This year's offering for December is nowhere near as impressive or as well organized as last year's. But it's mine, and I finished a fair chunk of it, and now it's mostly edited and coded and done, which is all that matters, really.
And now, the writing.
1. Cancer
Naruto. 600 words. Younger Sannin. "Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell."
-Edward Abbey
2. Scars, part 1
Naruto. 403 words. Being shinobi is all about picking your fights. Ino-centric.
3. Janus
Naruto. 404 words. "Hope has two daughters: anger and courage. Both are lovely." Hyuuga-centric.
4. Turning
Seventh Hour. 300 words. The end of one line is just the beginning of another. Marcus at the end of the world, lifetimes later.
5. Scars, part 2
Naruto. 204 words. Cherry blossoms bloom only briefly. Ino-centric, with a dash of Sasuke/Sakura.
6. Crystalize
Final Fantasy VII. 360 words. Very unfinished. Magic is nothing of the sort; his only wonder is science. Hojo-centric.
7. Kankurou
Naruto. 987 words. Kankurou/Hinata, Kankurou/Neji. Kankurou, 20 Truths style.
8. Contingency Plans
Bleach. 448 words. You have to plan for these things when you're third seat of the Eleventh Division, you know.
9. From the Dead
Final Fantasy VI. 368 words. It's a new world, but Shadow wakes to old ghosts.
10. Scars, part 3
Naruto. 239 words. Not all scars are visible; Ino fails to play matchmaker.
11. Scars, part 4
Naruto. 234 words. Genma/Ino/Raidou. Our scars make us beautiful.
12. Terminal Idiocy
House. 302 words. Kittens don't belong in hospitals, but just this once...
13. Southside of the Sky
Final Fantasy IV. 333 words. Kain, Edge, a mountain, and all the time in the world.
14. Shield Brothers
Seventh Hour. 426 words. Marcus never deserved their love or their loyalty.
15. Anzani
Stella Matin. 529 words. Nothing more, nothing less. Think about it, brat.
16. Naming
Stella Matin. 891 words. Silverlock finds an ending; Theron, perhaps, finds some closure.
17. Recycled Airl
Firefly. 310 words. In space, no one can hear you dream. River-centric.
18. Scars, part 5
Naruto. 469 words. Ino's got ambition; Ibiki's got patience.
19. Ghosts
Final Fantasy VI. 376 words. Everyone is haunted by something.
20. Predictable
Birds of a Feather. 430 words. I think I've written this one before...
21. Conundrum
Bleach. 156 words. Zaraki/Unohana. He was the strongest man in Seireitei. This was quite a conundrum.
22. Constancy of Stone
Final Fantasy VI. 1276 words. What face stares back at you when you look into the abyss?
23. Convergence
Original, untitled. 2606 words. There was a man on the side of the road, and two women in a car. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Twenty-Three: Convergence
There was a young man walking along the highway in the dark; he kept his hands in the pockets of his faded, dusty windbreaker, and his breath fogged the lenses of his glasses with every step. Whenever a set of headlights threw shadows across his path, he shifted the canvas bag on his shoulder and stuck out his thumb. Cars were few and far between on this stretch of road, at this hour- and those that did drive by never stopped.
His face was that of a twenty-something college dropout but his hair was both in desperate need of a trimming and completely white. His clothes were nondescript and dusty.
A pair of eighteen-wheelers thundered by, ignoring him; he shivered in the wake of their passing and pulled the collar of his jacket a little tighter around his ears. The sun had set a few hours ago, and the night wasn't getting any warmer.
He walked on for another fifteen minutes before the rumble of another vehicle approached from behind him; he held out his thumb again, but it was clear from the cant of his shoulders that he didn't expect it to stop.
It slowed as it drove by, then pulled over further down the road. The engine cut out and the front passenger side door opened with a faint chime.
The young man stopped short as a bare foot encased in pantyhose kicked the door open all the way; the one foot was followed by another, followed by a set of panty hose encased legs. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as the woman belonging to the set of legs stepped out of the car. She was tall and slender and wore a business-like suit jacket and skirt, and had legs up to her neck.
She leaned against the hood of the car, backlit by the headlights, and lit a cigarette. She watched him as he approached the car slowly; the end of her cigarette glowed cherry-red when she took a drag. At first glance, she appeared quite young, but a closer look revealed fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and a scattering of gray strands in her shoulder length dark hair.
He stopped a short distance away. "That's a nice car. Sixty-eight Cadillac Deville- you almost never see them in this condition on the road these days. Is that the original paint?" He had a quiet, low voice.
She shrugged. "Probably. Ask the driver; I know nothing about cars. Where are you headed?"
"Wherever you'll take me."
She blew a stream of smoke out her nostrils and dropped the cigarette. It landed on the asphalt and rolled under the car. "You have a name?"
"Most people call me Dove." He rubbed the back of his neck, as though embarrassed. "It's because of the hair."
"That's a silly name. I'm Sabatini." She held out her hand; her nails were painted black, and the polish was chipping. "My sister does the driving; her name is Cabiria."
Dove shook her hand. "Those aren't exactly normal names, either."
The smile she gave him was nearly a smirk. "We're not exactly normal people. Get in the car."
The door pinged when he opened it; the interior of the car was upholstered in shiny dark blue leather. Dove set his bag on the floor. The woman in the driver's seat turned to look him over as he buckled his seatbelt; she looked like a softer version of her sister, with shorter hair and a rounder curve to her cheekbones. The lines around her eyes were a little deeper, though.
She turned back to the wheel before he could introduce himself properly; Sabatini closed her door and her sister started the car.
Dove leaned back in his seat and counted stars through the window.
***
She was eating a lollipop and hanging upside down over the arm of the couch. It was blue raspberry flavored, and her lips and tongue were stained. "You know," she said around the candy, "I think we should get a dog."
"What kind?" He was sitting at the table by the window, doodling in a battered, spiral bound journal.
"Something big and shaggy. A komondor, maybe."
"A what?" He didn't look up from his notebook; he was drawing little spiral shapes in the margin.
"They're guard dogs, mostly, but they're smart and gentle. Very protective of their families and flocks. And they look like mops on legs."
He gave the squiggly shapes tiny feet and hands. "The landlord would get pissed at us."
She sighed and stretched her arms above her head, touching the floor. "I suppose." Her eyes drifted to the door and stayed there. "But we will get a dog someday, won't we?"
"Sure." He drew eyes on the squiggle people; they slanted upwards, sad and pleading.
***
Cabiria asked a question; Dove shook himself and looked away from the window. She repeated herself. "You're not local. Wrong accent."
"Yeah. I mean, no, I'm not from around here. I travel a lot."
"You've been hitching long?" Her voice was softer than her sister's.
"Not long. Only since my car was stolen." He smiled when he said that, self-deprecating.
Cabiria laughed. "It's good to travel, even under poor circumstances." Outside, a sign for the next exit sped by. Westfield, thirty-three miles.
"Sure, if you're traveling with style. I had a Toyota, not a Cadillac."
"Style is a thing so few people have." There was a distinct note of pride in Cabiria's voice; in the passenger's seat, Sabatini made a low, laughing noise. "And a thing even fewer people appreciate."
They talked about cars and traveling while Sabatini occasionally made derisive comments. It was the easy sort of conversation that comes to complete strangers who discover they share some kind of uncommon common ground. Cabiria dreamed of owning a vintage Corvette someday; Dove wanted to drive cross-country in a Vespa.
Eventually they pulled up to the curb in front of a decrepit line of row houses during one of the lulls in conversation. Some of the windows were boarded up and the paint was curling away from the siding in jagged chunks and strips. This was the stuff urban decay was made of: the houses sat in the stale glow of the streetlights and threw ragged shadows over the sidewalk and the scraps of lawn in front of them.
"You don't have a place to stay, do you?" Cabiria asked.
"No."
"Do you want one?"
There was a long pause, during which Sabatini smirked and her sister examined the display on the dashboard with unnecessary interest. Dove stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching them into fists. "Yeah," he said at last.
Cabiria smiled and cut the engine. "Good."
***
The interior of the house was as dated as the car; everything was upholstered in shades of avocado green and burnt sienna. The living room and kitchen were comfortably cluttered with bookshelves and oddly shaped but curiously comfortable chairs. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and cigarettes.
Cabiria made him a bed on the couch and gave him a spare set of clothes to sleep in; the pants hung off his hips, and the shirt smelled strongly of cedar and faintly of mothballs.
"Thank you for all of this," he said to her over too-strong coffee in the kitchen. He put enough milk and sugar in his to turn it a pleasant off-white color. The remains of a sandwich sat on a plate at his elbow. "I can't repay you and you have no reason to trust me, but you're being incredibly generous."
"Should we have reason to distrust you?" she asked. "Are you, perhaps, a serial killer? A thief?"
"No!" He nearly choked on his coffee.
She smiled. "I doubt you kick puppies for a living; that doesn't pay well enough for the effort involved. It is a simple truth that most people are harmless. And if they are not- well. We can take care of ourselves."
The way she said that made it seem like it was as much a reassurance as it was a warning.
When she finished her coffee, Cabiria said goodnight and disappeared into another part of the house. Dove left his half-empty cup in the sink and went back to the living room.
There were pictures on top of the TV: Cabiria and Sabatini, Cabiria and her car, Sabatini and Cabiria's car, a sullen teenager and Cabiria's car. There were other pictures of the girl in various stages of growth, from what looked to be a third grade ballet recital to a high school graduation. She looked like the sisters, though it was difficult to tell which one she resembled more.
Dove left the pictures alone and took a spiral bound notebook out of his bag. He made himself comfortable on the couch and began to write. He started page after page with "I miss you" and "It's been five months" and "I'm sorry," but he eventually stopped trying, and drew multitudes of little spirals in the margins instead.
***
He told her he was just going to walk down the street to get coffee and a paper. He wasn't gone more than half an hour, but the apartment was empty when he returned. The apartment was empty. She'd taken all of her possessions and most of his; they hadn't had much to begin with.
He didn't go to the police; he picked up the phone to call half a dozen times, but never went through with it. He tried calling her, but he could only get a mechanical, "I'm sorry, your call did not go through" message. He tried writing letters, dozens of them, scribbled hastily in his notebook and then thrown away. He didn't know where to send them, anyway.
After five days and no sign of her, he decided to do something about it. He gave his two weeks notice at the office, pawned off the rest of his possessions, and hit the road as soon as possible.
He still hadn't found her; it was possible he just wasn't looking in the right places.
***
Dove woke up in the middle of the night to shouting from outside.
Sabatini stalked by, wearing a bathrobe and bare feet, carrying something long and dark in one hand. She slammed the door behind her hard enough to rattle the windows. There was no sign of Cabiria, just shouting from outside, joined by Sabatini's voice. The words were indistinct, but the anger was clear in the pitch and volume.
Then, abruptly, the noise stopped. Dove pulled on his jacket and ventured outside. Sabatini was standing on the strip of lawn with a crowbar in one hand. She set the crowbar in the grass and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket.
"This happens all the time," she said as she lit a cigarette. "Idiots get drunk and try to fuck with us. Some people just enjoy concussions, I suppose." She threw him a sidelong glance and picked up the crowbar. "You should go inside. It's cold out here."
He stared at her from the open doorway; she was standing in the wet grass in bare feet. "I'm fine," he said. A moment later, he spoke again. "You know, I asked your sister why you were being so generous. She never actually answered me."
"Does it matter?"
"If you're going to kill me in my sleep with a crowbar? Yes." He frowned and crossed his arms.
She shrugged. "I'm not." She walked up the steps and leaned against the porch railing, still smoking nonchalantly.
His frown deepened. "I'm glad we've got that cleared up," he muttered, more to himself than anything else. "That girl in those pictures. Who is she?"
Sabatini raised her eyebrows and ground the butt of her cigarette against the railing. "Cabiria's daughter. We haven't seen or heard from her in four years. She just left- she's your age, or a little younger." She lit another cigarette.
He leaned against the doorway and stared at his feet. "I've got someone like that," he said quietly.
"I figured. Are you going to stand out here all night? We gave you a place to sleep so you wouldn't be stuck in the cold."
"I can't stop looking for her."
She rolled her eyes. "You will. Eventually. What won't stop is the urge to do stupid things to apologize to a person who isn't there anymore. Now go back to sleep. I have a crowbar, don't argue with me."
She had a persuasive argument; Dove smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, then closed the door. A few minutes later, Sabatini came back in and locked the door behind her, but he was already asleep.
***
In the morning, he found more bitter coffee in the kitchen, a note, and a short stack of twenty-dollar bills. The note gave directions to the nearest bus station and told him to lock the door when he left. He left a note of his own- a hastily scribbled "Thanks," signed with his real name- and packed up his things.
The Cadillac wasn't in front of the house when he left; he made sure the door was locked, shouldered his bag, and left.
---------
Final project for creative writing, written mostly in one night. >_< The real story of Dove and the Valentines, and Maeve. Not much to say about it, really. Sabatini is badass in the extreme, but Cabiria is actually even more badass in her own way.
Thankfully, Dove gets over his angst eventually.
This is the last piece I have for December, 2005. I'm eight pieces short, but twenty three is still respectable.
Aaaaand...that's all she wrote.
His face was that of a twenty-something college dropout but his hair was both in desperate need of a trimming and completely white. His clothes were nondescript and dusty.
A pair of eighteen-wheelers thundered by, ignoring him; he shivered in the wake of their passing and pulled the collar of his jacket a little tighter around his ears. The sun had set a few hours ago, and the night wasn't getting any warmer.
He walked on for another fifteen minutes before the rumble of another vehicle approached from behind him; he held out his thumb again, but it was clear from the cant of his shoulders that he didn't expect it to stop.
It slowed as it drove by, then pulled over further down the road. The engine cut out and the front passenger side door opened with a faint chime.
The young man stopped short as a bare foot encased in pantyhose kicked the door open all the way; the one foot was followed by another, followed by a set of panty hose encased legs. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as the woman belonging to the set of legs stepped out of the car. She was tall and slender and wore a business-like suit jacket and skirt, and had legs up to her neck.
She leaned against the hood of the car, backlit by the headlights, and lit a cigarette. She watched him as he approached the car slowly; the end of her cigarette glowed cherry-red when she took a drag. At first glance, she appeared quite young, but a closer look revealed fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and a scattering of gray strands in her shoulder length dark hair.
He stopped a short distance away. "That's a nice car. Sixty-eight Cadillac Deville- you almost never see them in this condition on the road these days. Is that the original paint?" He had a quiet, low voice.
She shrugged. "Probably. Ask the driver; I know nothing about cars. Where are you headed?"
"Wherever you'll take me."
She blew a stream of smoke out her nostrils and dropped the cigarette. It landed on the asphalt and rolled under the car. "You have a name?"
"Most people call me Dove." He rubbed the back of his neck, as though embarrassed. "It's because of the hair."
"That's a silly name. I'm Sabatini." She held out her hand; her nails were painted black, and the polish was chipping. "My sister does the driving; her name is Cabiria."
Dove shook her hand. "Those aren't exactly normal names, either."
The smile she gave him was nearly a smirk. "We're not exactly normal people. Get in the car."
The door pinged when he opened it; the interior of the car was upholstered in shiny dark blue leather. Dove set his bag on the floor. The woman in the driver's seat turned to look him over as he buckled his seatbelt; she looked like a softer version of her sister, with shorter hair and a rounder curve to her cheekbones. The lines around her eyes were a little deeper, though.
She turned back to the wheel before he could introduce himself properly; Sabatini closed her door and her sister started the car.
Dove leaned back in his seat and counted stars through the window.
***
She was eating a lollipop and hanging upside down over the arm of the couch. It was blue raspberry flavored, and her lips and tongue were stained. "You know," she said around the candy, "I think we should get a dog."
"What kind?" He was sitting at the table by the window, doodling in a battered, spiral bound journal.
"Something big and shaggy. A komondor, maybe."
"A what?" He didn't look up from his notebook; he was drawing little spiral shapes in the margin.
"They're guard dogs, mostly, but they're smart and gentle. Very protective of their families and flocks. And they look like mops on legs."
He gave the squiggly shapes tiny feet and hands. "The landlord would get pissed at us."
She sighed and stretched her arms above her head, touching the floor. "I suppose." Her eyes drifted to the door and stayed there. "But we will get a dog someday, won't we?"
"Sure." He drew eyes on the squiggle people; they slanted upwards, sad and pleading.
***
Cabiria asked a question; Dove shook himself and looked away from the window. She repeated herself. "You're not local. Wrong accent."
"Yeah. I mean, no, I'm not from around here. I travel a lot."
"You've been hitching long?" Her voice was softer than her sister's.
"Not long. Only since my car was stolen." He smiled when he said that, self-deprecating.
Cabiria laughed. "It's good to travel, even under poor circumstances." Outside, a sign for the next exit sped by. Westfield, thirty-three miles.
"Sure, if you're traveling with style. I had a Toyota, not a Cadillac."
"Style is a thing so few people have." There was a distinct note of pride in Cabiria's voice; in the passenger's seat, Sabatini made a low, laughing noise. "And a thing even fewer people appreciate."
They talked about cars and traveling while Sabatini occasionally made derisive comments. It was the easy sort of conversation that comes to complete strangers who discover they share some kind of uncommon common ground. Cabiria dreamed of owning a vintage Corvette someday; Dove wanted to drive cross-country in a Vespa.
Eventually they pulled up to the curb in front of a decrepit line of row houses during one of the lulls in conversation. Some of the windows were boarded up and the paint was curling away from the siding in jagged chunks and strips. This was the stuff urban decay was made of: the houses sat in the stale glow of the streetlights and threw ragged shadows over the sidewalk and the scraps of lawn in front of them.
"You don't have a place to stay, do you?" Cabiria asked.
"No."
"Do you want one?"
There was a long pause, during which Sabatini smirked and her sister examined the display on the dashboard with unnecessary interest. Dove stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching them into fists. "Yeah," he said at last.
Cabiria smiled and cut the engine. "Good."
***
The interior of the house was as dated as the car; everything was upholstered in shades of avocado green and burnt sienna. The living room and kitchen were comfortably cluttered with bookshelves and oddly shaped but curiously comfortable chairs. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and cigarettes.
Cabiria made him a bed on the couch and gave him a spare set of clothes to sleep in; the pants hung off his hips, and the shirt smelled strongly of cedar and faintly of mothballs.
"Thank you for all of this," he said to her over too-strong coffee in the kitchen. He put enough milk and sugar in his to turn it a pleasant off-white color. The remains of a sandwich sat on a plate at his elbow. "I can't repay you and you have no reason to trust me, but you're being incredibly generous."
