《August Writing Challenges》 Day 1: Two characters in a hospital waiting room ¡°I¡¯m not going to thank you.¡± He leaned back in his crummy, uncomfortable seat. It was much less comfortable than his typical luxurious armchairs, but right now, this was the only place he wanted to be. The silence was awkward and horrible and prickled his skin. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect you to.¡± But he wanted her to. Normally, his voice is so booming. And everyone listens and he doesn¡¯t have to care about whether they might not agree or not. It didn¡¯t matter. This did. From the corner of his eye, he could see how she made a face of pure, utter revulsion. There was an empty seat in between them, almost as though someone should have been sitting there. A certain someone they both knew. Leaned back as he was, all he could see was the white fluorescent lights glaring down at him, framed by a sterile white ceiling. After five seconds he couldn¡¯t bring himself to look at it anymore. He leaned forward, folding his hands together, turning his eyes on the no-slip floors of the hospital. It was blue. Some sort of light shade he might be able to identify in a better state of mind. But deep inside of him, as there always was, he felt resentment. ¡°I didn¡¯t need to call you, you know. Nobody else in my position would¡¯ve. If it had been anyone but me¡­¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t need to beat him into a coma, either,¡± she spat. Silence, again. Horrible, dreadful, murdering silence. Someone walked past with a tray of syringes and instruments. They smelled like chemicals, and he didn¡¯t need super-senses to know it. ¡°But he¡¯s alive,¡± he said, almost meekly. The thought that he could ever be meek with anyone¡ªespecially someone as inconsequential as a civilian¡ªmade his blood boil. But a single glance at the hard-faced woman that sat beside him was enough to melt any such feelings. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Her face formed into another grimace. By this point, he was starting to seriously consider that she had never smiled a day in her life. ¡°Alive. Alive. That¡¯s all you have to say for yourself?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± he said, simply. The word didn¡¯t feel right in his throat. It was like a toad, ready to hop out at any time. ¡°Yes,¡± he croaked again, ¡°that¡¯s it.¡± She paused again. It was like every word out of her mouth was especially measured to make him feel as small as humanly possible. If he could be called human to begin with. He glanced up at her, and when he found her eyes trained squarely on him, he turned back to stare at his feet. Oh, god, he was still wearing his costume¡¯s boots. Bright purple, with green stripes. Like someone had thread a pair of poisonous serpants over his feet. That¡¯s how they felt at least. ¡°If it had been anyone but you,¡± she said, surprising him so badly he actually jumped in his seat, ¡°he would have been dead.¡± A flicker of hope ignited in his chest, but when he met her gaze again, they held nothing but loathing. ¡°Considering how he talks about you, I would not have held you above such actions. But that doesn¡¯t make this any better, does it?¡± ¡°No,¡± he said. Was that all he could say now? ¡®Yes,¡¯ ¡®no,¡¯ nothing else? Where had his drastic conviction and endless evil gone? That greed to swallow the heavens? Poof. Gone. All because he saw the man he longed to see dead in a bloody pile on the floor, unmoving. Practically dead to the world. It would have been so easy, too. Only she knew who he was below the mask. If he just didn¡¯t do anything, and then went home to her, that same evening¡­ ¡°Do you think it¡¯s a kindness to not be evil?¡± His face snapped up to face her. ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± Two words he had only ever spoken once. Twice, now. Her face was filled with ill-hidden flames. It was like sitting in front of a campfire, knowing the pyre was seething without having to poke at it with a stick. ¡°I will never thank you. You are a blight on the world, and so is every single henchman that works under you. I don¡¯t know what pitiful penny ante plan you had to make the world a better place, but if it means doing this to the man I love, there is nothing I can do but hate you.¡± His hands curled into fists. ¡°It was never meant to go this far. I was only¡­¡± ¡°Shut up,¡± she growled. ¡°You and your excuses.¡± She closed her eyes briefly in contemplation. ¡°Has anyone ever talked to you like a normal human? Like you could make mistakes?¡± He didn¡¯t answer. What could he say that he hadn¡¯t said already? ¡°You¡¯re all the same,¡± she muttered, maybe only to herself. And then, for once, she leaned back in her chair. ¡°He¡¯s lucky he chose you for a nemesis.¡± He blinked. But before he could say anything, a man approached the both of them. ¡°Miss Wildflower? Mr¡­¡± he checked his papers again, ¡°Doctor¡­ Petroleum?¡± The both of them nodded to him. ¡°Regarding the patient, he is- Day 2, Two former friends meet on a spaceship, one to save it, the other to fell it He was running now, breath burning in his throat, his little toolbox clutched in his fist, clicking and clinking with every step he took. Other crew members were running too, in the opposite direction to him, sprinting in fear and determination, running from a beast of smoke and sparks chasing them through the hallway, filling it with smog. Still breathing faster than he should have been, he pulled his mask down over his face. He had a few extra, but stopping to hand them to his fleeing crewmates potentially meant letting the whole ship come crashing down around them. He couldn¡¯t possibly allow him to make such a stupid mistake. He wasn¡¯t a novice anymore, though he was far from the level of his seniors. That¡¯s why he was sent down into the thick of it to begin with. The older crewmates were too valuable and the newbies wouldn¡¯t know what to do. So, it was up to him. The middleground, perfect to be sacrificed in the heat of battle. Right as the plume of noxious smoke roiled over him, burrowing his vision in black and grey, the entire ship keeled again, the artifical gravity generators only barely able to keep up with the sudden turn. Something, somewhere exploded. He didn¡¯t know what, and he didn¡¯t need to know, either. Right now, his only duty was to fix the lateral, starboard thrusters. Without them, their escape would be practically impossible, and he knew that. Poking a few buttons on the side of his helmet, he was able to change the settings, making it shift to smoke-vision, giving him a better look at what he was actually running at. The corridor was partially collapsed in its places, the metal walls partially crushed into web-like patterns, like a creased sheet of paper. More worryingly, he could spot at least three corpses, splayed out, their spacesuits slashed open, blood spreading across the hall in odd, straight patterns as a result of the ship leaning back and forth. He didn¡¯t have any choice but to simply run past them, squeezing his eyes shut to keep it out, to focus on what was important. Unluckily, he didn¡¯t get far enough before the ship shifted again, turning almost a full 90 degrees, making him tumble and slip on a streak of blood, crashing him to the floor, right on top of a body. His eyes flew open and he released a silent scream. Worst of all, the one thing he had no choice but to notice was that these people had not been killed by accident or coincidence. They had been stabbed. He gulped. Despite his current mission, he had never wanted to die. Not before, and especially not now. Regardless, once the ship regained its balance, he shakingly brought himself to his feet, picking his toolbox back off the ground, staggering back into a run. The lights above flickered, the bodies seemed to gaze longingly after him, but he had no time. This wasn¡¯t about him. Down the hall, he could finally see the thruster operating room, smoke