherman too. That's how he died, at sea. There was a terrible storm, the worst in memory. This was three years ago. I was sitting here, in this house, and the wind was so strong it shook the walls, shook the floor, I thought maybe the whole house would blow away. In the mountains there was a landslide that changed the course of a river, that's how strong the wind was.

"The trouble started after the storm. Very slowly at first, people started to disappear. It was a while before anyone realized what was going on. You haven't seen them, but there are these white pillars on a cliff overlooking the ocean-"

"I've seen them. There was only one pillar, though."

"You don't say?" Jiro looked impressed. "I haven't been to that part of the coast in years. They've been there forever, you know, but it was only after the storm that they started to sing."

"What do you mean, sing?"

Jiro scratched at the back of his head. "Eh, I guess it's not really singing. It's hard to describe, like howling sounds when the wind passed through them...Sometimes people'd walk down the coast to listen, or sometimes the sound'd carry all the way here. That was when the wind was strong. It was strange, but we got used to it pretty fast. My daughter-in-law's father, he was a real poet. He said the cliffs were singing a dirge for those that died during the storm. I was living with her family by then, I had to put up with this stuff.

"So after the pillars started to sing, the people started to disappear. Young, old, didn't matter. It usually happened past midnight, when the wind was strongest. At first it was only one person every few weeks, but later it was one, maybe two people a week.

"This went on for maybe four months ...by that time, we knew that the vanished people weren't leaving for the village over the mountains, or sailing down the coast, or anything. A man, Miike, said the singing and the disappearances had to be connected because they started at around the same time. I only heard this second-hand, but he and some people got together and headed for the cliffs. The pillars weren't singing that day, even though it was windy. Two children had vanished the day before -- and, sure enough, they found two pillars with small bumps on 'em, like storage sheds or something.

"Some men wanted to head back for shovels, but Miike couldn't wait, and tore into them with his bare hands. They were hollow. Inside was..." He paused.

"Inside was?" Ginko prompted. He thought he knew where this was going.

"Inside, was bones! Small bones, like a child would have. Clean, I heard. Very white. The men broke apart one pillar after another, each one was hollow and filled with bones."

Jiro and Natsume both shuddered. "Creepy," Ginko volunteered.

"Yeah. I heard some people went back with shovels and rakes, smashed the pillars and threw the pieces into the sea. But it didn't help, people kept disappearing just the same. Fatser than ever, even. Sometimes even during the day. They'd get this far-away look in their eyes, look past you like you weren't there, then they'd just start walking toward the cliff, like they were possessed or something... it wasn't hard to break them out of it, just covering their ears or shouting at them did it, but every now and then someone slipped out when no one was watching. It was the music, definitely, that called them.

"Word spread around the village -- stay away from the cliffs, they're haunted by flesh-eating ghosts.""

"Not ghosts," Ginko said. "What you've described are mushi."

"Eh? Mushi? But isn’t that the same thing? Mushi are ghosts that not everyone can see, that's what I've always heard."

Ginko shook his head. "It's true that only certain people can see mushi. But they aren't ghosts: they have physical forms, and they interact with the physical world. They can look like anything, like a stone or leaf or a giant flying snake. But there's nothing supernatural about them."

"Yeah, cause charming fifty people to their deaths is natural."

"It might not be normal, but it is natural. Mushi are only another kind of evolution. Say the world is a bowl filled with radishes and rice. If animals are radishes and plants are rice, mushi might be the bowl. They existed first, before plants or animals. But mushi are simpler than bowls. Really, they're more like the clay that makes up the bowl -- something that's closer to the ground, to the source of all life."

"So what are the fish, then?"

"Delicious." At Jiro and Natsume's incredulous stares, Ginko admitted, "I hadn't really thought that far. It wasn't a very good analogy."

Jiro threw back his head and laughed. "What are you, another poet?"

"I'm a mushishi, I collect mushi."

"You don’t say." Jiro looked impressed again. "That's really something. You do a lot of traveling?"

"A fair amount."

"You don't say." Jiro laughed again, but this time softer. The fire had long since died down, and Jiro spent a thoughtful minute prodding at the embers. In the red glow of the fire pit, Ginko thought he looked regretful. He got the impression that Jiro had been laughing at himself. "I've never wanted to travel. I was born here, you know, in this town - "

"You said that already." It was the first thing Natsume had said since "dinner is ready." Although he hadn’t said anything, he'd been listening intently, hands on knees, to his grandfather's conversation with Ginko, and especially to Ginko's explanation of mushi.

"-you're right, I did. Forgive me, mushishi Ginko. I'm old."

"Nothing to forgive."

Jiro laughed that same self-deprecating laugh. "Guess not. Any case, I've lived here my whole life. It was a was a good life too. I did pretty well with my nets, pretty well by my family -- my son married the daughter of the local big shot, you know. "

"I'd gathered."

"The wedding was really something. But I'll spare you. Promised I'd tell you about this town, anyway. Truth is, this was a pretty large village. For every ten families, only maybe one or two people wound up at the cliffs. The rest just...left.

"It wasn't all at once. One family would go, then another, then three more...no point in staying, they, said, when there was nothing to be done about the disappearances. Most of them settled in a valley on the other side of the mountain. Good farmland, I hear, the rice practically grows itself. It's the valley where where the river used to run, so that figures.

"They don't fish anymore. No other harbors on this stretch of the coast, nowhere else to go. But they're doing just as well -- no, better -- over there as they did here."

"But you're still here," Ginko observed.

"I'm still here. My daughter-in-law's father, he told me: you'll always have a place with our family, come with us. But I told him I couldn't, even if I was the last person left in this village. I'm too old to learn farming. I built this house myself. I don't regret staying, even if it does get lonely sometimes.

"The only thing is that I'm keeping Natsume with me. It's selfish of me, I know, it's just- "

Natsume interrupted, "I'm staying because I want to, Grandpa."

"Is that so?" Jiro laughed again. "You're a good boy. I don't know what I'd do without you. I should have made you go with your other grandfather, but I'm not that strong..."

Natsume stood abruptly. "I's getting late," he said. He turned to Ginko. "Would you like me to set you up for the night?"

"That would probably be best," Ginko said. He stood, then bowed to the seated Jiro. "I look forward to hearing the rest of your story in the morning."

"Nothing else to tell," Jiro said, but he looked pleased.

***

"We have to borrow a mattress," Natsume explained, leading the way toward a house whose door had fallen off entirely. "We can just take one of the extra ones, no one will mind. Three beds will be a little crowded, so I'll sleep outside-"

"Actually," Ginko said, as he watched Natsume tug apart and then refold a mattress that didn't seem any worse for the wear, "I thought I'd sleep on the beach tonight. The weather's perfect for it."

Natsume looked uncertain. He shifted the folded mattress from arm to arm, looking down at the ground, before eventually looking up and asking, "Can I join you?"

"Sure," Ginko said.

They set their mattresses up between the Jiro's hut and the ocean, and sat watching the reflection of the moon on the water. Ginko pulled out a cigarette and lit it, cupping his hand against the wind. The tip of cigarette threw Ginko's face, and Natsume's beside him, into sharp relief, the only light on the shore -- but on the ocean, a brilliant shining path towards the moon. Small, rippling breakers formed over the larger pull of the tide, breaking the moon's reflection into a thousand tiny pieces.

"Beautiful," Natsume said, softly.

"It is," Ginko agreed. They stayed like that for a while, in silence, and then Ginko ground out his cigarette. "Good night," he said.

"Good night."

***

In the morning, Jiro was gone.

"Wait," Ginko said, when Natsume started for the path to the cliffs. "Let me get my supplies." Natsume waited patiently, but set a walking pace along the coastline that was halfway to a run. Ginko followed without complaint.

As they hiked, Ginko explained.

"The pillars were made by a mushi called koitogure. Individual koitogure are small, about half the size of your smallest fingernail. They live in large groups or swarms, usually along the coastline although I've heard stories of swarms that live deep underground near lakes. Their primary nutrient is salt, or rather, the impurities of sea salt. The mushi ingest it, then excrete the refined salt as a thin shell."

"That's what the pillar is? Salt?"

"Yes."

"What about the sound?"

"Wind. The mushi form the instrument, and the wind is the player." Ginko stopped to think for a moment, unsure of how to broach the topic. Eventually he said, "Your village was a fishing village. You must have eaten a lot a fish."

"Every meal."

"That's a very high-salt diet."

Natsume stopped walking. Ginko gave a silent sigh of relief and attempted to catch his breath.

"You mean," Natsume said, "that we were food?"

"Well, yes. It's an unusual situation: the amount of salt in a person, compared to the amount of salt in sea air, is really not significant. Normally the mushi would take its nutrients from the air alone. The significant difference is the river. Your grandfather said that it changed course three years ago?"

"Yes, after the storm."

"Did he say where it changed course to?"

"It comes out just below the cliffs - oh."

Ginko nodded. "Yes, and where it meets the sea the water is half seawater, half freshwater. Brackish. The mushi wasn't getting enough salt, so it called to the villagers as a kind of supplemental source. Like a vitamin," he added, gently.

Natsume didn't say anything, just turned to march around a bend in the shoreline.

"We're here," he said.

***

The old man sat in a lotus position. The left side of his body was covered by a thin shell of salt which just reached his shoulder. Already the skin underneath was starting to cave as if deflated. The expression on his face, however, was not one of pain, but of peace. His face and body swarmed with glittering, beetle-like mushi, each one half the size of Natsume's smallest fingernail. The salt and the beetles both glittered in the pre-dawn light. Very softly, music played.

Natsume stood entranced. "They're beautiful," he said.

"You can see them, can't you?"

He nodded.

Ginko lit a cigarette, then blew out the smoke in a long slow stream. "You’re grandfather died in his sleep. He didn't feel any pain. The koitogure secrete a fast-acting poison that paralyzes the entire body instantly, including the heart. We shouldn't approach too closely, or we'll be affected too."

Ginko studied Natsume appraisingly. The boy hadn't said anything, but continued to watch his grandfather as if in a trance. Finally Ginko shrugged.

"I have a mushi that eats this one," he said. "It looks like a snake with two mouths that's tied itself into a knot. If you want, I could use it to kill the mushi the killed your grandfather. We could recover his body for burial, and it would be safe to settle the village again."

Natsume finally tore his gaze away. "No," he said, softly. Then, louder: "No. It's okay this way. The mushi is what it is. I'll go over the mountain to live in the riverbed, become a farmer. I think it's what Grandpa would have wanted."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." Natsume clapped his hand together in prayer. Ginko hastily followed suit.

When he looked up again, Natsume was smiling.

"It would be a shame to destroy something so beautiful," he said.

Ginko exhaled, a long slow stream. "True," he said. They stood together to watch the sunrise, the pillar transformed into a million tiny orange flames.

***END***

Arabian Nights - The Jeweler and...

sub_divided — Wed, 02 Aug 2006 06:25:55 GMT

Did you know that Edgar Allen Poe wrote a story called "The Thousand and Second Night" where Shaharazad commits suicide?

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS (Are in the public domain! *rejoices*)

Title: The Jeweler and the Man from Mosul
Book: The Arabian Nights, trans. Hussain Haddaway
Note: BLOCK PARAGRAPHS OF DEATH, other forms of tediousness.
Note2: Written as an actual Night, so I guess it's more orignal fiction than fanfiction.

I heard, O happy king, that there once lived in Damascus a man who traded in jewelry and whose faults were as many as his appetites. He was dishonest, greedy, grasping, duplicitous, and mean-spirited, so that although he made money from the sales of necklaces and rings, bangles and ornamental daggers, he was not well liked, and had few friends and no confidants. Of those friends he did have, many were of a similarly odious character, and would only keep company with him when he supplied them with food, wine, and entertainment. Because of this, he was always throwing parties and spending all his money. When he had run out of money, he used to cheat travelers entering his shop who, being new to the city, were unaware of his bad reputation. He would give them a fine piece of jewelry to examine, such as a gold ring inlaid with rubies and pearls or a dagger whose hilt was decorated with silver thread and all kinds of jewels, quoting a very reasonable price; but after the item had been purchased he would substitute another item of inferior quality. He only pulled this trick on strangers dressed for a journey; the switch was performed when he wrapped their purchases for travel, so that it would not be discovered until the purchaser was safely out of the city. In this way, he hoped to avoid detection and punishment by the caliph -- but God sees the truth and knows best what men do.

It so happened that one day a handsome young man entered his shop dressed for a journey. The shopkeeper had drunk all of his profit from the week before and, noticing that the man wore a an intricately embroidered linen shirt under a sash edged with gold, and at his waist was a sword decorated with topaz, opal, and mother-of-pearl, he thought, “This man looks rich.” Then he showed him the most expensive item in his shop, a solid gold bracelet as wide as a manacle, studded with rubies and diamonds, and when the man purchased it immediately, not even bothering to examine it, the shopkeeper thought, “This man has more money than sense,” and was excited, thinking that he would be easily tricked. As the shopkeeper was wrapping the purchase, he turned his back to the young man and, out of his sight, exchanged it for a cheap bracelet made from iron with gold paint and red and white glass stones. But when he handed the wrapped bundle to him, the young man immediately flung it back into his face, saying, “This is not the bracelet I bought."

The shopkeeper, pretending confusion, said, “There must be some mistake,” and although the young man repeated his statement he continued to protest his innocence. News of their confrontation spread throughout the shopper’s district, and various people began to gather in front of the shop. The shopkeeper became worried that the young man would lose his temper, draw his sword, and kill him. But at that moment a captain of the city guard, hearing the commotion, arrived and arrested both of them and took them to the palace and presented them to the caliph.

But morning overtook Shaharazad, and she lapsed into silence.

The following night Shaharazad said:

The caliph at that time was a fair and just ruler who was known for his benevolence, compassion, and generosity, and also for beheading all those who lied or tried to cheat others. When the two men were brought before him and questioned, the young man told him what had happened, while the shopkeeper, fearing for his life, lied and said, “O wise and generous king, the bracelet I sold to this young man was indeed an inferior one, but he bought it without even examining it and now he is claiming that there was another bracelet.” Turning to the young man, the caliph asked, “Is it true that you bought the bracelet without examining it?” The young man assented, saying, “It is true.” Then the caliph sent for the bracelets to be brought before him and for witnesses, but neither the gold bracelet nor any witnesses could be found, for the shopkeeper had cleverly hidden the evidence. The caliph told the young man, “Explain how it is that you were able to distinguish between two bracelets without examining them, or I will have you executed for bearing false witness. On the other hand, if you succeed in convincing me that such a thing is possible, I will have the shopkeeper executed for fraud.” The young man said, “Very well, I will tell you. I know because I am from Mosul, and therefore familiar with these kinds of tricks.”

"When I lived in that city, the king of Mosul had no vizier, but only a court magician paid to perform amazing and entertaining feats. However the king's magician was a very old man, of meager skill, whose reason had almost left him, and he used to do the same tricks over and over. The king would have replaced him, but for the fact that he had been magician to the king's father, and had been promised a place at court by his grandfather, for whom he had once performed a great service. Eventually, however, the king became so tired and bored that he ordered the magician to perform a feat more amazing and miraculous than his previous feats, or else be executed. He was given until that evening to prepare. The magician was terrified and, dressing himself in a heavy cloak so that he would not be recognized, he left the palace for the marketplace, where he used to purchase the special oils and smokes with which he dazzled the court – for the man could do no true magic, but only a certain kind of sleight-of-hand.