"Should we have reason to distrust you?" she asked. "Are you, perhaps, a serial killer? A thief?"
"No!" He nearly choked on his coffee.
She smiled. "I doubt you kick puppies for a living; that doesn't pay well enough for the effort involved. It is a simple truth that most people are harmless. And if they are not- well. We can take care of ourselves."
The way she said that made it seem like it was as much a reassurance as it was a warning.
When she finished her coffee, Cabiria said goodnight and disappeared into another part of the house. Dove left his half-empty cup in the sink and went back to the living room.
There were pictures on top of the TV: Cabiria and Sabatini, Cabiria and her car, Sabatini and Cabiria's car, a sullen teenager and Cabiria's car. There were other pictures of the girl in various stages of growth, from what looked to be a third grade ballet recital to a high school graduation. She looked like the sisters, though it was difficult to tell which one she resembled more.
Dove left the pictures alone and took a spiral bound notebook out of his bag. He made himself comfortable on the couch and began to write. He started page after page with "I miss you" and "It's been five months" and "I'm sorry," but he eventually stopped trying, and drew multitudes of little spirals in the margins instead.
***
He told her he was just going to walk down the street to get coffee and a paper. He wasn't gone more than half an hour, but the apartment was empty when he returned. The apartment was empty. She'd taken all of her possessions and most of his; they hadn't had much to begin with.
He didn't go to the police; he picked up the phone to call half a dozen times, but never went through with it. He tried calling her, but he could only get a mechanical, "I'm sorry, your call did not go through" message. He tried writing letters, dozens of them, scribbled hastily in his notebook and then thrown away. He didn't know where to send them, anyway.
After five days and no sign of her, he decided to do something about it. He gave his two weeks notice at the office, pawned off the rest of his possessions, and hit the road as soon as possible.
He still hadn't found her; it was possible he just wasn't looking in the right places.
***
Dove woke up in the middle of the night to shouting from outside.
Sabatini stalked by, wearing a bathrobe and bare feet, carrying something long and dark in one hand. She slammed the door behind her hard enough to rattle the windows. There was no sign of Cabiria, just shouting from outside, joined by Sabatini's voice. The words were indistinct, but the anger was clear in the pitch and volume.
Then, abruptly, the noise stopped. Dove pulled on his jacket and ventured outside. Sabatini was standing on the strip of lawn with a crowbar in one hand. She set the crowbar in the grass and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket.
"This happens all the time," she said as she lit a cigarette. "Idiots get drunk and try to fuck with us. Some people just enjoy concussions, I suppose." She threw him a sidelong glance and picked up the crowbar. "You should go inside. It's cold out here."
He stared at her from the open doorway; she was standing in the wet grass in bare feet. "I'm fine," he said. A moment later, he spoke again. "You know, I asked your sister why you were being so generous. She never actually answered me."
"Does it matter?"
"If you're going to kill me in my sleep with a crowbar? Yes." He frowned and crossed his arms.
She shrugged. "I'm not." She walked up the steps and leaned against the porch railing, still smoking nonchalantly.
His frown deepened. "I'm glad we've got that cleared up," he muttered, more to himself than anything else. "That girl in those pictures. Who is she?"
Sabatini raised her eyebrows and ground the butt of her cigarette against the railing. "Cabiria's daughter. We haven't seen or heard from her in four years. She just left- she's your age, or a little younger." She lit another cigarette.
He leaned against the doorway and stared at his feet. "I've got someone like that," he said quietly.
"I figured. Are you going to stand out here all night? We gave you a place to sleep so you wouldn't be stuck in the cold."
"I can't stop looking for her."
She rolled her eyes. "You will. Eventually. What won't stop is the urge to do stupid things to apologize to a person who isn't there anymore. Now go back to sleep. I have a crowbar, don't argue with me."
She had a persuasive argument; Dove smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, then closed the door. A few minutes later, Sabatini came back in and locked the door behind her, but he was already asleep.
***
In the morning, he found more bitter coffee in the kitchen, a note, and a short stack of twenty-dollar bills. The note gave directions to the nearest bus station and told him to lock the door when he left. He left a note of his own- a hastily scribbled "Thanks," signed with his real name- and packed up his things.
The Cadillac wasn't in front of the house when he left; he made sure the door was locked, shouldered his bag, and left.
---------
Final project for creative writing, written mostly in one night. >_< The real story of Dove and the Valentines, and Maeve. Not much to say about it, really. Sabatini is badass in the extreme, but Cabiria is actually even more badass in her own way.
Thankfully, Dove gets over his angst eventually.
This is the last piece I have for December, 2005. I'm eight pieces short, but twenty three is still respectable.
Aaaaand...that's all she wrote.
Twenty-Two, Final Fantasy VI: Constancy of Stone
Ancient Castle bit, because it's totally my favorite dungeon in the game (and it's totally the last stand of the Baronian Dragoons). A little unfinished at the moment.
---------------
Celes hadn't been sure what to expect at the bottom of the strange, twisted set of caverns, but it certainly wasn't this. The stone changed color beneath their feet, shifting suddenly from water-worn cave to cracked paving stones.
Celes was on point, Atma in her hand; of the four of them, she was the best equipped to deal with a head-on threat. There was an acrid scent in the air; she covered her nose in alarm and looked for the source of the smell. They had yet to encounter a creature in these caverns that breathed poison gas, but she wouldn't be surprised to find one.
"Something the matter, Miss Celes?" Setzer flicked his lighter shut and hid it in a pocket. "You look worried."
She glared at him. "The air in here is poisonous enough as it is, Setzer. Put it out."
"Sorry." He ground out the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. "Keeps my hands steady. It's a bit...claustrophobic in here."
"Try biting your nails," she snapped.
"I'd have no fingers left if I did that." He took out a deck of cards from one of the many pockets of his coat and began shuffling them. "Try seeing it from my point of view, love. Would you prefer a slow, painless death by asphyxiation, where everything goes dark a bit at a time and then you fall asleep- or death by thirty thousand tons of rock falling on your head? That could go quick, too, but only if you're lucky. If you're not, you're stuck under a boulder, bleeding to death with all your bones broken, suffering unedurable pain for the last minutes- even hours, or days- of your life."
"Setzer, for the love of all you ever held holy, shut up." Locke glared at the gambler. "This place is creepy enough as it is."
"Says the man we found at the bottom of a cave filled with lava and zombies," Setzer shot back. "This place is a walk in the park!"
"It's not creepy...just sad." Terra had that distant glow in her eyes that usually prefaced some otherworldly insight.
"Creepy and sad," Celes amended. "How long do you think it's been buried here?"
The crumbling turrets of the castle pushed against the roof of the cavern, as though holding it up. The stones glowed faintly on their own, coated in some sort of bioluminescent moss. More moss and lichen covered the pathways, and filled in the places in the courtyard where grass had once grown. Locke held his lantern higher; they could see the outlines of banners and flags that had long since turned to dust on the walls.
"They haven't seen the sun since the end of the war," Terra whispered. "All of them, trapped here, since the war." She left glowing footprints in the moss. "These stones were old even before the Espers came to be."
"There was a battle here." Celes knelt by a fallen column. "Monsters didn't leave these marks- the castle was probably destroyed and abandoned before it was buried."
"We should see if there's anything left worth using, then. And keep an eye out for weird things in treasure chests. That last one was a doozy." The prospect of more treasure brightened the thief's demeanor; he slid the Gradeus out of its sheath and made his way up the steps.
The silence in the place was eerie; even in the deepest caverns, there were noises. Something about the quiet was even more unsettling than the hiss of the most terrifying monsters. They followed a decaying red carpet into the throne room, leaving behind footprints of dust and ash.
"Holy..."
Even in stone, Odin was a thing of nightmares. He had been caught in the middle of a scream of rage, sword upraised. Sleipnir's front hooves were raised as if to strike down some long dead foe, frozen with his mane lashing around his eyes.
Terra stepped past Locke and reached up to touch the statue. "You've been alone for so long," she murmured. "Humans destroyed this place; the citizens here were allied with the Espers. Odin swore to protect them at all costs..." She closed her eyes and leaned against the cold stone. "The enemy turned them all to stone and crushed them into dust, until only Odin was left."
Ghost light flared around her, engulfing the statue. When it faded, there was nothing left of the statue but a glowing green stone. Terra held the magicite shard in one hand and scrubbed at her eyes with the other. "So much cruelty. Have humans really changed since then?"
"Does it matter? We're doing the best we can with what we've got. You can't ask for more than that." Setzer took the magicite from her and tossed it to Celes. "Come on, we've got more exploring to do before we can get out of this place. It's depressing."
There was a sudden rumble, followed by a series of crashing noises. Terra, Celes, and Setzer immediately turned to Locke, who glared at them.
"What? There was a switch. You would've pressed it too!"
Celes pinched the bridge of her nose and took a slow, deep breath. "Right. The sound came from over there. Let's go see what you've done."
"Hey! Come on, Celes, that's not fair- if I'd told you about it, you'd have said, 'Okay, Locke, go ahead and press it, maybe it's something important.' Don't even pretend you wouldn't!"
The other three ignored him. He followed after them, muttering unflattering things under his breath.
As they passed through the small basement library into the second basement, Celes paused at the bookcase and ran her fingers over the spines. Her hand lingered on one slender volume, tracing the facets of a gemstone set in the spine.
"Celes come take a look at this!"
Locke's voice startled her out of her contemplation; she slipped the book into her pack and hurried down the stairs. The basement gallery was lined with broken statues, but a single, whole statue stood on a dais at the far end.
"Looks like Odin wasn't the only statue that survived." Setzer had put away his cards and was now flipping a coin across the backs of his fingers. "General Celes, could you perhaps explain why you look so very like so very many important people?"
She looked too young to be a queen, but the crown on her head bespoke her status. Her clothing reminded Celes of the Opera House; Maria's saga was grounded in history, albeit distantly.
"Celes is prettier, definitely." Locke circled the statue, grinning.
"Oh, certainly. The real question is whether or not this young lady could carry a tune." Setzer winked at Terra and flipped the coin at her; she caught it with a giggle.
Celes ignored them, and the strange, almost hysterical lightness that had fallen over them. This was no Esper, caught in eternal fury. This was a human woman, dead for over a thousand years- nameless queen of a nameless country. Her gaze was lowered in sad resignation.
The statue was weeping.
At first she thought it was just a trick of the light, just a flicker across the surface of the stone, but there were actual tears running down the frozen queen's face.
Beneath Setzer and Locke's banter, she could hear a dry rattle. Ice trickled down her spine. "Quiet," she hissed.
"Celes? What's wrong?" Locke had stopped grinning.
She turned around slowly. "Her majesty hasn't been alone all these years."
The dragon rose out of the gloom with a scream. Celes struck without thinking; Odin burned in her hand, slicing the very air to shreds.
-----------
-----------
This started out as a Setzer peice so I could further explore his backstory, but then Celes claimed it- which is well within her rights, really.
Perhaps I'll continue this to its proper conclusion, but I doubt it. It's finished enough at this point, and I don't feel much need to narrate the battle, or explore the past of the Ancient Castle (totally Baron) and its (tenuous) connection to Celes.
---------------
Celes hadn't been sure what to expect at the bottom of the strange, twisted set of caverns, but it certainly wasn't this. The stone changed color beneath their feet, shifting suddenly from water-worn cave to cracked paving stones.
Celes was on point, Atma in her hand; of the four of them, she was the best equipped to deal with a head-on threat. There was an acrid scent in the air; she covered her nose in alarm and looked for the source of the smell. They had yet to encounter a creature in these caverns that breathed poison gas, but she wouldn't be surprised to find one.
"Something the matter, Miss Celes?" Setzer flicked his lighter shut and hid it in a pocket. "You look worried."
She glared at him. "The air in here is poisonous enough as it is, Setzer. Put it out."
"Sorry." He ground out the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. "Keeps my hands steady. It's a bit...claustrophobic in here."
"Try biting your nails," she snapped.
"I'd have no fingers left if I did that." He took out a deck of cards from one of the many pockets of his coat and began shuffling them. "Try seeing it from my point of view, love. Would you prefer a slow, painless death by asphyxiation, where everything goes dark a bit at a time and then you fall asleep- or death by thirty thousand tons of rock falling on your head? That could go quick, too, but only if you're lucky. If you're not, you're stuck under a boulder, bleeding to death with all your bones broken, suffering unedurable pain for the last minutes- even hours, or days- of your life."
"Setzer, for the love of all you ever held holy, shut up." Locke glared at the gambler. "This place is creepy enough as it is."
"Says the man we found at the bottom of a cave filled with lava and zombies," Setzer shot back. "This place is a walk in the park!"
"It's not creepy...just sad." Terra had that distant glow in her eyes that usually prefaced some otherworldly insight.
"Creepy and sad," Celes amended. "How long do you think it's been buried here?"
The crumbling turrets of the castle pushed against the roof of the cavern, as though holding it up. The stones glowed faintly on their own, coated in some sort of bioluminescent moss. More moss and lichen covered the pathways, and filled in the places in the courtyard where grass had once grown. Locke held his lantern higher; they could see the outlines of banners and flags that had long since turned to dust on the walls.
"They haven't seen the sun since the end of the war," Terra whispered. "All of them, trapped here, since the war." She left glowing footprints in the moss. "These stones were old even before the Espers came to be."
"There was a battle here." Celes knelt by a fallen column. "Monsters didn't leave these marks- the castle was probably destroyed and abandoned before it was buried."
"We should see if there's anything left worth using, then. And keep an eye out for weird things in treasure chests. That last one was a doozy." The prospect of more treasure brightened the thief's demeanor; he slid the Gradeus out of its sheath and made his way up the steps.
The silence in the place was eerie; even in the deepest caverns, there were noises. Something about the quiet was even more unsettling than the hiss of the most terrifying monsters. They followed a decaying red carpet into the throne room, leaving behind footprints of dust and ash.
"Holy..."
Even in stone, Odin was a thing of nightmares. He had been caught in the middle of a scream of rage, sword upraised. Sleipnir's front hooves were raised as if to strike down some long dead foe, frozen with his mane lashing around his eyes.
Terra stepped past Locke and reached up to touch the statue. "You've been alone for so long," she murmured. "Humans destroyed this place; the citizens here were allied with the Espers. Odin swore to protect them at all costs..." She closed her eyes and leaned against the cold stone. "The enemy turned them all to stone and crushed them into dust, until only Odin was left."
Ghost light flared around her, engulfing the statue. When it faded, there was nothing left of the statue but a glowing green stone. Terra held the magicite shard in one hand and scrubbed at her eyes with the other. "So much cruelty. Have humans really changed since then?"
"Does it matter? We're doing the best we can with what we've got. You can't ask for more than that." Setzer took the magicite from her and tossed it to Celes. "Come on, we've got more exploring to do before we can get out of this place. It's depressing."
There was a sudden rumble, followed by a series of crashing noises. Terra, Celes, and Setzer immediately turned to Locke, who glared at them.
"What? There was a switch. You would've pressed it too!"
Celes pinched the bridge of her nose and took a slow, deep breath. "Right. The sound came from over there. Let's go see what you've done."
"Hey! Come on, Celes, that's not fair- if I'd told you about it, you'd have said, 'Okay, Locke, go ahead and press it, maybe it's something important.' Don't even pretend you wouldn't!"
The other three ignored him. He followed after them, muttering unflattering things under his breath.
As they passed through the small basement library into the second basement, Celes paused at the bookcase and ran her fingers over the spines. Her hand lingered on one slender volume, tracing the facets of a gemstone set in the spine.
"Celes come take a look at this!"
Locke's voice startled her out of her contemplation; she slipped the book into her pack and hurried down the stairs. The basement gallery was lined with broken statues, but a single, whole statue stood on a dais at the far end.
"Looks like Odin wasn't the only statue that survived." Setzer had put away his cards and was now flipping a coin across the backs of his fingers. "General Celes, could you perhaps explain why you look so very like so very many important people?"
She looked too young to be a queen, but the crown on her head bespoke her status. Her clothing reminded Celes of the Opera House; Maria's saga was grounded in history, albeit distantly.
"Celes is prettier, definitely." Locke circled the statue, grinning.
"Oh, certainly. The real question is whether or not this young lady could carry a tune." Setzer winked at Terra and flipped the coin at her; she caught it with a giggle.
Celes ignored them, and the strange, almost hysterical lightness that had fallen over them. This was no Esper, caught in eternal fury. This was a human woman, dead for over a thousand years- nameless queen of a nameless country. Her gaze was lowered in sad resignation.
The statue was weeping.
At first she thought it was just a trick of the light, just a flicker across the surface of the stone, but there were actual tears running down the frozen queen's face.
Beneath Setzer and Locke's banter, she could hear a dry rattle. Ice trickled down her spine. "Quiet," she hissed.
"Celes? What's wrong?" Locke had stopped grinning.
She turned around slowly. "Her majesty hasn't been alone all these years."
The dragon rose out of the gloom with a scream. Celes struck without thinking; Odin burned in her hand, slicing the very air to shreds.
-----------
-----------
This started out as a Setzer peice so I could further explore his backstory, but then Celes claimed it- which is well within her rights, really.
Perhaps I'll continue this to its proper conclusion, but I doubt it. It's finished enough at this point, and I don't feel much need to narrate the battle, or explore the past of the Ancient Castle (totally Baron) and its (tenuous) connection to Celes.
Twenty-One, Bleach: Conundrum
DRIVEL. Zaraki/Unohana
-------------------------------
Zaraki Kenpachi was the strongest man in Seireitei. This wasn't opinion or rumor; this was fact. His spiritual presence was like a gale when calm, like a hurricane when roused, and indescribable when angered. He could fell weaker shinigami by walking down a corridor and ignoring them- and he did so, on his routine strolls through the Fourth Division.
When he removed the eyepatch given to him by the Research and Development division on these excursions, the junior chairs of the Third and Fifth divisions dropped as well.
He was the strongest man in Seireitei, captain of the most powerful and loyal division of the Gotei 13. Lesser beings trembled at the mere thought of him.
And yet, when he took one of his routine strolls through the Fourth Division, cackling at the sight of all those wimpy medics on the floor, a gentle smile from Unohana-taichou could calm his reiatsu and render him completely helpless.
-------------------------------
Zaraki Kenpachi was the strongest man in Seireitei. This wasn't opinion or rumor; this was fact. His spiritual presence was like a gale when calm, like a hurricane when roused, and indescribable when angered. He could fell weaker shinigami by walking down a corridor and ignoring them- and he did so, on his routine strolls through the Fourth Division.