belching out of it in great plumes. He didn¡¯t have the privilege to slow down as he continued sprinting, almost slipping once he reached it, only keeping his footing by grabbing a hold of the doorframe. Warning sirens were blasting in his ears, the room filled with the red lights of the flashing exit sign. And in that great smoky nothingness, standing hunched over a ripped-open panel, illuminated only by the red light, he saw them. He froze in place. The tool box slipped out of his hand. A pair of shining, green goggles turned on him. Before he knew what had happened, he¡¯d been grappled down onto the smokeless floor, the vibro-blade of some off-system world pressing against his neck, and maybe he was faster than he would have thought of himself, because before they could gut him like a fish, he¡¯d pulled off his mask in one fell move, exposing his face to the room and to them. The blade halted, still pressed against his neck. The edge of it had already sliced through his suit, now mere millimetres away from slicing open his neck. He could feel the heat from the friction of it hum against his skin. The knife wouldn¡¯t leave his throat, but as he laid there on the floor, panting, trying not to breathe in any of the smoke hanging only a metre above them, they reached up to their face, and with a few small button presses, their mask released its grip on their face. It really was a hideous mask¡ªblack, with green eyes of glass, like a death¡¯s head. But that wasn¡¯t what the face below was like. Not in the least. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. She was so pretty. Just like she¡¯d been all those years ago, back on Titan, where they first met. ¡°...Lilith?¡± She was breathing quickly now, her eyes twisting up into uncertainty. It felt as though an eternity passed, him on the ground, her above him, pressing a knife to his throat. And then it actually slashed a line in his throat and she leapt away from him like a jumping spider, the vibro-blade sheathed before he could so much as understand what she¡¯d done. Compared to her, it took him several seconds before he was able to get back on two feet, forced to re-equip the gas mask or face suffocation. She didn¡¯t stop him. A few paces off, his repair kit laid, open. He took a step towards it but only had time to begin reaching down to it as a knife was once again pressed against his throat. He gulped. ¡°Just¡­ let me clear the air.¡± She didn¡¯t respond. Her face was hidden again, but she hadn¡¯t stabbed him yet, and after a few seconds, she retreated her weapon. He reached back down, and with only one eye peeking over his shoulder, he grabbed the small box. Actually fixing the console to make it stop belching smoke would have been next to impossible, and he was pretty sure she wouldn¡¯t have allowed it, either. He could feel her emerald eyes burning into his back as he worked. But, true to his word, within a few minutes, the smoke began to clear as the ventilators began working properly, clearing the air and making it breathable again. She stared at him. He stared at her. Slowly, he removed his mask. She didn¡¯t do the same. ¡°Please,¡± he said, but the tainted air still made his throat burn. ¡°Lilith, I-,¡± The next moment, the knife was once again pointed at him, right between his eyes, only inches away. He blinked at it, feeling the sweat beading on his brow. Behind her emerald goggles, her eyes burned coldly. He knew they were supposed to be blue, but he couldn¡¯t see it. He couldn¡¯t see them at all. ¡°Do not call me by that name,¡± she said. Her voice was garbled, different, tainted by mechanical filters meant to hide her identity fully. ¡°I am not her.¡± ¡°You are!¡± he cried. ¡°I know it¡¯s you, but¡­¡± He gulped again. He would have wiped the sweat off his brow if there wasn¡¯t a knife there, threatening to cut his fingers off. ¡°What happened to you?¡± ¡°Me?¡± she said, almost jeeringly. ¡°What happened to you, Carth?¡± There was something new in her voice. Something that hadn¡¯t been there before, not when they first met so many years ago, not mere minutes ago. ¡°Why are you on this doomed Republic ship? Rubbing shoulders with neo-humans and Earthlings?¡± ¡°We all have to make do, don¡¯t we?¡± he said simply. Easily. ¡°No,¡± she growled. ¡°That¡¯s not it. That¡¯s not who you were.¡± The knife in front of his eyes began to tremble. Her shoulders were the same. ¡°We¡­ we promised, didn¡¯t we?¡± He pulled his lips tight. Then, he took a step forward. Any other Rebellic Shade would have let him pierce his own head on their vibro-blade, but not her. As though in a choreographed dance, she took a step back as well, mirroring his movements yet unable to relinquish her pride. ¡°We did,¡± he said. ¡°But that was back on Titan, and we were young, and¡­ You have to put those kinds of thoughts aside at some point, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Not these!¡± she said, jabbing her blade toward him again. ¡°Not your ideology, not your pride!¡± ¡°Are those all that you have?¡± She went still, quiet as a statue. She said nothing for several seconds. All he felt was pity. Endless, malevolent pity. Reaching up, he took a hold of her hand. The knife clattered out of it, the vibro-gyro automatically turning off as it hit the floor. He could feel her hand tremble in his, but it was small, much smaller than it should have been. ¡°You used to be so much more,¡± he said in mourning. ¡°You were strong then, yes, but¡­¡± His other hand reached towards her helmet. She didn¡¯t move to stop him as his hand slipped beneath her chin, pressing the same buttons, only moving back once the helmet opened up to reveal her face, as pale as a white lily, her eyes as blue as the sky, covered in clouds of crystalline tears. One such tear slid down her cheek, nestling inside the lower part of her helmet. ¡°No,¡± she whispered, her voice low and trembling. ¡°This is all I am, and all I ever was. You don¡¯t remember me. Not really. What you remember was the pupa before the chrysalis. I¡¯m different now. And unlike you, I have stuck to my promise.¡± With that, her face regained some form of resolve, a hardness finding its way into her features like ice in snow. He placed one hand on her cheek. He could feel it melt within his grasp, her features softening once more. ¡°You are as beautiful as you always were, Lilith.¡± She seemed as though she wanted to rebut him, to disagree, to tell him that she was now so much more than that, that there was more purpose to life than simply being oneself, but it wouldn¡¯t come out. Nothing would, except a sob. She fell into his arms, weak at the knees, weak in the heart in a way she had never been before. It didn¡¯t help that instead of pushing her off, instead of telling her to get back in line, all he did was embrace her, gently, firmly, her arms big and warm and just the right size to fit her small but taut form. It was just enough for her, and everything he needed, too. That was all. Day 3, Character profile based on the word "blue" Name: Sky Aegean Age: 21 Height: 178cm Species: Human Favourite colour: White Moral inclination: Good (+89) This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Motivating factor(s): Devotion to God of Order, the praise of his superiors, ideology Wants: Order in the world, peace and the power to do right Needs: A friend Important mentors: His father, the pope Hobbies: Cleaning Profession: Exorcist Likes: Blessing people, cleansing the world of atheism and disbelief, order Dislikes: Chaos, not being listened to, disappointing those he respect, onions Backstory: Raised into devotion of God, his sole limit being the blue sky above. Day 5, "Nail Biter" I don¡¯t bite my nails. Never have, never will. My mother always told me I was a bit too prudish, but keeping my nails in proper shape and health is only one part of a larger, more extensive bid to keep my health in check. I¡¯m equally specific with my teeth, and my hair, and my skin, and even my throat. It might not be typical, but I hope to maintain a good shape well into my middle ages. Not that I¡¯m anywhere near that age yet. I¡¯m young. I¡¯m professional. I¡¯m diligent. And I have fought so hard to be these things, so¡­ ¡°Don¡¯t you look a bit tired?