Crow-Quill Pen Strokes

original

2006-06-17T07:07:45Z

Yokohama, 1906. A large mansion. Three people sort of. Written in the office. Isn't worth the chew-out, but oh well. Original.

War criminal. A five-lettered word. Shirou puts his brush down to scroll and started the first kanji, ink, paper, ink. The first is the kanji for fighting. Ikusa. Thirteen strokes. The next, arasou, six strokes for disputes and strife. (He looked the English words up in the dictionary Kirisaki-san gave him a few days prior to meeting Kuroda) And there he has the word for wars. Sensou, in the space of nineteen brush strokes. He'd tried writing the word in the awkward language of the British foreigners once, under Grandmother's tutelage, and he never quite stopped wondering how or why they could afford to squeeze so much weight and honor and pain and years into so small a word. Five strokes. He heard that sometimes the count was so small as three. Apparently the space between the letters had meaning leftover enough to share.

The next two kanjis will make up the word hanzai, for crimes. They take ten strokes overall, nine less than sensou. A foreigner wouldn't hesitate to point out this difference, he assumes. It's ten for crimes and nineteen for wars, they'd say, see what should hold the more horrible worth. The worst crimes can be described succinctly in ten, while it takes nineteen to describe a war. Of course, foreigners are foreigners, and they often assume too much, draw too many pararells, and often understand far too little.

He finished the last letter with a flourish. Hito, read nin in this case, for a person. It is a simple letter, and foreigners, once again, usually use it to emphasize traits of the beautiful Japanese language without mentioning all the finer, higher subtleties. It all comes down to one commonly recognized kanji, hito, that's all they blubber about day by day. They talk accurately about its origins, he supposes, but it's all they ever talk about, incessantly, as if it's some kind of great final linguistic discovery to explain everything. As if it's a word to describe, in the space of two strokes, all that makes the Japanese man and all that goes with him. Kuroda said the ship captains he met while in the navy were just about as bad, although they were men of the sea, and had some sort of wordless understanding usually reserved for enlightened monks.

Shirou stares at the word he'd just written. Five letters written with black ink, on a paper scroll. He turns to Kuroda. He isn't sure he understands.

Kuroda's been sitting at the corner of the eight-mat room for sometime now. He raises an eyebrow in response. "Finished, Uesugi?"

"Yes," he answers, dips his head lightly. "I am not altogether sure I understand, though."

"It's simple." Kuroda's brown eyes seems to stare at something far-off. He isn't sure if that something is locked within his ancestry, or if he's simply deep in thought, or perhaps there he sees something beyond the reach of Shirou's senses as of the moment. "Europeans are organizing something. I hear it's going to be in Holland, in this place called...Hague." The word came out rough and quite distinctly non-European. "They're setting up something about the civilized rules of war. It's pretty nonsensical. And sensouhanzainin is what they're calling people who violates them. Like that."

"In those words, exactly?"

"In their language, Uesugi." The former navy officer answers blandly. "I don't think it makes a great deal of sense. A battle's an honor, and whover wins always gets to make the rules. It's been that way for centuries. I don't see it changing anytime soon." He rests his chin on one hand, still staring straight ahead and something intangible and undefined. "So what do you think about the term? You're from a samurai family. You'd feel something different from me, I'm sure."

Shirou laughs. It's dry and humorless, on his part. "I feel less like a samurai than a crippled housewife these days. But in honesty, I don't think an idea like this can keep."

"Oh?" Kuroda raises and eyebrow.

"It's something---I don't know, insubstantial," he explains. "So suppose the samurai of the old days go head-hunting. They do that for rewards. They burn villages, rape women, kill everyone they see. They do that because they're tired and stressed and there's the battle fever in their stomachs. They serve their master for honor, and besides that, it's all they---we, I suppose---have. If you win, you're right. If you lose, you're wrong, but that doesn't mean you're a dishonorable opponent. Wars are for warriors and warriors have their reasons, it's just...I don't know," Shirou sighs. "They're making it into a set of rules. It's impersonal for wars. It's made by gentlemen for people who aren't involved in the fight, they suffer, but they don't fight. I don't think the logic of it goes with the way it works. Worked. You replaced us. And probably saved me from dying a miserable death or committing seppuku." This last is accompanied by a small smile. "Was that what you want?"

"It works," Kuroda replies noncommittally. "I was right. Your way of thinking is a not like mine, but it's likely that yours would be closer to what we might---just might, mind you---need."

"Closer? Need?" He narrowed his eyes. "What closer, Kuroda? What do we need? Did Kirisaki-san order us to go somewhere again?"

The seaman sighed. "I see you're getting used to this as fast as I am. Yes. There's a house in kannai that he wants us to see. The owner, as far as I know, was an old samurai who survived the bakumatsu. You should be able to guess the rest."

Shirou smiles ruefully. He doesn't need any clarification for the use of past tense, of course, not at this point. "I take it there's complaints from the foreigners in the district. Are we doing the usual this time?"

"You take strange pleasure in watching foreigners suffer," Kuroda observes, but shrugs it off. "Commander Kirisaki isn't too pleased with Fujino's conduct last time. He said it deprives our command of an essential observation subject. I don't think we're going to be doing anything outlandish this time around."

"You won't have the opportunity to show off your skills, then. Pity," Shirou quipped. He has just put his writing tools in their appropriate places, stretching a bit on the tatami mats. Kuroda obviously wasn't trying to show off the last time, but it was a fun subject to tease, occasionally. "Fujino-san's going to have a fit. Do you know what they say about foxfires in Sendai?"