When he removed the eyepatch given to him by the Research and Development division on these excursions, the junior chairs of the Third and Fifth divisions dropped as well.
He was the strongest man in Seireitei, captain of the most powerful and loyal division of the Gotei 13. Lesser beings trembled at the mere thought of him.
And yet, when he took one of his routine strolls through the Fourth Division, cackling at the sight of all those wimpy medics on the floor, a gentle smile from Unohana-taichou could calm his reiatsu and render him completely helpless.
Twenty, Birds of a Feather: Predictable
Tyler and Dei will take absolutely any possible excuse to attack each other. Opal is occasionally tempted to start carrying a cattleprod. (And yes, all of my characters are raging alcoholics, now leave me alone.)
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It was snowing; this wasn't entirely surprising, given that it was Massachusetts in late December. He had the house to himself; Jim was out getting drunk with friends from school, Tristan hadn't been seen in weeks (but he did occasionally remember to send postcards), and Carly had left an hour ago, babbling something about Jance and snow and fucking socially awkward demons. (He wasn't sure if the fucking was meant as a verb or an adjective; for her sake, and the sake of his own sanity, he hoped it was the latter.)
The doorbell rang.
Dei sighed; he really had been intending to spend the evening wallowing in misery alone. With any luck, it was just some lost and confused sales person, or a Jehova's Witness. Or maybe someone looking for directions, or a neighbor borrowing a cup of flour. Anyone but-
"Hey, it's snowing out there, did you notice?" Tyler stomped the snow off his boots as he unwrapped his scarf. "You left your door unlocked, you know."
"No, I didn't."
"Sure you did. Move, Tyler. It's cold out here." Opal pushed her husband out of the way. She shut the door behind her and began peeling off layers; by the time she was done, she was two feet thinner and still looked to be wearing at least three layers.
"Why are you here?" He took Opal's coats and hung each of them up in the hall closet until he ran out of spare hangers; he left the rest folded on a shelf.
"Well, we saw Carly up at the office, harassing Jance, and we figured you might want some company tonight. Quit looking so pissed off, we brought drinks." Tyler held up a brown paper bag.
Dei rubbed his eyes wearily. "I'm getting predictable, aren't I?"
"Getting?"
Opal kicked Tyler in the shins and smiled sweetly up at Dei. "Jubal and Len wanted to come, too, but I made them stay home. In fact, everyone at the office was offering to come and cheer you up- there's a cubicle full of alcohol just for you at headquarters."
"Thank you for keeping the masses at bay," he said gravely. He took the paper bag from Tyler. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get very, very drunk."
"Hoy! Share, you bastard!"
Dei glanced over his shoulder at his half brother, one eyebrow raised. "No, Tyler, that's you."
Opal caught the bag and its contents neatly when her husband tackled Dei. She stepped over the two squabbling men on her way to the kitchen, in search of a corkscrew.
----------
It was snowing; this wasn't entirely surprising, given that it was Massachusetts in late December. He had the house to himself; Jim was out getting drunk with friends from school, Tristan hadn't been seen in weeks (but he did occasionally remember to send postcards), and Carly had left an hour ago, babbling something about Jance and snow and fucking socially awkward demons. (He wasn't sure if the fucking was meant as a verb or an adjective; for her sake, and the sake of his own sanity, he hoped it was the latter.)
The doorbell rang.
Dei sighed; he really had been intending to spend the evening wallowing in misery alone. With any luck, it was just some lost and confused sales person, or a Jehova's Witness. Or maybe someone looking for directions, or a neighbor borrowing a cup of flour. Anyone but-
"Hey, it's snowing out there, did you notice?" Tyler stomped the snow off his boots as he unwrapped his scarf. "You left your door unlocked, you know."
"No, I didn't."
"Sure you did. Move, Tyler. It's cold out here." Opal pushed her husband out of the way. She shut the door behind her and began peeling off layers; by the time she was done, she was two feet thinner and still looked to be wearing at least three layers.
"Why are you here?" He took Opal's coats and hung each of them up in the hall closet until he ran out of spare hangers; he left the rest folded on a shelf.
"Well, we saw Carly up at the office, harassing Jance, and we figured you might want some company tonight. Quit looking so pissed off, we brought drinks." Tyler held up a brown paper bag.
Dei rubbed his eyes wearily. "I'm getting predictable, aren't I?"
"Getting?"
Opal kicked Tyler in the shins and smiled sweetly up at Dei. "Jubal and Len wanted to come, too, but I made them stay home. In fact, everyone at the office was offering to come and cheer you up- there's a cubicle full of alcohol just for you at headquarters."
"Thank you for keeping the masses at bay," he said gravely. He took the paper bag from Tyler. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get very, very drunk."
"Hoy! Share, you bastard!"
Dei glanced over his shoulder at his half brother, one eyebrow raised. "No, Tyler, that's you."
Opal caught the bag and its contents neatly when her husband tackled Dei. She stepped over the two squabbling men on her way to the kitchen, in search of a corkscrew.
Nineteen, Final Fantasy VI: Ghosts
Setzer/Shadow, takes place after the last bit. I love these two, they're like the deformed, horribly scarred and traumatized odd couple.
--------
His wounds were far from healed, but even he could only sleep for so long; Shadow found himself wandering the corridors of the airship, looking for her owner. He folowed the sound of whistling to the engine room. The whistling was a surprisingly tuneful rendition of a Jidoorian sea shanty. He'd heard the lyrics in a bar in Zozo once; the words were crude enough to make the whores blush, as he recalled. He found the gambler's boots sticking out from underneath one of the hulking rotaries in the bowels of the Falcon. They were rather distinctive, as far as footwear went.
"Everything all right, Mister Shadow?" Setzer punctuated his question with a particularly loud bang.
"Fine." Shadow leaned against the door and watched the toes of Setzer's boots tap to the beat of some tune only the other man could hear.
"Good!" There was another bang, and then Setzer emerged from beneath the machine. He was filthy with dirt and grease; the dark smudges stood out against his pale skin like ink on parchment. "You seem in good health today."
Shadow shrugged. "I've no complaints."
"Odd, for a man who was nearly dead not even a week ago. You're a lucky man, Mister Shadow." Setzer smirked. "I like that."
He heard a faint giggle from the corner, but there was no one there. Shadow stared at the empty space with a frown. "It's not luck," he said at last. "Not when you ought to be dead."
Setzer stood, wiping his face with a lacy handkerchief. "It's not our place to say whether or not we should be dead, Mister Shadow. It's out of our hands, from the moment we're born to the moment Dame Fortune decides to call our bluff."
He heard the giggle again, but there was still no one there. Setzer clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a gentle shove towards the stairs. "You still look only half-warmed over, my friend. Get yourself back to bed; we're stopping in South Figaro in a day or so to pick up fuel and supplies."
He let himself be pushed out of the room, but as he turned to go, he saw a flicker of purple and gold in the corner of his eye.
--------
His wounds were far from healed, but even he could only sleep for so long; Shadow found himself wandering the corridors of the airship, looking for her owner. He folowed the sound of whistling to the engine room. The whistling was a surprisingly tuneful rendition of a Jidoorian sea shanty. He'd heard the lyrics in a bar in Zozo once; the words were crude enough to make the whores blush, as he recalled. He found the gambler's boots sticking out from underneath one of the hulking rotaries in the bowels of the Falcon. They were rather distinctive, as far as footwear went.
"Everything all right, Mister Shadow?" Setzer punctuated his question with a particularly loud bang.
"Fine." Shadow leaned against the door and watched the toes of Setzer's boots tap to the beat of some tune only the other man could hear.
"Good!" There was another bang, and then Setzer emerged from beneath the machine. He was filthy with dirt and grease; the dark smudges stood out against his pale skin like ink on parchment. "You seem in good health today."
Shadow shrugged. "I've no complaints."
"Odd, for a man who was nearly dead not even a week ago. You're a lucky man, Mister Shadow." Setzer smirked. "I like that."
He heard a faint giggle from the corner, but there was no one there. Shadow stared at the empty space with a frown. "It's not luck," he said at last. "Not when you ought to be dead."
Setzer stood, wiping his face with a lacy handkerchief. "It's not our place to say whether or not we should be dead, Mister Shadow. It's out of our hands, from the moment we're born to the moment Dame Fortune decides to call our bluff."
He heard the giggle again, but there was still no one there. Setzer clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a gentle shove towards the stairs. "You still look only half-warmed over, my friend. Get yourself back to bed; we're stopping in South Figaro in a day or so to pick up fuel and supplies."
He let himself be pushed out of the room, but as he turned to go, he saw a flicker of purple and gold in the corner of his eye.
Eighteen, Naruto: Scars, part whatever
More of the Ino thing. If I finish it, it'll be an extended one-shot, I think.
---------------
"You're going to train me."
Ibiki looked down. He recognized the blonde from the disastrous chuunin exam a few years back- the one with the bad attitude and a big mouth, not to be confused with the other blonde with a bad attitude. This one hadn't actually advanced to the finals.
"Why am I going to do that?" he asked. Yamanaka, that was her name. Her family had a reputation for being stubborn and a little crazy. The determined look on her face reminded him of Anko, and wasn't that a frightening thought- he didn't need more than one of those in his life.
"Because you've got three spaces in your intelligence division that need filling, and right now you don't have anyone capable or willing to fill them. Train me, and I'll be both."
He took in her long blonde hair, and the way she'd combed it to cover half of her face, and wondered what had happened to all of the talent in Konoha's youth. The Hyuuga and Uchiha couldn't have taken all of it- that was statistically impossible. Ibiki did need those three positions filled- but he didn't need some upstart of a Yamanaka reminding him of the fact.
"I don't take on apprentices." He brushed by her.
She didn't try to stop him- she simply appeared in front of him again. That was good. She had some notion of finesse- and she wasn't stupid enough to attempt physical force on him. He kept moving, though, and she moved with him.
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "If you don't, the Hokage will assign you new personel- people who only know you by reputation and have no clue how to work with you."
"You only know me by reputation," he pointed out. "At least the people she'll give me will be fully trained."
"No one is fully trained these days. She'll give you whatever poor idiot she can pull in off the street and convince to work with you. You need me, if only because I'm not afraid of you."
He stopped and looked down at her from his considerable height. "You should be."
Her eyes didn't waver. He smiled, and pulled out a notepad and a pencil. "This is the address of a teahouse where you'll be able to find Mitarashi Anko. If she agrees to train you, I'll take you on when she thinks you're ready." He scribbled the address in a completely illegible code and handed the paper to her.
She folded it without looking at it and bowed carefully. "Thank you, Ibiki-san." She didn't make any pithy comments, either.
He watched her walk away. Better and better. Maybe there was some talent still hiding in the ranks of Konoha's shinobi. If she survived Anko, she might even be worth something.
---------------
"You're going to train me."
Ibiki looked down. He recognized the blonde from the disastrous chuunin exam a few years back- the one with the bad attitude and a big mouth, not to be confused with the other blonde with a bad attitude. This one hadn't actually advanced to the finals.
"Why am I going to do that?" he asked. Yamanaka, that was her name. Her family had a reputation for being stubborn and a little crazy. The determined look on her face reminded him of Anko, and wasn't that a frightening thought- he didn't need more than one of those in his life.
"Because you've got three spaces in your intelligence division that need filling, and right now you don't have anyone capable or willing to fill them. Train me, and I'll be both."
He took in her long blonde hair, and the way she'd combed it to cover half of her face, and wondered what had happened to all of the talent in Konoha's youth. The Hyuuga and Uchiha couldn't have taken all of it- that was statistically impossible. Ibiki did need those three positions filled- but he didn't need some upstart of a Yamanaka reminding him of the fact.
"I don't take on apprentices." He brushed by her.
She didn't try to stop him- she simply appeared in front of him again. That was good. She had some notion of finesse- and she wasn't stupid enough to attempt physical force on him. He kept moving, though, and she moved with him.
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "If you don't, the Hokage will assign you new personel- people who only know you by reputation and have no clue how to work with you."
"You only know me by reputation," he pointed out. "At least the people she'll give me will be fully trained."
"No one is fully trained these days. She'll give you whatever poor idiot she can pull in off the street and convince to work with you. You need me, if only because I'm not afraid of you."
He stopped and looked down at her from his considerable height. "You should be."
Her eyes didn't waver. He smiled, and pulled out a notepad and a pencil. "This is the address of a teahouse where you'll be able to find Mitarashi Anko. If she agrees to train you, I'll take you on when she thinks you're ready." He scribbled the address in a completely illegible code and handed the paper to her.
She folded it without looking at it and bowed carefully. "Thank you, Ibiki-san." She didn't make any pithy comments, either.
He watched her walk away. Better and better. Maybe there was some talent still hiding in the ranks of Konoha's shinobi. If she survived Anko, she might even be worth something.
Seventeen, Firefly: Recycled Air
River knows that Simon doesn't like it when she goes Outside; she knows he's afraid of the dark and the cold, and he doesn't understand why she loves it there, with nothing between herself and the Black but a thin, thin layer of glass.
She doesn't know how to explain it to him- and that is true of so many, many things. The words are there, but they can't get past the things in her head, the voices and the pictures and the secrets, so huge and frightening and loud. She's stopped trying to explain it.
Every chance she gets, she goes for a walk Outside. She doesn't know how to share the vastness of the Black with Simon, or the way her head goes quiet for a little while. Out there, she thinks she could talk to him about anything, about everything. The secrets are smaller there- everything is smaller there, so small, so tiny. They could be fly-sized, for all the notice the 'Verse gives her when she holds to Serenity's hull. The voices fade away until she can hear the singing of stars, each one humming at a particular frequency, pulsing out lightwaves in time with the heartbeat of the 'Verse.
It's just her and the stars, and Serenity, warm/cold and alive beneath her. Simon is afraid he'll lose her to the Black one of these days, and she wants to tell him that he can't lose her when she's tethered to Serenity, clinging like a child. Serenity won't let her go, because Serenity knows her, knows she's not ready yet.
She doesn't think Simon will understand, and she doesn't think she can get the words out past the secrets. But she just wishes Simon could know what it feels like, to be rocked asleep by Serenity, listening to the lullabye of a hundred thousand singing stars.
She doesn't know how to explain it to him- and that is true of so many, many things. The words are there, but they can't get past the things in her head, the voices and the pictures and the secrets, so huge and frightening and loud. She's stopped trying to explain it.
Every chance she gets, she goes for a walk Outside. She doesn't know how to share the vastness of the Black with Simon, or the way her head goes quiet for a little while. Out there, she thinks she could talk to him about anything, about everything. The secrets are smaller there- everything is smaller there, so small, so tiny. They could be fly-sized, for all the notice the 'Verse gives her when she holds to Serenity's hull. The voices fade away until she can hear the singing of stars, each one humming at a particular frequency, pulsing out lightwaves in time with the heartbeat of the 'Verse.
It's just her and the stars, and Serenity, warm/cold and alive beneath her. Simon is afraid he'll lose her to the Black one of these days, and she wants to tell him that he can't lose her when she's tethered to Serenity, clinging like a child. Serenity won't let her go, because Serenity knows her, knows she's not ready yet.
She doesn't think Simon will understand, and she doesn't think she can get the words out past the secrets. But she just wishes Simon could know what it feels like, to be rocked asleep by Serenity, listening to the lullabye of a hundred thousand singing stars.
Sixteen, Stella Matin: Naming
Two hundred years ago, Silverlock's hair was mostly black, aside from the thick silver streak that fell over his right temple. Now, his hair was completely bleached, from age or magic or stress, Theron did not know. Otherwise, the half-elf was unchanged; he still wore robes that were centuries out of style, and black ink still crawled over his skin. There were, perhaps, a few more lines around his gently slanting eyes, but that was all.
"When I heard you were in town and hadn't come to visit, I was quite hurt." He wore glittering steel sheathes on his fingers. They made tiny musical sounds against his teacup. The engravings on them matched those on the heavy metal collar he wore, and the shackles around his wrists. "It seems the time between our last meeting and now has done nothing to turn you into a civilized creature."
"I thought you were dead." Theron's own drink sat untouched. "You ought to be dead."
"One might say the same of you. How many people even know who you really are?"
"None." He turned away, jaw clenched. "Though I could ask the same of you."
Silverlock laughed. "Anyone who truly knew me died long before you were born, my dear. Now, only you and the Shrive have any inkling. Not even the gods are sure, anymore- not even Varun, and it's a sad thing indeed when your own patron forgets your name." He put on an exaggeratedly agrieved face. "Disgraceful, that."
Theron relaxed minutely and shook his head ruefully. Silverlock hadn't changed in the slightest. "Some day you'll have to tell me how you came to be a servant of the god of healing and clean water."
"It's a good tale, that one, full of intrigue and entrails and snakes." Silverlock shrugged. "But now Varun is my patron in name only. He hasn't spoken to me in centuries- none of the gods hear their followers anymore. The people of this world are moving on. The old order will collapse in on itself, and a new one will follow. It's your fault, you realize. The death of your country and your people and your gods has left a hole. I, for one, do not look forward to seeing what fills it."
Silence filled the air between them as Silverlock sipped his tea. Theron played with a loose thread on his sleeve, and felt sixteen again. "When you took me in, you said I had great potential to do great things," he said at last. "When I went home, all I could think of was making my father pay for what he did to my mother- and to me, by association."
"Is it my approval you crave? My commendation? You became a god. Not many teachers can say that of their students." There was mockery in Silverlock's voice. "You were always something of a romantic, Theronil, but I never suspected you to be capable of sentimentality on this scale."
"I never earned that name," Theron interupted. His bitterness was palpable. "Ironic, isn't it? I destroyed the Thaumatocracy before I could be reclassified."
"Fool. You learned nothing- seven years with me, and countless more with your mother's ghost to guide you, and you learned nothing." Silverlock reached across the table and grabbed his chin. The blades on his fingers drew tiny drops of blood. He cocked his head to the side, birdlike, and examined Theron's face carefully. "That name has been yours since the moment you clawed your way out of your mother's womb. You weren't worthy of it before but now, I think, you are."
He licked the tiny traces of blood from his claws and smiled, cat-like. Theron shuddered, but his heart wasn't in it.
"Names are important, Theronil. If you forget everything else I taught you, remember that, at least." He stood in a swirl of magic and patterned cloth. "Now, as pleasant as it is to visit and reminisce, my dear, I doubt I'll see you again. This is no longer my city and, much as it pains me to admit it, I can't stay here and remain true to myself."
Theron stood as well, and tried to ignore the fact that Silverlock stood a full head shorter than him. The mage had always seemed to tower over everything in his memories- but then, he didn't remember much, these days. "Be sure to send word when you die, D'Alestri. I'll have Stella look for your soul on the tide."