The magician met with a man who sold smokes, oils, and incense and explained his predicament. The man told him, “I can give you want you need, but you'll have to pay 500 dinars for it.” The magician was appalled by this price, for it was far beyond what he was used to paying, and replied, “By God, I will not.” He and the man began to argue, and as they argued they grew louder and louder, until everyone who was keeping a stall in the marketplace knew that the king's magician had come to buy a miracle. They continued to argue in this way for a long time, and then the magician said, “Very well, I will pay 500 dinars for I have no choice, as you know. May God punish your greed.” Then he paid 500 dinars and took away a large wooden crate tied with rope, which he hired a porter to carry back to the palace.

For the rest of the day, every time a loaf of bread was sold, or a fish, or some spiced wine in an earthen pot, the owner of the stall would say, as the porter was loading the purchase, “Did you hear about the king's magician?” Then the man would had just purchased the loaf of bread or fish or wine would say, “No, what is the story?” and in this way many people came to learn about the magician who bought a miracle for 500 dinars. One of the people who learned of it in this way was Hisshan ibn-Haram, a wealthy Muslim trader who bought and sold patterned cloth.

But morning overtook Shaharazad, and she lapsed into silence.

The following night Shaharazad said:

When Hisshan al-Din Hasam heard the story of the magician, he was outraged. He turned to his companion, who was also his cousin, and said, “Isn't it unfair that I work hard, buying and selling and living honestly, while people like the king's magician lie and cheat to live comfortable lives?” His cousin said, “It's unfair,” because he wanted to ask for money from Hisshan al-Din Hasam and didn't want to upset him. Hisshan al-Din often complained that this or that person's life was easier than his, although was married to a rich and beautiful woman and his life was far from hard. Then Hisshan al-Din Hasam said, “Of all the people who lie and cheat and live easy lives, this one is the worst, because he claims that God is the source of his magic, which makes him a blasphemer as well as a cheat.” His cousin said, “I agree with you.” Hisshan al-Din continued to complain in this fashion, and his cousin continued to agree with him, until finally Hisshan al-Din Hasan said, “I must tell the king the truth about his magician. Only then will justice be done.” His cousin nodded, saying, “You're right, you must.”

But Hisshan al-Din Hasam was not satisfied with that, and said, “I have a better idea. Rather than simply tell the king, it would be more advantageous to show him an even better kind of magic, so that I might take the magician's place.” This response confused his cousin, who had never known him to perform any kind of magic. He asked, “But how will you do it?” to which Hisshan al-Din Hasam replied, “Wait and see.”

Then Hisshan al-Din Hasam found the seller of oils and incense whom the magician had paid 500 dinars, and he bought a miracle for 1,000 dinars which the seller promised was twice as miraculous. That night, the king threw a great feast, and both Hisshan al-Din Hasam and the magician were present. They ate many fine foods, such as roast lamb with sage and thyme, Syrian cheese, and almond pastries with cloves and honey. The food was served on silver dishes, and water and fruit juices were served in crystal goblets, and everyone ate at a carved wooden table that was thirty feet long and seated forty people, in a great vaulted room that was large enough for twenty such tables. After they had eaten their fill, the king motioned that the magician was to perform his magic. The magician stood up, and with the king's guests and vassals and singing girls and slaves and guards and Mamluks looking on...

But morning overtook Shaharazad, and she lapsed into silence.

The following night Shaharazad said:

I heard, O happy king, that the magician rose and began to chant in an incomprehensible language and to make strange gestures – but this was all an act, for he could no more perform magic than fly, or change his beard from white to black. At once the chamber began to fill with a strange, multicolored smoke. From all directions came the sounds of flutes and tambourines, and the strong smell of wisteria and musk, until the whole room was filled with smoke and noise and incense. Then the smoke cleared, and on the table in front of the king was a wooden box. It was made of aloe wood with inlaid gold and mother-of-pearl, and it was covered in rubies and all kinds of gems, which formed complicated patterns on the lid and sides. Inside, it was lined with red silk. Clapping his hands, the king said, “Indeed, this is a wondrous and miraculous thing.”

Then Hasshin al-Din Hasam stood up and said, “O great king, this miracle is nothing to the miracle I shall perform for you,” and the king, interested, said, “Go ahead.” Hasshin al-Din Hasam began to chant and form mystical signs with his fingers, and once again the room with filled with colored smoke, music and incense. When the smoke cleared, another wooden box sat on the table before the king, identical to the first. Hasshin al-Din Hasam began to curse to himself, ruing his greed, for he had allowed the incense seller to make all of the arrangements, and now he would not be able to expose the trickery of the magician without also exposing himself. Then the king opened the box, and inside were pieces of coral, ambergris, and myrrh, packages of saffron, and rosewater in crystal bottles stopped with gold. Seeing this, Hasshin al-Din was relieved, and said, “O great king, isn't this better and more amazing than the magic of your own magician?”

The king replied, “A full box is indeed preferable to an empty one.” Then Hasshin al-Din Hasan said, “Your slave only wishes to serve you; if you made me your magician, I would serve you even better than this.” The king, thinking that he was bound by the promise his grandfather had made to the old magician, shook his head and said, “Alas, it cannot be. Although a filled box is better than an empty one, both come from the same kind of magic and so neither is more miraculous than the other.” Hassin al-Din did not despair, but said, “O great king, if I perform a magical feat more miraculous than your magician's, will you agree to take me on in his place?” To this, the king agreed. Then Hasshin al-Din Hasan went back to see the incense seller and...

But morning overtook Shaharazad, and she lapsed into silence.

The following night Shaharazad said:

Hasshin al-Din Hasan bargained with the incense seller for a miracle that would be ten times more miraculous than the box had been, and eventually a deal was struck and a price agreed upon. The incense seller mentioned that he would need a month to gather together the materials, so Hasshin al-Din had a contract drawn up and signed by four witnesses, then paid him 10,000 dinars and went on his way. This greatly upset his cousin, who had wanted a loan of10,000 dinars so that he could set himself up in business. After a month had passed, Hassin al-Din confirmed that the preparations had all been completed, and then arranged to once again dine with the king. This time, the company ate such things as skewered chicken with tamarind and orange slices, and cream pudding with pistachio nuts, and after they had eaten their fill Hassin al-Din stood and said, “Behold, a feat more amazing than any previously seen,” and he waved his hand and began to chant nonsense.

As before, the chamber filled with smoke, noise, and incense. There was the sound of flutes and also of harps, and the smell was of sandalwood mixed with the fragrances of an entire field of lilies and dahlias. When the smoke had cleared, the music died down, and the scents faded, eight naked slave girls were standing in the room, each as beautiful as a moon. They had full lips, honeyed eyes, waists as slender as boughs, heavy hips, and delicate ankles, and their skin was smooth and had no blemishes, except for one, lovelier than the rest, who had a small well-formed mole on her upper lip. When the king saw them, he was pleased and enchanted, and he said, “This is indeed a more amazing and miraculous sight than any I have witnessed.”

Then the magician stood up, and he too began to chant and the room began to fill with smoke, and the sound of pipes, and the smell of roses and sweet herbs. Again the smoke began to clear and the music to fade.

When the smoke had cleared completely, the king saw that another eight slave girls had appeared, each as beautiful as the moon or as Hasshin al-Din Hasam's slave girls. But rather than being naked, they were clothed each in thin silk robes dyed in deep reds, purples, and blue-greens, and there were gold coins braided into their hair and gold anklets encircling their delicate ankles, as well as gold rings on their elegant fingers and gold sashes bound around their slender waists.

When he saw them, the king was even more delighted, saying, “To be naked requires only for clothing to be taken away, while to be clothed in such finery as this requires great taste and sensibility. This is truly the most amazing and miraculous thing I have ever witnessed.” Hearing this, Hasshin al-Din Hasam was heartbroken. He vowed that he would spare no expense, but would present the king with a miracle so amazing, so miraculous, that it would never be equaled by any other magician. Returning to the incense seller, he did not bargain but paid whatever price the man asked of him, even at the ruin of his business. He used all of his ready money, and also sold all of his merchandise, and when that was not enough he sold his house and he and his wife moved in with his cousin. Expense piled on expense until he no longer knew the sum of what he had spent. After three months of this, he again arranged to dine with the king.

But morning overtook Shaharazad, and she lapsed into silence.

The following night Shaharazad said:

I heard, O King, that the young man from Mosul told the caliph:

After everyone had eaten his fill, Hassin al-Din Hasam began to rise, but before he could get to his feet the magician said, “O lord, please allow your servant to perform a small act for you, in recognition of your generosity and wisdom.” Then the king, who had been hoping for another night like the one in which he had received the slave girls, was flattered and pleased and said, “By all means.” So the magician stood and began to chant, and the room was filled with smoke, and incense, and a great thundering filled the air, as if every man in the king’s army were striking a drum. Then the smoke cleared and the king saw that whole room had been filled with fine Arabian horses, each as black as night, and he realized that the thunder had been caused by their hooves striking against the stone floor. He was delighted and ordered the horses put into lines, so that he could count them, and when his Mamluks had managed to pull the horses into two parallel lines they extended from one end of the room to the other, and out the door, and the king saw that there were exactly forty horses.

The king was pleased with the magician and ordered that he be given fine robes and other gifts, the total cost of which Hasshin al-Din Hasam estimated as less than the cost of purchasing and importing forty fine Arabian horses. But as the king, who believed the feat to have been magic, considered his gifts generous. As for his own trick, Hasshin al-Din Hasam was confident that he had bought it with more money than the magician possessed, and that it had cost more than forty fine Arabian horses. He stood and said, “O king, I would like to attempt a feat even more miraculous feat than this one. Do I have your permission?” The king was pleased and said, “By all means.”

Hasshin al-Din Hasam began to chant and wave his hands, and a cloud of smoke thicker than all the others descended, obscuring the last of the forty horses as it was being lead away by the king’s Mamluks. The room was filled with the heavy scent of musk and ambergris, and echoed with a thundering loud enough to split the heavens. When the smoke had cleared, a hundred and forty horses filled the room, the hall, the courtyard, and the square in front of the palace. Each was black and handsome, with sleek flanks, a long neck, flowing mane, and strong legs. Each had hooves painted with gold, and a gold bridle, and a saddle of the finest leather lined with red silk and set with rubies and all kinds of precious jewels. When the king saw this, he clapped his hands in delight, and said, “This is the most amazing and miraculous thing I have ever seen.”

But morning overtook Shaharazad, and she lapsed into silence.

The following night Shaharazad said:

The young man from Mosul said, “Hasshin al-Din Hasam repeated his entreaty of four months ago, saying, “This is but a small part of my magic. If you made me your magician, I could serve you even better than this.” The king was torn and didn't know what to do, for though he longed to see even greater feats of magic, he suspected that it was because the magician knew about Hasshin al-Din, and Hasshin al-Din knew about the magician, that each had been spurred to greater and more miraculous feats in competition with the other. And so, wanting to keep things as they were, he said, “Although one hundred and forty gaudily saddled Arabian horses are indeed more miraculous than forty unsaddled Arabian horses, both acts are great feats of magic involving horses and so neither is conclusively a miracle while the other is not. If you can perform an unparalleled act of magic that no one can copy, then I will take you on as my magician.” This pronouncement naturally caused Hasshin al-Din Hasam great distress, for he had already spent all he had.

This is the end of my story, for as for what happened next between Hassin al-Din Hasam, the magician, and the king, I do not know. I was the incense seller, who cleverly spread the story of the miracles for hire, and I became so rich from supplying both the king's magician and the Muslim cloth merchant with the same miracles that I was able to retire and to travel, and am now on my way to Baghdad where I plan to live a long life of comfortable ease and no work. As for how I was able to tell the bracelets had been switched: being well versed in trickery and sleight-of-hand, I of course noticed immediately that this man had placed the bracelet I bought on a shelf, and had picked up another bracelet, which he wrapped in cloth and handed to me.”

After hearing his story, the king was amazed and convinced and he allowed the young man to go free without executing him.

The ending is sketchy. Actually, the whole thing is sketchy.

Hunter x Hunter - Surrealist Wall Fic

sub_divided — Wed, 02 Aug 2006 06:03:18 GMT

Scroll down for an explanation.

HUNTER X HUNTER (Is Togashi's, though he seems to have abandoned it)

Title: The Wall
Rated: PG-13 for violent undertones
Characters Leorio, Kurapika, Gon, Killua
Note: Again, the wall = death

Part 1: Leorio and Kurapika
"-disappear! Vanish! Be gone, crumble, fall-"

“It obviously isn’t working,” Kurapika said from behind a book.

"Open sesame- shut up, I don’t see you trying anything – disinteOW!"

Kurapika looked up to see Leorio balanced precariously on one foot. His other foot was cradled in both hands, and he was swearing coarsely. The wall didn’t care – it squatted, flat black and massive, exactly as if it hadn’t just been kicked, punched, cursed at, pleaded with and even, in one of Leorio’s more ridiculous moments, wiped with a hand towel.

Kurapika sighed, stretched, laid his book neatly aside, and got to his feet. "Let me see," he said.

***EARLIER***

Leorio set his medic’s bag on the ground, rotated an arm and popped his neck. "Time to take a break!" he announced to the hills. He dropped straight down to the ground, and was asleep with his legs crossed in front of him and his chin tucked against his chest before the dust had settled.

He woke up after what seemed like moments. He checked his watch -- but he hadn’t known the time when he’d stopped, and he didn’t know what time it was supposed to be now. He looked up but the sky was unhelpfully overcast. Then he looked down at the path he’d been following, and saw the wall.

Something about the wall was profoundly unsettling. It might have been the way it was smooth without reflecting light. It might have been that there were no gates or other markings. It might have been the way it followed the lay of the land – or rather, the way it didn’t. If Leorio had been more superstitious he’d have said that the land followed the shape of the wall.

It was also a little freaky the way it’d appeared out of nowhere like that.

Leorio looked behind him to check – yes, this was definitely the same path he’d been following earlier. Same dips, same clump of small purple flowers, small narrow-soled footprints. (You couldn’t really call it a path, though. More like a trail, a bit of scuffed grass and bare dirt worn into the hillside. Overhead, thunder rumbled.)

Well. Freaky wall or not – and Leorio would never admit just how freaked out he was – this was the way his trail went. Right up to the wall, not even a hint of a bend or fork. If his way was on the other side of the wall, he’d just have to find a way to get there (and back, a voice at the back of his mind said. It would be pointless if he couldn’t come back).

He tried to climb over, but there were no footholds. He tried to walk around, but the wall went on forever. He tried force, and all he got were bruises. He yelled until his throat was hoarse, he tried blunt instruments and only damaged the instruments, he tried to vault and, well, the less said of that attempt the better.

By the time Kurapika wandered over the hills with a book in his hand and a faraway expression, Leorio had almost forgotten his original reason for wanting to get to the other side. This wasn’t a matter of necessity anymore; no, now it was personal.

Kurapika settled down to wait.

***BACK TO THE PRESENT***

"Let me see."

Leorio freed one hand to gesture, go ahead. "You didn’t seem interested before," he noted reproachfully.

Kurapika spoke sharply. "I’m not interested. I have absolutely no desire to cross this wall and it would be better if you didn't either." But he rose to his feet and crossed over to the wall anyway. He stopped just before it and ran his hands over it, like he was looking for gaps.

I've already tried that, Leorio thought. But he only said, "Why's that?"