"The country's full of tales about foxfires. I'm not sure which one I should pick." Kuroda's stare still remains firmly fixed in place. "I heard that even the kappa stealing cucumbers from that field we went through did something to imitate foxfires. It's a popular thing to do."

Shirou finally turns after his partner's gaze. There's nothing on the wall except maybe a spider or two, a few flies caught in their web. He continues to look, however. "Do you think we're really making progress towards the new era?"

"Yes, Uesugi? Don't think too much about that. We're in the bakufu police force, of course we're making our contributions. I'm sure Kirisaki sorts them out one way or the other somehow."

"I wish I am as sure." Kuroda was born a commoner's son in some far-off village, raised to inherit the family legacy of turnips and ducks. He chose the military, and Shirou doesn't think he can share the same faith in the world that Kuroda has. Sometimes the man appears so simple, and sometimes he appears infernally wise, even if most of the time he's neither. He concentrates on staring at the same spot as Kuroda, who has fallen into silence.

He sees what Kuroda sees, then. Fleeting shadows, barely dark enough to register as such, but they're there. A woman with long hair, dancing on the wall, her sleeves fleetingly beautiful as they moved with her silent music.

"She's a new one," Shirou remarks.

"Yeah," the other man answers, standing up, sighs. "I'd better go write up the report. You better do the same, too."

*

He arrived in Yokohama three months ago.

There, in the late afternoon, Shirou helplessly stood in front of the looming structure in front of him: a wooden gate as big as a palace (in his imagination, anyway) and walls so high only giants would be able to peer inside. He had never thought himself a clever man, but he didn't need to be particularly clever, either, to know the grounds inside must be impossibly huge. The length of the walls had a story all their own to tell, and he had never seen walls that long before in his entire life. Never mind that his life was mostly spent inside a small shrine. The place looked sort of like a dojo. But somehow he doubted it was one. In the face of this incredible place he couldn't help but feel nervousness gripping at the pit of his stomach, and he did the most sensible thing that occurred to him.

He re-checked the address.

Kirisaki Souichirou, Yokohama, was all the information he had.

Shirou smoothed out the paper crumpled in his damp hands, running his eyes pass Grandmother's weak, scrawled letters. She'd been bedridden with illness for the last few months of her life, and it was all she could do to supply him with a name and a sealed letter of introduction. The actual address was written down by the takoyaki vendor near the town center, and even if she appeared quite sure of herself, there's a chance she could be wrong.

After all, what could Grandmother possibly have wanted him to do in such a large place? She said there was a purpose...he wasn't supposed to work for this landlord to pay debts, was he? Did they even have any debts? Or was it something his parents did that he had no idea about? Or maybe he was going to have to enter a school? And he must write reports to this landlord in this house? The possibilities were endless. Just the thought made him quake in his hakama, and the eternally sensible voice at the back of his mind suggested now to be a good time for escape, if he was going to escape at all. And of course, Shirou always heeded the voice in the back of his mind. It was something Grandmother told him to do, listen to your conscience and everything.

'...maybe you should just go away...this doesn't look good,' said the voice.

It made perfect sense.

But this very gallant show of willpower was hindered by one thing. The one thing that had always been the antithesis of good morals for ages, and Shirou had never rued it more than he did before today.

He'd spent all his money on his trip to Yokohama. With how scary this huge city was, he doubt he could find any work that wouldn't give him a heart attack or lodgings that allowed him three months of credit, either. In the countryside, they still listened to people from samurai families somewhat, but this was Yokohama. He had a feeling his relative chance of credit was relatively similar to cucumber raining from the sky.

Shirou sighed. Dragging his baggage behind him, he made for the door and took a deep breath. ...On the count of three, then...Ready, Shirou...One, two...

The young man fought back the desire to gulp as he raised his hand in front of the massive gates. He could do this. Think of Grandmother. Think of the wallet. Think of today's dinner.

'Three.'

"Excu----"

He had no chance to complete his announcement, as all of a sudden the gate opened. Just as he was about to knock. Shirou could've sworn he'd seen the realm of the dead right then and right there, if the sight before him didn't make the young man feel any closer to swooning.

The person who answered the door was a silent man, exceedingly tall, taller than himself, even...and exceedingly old. His hair was all white, his skin was pale, his face gaunt and full of wrinkles...but the scariest thing was his eyes. His eyes were the deepest black he had ever seen, but they was odd, they was different from everyone else, they were not natural, and they kept staring at him---

Shirou did not realize how frightened he must have looked before he noticed how sympathetic the silent stranger's stare was, but once he did, he could feel a rising sense of patheticness. The only son of the Uesugi family, blue in the face from an old man's stare. He could hardly become an exemplary paragon of manhood this way.

Though it was still scary.

The young man gulped and, taking a tentative step towards the silent, ghastly old man, tried to speak. "Excuse me..."

Silence.

"I'm, uh, looking for Kirisaki Souichirou-san..."

Silence.

"And I, well, I've been informed that this is, well, his house."

Silence.

"Would you happen to know him?"

Yet more silence. Shirou could feel himself breaking into cold sweat.

"If this is not, um, his house, I'm sorry I'm horribly rude, sir, but could you tell me where---"

He did not finish his sentence, because in the middle of it the old man suddenly held out a (three-fingered) hand, indicating a request to stop.

Shirou did so. He was feeling too scared and he wanted to get away too much, he couldn't help but do whatever anyone told him to do. Some irrational part of his mind said, yes, that was how fear numbed you, like a frog about to be eaten by a snake. It was one of those parts his Grandmother should've warned him about, but it was always a good liar.