¡± The coffee in my hand suddenly felt very hot. Practically scalding through the brown paper cup containing it. Deliberately, keeping my full attention on maintaining neutrality, I turned toward my coworker. ¡°How so?¡± She smiled awkwardly, knowing that her question might have been a bit rude, but nonetheless biting out the response, ¡°It''s just that your eyes¡­ Well, I don¡¯t mean to assume, but there are bags under them, and I just want you to know that it¡¯s alright to take a break every now and then. You still haven¡¯t used any of your days this year, have you?¡± ¡°No,¡± I answered. She assumed I answered only the second question, but in truth, it was both. ¡°You must not be seeing right. I would never¡­¡± I touched a hand to my face, feeling the part below my eye, my fingers instantly recoiling as I touched something soft and puffy. But that couldn¡¯t be it. I had done my morning routine perfectly. There was no reason for me to look tired. I didn¡¯t feel tired. ¡°This isn¡¯t¡­¡± She looked at me pityingly. ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± she said, in her middle-aged narcissistic wisdom, ¡°we¡¯ve all been there.¡± ¡°No,¡± I said, again. Because I hadn¡¯t been there, and I never would be. ¡°I¡¯m not like you.¡± The words seemed to take her by surprise, because all of a sudden she didn¡¯t have any more stuck-up advice to give, not even which anti-ageing creams to use¡ªall the better. Not waiting for her to come up with some words to make herself feel better with, I turned my shoulder and walked back to my cubicle, suppressing the tremble in my hands by clenching them tightly, making my perfectly painted, perfectly manicured fingernails stab into my palms. When I came back home to my clean, flawlessly designed studio apartment, the time was almost too much to have dinner. I hadn¡¯t noticed the time passing by. Once home, I drank a quick nutrient smoothie to make up for dinner before taking a seat at my home computer. Work may have finished for the day, but I still had much to do. Emails to answer, spreadsheets to optimise, schedules to plan¡­ At least, that is what I had planned on doing. Until I placed my fingers to the keyboard, everything was fine. And then I saw it. My left ring finger, at the very crown of my ruby-red nail, there was a crease. A part bit off. A small but obnoxiously noticeable part, simply removed. I stared at it for several long, painful seconds before abruptly standing up from my desk, my lips twisted on my face, my hair suddenly in my face. I brush the hair out of my face, avoiding using my left hand for fear of seeing the dreadful mistake. And for almost a full minute, I just stood there in my apartment, breathing. Once I¡¯m done, I become a whirl of activity, moving to my bathroom in a few quick strides. I hate doing it, but I have no choice. The best option would be to go to my nail technician, but not at this hour, and not tomorrow morning. This will be my one option. Hesitantly, unwillingly, I reach out to the bathroom cupboards and pull out the nail scissors. It takes me a few minutes to cut all of my nails the same size, filing off the dreaded cavity as I do, leaving my nails pristine but somewhat shorter. They are no longer perfectly almond-shaped and I hate it. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Regardless, in the morning, this is all sure to go away. But when I wake up the following day, after an unusually uneasy night, it is far from better. My face looks tired. Far more than it had been yesterday. My hair is a mess. No, everything is a mess. I skip breakfast to spend an extra half an hour trying to fix my face, but it isn¡¯t enough, and when I get to work ten minutes late, the bags under my eyes are still fully visible. Not even the jade facerollers and the guava cream could rid me of them. My coworker must have noticed it too, but for fear of a similar confrontation as yesterday, she avoids mentioning it. But I can see it in her face, her eyes. Every movement of her body screams, ¡®You look a bit tired,¡¯ and ¡®Are those wrinkles?¡¯ and ¡®Did you get enough sleep last night?¡¯ I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. When the lunch break rolls around, we have no choice but to make amends. There is only one coffee machine, after all, so conversation by it is a must. She looks me up and down, smiles blandly, furrows her brows, and says, ¡°You look a bit fresher today. Had a good night¡¯s sleep?¡± I don¡¯t grace her with an answer. She¡¯s right to praise me for once. ¡°But, I just¡­¡± She tilts her head, her eyes falling down to my hands. ¡°Did you always bite your nails?¡± The world goes silent. The only sound I can hear is of the coffee machine, grinding, crushing, destroying the dried beans, processing them with guttural mechanical parts, squeezing them and boiling them and charring them. And what pops out of the hole at the bottom is a spray of brownish, steaming liquid. Out of instinct, I reach towards it, only to find the nail doing so to be wrong. The edge is serrated, jagged, bitten and pulled and gnawed into the approximate shape of a fish¡¯s tooth. I pull my hand back and grip it with my other hand, holding it in place as though it were alive and rebellious. My hands are trembling in a way that ascends merely obvious. ¡°Are you oka-,¡± ¡°I have to go.¡± She reaches out towards me but I¡¯m already gone, leaving my coffee and her behind. I can¡¯t focus. The screen in front of me hums in blue-and-white and the open spreadsheet compels me to¡­ something. I can¡¯t tell anymore. I can¡¯t even remember what I was supposed to be doing, much less why. Any time I put my fingers to the keyboard, I find them jagged and horrible and have to draw them back again, glueing them to my thighs. It takes all the courage I have to grab my small on-the-go nail kit and sneak off to the bathrooms. I had tried to keep them as is until I could leave work. Then I could get a manicure, fix them up and make them perfect again. But I can¡¯t. Not like this. Gulping, I glance down at my nails. Several of them are wrong. Wrong and bad and who did this? I didn¡¯t do this. I could never have done something like this. Not me. Never me. Then who? Why? Gritting my teeth, I bring the nail scissors to my fingers and cut them again. Now they¡¯re short. My technician would scold me if she could see me. I¡¯ll have to grow them out for a few weeks. But, with them as short as this, there would be no way for me, or anyone else, to bite them. They¡¯re safe, and they look alright. To some degree. I leave the bathroom. Right as I leave, I get ambushed by my coworker, who steps in with a remorseful look on her face, her eyes all droopy and unsure. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says. ¡°You really do seem tired, but it was wrong of me to mention it. It¡¯s just that you work so hard, and if I don¡¯t tell you, who will?