"Don't you know what it means?" Kurapika stooped to run his fingers along the bottom. From his expression the situation was just as he’d expected it to be. He dug his hands into the dirt a little, to check.

Leorio eyed him suspiciously. "What are you talking about? It's just a wall, walls don't mean anything. And another thing, if you don't like it, don't help me! I was doing fine on my own."

Kurapika snorted. "I came looking for you, idiot. Who knows what kind of trouble you’d get into without – hmm."

Three things happened at once: Kurapika pulled back his arm, a skeletal hand came away with it, and the world shifted. Leorio closed his eyes to keep from being sick.

When he opened them the blank black wall was gone, and in its place was a long high line of human bones.

"The meaning of the wall," Kurapika said, his voice too steady and his eyes too bright, "is death. And this-" he took a deep breath - "is my wall."

Leorio just stared. How many skelletons in that thing?

"If you still want to go, we can cross this one."

Leorio kept staring – at the bones, at his hands and the water running down them, at the sky (it was really raining now), at Kurapika. Now that he knew, he realized...that he still had to go. As a doctor, he needed to know Death inside and out.

He had to go, but it was too much to ask Kurapika to come with him. He opened his mouth and hated himself for saying, "You’ll be okay?"

Kurapika nodded.

"Let’s go, then."

Part 2: Killua and Gon
They rounded a ridge and there it was, just as Killua had known it would be.

"Wow," said Gon, "that thing’s huge."

"I’ve seen bigger," Killua lied. Not even the gates at Kukuru Mountain were are massive as these, or as solidly imposing. Grey iron and highly polished, the gates shone as if they were new; but they didn’t look new, they looked ancient. The wall grew out of them like cancer, great irregular arches and grills of rusted brown metal. It extended from one end of the plateau to the other, and further – down into the canyons and up again on the other sides.

Everywhere along the wall there were jagged exposed edges, hidden crevices, pillars to duck behind and shadows to duck into -- an assassin’s playground. Killua looked at over to Gon, who was practically drooling, and had the sudden urge to hit him.

So he did.

"Ow! What was that for?!"

"Nothing."

"So," Gon said, a little too brightly, "do we climb over it, or do we try the gates? Although it almost looks like we could squeeze through those gaps and-"

"No," Killua said. "It doesn't."

Gon just looked at him, then nodded. "Okay, so going through is out. I’m not sure we’d have fit anyway." (It was possible, Killua knew, but only if you were willing to leave pieces of yourself behind. Look up, you idiot, he wanted to say. Does it look like it ever rains here? What kind of liquid do you think rusts this thing? I’ll give you a hint, not water. But somehow the words were all stuck in his throat.)

Meanwhile Gon was already trying the gates. "Hey, Killua, give me a hand here!"

Killua pushed half-heartedly, Gon pushed enthusiastically, and after nine or ten minutes the iron gave a half-inch. Gon stopped to wipe at the sweat in his eyes with his shirt collar and the gates swung shut again.

"Aww, man!" Gon was suddenly struck by a thought. "Killua, are you even trying?"

"Of course I am," Killua said.

Gon looked at him, then nodded. (Stop accepting everything you're told, Killua wanted to say, but couldn't because truthfully, he liked Gon that way. Even if it wasn't good for Gon.) "Okay. Maybe we should climb over instead."

Enough was enough, Killua thought. "Look, Gon, I know you want to go forward, but is this really necessary? You can tell this thing is bad news, right? Let’s just drop it."

"No, there are enough pieces sticking out that it really shouldn’t be a problem to-"

"Those pieces are sharp, idiot. You’ll cut your hands off."

"Oh yeah."

Gon looked crestfallen. Killua hastened to reassure him, then caught himself. The last thing Gon needed was encouragement. "And that’s not what I meant! It isn't worth it. Even if we made it to the other side..."

Gon looked at him curiously.

"...even if we did, it’s not somewhere you want to be. Trust me."

Gon tapped one foot against the ground as he considered. Killua dug his fingers into his palm, hoping he'd see reason. If Gon decided to go through with this he’d have no choice but to stop him; and he was really not looking forward to hauling his best friend’s unconscious body back over the cliffs they’d been climbing with both hands all morning.

"Killua?"

"Yeah?" He sounded thoughtful, that was a good sign.

"Look that way. What do you see?"

Killua blinked. "Rocks?"

"How about over there?"

"More rocks."

"What about back the way we came?"

"Rocks and the path we climbed up on. What’s your point?"

Gon pointed. "On the other side of that wall, there’s something that isn’t more rocks. The path goes forward here. There’s nothing but cliffs to either side of us. If we turn around now, we’ll only be able to go back the way we came."

"So?"

Gon just looked at him. "I want to catch up with my dad," he said. "What do you want to do?"

And they stood there, and they looked at each other, and Killua thought about all the time he’d spent hidden in the rusted iron, before he'd met Gon. Standing in Death's shadow, never far enough within the wall to see what was on the other side, but never quite emerging either. Leaving pieces of himself behind.

Until Gon.

"I want to follow you, I guess." Even there (especially there).

***END***

I think I will have to explain this one. Here goes!

There is a symbolic personality test that asks you to imagine you are walking through a forest, crossing a river, approaching a wall, etc, and asks what they look like. The idea is that your answers will say something about your personality, though really it's all nonsense. Anyway, the wall represents death. This fic is therefore a symbolic exploration of the ways Kurapika, Leorio, Killua, and Gon view death.

...there is something seriously wrong with any fic that requires this much explication.

Twelve Kingdoms - Discussion, With Tea

sub_divided — Fri, 24 Mar 2006 08:10:18 GMT

This one needed a ton of edits. It was a mess. Awkwardly phrased is putting it too kindly.

THE TWELVE KINGDOMS (aren't mine)

Title: Discussion, with Tea
Characters: Youko/Rakushun, some original.
Summary: Rakushun gives a history lesson, with tangents
Notes: An attempt to explore what Youko would be like a capable ruler, since the anime has a lot of testimonials, not a lot of evidence.

"Minister Hanshukun criticized my relief plan for the southern provinces at the strategy meeting today."

"Oh?"

"Yes, he mentioned someone called Ran-ou," Youko said.

"Hmm," Rakushun said. Coming from anyone else, it would only have been an indication of polite interest, but Rakushun could make even noncommital noises sound like deliberate, reasoned thoughts. Youko smiled. She's been right to ask him to tea.

She and Rakushun were seated in the smallest room of the imperial apartments, a private tea room with thick green carpeting. Like all of the rooms designed for Youko's personal use, there were no windows except for skylights, generations of architects having conspired to hide Her Glorious Imperial Self away in the heart of the palace. Youko was determined to remodel as soon as the kingdom of Kei could comfortably support the expense. Tradition was all very well and good, but she didn't like the enforced distance between herself and her court.

And, she privately admitted, few more windows wouldn't hurt either.

Until that time – and it might be a very long time before Kei was prosperous enough – she preferred this room to any of the others. The walls had been painted with an abstract leaf pattern, and the ceiling was retractable. When thrown open to the sky as it currenly was, the lavishly decorated room was transformed into a simple forest meadow. Rakushun had also confessed to liking the room, although it had taken her a long time to get him to say so.

"Rakushun? Who is Ran-ou?" Youko asked.

“...mmm? He was the emperor of Kei a thousand years ago. His reign ended very badly.”

Youko waved this detail away. “They all end badly,” she said. “I want to know why one of my ministers would mention him.”

“You’ll have to tell me what the discussion was about before I can tell you that,” he said. Was that a twinkle in his eye?

Clink. A young girl with tightly bound hair set the tea service between them. Kneeling, she began to remove the lids from pots, dishes, and small sauce containers. Her eyes were on the empty space to the left of the low table, while her mouth formed silent syllables.

Her mind was obviously somewhere else. Youko waved her away. “It’s fine, I’ll do it.”

The girl focused abruptly. “But Highness, for you to pour your own tea is…”

“Unheard of. I know.” Youko looked her over, consideringly. The girl blushed and looked down, her hands working the edges of her sleeves. After a moment, Youko said, “You have another job to do, don’t you? I heard there was a minor crisis concerning our guest from Kou this morning – something about the wrong color robes. Why don’t you see to that.”

“But-“

“If I find myself unable to pour my own tea, I’m sure my guest will be happy to do it for me. Isn’t that right, Rakushun?”

Rakushun fought back a smile, glad his rat’s face made such expressions difficult to determine. “Right.”

“There, you see? Go on. I’m sure your fellow servants need you much more than I do.”

The girl bowed – not a full bow, but a sincere one. “Thank you, your Grace,” she said, with feeling.

“Good. Here, take these two dishes while you’re at it. We won’t be needing them.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Youko turned back to the table. Shifting her weight forward onto her knees, she picked up the tea in her right hand and a cup in her left. She began to pour, the motion business-like. “We were discussing the dangers of preferential treatment. Councilor Herbert believes the grain shipments to be sent South, being so much in excess of what is to be sent North, might be construed as favoritism. He advises me to govern more even-handedly --why are you smiling at me like that?”

Rakushun quickly brought up one hand to cover his mouth, pretending to clear his throat. “It’s nothing," he said.

"Rakushun. Really, what is it."

"I was just admiring your way with the serving girl just now." Rakushun admitted. "It wasn't so long ago that you wouldn't have known what to do with a servant pouring your tea, nevermind felt that you could give her different orders."

Youko’s mouth twisted wryly. “That was hardly a state of affairs I could afford to continue. The ministers were laughing at me. And I suppose it’s true what they say -- human beings can adapt to anything.” She offered the cup to Rakushun. He accepted, but refused to allow her to pour her own tea.

“No, let me. So having servants doesn’t seem strange to you anymore?”

“Only when I stop to think about it.”

They paused to drink. Youko followed Rakushun’s gaze up, to the clouds passing by overhead. From the shadows she could see that the sun was just beyond the eastern wall. In less than an hour it would be directly overhead -- so it was around eleven, then, as she'd used to reckon time.

Here, of course, things were different. Youko contemplated the differences through most of one cup of tea. It was a peaceful day, and she was in no hurry.

Eventually Rakushun gathered his thoughts and began, “Ran-ou is the posthumous name of Emperor Shingeki. He ruled Kei a thousand years ago, and he was a duran, which is very rare.”

“Duran?”

“One of two children born from the same fruit. The parent plucks the fruit, and…” Rakushun pantomimed the process, putting his paws together and then allowing them to fall apart. He wiggled the fingers on both, his rat’s face taking on a comically alarmed expression as he glanced from one to the other. Youko laughed, and Rakushun wrinkled his nose at her.

“So it’s like finding an egg with more than one yolk.”

“Exactly.”

Youko poured herself another cup of tea. “I’ve always wondered about that. Why are there eggs in this world, when birds are born from Yaboku trees like all the other animals?”

“What do eggs have to do with birds being born?” Rakushun looked genuinely confused.

Youko explained, “In my world birds are born from eggs, in the same way that babies come from a woman’s stomach. But in this world, eggs don’t serve any purpose.”

“Excuse me, but I disagree. Eggs do have a purpose. Didn’t you have an omlet for breakfast this morning?”

“I did.”

Rakushun nodded. “A more religious person would say that Tentei gave everything in this world a purpose, but I think it is just that we find uses for everything in this world.”

Youko drew up one knee to place an elbow on, her head in her hand. “So eggs exist to be eaten. I suppose that makes sense. And why shouldn’t there be eggs? After all, men and women in this world still…” Youko cleared her throat and fumbled with her cup. Rakushun watched curiously until she recovered.

“But anyway, back to Ran-ou. So he was a twin? I mean, a duran?”

“Twin, is that what you call it in Hourai? I’m not sure how it is in your world, but in this world there is usually one duran who is more successful. He does better in school, he is more popular, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, that’s true in Hourai as well. So that was Shingeki?”

“No, that was his brother Shungatsu. Shingeki was said to be the secondary brother. Together they were co-captains of the Sixth Division, and no one who’d known them before his ascension understood why the Kei Taiho chose Shingeki as Emperor over his brother, least of all Shingeki himself. At least, this is what I have heard. You should ask someone else; I may have heard wrong.”

Youko rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you heard just fine. So there was trouble?”

Rakushun shook his head. “Not for many years. Shungatsu was very supportive of his brother. The problem was that they did everything together. It is said that Shungatsu did not consciously dominate his brother, but that when they were together, he naturally assumed leadership, just as he always had. Neither of them could help it.”

“And the ministers didn’t like it.” Youko shook her head. “This story is beginning to sound familiar.”

“Yes, exactly right. The ministers called the situation improper, quoting the proverb 'Tentei’s rule is ‘one king, one kingdom.' They were persistant and eventually convinced Shingeki that Tentei would become angry if he continued to rule in conjunction with his brother.” Rakushan shook his head again. “This might be why there have not been any other duran rulers. It is a shame, really – with Shingeki and Shungetsu, the kingdom received two capable rulers instead of one. Perhaps if the ministers had not gotten involved…”

“You can say that because you don’t believe in Tentei,” Youko reminded him. “What happened next?”

“Shingeki was convinced that the best course of action would be to separate himself from Shungetsu. He made his brother the provincial minister of Len, the southernmost province and the furthest one from the capital. The previous minister of Len was, to put it mildly, displeased.”

“I can imagine.”

Rakushun nodded. “And to make matters worse, Shungetsu continued to dominate Shingeki, even from so far away. But now it was worse, because Shungetsu’s requests were for things that would only benefit his own province. With such consistent imperial favor, it wasn't long before Len became the richest of all the provinces. Of course, the other provinces were far from impoverished. Still, the ministers grumbled.

"Eventually they conspired to overthrow the Emperor and his brother, who they termed ‘the false second Emperor.’ I have heard the struggle was long and bitter. Shungetsu defended his brother to the last, and he had more money and more soldiers than any of the other provincial lords. The fighting is said to have lasted many years, and to have ended only with the death of the Kei Taiho.”

“From shitsudo, of course,” Youko said. She snorted. “I felt bad for Shingeki, but I don’t feel bad for him anymore.”

“Youko?”

“There was no excuse for his actions. He had to have known what his favoritism was doing to his kingdom. And when the war started, the last thing he ought to have done was rely on his brother’s protection. That was what lead to problems in the first place. No, as much as I hate to admit it, in this case the ministers were correct. Shingeki had obviously gone astray.”

Rakushun poured himself the last of the tea, and then lifted the cup to his mouth with both paws. Over the rim, he asked, “And are the ministers correct this time as well?”

Youko's right hand moved unconsciously to her shoulder where, Rakushun knew, the Ceremonial Sword of Kei was worn. It was the closest thing she had to a crown. She wasn’t wearing it now, of course.

“No,” Youko said, baldly. “The situations aren’t even remotely alike. I am giving more relief to the southern provinces because Youma continue to attack from across the Kou border. They need more relief. And now that I know what councilor Hanshukun was implying in that insufferably roundabout way of his, I’ll be sure to tell the ministers that as well.”

It had the ring of an imperial pronouncement. Rakushun smiled and finished his tea.

*******END******

Legend of the Galactic Heroes - Anomaly

sub_divided — Mon, 20 Mar 2006 04:21:42 GMT

LOGH fans, before/if you read this I must warn you: THERE ARE NO RECOGNIZABLE CHARACTERS. ONLY ORIGINAL.