The uncomfortable silence lasted for a few more minutes, with Shirou shifting his weight on silent grass while the old man stood as still as a statue. Finally, he opened his mouth, and Shirou immediately came to a horrifying conclusion about this old man.

He had no tongue.

In the place where he should have one, he had a blackened stump instead, with signs that showed it was cut with a blazing hot object. Blazing hot and sharp. He felt distantly queasy, there was a faint desire to puke, and he was sure that desire would have been all that much stronger if he hadn't been so incredibly, incredibly, impossibly frightened.

Dear parents in heaven, just what kind of place am I getting myself into?

Shirou had no idea what he looked like at that moment. However, it probably wasn't a good expression, as the spooky old man frowned and looked somewhat upset. He would've been sympathetic, too, if his heart hadn't fallen down to the general area of his ankles.

Who is this man, and what is his relation to Kirisaki?

And more importantly,

Just who is this Kirisaki person and what is he like, if he keeps someone like this on the household?

As if he could read right into his thoughts, the mutilated man sighed, and beckoned him to follow. Shirou had no idea who he was, and why he was ushered inside even without an introduction, but his brain simply wasn't accepting questions at the moment. The young man fell into step behind him, his baggage and katana heavy on his back, and he wasn't allowed a look back before the gates closed behind him.

He was told to wait in the living room.

Shirou glanced around him nervously. The tongueless man had just left, lumbered away as silently as he came, and the ticking clock didn't help lighten up the atmosphere. The sick feeling at the pit of his stomach only got more intense. He was positive that he'd made a very wrong decision somewhere along the lines.

The living room was sparsely decorated, in western style, contrary to the rest of the mansion. It was odd for him, to sit in chairs so soft it felt like he was sinking and smothering in them, and the arrangements of bookcases and flower vases seemed out of the natural order of things. There was a faint smell of foreign soil from the red-and-brown carpet, and Shirou fervently wished for the familiar, comforting world of tatami mats and zabutons.

He had no idea why Grandmother wanted him to be here. Since the day he was adopted, he'd always thought he was supposed to inherit the shrine, have children, perhaps eventually grow a spine. Everything would be precious, sweet, simple. Never for one minute did he thought his life would turn out any differently.

But here he was in Yokohama. In this strange house too large to be inhabited by one man and distressingly empty for a full family, invited in by an old man with his tongue burned out of his mouth, waiting in this sparse, western, brightly lit distressingly empty room. Here he was in Yokohama listening to the strangely empty sound of the alien western clock ticking, and he was afraid of emptiness, afraid to the marrow of his bones.

Hours may as well have passed before the doors finally slid open, and someone stepped through. Shirou looked up, either out of fear or out of natural reflexes he wasn't sure, but he would not realize the importance of that question until much later.

The newcomer was a man, not so old, perhaps in mid-twenties. He was dressed in a black western suit; Shirou could not help blanching slightly with how ill-fitting it seemed on those hawkish Japanese features. His red bow tie stood out with the otherwise dour setting of the place, much like the one-eyed glass he had on his face.

He did not, however, seem to pose an immediate threat. "Uesugi-san, I presume?"

Shirou jumped, even thought he knew it couldn't possibly be any one else. "Yes. Sir. Uesugi Shirou." He was aware that his voice was as steady as a six years old caught stealing money from the charity box at the shrine.

"Ah. I see. The rumors well preceded you," the man said, smiling, and he felt a rising urge for a moment to implore what those rumors said exactly, why they were around, and really, rumors, what rumors?

While he was assuredly staring dumbfounded, the man had seated himself on the opposite long chair---he would later learn it was called a sofa---and looked at him with a slightly overpleasant expression on his face. It made Shirou want to run. "It's a great honor to meet you. My name, as you have probably guessed, is Kirisaki Souichirou. You may call me Kirisaki, if you wish."

"Um." He nodded, blinking.

Kirisaki continued briskly. "I'm sure you're wondering why you're called here, and in your grandmother's will, to boot. Melodramatic mysteries, feh. I should apologize. It's always been a fault of Sayo-san's."

How do you know Grandma? He wanted to ask, but found himself silently listening to Kirisaki's next train of words while his eyes wandered to the western wooden clock ticking on the other wall. It was nearly four in the afternoon. He did not know what the other man looked like at the moment, nor did he particularly want to, but he could hear every word he said and surprisingly they didn't just tumble out of his other ear. "As it turns out, Sayo-san and I have communicated via letters, and we found it to be mutually profitable to all parties involved if you would, hmm, participate in some work here in Yokohama. The pay would be handsome, and I assume you have no other plans now that the shrine is in other hands."

Shirou kept staring at the clock. The way the pendulum moved. It struck a chord somehow, back and forth, back and forth. A dull voice in the back of his mind informed him that Kirisaki was looking at him and expecting answers, so he gave one, absently. "I don't have any plans."

"I see. Then, the work?"

"What is the work?"

Something snapped, so Shirou looked away from the clock and turned towards Kirisaki, saw him breaking his face-glass in half, still smiling expectantly. Blood trickled down from the miniscule cut on his finger, he noticed the blood had a purplish quality to them. Legs were frozen. Wanted to run away but couldn't. He suddenly realized this must be the feeling frogs get when they're about to be eaten by a snake.

Seeing his gaze, Kirisaki smiled pleasantly again. "Work is simple. Sayo-san had told me quite a bit about you, I'm sure you'll fit right in."

"...what is it?" He was sure some of his dread slipped.

Kirisaki laughed, as if that was the most ridiculous question in the world. "Ah, Uesugi-san. You need not worry. Work here is not something indecent, illegal, or dangerous. In fact, I would say most other men would be rushing for the same chance, but it happens that you're the one we want."