"You'll be the first to know; my estates are yours when I'm gone, if you can find them all. But don't trouble your Mystic; my soul has no need for guidance."
"Then we part as equals, if you'll allow it, Silverlock." Theron held out his hand. Silverlock's claws drew more blood from his wrist, but they were warm against his skin. "Or, should I say- Anzani."
Silverlock's free hand touched the collar at his throat and smiled openly. Not a smirk or a sneer, but an honest smile. "Equals, indeed. To speak my name means we cannot be anything else. You always were a clever boy, Theronil. Nothing more, nothing less. We must never claim to be otherwise."
He disappeared silently, leaving behind a faint aftertaste of blood and magic. Blood dripped down Theron's wrist, and spattered the table with tiny drops of red.
------------
...shit, I think I just killed off my favorite character. What the hell, Silverlock, that was totally unnecessary.
In half-elven culture, names are sacred; you don't share your name with anyone unless you're completely comfortable with them knowing the shape of your soul. Traditionally, a half elf tattoos his name on his neck and wears a slave collar to hide it.
Aside from Theron, only four other people have known Silverlock's real name, and two of them were gods.
Names have less religious significance and more socio-political significance in Radrezhaea, since names denote skill and rank, but there are plenty of parallels between Theron assuming his fully ranked name and Silver using his true name.
"When I heard you were in town and hadn't come to visit, I was quite hurt." He wore glittering steel sheathes on his fingers. They made tiny musical sounds against his teacup. The engravings on them matched those on the heavy metal collar he wore, and the shackles around his wrists. "It seems the time between our last meeting and now has done nothing to turn you into a civilized creature."
"I thought you were dead." Theron's own drink sat untouched. "You ought to be dead."
"One might say the same of you. How many people even know who you really are?"
"None." He turned away, jaw clenched. "Though I could ask the same of you."
Silverlock laughed. "Anyone who truly knew me died long before you were born, my dear. Now, only you and the Shrive have any inkling. Not even the gods are sure, anymore- not even Varun, and it's a sad thing indeed when your own patron forgets your name." He put on an exaggeratedly agrieved face. "Disgraceful, that."
Theron relaxed minutely and shook his head ruefully. Silverlock hadn't changed in the slightest. "Some day you'll have to tell me how you came to be a servant of the god of healing and clean water."
"It's a good tale, that one, full of intrigue and entrails and snakes." Silverlock shrugged. "But now Varun is my patron in name only. He hasn't spoken to me in centuries- none of the gods hear their followers anymore. The people of this world are moving on. The old order will collapse in on itself, and a new one will follow. It's your fault, you realize. The death of your country and your people and your gods has left a hole. I, for one, do not look forward to seeing what fills it."
Silence filled the air between them as Silverlock sipped his tea. Theron played with a loose thread on his sleeve, and felt sixteen again. "When you took me in, you said I had great potential to do great things," he said at last. "When I went home, all I could think of was making my father pay for what he did to my mother- and to me, by association."
"Is it my approval you crave? My commendation? You became a god. Not many teachers can say that of their students." There was mockery in Silverlock's voice. "You were always something of a romantic, Theronil, but I never suspected you to be capable of sentimentality on this scale."
"I never earned that name," Theron interupted. His bitterness was palpable. "Ironic, isn't it? I destroyed the Thaumatocracy before I could be reclassified."
"Fool. You learned nothing- seven years with me, and countless more with your mother's ghost to guide you, and you learned nothing." Silverlock reached across the table and grabbed his chin. The blades on his fingers drew tiny drops of blood. He cocked his head to the side, birdlike, and examined Theron's face carefully. "That name has been yours since the moment you clawed your way out of your mother's womb. You weren't worthy of it before but now, I think, you are."
He licked the tiny traces of blood from his claws and smiled, cat-like. Theron shuddered, but his heart wasn't in it.
"Names are important, Theronil. If you forget everything else I taught you, remember that, at least." He stood in a swirl of magic and patterned cloth. "Now, as pleasant as it is to visit and reminisce, my dear, I doubt I'll see you again. This is no longer my city and, much as it pains me to admit it, I can't stay here and remain true to myself."
Theron stood as well, and tried to ignore the fact that Silverlock stood a full head shorter than him. The mage had always seemed to tower over everything in his memories- but then, he didn't remember much, these days. "Be sure to send word when you die, D'Alestri. I'll have Stella look for your soul on the tide."
"You'll be the first to know; my estates are yours when I'm gone, if you can find them all. But don't trouble your Mystic; my soul has no need for guidance."
"Then we part as equals, if you'll allow it, Silverlock." Theron held out his hand. Silverlock's claws drew more blood from his wrist, but they were warm against his skin. "Or, should I say- Anzani."
Silverlock's free hand touched the collar at his throat and smiled openly. Not a smirk or a sneer, but an honest smile. "Equals, indeed. To speak my name means we cannot be anything else. You always were a clever boy, Theronil. Nothing more, nothing less. We must never claim to be otherwise."
He disappeared silently, leaving behind a faint aftertaste of blood and magic. Blood dripped down Theron's wrist, and spattered the table with tiny drops of red.
------------
...shit, I think I just killed off my favorite character. What the hell, Silverlock, that was totally unnecessary.
In half-elven culture, names are sacred; you don't share your name with anyone unless you're completely comfortable with them knowing the shape of your soul. Traditionally, a half elf tattoos his name on his neck and wears a slave collar to hide it.
Aside from Theron, only four other people have known Silverlock's real name, and two of them were gods.
Names have less religious significance and more socio-political significance in Radrezhaea, since names denote skill and rank, but there are plenty of parallels between Theron assuming his fully ranked name and Silver using his true name.
Fifteen, Stella Matin: Anzani
Silverlock is probably one of my favorite original characters ever. I'm a little sad that I never really write anything for his actual story; he just gets cameos in Stella Matin and does his best to make Theron's life miserable.
And Radrezhaean accents really do sound silly. They all talk like they've got marbles stuffed in their cheeks; everyone else calls them Radrezians (long "e" sound). Silverlock, in addition to teaching Theron all he needs to know about blood play and being evil, has made it his goal to get the boy to talk properly.
--------------
"Anzani."
"What?" Theron glanced up from the Weaving he held between his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. "Can't you save your distractions until after I've finished with this?"
"That would hardly be any fun." Silverlock traced his finger through the blood puddled on Theron's work table. "You're working in messy conditions. Very sloppy."
"It's messy work," Theron grated out. He pulled a few more glittering strands of aether and the quasi-elemental stuff that felt like life and tasted like death from the blood. They clung to his fingers like spider silk.
"Hence my suggestion: anzani." The necromancer drew patterns on the table with his bloody finger. "It will help you a great deal if you take it to heart. Of course, you could continue on as you are, and still receive satisfactory results- but I've never felt that the ends justify the means. The process of magic is as much an art as the product. Sometimes I feel that you forget that."
Several threads snapped under tension, and the Weaving dissolved into thrashing strands between Theron's hands. "You're a bastard, D'Alestri." The loosened strands had lacerated his palms; more blood dripped down his wrists.
"You should pay more attention to your work when I distract you, that's all." Silver took one of Theron's hands in his and wiped away the blood with the edge of his sleeve. "Anzani. Nothing more, nothing less. It's roots are Shrivish, making it a very old word, indeed."
"Anzhanyi," Theron repeated. He wrenched his hand out of Silverlock's grip. "Fine, I get it."
"Your accent is one of the most frightful things I've ever heard. Do all Radrezians all talk like that?" He licked Theron's blood from his fingers with the air of a connosieur.
"You're one to talk about accents," Theron muttered. He glowered at his still-bloody hands. "Radrezian." He mimicked Silverlock's nasal pronunciation of the word. "It's Radrezhaean."
Silverlock waved his hand negligently. "You're so poorly educated, it's no wonder you can't even keep the name of your homeland straight."
"Some day, old man, I will kill you."
"You know you enjoy the abuse," Silver breathed, reaching across the table to stroke an exceptionally long fingernail down the side of Theron's face. "Now, anzani."
The terrified revulsion on Theron's face was delicious for all that it lasted only briefly. He brought his face and his emotions under control quickly. "Nothing more, nothing less," he said. His voice wavered only slightly. "Fine. What's it supposed to mean?"
"Now he asks questions." Silverlock rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. "You're an ungrateful brat and an idiot, my dear. But I'll explain it to you in simple terms because you're pretty. Anzani is a form of perfection, a sort of elegance. An economy of thought and movement and deed. Perfect it, and you perfect all things. Your magic is creative, but it's also very sloppy."
He stood in a swirl of magic and expensive cloth. "Think on it, and report your thoughts to me at dinner. Be prompt, please. I'm in no mood to wait for your temper." The mage disappeared with a controlled lack of noise, leaving behind a seething teenager.
And Radrezhaean accents really do sound silly. They all talk like they've got marbles stuffed in their cheeks; everyone else calls them Radrezians (long "e" sound). Silverlock, in addition to teaching Theron all he needs to know about blood play and being evil, has made it his goal to get the boy to talk properly.
--------------
"Anzani."
"What?" Theron glanced up from the Weaving he held between his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. "Can't you save your distractions until after I've finished with this?"
"That would hardly be any fun." Silverlock traced his finger through the blood puddled on Theron's work table. "You're working in messy conditions. Very sloppy."
"It's messy work," Theron grated out. He pulled a few more glittering strands of aether and the quasi-elemental stuff that felt like life and tasted like death from the blood. They clung to his fingers like spider silk.
"Hence my suggestion: anzani." The necromancer drew patterns on the table with his bloody finger. "It will help you a great deal if you take it to heart. Of course, you could continue on as you are, and still receive satisfactory results- but I've never felt that the ends justify the means. The process of magic is as much an art as the product. Sometimes I feel that you forget that."
Several threads snapped under tension, and the Weaving dissolved into thrashing strands between Theron's hands. "You're a bastard, D'Alestri." The loosened strands had lacerated his palms; more blood dripped down his wrists.
"You should pay more attention to your work when I distract you, that's all." Silver took one of Theron's hands in his and wiped away the blood with the edge of his sleeve. "Anzani. Nothing more, nothing less. It's roots are Shrivish, making it a very old word, indeed."
"Anzhanyi," Theron repeated. He wrenched his hand out of Silverlock's grip. "Fine, I get it."
"Your accent is one of the most frightful things I've ever heard. Do all Radrezians all talk like that?" He licked Theron's blood from his fingers with the air of a connosieur.
"You're one to talk about accents," Theron muttered. He glowered at his still-bloody hands. "Radrezian." He mimicked Silverlock's nasal pronunciation of the word. "It's Radrezhaean."
Silverlock waved his hand negligently. "You're so poorly educated, it's no wonder you can't even keep the name of your homeland straight."
"Some day, old man, I will kill you."
"You know you enjoy the abuse," Silver breathed, reaching across the table to stroke an exceptionally long fingernail down the side of Theron's face. "Now, anzani."
The terrified revulsion on Theron's face was delicious for all that it lasted only briefly. He brought his face and his emotions under control quickly. "Nothing more, nothing less," he said. His voice wavered only slightly. "Fine. What's it supposed to mean?"
"Now he asks questions." Silverlock rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. "You're an ungrateful brat and an idiot, my dear. But I'll explain it to you in simple terms because you're pretty. Anzani is a form of perfection, a sort of elegance. An economy of thought and movement and deed. Perfect it, and you perfect all things. Your magic is creative, but it's also very sloppy."
He stood in a swirl of magic and expensive cloth. "Think on it, and report your thoughts to me at dinner. Be prompt, please. I'm in no mood to wait for your temper." The mage disappeared with a controlled lack of noise, leaving behind a seething teenager.
Fourteen, Seventh Hour: Shield Brother
Seventh Hour was all about the high-handed language and epic heroes. Dunno why I'm suddenly writing for it again; I'd thought that world was abandoned and gone in my head.
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A firestorm raged over the battlefield, with Marcus standing at the center of it. When the ash finally cleared, it was Numa, not Asphodel, who walked through the smoking coals to catch him as he fell. The Barren girl covered her face against the sun and cowered in the shade of a withered tree.
Marcus wiped the ash and blood from his face when Numa set him back on his feet. "They took her." He let himself be led from the battlefield; they were the only living things for miles. "I let them take her."
Tiny flames still danced around the crown of his head and at his fingertips. Numa caught them between his thumb and forefinger and gathered them in the palm of his hand. The fire evaporated into faint warmth across his skin. "You allowed nothing, Marcus. This is not your fault, anymore than the fall of Uruk was your fault."
"Not my fault? Are you blind?" Marcus laughed untils his legs trembled and Numa had to hold him before he fell again. "You're a fool for staying with me, Zelindo. A fool above all other fools, because I'll never love you as I love them, no matter how many times you keep me from falling."
"It's been generations since you last called me that, Marcus." Numa's voice was gentle, chiding. "Shall you be Marduk, once more? And will she become Isidore in your eyes- Isidore, leaving you behind, yet again? And can you even remember her name? Let us not speak of fools. I know who I am; can you say the same?"
Marcus leaned on him heavily and closed his eyes. "I am the Destroyer and Keeper of the Last Hour. That is all I shall ever be, all I shall ever need." He went limp in Numa's arms.
Once, he had been a common thief; once, he had been a vererated priest of the Clock- and those were both within one lifetime. Numa couldn't remember much in the generations between himself and Zelindo, but he knew that he would always, no matter the situation, stand by this man, be his name Marcus or Marduk or Abaddon. Some things were determined by forces outside the scope of human comprehension.
Numa carried him back to the edge of the battlefield where Asphodel waited. Her skin glinted in the sun that filtered through the tree branches. She shied away from the heat that rolled off of them in waves and stared at Numa with the sadness of a thousand unfinished lifetimes in her eyes.
----------
A firestorm raged over the battlefield, with Marcus standing at the center of it. When the ash finally cleared, it was Numa, not Asphodel, who walked through the smoking coals to catch him as he fell. The Barren girl covered her face against the sun and cowered in the shade of a withered tree.
Marcus wiped the ash and blood from his face when Numa set him back on his feet. "They took her." He let himself be led from the battlefield; they were the only living things for miles. "I let them take her."
Tiny flames still danced around the crown of his head and at his fingertips. Numa caught them between his thumb and forefinger and gathered them in the palm of his hand. The fire evaporated into faint warmth across his skin. "You allowed nothing, Marcus. This is not your fault, anymore than the fall of Uruk was your fault."
"Not my fault? Are you blind?" Marcus laughed untils his legs trembled and Numa had to hold him before he fell again. "You're a fool for staying with me, Zelindo. A fool above all other fools, because I'll never love you as I love them, no matter how many times you keep me from falling."
"It's been generations since you last called me that, Marcus." Numa's voice was gentle, chiding. "Shall you be Marduk, once more? And will she become Isidore in your eyes- Isidore, leaving you behind, yet again? And can you even remember her name? Let us not speak of fools. I know who I am; can you say the same?"
Marcus leaned on him heavily and closed his eyes. "I am the Destroyer and Keeper of the Last Hour. That is all I shall ever be, all I shall ever need." He went limp in Numa's arms.
Once, he had been a common thief; once, he had been a vererated priest of the Clock- and those were both within one lifetime. Numa couldn't remember much in the generations between himself and Zelindo, but he knew that he would always, no matter the situation, stand by this man, be his name Marcus or Marduk or Abaddon. Some things were determined by forces outside the scope of human comprehension.
Numa carried him back to the edge of the battlefield where Asphodel waited. Her skin glinted in the sun that filtered through the tree branches. She shied away from the heat that rolled off of them in waves and stared at Numa with the sadness of a thousand unfinished lifetimes in her eyes.
Thirteen, Final Fantasy IV: Southside of the Sky
Vaguely Kain/Edge, but not really, because that's seriously just wrong. Kain just likes getting a o_0 reaction out of Edge, that's all. (And he remains, after fourteen years, three official incarnations, and at least two unofficial variations, my favorite character in anything, ever.)
----------------
He met Edge at the bottom of the mountain. When he saw the other man's scowl, he briefly wondered if the bribe Cecil was paying the ninja was truly heinous, or merely ridiculous.
Kain had heard whispers on the wind of a coronation in Eblan; there was no other explanation for the way his former (was there a word for enemies who fought side by side?) friend looked so tired and careworn. Perhaps Cecil hadn't had to bribe him much at all; Edge had probably leapt at the first chance to escape his kingdom.
You never love something so much as when you leave it behind, he thought, and knew he could sympathize with Edge's weariness more than the other man knew.
"You surely took your time, Highwind. The wizards told me you'd reach sea level hours ago." Edge crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in irritation.
Kain flipped his visor open and rested his lance against his shoulder. His grin might have been friendly and easy, if he hadn't spent the better part of the last five years learning to be a dragon. "Still henpecked, I see." He ignored the shorter man's outraged guffaw. "There are no ropes keeping you bound to the earth- nothing to stop you from ascending the mount."
Edge looked away. "I've no time to be climbing mountains. I was told to retrieve you- you've people waiting for you in Baron."
"They've been waiting for years; a few more hours won't do them any harm." He tilted his head in the direction of the mountain. "Race to the top?"
Something like the fire that once burned in the young prince's eyes sparked. "If it will see you on the Devil's Road to Baron by sunset, I'll leave you here to contemplate my backside from a distance."
Kain winked. "It's a much better view from close by, or so I've heard." He flipped his visor shut and was thirty feet in the air before Edge had stopped sputtering.
----------------
He met Edge at the bottom of the mountain. When he saw the other man's scowl, he briefly wondered if the bribe Cecil was paying the ninja was truly heinous, or merely ridiculous.
Kain had heard whispers on the wind of a coronation in Eblan; there was no other explanation for the way his former (was there a word for enemies who fought side by side?) friend looked so tired and careworn. Perhaps Cecil hadn't had to bribe him much at all; Edge had probably leapt at the first chance to escape his kingdom.
You never love something so much as when you leave it behind, he thought, and knew he could sympathize with Edge's weariness more than the other man knew.
"You surely took your time, Highwind. The wizards told me you'd reach sea level hours ago." Edge crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in irritation.
Kain flipped his visor open and rested his lance against his shoulder. His grin might have been friendly and easy, if he hadn't spent the better part of the last five years learning to be a dragon. "Still henpecked, I see." He ignored the shorter man's outraged guffaw. "There are no ropes keeping you bound to the earth- nothing to stop you from ascending the mount."
Edge looked away. "I've no time to be climbing mountains. I was told to retrieve you- you've people waiting for you in Baron."