LEGEND OF THE GALACTIC HEROES (existed before I had even been born)

Title: Anomaly
Genre: Science fiction with political overtones
Summary: Boy wants to be a spy when he grows up.
Note: for the August 2005 31_days prompt "I claim proud kinship with your race and blood"

Grenz was an anomaly. Less than a week by military frigate from Neu Sansoucci, it was astronomically in the heart of the Galactic Empire; however the difficulty of rendering it inhabitable had left it undeveloped for most of Imperial history. It wasn’t until 378 Imperial and the invention of atomic-level heat exchangers that Grenz was even classified as a possession of the Empire. It's said that Emperor Otto VII’s penultimate act was signing the order to transform it from a molten lump of glass into a human-inhabitable planet, and that his last was act was proclaiming a weeklong holiday in celebration. (Otto VII, always fond of weeklong parties, died of liver failure the next day.)

As if to make up for their newness, Grenz’s High Nobles consumed more exotic delicacies, patronized more art, produced more bastard offspring, and in short were responsible for more popular discontent in a single century than the nobility of surrounding planets had been able to manage in five. Even worse, a peculiar fold in the fabric of local space placed Grenz in a singularly unique position – it received current Alliance EM broadcasts. For this reason, Grenz was the only planet in the Imperial sphere to forbid transistor radios. The ruling family, having made this proclamation in a stirring show of patriotic self-interest, felt free to ignore it themselves.

For the rest of the citizens of Grenz, intra-planet communication became prohibitively expensive. Home-made or smuggled transistor radios flourished despite the heavy punishments they incurred, and enforcement became increasingly impractical. In February 400 the ruling family was forced to make concessions: the ban was revoked, replaced with a set of regulations describing the exact frequencies at which communication was permitted. A state-run factory dedicated to the “production” (actually purchase and selective crippling) of transmitters and receivers was established. It was headed by the brother of the chief magistrate, who made enormous profits by charging triple prices for ordinary radios with half the functionality.

At the same time there were harsh penalties for those caught with anything else.

For possession: 10 year sentence, seizure of property
For manufacture: 20 year sentence, seizure of property
For smuggling: death, seizure of property

Needless to say the ruling family was quite satisfied with this state of affairs, as were Grenz's (exponentially wealthier) customs officials.

***

It was while all of this was going on that Rahoul Brangarde, mechanic’s son, used to sit with his arms around his knees under a sheet in the attic, watching bad movies in English and trying not to sneeze. Three years ago, he’d found what he thought must be the last of the smuggled video sets, tucked under the false bottom of an antique chest along with a spool of lace that came apart in his hands and some money. (Not much – changing currency rates had reduced it to barely enough to buy a wooden replica battle cruiser and some candy.)

Rahoul had been seven then, and old enough to know what his discovery meant. Here was something he wasn’t supposed to have! If he told his sister, she would tell his mother, who would insist it be destroyed before the neighbors found out. Therefore he told no one. (Rahoul was good at keeping secrets. For instance no one ever found out about the battle cruiser, either.)

Rahoul learned English from game shows and children’s programming. Eventually it occurred to him that if he was following Alliance programming only because it was something he wasn’t supposed to do, then he ought to watch the things he wasn’t supposed to watch. That meant, he supposed, the political broadcasts. Luckily for Rahoul the Alliance was at this time looking to escalate their eternal war with the Empire, which meant that he had plenty of political broadcasts to chose from.

Sitting in his corner of the attic, trying not to sneeze, he’d use his fingers to trace over the broad smiles of the men onscreen. He always watched with one sheet on the floor to avoid the dust and one over his head to avoid letting out the light; and the images would flicker against the sheets in the dark. He kept the volume at its lowest setting. Sometimes the politicians’ words were lost to static, but they tended to repeat themselves so Rahoul didn’t really mind.

If it was something the High Nobles didn’t want him to know, he wanted to know it. This was Rahoul’s reasoning, and the reason he eventually came to despise his homeland. In his ignorance he’d hated only the High Nobles of Grenz; now he hated High Nobles in general. At sixteen he joined the Imperial Officer’s Corps with the slogans “freedom of choice,” “government by the people,” and “shackled to the yoke of despotism” at the front of his mind.

His greatest desire was to work as a spy and saboteur for the Alliance. But how does one become a spy? He didn't know. Joining the military seemed like a good place to start. Rahoul kept a series of notebooks and filled them with everything he thought might be a military secret. He devised an elaborate decryption system and encoded everything by hand, a laborious process. It was a habit he maintained through four years of study (officer's school) and three of service, during which he was promoted five times. The number of notebooks increased with each promotion; and with each promotion more of what he’d previously written seemed worthless, trivial, common, low-level, something he wouldn’t want to waste the Alliance’s time with.

He reached the height of his promotions at Captain. Beyond that he would be expected to deploy troops in large numbers, and Rahoul had no head for strategy. He had a passion for detail that always obscured the over-arching plan.

***

June 7, 490. Weaving though corridors on this way back from a private party; head down and stumble into his room (his room, Captain's room, no roommate thank God for that. Here was one privilege of rank he was not going to protest). Some tea to clear his head. While the pot was brewing, Rahoul stood flipping idly through his notebooks. And realized with a shock that he wouldn't be sharing them with the Alliance.

This wasn’t the insecurity that sometimes ambushed him in the shower or at mess, when he'd know the information he was gathering was useless. It wasn’t the creeping guilt he felt when he thought of his platoon, or fleet, and what would happen to them after his defection. It wasn’t the impatience he felt at having served for so many years without the opportunity to defect. It was the realization that his priorities had changed, and that he no longer wanted to.

The evening’s entertainment caught up with him, and he sat heavily on the edge of his bunk. The notebook fell through his fingers to the floor. My God, he thought. How long have I been this way?

A long time, was the answer that eventually came to him. For the last year you have become more and more a Captain, until it stopped being your role and started being your job. You fit with the Empire.

But this was awful! What about his principles, lovingly hoarded over a decade of childhood secrecy? He still believed in them, he thought – government by the people, popular elections, social mobility. The Empire still didn’t have them. Shouldn't this bother him? He’d blame Herr Reinhardt and his reforms, except that they didn't address the fundamentals. Reinhardt appointed better people to government, but entry into the government still was by appoinment, and not by popular vote. Rahoul shouldn't have been satisfied with anything less, but he was, and he wanted to know why.

Because I’m drunk was the easy answer. Because I’ve been here too long was the harder answer and the one he settled on the next morning when he woke up grateful for the pharmacy’s anti-hangover pills. But neither satisfied him.

***

When Raoul was 27, and the first in his squadron to grind Alliance soil beneath his boot -- he hastily moved aside, leaving a space for the rest of his men to disembark behind him –- when he was 27, and on Heinessen, and he looked across the city park to the crowd eying them warily, tiredly from the street, nothing but women and children and old people, then he understood the answer. It was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t realized earlier.

Those broadcasts were never meant for me.

Death Note - Theoretically

sub_divided — Mon, 20 Mar 2006 03:46:22 GMT

Eheh, I am months behind with this journal.

DEATH NOTE (is still the creation of Ohba and Obata)

Title: Theoretically
Genre: Old skool Light VS L
Notes: Entrapment scheme. I don't know if there is a real test like the one L uses here.
Quote: Theoretically, if that was the situation, what should Light do?

Let’s say, theoretically, that Light walks out of his last lecture of the day at Touo (Introduction to Market Systems), and finds that L is waiting for him on a park bench with a stopwatch. It’s the kind used in the Olympics, accurate to the hundredths of seconds.

"Why?" Light asks, although he knows perfectly well why.

L blinks and says, "Light-kun doesn’t know?"

That hurts Light, a little, because now he’s going to have to act as if he doesn’t know. And he really hates doing that, especially in front of L. But this is for a greater cause, so Light pretends he can’t guess what L is doing with a stop watch and, seemingly forgotten on the bench beside him, a questionnaire. (First Question: Someone you’ve known all your life is accused of murder. The evidence is uncontestable, and bail is set at 500,000 yen. Do you…) L turns the clipboard so that it is face down, and Light looks up, startled. L is watching his eyes.

"…No, I don’t," Light says.

L doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t look skeptical either. He only looks curious.

"I want to ask Light-kun some questions, and I want to time his responses," he says. His bare toes wriggle and he cocks his head to one side. "Now do you know what the stopwatch is for?"

Light stops struggling with himself. This is the sort of thing the son of the chief of police is expected to know, he reasons.

"Yes. This is another test. If I’m Kira, I’ll have to think about my answers. I won’t be able to answer honestly because that might give me away, but lying takes longer than telling the truth. You’ll probably ask a few inconsequential questions to get a sense of my normal response speed, and then switch to questions that might reveal character traits of Kira’s, or information that only Kira would know, or…"

"I’m glad Light-kun understands. Shall we get started?"

"Not here," Light says promptly. "What about the café I took you to earlier?" He’s been running through his options, you see. Walking to the café will buy him some time, which he will use to prepare. Preparation is the key to success.

"No," L says. "I don’t want Light-kun to have any more time to think about his answers."

Light curses inside his head.

L continues. "We should take the quiz now. It’s only a psychological survey, nothing suspicious. If anyone asks, we can say it’s a class project. Does Light-kun agree?"

Because turning L down would be suspicious, and because he is confident in his abilities, Light answers in the affirmative.

"Of course," he says.

"Very well." L sidles awkwardly to the left side of the bench. He faces right, his feet on the bench, the clipboard braced between his knees. In his left hand is the stopwatch. In his right hand, between two fingers, is a pen. It is an extremely precarious position.

"Can I help you with that?" Light asks, sitting gingerly on the other side of the bench. "I can time my own responses, if you’d like." He extends a hand.

L places the stopwatch in it with no hesitation at all. "Light-kun is very helpful."

Light smiles. He won’t be able to cheat, of course. L is only three feet away and he doesn’t have to look at the clipboard to ask questions.

"Ready?"

"Let me figure out how to work this stopwatch fir-"

"Are you stalling for time, Light-kun?"

"…Ready."

***

Theoretically, if that was the situation, what should Light do? Should he arrogantly decide to trust in his own ability to lie quickly? But Light wouldn’t do that. He knows that it takes longer to lie, and that this applies to himself as well as others. (Of course, it is possible that he would be able to pull this off where every other person has failed. But the risk is unacceptable.)

Should he purposefully answer slowly? Perhaps he can fool the system. But he has matched wits with L before; the other detective might notice the difference. (It is also possible that Light would rather not act below his abilities, especially in front of L.)

Should he answer normally, regardless of the consequences? L might make a mistake. This survey doesn’t matter anyway – it isn’t hard evidence; it doesn’t prove anything except that L is determined to prove that Light is Kira, and will even resort to informal psychological tests to do it. Perhaps Light should just give up.

(This is the most intolerable choice of all.)

***

Here is what Light decides to do: just as Ryuzaki is clearing his throat to ask the first question, Light flexes the fingers on his right hand and winces.

"Ouch. Sorry, Ryuzaki, but there was a two-hour essay test in class today." (This part is not even a lie, although Light was finished half and hour early.) He massages the tendons in his wrist. "My hand is still a little numb. I think you’d better do the timing after all."

L accepts the stopwatch without comment, although his eyes dart to Light’s left hand, which is shaking noticeably. (The reason is that Light has been digging his fingernails into his palm for the last minute of conversation, until the muscles began to spasm. This will give him an alibi in case L asks why he doesn’t use his other hand instead. Light is secretly disappointed when L doesn’t ask.)

"Shall we begin?" L asks, and before Light can answer he has started on the first question.

"You witness a close friend committing a crime. What do you tell the police?"

L has cleverly begun with the second page of the test, bypassing all of the questions Light has already seen. He has also cleverly begun with a loaded question.

But it doesn’t matter.

"It depends on the crime," Light says.

"Armed robbery. Two convenience store clerks were wounded."

"I’d report exactly what I saw."

"What’s your sister’s birthday?"

They continue this way for twenty minutes. Light is amused by L’s ability to simultaneously ask questions, time Light’s answers, and record the time of his previous answers. He guesses that he spends between five and six seconds each on the innocuous questions, and around half a second longer on loaded questions. He isn’t sure; L has the stopwatch.

But it doesn’t matter.

"Oh, my," L says. Apparently they've finished, because now L is scanning the information on his clipboard. Every now and then his eyes will widen in surprise, as if he has never seen anything like it before. (Light rolls his eyes; L wrote it all down himself less than half an hour ago.)

"Oh, my. Light, you answered an average of point-five-eight seconds slower on questions relating to Kira."

"I did?"

"You did."

Light pretends to contemplate this. One second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds. The stopwatch lies discarded on the bench between them. Eventually he looks up into L’s eyes.

"But Ryuzaki, that’s only half a second. It can take that long just to recognize that I’m finished answering the question and press the stop button."

Ryuzaki considers this. "True," he says.

"And I know you think I’m Kira. Isn’t is possible that you unconsciously recorded a higher time on the questions you knew were important?"

"It’s possible," L says, seriously. He comtemplates his eyebrows, and Light fights back a smirk.

"It's possible, because I am biased. I also have less control over my left hand. Yes. Yes, you’re right. I apologize, Light-kun."

(Light still doesn’t smirk, although he’d like to.)

They both stand, Light patting the wrinkles out of his pants and L simply rocking forward, his hands in his pockets before his feet hit the ground. Light turns pick up his school bag.

"Ah!" L says. Light feels his shoulder muscles clench and deliberately relaxes them. He casually swings his school bag across one shoulder.

"What is it, Ryuuzaki?" he asks, turning.

"If someone not familiar with the situation were to administer this test to you, they would not have the same bias. I will ask Mogi-san tomorrow."

Light smiles. Mogi is an idiot.

"Okay, Ryuzaki." He turns to go.

"Oh, and Light-kun?"

"Yes?"

"You tried much too hard to get around this test. I have raised my suspicion that you are Kira by two percent."

Naruto - Orders

sub_divided — Thu, 07 Jul 2005 03:20:45 GMT

Request fic for darkeyedwolf, who asked for Kakashi/Sasuke. I'm not big on the student/teacher, but she must be because otherwise she wouldn’t like them. So, I played that part up.

Title: Orders.
Series: Naruto
Genre: Definitely Not Smut.
Summary: Kakashi orders Sasuke around. Sasuke resents it.
Notes: Takes place after the Wave Country arc and before the chuunin exam, somehow. (Behold! A magically elongated timeline! And for my next trick, I will attempt to write in-character KakaSasu, aided by the amazing power of retrospective insight.)

It wasn’t until the strawberries that he began to become suspicious.

“Sasuke, would you mind picking those? For breakfast tommorrow.” Kakashi-sensei pointed to a small patch by the side of the road. His visible eye crinkled.

Sasuke ignored Naruto -- that idiot naturally understood the request as chance to expound on the inadequacy of Konoha’s standard field rations, at least until Sakura hit him and told him to shut up. Instead he turned away and, just out of Kakashi-sensei's view, grimaced. Moving to crouch by the roadside, he swung his pack off his shoulders, dropped it in front of him where he could rummage through it for a cloth wrapper, and thought: “I was going to pick these anyway.”

This had been happening a lot lately. First it had been cleaning the shiruken, then stowing the mission scroll at the bottom of his bag, then checking the forest around their camp last night for traps, then avoiding poisonous berries, then a thousand other things. Things he would have done, was going to do, without having to be told. Frankly he was getting sick of it.

The greatest of all ninja skills is endurance, Sasuke thought grimly, and tried not to let his un-ninjalike expression show when Kakashi-sensei casually ordered him to refill the canteens while he was at it.