Suspicious, Shirou thought.

"We're not suspicious, I can assure you."

Well, so much for that.

Producing a few documents from his pockets, Kirisaki laid them on the table and gestured him towards them. He did. They appeared to be form documents, each bearing the seal of the police forces. He looked up.

Kirisaki appeared quite pleased with himself. "As you can see, we're a governmental, mm, position here. Affiliated with the police, though there's no need to know the law or do anything dangerous, hmm? Safe little work, pays enough for any man to envy." With that said, he slid over another document. Shirou looked at it and could scarcely keep his eyes from bulging.

"I can see you're pleased with your pay." The man was smiling and he really really wanted to get away from all this and go back home right now, only he didn't have a home waiting for him and no money to go anywhere and no courage to live alone.

Shirou closed his eyes. "Would something bad happen if I refuse, or run away, or just...quit?"

Kirisaki had both hands over his chest in a gesture of shock. "Why, Uesugi-san, I'm surprised you even thought of such dreadful things! We're a respectable force here, sir. I can assure you nothing bad would happen." A chuckle. "Then again, Sayo-san had always said you're overly prudent."

He fought down both the desire to ask about Grandma and the desire to run away again, and tried to ask a sensible question as a real man would. "You haven't told me what I'm supposed to do yet, Mr. Kirisaki?"

The other's eyes widened. "Dear me! I have forgotten. But it is nothing dangerous. Of course. All that would be required of you is to live in this house, with your coworkers."

Shirou gave him a plainly horrified look, and Kirisaki frowned. "I told you there would be nothing indecent about it, Uesugi-san."

"...but this work..."

"It's why we accept people solely through recommendation. As you can see, the work description would make most leery, and we cannot quite disclose our criteria on applicants." Kirisaki smiled weakly. "I can assure you, we're working for the future of Japan, as do all our brethrens. Our work is simply in a more...academic field. Mmm. Yes. All you have to do is to live here with your coworkers, go to field sites as might be ordered to do, and write me a report on what you witness. You will never have to do anything strenuous, and you'll be paid more handsomely than most men in the forces."

Shirou opened his eyes again. The ceiling greeted him, wood and plaster as it was. "Why, sir?"

Kirisaki only smiled again. "As I have said, Uesugi-san, we're police. If you want classified information, you'll have to earn it."

Three months later and he still hadn't.

----
[Glossary]
seppuku : ritual suicide. one stabs one's one stomach and twist til the guts are cut up. someone cuts the head off.
why yokohama? : it's the hub of cultural changes in the meiji period
kannai : the local jargon for the foreigner's district
bakumatsu : the meiji revolution wars fought between government soldiers and conventional samurai
zabuton : sitting cushions

see fangirls I can do it too

three_eyed_crow @ 2006-01-25T12:50:00

2006-01-25T05:51:59Z

I have NO clue where I'm going with this, but this setting refuses to give me peace of mind. I don't have any clue who the characters are, even. What the hell.

1. City

Feathers.

Feathers were everywhere, falling from the sky, rising up from the lake, floating in the rain barrels. He could see them clearly. All of them were white, though some were marked with tiny black spots. Sometimes a passing streetsman would dissolve into feathers. It was just the natural way of things over here, the old woman at the bookstore said, like how fire burns itself into ashes, and ashes-devils clump into seeds for fire trees. That was just the way it was.

It took sometime getting used to this place, pink-and-white stone city with quiet faces and people who walk with no sound, but he was getting used to it. The Bookstore Lady was very nice, despite her fondness for cats (there were seven cats in her house, an eight was coming. None of them ever made a noise) and she often sent him on errands. This one was no different, even if the tome he carried under his arms was heavier than before. It was to be sent to someone living in the northern district, someone who lived in a mansion of wood, which was odd. This was a city of stone.

He left the porch, careful not to hit the wires tied to the shop windbells. The slightest movement could send them singing, and he didn’t want that in daytime. There was also how the bookshop sign above him looked really old and precarious, it would be bad if it was to fall on his head. A sudden wind could do that, and wind came from windbells, seeing how it was forbidden to enter the alleys from the streets.

Making his way to those streets was not very difficult, although sometimes it was trying, with feathers piling up to his ankles. They were soft and easy to scatter with the winds, so it was less of a problem in the streets, but here it gathered into clumps. Still, he had been through the snowbanks of the North, and this was not hard to navigate at all in comparison. In the streets it was much easier, with tufts and piles of feathers tumbling across the cobblestones. A few of them gathered on building corners and signposts, and some had piled on the husk of a beggar, who froze to death there a week ago. Only an odd figure or two walked the street, wearing their grey robes and windbell staves. He hurried along. It was not difficult to navigate, save for how the signs got covered by feathers hanging from the top of the pole, making it hard to read. The book he carried kept getting heavier, but it was of no concern. He sped past ticking clocks and falling feathers, moving toward the north district. To his left was the vast open space of the deep blue sea, almost too bright against the white and pink and grey of this old stone place.

4. Window

Perhaps it was an odd scene, for any passerby in the streets: a shop drenched in the heaviness of the late afternoon sunlight, windowpanes lit with fiery orange, a young woman sitting immobile beside the front door, a young man endlessly scribbling something in a book as tall as his own height. The book was placed on a wooden counter, even stranger for this city, and was almost as thick as the counter itself. As for the young man, he never looked up, just as the young woman never moved or spoke, and his only motion was the steady rhythm of quill to inkwell to paper. Although the sunlight kept falling incessantly on the storefront glass, it was silent inside, the only sound being the almost inaudible scratch of quill on paper. Neither she nor he seemed to acknowledge each other’s presence: she stared into an infinity of space in the ten feet between her chair and the empty cupboard, he intent on chipping away at the endless amount of blank pages, his face equally bare of expressions. Occasionally her focus would shift to a stray feather blowing in from under the doorframe, but it was always just a fraction of a second before they went back to gazing the infinite unknown.