¡± ¡°Buzz off,¡± I spit. She¡¯s taken aback, but I push past her. ¡°Wait, please-,¡± I leave work at the proper time. I can¡¯t remember driving home. Did I eat dinner? My nails are wrong again. Pointed. Twisted. Jagged. They¡¯re so short but they¡¯re so wrong and they need to be fixed. Again. Again and again and again and again, I fix them. All night, I sit on top of the toiler, pressing the nail scissor against my fingertips, slicing off fractions of my nail, tiny slices of white and red until I¡¯m no longer just cutting the nail, I¡¯m cutting little pieces of skin, little bits here and there, biting back the pain in pure desperation. The nail scissor shears off fresh nail and fresh flesh and fresh red nail polish gush from within my fingers, covering me with a nice ruby red shade, burrowing my horrible jagged fingers in its colour. It¡¯s dripping onto the toilet, onto the floor, onto my feet and onto my bare legs. The red brings black with it and before I know it, I¡¯m asleep in the bathroom, curled in a ball, unable to make sense of what¡¯s up or down. It¡¯s all so dark and cold. I¡¯m one with the tiles below. We¡¯re both all red and shiny¡ªbeautiful. Perfect. When I wake up, the stumps of my nails, what little remains of them, are jagged. I pull them out. Long root-like nerves trail out along with them. I¡¯m red again. But a fresh, nice, ruby-red, not the dark, rusty red that covered me when I woke up. Nice. Good. Lovely. Perfect. With a smile on my face, I fall asleep again. But this time, I don¡¯t wake up. Day 6, Main Project ¡°Alright all you families at home¡ªwe have now finally reached the deepest stretches of the Amazon rainforest, filled with venomous snakes and the equally venomous words of my co-hosts. Heh, um, and although we haven¡¯t seen any tribal¡­ Is this on?¡± David looked away from the camera, turning to the man standing behind it. Leath gave a thumbs-up. ¡°Right, okay¡­ From the top, alright?¡± Stepping back from the camera again, David deftly avoided a hanging vine. He shook his limbs a little, took a breath, and redid the scene. By theatrically moving his hands, mockingly avoiding the dangerous ¡®wildlife¡¯ around them, he was successfully able to make it seem as though they were actually in an even slightly dangerous situation. ¡°I¡¯m sure you all remember the reason we came here to begin with.¡± From behind the camera, Leath said, ¡°To see half-naked tribal broads?¡± David paused. ¡°Yes, obviously, but we came for something else, too. Didn¡¯t we?¡± Since Leath didn¡¯t answer, David answered his own question. ¡°According to a bunch of very credible rumours that I trust fully, something veeery special is going to happen this year¡ªsomething that hasn¡¯t happened in, um, a thousand years, I think? Our guide told us, but I kind of wasn¡¯t listening, heh. Anyway¡­¡± He stepped over and through a brushage, his amatuar cameraman following him as he did. ¡°Everybody told us it¡¯s really dangerous, but did we listen? Nope! If nobody else is going to try and film an uncontacted tribe doing a dope-ass ritual, who will? No one! That¡¯s who. We¡¯re like modern day pioneers, discovering America and all that.¡± He smiled lewdly. ¡°From what I¡¯ve heard, they¡¯re gonna sacrifice a poor virgin to their dark, evil god, Mor¡¯tus. So, heh, you know, we might get to see something pretty interesting, you know?¡± He looked at Leath for a long second. ¡°Dude, cut.¡± Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°Oh, yeah,¡± Leath mumbled, putting down the video camera. David pulled a hand through his hair. ¡°And now, we¡¯re just going to do some hand-held stuff, and I¡¯ll walk around and say I¡¯m lost, and then you¡¯ll come into view and I¡¯ll film you, okay?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know about this,¡± Cathy said, not even dressed in the costume. ¡°This isn¡¯t exactly what you said in the ad.¡± ¡°How is it not like the ad?¡± David asked. ¡°Unless you see me in a Willy Wonka costume, isn¡¯t this just like the ad? If I remember right, I even wrote that I¡¯d cover travelling expenses, which I graciously did.¡± She frowned. Unfortunately, Cathy didn¡¯t look all that tribal, whether she was in a costume or not. Brown hair, pale complexion¡­ They¡¯d had to bring contact lenses just to cover up her bright green eyes, but she wasn¡¯t even wearing those, either. Very unprofessional, all and all. ¡°You didn¡¯t write that we¡¯d been in the blasted Amazon rainforest!¡± ¡°I wrote ¡®filming on location,¡¯ didn¡¯t I? Where¡¯d you think I was gonna put you, my own backyard?¡± He scoffed. ¡°Really, if you were so against this, you would¡¯ve said something when I gave you the aeroplane tickets. I mean, come on. Or did a three-week trip to the Amazon scream ¡®dream vacation¡¯ to you?¡± She bit together, wanting to bark back but ultimately finding herself unable to. ¡°Fine,¡± she grumbled. ¡°But turn away while I do it, okay?¡± ¡°I swear it,¡± David lied. A few minutes later, she was all dolled up. She looked about as authentically savage as blackface in a movie, but they hadn¡¯t expected any better, either. There was only one final touch¡­ David held up a ball of mud to her face. She stared at it as though it was radioactive. She glaced at his face. It took a few seconds for her to understand what he wanted. ¡°N-, no, please! I spent like an hour putting this on; I¡¯m not letting you smear mud all over that!¡± ¡°Do tribe women wear make up?¡± David asked, wiggling the dirty thing back and forth. She pulled her lips tight and gulped. ¡°I am never working with you again.¡± David shrugged indifferently and dumped the lump in her unwilling hands. He couldn¡¯t say he hated watching her smother all exposed limbs with the dirty goop, but he still tried to at least appear uninterested. Once she was done, she still looked nothing like a savage, but it would be enough to fool whatever droob watched their little ¡®found footage¡¯ film. Day 7, Bad guy who doesnt know hes a bad guy ¡°John!¡± he exclaimed, cheerful, happy, content in what he had brought. ¡°Oh, John, I can¡¯t believe you came, I¡¯m so glad, I was assured that you would get lost among the useless rabble! But now you¡¯re here. Thank goodness. You really had me worried sick, especially with your past time and all. Do you think they¡¯ll let me be apart of the caped society? I know I shouldn¡¯t have kept this from you, but if you know what I was going to do, I knew you¡¯d oppose. And, heh, maybe you do feel that way, but, I mean¡­¡± He shrugged, smiling not a hint of remorse on his face. ¡°Soon, you¡¯ll understand. I¡¯m sure of it. Didn¡¯t you always tell me that, the ends justify the means?¡± John stood petrified, his feet glued to the roof of the mayoral building. He was dressed in his regular outfit, all dolled up, and if he had been afraid that some cruel heel had been listening, he might not have called him his real name, but rather his persona: White Mask. John didn¡¯t seem to mind though, as he simply stood put, hands clenching and unclenching, his nice white cape billowing silently in the sooty breeze. Another explosion rocked the city, catching the cape in its clutches, making it whip back and forth again. Regardless, John didn¡¯t react. Just as he was about to wonder if John had gone mute, the man said, in a voice so breathy he might not have caught it over the fire and the screaming, ¡°Oh, Matt¡­ What have you done?¡± Matt scoffed and let his eyes wander the city skyline. It sported a lot fewer buildings than it did a few hours ago, but that was for the better. Then again, he¡¯d never told John about what he¡¯d been thinking of doing, so his question really did warrant a question. He began pacing up and down, letting his thoughts finally spill out into the open like blood from a fresh wound. ¡°It¡¯s very simple, really. There¡¯s a lot of heels here, right? And lots of capes too, but they do good, usually. But we can¡¯t tell one from another, and we especially can¡¯t tell heel from civilian.¡± He lit up. The expression on his face made John flinch. ¡°However, I found the solution! See, if you just set a few blasts to go off here and there, then you can super easily find out who survive them, and then you can just pick off those that survive. Isn¡¯t that simple? It is, isn¡¯t it? Gosh, if only your power had been something like mine, you would have done the same thing years ago, I bet!¡± Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°When?¡± John asked, rudely ripping Matt from his thoughts. ¡°When did you gain this ability?