"They've been waiting for years; a few more hours won't do them any harm." He tilted his head in the direction of the mountain. "Race to the top?"
Something like the fire that once burned in the young prince's eyes sparked. "If it will see you on the Devil's Road to Baron by sunset, I'll leave you here to contemplate my backside from a distance."
Kain winked. "It's a much better view from close by, or so I've heard." He flipped his visor shut and was thirty feet in the air before Edge had stopped sputtering.
Twelve, House: Terminal Idiocy
I can't write House at all, but goddamnit, kittens are cute. Horrible OOCness, ho!
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House had come to expect a certain level of stupidity from his team; it kept things entertaining. But this- this was a new high. He peered into the box on the coffee table and shook his head. "I think the best way to respond to this situation is to borrow some words from Chase's people. WTF, mate?"
"It's a kitten," Cameron said, ever helpful. "They were giving them away in Pediatrics."
"And I suppose none of you could resist the prospect of free kittens? Is your pay that bad? Can't you feed yourselves some other, more legal way?"
The kitten in question hooked its paws over the edge of the box and meeped at him. House reached out to it, but Chase- Chase- grabbed it before he could touch it. "Leave her alone!"
"Oh for- I wasn't going to hurt your precious kitty, Chase. What do you think I am, some sort of amoral kicke of small furry animals?"
"Yes."
"Yeah."
"It wouldn't surprise me." Foreman leaned back in his chair. "It does match your behavioral patterns up to this point."
House glared at them, but they returned his look with complete deadpan expressions. They'd gotten good. He was almost proud of them. He hobbled over to his board and picked up a marker. "Can anyone tell me the diagnostic for terminal idiocy?" He drew a large question mark at the top of the board, and then drew a cartoony cat underneath it.
His staff was ignoring him in favor of the kitten, who was purring contendedly in Chase's arms.
Okay. So maybe it was kind of cute. But it was totally against regulations. Cuddy would throw a fit. "Fine. Just don't let it get cat hair all over everything. If you remember to feed it every day, we can keep it."
-----------
House had come to expect a certain level of stupidity from his team; it kept things entertaining. But this- this was a new high. He peered into the box on the coffee table and shook his head. "I think the best way to respond to this situation is to borrow some words from Chase's people. WTF, mate?"
"It's a kitten," Cameron said, ever helpful. "They were giving them away in Pediatrics."
"And I suppose none of you could resist the prospect of free kittens? Is your pay that bad? Can't you feed yourselves some other, more legal way?"
The kitten in question hooked its paws over the edge of the box and meeped at him. House reached out to it, but Chase- Chase- grabbed it before he could touch it. "Leave her alone!"
"Oh for- I wasn't going to hurt your precious kitty, Chase. What do you think I am, some sort of amoral kicke of small furry animals?"
"Yes."
"Yeah."
"It wouldn't surprise me." Foreman leaned back in his chair. "It does match your behavioral patterns up to this point."
House glared at them, but they returned his look with complete deadpan expressions. They'd gotten good. He was almost proud of them. He hobbled over to his board and picked up a marker. "Can anyone tell me the diagnostic for terminal idiocy?" He drew a large question mark at the top of the board, and then drew a cartoony cat underneath it.
His staff was ignoring him in favor of the kitten, who was purring contendedly in Chase's arms.
Okay. So maybe it was kind of cute. But it was totally against regulations. Cuddy would throw a fit. "Fine. Just don't let it get cat hair all over everything. If you remember to feed it every day, we can keep it."
Eleven, Naruto: Scars, part 4
So, my new OT3 seems to be Genma/Raidou/Ino. Stop looking at me like that, it makes sense in my head.
These are all really out of order. Somewhere between the last bit and this one, Ino does actually meet Genma and Raidou.
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Ino styles her hair carefully each morning, to hide the burn scars, and wears her hitai-ate as a bandana to hide the bald patches. She's been promoted to tokubetsu jounin; Shikamaru tells her she looks like a pirate and Chouji says she looks like a sexy-no-jutsu Genma.
Genma laughs when she tells him this, and says she's prettier than he'll ever be. She knows that isn't true, but she lets him tease her. In the end, what he says doesn't matter; Raidou brushes her hair away from her face and tells her it gets better over time.
She believes him, because if anyone would know, he would. Shikamaru and Chouji don't understand. They just feel guilty, and she wants them to realize that she would do it again in a heartbeat. They are her team, her family- she could look like Ibiki and she wouldn't care, as long as it meant they were safe.
When Raidou kisses her, she isn't surprised. They're a matched set; this was nothing short of inevitable to her sense of aesthetics. He kisses her like she's made of glass, or perhaps like he is. When Genma kisses her, she accuses him of being a pervert with a scar fetish.
He drapes an arm over Raidou's shoulder and wraps the other around her waist, pulling them close. He kisses them both, and refuses to say anything in his own defense.
These are all really out of order. Somewhere between the last bit and this one, Ino does actually meet Genma and Raidou.
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Ino styles her hair carefully each morning, to hide the burn scars, and wears her hitai-ate as a bandana to hide the bald patches. She's been promoted to tokubetsu jounin; Shikamaru tells her she looks like a pirate and Chouji says she looks like a sexy-no-jutsu Genma.
Genma laughs when she tells him this, and says she's prettier than he'll ever be. She knows that isn't true, but she lets him tease her. In the end, what he says doesn't matter; Raidou brushes her hair away from her face and tells her it gets better over time.
She believes him, because if anyone would know, he would. Shikamaru and Chouji don't understand. They just feel guilty, and she wants them to realize that she would do it again in a heartbeat. They are her team, her family- she could look like Ibiki and she wouldn't care, as long as it meant they were safe.
When Raidou kisses her, she isn't surprised. They're a matched set; this was nothing short of inevitable to her sense of aesthetics. He kisses her like she's made of glass, or perhaps like he is. When Genma kisses her, she accuses him of being a pervert with a scar fetish.
He drapes an arm over Raidou's shoulder and wraps the other around her waist, pulling them close. He kisses them both, and refuses to say anything in his own defense.
Ten, Naruto: Scars, part 3
These are actually really out of order; next bit in the Ino thing, and my continued disapproval of Sasuke/Sakura in general.
-----------
"What about Shikamaru? I wouldn't mind."
Sakura's jaw twitched, and she stabbed a piece of bell pepper with her chopsticks with a little more vehemence than necessary. "No, Ino. I'm not going out with Shikamaru. He isn't interested in me, anyway- and what would we do? Sit and watch clouds? He doesn't have a romantic bone in his body."
Ino very carefully didn't mention that Sasuke not only didn't have a romantic bone in his body, he also didn't have a spine, or any bones without traitorous, murderous, or obsessive tendencies. "Neji is cute," she said, instead. "And I think Ten-Ten is a lesbian, so she probably wouldn't mind. Lee would be upset, though. Hey, why won't you go out with Lee?"
The chopsticks snapped into pieces between Sakura's fingers. She set them down beside her bowl very carefully, and stood up from the table. "It was nice talking to you, Ino-chan." She picked up her bag of medical supplies. "Tsunade-shishou needs me back at the hospital now."
Ino's voice stopped her in the doorway of the little restaurant. "You know he isn't going to come back. There are people who care about you here. You could be happy with one of them."
Sakura didn't turn around. "No. I couldn't."
Ino's lip curled as she watched her friend go. She couldn't decide who made her angrier: Sasuke, for leaving Sakura like this, or Sakura, for being such an idiot.
-----------
"What about Shikamaru? I wouldn't mind."
Sakura's jaw twitched, and she stabbed a piece of bell pepper with her chopsticks with a little more vehemence than necessary. "No, Ino. I'm not going out with Shikamaru. He isn't interested in me, anyway- and what would we do? Sit and watch clouds? He doesn't have a romantic bone in his body."
Ino very carefully didn't mention that Sasuke not only didn't have a romantic bone in his body, he also didn't have a spine, or any bones without traitorous, murderous, or obsessive tendencies. "Neji is cute," she said, instead. "And I think Ten-Ten is a lesbian, so she probably wouldn't mind. Lee would be upset, though. Hey, why won't you go out with Lee?"
The chopsticks snapped into pieces between Sakura's fingers. She set them down beside her bowl very carefully, and stood up from the table. "It was nice talking to you, Ino-chan." She picked up her bag of medical supplies. "Tsunade-shishou needs me back at the hospital now."
Ino's voice stopped her in the doorway of the little restaurant. "You know he isn't going to come back. There are people who care about you here. You could be happy with one of them."
Sakura didn't turn around. "No. I couldn't."
Ino's lip curled as she watched her friend go. She couldn't decide who made her angrier: Sasuke, for leaving Sakura like this, or Sakura, for being such an idiot.
Nine, Final Fantasy VI: From the Dead
Yes, I am the world's only Setzer/Shadow fangirl, and I'm damned proud of it. This is part of the same continuity as Fall, at the very beginning of that epic I never finished.
My Shadow is tired and world-weary and no longer cares about much of anything, including the fact that he suddenly seems to be seeing ghosts; my Setzer is an eternal optimist with a terminal disease, and knows better than to question his luck. They like to snark at each other, when they're both fully conscious.
-----------
The first thing he noticed was that he was not, in fact, dead. He felt like a tower had fallen on top of him (funny thing, that), but he was alive.
This was the fifth time something like this had happened- and the third time it had happened in relation to these people, with their stupid hopes and ideals. He was starting to wonder if he really was just impossible to kill, or if there were other factors at work that he was not privy to.
The second thing he noticed was the subtle vibration in the air, followed by the smell of tobacco and, fainter, of metal and oil.
He was on the airship. That meant someone had noticed he was missing and had gone back for him- someone other than Relm, because Strago would never have allowed it.
That thought stung a little, but he permitted it; he'd lost those rights years ago.
Shadow (it had taken him years to get used to the name, but after a while it stuck, even in his head) opened his eyes. He was in a small bedroom; unlike the rest of the ship, which was a study in cold metal, this room was furnished in warm, expensive wood. It reminded him, disturbingly enough, of certain train cars, half a lifetime ago.
"Good morning, Mister Shadow." Setzer sat (lounged) beside his bed with a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other. "I was starting to think you were going to sleep the day away."
Shadow stared at the space behind the gambler's shoulder, where a pale blonde woman in a red dress stood with her own cigarette and wine glass in hand. He realized that she wasn't so much pale as insubstantial; after a moment, she winked at him and faded from view.
Setzer regarded him with a look of cool interest. "It's not every day someone returns from the dead on my airship, you know."
Shadow shrugged. He was still tired and in pain. "Happens more often than you'd think," he murmered, and closed his eyes. Within a few moments, he was asleep again, with the sound of faint female laughter echoing in his ears.
My Shadow is tired and world-weary and no longer cares about much of anything, including the fact that he suddenly seems to be seeing ghosts; my Setzer is an eternal optimist with a terminal disease, and knows better than to question his luck. They like to snark at each other, when they're both fully conscious.
-----------
The first thing he noticed was that he was not, in fact, dead. He felt like a tower had fallen on top of him (funny thing, that), but he was alive.
This was the fifth time something like this had happened- and the third time it had happened in relation to these people, with their stupid hopes and ideals. He was starting to wonder if he really was just impossible to kill, or if there were other factors at work that he was not privy to.
The second thing he noticed was the subtle vibration in the air, followed by the smell of tobacco and, fainter, of metal and oil.
He was on the airship. That meant someone had noticed he was missing and had gone back for him- someone other than Relm, because Strago would never have allowed it.
That thought stung a little, but he permitted it; he'd lost those rights years ago.
Shadow (it had taken him years to get used to the name, but after a while it stuck, even in his head) opened his eyes. He was in a small bedroom; unlike the rest of the ship, which was a study in cold metal, this room was furnished in warm, expensive wood. It reminded him, disturbingly enough, of certain train cars, half a lifetime ago.
"Good morning, Mister Shadow." Setzer sat (lounged) beside his bed with a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other. "I was starting to think you were going to sleep the day away."
Shadow stared at the space behind the gambler's shoulder, where a pale blonde woman in a red dress stood with her own cigarette and wine glass in hand. He realized that she wasn't so much pale as insubstantial; after a moment, she winked at him and faded from view.
Setzer regarded him with a look of cool interest. "It's not every day someone returns from the dead on my airship, you know."
Shadow shrugged. He was still tired and in pain. "Happens more often than you'd think," he murmered, and closed his eyes. Within a few moments, he was asleep again, with the sound of faint female laughter echoing in his ears.
Eight, Bleach: Contingency Plans
(Hopefully by posting these one at a time, they won't spazz out the feed.)
Oh, have I mentioned lately that I love Ikkaku? Because I do. So much. So, so much.
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Contingency Plans
Being third seat of the Eleventh Division meant Ikkaku had to plan for certain, almost inevitable eventualities. Things Yachiru couldn't be expected to worry about- the supply depot running out of sake, for instance, or Zaraki-taichou losing his marbles and taking over Seireitei.
In the case of the latter, Ikkaku had worked everything out. First, they would have to take out the Fourth Division. The Fourth was full of wimps, so the Eleventh wouldn't strain anything beating them up, and with them out of commission, the other divisons, wouldn't be able to heal themselves.
Unahana-taichou was kind of scarey, but Ikkaku was sure Zaraki could take her. Reasonably sure, anyway.
They'd have to take out the Twelth after that, because they were too creepy to leave alive for too long. And most of them were as wimpy as the Fourth- they had to be, what with the way they all kept gettin' killed by their own captain.
The Thirteenth would go down easy next- poorly organized and kind of sickly, they wouldn't be a problem. Yachiru was fond of Ukitake, but maybe they wouldn't have to kill him; everyone said he was a nice guy.
The Ninth, Fifth, and Third were all still recovering from that mess with Aizen and the Ryoka, so they'd be no problem. They'd get Shunsui drunk and take out the Eighth; Yumichika would take out the vice captain with one of his super-beautiful-make-over specials.
Matsumoto would get drunk as easily as Shunsui, and Hitsugaya was terrified of Yachiru, so that took care of the Tenth. As for the Seventh- if they could convince Iba to get his dumbass self back to his proper division, they'd just have to let Zaraki and Komamura have at it and wait for the smoke to clear afterwards. Same thing for Renji in the Sixth, and Zaraki-taichou'd been wanting to tear that Kuchiki bastard a new one after that incident with his sister.
Ikkaku personally agreed with his captain on that one. You just didn't do that to family.
He wasn't too sure how they'd take out the First and Second Divisions; Yamamoto was pretty formidable, and even Yachiru was kind of scared of Soi Fong. They'd come up with something. By the time they got through the first ten divisions, the last two would probably just surrender in the face of the Eleventh's awesomeness.
Afterwards, Ikkaku would have to organize the victory party, and that meant making sure there was enough booze for everyone. Maybe whores, too, and food. It was a lot to plan for. Being third seat was a big responsibility in the Eleventh Division, but Ikkaku was determined not to let his captain down.
Oh, have I mentioned lately that I love Ikkaku? Because I do. So much. So, so much.
---------
Contingency Plans
Being third seat of the Eleventh Division meant Ikkaku had to plan for certain, almost inevitable eventualities. Things Yachiru couldn't be expected to worry about- the supply depot running out of sake, for instance, or Zaraki-taichou losing his marbles and taking over Seireitei.
In the case of the latter, Ikkaku had worked everything out. First, they would have to take out the Fourth Division. The Fourth was full of wimps, so the Eleventh wouldn't strain anything beating them up, and with them out of commission, the other divisons, wouldn't be able to heal themselves.
Unahana-taichou was kind of scarey, but Ikkaku was sure Zaraki could take her. Reasonably sure, anyway.
They'd have to take out the Twelth after that, because they were too creepy to leave alive for too long. And most of them were as wimpy as the Fourth- they had to be, what with the way they all kept gettin' killed by their own captain.
The Thirteenth would go down easy next- poorly organized and kind of sickly, they wouldn't be a problem. Yachiru was fond of Ukitake, but maybe they wouldn't have to kill him; everyone said he was a nice guy.
The Ninth, Fifth, and Third were all still recovering from that mess with Aizen and the Ryoka, so they'd be no problem. They'd get Shunsui drunk and take out the Eighth; Yumichika would take out the vice captain with one of his super-beautiful-make-over specials.
Matsumoto would get drunk as easily as Shunsui, and Hitsugaya was terrified of Yachiru, so that took care of the Tenth. As for the Seventh- if they could convince Iba to get his dumbass self back to his proper division, they'd just have to let Zaraki and Komamura have at it and wait for the smoke to clear afterwards. Same thing for Renji in the Sixth, and Zaraki-taichou'd been wanting to tear that Kuchiki bastard a new one after that incident with his sister.
Ikkaku personally agreed with his captain on that one. You just didn't do that to family.
He wasn't too sure how they'd take out the First and Second Divisions; Yamamoto was pretty formidable, and even Yachiru was kind of scared of Soi Fong. They'd come up with something. By the time they got through the first ten divisions, the last two would probably just surrender in the face of the Eleventh's awesomeness.
Afterwards, Ikkaku would have to organize the victory party, and that meant making sure there was enough booze for everyone. Maybe whores, too, and food. It was a lot to plan for. Being third seat was a big responsibility in the Eleventh Division, but Ikkaku was determined not to let his captain down.
Seven, Naruto: 20 Truths Kankurou
Kankurou, a la 20 Truths; he's sort of a cross between my Blindsided Kankurou and my Boneharvester Kankurou, not that that will mean anything to anyone who isn't me. (Most of this is pretty meh, because I suck.)
Kankurou/Hinata, Kankurou/Neji, because I honestly still can't decide.
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1 When he was five, he broke a valuable antique vase with a poorly aimed shuriken; he told Uncle Yashamaru it was Gaara's fault. Uncle Yashamaru actually believed him; Kankurou still feels a little guilty about using his brother for a scapegoat, but he values his ribcage too much to ever breathe a word of the truth to anyone. Gaara still doesn't have much of a sense of humor.
2 Kankurou has been ignored in favor of his siblings for most of his life. Temari has always been the better fighter, and Gaara has always been impossible to ignore. Rather than feeling bitter, he feels relieved; it's much easier to get away with things when no one notices you. His ability to fade into the background was what originally drew him to the theater, and it's part of the reason he's become so successful.
3 He does not play with dolls. His puppets are his weapons, and anyone who accuses him of "playing" will receive swift and merciless reeducation.
4 He loves his siblings. Even Temari when she's just finished kicking his ass for the third time that week over some imagined slight or annoyance. Even Gaara when the sand starts playing with his puppets while Gaara gives him that "my imaginary friend could beat up your imaginary friend" look.