He just sat there, holding his tome tighter. Pages pressed to his robes, wrinkled. Sunlight slowly receded on the floorboards, draining away, so slow as to be almost imperceptible. Little lamp globes flickered from unseen corners in this silent room. He started counting them. They were, perhaps, the only way he could tell how time ever existed here. Here, with its warm, heavy, fading brilliant sunlight. The air was tinged with a faint smell of dried herbs.

The fifth lamp globe had just winked into existence when she finally stirred. Her movement was soft, almost impossible to notice at first, but when he looked closely it was unmistakable how her fingers slowly shifted. First they were resting on her lap, cradled as if in meditation, as she looked into nothingness. Then they began to intertwine, she touched one index finger to the other, ran her left ring finger on the side of her right palm. Her fingertips were almost pink in the waning sun. He watched, almost in wonder, as her green, green eyes shifted into focus, and she lifted her head. There was a slight whir-like sound. She smiled. It was bright, cheerful, gentle.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. The sunlight was almost red with dusk. Her voice was just barely above a whisper. He opened his mouth, starting to reply.

But before he could do anything, the young man put down his quill. His expressionless face broke into a warm, almost tender smile. “Good morning.”

And he realized that her greeting was not for him at all, but for this scribe, and it was possible that she may have never known he was ever there. Her smile got wider, she cocked her head to one side, and her eyes narrowed a little, as if she was laughing. Her feet moved, and she was smoothing out her unwrinkled dress with one hand. “Did you have a nice dream?” she asked. Her voice was still just barely audible.

The scribe laughed. It was a short sound, filled with so many words and so much wonder it was eerie, from a man whose face was, until a moment ago, bereft of feelings. “Not really.”

She moved one hand to her lips, and her expression turned to one of distress. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“No,” he shook his head, still smiling. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the young man’s smile seemed as endlessly sad as it was endlessly tender. “I did not have a nightmare.”

Her smile broke through again, and this time it was more radiant than before. “That is good to hear, then.”

The young man stood up. He was not very tall, perhaps only a little taller than her, perhaps just a little taller than the old lady back home. It was odd to see him moving. Even more so when he started to walk towards her. His steps were quiet and careful, as if he was afraid something would break. He stopped in front of her and knelt, brushing a lock of hair past her ears, softly, carefully. “How much time?”

She smiled again. If he was not seeing things, then perhaps there was a touch of regret in it. “I have forty seconds, fourteen milliseconds left in operational time, sir.”

“Well,” he said, absently touching her hair and cheek. “Then I guess it is also good night, for you.”

“I am sorry, I have only bade you good morning.” She appeared genuinely sad.

“It’s fine,” he reassured her, smiling. “I’ll be here when you wake up, and I’ll say good morning this time.”

“You’ll say good morning,” she repeated. Then she smiled, and raised one hand to touch his, still cradling her face. “Thank you, sir.”

“Have a good dream.”

She closed her eyes, smiled, and leaned into his hand. “I shall try.”

And with that, the young woman went motionless.

The scribe withdrew from her, standing there unmoving for a good while, then turned towards him. He adjusted his glasses and nodded, as if acknowledging his presence for the first time, and turned to look outside the window. It was already dark outside. A few feathers gathered at his feet. And he spoke.

“The sea is quite a brilliant blue today, isn’t it?”

three_eyed_crow @ 2006-01-22T22:16:00

2006-01-22T15:20:59Z

OKAY FINE SO MUCH FOR NOT TELLING ANYONE ABOUT LONGFIC PROJECTS THANKS MUCH BRAIN.

Four at the moment. Yes. I am suicidal.

Through a Ring Ouroboros : Serious. Settingcentric.
Between The Fog And A Hard Place : Comedy. CRcentric.
The Magnificent Case Of The Teastained Love Letter : Er. Eccentric, I hope. Plot/whimcentric.
To Where The River Runs : Seriouskinda. Settingcentric.

If you're Rosa, you've probably heard about a few of them. But alas, MY BRAIN INSISTS ON BEING A TATTLETALE NOW I'LL HAVE TO SEE IF I CAN STILL FINISH THEM.

Will probably post them from now on, except the first, which I am sure will stay under wraps until it's done because DUDE HOW EMBARRASSING CAN IT GET. :')

I am posting this because (YES THERE IS A REASON OUT OF MY VANITY), I guess, telling people about them MAY instill the need to save face and actually force me to write. As this is a writing journal. As opposed to just leaving them in the dust as my previous longshots have been. But it may backfire, since my enthusiasm tends to wane once I've told someone about them. Oh well.

If all goes well, I may even revive the Barhara fic. God knows I like that one plot.

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-12-21T16:37:00

2005-12-21T09:38:09Z

GIP. Not that any of them are actually decent, but for some reason this journal will always have sucky icons. :')

I should start plotting. :')

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-03-21T03:28:00

2005-03-20T20:28:31Z

Chapter Four of the MegaHappyEnding AU. Bwar.

There were some lines that were not meant to be crossed, even for the man in charge of the country. One of them involved references to Edward’s height. Another involved Al’s safety. Yet another involved the peace and quiet of Rizenpool. A sane person would normally start praying for his life even if only one of them was broached. Let alone three. In a single day.