+++++++++++++++++

“Sasuke, would you mind boiling some water? We want to be careful with the water in this area, there have been reports of sickness in the villages nearby.”

Sasuke froze in the middle of his fourth step, which to be fair could have been either toward the small campfire in the middle of the clearing or the collapsible waterproof tent he was reluctantly sharing with Naruto on the edge (only because it rained a lot in the Wave Country, otherwise he'd have slept out in the open). Then he looked down at his right fist, which was clenched around the handle of small stainless steel kettle. His knuckles were turning white. He put his foot down, carefully. Nodded once, briskly. Couldn’t help stomping a little as he made his way toward the fire.

Did Kakashi-sensei think he was as bad as Naruto? His teammate had to be told to do everything, but Sasuke had initiative. He had this ninja survival thing down. It wasn’t that he minded the water or the strawberries or any of it, really. But he didn't enjoy being constantly ordered around. He especially didn't like being told to do things he already knew to do. If he didn't know any better he'd swear that Kakashi-sensei was baiting him on purpose, the polite, insufferable, mind-reading bastard.

“Oh, you’re finished already? Would you mind covering the fire? We wouldn’t want to give away our position.”

Sasuke ground his teeth.

++++++++++++++++++

Naruto and Sakura hadn’t noticed what Kakashi-sensei was doing, of course. It was deviously subtle. He didn't think he'd be able to put it into words--at least, not without appearing paranoid or neurotic or (worst of all) foolish. He'd need definite proof first.

Scratch that, rewind. He’d need proof period, not to show his teammates that he wasn’t imagining things but for his own peace of mind. Bonus: if he could figure out exactly what was happening, maybe he could figure out why, and then he could get it to stop, and then he could stop thinking about how annoying Kakashi-sensei was. Sasuke nodded to himself in the dark.

He started to slip noiselessly out of his tent. Then he snorted and moved normally--Naruto was snoring so loudly Sasuke could have sharpened his shriruken an inch from his ear and still remained unheard. He made his way to Kakashi’s tent by memory and whatever faint moonlight managed to filter through the heavy fog. His footsteps, the forest, even Naruto’s snoring, everything was muffled. He hesitated at the entrance to Kakashi's tent--how do you knock on a tent, anyway?--before pushing his way inside unannounced, with a mental shrug.

It was quieter inside the tent, if that was possible. He couldn’t hear Kakashi breathing. Which meant the other ninja was already…

“Is there something you wanted to ask me, Sasuke?”

Sasuke started, jerking backwards reflexively.

“Vchs,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I mean, yes. There is something.”

The silence was probably an indication to continue. Sasuke folded his legs underneath him as far away as space would allow. Unlike his own tent, Kakashi-sensei’s was only meant for one person. He resoultely ignored the rest of that thought.

Cleared his throat again. “This trick you’ve been pulling. I want you to stop.”

He could see the smile in the dark, the way he could see Kakashi smile even with his mask covering his mouth.

“What do you mean, Sasuke?”

“You know what I mean. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“No. You were supposed to notice.” That slight eddy of air probably meant that Kakashi had brought his right hand up to his face, possibly to scratch thoughtfully against his jaw. “I suppose you want to know why I’ve been doing it?”

It was Sasuke’s turn to let the silence speak for him. Unconsciously, he moved closer to the door of the tent--cutting off Kakashi’s escape route or ensuring his own, he couldn't be sure which. He was starting to regret coming.

“I wanted to teach you to be more patient,” Kakashi said.

Sasuke examined that statement from all angles, just to be sure. No, it still didn’t make sense. “Shouldn’t you be giving Naruto this lesson?” he asked. “I am patient.”

“No, you aren’t. You are patient when it suits you, patient when things are going well. You have no patience for trivialities or inconveniences, and you will find that life as a ninja includes a good deal of both. It is important that you overcome this weakness, because you become predictable when you are impatient.”

It was one of the longest speeches he'd ever heard Kakashi give, and one of very few that didn’t shield meaning behind an easy politeness. It had to be important. Sasuke fumed.

Predictable? He wasn’t predictable. He was smart and cool and he kept his head and dispassionately observed a situation waiting for openings, which was what you were supposed to do if you were a ninja. He’d seen through Kakashi’s ploy--except that Kakashi had apparently wanted him to see through that. And hadn’t he been predicting exactly what Sasuke was about to do every day for the last week?

No. It had to be Sharingan. Sasuke was not predictable, he wasn’t, and it was equally impossible that Kakashi knew him well enough to know the way his mind worked. No one should know someone else’s mind that well, it was indecent. Sasuke shifted uncomfortably.

He wasn’t predictable. He’d prove it.

Sasuke leaned forward to kiss Kakashi in the dark. He got the placement right, but noted with annoyance that Kakashi even wore his mask to bed. He kept kissing, though, and moved forward approximately two inches to sit in Kakashi’s lap, because he didn’t want to hear whether this was something else his teacher had known about him.

(It wasn’t. But Kakashi didn’t push him away.)

END.

OKAY SO THAT WAS MASSIVELY ABRUPT.

KilluaGon 04 (Ten Things)

sub_divided — Wed, 06 Apr 2005 03:11:20 GMT

For 30_kisses, excessively fluffy, excessively random, and includes original characters. You know, the usual.

HUNTER X HUNTER (is Togashi's not mine)

Title: Ten Things
Pairing: Killua and Gon, in a totally Gen way.
Genre: humorish
30_kisses theme: 10 (#10)
Summary: Descisions descisions descisions, aka WAFF.

Gon and Killua sat at an outdoor café, discussing plans between forkfulls of the local specialty-some sort of spicy fish pie. It was just before noon, and all of the tables were filled with old men playing cards or young couples watching the street. The air was filled with salt, a smell Killua associated with preserved meat and Gon with home. Seagulls circled overhead.

"So where are we going next?" Killua asked. He picked out one of the decorative toothpicks, twirled it. Under his breath he muttered, "Somewhere less watery, I hope,"

Gon pretended not to hear him. "I've heard there's a nen user in the Ryuu Islands who can see emotional attachments as glowing red strings. Maybe he can give us Jinn's direction." He stabbed the last piece of pie, grinned triumphantly as he chewed.

Killua made a face, although whether at Gon's suggestion or his eating habits was debatable. "More islands, huh? But what if Jinn doesn't have an emotional attachment to you? I think we're better off headed South to look up that guy with no eyebrows. He knew about Greed Island, remember?"

"Ye-es," Gon said, frowning. "But 'that guy with no eyebrows' isn't much of a description. It's a long shot."

"So's yours!"

That was all it took. The two of them glared at each other across the table. Killua's toothpick headed for Gon's forhead, but was knocked aside at the last moment. Under the table, two pairs of feet were primed for the attack. The waiter came up to take their plates away, took one look, and quickly turned around. Standoff.

"...Rock paper scissors?" Killua said, eventually.

"No, you'd win. Arm wrestling?"

"No, you'd win."

Another stalemate. Somewhere in the distance, a ship's horn blew. Meanwhile the waiter, overcoming his momentary timidity, had successfully liberated the cutlery and had vowed to return with the check. Gon and Killua hardly noticed.

"Jumping contest?"

"No. Fishing contest?"

"No. What about a race?"

"Nuh uh."

Killua thought he knew what was really going on here: Gon had seen through his attempts to spare the other boy's feelings. Opposition was his way of silently insisting that he didn't need to be coddled, and so what if Jinn turned out not to care about him? Finally knowing that for sure wasn't going to change the fact that he'd sworn to track the man to the ends of the earth. Really, it was no big deal. But it was a big deal, and Killua would do anything he could to spare Gon that burden.

Of course, it was equally probable that Gon just really hated losing.

"The problem is that we know each other too well," Gon was saying. "We need a contest we can't be sure of one of us winning."

"Dice?" Killua suggested. "Can't go wrong in games of chance." Especially when you've just learned how to cheat with nen. Heh.

"...I dunno, are you sure you don't mind gambling?"

"I'm a gambling man." Killua gave him his most generous and sincere smile. Gon looked extremely skeptical, but eventually he nodded.

"Okay. So, do you have a die?"

"Of course I...don't. Crap," Killa turned to young couple at the next table, who quickly occupied themselves with their food exactly as if they hadn't been eavesdropping for the last few minutes. They had the steely-eyed look of professional tourists. All tourists gambled; certainly Killua did whenever he came to a new town, and this one was famous for it.

"Does either of you have a die?" Killua asked. The couple shook their heads. "Anyone else? Die?" Killua said, louder. He looked around the resurant--tourists, mostly, by this point.

One old man had been shocked out of his seat. He rose unsteadily, pointing his cane at their table and nearly overbalancing. "I know that one!" he shouted. The cane wavered between Killua and Gon so that it was impossible to know exactly which one he meant. "That one killed my only daughter! I'll never forget, it was forty years ago last autumn…"

"Easy, grandpa," a man said, taking the cane in his hand and helping the old man back into his seat. "Do either of those kids look forty years old to you?"

The old man wasn't having any of it. He strained against the hands holding him down and succeeding in pointing a finger at Killua. "Age only affects men, not demons! Did you hear what he said? He told me to die, he's here to finish the job..."

Someone in the back of the café started to snicker, then stopped when his neighbor elbowed him. Senility was no laughing matter. Killua almost felt sorry for the old guy -- he was pretty sure he knew exactly who he'd just been mistaken for. The man was lead away, still raving.

"Anyone else have some dice?" Killua asked. He had the attention of the entire restaurant now, but apparently dice games were going out of style because no one volunteered a pair. So much for a gambling town; he'd offer to play Gon at cards except that he didn't know any games he could consistently cheat at. Besides Gon had the luck of three normal people. He sat back down, fuming and bitter.

"Your father?" Gon asked. "Someone mentioned you look like him."

"Probably," Killua said, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He noticed what he was doing and forced himself to stop. "Cooking contest?"

"I don't think so."

Back to their stalemate. By this point more than half the café seemed to have taken an interest in them. Killua saw a few of the island's oddly-shaped green coins exchange hands. All very surreptitiously, of course; he doubted Gon had noticed. There seemed to be quite a bit of whispering going on too. Killua snorted. Oh, sure, now these people wanted to gamble. It figured. As long as they didn't start putting heavier odds on Gon (why did that always happen?!), he didn't particularly care.

"And I'll give you five to one odds that the black-haired kid gets what he wants…"

Bah. Killua noticed that Gon was grinning wildly. "I know! We'll flip a coin!" he said. There was a collective groan of disappointment, which Killua ignored. But...

"That isn't going to work on me," he said, rolling his eyes. "I remember the last time you tried that trick. It's all about the timing of the flip, right? And anyway, it's easy to see which way the coin is going to land while it's still in the air."

"Darn, I was hoping you'd forgotten about that." Killua rolled his eyes again, as much at the collective sigh of relief as at Gon. What were they, the afternoon's entertainment?

Killua thought. Gon thought. The crowd was still. Even the seagulls seemed to be holding their breath.

"We could always fight for it."

"...no, you'd win. Probably"

"Obviously."

Someone coughed. The clock struck twelve. The waiter finally returned with the check, which was promptly pushed to the side of the table and forgotten. Another ship came in.

"How about this," Gon said, eventually. "I'll close my eyes and point to the map. Whichever place is nearest is the one we'll go to."

"We've already established that you aren't above cheating," Killua pointed out. "I don't see why this should be any different. But how about this: you close your eyes, I'll move the map around, and then you can point. Deal?"

"Deal!"

"Good. Don't cheat and open your eyes, I can tell."

"Same for you: don't cheat and move the map at the last second. I can tell."

"How?"

"I just can. Wind currents."

"Wind currents?"

"Yes."

"Fine."

"Okay?"

"Okay. Ready?"

"Go!"

Gon closed his eyes; Killua turned the map three times around and then, just for good measure, moved it off to the left side of the table with Gon's destination pointing away into the crowd. Gon's finger came down...right on his destination. Which was off the edge of the table.

"How did you do that?" Killua demanded, incredulous. He hadn't opened his eyes, that was for sure. Killua hadn't been lying when he'd said that he could tell.

"It's a secret," Gon said, happily rolling away the map. Killua narrowed his eyes but there was nothing he could do; he'd just have to take good care of Gon when they got to the Ryuu islands. In the background there was some cheering, a few groans, and quite a bit of money changing hands. A few people waved; Gon smiled and waved back. "It was nothing, really," he was saying.

On the other hand, there was a bright side to every situation. "Come on," he told Gon, grabbing him by the shoulders and steering him around the table. "There's something we need to do."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Ask for your share of the cut, of course."

***THE END***

Omake (that's Japanese for "fluffy crackheaded nonsense")

"So," Killua said later, as they were settling into their hotel room. He kept his voice totally and completely casual. "What was that secret, again?"
"Do you really want to know?" Gon asked. He shrugged out of this shirt and started to undo the laces on his boots.
"Not really."
Gon smiled. "It's just like I told you before," he said, happily. "We know each other too well."

Death Note, Leagalism

sub_divided — Wed, 06 Apr 2005 03:06:33 GMT

From an article about the new Japanese legal system to be instituted in 2009 (page 7). To sum up: under Japan's current system there is no trial by jury, only by judge, and the conviction rate is 99%.

DEATH NOTE (Doesn't belong to me.)

Title: Legalism
Summary: Light and the investigators talk Law
Genre: Character analysis disguised as ideological debate.
Warnings: Post-chapter 59 fic, so, SPOILERS.
Additional warnings: Dialogue-heavy, not an AU.

"But I thought you were…"

"That's beside the point!"

"But-" Matsuda, unable to finish his thought, reached for the newspaper lying on the table between them. Aizawa was faster.

"I haven't finished reading yet," he said, and opened the paper with a snap. Matsuda made a face from the other side of the headlines. Mogi, perched awkwardly at the counter with a stool and coffee mug much too small for him, gave Light an apologetic glance, as if to say you'll have to forgive my companions.

Light taped a finger against the keyboard, resolutely ignoring them all. He was considering strategies. The most important thing now was not subside into a holding pattern: as in chess or tennis, any move that did not actively strengthen his position gave his opponent a chance to strengthen his. The key was not always to attack, but to continually create situations from which a successful attack could be made. Complacency…

"Aren't you finished reading yet?"

"If you'd let me read I would be!"

Complacency was his greatest enemy now. It was true that L was gone, but that did not mean that there would not be other enemies. Of course, had L still been among them he would never have dared to do what he was doing now--researching, from his own computer in his own apartment and in full view of the other investigators (minus his father, who was away on business), ways to reinforce his position as God of the new world. He was being very careful about his contacts with the underground cults, and careful to mask his offensives as research…

"And stop tapping your foot! If you want to read so badly, go buy your own newspaper!"

"What? I'm not!"

But it was hard to be careful, wasn't it, when he had absolutely nothing to worry about anymore. Light sighed, closed the window on his computer, and almost wished for a challenge.

"What is it?" he asked. He nodded politely at the newspaper.

Matsuda squirmed a bit, possibly because he had, in fact, been tapping his foot. "Ah, nothing! We were just discussing, um…"

Aizawa was obviously uncomfortable as well. Light didn't much care, but he suspected that the situation was wearing on the older detective. For months there'd been no progress on the investigation other than what Light himself had announced, which had to be hurting Aizawa's pride as a professional detective; he was resentful, irritated. Right now he was sitting on the couch in Light's three-room apartment, his feet braced against the coffee table--he was certainly making himself comfortable, wasn't he--reading the newspaper during "business" hours. Aizawa always seemed to be on the edge of an outburst these days. Light considered him through repectfully lowered lashes. Of all the investigators, Aizawa was the most likely to betray him.