5 He no longer remembers what his own face looks like; he knows that the collection of individual features staring back from the mirror are his, but on some level he still believes he's lookng at someone else. He only starts to see himself when that first layer of white foundation is applied; he doesn't truly recognize his own face until he's drawn in the lines around his eyes, completely obscuring his natural face from view.
6 He loves the desert and his village, despite all of his many threats to defect to Konoha, "Where the weather is cool and the women are hot, and only half the citizens are homicidal and insane."
7 He likes working with his hands, be it on his puppets or dolls, or fixing broken things around the house. Wood is scarce in the desert, so he keeps a chunk of sandstone and a file in his pocket to carve when he has a few minutes to kill. He sometimes gives the finished products to Temari or Gaara, or the children who hang around the theater.
8 He can spend hours in his workshop, remodeling his puppets and building new mechanisms and traps. He likes the neatness of clockwork, and the satisfaction of building something with his own hands.
9 Sometimes he spends hours in his workshop building toys that serve no purpose- actual dolls, each exquisitely crafted and modelled after the people he's met.
10 The very first toys he made were supposed to be gifts for his little brother; Gaara grew into a monster, and Kankurou never gave them away. Ever since Gaara became Kazekage, he's left one outside his brother's door in the middle of the night, once a month, to make up for all of those missed birthdays. He still has several years to make up for.
11 He likes to cook, but he's not very good at it. He's usually the one who gets roped into feeding the three of them; Temari is an excellent cook but refuses to so much as set foot in a kitchen. Gaara forgets to eat if he isn't constantly reminded, and wouldn't know what to do with a pack of instant ramen even if you gave him detailed instructions and a microwave. Usually both Gaara and Temari will refuse to eat anything he cooks, anyway, and as a result, he is their family's official Orderer of Take-Out.
12 The first and only time he fought with Hyuuga Neji, he was convinced he'd fallen in love for nearly a week. (The first and only time he fought with Hyuuga Neji was because Kankurou had been half convinced he'd fallen in love with Hinata up until that point.)
13 He doesn't really believe in love, but he's an enormous fan of sex and theatricality, and he thinks Hinata has a sweet smile and an excellent appreciation for theater.
14 She stutterd around him, too; he sent her messages by marionette, and conducted an illicit Victorian romance with her across the walls of the Hyuuga compound.
15 When Neji found out about the notes, he disabled all of Kankurou's chakra pathways and told Kiba and Shino. Once his chakra had recovered enough for him to flee, Kankurou had to avoid Konoha for a few months before tempers cooled. He felt this was particularly unfair since he hadn't actually done anything wrong; all they did was write letters to discuss theater and philosophy and occasionally poetry. He wasn't planning on marrying her and he wasn't planning on sleeping with her.
16 In retribution, he started sending Neji little notes wrapped around the handles of kunai- through the window of Neji's bedroom.
17 It came as a relief to everyone in both villages when the two of them stopped flirting and started fucking.
18 It's true what they say about a puppeteer's hands.
19 He likes to think that he'll get married some day, and have children to carry on the family name. But then he'll look in a mirror and see his father's face staring back at him, and he realizes that their name isn't the best thing to brag about.
20 He's a little too smug to be a truly great actor, but that confidence gains him glory on the battlefield. When he retires as a shinobi, he'll learn a little humility. Gaara and Temari always laugh when he shares this ambition with them, so he doesn't try to explain how much he truly looks forward to retirement. He'd like to try out an ordinary life for a while, just to see what it's like.
Kankurou/Hinata, Kankurou/Neji, because I honestly still can't decide.
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1 When he was five, he broke a valuable antique vase with a poorly aimed shuriken; he told Uncle Yashamaru it was Gaara's fault. Uncle Yashamaru actually believed him; Kankurou still feels a little guilty about using his brother for a scapegoat, but he values his ribcage too much to ever breathe a word of the truth to anyone. Gaara still doesn't have much of a sense of humor.
2 Kankurou has been ignored in favor of his siblings for most of his life. Temari has always been the better fighter, and Gaara has always been impossible to ignore. Rather than feeling bitter, he feels relieved; it's much easier to get away with things when no one notices you. His ability to fade into the background was what originally drew him to the theater, and it's part of the reason he's become so successful.
3 He does not play with dolls. His puppets are his weapons, and anyone who accuses him of "playing" will receive swift and merciless reeducation.
4 He loves his siblings. Even Temari when she's just finished kicking his ass for the third time that week over some imagined slight or annoyance. Even Gaara when the sand starts playing with his puppets while Gaara gives him that "my imaginary friend could beat up your imaginary friend" look.
5 He no longer remembers what his own face looks like; he knows that the collection of individual features staring back from the mirror are his, but on some level he still believes he's lookng at someone else. He only starts to see himself when that first layer of white foundation is applied; he doesn't truly recognize his own face until he's drawn in the lines around his eyes, completely obscuring his natural face from view.
6 He loves the desert and his village, despite all of his many threats to defect to Konoha, "Where the weather is cool and the women are hot, and only half the citizens are homicidal and insane."
7 He likes working with his hands, be it on his puppets or dolls, or fixing broken things around the house. Wood is scarce in the desert, so he keeps a chunk of sandstone and a file in his pocket to carve when he has a few minutes to kill. He sometimes gives the finished products to Temari or Gaara, or the children who hang around the theater.
8 He can spend hours in his workshop, remodeling his puppets and building new mechanisms and traps. He likes the neatness of clockwork, and the satisfaction of building something with his own hands.
9 Sometimes he spends hours in his workshop building toys that serve no purpose- actual dolls, each exquisitely crafted and modelled after the people he's met.
10 The very first toys he made were supposed to be gifts for his little brother; Gaara grew into a monster, and Kankurou never gave them away. Ever since Gaara became Kazekage, he's left one outside his brother's door in the middle of the night, once a month, to make up for all of those missed birthdays. He still has several years to make up for.
11 He likes to cook, but he's not very good at it. He's usually the one who gets roped into feeding the three of them; Temari is an excellent cook but refuses to so much as set foot in a kitchen. Gaara forgets to eat if he isn't constantly reminded, and wouldn't know what to do with a pack of instant ramen even if you gave him detailed instructions and a microwave. Usually both Gaara and Temari will refuse to eat anything he cooks, anyway, and as a result, he is their family's official Orderer of Take-Out.
12 The first and only time he fought with Hyuuga Neji, he was convinced he'd fallen in love for nearly a week. (The first and only time he fought with Hyuuga Neji was because Kankurou had been half convinced he'd fallen in love with Hinata up until that point.)
13 He doesn't really believe in love, but he's an enormous fan of sex and theatricality, and he thinks Hinata has a sweet smile and an excellent appreciation for theater.
14 She stutterd around him, too; he sent her messages by marionette, and conducted an illicit Victorian romance with her across the walls of the Hyuuga compound.
15 When Neji found out about the notes, he disabled all of Kankurou's chakra pathways and told Kiba and Shino. Once his chakra had recovered enough for him to flee, Kankurou had to avoid Konoha for a few months before tempers cooled. He felt this was particularly unfair since he hadn't actually done anything wrong; all they did was write letters to discuss theater and philosophy and occasionally poetry. He wasn't planning on marrying her and he wasn't planning on sleeping with her.
16 In retribution, he started sending Neji little notes wrapped around the handles of kunai- through the window of Neji's bedroom.
17 It came as a relief to everyone in both villages when the two of them stopped flirting and started fucking.
18 It's true what they say about a puppeteer's hands.
19 He likes to think that he'll get married some day, and have children to carry on the family name. But then he'll look in a mirror and see his father's face staring back at him, and he realizes that their name isn't the best thing to brag about.
20 He's a little too smug to be a truly great actor, but that confidence gains him glory on the battlefield. When he retires as a shinobi, he'll learn a little humility. Gaara and Temari always laugh when he shares this ambition with them, so he doesn't try to explain how much he truly looks forward to retirement. He'd like to try out an ordinary life for a while, just to see what it's like.
Six, Final Fantasy VII: Crystalize
Very incomplete- this kind of wants to be epic, not just detatched narrative. At the very least, I want it to get to the point where he meets Lucrecia and actually does stuff.
Hells, I don't even like Hojo- but there is something horribly fascinating about him.
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He was five years old when he first saw high level materia in use. It was the summer solstice festival, and he sat on his father's shoulders to better watch the fireworks. It wasn't the lights that filled him with awe, though- it was Leviathan, dancing upon the spires of Da Chao at Lady Kisaragi's command. His father told him then that he would be able to weild such power some day.
Magic was in their blood, his father said, passed down from generation to generation- but when he received his first piece of materia at the age of eight, all it did was sparkle prettily in his hands. His classmates called lightning and fire, or filled the air with dancing lights; whatever talents were supposed to be in his blood were curiously absent.
He wasn't the only one, of course- there were always a few late bloomers. But one by one his classmates mastered their materia and his remained dull in his hands. One day, he simply handed the glowing green stone back to his parents. He knew futility when he saw it, after all.
It was a great disappointment to his parents, who were both warriors and artists of the traditional style. He didn't care much for bringing honor to the family name; by that time, he'd found science, and was too busy studying for the entrance exams to Midgar University to pay attention to the hard look in his father's eyes.
He left Wutai when he was fourteen to study chemistry and genetics half a world away.
There was nothing magical in materia, he learned. It was simply crystalized mako, energy in a solid, stable state. "Magic" was nothing of the sort; it was merely the result of a reaction between the materia and the weilder's personal energy field.
He wrote home to his parents about the things he learned, the experiments he conducted; he told them about the machines his peers were making, that could refine raw mako into materia. He told them about his own plans, and his own work in biology and genetics; they stopped responding to his letters.
Eventually, he stopped sending them.
Hells, I don't even like Hojo- but there is something horribly fascinating about him.
----------
He was five years old when he first saw high level materia in use. It was the summer solstice festival, and he sat on his father's shoulders to better watch the fireworks. It wasn't the lights that filled him with awe, though- it was Leviathan, dancing upon the spires of Da Chao at Lady Kisaragi's command. His father told him then that he would be able to weild such power some day.
Magic was in their blood, his father said, passed down from generation to generation- but when he received his first piece of materia at the age of eight, all it did was sparkle prettily in his hands. His classmates called lightning and fire, or filled the air with dancing lights; whatever talents were supposed to be in his blood were curiously absent.
He wasn't the only one, of course- there were always a few late bloomers. But one by one his classmates mastered their materia and his remained dull in his hands. One day, he simply handed the glowing green stone back to his parents. He knew futility when he saw it, after all.
It was a great disappointment to his parents, who were both warriors and artists of the traditional style. He didn't care much for bringing honor to the family name; by that time, he'd found science, and was too busy studying for the entrance exams to Midgar University to pay attention to the hard look in his father's eyes.
He left Wutai when he was fourteen to study chemistry and genetics half a world away.
There was nothing magical in materia, he learned. It was simply crystalized mako, energy in a solid, stable state. "Magic" was nothing of the sort; it was merely the result of a reaction between the materia and the weilder's personal energy field.
He wrote home to his parents about the things he learned, the experiments he conducted; he told them about the machines his peers were making, that could refine raw mako into materia. He told them about his own plans, and his own work in biology and genetics; they stopped responding to his letters.
Eventually, he stopped sending them.
Five, Naruto: Scars, part 2
Obsessive love isn't pretty for anyone involved- or - Why I Can't Read SasuSaku, Reason #1.
-------------
Sakura doesn't get it, and Ino knows she doesn't. Sakura still pines after Sasuke, even though Lee has room enough in his heart for her and her screaming complexes- even though Neji casts rebellious glances at his uncle and stands a few inches too close to her, insinuating things that only another Hyuuga could read. Sakura would have seen it, too, if she weren't too wrapped up in her neat little world of medical diagrams.
The body is healthy when all of its parts are working together in harmony; that's a lesson Ino has learned over and over again, in the shop with flower arrangements and on the battlefield with a man bleeding out at her feet.
She pities Sakura, who hides in the hospital with the dying and waits for the rest of her body to return to her. Team Seven was never healthy to begin with, but the amputation of the diseased limbs merely left the body aching with phantom pain.
Ino doesn't know how to fix her friend; she only hopes that time will heal her eventually. She doesn't know medicine; she only knows the cycles of flowers, and she worries.
The lifespan of a cherry blossom is brief, after all.
-------------
Sakura doesn't get it, and Ino knows she doesn't. Sakura still pines after Sasuke, even though Lee has room enough in his heart for her and her screaming complexes- even though Neji casts rebellious glances at his uncle and stands a few inches too close to her, insinuating things that only another Hyuuga could read. Sakura would have seen it, too, if she weren't too wrapped up in her neat little world of medical diagrams.
The body is healthy when all of its parts are working together in harmony; that's a lesson Ino has learned over and over again, in the shop with flower arrangements and on the battlefield with a man bleeding out at her feet.
She pities Sakura, who hides in the hospital with the dying and waits for the rest of her body to return to her. Team Seven was never healthy to begin with, but the amputation of the diseased limbs merely left the body aching with phantom pain.
Ino doesn't know how to fix her friend; she only hopes that time will heal her eventually. She doesn't know medicine; she only knows the cycles of flowers, and she worries.
The lifespan of a cherry blossom is brief, after all.
Four, Seventh Hour: Turning
UNEDITED ORIGINAL DRIVEL.
(I'm always more interested in what happens after the end of my stories than the actual stories themselves. And I fucked over the characters in Seventh Hour almost as badly as the ones in Stella Matin. They all ought to be dead.)
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In the generations following the last war, the soul known as Tammuz, Endymion, Gilgamesh, and Marcus was reborn three times as a servant girl in the service of a beautiful, angry young lord. Three times, she was beaten and raped to death.
The fourth time the soul known as the Destroyer, the Flame Lord, the Time Keeper, and the Bearer of the Last Hour was reborn after the last and greatest war, he decided he'd had enough of punishing himself, and enough of being punished.
Overnight, the world blossomed into something else, something greater and freer than it had ever been before. In the violence of that change, the soul that had begun it all was reborn three more times, as a politician, a journalist, and a father.
For the first time, he died without violence. When the soul known best as Marcus of the Last Hour was reborn for the eighth time after the last war, the greatest war, the war that changed the placement of the stars, he was himself once more.
The world had moved on; it no longer remembered his names. But he knew himself, and his deeds, and he could still call fire to dance at his fingertips and on the the crown of his head. He could still feel the turning of the earth beneath his feet, and could count the hours with his heartbeat, weak though it was.
He still watched the moon with all the hunger and longing of a drowning man for land- and the moon ignored him, as it had for countless generations, since the begining of time.
When he died, it was in fire; immolated on the pyre of his own epiphanies, the man took back his soul from the moon.
The world moved on, and so did he.
(I'm always more interested in what happens after the end of my stories than the actual stories themselves. And I fucked over the characters in Seventh Hour almost as badly as the ones in Stella Matin. They all ought to be dead.)
------
In the generations following the last war, the soul known as Tammuz, Endymion, Gilgamesh, and Marcus was reborn three times as a servant girl in the service of a beautiful, angry young lord. Three times, she was beaten and raped to death.
The fourth time the soul known as the Destroyer, the Flame Lord, the Time Keeper, and the Bearer of the Last Hour was reborn after the last and greatest war, he decided he'd had enough of punishing himself, and enough of being punished.
Overnight, the world blossomed into something else, something greater and freer than it had ever been before. In the violence of that change, the soul that had begun it all was reborn three more times, as a politician, a journalist, and a father.
For the first time, he died without violence. When the soul known best as Marcus of the Last Hour was reborn for the eighth time after the last war, the greatest war, the war that changed the placement of the stars, he was himself once more.
The world had moved on; it no longer remembered his names. But he knew himself, and his deeds, and he could still call fire to dance at his fingertips and on the the crown of his head. He could still feel the turning of the earth beneath his feet, and could count the hours with his heartbeat, weak though it was.
He still watched the moon with all the hunger and longing of a drowning man for land- and the moon ignored him, as it had for countless generations, since the begining of time.
When he died, it was in fire; immolated on the pyre of his own epiphanies, the man took back his soul from the moon.
The world moved on, and so did he.
Three, Naruto:
Another quote-piece, because I kind of like Hanabi even though Hinata and Neji bore me excessively. (Augh, overly wordy drivel. I do like the concept, I just fail at finding the words for it.)
----
"Hope has two daughters, anger and courage. They are both lovely."
-attributed to St. Augustine
----
Hinata has worn her hitai-ate around her neck since she received it, as is traditional for members of the main house. Neji shadows her footsteps with his head covered when she walks among family. This, too, is tradition: both that she should be escorted and protected, and that she should lead him, literally and figuratively, as the main house leads the lesser members of the clan.
Hanabi walks beside her sister, having earned that right along with the hitai-ate she wears around her bicep. She tailors her stride to match her elder sister's more delicate steps, and she turns her head to better hear her sister's soft voice.
The three of them are rarely seen alone, within the walls of House Hyuuga.
When the elders meet to discuss the future of the clan, Hinata and her sister wait, kneeling outside the meeting room. Hinata keeps her eyes on the ground; Hanabi watches the door. Neji stands behind them, with his head bowed.
When her father beckons Hinata into the room, she goes without a word. She looks him in the eye as she crosses the threshold, and meets the gaze of the clan elders without flinching. The door slides shut behind her almost silently.
Hanabi does not move from her place on the floor, but her hands clench into tiny, deadly fists against her knees. She closes her eyes against the temptation to look behond the closed door. Neji turns his head towards the open window to watch a flock of birds alighting on the roof of an adjoining building.
It is not long before Hinata emerges with her father. She smiles at her sister and her cousin; strips of clean linen bind her forehead, and she is holding her hitai-ate in one hand.
When the elders beckon Hanabi into the room, she looks from her sister to her father, and notes which of them keeps their eyes downcast. She stands and turns her back on her father and the other elders of the clan.
Hinata and Neji follow her to the door. She slides it open with enough force to crack the frame; there is something of Hinata in the grace of her movements, and something of Neji in the pride of her bearing. The anger that burns in her eyes is all her own, however.
The birds scatter, winging over buildings and trees until they disappear, as the three of them emerge.
----
"Hope has two daughters, anger and courage. They are both lovely."
-attributed to St. Augustine
----
Hinata has worn her hitai-ate around her neck since she received it, as is traditional for members of the main house. Neji shadows her footsteps with his head covered when she walks among family. This, too, is tradition: both that she should be escorted and protected, and that she should lead him, literally and figuratively, as the main house leads the lesser members of the clan.