That was, of course, exactly what Fuhrer Mustang had done (despite how the last two weren’t really his doing. But his kid, his fault). The man still appeared rather unperturbed as he surveyed the situation with the grace of any good commander, which meant he was looking for someone to shove all the clearing-ups to. But The Smirk was not there, at the least, and Edward considered that a small victory even as he gritted his teeth and counted to five hundred.

His count reached two hundred fifteen when Edward finally looked up.

The damage was quite impressive for a seven years old. The roof of Nelly’s barn was blown clean off, as well as the outhouses, most of grazing field and apparently an unlucky childhood-memories swing. It even ate away half of the old oak where Winry blackmailed him and Al into playing family when they were five, and looked to have missed the Johnsons’ house by mere yards. Impressive, indeed.

“This is better than expected,” Mustang commented in a relieved voice.

Edward gave him a critical look. “You can’t seriously mean that a seven years old kid can do worse than this. If you do...you’re just as much of a crazy parent as General Hughes.”

The older man’s glare was surprisingly full of pity. “You’ll find out for yourself when you have kids of your own, Fullmetal Alchemist.”

Said alchemist found himself controllably, though not unreasonably, turning as red as a tomato. The emphasis on ‘alchemist’ wasn’t lost, but what was the man trying to---hell. “What makes you think I’ll have kids?” he asked, keeping his voice as level as possible.

“Women generally want to have kids. Married men generally want to have kids. And if they don’t, the party involved always make sure they do.”

Openings were always there for those who look for them. Edward never missed his chance. Even if he oftimes fell right smack into a trap. “And what was it in your case, Fuhrer sir?”

Mustang eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then cracked a smirk. “Well, there's always my biography if you're interested in the official version."

“Do I look like I’m interested in that rag? Half of it isn’t even true anyway.”

“Don’t underestimate the value of false information, Fullmetal. Sometimes they might just save your life.”

Edward turned to look at the barn, then cross-pictured it with Central Headquarters, General Mustang, the press, and he had to admit that it made sense. “So you cultivated your survival skill well, sir?”

“Survival is survival, Fullmetal. The word doesn’t exactly imply a choice.” The leader of Amestris walked over to inspect the damage from another angle, looking thoughtful. “How much materials do you need to fix all this?”

“Around half a---hey,” the shorter alchemist’s voice rose. “What do you mean, how much materials do I need?”

“What I said, of course. That much should be obvious.”

“No, I meant what’s up with –me- being the one who needs the materials?”

The corner of Mustang’s mouth twisted into the all-too-familiar smirk. “Why, because you’re the one who gets to undo the damage, by the Fuhrer’s jurisdication. You should consider yourself privileged.”

There were many times in life when Edward would’ve loved nothing more than to punch Roy Mustang right in the face and perhaps kick him where it hurts. This wasn’t one of those. Instead, Edward found himself wondering if he could come up with a way to legally murder the man who was currently running his country.

--------------

Contrary to popular belief and perhaps some female wishful thinking, the Fuhrer’s son was not an exact carbon copy of his father. While the boy’s hair was indeed as black as it ever gets, his eyes bore the brown and sharp features of his mother and his cheekbones resembled hers more. Also contrary to popular belief was the fact that he was not fond of painting, playing the piano or reading the poetic works of Vernon. He liked the arts, but not to any greatly sophisticated degree.

If it was science, now there was a subject he was comfortable with. He loved devouring any books his father would let him read, and it’d be a terrible lie if he was to say breaking into the Fuhrer’s private study never crossed his mind.

Rhys could swear he just wanted to show Uncle Jean the new tricks he’d found from one of Daddy’s papers. He’d never, ever wanted to blow Daddy’s office to rubble. Never. Not ever. And he did so not want to cause the nice farmhouse to part with its roof. No. He just wanted to show what he learned to Al-oniisan. Rhys was a good boy. It was always his sister who’s the troublemaker. Lynn always got herself caught into all kinds of situations, from causing a cat stampede to shaving the fur off Black Hayate’s tail, it was always Lynn, and nobody ever blamed her for anything. Everything he did was just because he wanted Daddy and Mommy and everyone to be proud of him, too.

He did not deserve this treatment. He so did not. Especially since it was Lynn’s idea.

Or so Rhys Mustang, first and only son of Fuhrer Roy Mustang, thought while balancing two pails of water in each hand with another pail on his head, standing on one leg. Out of the room with all the interesting books. And Lynn got to play with Ed-oniisan.

It was so unfair.

He could remember Mommy’s face when she found him. Nobody except Daddy ever got that expression out of her, and for the moment the boy was even proud. He thought it was a sign that he could’ve been an alchemist the caliber of his father...

And that was until Mommy took out the gun.

Rhys sighed.

His leg was getting cramped.

“...the problem with your alchemy is that it’s too simple,” he could hear Ed-oniisan’s voice drifting from the living room, where he had been talking quietly with Daddy. “There’s practically nothing in it, that’s why the kid was able to even activate the array.”

Daddy’s answer was too quiet to hear, even though Rhys had strained his ears as much as the pail on his head would allow, but Ed-oniisan’s retort came loud and clear. “I’d think there’s some difference between finesse and being simpleminded, shithead Fuhrer!”

And before the horror of the four-letter word could even register in the boy’s young mind, he continued, fast as lightning. “Short!? What’s that got to do with this!? I am not small enough to be covered by a piece of paper! Don’t try to dodge the subject while you’re in my house...what? What did you just say?”

A very uncharacteristic silence reigned in the room for several moments. Somehow, it seemed like ages. Did something went wrong?

Curious, Rhys attempted to lean over while trying to keep the pails balanced. And he would’ve managed it had Ed-oniisan not shouted, “You’re staying with who!?”