"It's an article on the new justice system," Aizawa said, eventually. Light hid his smirk behind his coffee. War is won in a series of small victories.

"Yes?" he said.

"The politicians"--Aizawa said it as if it were a dirty word--"are trying to use Kira as an excuse to cancel the judicial overhaul. They say members of a jury will be subjected to unacceptable emotional distress, and that Japan will be better off under the current system of nothing but trial by judge."

"But you don't believe in juries either!" Matsuda said. "Really, I don't see why you'd consider it such a big deal…"

Light, startled, realized that he hadn't known that. He'd assumed…no, that wasn't right. He hadn't ever thought about it. He hadn't wondered what Aizawa might have thought about this or that new law. He didn't know anything about the man's family, or what he did when he wasn't haunting Light's apartment. He didn't know a thing about Matsuda or Mogi or Ukita, either. Perhaps he ought to…

Oh, wait. He'd been confusing them for L, for a moment. He knew their names and faces and they ways they'd react to whatever he told them; that was more than enough.

"I don't," Aizawa was saying. "We, the professionals, put criminals in jail, and I don't think a bunch of idiots should be able to take them out again." He slammed a hand against the table, for emphasis. Light winced at the way the movement disturbed Matsuda's forgotten cup of coffee. The last thing he needed was stains on the wood. "I just don't like that our country's leaders are allowing themselves to be manipulated by a terrorist!"

Matsuda had that look in his eye. "But juries are the wave of the future! All forward-thinking countries have them!"

"Justice is not a fad!" Aizawa roared. Light winced again, in sympathy for his table.

"That's, err…"

"What do you think, Light?" Mogi interrupted. He was very carefully turning his empty cup over in his hands.

Light smiled, beatifically. "I think we should have juries, of course. I believe in the ability of the Japanese people to accurately assess a person's guilt or innocence, and in the importance of following a procedure that can be universally acknowledged as fair and just."

And that was the end of the discussion.

***

Light was walking home in the rain, a bag of groceries under one arm. Ryuk hovered over his right shoulder, laughing dryly at some private joke.

"Hey, Light, what do you really think about that stuff today?"

Light stopped at a corner waiting for the light to change, well away from the road so that he wouldn't be splashed the next time a car passed by. "I didn't think you were interested in human things like the justice system," he said. The light changed; he stepped out carefully into the street. He disliked shopping, especially in weather like this, but Misa's schedule as a popular model sometimes made it necessary. The rain formed a curtain between him and everyone else, cutting off sound and vision; for once he felt as if he could speak to Ryuk normally. He kept his voice low only out of habit.

Ryuk laughed again. "I'm interested in you."

Light suppressed a visceral shiver; again, more from habit than any real need. He didn't have to consider his words.

"Of course I believe in the jury system. I'm here to punish criminals, not innocent people."

Ryuk kept laughing; Light didn't get the joke.

Additional Sources: Article about strategy in chess and fencing.

Eternal Sabbath, Nonsensical Suicide Fic

sub_divided — Wed, 06 Apr 2005 02:55:35 GMT

Somewhat obscure manga by the mangaka of MARS. You can download it here; highly recommended.

ETERNAL SABBATH (isn't mine, no profit intended)

Title: Not Yours
Rating: PG13 for suicide. Please don't read if this bothers you.
Genre: psychological horror
Summary: A friend of Kujo's dies; she and an OC discuss. Hints at interference from Izaku.
Notes: Originally for chain_of_fics.

Such power in a pen, such power in a gesture… with this act I take your final triumph away, make you less than nothing, and you will die embracing nothing because I am not yours, never was yours, and soon I will be with my ancestors.

Sakki taps the pen to her teeth, debating the merits of a confrontational suicide. She is not precisely angry, and to place the burden of her death on a fiancé she barely knew seems dishonest. But she has just used her last piece of stationery and there can be no reconsideration. She adds her signature, small neat letters looped off from the rest of the page with a theatrical flourish, and places the pen on the table. In its place she picks up the sword.

She can feel the prick of the blade through her blouse. Aimed at the heart, of course, for practical as well as symbolic reasons: she is enough of a doctor to ensure that the cut will be direct, and enough of an historian to know that not even the most honorable of samurai would have considered disembowelment without a second. She stands but does not move away. It is only proper that he find her slumped across her desk, between the neatly stacked envelopes and Venetian glass paperweights, and that her final letter to him be covered in blood.

There is a moment of doubt. She has always fought to live; suicide is uncharacteristic of her. The descision has the weight of inevitability to it and she doesn't know why. No doubt her death will be effective, though the line between drama and melodrama is very fine -- but is that really any reason to kill herself?

Then she sees the children by the window: Coral and Rose and Amber and William, all her children from the African missionary school, and one little boy in the back she does not recognize. Their eyes are accusatory and she knows, with a helpless sort of absolute certainty, that it isn't fair of her to live when they are dead. Her face twists under a sudden avalanche of emotion; the children at the window look on without sympathy; the one in back is smiling. Their little hands leave soot-trails on the glass, the characters for 'guilt'.

Survivor's guilt, she thinks, but it is already too late. She collapses into her chair, her vision fades, blood pools in her lap, and she thinks: they used the wrong characters. Those mean "responsibility for a crime," while my greatest crime was of omission...

***

He looks up from the body at an awkward clearing of the throat. There is an attractive young woman standing in the doorway.

"Dr. Ikeda?" she asks, as soon as she sees she has his attention. "I was told you had a body for me."

He adjusts the tarp to cover the corpse's chest -- he has heard that Dr. Kujo is not squeamish, but she is a woman after all -- and moves to uncover only the head.

"Yes, and if you wouldn't mind-"

"It's highly unusual," she continues, as if he hadn't spoken. "As a neural physiologist I deal mainly with living patients. I have also heard that your department had given up investigation of unusual suicides in wake of recent, hmmm, volume. Do you mind if I leave my coat by the door?"

"Yes. I mean no, of course not," he says, as soon as he has recovered from her forwardness. He pauses to gather his thoughts, one hand still extended over the corpse. Kujo regards him curiously.

"Ahem. Yes, it is true that we normally wouldn't have called you in. This is an exceptional case, however. Most of the incidents you refer to have involved the dregs of society, biker gangs and the like. The sort of people with reasons to kill themselves, people who won't be missed.

"But this woman was a highly respected member of the medical community. Until just before her death, she was actively involved in charity work and amateur theatrical productions. Suicide ought to have been unthinkable."

He expects at least a token protest at this callous assessment of human worth -- it's the apraisal of his superiors, one he personally disagrees with -- but she merely says, "May I see the subject's face?"

"Of course." He turns back the sheet and watches Kujo's face blanche. He does not blame her. Dr. Sakki Honda's expression is frightening, the face of one consigned to hell.

"Dr. Kujo? Is something the matter?"

She shakes her head, her composure regained so quickly that he can't be sure she lost it. "No. I mean yes: I know this woman, we attended medical school together. She was always a bit theatrical, it's probably why she was killed..."

"Because she was theatrical?"

"No, because we attended medical school together. It's just the sort of thing he would..." Dr. Kujo's eyes widen, and her hands come up to cover her mouth. "Ah, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that! I'm always talking before I think, it's my biggest flaw." She gives a short and nervous laugh. Dr. Ikeda can only stare. "Please, continue."

"We think," he says, carefully, "that she may have been in pain just before she died. Psychological pain, unrelated to the wound in her chest. There was a letter found at the scene of the crime, but the tone does not match what close friends knew of the victim. We are currently searching for alternatives--you've read the file?"

"Yes," she says. "It mentions that "the victim" lived alone ever since she returned from missionary work in Rwanda. There was no mention of the victim's name." The lady doctor looks at him accusingly; he shakes his head, indicating that he had nothing to do with the wording the report. If he could have spared Kujo the horror of recognizing a former friend on the operating table, he would have.

Kujo seems to accept this. In any case, she continues with admirable professionalism. "The expression on Sakki's face is clearly one of terrible guilt. I suspect that her death followed some sort of triggering event which recalled her time in Africa."

"She felt guilty? But nothing that happened could possibly have been her fault!"

"In the psychological field it is referred to as Survivor's guilt. Those left alive after a tragic, randomized accident -- the classic example is of a shipwreck -- often harbor deep-set feelings of guilt and inadequacy. They wonder, for instance, why they are alive when others are not."

"And that's all it is?" Ikeda asks, skeptically. "A simple case of misplaced guilt? With an expression like that?"

"Never underestimate the power of psychology," Kujo says, firmly, but her eyes are shadowed. "If that's all, Doctor, I think I'll take my leave." She does not wait for an answer, and she does not forget to pick up her coat on the way out.

Cold woman, Ikeda thinks. He watches her stride away down the hall, steps longer than what she would have been able to manage in a skirt. But halfway to the exit she turns, and Ikeda glimpses an expression nearly as tormented as that of the victim on the table. The lady doctor looks shipwrecked.

Survivor's guilt, was it?

Somewhere, a little boy laughs.

Avatar - Wind and Rain

sub_divided — Fri, 18 Mar 2005 17:25:07 GMT

You can think of this as the episode-that-never-was. Takes place after four (The Warriors of Kyoshi).

AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER (isn't mine, and no profit is intended)

Title: Wind and Rain
Rating: PG. Strong hints of Katara/Aang.
Genre: Action-adventure. Sokka, Katara and Aang make an emergency landing in the rain forrest.

Chaper One: The Storm
"I think we should land,” Katara said, only to blink in dismay as her words were snatched away by the wind.

"Aang! I think we should land," she said, louder. She pulled her hood more securely over her head and hunched forward, trying to brace herself against Appa's flat saddle-platform. She felt as if she might be swept away into the sky at any moment. It was just before sunset, but the sky was growing darker by the minute as the mother of all thunderstorms approached, slowly but surely, from the west.

As often as she'd watched Aang flying through the air on his glider and wondered how that must feel, she had no desire to experience it under these circumstances.

“Aang!” But he still couldn’t hear her. Katara couldn’t help watching the storm.

Those clouds must be a mile high, she thought, dazedly. Look how they're moving, rolling over and over each other. She caught a brief flash of light on the horizon and winced, remembering Gran's warnings about lightning and high places. It had been a strange one at the time – there weren’t many storms over the South Pole, and there weren’t many high places either – but she was glad of it now. Had Gran-Gran known something she hadn’t?

The thunder came a split second later. "AANG, LAND!" she screamed, but the crash of rapidly expanding air swallowed her words before they'd even left her mouth. Nothing else for it: she'd have to crawl forward to the front of the platform to shout in his ear. Katara eyed the distance. Eight feet had never looked so far before!

There was a touch at her shoulder. "I'll tell him," Sokka said, practically shouting into her ear. "You wait here and make sure our supplies aren't blown away." Katara nodded and grabbed at the packs, her other hand reaching for the slight ridge at the edge of Appa's saddle. There wasn't much purchase, but it was better than nothing.

Did Aang not notice the way the wind was blowing? Maybe he was used to it; maybe being an Airbender meant that he hardly noticed gale-force winds or, even if he did notice them, that they didn't bother him. Still, he ought to have had more consideration for his passengers. Katara had never seen a storm like this before, and she was scared to death.

Sokka set out with a determined air, only looking a little bit like he'd rather stay clutching at the edge with her. She noticed that he didn't use the ridge, but crawled in a straight line towards the front. My stupid brother, Katara thought, fondly. Trying to pretend that this doesn't scare him as much as it scares me. There was another distant flash of lightning as Sokka pulled himself over the front of the saddle. She couldn't see more than the very top of Aang's head over the swell of Appa's back, but she thought she saw it dip in acknowledgement.

"Hang on, I'm taking us down," Aang said, sounding much too cheerful given the circumstances. Aang didn't even sound like he was straining to be heard.

Of course, she thought. He's an Airbender. He can just will the air currents to carry his voice to me. Jealousy was unbecoming, but at times like this...

It's so unfair, she thought. Here I am scared half to death, and what does he have to be afraid of? It’s not like /he/ can fall screaming to his death. Or like he can be captured in a open space when he has his glider with him, or trapped helpless somewhere with no air to bend. Compared to a poor Waterbender like herself, Aang has it /easy/.

A split second later she dismissed the thought as unworthy of her. Aang had problems just like she did-as a matter of fact, he had more problems than her or anyone else. Between being the last member of his tribe and being the Avatar (savior of the world), the real miracle was that he was ever cheerful at all.

Appa started to descend; Katara steeled her courage and glanced over the edge. She knew they were flying over Earth Country somewhere near the equator, but beyond that she had no clue where they were. Aang had the map, and she'd never left her village before.

The ground below swelled in gentle dark hills. It was strangely uneven. Were those hemispherical bumps rock formations? The were rounder and more regular than the rocks she'd seen on Kyoshi island, which had in turn been more regular than the jagged icebergs she'd grown up with. Maybe in this part of the world the rocks were round like Aang's bald head. She smiled at the thought.

Then they hit the "ground," and Katara realized her mistake. It had been too dark to tell from the air, but what she'd taken for rocks were actually the tops of trees, a uniform canopy of trees in all directions, from horizon to horizon. Katara had a moment to marvel--so much life!--and then they were falling. She tried not to panic at the sensation, but when she felt he legs lift away from Appa's back, she couldn't help it: she screamed.

"AAHHHHH!" She thought she heard Sokka screaming along with her, but she couldn't be sure. “AHHHHHHHHHH!”

There was a sudden swirl of wind around her, and she felt her descent slow to something less life-threatening. An instant later she hit the ground, and bounced. The forest floor was covered in a thick layer of ferns and a thicker layer of dead plant matter. She took a deep breath, thankful beyond words: that layer of dead leaves had probably just saved her from serious injury, although Aang had been the one to save her from death.

"Katara, Katara! Are you all right?" Katara looked up from the moss to Aang's worried face. There was a strange shadow in his eyes.

"I'm fine," she soothed. She was proud to note that none of the distress she felt was present in her voice, which came out calm and even. She tried to stand, gingerly, but her legs were still a little unsteady and they wouldn't support her weight.

"Katara!"

"No, really, I'm fine," she assured him from her place on the ground. "I'm just a little shaken; it'll pass in just a moment." She craned her head around Aang to take stock of the situation. Appa was lying flat on his stomach a few yards away, his tongue lolling to one side. He was making a slight noise--a low mooing sound--but Katara thought he sounded more apologetic than pained. He didn't look hurt, but she was far from an expert on Magical Flying Bison and wasn't sure what an injured one would look like.

But where was Sokka? Was he alright? She twisted the other way, looking anxiously for her brother. He'd been at the front when they'd hit the treetops. What if he'd been pitched too far forward during the fall for Aang's Windbending to reach him?

"Sokka!" she called out, pulling herself to her feet. "Sokka! Where are you?!"

"Unngggg," came the reply, from the other side of Appa.

He sounds like he's in a lot of pain, Katara thought, biting her lip. "Sokka! Are you alright?"

The answer, when it came, was thoughtful: "I think I broke my ankle."

"This is all my fault!" Aang blurted. He suddenly looked very young, clinging to Katara's skirt as if she were his mother and he'd just been caught sneaking out of the tent at midnight with tomorrow's breakfast.