Hanabi walks beside her sister, having earned that right along with the hitai-ate she wears around her bicep. She tailors her stride to match her elder sister's more delicate steps, and she turns her head to better hear her sister's soft voice.
The three of them are rarely seen alone, within the walls of House Hyuuga.
When the elders meet to discuss the future of the clan, Hinata and her sister wait, kneeling outside the meeting room. Hinata keeps her eyes on the ground; Hanabi watches the door. Neji stands behind them, with his head bowed.
When her father beckons Hinata into the room, she goes without a word. She looks him in the eye as she crosses the threshold, and meets the gaze of the clan elders without flinching. The door slides shut behind her almost silently.
Hanabi does not move from her place on the floor, but her hands clench into tiny, deadly fists against her knees. She closes her eyes against the temptation to look behond the closed door. Neji turns his head towards the open window to watch a flock of birds alighting on the roof of an adjoining building.
It is not long before Hinata emerges with her father. She smiles at her sister and her cousin; strips of clean linen bind her forehead, and she is holding her hitai-ate in one hand.
When the elders beckon Hanabi into the room, she looks from her sister to her father, and notes which of them keeps their eyes downcast. She stands and turns her back on her father and the other elders of the clan.
Hinata and Neji follow her to the door. She slides it open with enough force to crack the frame; there is something of Hinata in the grace of her movements, and something of Neji in the pride of her bearing. The anger that burns in her eyes is all her own, however.
The birds scatter, winging over buildings and trees until they disappear, as the three of them emerge.
Two, Naruto: Scars, part 1
First in a series of Ino-centric pieces, inspired by her new hairstyle.
----
"Just do it already, forehead-girl." Ino snapped her fingers at Sakura. "I've got places to be."
"What, you have a hot date?" Sakura clapped her hand over her mouth in sudden horror. "Oh, Ino- I didn't mean-"
Ino's eyes flickered away from her friend for a moment, then she smiled wickedly. The movement pulled at her bandages, stretching the skin around her mouth. "Maybe I do. Jealous?"
"I don't have time for dates, Ino-pig. I've got more important things to do." Sakura picked up a set of shears. "Now hold still, or I'll cut your hair again."
"Don't even think about it, forehead girl. It took me three years to grow it back." She held still as Sakura carefully cut away the bandages on the side of her face. "Well? How does it look?"
Sakura said nothing. Ino looked annoyed, and poked her in the forehead. "Hey. Get me a mirror or something, if you won't say anything."
The right side of Ino's face had caught the brunt of a fire jutsu; most of her ear was gone, reduced to a shriveled mass of scar tissue. The burns extended to her cheekbone and along her jawline, and then down her neck. Her hair had already been cut; the bald patches were shiny with burn scars.
It was just one of those freak accidents that sometimes happened. Shikamaru had made a miscalculation, and one of the enemy Sound Nins had slipped through their defenses. Ino had been closest, that was all.
They were Shinobi; this was what they did. Ino knew that. Sakura knew it, too, but she didn't have to like it.
Ino grew impatient with Sakura's reticence; she grabbed Sakura by the chin and pulled her face down so she could use the other girl's hitai-ate as a mirror. "Good thing you wear it where it belongs now, forehead girl."
"Ino!" As Sakura pulled away, the blonde slipped the forehead protector off and examined her face further. "It's-"
"It's fine, Sakura." Ino touched the remains of her ear. "Doesn't hurt at all- and I can hear you just fine."
"But- your face-"
Ino handed back the hitai-ate. "I'll cover it with the rest of my hair. It's not a problem." She slid off the examination table. "I'll see you later- I promised I'd meet Chouji at the shop for lunch."
Sakura watched her go, still gripping her hitai-ate in white knuckled hands.
----
"Just do it already, forehead-girl." Ino snapped her fingers at Sakura. "I've got places to be."
"What, you have a hot date?" Sakura clapped her hand over her mouth in sudden horror. "Oh, Ino- I didn't mean-"
Ino's eyes flickered away from her friend for a moment, then she smiled wickedly. The movement pulled at her bandages, stretching the skin around her mouth. "Maybe I do. Jealous?"
"I don't have time for dates, Ino-pig. I've got more important things to do." Sakura picked up a set of shears. "Now hold still, or I'll cut your hair again."
"Don't even think about it, forehead girl. It took me three years to grow it back." She held still as Sakura carefully cut away the bandages on the side of her face. "Well? How does it look?"
Sakura said nothing. Ino looked annoyed, and poked her in the forehead. "Hey. Get me a mirror or something, if you won't say anything."
The right side of Ino's face had caught the brunt of a fire jutsu; most of her ear was gone, reduced to a shriveled mass of scar tissue. The burns extended to her cheekbone and along her jawline, and then down her neck. Her hair had already been cut; the bald patches were shiny with burn scars.
It was just one of those freak accidents that sometimes happened. Shikamaru had made a miscalculation, and one of the enemy Sound Nins had slipped through their defenses. Ino had been closest, that was all.
They were Shinobi; this was what they did. Ino knew that. Sakura knew it, too, but she didn't have to like it.
Ino grew impatient with Sakura's reticence; she grabbed Sakura by the chin and pulled her face down so she could use the other girl's hitai-ate as a mirror. "Good thing you wear it where it belongs now, forehead girl."
"Ino!" As Sakura pulled away, the blonde slipped the forehead protector off and examined her face further. "It's-"
"It's fine, Sakura." Ino touched the remains of her ear. "Doesn't hurt at all- and I can hear you just fine."
"But- your face-"
Ino handed back the hitai-ate. "I'll cover it with the rest of my hair. It's not a problem." She slid off the examination table. "I'll see you later- I promised I'd meet Chouji at the shop for lunch."
Sakura watched her go, still gripping her hitai-ate in white knuckled hands.
One, Naruto: Cancer
Y'know how, sometimes, a quote or a phrase just rings in your head so perfectly you have to write it into something? Yeah. Also? Given the mission stats of various ninja, it's highly unlikely they sent the same people out day after day to complete incredibly dangerous missions, even during wartime. Just sayin'.
ff.net version
ficwad version
-----
Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.
-Edward Abbey
-----
"I thought I'd find you here."
Tsunade didn't look tired, but anyone who knew what to look for could tell she was just concealing it with a jutsu. She couldn't hide her body language, and she couldn't hide the ache in her voice.
Orochimaru didn't look up from the sink as he scrubbed meticulously at the bloodstains on his hands.
"You just got back from another mission- what was it this time? Political assassination? Gang war? Angry husband?" She leaned against the wall and stared at the soapy, bloody water gathering in the bottom of the sink; the drain was clogged.
"ANBU missions are classified," he said lightly, and dropped his arm guards into the sink.
"Some records are still public, if you know who to ask. Three assassinations in as many weeks- don't try to pretend you aren't taking an overload." She crossed her arms and glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?"
A tendril of hair snaked out of the loose braid he wore it in and dangled into the bloody water; he tucked it back behind his ear and scrubbed at the blood caking his arm guards. "Using your family conections to investigate my records is hardly honorable, Tsunade-hime."
"I wouldn't have to if you'd just talk to me, damnit!" Her fist slammed into the wall, shattering the ceramic tiles. "What are you trying to prove?"
He finally met her eyes; her jutsu could only do so much to hide exhaustion. He smiled, and she shuddered. "Nothing. I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Don't lie to me."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Tsunade-hime. I'm simply trying to improve myself."
Her mouth tightened into a hard, thin line. "Growth for the sake of growth- that's what cancer does, Orochimaru."
If anything, his smile widened. "You're the physician, Tsunade-hime. How do you intend to treat me?" He reached out with his dripping, bloody, hands and curved them gently around her face. His breath ghosted across her cheek as he spoke in her ear "After all, what doesn't kill me only makes me stronger."
She was paralyzed in his grasp, trembling and powerless. "I'd cut you out," she hissed. "Without a second though, I'd cut you to pieces and burn away any trace of you."
He pressed her against the wall, skin cool and stinking of blood. "Could you? I wonder, Tsunade-hime. Could you really?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. "I would."
He released her with a smirk. "I don't believe you." He went back to cleaning his gear as though he'd never touched her.
She scrubbed at the wetness on her face with a sleeve, still shaking. "I'm not a medic anymore," she spat. "So I guess we'll never know."
He nodded, and tucked another errant strand of hair behind his ear. "You're leaving, then?"
"You're not surprised?"
"We all have to leave eventually." His eyes flashed, gold and slit-pupilled. "Konoha can only offer so much."
She didn't look at him. "That's not- I thought we were friends once. I thought- but you never understood us, did you?"
"It works both ways, Tsunade-hime."
She nodded. It wasn't really a surprise. "Tell Jiraiya I said goodbye."
He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "He'll be hurt."
"What do you care?" She turned to leave, heels clicking over the smooth tiles. She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. "Orochimaru. Cancer is a parasite- it can only survive as long as it has something to feed on. You'll go too far one of these days."
He gave her a thin smile. "That, Tsunade-hime, is precisely the point."
ff.net version
ficwad version
-----
Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.
-Edward Abbey
-----
"I thought I'd find you here."
Tsunade didn't look tired, but anyone who knew what to look for could tell she was just concealing it with a jutsu. She couldn't hide her body language, and she couldn't hide the ache in her voice.
Orochimaru didn't look up from the sink as he scrubbed meticulously at the bloodstains on his hands.
"You just got back from another mission- what was it this time? Political assassination? Gang war? Angry husband?" She leaned against the wall and stared at the soapy, bloody water gathering in the bottom of the sink; the drain was clogged.
"ANBU missions are classified," he said lightly, and dropped his arm guards into the sink.
"Some records are still public, if you know who to ask. Three assassinations in as many weeks- don't try to pretend you aren't taking an overload." She crossed her arms and glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?"
A tendril of hair snaked out of the loose braid he wore it in and dangled into the bloody water; he tucked it back behind his ear and scrubbed at the blood caking his arm guards. "Using your family conections to investigate my records is hardly honorable, Tsunade-hime."
"I wouldn't have to if you'd just talk to me, damnit!" Her fist slammed into the wall, shattering the ceramic tiles. "What are you trying to prove?"
He finally met her eyes; her jutsu could only do so much to hide exhaustion. He smiled, and she shuddered. "Nothing. I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Don't lie to me."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Tsunade-hime. I'm simply trying to improve myself."
Her mouth tightened into a hard, thin line. "Growth for the sake of growth- that's what cancer does, Orochimaru."
If anything, his smile widened. "You're the physician, Tsunade-hime. How do you intend to treat me?" He reached out with his dripping, bloody, hands and curved them gently around her face. His breath ghosted across her cheek as he spoke in her ear "After all, what doesn't kill me only makes me stronger."
She was paralyzed in his grasp, trembling and powerless. "I'd cut you out," she hissed. "Without a second though, I'd cut you to pieces and burn away any trace of you."
He pressed her against the wall, skin cool and stinking of blood. "Could you? I wonder, Tsunade-hime. Could you really?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. "I would."
He released her with a smirk. "I don't believe you." He went back to cleaning his gear as though he'd never touched her.
She scrubbed at the wetness on her face with a sleeve, still shaking. "I'm not a medic anymore," she spat. "So I guess we'll never know."
He nodded, and tucked another errant strand of hair behind his ear. "You're leaving, then?"
"You're not surprised?"
"We all have to leave eventually." His eyes flashed, gold and slit-pupilled. "Konoha can only offer so much."
She didn't look at him. "That's not- I thought we were friends once. I thought- but you never understood us, did you?"
"It works both ways, Tsunade-hime."
She nodded. It wasn't really a surprise. "Tell Jiraiya I said goodbye."
He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "He'll be hurt."
"What do you care?" She turned to leave, heels clicking over the smooth tiles. She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. "Orochimaru. Cancer is a parasite- it can only survive as long as it has something to feed on. You'll go too far one of these days."
He gave her a thin smile. "That, Tsunade-hime, is precisely the point."
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
sqoi
Someone over at Thirty for Three claimed Setzer/Locke/Edgar.
And turned Setzer into Gambit.
XD Oh man. I- I have no words. I am filled with so much glee- my love for Setzer, of all Final Fantasy characters, is eclipsed only by my love for Cain, which is immense and mighty beyond all immense and mighty things. It just makes me so, so happy to see my favorite characters getting any kind of attention, even if I never find them written quite how I picture them. Setzer as Gambit? That should have been an obvious association, since part of my love for Setzer probably sprang out of my deep and abiding love for Remy LeBeau (because come on, everyone loves Gambit).
However, my Setzer pahks his aihship in Hahvahd Yahd, and comes from one of the snobbiest aristocratic families in Jidoor. He speaks Italian better than English (or Japanese), and sings it better than he speaks it- he spent several summers in the children's chorus at the Opera House before he met Daryl and devoted his life to her and her dreams. (He's also incredibly farsighted, dying of lung cancer, exceedingly fond of blackberry wine, and fully prepared to be dead by the time he is forty.)
And turned Setzer into Gambit.
XD Oh man. I- I have no words. I am filled with so much glee- my love for Setzer, of all Final Fantasy characters, is eclipsed only by my love for Cain, which is immense and mighty beyond all immense and mighty things. It just makes me so, so happy to see my favorite characters getting any kind of attention, even if I never find them written quite how I picture them. Setzer as Gambit? That should have been an obvious association, since part of my love for Setzer probably sprang out of my deep and abiding love for Remy LeBeau (because come on, everyone loves Gambit).
However, my Setzer pahks his aihship in Hahvahd Yahd, and comes from one of the snobbiest aristocratic families in Jidoor. He speaks Italian better than English (or Japanese), and sings it better than he speaks it- he spent several summers in the children's chorus at the Opera House before he met Daryl and devoted his life to her and her dreams. (He's also incredibly farsighted, dying of lung cancer, exceedingly fond of blackberry wine, and fully prepared to be dead by the time he is forty.)
Monday, December 26, 2005
Laaaazy Jane
Oh, man. I love Jason Mraz. And Yoko Kanno, and live piano mixes of Elm and Ganymede Elegy, and live performances of Tank! Mmm, music. I'm going to have many gifts to give Renegades once I get off my arse and start doing stuff. Right now I'm still coasting off of Christmas, but that'll change soon enough.
I have ideas spinning out of my head like gyroscopes, perfectly balanced and floating off into the distance. I'm still nearly two weeks behind on DIP, of course; if I do catch up (and I hope to), most things will be from the original storylines and the cracked out AUs. I've got the Las Vegas roadtrip crew back in the head, and they're always good for some cracked out silliness.
Typos are wonderful things; "suicide rates" become "suicide rats," and oops! There goes another gyroscope.
Aaannd...my family members have this compulsive need to read whatever is on the computer screen whenever I'm sitting here. (And whenever I'm not, the brother tells me, as he stands behind me, reading over my shoulder. Also while beating me. It's good to be home.) It's a bit annoying, having to keep switching windows to something non-incriminating. *sigh*
Don't want to go to work. Want to stay home and read fanfic. Bleh.
I have ideas spinning out of my head like gyroscopes, perfectly balanced and floating off into the distance. I'm still nearly two weeks behind on DIP, of course; if I do catch up (and I hope to), most things will be from the original storylines and the cracked out AUs. I've got the Las Vegas roadtrip crew back in the head, and they're always good for some cracked out silliness.
Typos are wonderful things; "suicide rates" become "suicide rats," and oops! There goes another gyroscope.
Aaannd...my family members have this compulsive need to read whatever is on the computer screen whenever I'm sitting here. (And whenever I'm not, the brother tells me, as he stands behind me, reading over my shoulder. Also while beating me. It's good to be home.) It's a bit annoying, having to keep switching windows to something non-incriminating. *sigh*
Don't want to go to work. Want to stay home and read fanfic. Bleh.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Rantypants
(*cough* *sings* All I want for Christmas is some Kabuto/Itachi...or any Sandsibling interaction...or some Turkfic...or Ikkaku with no shirt...*shuts up*)
Semi-brief rundown of things I cannot stand about the Naruto fandom/Naruto fans/Naruto fanfiction -or- Pairing rants with little to no rationalization:
Sasuke/Sakura. Yeah, I know, "Don't like it, don't read it." I don't read this pairing (or any of the other pairings I dislike), but the fact that it exists at all irritates me. Particularly when it's written in such a way that the two of them are happily in love; Sasuke has far too many issues to ever be in a happy relationship with anyone, and Sakura has far too many issues to ever be in a happy relationship with Sasuke.
Naruto/Hinata just sort of makes me go "ow," because Hinata's social anxiety around him is just that painful. I don't hate the pairing intensely, but I can't ever see it working without Hinata being able to say more than three words to him without hiding behind a wall. (Post timeskip Hinata, for all that we've only seen two panels of her, disappoints me immensely.)
Neji/Hinata. Hate this pairing. Hate hate hate hate hate it. Hate it like poison. Hate it so much I don't even have words to express my hate. Hate it more than Sasuke/Sakura. He's emotionally reticent when it comes to expressing affection (not completely emotionless, just reserved) and still bitter at the main family, and she's kind of in love with Naruto and kind of socially retarded and emotionally fragile- which would lead to her being miserable and afraid to express herself around him, and him being either afraid of shattering her, or impatient with her shyness. But aside from that, you've also got the whole first cousins and children of identical twins.
Given that the Hyuuga are probably already full of inbreeding (I like to think they keep a few buildings in the compound reserved for the care and feeding of genetic disasters- the children no one talks about, whose parents refuse to claim, the ones that would've been left on hillsides before the third Hokage declared that practice inhumane...*far top uninterested in House Hyuuga to ever write that fic*), they would share a bit more genetic material than normal first cousins would, even with the identical-twins parent thing. Incest in fics = occasionally interesting (but not often). Inbreeding in fics = NO.
I want someone to write a Neji/Hinata fic where they get married and fix the clan and then have a beautiful, drooling, three eyed baby. Only I probably still wouldn't read it, because I cannot stand the pairing.
Kakashi/girly!Iruka. Paxnirvana's Kakashi/Iruka series is what got me into Naruto in the first place; I reread it the other day and it made me cringe, because my perception of the characters has shifted so much since last year. Part of it is the fault of the manga for downplaying Iruka so much (I refuse to treat the anime as cannon); part of it is that Kakashi/Iruka is the default sidebar pairing for Sasuke/Naruto, and much of that is written by people who swallow yaoi/shounen ai stereotypes without question. (Occasionally, I hate Japan.) I've got a very short list of Kakashi/Iruka fics that don't make me want to stab someone. Very short.
Mysteriously powerful!Iruka is also kind of annoying. *glances at Blindsided* Good thing I'd never think of doing that in my own fic...(To be fair, I just haven't covered those plot points. Not that anything in that bloody story actually makes sense, mind you.)