The resultant verbal argument was only surpassed by the sound of all three pails hitting the floor along with a very wet Rhys Mustang, who was wishing he could somehow get out of all this when Mommy finds out.

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-03-20T20:38:00

2005-03-20T13:40:51Z

Okay. Most of you reading this journal have been writing for longer than me.

Can anyone tell me if there are any etiquettes to using quotes that I should know about? (Specifically, quotes from interviews or personal accounts, or textbooks)

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-03-18T23:28:00

2005-03-18T16:28:42Z

When reading about WWI lieutenants and their womanizing exploits, I somehow replaced the Western front with Amestris, brown uniforms with blue (whoever designed Amestris’s army uniform has good taste, but very little practicality. Hi, camouflage? Clear shot?) and...I start to wonder if Roy’s (and to a lesser extent, Havoc’s) habits is due to :

A) His own personality
B) Research
C) Obviousness, and other reasons
Or
D) The nature of the male race

Young, good-looking lieutenants with a bright future seems to have no trouble scooping up armfuls of women in those days. Ditto Colonel. Very ditto Colonel.

A War in Words would likely be my reference for setting up perspectives (yes, this uses the perspective-switch thing. I’ll be lying if I don’t say GRRM isn’t a major influence, but really, switching players often is better suited to my writing attention span). It’s been very illuminating so far. Probably would have to come up with two characters from scratch, though...one if I can figure out how to write Kimbley. But writing Kimbley has hazards of its own, he knows too much about TEH PLOT. There’s not much plot to write about in Ishvar, and it’s barebones enough as it is, so I’m kind of thinking about writing a Lieutenant M. or something along the lines. And there needs be an Ishvarite perspective. Was thinking about Rick and Leo, but figured they’re too young.

Citizen Soldiers would likely be my major source of Roy-related writings. It contains a few things about young men being fast-tracked to command, and a good deal about whatever it is that Colonels, Majors and Lt. Colonels do. The other one---I haven’t read that one yet, but the major player in there is an intel officer who’s never actually seen IT. Probably will base whatever it is that Hughes does on that one. He does, after all, rise through the ranks very quickly. Faster than Roy did, in a way. Probably did something drastic.

Ditto Out of Nowhere.

Oh yes. And I'm slowly going back to the practice of drawing my own icons.

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-03-06T19:51:00

2005-03-06T12:55:30Z

"Sir, you may want to try transmuting some lice repellent instead," she helpfully supplied.

Roy would not, of course, admit for the life of him that he didn't have the first clue what the chemical composition of those were. "Second Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"If you're thinking about telling Captain Hughes about any of this, I'm afraid I'll have to roast you where you stand."

.....tentative scene. (I told you this journal is egocentric, didn't I?)

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-03-01T16:23:00

2005-03-04T16:08:21Z

Fandom : Soukyuu no Fafner
Title : Sixty Days
Genre : Drama, Angst, pointless prose.
Pairing : Soushi/Kazuki
Rating : G
Notes : Set after series end, and is quite spoilery. Excessive use of the word Soushi.

It had been almost two months since Operation Azure was over and the pilots returned home, things left behind started over and affairs attended to. For Kenji, two months meant sixty days of watching over Sakura, debriefing, getting used to new schedules in Sakura’s house and more simulation trainings. He’d joked, airily as was always his way of making light of the situation, that when she wakes up Sakura would be so surprised to see him taking the main charge instead of Kazuki. Then he’d return to the uncharacteristic study of his readouts, preparing for ‘the day when he would no longer be a Fafner pilot’, and shoo everyone away. For Canon, it seemed that she’d settled into her home and spent most of her time with Hazama-sensei. When on the topic of Fafners, she’d nod politely and say it was an honor to be named the Acting Commander (Kazuki refused to give the title of Commander to anyone but Soushi when he came back; nobody was inclined to disagree with him), even though she had not proven herself within her tenure at Tatsumiya. But then she was the most experienced pilot in all of them, and she was capable of making good decisions when things came to a head, an ability Kazuki associated with loss. Then there was Toomi, Toomi who ran to meet him at the beach and said she’d fight in his stead until his sight returned.

(but his sight was Soushi and Soushi was gone)

For Kazuki, two months meant at least five hours of an average day taking shots and lying around having his vital signs taken by Toomi-sensei. They were battling the assimilation phenomenon in him, testing out new methods and injections, for himself as well as for Sakura, unable to pilot for the time being. Kazuki didn’t mind playing the lab rat, as he knew how important this was to the island. He knew how important it was to him. After a few weeks his sight began to return, although it was in no way the same as before. They asked him questions on how he saw; he answered the best he could. Still, nobody, not even Toomi-sensei, knew how different it was, how distorted everything grew and how it showed him things that should’ve been only visions in his mind. But to Kazuki, any eye that gave him a chance to see Soushi again was good enough for him.

With these assimilated eyes the city grew distorted. Buildings he knew since childhood twisted into grotesque shapes, the shadows extended and joined each other, arrows pointing in the same direction. All roads were assimilated; they were one and they and led to only one place, the shrine where they played as children. The city still stood the same way as it ever did, but with these assimilated eyes he saw the city as Soushi, or Soushi as he was, silently poisoning himself with all that comes with being an adult and overstepping his bonds to keep his shattered illusions intact.