¡± There was an odd intonation in his voice, something deep and growly and Matt took it for curiosity. Matt shone up. ¡°I meant to tell you that, too! Oh, I wanted to tell so badly, but you were always out on your missions, and I had my hands full planting the burst-seeds here and there, so, you know¡­¡± He shrugged familially, like he always did when he didn¡¯t want to explain something too much. ¡°If you¡¯re wondering how it happened, I¡¯m not so sure myself, it was all¡­¡± An explosion burst just a block or so away, snuffing out several dozen screams, deafening John to the origins of Matt¡¯s new, terrific ability. Matt smiled sheepishly. ¡°Sorry about that, they¡¯re going off at random now, can¡¯t really stop them.¡± ¡°Please,¡± John said. ¡°Please, please, stop them. Stop this.¡± Matt blinked. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Had John dropped his brain off somewhere? ¡°Why would I do that?¡± John flew across the rooftop in one bound, his blade stopped inches from Matt¡¯s face, only stopped by an instantly grown wall of flowers and stems. Matt chuckled and caressed one of the larger blooms. ¡°Oh, come on, guys! There¡¯s no need to erect walls, John¡¯s just joking around. Right, John?¡± For some reason, the blade pressed against the stems of the flower wall was trembling. Maybe he¡¯d gotten a cold or something? Now that Matt took a closer look, John almost seemed on the cusp of breaking down or something, his eyes trembling and his lip trembling and his everything trembling. ¡°Oh, gosh, John. Are you alright? You look pale.¡± He grit his teeth. His jaw muscles bulged against the underside of his namesake white mask. ¡°How could I let this get this far? I should have noticed before, but I was so occupied with The Rake, and you¡­ Matt, I let you down. I betrayed you. I should have noticed before, but to think that you would take it this far¡­!¡± ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Matt asked with a half-smile. It was getting tough to keep it on. John was hardly even talking to him anymore, more so at him. ¡°Aren¡¯t we on the same side?¡± John¡¯s sword was suddenly engulfed in white flames, the bright embers outshining even the flames around them, eating throuh the wall of flora in a matter of moments. Before Matt had time to understand what was happening, the sharp blade was pressed against his throat. ¡°No,¡± his lifelong friend croaked. ¡°We aren¡¯t. Not anymore.¡± And, like that, the newly-made heel Bloom Doom was stopped for good. Day 9, 5-line poem about Ink How utterly irreplaceable, there forever, placed atop the paper like a newborn. A blot, a splash, a dot, a line, Placed with every purpose of creation. Here forever, and then, at the hands of the inevitable fire, Dead. Okay, so, um, apparently I can''t post a chapter at less than 500 characters, so here''s the stupid ass ramble I put together earlier today. It''s over 2 000 words and follows my descent into madness trying to figure out the future course of a Buggy X Usopp fanfic. This is symbolism that ties together with the poem, btw. Another time-skip? What to add here? We need them to buff up the both of them and establish themselves in the New World. Usopp as he is cannot be an Admiral and Buggy as he is cannot be a Yonkou. We also haven¡¯t developed the Whitebeard stuff or the Benn Beckmann stuff¡­ What Yonkous are there right now? Ace and Blackbeard are still alive and they have not clashed yet, so the dark-dark fruit is still just kinda around. Possible situation where Buggy gets his hands on it himself? In order for Buggy to become a full on Yonkou, he needs to pry the title from the cold, dead hands of a concurrent one. Also, we need a new fourth Yonkou. Right now, we have Big Mum, Kaidou, and Whitebeard. At this point in the story, there is no fourth emperor, and we kind of really need one, and I will not allow it to be Buggy. Not yet. But who? And why? Doing Blackbeard is the boring but obvious choice. Hmm. This is, whatchamacallit¡­ Difficult. Aah. I¡¯m tired. I wanna read my book¡­ Anyhow, what other candidates are there? Obviously not the remnants of the Shanks crew, they be dead, lol. It would be kind of funny to introduce Luffy now, but no. Absolutely not. Any of the supernovas are too early out to make for a good foil. I can¡¯t imagine any of his own mates to have a heel turn; they would have needed to be established as such earlier. Another choice would be to simply not have that plotpoint at all, and to just never mention that there¡¯s a gaping hole in the plot, but I don¡¯t want to do that. Yeah, no. Hrm. Sabo isn¡¯t a revolutionary, though? Huh. Hm. But I don¡¯t want to derail the plot. I agree that the fourth Yonkou position can remain in transit for a while. With Whitebeard, Blackbeard immediatly took his spot by fucking killing his ass. Which was¡­ wack, but, yeah. That¡¯s how it goes, I guess. Man, I just genuinly can¡¯t think of anyone. Fuck. I thought Marineford had been the difficult part, but in reality, it was everything that comes after. In reality, we can do this, like¡­ Simply. We can have briefer meetings, focusing on their romance rather than the plot, and then we can pick back up again once things calm down. For now, the story is as follows: Buggy and Usopp go on a date to marine base city G-4, where Usopp gets a pair of funky glasses and Buggy gets himself, like, a cape. I guess. It¡¯s cute, and then something wack happens (Buggy gets discovered?) and Buggy has to return to his island, all the while Usopp pretends to chase them, all in good fun, and then they part ways. Usopp smiles at the meeting, and Buggy also finds himself laughing in delight. A cute date on Buggy¡¯s terms. By the way, we should seriously do good on their friendship promise. Like-, oh. Oh. OH. Gosh, Ylva, okay, don¡¯t need to go that hard! Right, okay, during Punk Hazard, once they find the kids, Buggy decides to call Usopp, acting on their deal (now we need Usopp to do the same with Buggy¡­ But when?). You know what? I think, after Buggy enters Sabaody, Usopp will actually start going after other pirates, just like, on the side. To an outsider, it looks like he¡¯s just really effective at cleaning up the New World, but to him, he¡¯s helping pave the way for Buggy¡¯s empire. Maybe they should make a pact that Buggy does nice stuff? Unsure, but this will lead him into his development into an actual Admiral. I don¡¯t know what the requirements for becoming an Admiral are, but I want them to be steep. Also, btw, to differentiate Buggy from Luffy, maybe we should have him take on Big Mum instead of Kaidou? But that still leaves a spot open among the Yonkous¡­ Maybe he should just take it, simple as pie, and instead have a complex about taking Shanks place yet being unable to properly fill his boots? His first thing to do when he comes back is to 1, fight Nami for the position of ring leader, 2, check out his new crew (it¡¯s big), 3, find that most of Shanks¡¯ territory was taken by the other three Yokous, with Big Mum taking most of the New World stuff, Whitebeard doing the Grand Line and the remaining being absorbed by smaller crews. To handle it, he scatters his crew more, spreading them across all seas, leaving them somewhat thinned but still capable. If he was more arrogant, he would¡¯ve gone straight for fishman island, but he still doesn¡¯t see himself as that. Btw, he finds out about being a Yonkou at G-4, which honestly just brings him despair, because, obviously. His crew has, in large, been able to survive only because of the reputation as being a yonkou¡¯s crew and the infamy it brings. However, the other Yonkous (Whitebeard excluded) think he brings a bad name to the group and wanna put him in his place, showing the world the vast swath of difference there was in between them. But not without Buggy present. Only when he returns do they go out of their way to do anything, and for a while, he¡¯s actually able to defend himself kind of properly! At least-, ok, random thought, but I think the catalyst for Buggy taking on one of the Yonkous should have to do with Usopp. To be clear, I think one of them, maybe Big Mum (because she thinks he¡¯s a tengu??) kidnaps him, which in turn makes Buggy come running, and maybe this lets them finally, you know¡­ Kissy kissy. Right. That¡¯s actually not a bad idea! Okay, so, the story so far, is that Buggy goes out of exile, gets picked up by his crew, fights Nami, heads to the New World by sailing through the Calm Belt (CoC be wack) and eventually finds himself on Punk Hazard, where he calls Usopp and maybe absorbs Caesar into his own crew? I think they¡¯d have a nice dynamic, and scientists are always appreciated. Most of this can be in passing, at least until he calls over Usopp, who comes rushing. But maybe word of the long-nosed marine (or sogeking?) spreads from him to Doflamingo to Kaido to Big Mum in a game of telephone that removed everything but ¡®tengu¡¯. Either way, after this, I kind of doubt Buggy would actually, like, do anything. He¡¯d find out about Smile and be like ¡°whoa, dude, can you make any of those for me?