Gaara/any female character. HATE. Sakura/Hinata/Ino/TenTen/your Mary Sue/the Ramen Girl isn't going to work him through his mommy issues in this lifetime, let alone soon enough for them to have a meaningful relationship. (Okay, he doesn't really have mommy issues in cannon. But he ought to.) Oh, and people who write Gaara/Temari? Stop that. Just- stop. I mean it, don't make me get the newspaper.
Itachi. I hate Itachi. That's all, really. (But I love Kisame so, so much.)
Yeah, okay, I'm done now.
(DIP: 8/10. I wasn't on my computer at all yesterday, aside from keeping the logs for Renegades, and I haven't done today's yet.)
Semi-brief rundown of things I cannot stand about the Naruto fandom/Naruto fans/Naruto fanfiction -or- Pairing rants with little to no rationalization:
Sasuke/Sakura. Yeah, I know, "Don't like it, don't read it." I don't read this pairing (or any of the other pairings I dislike), but the fact that it exists at all irritates me. Particularly when it's written in such a way that the two of them are happily in love; Sasuke has far too many issues to ever be in a happy relationship with anyone, and Sakura has far too many issues to ever be in a happy relationship with Sasuke.
Naruto/Hinata just sort of makes me go "ow," because Hinata's social anxiety around him is just that painful. I don't hate the pairing intensely, but I can't ever see it working without Hinata being able to say more than three words to him without hiding behind a wall. (Post timeskip Hinata, for all that we've only seen two panels of her, disappoints me immensely.)
Neji/Hinata. Hate this pairing. Hate hate hate hate hate it. Hate it like poison. Hate it so much I don't even have words to express my hate. Hate it more than Sasuke/Sakura. He's emotionally reticent when it comes to expressing affection (not completely emotionless, just reserved) and still bitter at the main family, and she's kind of in love with Naruto and kind of socially retarded and emotionally fragile- which would lead to her being miserable and afraid to express herself around him, and him being either afraid of shattering her, or impatient with her shyness. But aside from that, you've also got the whole first cousins and children of identical twins.
Given that the Hyuuga are probably already full of inbreeding (I like to think they keep a few buildings in the compound reserved for the care and feeding of genetic disasters- the children no one talks about, whose parents refuse to claim, the ones that would've been left on hillsides before the third Hokage declared that practice inhumane...*far top uninterested in House Hyuuga to ever write that fic*), they would share a bit more genetic material than normal first cousins would, even with the identical-twins parent thing. Incest in fics = occasionally interesting (but not often). Inbreeding in fics = NO.
I want someone to write a Neji/Hinata fic where they get married and fix the clan and then have a beautiful, drooling, three eyed baby. Only I probably still wouldn't read it, because I cannot stand the pairing.
Kakashi/girly!Iruka. Paxnirvana's Kakashi/Iruka series is what got me into Naruto in the first place; I reread it the other day and it made me cringe, because my perception of the characters has shifted so much since last year. Part of it is the fault of the manga for downplaying Iruka so much (I refuse to treat the anime as cannon); part of it is that Kakashi/Iruka is the default sidebar pairing for Sasuke/Naruto, and much of that is written by people who swallow yaoi/shounen ai stereotypes without question. (Occasionally, I hate Japan.) I've got a very short list of Kakashi/Iruka fics that don't make me want to stab someone. Very short.
Mysteriously powerful!Iruka is also kind of annoying. *glances at Blindsided* Good thing I'd never think of doing that in my own fic...(To be fair, I just haven't covered those plot points. Not that anything in that bloody story actually makes sense, mind you.)
Gaara/any female character. HATE. Sakura/Hinata/Ino/TenTen/your Mary Sue/the Ramen Girl isn't going to work him through his mommy issues in this lifetime, let alone soon enough for them to have a meaningful relationship. (Okay, he doesn't really have mommy issues in cannon. But he ought to.) Oh, and people who write Gaara/Temari? Stop that. Just- stop. I mean it, don't make me get the newspaper.
Itachi. I hate Itachi. That's all, really. (But I love Kisame so, so much.)
Yeah, okay, I'm done now.
(DIP: 8/10. I wasn't on my computer at all yesterday, aside from keeping the logs for Renegades, and I haven't done today's yet.)
Thursday, December 08, 2005
AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ASLDKJFDKFL. ZIJSDFLK. A:KFJDS.
KINGDOM HEARTS 2. SETZER. WHY DON'T I OWN A PS2 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY.
GUH. ZIFFLE. *whimper* *DED*
...but where are the scars? And why is his hair all spikey? He's supposed to look like an albino heroin addict ex-gang member, not a bishounen, damnit! On the other hand- Setzer. *wibble*
And I realized last night that when I finish up DIP, I'm going to end up spamming all your poor flists like whoa. Whoops!
KINGDOM HEARTS 2. SETZER. WHY DON'T I OWN A PS2 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY.
GUH. ZIFFLE. *whimper* *DED*
...but where are the scars? And why is his hair all spikey? He's supposed to look like an albino heroin addict ex-gang member, not a bishounen, damnit! On the other hand- Setzer. *wibble*
And I realized last night that when I finish up DIP, I'm going to end up spamming all your poor flists like whoa. Whoops!
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
tired
Writing...skills...atrophying...using...too many...words...*dies*
Currently six for six on DIP; seven for six if I count my short story for Creative Writing, which I won't, since it sucks and is about as subtle as a Hawai'ian shirt.
Current score:
4 Naruto (Orochimaru, Tsunade; Ino, Sakura; House Hyuuga; Ino)
1 Seventh Hour (wtf, Marcus, since when do you speak to me?)
1 FFVII (wtf, brain, we really didn't want a Hojo)
I'm going to spend most of New Year's Eve editing stuff so that it doesn't suck. Blech.
I have to write a personal evaluation for Creative Writing; my biggest problem this year, aside from the standard problems with plot and originality, was that I always knew much more about the situation than the reader. I wouldn't purposefully conceal anything, but I'd leave out a lot of useful details. Like the fact that Tyler and Dei are half brothers, or that Sabatini was wearing a gun under her jacket when she got out of the car. Or even that Dove got to take a shower and do some laundry before he left; a lot of little details, but things that make my characters and their situations a lot more real to me.
I suppose my real problem was that I didn't actually expend any effort on the class, but shh, that's beside the point.
Currently six for six on DIP; seven for six if I count my short story for Creative Writing, which I won't, since it sucks and is about as subtle as a Hawai'ian shirt.
Current score:
4 Naruto (Orochimaru, Tsunade; Ino, Sakura; House Hyuuga; Ino)
1 Seventh Hour (wtf, Marcus, since when do you speak to me?)
1 FFVII (wtf, brain, we really didn't want a Hojo)
I'm going to spend most of New Year's Eve editing stuff so that it doesn't suck. Blech.
I have to write a personal evaluation for Creative Writing; my biggest problem this year, aside from the standard problems with plot and originality, was that I always knew much more about the situation than the reader. I wouldn't purposefully conceal anything, but I'd leave out a lot of useful details. Like the fact that Tyler and Dei are half brothers, or that Sabatini was wearing a gun under her jacket when she got out of the car. Or even that Dove got to take a shower and do some laundry before he left; a lot of little details, but things that make my characters and their situations a lot more real to me.
I suppose my real problem was that I didn't actually expend any effort on the class, but shh, that's beside the point.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Fandom thoughts, continued
On the evolution of fandom in general, Livejournal, and a bit on Naruto in particular (somewhat a continuation of the previous post, and a response to Loren's comment- which I do mostly agree with). Beware of enormous lurking parentheticals; they have teeth, and very little to do with anything.
I should clarify what I meant by my comments on the general move to Livejournal and other blogging mediums. Eight years ago, you'd have to go searching through fic archives to find a pairing or a genre you wanted to read; if you were lucky, your favorite author would have her own website or archive, and you could rely on link exchanges to lead you to other things within your scope of interest. But that was tedius and often frustrating; broken links and un-navigable or ugly layouts were a definite problem. If you wanted discussion or interaction, you joined a mailing list or a message board that may or may not have had an archive or personal site as a counterpart.
Now, you can find dozens of livejournal communities that serve the same purpose those message boards and mailinglists did- and most things are public for anyone to see, whether they belong to the community or not. This is what I meant by encouraging mob mentality; everyone can join in. There's a transparency of information that wasn't there years ago, when fandom was spread out and difficult to navigate.
It's not about your link exchange and your personal website with its mini-library of fics and your personal bio and your guestbook, floating out in the middle of nowhere. It's about the community of your friends' list. Suddenly your favorite authors are more than a few sentences in their message board profiles; they have lives and can be present in more than just a few scattered fic archives. There is more people to people interaction in fandom now, because it's easier to find a person behind a fic or an essay. It's easier to give and receive feedback, and much easier to start up spontaneous conversations. Things are as much about the people as they are about the source material- and that's not a bad thing, at all- in many ways it's better, and in many ways it's just different. It certainly makes life easier for those of us who are socially retarded, lazy, or bad at html.
Livejournal does segregate fandom; if you don't feel like reading het or slash or gen or what-have-you, you can just avoid the communities or authors that write that sort of thing. You don't have to sift through large archives anymore (though I suppose fanfiction.net has become such an institution that there will always be a large, poorly organized archive to search through; that's kind of comforting, really). It simultaneously brings people in from the fringes and decentralizes areas of interest. Again, not necessarily a bad thing, since it's still fairly easy to expand your interests into other genres and whathaveyou. There are still issues with organization and archiving on LJ, of course- the memories feature is notoriously faulty. But that's just a design flaw, and the LJ people are working on it, albeit slowly.
Me? I'm socially retarded and lazy, though I like to think I'm halfway competent when it comes to html. I'm also resistant to change, which is why I still lurk at the fringes of things and keep my fandom journal off LJ. I do appreciate the decentralization of my fandoms and the ease with which I can stalk my favorite authors; I just find the movement towards decentralization a curious thing.
Heh. To use a horrible but fairly apt simile, the move to livejournal is a lot like a fandom equivalent of a migration to the suburbs. And BNFs are the SUV-driving soccer moms instead of the town politicians. *facepalm*
My previous rant was meant to be less on the changing nature of fandom as a concept over time, and more on the change within fandom over time- mostly because I felt like complaining about how difficult it's become to find decent speculative fic in my favorite fandoms. Both aspects of fandom pose interesting questions, though.
(Other things I like to examine- fandom explosions. A year ago- just one year- there were less than seven thousand fics in the Naruto category at ff.net, and less than 300 at aff.net. (A year ago, at the beginning of my obsession with the series, I did actually search through the entirety of the ff.net archives. Several times. It was still possible to do that back then; now, not so much.) Now there are nearly 20,000 and over 1000 respectively. Explosion. And yeah, ninety percent of everything is crud- I believe that's part of the definition- so it's certainly plausible that the fandom explosion has a lot to do with the declining quality of the fandom output, but I do like to think there's more to it than that. The popularity explosion is fascinating in and of itself. Naruto isn't unique in this, though. Yuugioh actually expanded at a similar rate between '03 and '04, and has since doubled in fic count. But there are fundamental differences in not only the series themselves, but in the release of the series to the non-Japanese market. (Both are distinctly shounen series, but both represent different kinds of shounen-ness, which is an interesting thing in and of itself.) Of course, I neither know nor care about the inner workings of the Yuugioh fandom; I might have, had fate not conspired against me in regards to the series. (I ended up missing the show constantly in highschool because of marching band, I didn't have access to the manga, shows that are blatantly built around merchandising irritate me, and the shippers all seemed to suffer from the Chickenwuss syndrome- something that has absolutely nothing to do with the people themselves or with the series, and everything to do with the depth of my hatred for the Seifer/Zell pairing in FFVIII. And god, don't even get me started on FFVIII, or I really will write that Sorceress!Selphie fic where Rinoa turns into Ultimecia a few generations early and all of the orphanage brats are mako junkies.))
It's true that Naruto, as a fandom, doesn't really have any BNFs according to the generally accepted definition of the term- it's outgrown them. This seems happens whenever a fandom gets too large, particularly now that fandoms generally center around livejournal, which contributes to the phasing out of Big Names by segregating people according to their ships, genre preferences, or RP groups. I would say that there were BNFs according to the accepted definition of the term, but all of them have since left the fandom. Kind of like Elvis, and the building. If they hadn't left, the size explosion probably would've rendered them obsolete, anyway.
(I'd go on an aside rant about how well-known authors and BNFs are not automatically good writers, but that's so been done before. I'd probably just end up being mean, anyway, and there's no point in flaming people if they aren't going to hear about it. Sometimes quasi-anonymity does have its drawbacks.)
Someday, perhaps, I'll dig up all my disjunct thoughts on fandom and compile them into something coherent. Perhaps. Until then, you get my meandering, procrastinatory discussions of things that have very little to do with what I ought to be writing right now. I'm sure my roommate is convinced that I'm working hard on my paper, though. And keeping up appearances is so very important. :)
December's Impossible Project (DIP) current score: one for one, Naruto. (Good to know I haven't completely lost interest in the actual series, eh?) Let's see how long I can keep this up.
I should clarify what I meant by my comments on the general move to Livejournal and other blogging mediums. Eight years ago, you'd have to go searching through fic archives to find a pairing or a genre you wanted to read; if you were lucky, your favorite author would have her own website or archive, and you could rely on link exchanges to lead you to other things within your scope of interest. But that was tedius and often frustrating; broken links and un-navigable or ugly layouts were a definite problem. If you wanted discussion or interaction, you joined a mailing list or a message board that may or may not have had an archive or personal site as a counterpart.
Now, you can find dozens of livejournal communities that serve the same purpose those message boards and mailinglists did- and most things are public for anyone to see, whether they belong to the community or not. This is what I meant by encouraging mob mentality; everyone can join in. There's a transparency of information that wasn't there years ago, when fandom was spread out and difficult to navigate.
It's not about your link exchange and your personal website with its mini-library of fics and your personal bio and your guestbook, floating out in the middle of nowhere. It's about the community of your friends' list. Suddenly your favorite authors are more than a few sentences in their message board profiles; they have lives and can be present in more than just a few scattered fic archives. There is more people to people interaction in fandom now, because it's easier to find a person behind a fic or an essay. It's easier to give and receive feedback, and much easier to start up spontaneous conversations. Things are as much about the people as they are about the source material- and that's not a bad thing, at all- in many ways it's better, and in many ways it's just different. It certainly makes life easier for those of us who are socially retarded, lazy, or bad at html.
Livejournal does segregate fandom; if you don't feel like reading het or slash or gen or what-have-you, you can just avoid the communities or authors that write that sort of thing. You don't have to sift through large archives anymore (though I suppose fanfiction.net has become such an institution that there will always be a large, poorly organized archive to search through; that's kind of comforting, really). It simultaneously brings people in from the fringes and decentralizes areas of interest. Again, not necessarily a bad thing, since it's still fairly easy to expand your interests into other genres and whathaveyou. There are still issues with organization and archiving on LJ, of course- the memories feature is notoriously faulty. But that's just a design flaw, and the LJ people are working on it, albeit slowly.
Me? I'm socially retarded and lazy, though I like to think I'm halfway competent when it comes to html. I'm also resistant to change, which is why I still lurk at the fringes of things and keep my fandom journal off LJ. I do appreciate the decentralization of my fandoms and the ease with which I can stalk my favorite authors; I just find the movement towards decentralization a curious thing.
Heh. To use a horrible but fairly apt simile, the move to livejournal is a lot like a fandom equivalent of a migration to the suburbs. And BNFs are the SUV-driving soccer moms instead of the town politicians. *facepalm*
My previous rant was meant to be less on the changing nature of fandom as a concept over time, and more on the change within fandom over time- mostly because I felt like complaining about how difficult it's become to find decent speculative fic in my favorite fandoms. Both aspects of fandom pose interesting questions, though.
(Other things I like to examine- fandom explosions. A year ago- just one year- there were less than seven thousand fics in the Naruto category at ff.net, and less than 300 at aff.net. (A year ago, at the beginning of my obsession with the series, I did actually search through the entirety of the ff.net archives. Several times. It was still possible to do that back then; now, not so much.) Now there are nearly 20,000 and over 1000 respectively. Explosion. And yeah, ninety percent of everything is crud- I believe that's part of the definition- so it's certainly plausible that the fandom explosion has a lot to do with the declining quality of the fandom output, but I do like to think there's more to it than that. The popularity explosion is fascinating in and of itself. Naruto isn't unique in this, though. Yuugioh actually expanded at a similar rate between '03 and '04, and has since doubled in fic count. But there are fundamental differences in not only the series themselves, but in the release of the series to the non-Japanese market. (Both are distinctly shounen series, but both represent different kinds of shounen-ness, which is an interesting thing in and of itself.) Of course, I neither know nor care about the inner workings of the Yuugioh fandom; I might have, had fate not conspired against me in regards to the series. (I ended up missing the show constantly in highschool because of marching band, I didn't have access to the manga, shows that are blatantly built around merchandising irritate me, and the shippers all seemed to suffer from the Chickenwuss syndrome- something that has absolutely nothing to do with the people themselves or with the series, and everything to do with the depth of my hatred for the Seifer/Zell pairing in FFVIII. And god, don't even get me started on FFVIII, or I really will write that Sorceress!Selphie fic where Rinoa turns into Ultimecia a few generations early and all of the orphanage brats are mako junkies.))
It's true that Naruto, as a fandom, doesn't really have any BNFs according to the generally accepted definition of the term- it's outgrown them. This seems happens whenever a fandom gets too large, particularly now that fandoms generally center around livejournal, which contributes to the phasing out of Big Names by segregating people according to their ships, genre preferences, or RP groups. I would say that there were BNFs according to the accepted definition of the term, but all of them have since left the fandom. Kind of like Elvis, and the building. If they hadn't left, the size explosion probably would've rendered them obsolete, anyway.
(I'd go on an aside rant about how well-known authors and BNFs are not automatically good writers, but that's so been done before. I'd probably just end up being mean, anyway, and there's no point in flaming people if they aren't going to hear about it. Sometimes quasi-anonymity does have its drawbacks.)
Someday, perhaps, I'll dig up all my disjunct thoughts on fandom and compile them into something coherent. Perhaps. Until then, you get my meandering, procrastinatory discussions of things that have very little to do with what I ought to be writing right now. I'm sure my roommate is convinced that I'm working hard on my paper, though. And keeping up appearances is so very important. :)
December's Impossible Project (DIP) current score: one for one, Naruto. (Good to know I haven't completely lost interest in the actual series, eh?) Let's see how long I can keep this up.