"Don't be silly," Katara said. She knelt, looking straight into his eyes. "None of us knew that those were trees, not even Appa. Right?" she asked the giant bison. She still wasn't sure how much of their speech Appa understood--whether he understood anything at all beyond the commands to take off and to land--but she thought he wiffed in acknowledgement. The ferns around him flattened for an instant, bent backwards by a snort of air forced out of a three-foot set of nostrils.

"See? It wasn't anyone's fault. If it wasn't for you, Sokka and I might have died!"

"But-"

"No buts," she said, firmly. "It wasn't your fault, and I won't hear any arguments. Sokka's ankle will heal."

"But Katara, you don't understand, I…"

"Actually," Sokka said, walking towards them without a limp, "it turns out there was a twig stuck in my boot, and after I shook it out I felt perfectly fine, so you don't need to…"

"ARG!" Katara said, shooting back to her feet. She stalked across the ground to stick her finger in his face.

"Idiot! Moron! Do you know how worried I was?! Honestly! How could you! Look!" She swung her finger around to point at Aang, who had the grace to look embarrassed. "Look how upset he is! Next time think before you say something like that!" The leaves around them shook with the force of her anger. They were covered with dew-this whole forest was disconcertingly damp. Katara could feel moisture in the air, more moisture than even the storm could account for. Judging from the greenness of ferns, it probably rained a lot here. It was strange to feel so much moisture; the air at the South Pole had always been very dry.

"Are you done?" Sokka asked, trying to look bored. The effect was ruined by the way his eyes kept sliding away to the violently quivering greenery.

"No! I am not done! You need to learn to think before you talk, you…"

"Your boyfriend looks like he's been abandoned," Sokka interrupted, pointing to Aang with his chin.

"He is not my boyfriend!" Katara said. She whirled to face her not-boyfriend, and her entire posture softened. The leaves stopped moving. "Aang, you're ok now, right? No one was hurt, everyone is fine."

"Yeah," Aang said, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

Chapter 2: The Plan

"The first thing we need to do," Katara said, decisively, "is find something to shelter under until the storm passes." She looked around, trying to judge the direction the storm would be coming from. It was no good-the fall had left her thoroughly disoriented. High above them was an Appa-shaped hole; other than that distinct mark, there was no way to differentiate any one direction from any other direction.

Or, if there was, Katara didn't know it. “But which way should we go? Everything looks the same!” Sokka said, echoing Katara’s train of thought.

"That way," Aang said, pointing towards a group of trees that looked exactly like every other group of trees.

"How do you know?" she asked. Sokka looked skeptical.

Aang looked smug--or maybe he was just happy to be useful. "Air. I can tell which way the wind is blowing. At this rate it'll be," he closed his eyes, "about three and a half hours before the storm gets here."

"Wow, that's amazing," Katara said, with feeling. Aang puffed out his chest; Sokka snorted.

"Three hours is plenty of time," her brother said, trying to take charge of the situation. Katara rolled her eyes but didn't interrupt. "We'll head away from the storm until we find somewhere less exposed. There ought to be a hill, or a large rock, or a tree with a hollow in it; something that we can shelter in until the storm passes."

"I agree," Katara said. "Aang?"

"Sounds good to me," Aang said. "Come on Momo, Appa- let's get going." The flying lemur chattered as if he agreed as well. Sokka picked up what was left of their supplies; some had fallen too far away, and they hadn't been able to recover them. Most of the rest had been caught more than a hundred feet above them, in the branches. Momo had gotten those.

The flying lemur had taken to the gigantic trees as if he'd lived in this forest all his life, alternately climbing, leaping, and gliding from trunk to trunk until he reached the canopy. The forest was surprisingly empty of other lemur-sized animals; Katara was willing to bet they'd all hidden themselves away in preparation for the storm.

They made slow progess--Appa had trouble walking on the ground, and oftentimes couldn't fit through the trees--so it was more than three hours later when they finally found what they were looking for: a large tree lying on its side, propped up by shiny black rocks. The rocks here were every bit as pointy as the icebergs back home, Katara noted.

"If we sit with that rock behind us and that rock on one side, and if Appa sits on the other side, then we'll be protected from three sides and from above," she said, happily.

"That's a relief," Sokka said. "It's almost time for the storm. What would we have done if we hadn't found this place?"

Aang scuffed a foot against the ground. "We'd have managed," Katara said, firmly. "At the very least we could have used Appa as a windbreak. Maybe we'd be a little wetter, a little less comfortable, but we'd have managaed. Honestly, Sokka, must you be so pessimistic?"

"It isn't pessimism," Sokka said, radiating affronted dignity. "It's realism. I take my responsibilities toward you and Aang very seriously."

"I see," Katara said. She wasn't sure whether she should be angry or laugh in his face--she could take care of herself!--but she laughed, anyway, because they were going to be alright and because the air was practically water, it was so wet, and it felt wonderful. Was this how Aang felt, flying though the air on his glider? What would it feel like to /swim/ through the water? It had been too cold to try back home. It would probably feel really good against her skin…

"What are you doing?" Sokka asked. "Why do you have that stupid look on your face?"

Katara came back to herself. What was she doing? She glanced around and saw that Aang was looking at her curiously, his head cocked to one side.

"N-nothing!' she said. "Come on, we need to set ourselves up before the storm gets here!" She marched straight for the tree, not waiting to see if she was being followed. Sokka and Aang joined her a second later, Sokka on one side and Aang on the other. It was a tight fit, but Katara didn't mind-if nothing else they'd keep each other warm. The temperature had already begun to drop. Aang whistled for Appa, and soon their shelter was secure. Katara stared out at the trees though the gap on one side--the side facing east, away from the storm--and thought about water that was warm enough to swim in, and about Aang, already fast asleep with his head against her shoulder.

Chapter 3: The Forest

Katara looked up from her mending to consider the small, furry, dead animal that had just landed inches from her leg. She shifted forward to get a better look--it was sort of like Momo (or would have been, had it still been alive) and also sort of like a miniature polar bear, with rounded, stubby ears and a nubby tail. "What is it?" she asked.

"Dinner!" Sokka said, cheerfully. "You should have seen me catch it, Katara-I knocked it right out of the trees from a hundred yards away." He flipped his boomerang into the air, catching it behind his back with his other hand.

"Good," Katara said. "I was getting tired of fruit and bread." She glanced apologetically at Aang--the former monk was a vegetarian--but Aang just shrugged.

"Momo and I found some fruit," he said. "We brought back enough for everyone-there's all sorts of food up in the trees." He looked expectantly at Katara. Ask me how I did it, his eyes said.

She decided to play along. "How did you get up in the trees?" she asked. "The lowest braches must be eighty feet from the ground."

"Momo taught me a trick," Aang said, proudly. "I use my Airbending powers to shoot myself up in the air toward a tree, then I jump off and use my Airbending powers again, trying for the next tree, and then I keep jumping until I reach the top. Wanna see?"

"Maybe later," Katara said, eying the dead Momo-bear. She couldn't wait to find out what it would taste like--real meat! Finally! Sokka, she was sure, felt the same.

"I'll get the wood for the fire," he said. He was drooling.

"I'll clear away the leaves," Katara said, "we wouldn't want to burn anything." This would be their first fire since they'd fallen through the trees two days ago; the temperature had picked up again after the storm, and they hadn't needed a fire to keep warm at night.

The storm had lasted a long time, almost a day; they'd silently agreed to spend the next day relaxing and exploring. This forest was fascinating--Katara didn't think she'd ever seen so many different kinds of butterflies or birds, all of them in crazy bright colors she hadn't even known existed outside of mineral dyes. This place was wondrously, miraculously alive, although they'd yet to see any animals larger than the dogs back home. Katara hoped it stayed that way-she'd heard stories of giant cats from Gran-Gran, and she didn't think she wanted to meet any.

Even Aang was impressed; it seemed that there was one place he hadn't visited during his days as world-traveler a hundred years ago. Katara almost wished they could spend more time here. Regrettably, they had more important things to do. A day or so wouldn't make a difference, but they couldn't afford to dawdle with the Fire Nation still waging war against the other countries.

Sokka returned with the wood just as Katara finished clearing away the underbrush. She'd made a circle in the dirt five feet across, just to be safe. "Let's get this party started!" Sokka said. He dumped the wood into the center of circle and stood leaning over it, rubbing his now-free hands together in anticipation. Katara rummaged through her bag for the flint.

After a minute, she carefully set the flint aside. The carefulness was so that she wouldn't be tempted to hurl it violently into the ground. What had she been worried about, again? Oh, right-setting fire to the forest. HA HA HA.

"The fire won't light," she said, calmly. "Sokka, are you sure the wood you brought back is good?"

"Of course it isn't," Sokka said, disgusted. "Have you seen how wet this place is? And there was a major storm the day before yesterday. Everything's soaked."

"Too bad there's no Firebenders here," Aang said, from where he and Momo were cheerily stuffing themselves with fruit. "Then we wouldn't have a prob…oh."

Katara forced herself to drop her horrified expression. She elbowed Sokka, indicating that he should do the same. "It isn't Aang's fault," she whispered to him, out of the corner of her mouth. "He's been frozen for the last hundred years; he hasn't seen the things the Firebenders have done…"

"I know that," Sokka said, whispering back.

Aang was looking between them as if wasn't sure whether or not to apologize. "One of my best friends was a Firebender," he offered. "They're good people."

Katara winced; she couldn't help it. Whenever she thought about the Firebenders, she thought about soldiers at the shore, the village in a panic; burning rocks falling from the sky, launched from catapults lashed to the decks of Fire Navy ships. She thought about the long and painful relocation across the glacier, and about her mother, dead of pneumonia on the way, and her father, gone with the rest of the men to help the Earth Country repel the invasion. She thought about growing up with no one to rely on but Sokka, Gran Gran, and herself.

She thought of Kyoshi, an entire village almost burned to the ground because the Fire Natin Army didn't care if their battles involved innocent people. "It's ok," she said, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "I know you didn't mean anything by it. And Firebenders are people too, after all. They must be. They are…they're people, too." At her side. Sokka was silent.

"Anyway!" she said, wanting more than anything to keep Aang from looking at her like that--as if he was more saddened by thoughts of the war than /she/ was. "The problem is that the wood is too wet. If we could just find some drier wood-"

"I'm telling you, there isn't any!"

"-then the flint would work fine."

"Hmmm," Aang said, staring at the wood with his chinned propped in his hand. "Couldn't you dry it out, Katara? You're a Bender, same as me--just take all of the water out, and the wood will be dry."

"That's…" Katara shook her head. She wasn't a Bender, not really. She'd done things, it was true, but very rarely on purpose; and when it was on purpose, she'd usually been in some kind of danger. Not being able to eat fresh meat would be regrettable, but it wouldn't kill them. She tried to ignore Sokka's pleading expression.

Figures the one time he thinks my Bending is useful is the one time it has something to do with his stomach. Where's all the "freak" and "you're weird" talk now, hmm?

Aang took her hand in his, looking into her eyes. "I think you can do it, Katara."

Katara shook her head again, but this time the motion was less violent. "I'll try," she said, "but I won't make any promises." She took her hand back and held it out over the fire, willing the moisture to leave the soggy wood. Like a cloud of dust, she thought, only this will be a cloud of cloud, millions of tiny droplets condensing outward, like a fine mist…

Nothing. "Keep trying!" Aang said. Katara grit her teeth, and pushed.

There was a sudden spray of water against her face. "Yes! Meat!" Sokka said, and scrambled for the flint. He started to strike it over the fire, looking more cheerful than he had in weeks.

Katara collapsed backward from her kneeling position. "Did I do that?" she asked staring at her hands.

"Yep! You were great!"

"Thanks, Aang."

There hardest part now would be to wait for the Momo-bear thing to cook all the way through.

Chapter 4: The Plan (Again)

Sokka burped loudly, leaning back against a tree trunk. Katara was more discrete in her appreciation of the food. Momo-bears were, it turned out, delicious.

"We should get going again tomorrow," she said. "Waterbending is even more useful than I thought. I can't wait until we reach the North Pole and I can find a real teacher!"

"About that," Aang said, one hand behind his head. "Appa can't take off from here--there are too many trees in the way."

"What?! Aang, why didn't you mention this earlier!"

"It didn't come up," Aang said, his eyes on the ground. "Besides, you were having so much fun, I didn't want to ruin it with bad news."

"You mean /you/ were having so much fun," Sokka observed, his arms folded across his chest. Aang looked even more sheepish at that; he bowed his whole head toward the ground, looking up at Katara with his best "please forgive me" expression.

"Leave him alone," she told Sokka, absently. "There wasn't anything he could do about it."

Sokka snorted, then brightened. "Aha!" he said.

"…what?"

He raised a fist, triumphantly. "It's simple-all we have to do is go back to where we first fell through the trees! There'll be a hole there big enough for Appa to fit through."

"You're right!" Katara said.

"Of course I am."

"So all we have to do," Katara said, ignoring him, "is to head straight West until we get back to where we came from." She looked around, searching for signs of the path they'd made when they'd first come through. With Appa struggling through the brush with them, it had been an impressive path, but unfortunately, the storm had also been impressive and all signs of it had been erased. She frowned. "Aang, which way is West?"

"Uh," Aang said. "West. West is…"

"Yes?"

"West is…I have no idea."

"That's easy enough to fix," Sokka said. "West is sunset."

They looked up. Perhaps the sun was setting, and perhaps it wasn't; the trees were so closely packed together that it was impossible to tell.

"I'll go check! Katara, watch this!" Aang sprung to his feet and raced to the nearest tree.

It took Aang five jumps to reach the branches. He waved to them from the top; Katara waved back. Then he disappeared into the higher braches. He dropped back to the ground after a few minutes.

"West is…" he paused dramatically.

"Yes?" Katara and Sokka said, in unison.

"I forgot," Aang said.

Katara and Sokka sagged forward. "What do you mean, 'you forgot?'" Sokka asked.

"I mean that with all the jumping I got turned around. Hold on, I'll go check again." And before they could say anything, he took off for the trees again.

"This time make sure you point out the direction to us before you come back down," Sokka yelled after him, hands to his mouth. Aang waved an acknowledgement, and jumped.

This time it only took him four jumps to reach the top.

Chapter 5: The Forest (Still)

"I think we took a wrong turn somewhere," Sokka said, tugging his knife free of the tree he'd embedded it in. He wiped his brow with one hand, exhausted. Katara knew how he felt: walking for hours on end was bad enough, but it was also hot. And oppressively humid, although she didn't think the humidity bothered her as much as it bothered Sokka and Aang. After the first few hours, Aang hadn't bothered to keep up the steady breeze he'd cheerily told them would keep them cool, and the dank air weighed heavily on all of them. Katara and Sokka had long since shed their heavy overcoats, which in this weather were just one more annoying heavy bundle to lug around, together with the food and empty bottles for water.

By consensus, they'd decided to start marking the trees after the first eight hours of walking had failed to produce an Appa-sized hole in the trees. That had been four days ago.

"I makes sense," Katara reasoned. "We didn't walk straight East when we came here, and I doubt we walked straight West coming back. In this forest everything looks the same. We could pass within two hundred feet of the hole, and never notice it." She swatted absently as an insect; the longer they walked through the forest, the more insects came to pester them. It was as if the bugs could smell their sweat and desperation.

"Are you sure there's no way Appa can fly up through the trees?" Sokka asked, cranky.

"Yes," Aang said. He looked as miserable as Katara felt.

"What we need," Katara said, swatting at another insect in annoyance, "is a plan."

"Well, obviously," Sokka said, caustically. Even Aang looked like he was inclined to agree, which was strange-Aang was always cheerful.