¡± and Caesar would be like ¡°sure!¡± but then Usopp would clear his throat and Buggy would remember that, oh yeah, maybe not. Either way, in the end, his actions would piss off a whole slew of characters, including two Yonkous and a Shikibukai. You know, just for good measure. Buuuuut this will finally put him in enough conflict with Big Mum to send him down to Fishman island to finally free Jinbe! Maybe it would be cuz Robin told him about Poseidon, but he¡¯d go there and resolve things and make Big Mum even more pissed. In the end, this would lead to an all-out confrontation with Usopp¡¯s kidnapping, probably ending in escape rather than victory. Hmm. Otherwise, maybe, just maybe, enough time will have passed by this point for them to be strong enough to take her on, like, together? As? A team?? I don¡¯t know. Whatever the case, the event will prove that Buggy is, despite everything, a Yonkou. The situation might also be what finally grants Usopp his final rank-up into Admiralhood. Past this point, another time skip. This¡¯ll take Usopp from an Admiral to the kind of character we want him to be, and by this point, Buggy will also have a similar transformation, picking up waystones as he went, the both of them on seperate sides before finally clashing together once more for some reason, this time as a sort of¡­ I guess, this will be the endgame? Aka, where Usopp becomes so disillusioned with the Marines that he takes off, eventually just sort of bumping into Buggy as he travels, and maybe staying on his ship for a while, at first as a ¡°prisoner¡± and then as just a guest. Eventually, this will lead to him acting on Buggy¡¯s side during the final war, but eh, I dunno. Then, they do stuff and this or that. Ya get me? This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Okay, so, uhhhhh. Tyred. Anyhoo. Ok, so, I think they should get together before the final parts, like, as he¡¯s being rescued, things are so dire, and Buggy finally recuperates, and it¡¯s wholesome and all. They promise to get married fully once everything is over and Buggy is Pirate King cuz then who¡¯s gonna refute him? A couple of years pass and Buggy is making good progress (is Usopp forbidden from pursuing him?) towards Raftel, but Usopp isn¡¯t in quite the same place. Following his confrontation with Big Mum, he was finally officially made an Admiral, but this doesn¡¯t exactly make him happy. Once he¡¯s on the second-highest level, he becomes all the more aware of how horrible the bureaucracy is. The marines are not a machiene for justice and the greater good, but rather a lapdog for the celestial dragons, who Usopp finds are horrible. Hm. Actually, yeah, that¡¯s not a bad idea! Usopp, at some point, comes into contact with a celestial dragon, and he acts improper in some arbitrary way, and the dragon calls for his head and for him to be killed. To avoid doing a re-do of the Impel Down arc, we¡¯ll have this happen far away, maybe even on Mariejois, and simply have Buggy rescue him from the ship. I think we should have Garp act as warden, but he kinda lets Buggy defeat him. I mean, they got attacked by a Yonkou, didn¡¯t they? And how will Usopp take this¡­? Okay, he¡¯ll be conflicted, obviously. Maybe he should even resist being rescued because then he¡¯ll be a total traitor, but maybe Buggy kisses him and says he already is? Yeah, okay, fantastic. Usopp gets rescued, and he stays aboard Buggy¡¯s ship as a prisoner/guest, being maybe a little low but eventually brought out of it by Buggy. By this point, he¡¯s almost 30 and Buggy is like, 40. Something like that, I dunno. Eventually, once Usopp is in a better state, he sits down before Buggy and they discuss things not as lovers, but as Admiral and Yonkou. Technically, at this point, Usopp is more of a fugitive than an Admiral, but, yeah. He¡¯ll eventually usurp the entire marine force, so it¡¯s fine. Usopp basically tells him that the marines are corrupt down to the very chore boys, and that the only way to amend this is to destroy the celestial dragons. Ah! Ok, Ok, Usopp doesn¡¯t throw away his justice coat because he still believes in Justice and what is right. Also his title is Midoritengu. Green tengu, because, lol. The admiral line-up at this time is Usopp, Kizaru, and¡­ Maybe Smoker? I¡¯m assuming Aokiji is still on the high seas, or, maybe, in this timeline, he won the-, nah, not as compelling character-wise. Better stick to our guns here. Usopp should have found the truth about his father¡¯s death by this point, maybe by finally, after so many years, daring to read (braille) the full report. There, he¡¯ll read what truly happened, and maybe have a confrontation with Akainu that in turn leads to him slashing with a celestial dragon, untintentionally leading to his exile. By the way, what is his form of justice? So far, we have Absolute Justice, Unclear Justice, and Lazy Justice. None of these are good. UHWIFFW BLIND JUSTICE OKAY YEAH SURE. That is so. Wow. Exactly what the marines would go with. Humane Justice¡­ So it can be positive. Brave Justice would also work. Or Honest Justice. Maybe Courageous Justice, but that feels a bit too long. Then again, these are supposed to highlight the crux/flaw of these characters morals. Aokiji is lazy, not using his power to truly assert the justice he knows. Kizaru¡¯s sense of justice is unclear¡ªwho knows if he even has it? Akainu has a black-and-white view of the world. Tora is Humane Justice because he is humane, even to pirates (a flaw to them). Usopp is blind both physically and mentally, unable to see Buggy¡¯s sins. Either we do that or something like Observant/Vigil Justice, sort of semi-ironic. Ok! I think we have enough to make a proper planning, lol Day 10, "Summers Over" It¡¯s the last day of summer, but in reality, it ended long ago. Now that George thought about it, it probably ended many years ago, back when he was still a child, when summer lasted forever and his parents never argued about who would have to take him next week. He hadn¡¯t really noticed the signs back then, or maybe he had, and he just didn¡¯t want to think about it. They were very small, after all. Mum would make food most days of the week. The rest, she couldn¡¯t bother to make any. Take-out worked just as well. Nobody said ¡®thank you¡¯ for the dinner, so what was the point? Dad became quieter and quieter. In the end, he¡¯d barely say anything unless it was about work, or dinner, or school, or the weather. Whatever he said would always turn into an argument, so what was the point? And little Georgie was none the wiser. Take-out was tasty and Georgie didn¡¯t talk much with his dad anyhoo, so why bother to say anything? What was the point? Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. So it came as quite the surprise to him that one hot summer day, his mum and dad told him that dad would be moving into an apartment in a few months. He¡¯d live with him every other week, but they¡¯d listen to whatever he wanted. There was no cheater. There was no violence, or yelling. There was no inciting incident. Just two people no longer loving them, and the child who loved them both. After that, summers were never quite the same. He¡¯d bounce between them week-to-week, but it¡¯s not like he ever actually had any real relationship with his parents. Not individually, at least. As a kid, he¡¯d only ever known them as a singular, irreplaceable, immovable unit. Not a woman named Barbara Higgins, not a man named Simon Higgins: a family. And he¡¯d been a part of it, if only until its inevitable destruction. Was she to blame, for inciting it, for pushing him into a corner, for demanding things he already gave? Was he to blame, for his complicity, for his inability to change to accommodate her and their child¡¯s needs? But deep down inside, he knew there was no one to blame here. It would always have happened, no matter what. She would always have grown bored, and he would always have grown complicit. It was simply how it was. And maybe in a different world, in an older world, where ¡®until death do us part¡¯ was more than words, they would have stayed together, despite it all. They wouldn¡¯t have had to love each other; merely been able to stand their connection. However, this is not a different world. This is here, and it is now, and in this world, over half of those who marry break their vows. They¡¯re no different. It¡¯s normal to fall out of love¡ªto seek greener pastures. It is only human, really. There was no way to change it. She had her right to seek it, he had his obligation to accept it. It wasn¡¯t your fault. But it sure feels like it, doesn¡¯t it? Day 11, Main Project ¡°Positions, fellows!¡± David cried to the very, very small band gathered there. They stared at him incredulously before he realised his error and put down his hands. ¡°Oh, yeah, I¡¯m the only one¡­ Okay, I¡¯ll be right back. Keep filming.¡± Stepping away from his coworkers, he entered the brushes, making sure to keep them seemingly-untouched. The jungle was dense with vegetation, but most animate forms of life kept away from him. Oh, apart from the mosquitos. Apparently, not even in the depths of the Amazon could the little fuckers be properly escaped. They were just a fact of life, it seemed. A bit absently, David wondered how far he should go. He¡¯d already stepped through a few thickets he couldn¡¯t quite recognise, so he was pretty sure that the place wouldn¡¯t look especially experienced. Perfect for their purposes. ¡°Alright Cathy, come get me!¡± This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Funnily enough, within only moments, he suddenly found himself faced with a much more savage looking woman, only a little shorter than Cathy but a fair bit thinner. Her eyes were wild. Had Cathy put in the lenses? Hadn¡¯t they forgotten them? Seamlessly going into character, David pretended to be shocked and frightened. ¡°Oh¡ªoh my god! A real savage, of the infamous Kwaki-people! This people haven¡¯t been seen in several months, and the last one who met them is said to have been kidnapped and murdered¡­!¡± Saying so, David tried to get a peek at the camera that would surely be peeking out of some brush, but found it nowhere. Damn it. But Cathy was still in character, so he might as well finish the cut. ¡°It is believed that the female members of this terrible tribe are completely subsurvient to their husbands, who are in turn slaves devoted to their evil, chaotic god. Surely, now that she has met me, she will bring to her husband, who might give me to a priest for sacrifice. If I don¡¯t escape soon, I¡¯ll be toast for sure!¡± And then, with great expectation, he stared at her, and she stared at him. Day 13, A character who cant keep a secret is told to keep one ¡°Please,¡± she said, her eyes so big and close and the stench was so bad but he couldn¡¯t look away from her to glance at it, at that horrible terrible thing he would never have thought of her. ¡°Please, Marvin, you absolutely can¡¯t tell anybody. Not a soul. If mum or dad found out about this¡­¡± Marvin gulped, but it was a bad decision, because the movement pushed down another noseful of air, filled with the putrid stench of dead animal. Marvin remembered smelling that same odour just the other month, when their neighbour''s dog had gotten ran over and crawled under the front porch. They didn¡¯t find it for almost a week, and when they did, the only way they knew it was poor Lula was because that was the only dog that had gone missing as of recent. He turned away from his sister. ¡°Okay,¡± he said, weakly. ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡± That was ten years ago, and his sister had only been eight and he had only been ten, and still, whenever he looked at her room, he could always remember that pile of carcasses. Dead squirrels and mice. Bigger; cats. He thought he might have seen a dog buried there, but it was in many pieces and he couldn¡¯t tell what was supposed to be its forelegs or hindlegs. All he saw was the lightless eyes and the tongue lolling out, the gullet squirming with maggots as though it were foaming at the mouth. It was worse now. She hid them better, but the smell never went away. She didn¡¯t bring friends into her room, and not into their backyard either. If anyone suggested they play palaeontologists, they might find more than they wanted to. But she hid them well. Oh, did she. But he always found them. A bone here, a dried ear there. When they got a dog, she tried feeding him whatever was left over, but it was a small dog, and eventually, it just wouldn¡¯t eat anymore of her half-rotten meats. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Not long after, Pooch went missing. Marvin had cried and cried but he never said he missed him. Because if he did, his sister might get ideas. He didn¡¯t want to think about it. And apart from this, simply put, he couldn¡¯t keep a secret. Maybe it was directly because of his sister, but whenever asked, he spoke honestly. Whatever he told himself, whatever he thought, he had one very good reason for this. If everyone he knew and loved believed him to be a terrible liar, they would never suspect him of keeping the secret he did. But their childhoods had ended long ago. She was a woman now, and he was a man. They didn¡¯t talk much, and when they did, they didn¡¯t talk like siblings would often do. No banter passed between them, no sly gazes or taunting thoughts. They spoke like strangers, pretending that they didn¡¯t know each other as deeply as they did. Once, he visited her apartment. It was nice. Everything had a floral scent, and he couldn¡¯t smell anything but disinfectant and bleach. She let him sleep over, too, which he did. All night, he looked through her cupboards, checking beneath the lid of the toilet, knocking on the walls, rummaging through her wardrobe. And through it all, he found nothing. Not a bit of meat, not a slip of fat, not a drop of blood. Had he been more optimistic, had he been who he pretended to be, he would have believed her to have evaded her old habits. But he knew that very morning that the case was not so. Her eyes were as dead as they had always been, and all she did was smile¡ªsmile because she was so, so, proud that not even he could find it. He saw it on her face and it made him nauseous. He couldn¡¯t keep the cornflakes down. He didn¡¯t even try to. As he leaned against the rim of the toilet, chest rising and falling, bile slowly creeping back down his throat, sludge bobbing inside the sick-filled bowl, his fingers brushed against something small and metallic that clinked against the bathroom tiles. He brought it to his eyes. It was a small gold ring, etched with the line ¡°June and Mary.¡± Out of fear, out of horror, as if the ring had been fresh out of the fire, he threw it away from him, turning his eyes away, scrambling to his feet, slipping twice before being able to turn fully to the bathroom door. There stood his sister, her silhouette framed by a silver lining of light, the rest of her form cast in darkness. A stray glint of shine was slit across her eyes. The little ring slowly rolled to a stop before the toes of her heels. She leaned down and plucked it from the floor, turning it over in her talon-like fingers. ¡°You can keep a secret, can¡¯t you?