Katara ignored them. "How about this: we leave Appa and the coats here-"

"We can't do that!" Aang interrupted. "Appa isn't used to this forest. He can't stay alone, he'll starve."

"So we leave Momo here with him to gather food, and we leave a pile of fruit before we go!" Katara snapped back. "Will you let me finish?!"

Aang pouted. "Only if your plan isn't stupid," he said, sticking out his bottom lip. He was being unusually childish, even for him.

Katara bit back a retort until she was sure she could speak calmly. It's just the heat that's making you like this, she told herself. Just the heat, and the walking, and the insects, and the frustration of always going in circles…

She had another consideration, as well. Two nights ago she'd thought she'd heard roaring, and last night she definitely had, and louder. She hadn't told Aang or Sokka yet, but she did not want to be here when whatever made that sound caught up with them.

Katara took a deep breath. "We'll leave Appa here," she explained, "Because we'll make better time without him. We know that we're in about the right area, but we've been wandering around more-or-less randomly within that area. How many times have we crossed back over an old path?"

"Too many times," Sokka said.

Katara nodded. "Exactly. So instead of walking in a random direction for a while, and then walking in another, we should walk in a spiral. We'll mark the trees as we go; arrows this time, pointing in the direction we're going, done on the side of the trees facing the inside of the spiral."

"I see," Sokka said, straightening from the half-dead sprawl he'd affected against the tree bark. He punched a fist into his other hand. "If we go in a spiral, we'll have to find the hole eventually. And when he do, we'll know which way to walk to come get Abba, because we'll have made those markings facing the center."

"Exactly," Katara said, nodding.

"No," Aang said. "I won't leave Appa alone here."

"He'll be perfectly alright," Sokka wheedled. "there's nothing in this forest that can hurt him."

"That's not true, there's-" Aang cut himself off, biting his lip.

"So then you heard them, too?" Katara said, softly. "I think they stumbled across one of our old trails, and they're tracking us. That's why I thought we should leave Appa-we need to make better time than this."

"What are you two talking about?"

Aang looked as if he'd just been punched in the gut. "You knew? And you still suggested that we leave Appa behind? You do know how much he means to me, don't you? Appa's all that left of-"

"I know," Katara said. "I know, and I understand, but we need to do something. Every day matters, don't you see? We can't afford to waste time, especially not now."

"Hello?" Sokka said, waving his hands between Katara and Aang to get their attention. "I don't know what you're talking about! Explanation, please!"

Katara noticed that she'd unconsciously adopted a confrontational stance, with her arms lose at her sides and her feet slightly spread. Standing across from her, she saw that Aang had done the same.

"Sorry," she said, to both of them. She forced herself to relax, turning to explain the roaring sounds to Sokka. “I think they might be cats,” she finished. Really /big/ cats.” Aang nodded as if she’d just proved his point.

"Oh, is that all?" Sokka said. "If they're tracking us by smell, then all we need is a good hard rain to was the scent away. Actually," and here he looked thoughtful, "I've been wondering: why hasn't it rained yet? It's so wet here, shouldn't it be raining everyday?"

"Oh, that," Aang said. "I've been blowing the clouds away. I figured we'd had enough rain after that storm."

Katara froze. Very slowly, she turned back towards Aang, her hands fisting at her sides. "You can do that?" she asked, carefully.

"Yeah," Aang said, "if I do it early enough, before the clouds really have a chance to settle. Or even after they've formed, if I just need to turn them a little bit to the side."

"So then," Katara said, thinking of Aang's "but I.." when they'd first been forced into the forest. She saw Aang pale as comprehension dawned. "So then, you could have turned aside that storm?"

"Not turned back, no, it was too big. Did I ever tell you how I was frozen? There was a huge storm, and Appa and I didn't notice it until it had already caught up with us, and-"

"Answer the question," Katara said, through gritted teeth. "I didn't ask if you could turn it back, I asked if you could have turned it aside. Just a little bit aside, and we'd have flown around. We saw it coming from many miles away, remember?"

"Yes," Aang said, miserably. "We did. And," he took a deep breath, "I could. But you have to understand, Katara," the words came out all in a rush, "I just wanted to take a little break. I didn't think we'd be stuck here for a week!"

Katara thought of everything they'd gone through in the last week. She'd been afraid of being swept off of Appa and hurled into the abyss. She been afraid of the lighting. She'd almost fallen to her death through the trees. She'd thought that Sokka's broken his ankle. She'd been afraid of being caught out in the storm and she'd been stuck, for days, in strange, dangerous, wild terrain. It was a miracle they hadn't poisoned themselves, or been bitten by something poisonous: she'd seen it happen to one of the Momo-bears, and it was not a pleasant way to die.

More recently, she'd been forced to slough for days in hot, disgusting, bug-infested weather. And-what had she been doing this whole time? Being nice to Aang. When it was ALL HIS FAULT, because he'd wanted a BREAK. Because he'd been RUNNING AWAY from his responsibilities as the Avatar.

"I FELT SORRY FOR YOU, YOU JERK!" she yelled, and every leaf on every plant in a thirty-foot radius was bent backwards.

Chapter 6: The Storm (One More Time)

"Katara, calm down!" Sokka shouted, over the rustling of the leaves. Somewhere, the wind started to pick up.

"I will not calm down!" Katara shouted, flailing. "Do you know how many times I told myself not to think uncharitable thoughts? And YOU, you deserved every one of them!" She pointed to Aang, who winced. He was beginning to look upset.

"I never asked to be this way!" he said, defensive. "I never asked to be the Avatar, and I never asked the Fire Nation to invade…"

"TRY AGAIN," Katara said. All around her the dew was lifting from the leaves; it hung, quivering, in the air, and then started to circle around them.

"Katara!" Sokka said, pulling at the tattered remains of a sleeve. Katara shrugged him off.

"And I never asked to be frozen in that iceberg, and to lose a hundred years of my life, and to have to come back and find out that my entire tribe had been destroyed by something I was supposed to have fixed a hundred years ago! And if I tried to have a little fun in the face of all that, was that so wrong?!" Aang was visbly upset, now; the wind had once again picked up, and it was driving the water from the trees into miniature storm clouds. Sokka looked up in dismay: it was hard to be sure, but he thought the sky above the trees was a little darker than it had been just a few minutes ago. Exactly how far did this phenomenon extend?

"YES!" Katara bellowed. "You know how important it is that we reach the North Pole; you know that the Fire Nation is killing people every day-"

"Not the nation," Aang interrupted, "the Army. There's a difference."

"-and you KNOW it's your job to stop them! Would it kill you to be a little bit more serious about it?!"

This time it wasn't Sokka's imagination: thunder sounded in the distance.

"TIME OUT!" He shouted, bringing his hands down in a sweeping gesture. The movement shocked the other two out of their shouting contest; they glanced at him, startled.

Sokka pointed up. "In a short while," he said, "it is going to start raining. And then it going to keep raining, unless I am very much mistaken. You two just called up a hell of a storm."

"Two?" Katara repeated, stupidly. She looked over at Aang. "Did you blow this storm in?"

Aang shook his head. "I made the wind only. You brought the rain."

"Me." Katara said. The temperature had dropped-not as far as had before the previous storm, but far enough that Katara thought that this one would probably have some power to it. "I did that. With you." She looked at Aang, in wonder. In the distance, lightning flashed.

"We won't have to worry about those cats," Sokka said. "They won't be able to follow anything by the time this storm is over."

Katara was still staring at Aang. "Wow," she said.

"Wow," he agreed.

"Yes, yes, you two are very impressive," Sokka said. "Now let's find a tree to lean against, hey? Appa, come here, we'll need you as a windbreaker. Who knows how long this storm will last. No, Aang, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Well? Are you two going to stand there staring at each other all day? Let's get moving!"

"Yes," Katara and Aang said, in unison.

Epilogue

"You were right, Sokka: it really was 'a hell of a storm.'"

"Don't sound so surprised," Sokka grumbled, rolling to his feet and stretching. He waved a hand in front of his nose, his face wrinkling into something prunish. "Don't take this the wrong way, Aang, but after three hours Appa really starts to smell."

"He does not!" Aang said, and turned to reassure Appa that he smelled the same as always; that is, that he didn't smell, same as always. Sokka countered by rubbing his face against his arms in an exaggerated show of disgust; Appa looked as if he didn't much care one way or the other.

Katara smiled at them, faintly, and then took stock. This storm (their storm) hadn't lasted as long as the first--a few hours, tops. But it had been every bit as intense; the forest floor was strewn with wreckage and the occasional small animal that hadn't been able to take shelter in time. Not many small animals, she thought, guiltily. They'd cook them and bring the meat along. Two trees had been partially uprooted, and lay diagonally side by side against their neighbors.

The patch of sky above them was, she thought, a perfectly Appa-sized hole.

End

Death Note - Starlight

sub_divided — Fri, 11 Mar 2005 06:28:03 GMT

1) Light is sort of scary even in his innocent! state--an unbending idealist, which is only one step away from "fanatic".
2) L must really hate parties.

DEATH NOTE (doesn't belong to me)

Title: Starlight
Pairing: LIGHT/L. (L/Light? I can't tell.)
Genre: AU featuring innocent!Light. The PG equivilent of a PWP.
Summary: "It was with your help that we were finally able to put an end to Kira's terrorist hold over the minds of the people!" (they've arrested the wrong Kira; Light and L talk politics)

Starlight
"You may want to get something to eat while I list all of our friends who worked with us diligently--whose support was invaluable, I should say--and who couldn't be here tonight, because it might take awhile…"

The official, a Junior Senator who'd chaired the Kira Investigation Bureau (not the same as the Kira Special Investigation Headquarters), took a minute to beam and let the applause die down.

"Takehito Iwao. Chisa Iizuka. Jim Fawkes. Akira Nogawa…"

Half of them hadn't been involved in the case at all. It was disgusting but that was politics; if the profession had been an honest one, he might have been studying to be a politician instead of a detective. Politicians compromised, something he would never do.

"Asuka Hara. Kazuhiko Kamiya. Sora Maeda. Jeff Green…"

Light listened with outward pride and a secret sense of hollowness, which he mistook for relief. He sipped at the sparkling cider the caterers had provided at L's insistence. Next week he'd be twenty and legal; tonight he'd had to remind any number of well-meaning officers that drinking sake, even in celebration, would be breaking the law. They were invariably taken aback: some to learn that he was so young, others that he was so upright. Light made note of those officers. If they viewed the law as something to be upheld only when convenient…well, they probably shouldn't hold positions of any importance. Someday he'd be Chief of Police, and he wouldn't tolerate corruption in his ranks.

"Senator Koyama, would you like to contribute a few remarks?"

Light could remember the last time he'd been to a formal police event. It'd been an end-of-year fling, something for officers of all ranks and divisions. Most of them had spent the evening drinking cheap alcohol and griping about interdepartmental politics, two things that Light found terminally boring. He'd gone at Sayu's insistence. I really want to go to Daddy's party, she'd said, but if I go alone there'll be no one to talk to. Light, please! So, he'd gone. It had been as good an opportunity as any to learn the inner workings of the Tokyo Police Force.

"Thank you, Senator. The road to success has been long and arduous, but there is no problem that, when tackled with fortitude by conscientious men of ability…"

The party had been held in a rented convention room on the second floor of a moderately priced hotel, with ugly carpeting and fake plastic chandeliers. The room had been divided from the next one by heavy fabric hung from the ceiling. This year's event was still in a convention center, but it was a much nicer one, with real walls of expensive paneled wood. Only the highest-ranking officers and their wives were in attendence. And politicians, of course--every politician in Tokyo who could conceivably have contributed to Kira's arrest, if only in the most indirect of ways, was present.

"And finally, to all the police officers who risked their lives, thank you!"

The floors were of similarly expensive wood, and highly polished. The chandeliers were real Venetian crystal. The speaker occupied a place on a fancy, intricately carved wooden dais. Food was laid out by color. Sitting at the end of the refreshments table, and looking absolutely miserable, was L.

"It was with your help that we were finally able to put an end to Kira's terrorist hold over the minds of the people!"

Light moved to stand beside him. "Hey," he said, startling L out of his contemplation of a three-foot high stack of cheese cubes. "Do you want to get some air?" He put a hand on L's shoulder. He could feel his anxiety like a physical force, muscles so taught they were vibrating.

"Yes," L said, without looking up. "I would like that very much, Light-kun"

********************************

"Does it bother you?" Light asked. He stood leaning backwards on his elbows against the railing of an arched ornamental bridge. A European-style hotel with a formal Japanese-style garden: what incredibly bad taste. It was true that there were some things money couldn't buy. L stood next to him, peering over the edge of the bridge at the shadows of koi in the water.

"Does what bother me, Light-kun?"

"That there isn't a single person in that room willing to acknowledge the favor you did them by catching Kira. That the politicians all want to pretend that they were the ones…"

Light stopped, too angry to continue. He sulked up at stars he couldn't see through the light of the Tokyo skyline. Skyscrapers hemmed in the garden on two sides; the other two were screened by elegant tall trees but beyond them, Light knew, were more tall buildings, more people living pointlessly. L regarded him with open curiosity.

"It wasn't a favor. I was paid very well. I've always worked anonymously; I don't care about such things."

"Yes, but it isn't right. Some of those men called off the investigation!"

"Hmm." L studied Light sidelong. "It is all a question of perspective. I'm surprised that it bothers you, Light-kun. I would not have expected it to."

Light drummed his fingers against the air. "No? I'm used to being acknowledged; of course it bothers me. The only reason you could possibly have to think otherwise…"

He took a half-hearted swing at L, who ducked reflexively.

"…would be if you still think I was Kira. Kira didn't care if no one knew who he really was."

"An excellent observation. You're right, of course."

This time Light put more force behind his swing, but L had been forewarned and was able to block with both arms. He snaked a foot out, catching Light off-balance. Light tumbled backwards away from the railing, but as he fell he grabbed at the loose material of L's white cotton shirt--the detective really did wear the same clothing for every occasion, he'd looked so out of place next to the black-suited men and elegantly coiffed women inside--and they fell together, landing in a tangle on the hard wooden planks.

Lying on his back, looking up at the sky just beyond L's right ear, Light thought that maybe he could see a star after all. That yellowish light to the left of L's shoulder. Although the light was a little too steady; perhaps it wasn't a star but a planet. Venus?

"Light-kun."

"Yes?"

"Are you going to let go of my shirt?"

"Hmm." Light forced his gaze away from the sky, but couldn't bring himself to look at L. He looked down at his hands instead, and noticed that in addition to L's shirt, he was also gripping a forearm. L was half-covering him, balancing on an elbow to the right of Light's ear and a knee to the left of Light's legs. His other knee was…

"Only if you let go off my leg first."

"An impasse," L said. When Light finally brought his eyes up to L's face he saw that L had been watching his all along. From this close his eyes dominated his face, and Light thought that he could detect faint discolorations in the imsoniac bags underneath them. His eyes were shining in the darkness, something unfathomable reflected in irises so black they matched the pupils.

"I'm not Kira," he said.

"I don't think you are," L replied.

"I wasn't Kira, either."

"You can't prove that," L said. "You have to admit that is evidence against you is stri-"

Light moved up five centimeters to cut him off. He was immensely gratified when, a few seconds later, L settled against him, the hand with the elbow moving to cradle Light's head.

When they broke apart an intermittent time later, L said, "Seventy-five percent."

******END*******