¡± Day 15, My friend asked me to write a doctor who fanfic and I did Staggering, stumbling, like a sputtering, stalling automaton, he moved down the ever-stretching hallway. It went into an ever-fleeting light, so far away it felt like a distant star, or a galaxy that was simply so distant that all of its billions of suns and planets melded into only one dot of inescapable light. Everything else was darkness, but he couldn¡¯t tell if that was the TARDIS having dampened itself into dimness or his own eyes playing a prequel of what was to come, of the all-shadow looming hours ahead. Yes, hours, that was what he had. No more. He had gone too long and he wanted nothing more than to let that shadow take him and make the flames of rebirth consume him and bring into this world someone new, someone different, someone who would keep what they loved, at least for a little while. Longer than this. Anything for it to be longer than this. Why must he be alone for far longer than he was happy? Tar against feather. His hearts seemed to beat out of tempo, one fast, instinctual, begging for life; the other slow, content, ready. His stomach lurched and he grit his teeth, trying to keep down the sick threatening to emerge. He couldn¡¯t even remember if he¡¯d eaten anything to throw up. Whatever emerged, it would probably be in a better state than he felt. Leaning against the corridor, he emptied himself of nothing but stomach acids and bile. He wiped his mouth on the edge of his brown coat. Only half of it was pulled on him, the rest of it getting dragged after. He couldn¡¯t bring himself to care even as it wiped up a part of the sick pooling inside the TARDIS. And as he swayed on his feet, eyes blinking slowly like a snake-bitten toad, he stared at the light. It stared back at him, swaying as well, forming, mixing, until, from that darkness, a silhouette formed, framed by the light behind. ¡°Doctor?¡± Rose asked the darkness. He moved faster than he had ever moved before, even to save her. Deep down, he knew it was a lie. Some sort of hallucination the TARDIS had given him to make him regain belief in life. A half-hearted attempt to get him to remember love. But he didn¡¯t care. Like a desert-wandering man darting towards a mirage, he threw himself at her, delusional in his hopelessness, his arms striking out like vipers out of darkness, snaking around her before she so much as had time to stumble back. He clung onto her, arms clutching her arms to their sides, his face finding its way into the nape of her neck like it never had before, and there, right in the folds of her hoodie, he found something. Something the TARDIS couldn¡¯t make on pretend. Something not even his mind could conjure. Scent. Her perfume. The smell of her little London-house. Of her mum¡¯s Christmas pudding. Of everything that made Rose, Rose. He found it there, and it made his mind whirl and his eyes water. ¡°Wh-, what-,¡± Rose was saying, trying to squirm out of his vice-like clutch, but it was useless. This was beyond a simple hug. He was holding onto her like a believer to their cross, or a child to their teddy bear on a thundering night. Even if she had been physically stronger than him, she would have been completely unable to escape his instinctual desperation. And yet, terror found its way into her voice, as she cried, ¡°Doctor-!¡± Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. And like a hero straight out of the comics, he appeared. She may not have been able to remove him, but someone else certainly could, and before the Tenth really knew what was happening or why he was no longer holding her, he¡¯d been pried from her form, cast onto the cold floor of the TARDIS, his coat and everything else falling all topsy turvy. And there, casting his shadow onto him, was him. One arm protectively around her shoulder, the other gripping the sonic tightly. He looked so much like a saviour that the Tenth barely had time to comprehend it before the other him shouted, ¡°Who are you, and how did you get in here?¡± A Northern accent. Not answering, not having the capacity to so much as try, the Tenth let his eyes warily fall on his surroundings. The hallway was gone. It was still the TARDIS, but something was off about it. The main console and everything that surrounded it was very similar to how it used to be, but not quite. Not entirely. Not in the way that it should have been. Slowly, carefully, the Tenth got to his feet. His hard-leather soles clicked against the floor. ¡°Rose,¡± he choked out. Her eyes were so scared. She didn¡¯t know. ¡°Oh, please, Rose¡­¡± ¡°How do you¡­?¡± Rose asked. The Ninth held her tighter. ¡°Are you who comes next?¡± The Tenth felt so small. Like a hunched, tiny animal, cornered in an alleyway. He must have looked a right mess. And still, for as small as he felt, he could tell that the Ninth must have felt something similar. Although he pretended to be big, holding her so tight to not let her be taken by the clutches of evil, his eyes trembled. The Tenth didn¡¯t need to give an answer. The Ninth already knew¡ªhe just wanted to open the possibility that it might not be so. Because reflected in the Ninth¡¯s eyes, the Tenth saw a mirror image of himself. At his very lowest, as low as he could ever go without bringing the rest of the universe down with him. The Ninth didn¡¯t just see a future, he saw his future. The Tenth took a meek step towards them. The Ninth drew back, bringing Rose with him. ¡°Please,¡± the Tenth said, his throat hoarse from the bile. ¡°Let me touch her one more time. That¡¯s all I need.¡± A new emotion. A fear not for himself bloomed in the Ninth¡¯s eyes. His clutch on Rose grew even tighter and the sonic in his grip trembled. And, again, he asked something he already knew the answer to. ¡°What happens to Rose?¡± It was wrong to even ask, to so much as open the possibility of a time-space paradox, but if it was for Rose¡­ ¡°You have to tell me. What happens to Rose?¡± Desperation made his voice rise a pitch. The Tenth was now close enough to feel the heat of their bodies, to make out their breathing over the hum of the TARDIS, to see how realisation dawned on Rose¡¯s face. ¡°Please¡­¡± Heavy, lead-filled tears dropped from his face and onto the floor. ¡°I miss her so much.¡± As he reached out again, the Ninth tried to draw back once more, but this time Rose moved out of his protective grip, standing just in front of the Tenth. Her hand reached out, trembling, small. The Tenth took it and pressed it against his forehead, bowing his head to face the ground, keeping his tears from touching her¡ªfrom sullying her. ¡°Oh, Doctor,¡± she mumbled, ¡°What happened to you?...¡± A better question might have been What didn¡¯t happen to you, but at that moment, the Ninth couldn¡¯t bring himself to do any quips. A sob crawled out of his throat and he let it splat to the ground alongside the tears and the snot and the dribble. A hand found its way to his face, pushing the dirty tears out of his face. It was warm. It was so, so warm. Like fire and love and anger. Gently, he angled his face back up towards her, and from where he stood, she looked so much like an angel. She smiled at him. Somehow, he was able to smile back. A sense of calm unlike anything death could provide snuggled itself inside his chest and he released a breath of pure and true relaxation. He was, in a word, content. Rose wasn¡¯t gone. Not really. And she never would be, because even as time moved on, she would always exist in one form or another, placed like an acrylic painting onto the canvas of time, irreplaceable and eternal and there. Likewise, even though she was gone, even though he had lost so many, they would always be there, inside him, as a warm ball of dune, filling his chest with calm. And, in the end, wouldn¡¯t he always find another adventure, another companion, another person to help?