(but the city was Soushi and all the memories of Soushi being there)

Sometimes he ran to the shrine, expecting everything and expecting nothing. Sometimes his assimilated sight was kind and he’d catch a glimpse of flowing brown hair in the corner of his eyes. Kazuki knew that Soushi was no longer here, and what he saw was only pieces of his memories replaying themselves, backward to forward and backward again, what he wanted to see and what he imagined himself to have seen. But in the same way that Minashiro Tsubaki was one with the island, to him this place was Soushi, all that was him and all that he gave trying to protect its peace. The more he looked the more traces of Soushi he found, from every shelter to every tree to every cloud in the sky. Everything was Soushi’s life, what he lived for and what he would sacrifice everything for. To Kazuki, Soushi’s voice lingered within every breath of air, almost as much as everything that happened before happened with Soushi connecting to it in one form or the other. Maybe that was obvious since Soushi’s sister, perhaps one could say his family, was Tatsumiya Island itself.

They had all envied Soushi when they were young. Soushi was so smart, he’d probably get to go to a university on mainland Japan. Soushi was so lucky. Soushi was the only one who gets to see Tokyo, they complained. Soushi’s always the only one who gets to see the outside world. Kazuki even remembered himself telling Soushi about it the year they turned seven.

“Mamoru said he wanted to see the really big manga stores too,” he’d asked, his palms crossed together in boyish hope. “Why don’t you take pictures the next time you go?”

Soushi only smiled and said nothing.

(but silence was Soushi’s words and Soushi’s smiles, or so he told himself in the silence of a world without Soushi)

Kazuki still remembered the day he came back, still fresh from a goodbye that he wasn’t prepared to make. He’d crossed a boundary he didn’t know he had when he thought Soushi was dead, when the world was cold and the snow falling was just as cruel. For the first time he could remember, Kazuki wanted revenge. He wanted somewhere to scream, to empty his despair, his loss, his sorrow. For the first time he could almost taste hatred. For the first time he felt his rage twisted into a desire to destroy, to make the other side who took Soushi feel the same agony he felt. He wanted to show the Festum how they tore his world apart by destroying theirs.

He did not show it in his face, but Kazuki knew something in him whispered, this is called vengeance.

It did not taste as sweet as literature claimed. Vengeance tasted more like regret than satisfaction, more like bitter tears and strangled screams than wine and victory. It took a goodbye to make him realize that hope was as much his enemy as much as it allowed him to go on believing.

Soushi said he would always be there with him, but while Commander Minashiro was an expert at lying, Minashiro Soushi could not lie to save his life or Kazuki’s. He wanted to believe Soushi, he always did, that everything that Soushi lied about would eventually became the truth.

(but Soushi would laugh and tell stories about a Tokyo-that-never-was, and everyone would laugh and thought it was true while it was instead a promise, a dream he wanted to retain in paradise)

They were always bound by their limitations. Kazuki wanted to believe Soushi freed himself from them in those last few seconds, when his warmth passed over him and his words finally spoke louder than his silence. He wanted to believe he could say yes, wanted to believe Soushi lived in Kazuki as much as Kazuki lived in Soushi. But belief was just that : an unsupported version of the two shared by only a few people, in this case Kazuki was the only one who was here anymore, and he wasn’t even sure if his definition of ‘here’ was correct.

(but here meant a place where Soushi was)

When he stepped out of the cockpit he almost didn’t see Toomi standing there. The world he saw had twisted its way into monstrous shapes and forms, but then she grabbed onto his arm and Kazuki realized he was home, though it wasn’t the same home as when he left. Nobody knew this but him, and nobody understood why he laughed when Toomi asked in a worried voice as to why Kazuki-kun was crying. Then Kenji and Canon came, all expectant smiles (or so he could feel, his eyes couldn’t make anything of them but vague shapes and patches of colors, like the world turned to an impressionist painting) and slapping his back (he believed it was Kenji who did that, Canon knew too well the taste of vengeance and dis-hope and elation) and asking him if he intended to get Soushi out of the Siegfried system or was their Commander supposed to meet his untimely end freezing in there while his friend stands around looking dramatic. It was through his silence that they noticed the Siegfried system module wasn’t there, and it was through their words that Father (Commander Makabe, really) finally declared the question to be a failure.

It was ironic. They’d saved the world, or at least won a great victory for mankind, but lost their primary objective.

(but Soushi was his world and Soushi was lost)

Sometimes he wanted to ask Father about it. What was the difference between Mother and the Master Form of Festum that returned? She had looked the same. Her voice was monotonous, her words starkly inhuman, but he was listening in as everybody else was, when the other in her voice disappeared as she called Father by name. The real Makabe Akane, they said, was the Mir he met at the North Pole, one with the Festum and yet her own self. Was the Festum that returned simply a ricochet effect of her individuality, or the real Makabe Akane that returned, changed? He wanted to ask that question for him, for somebody else who lost his form and promised to come back. Would he come back the same, or would all the words and the voice be changed to that cold monotone? The situation was not, as Kazuki understood it, the same with Kouyou or Tsubaki, because they had not lost their entire existence. His mother did, and he wondered and feared whether the one he waited for would come back changed. But Mother was a subject that weighed heavier than the world for his father, and Kazuki was too afraid to ask.

And so he’d asked Toomi-sensei instead, during one of the many sessions in syringes, readouts and CT scans.

“If Soushi has merged with the Festum upon his return,” Kazuki stated, ignoring the doubts as to the possibility of that particular event, “it wouldn’t make any difference, because he would still be Soushi. Kouyou was Kouyou, wasn’t he?”

Toomi-sensei shook her head. “I doubt if his situation is the same as Kasugai Kouyou-kun, Makabe-kun. Even with the data we have from Mir, we still don’t know what would happen to him.”

“If he’s changed, then I’ll just have to understand what changed with him. I want to understand him.” Soushi was Soushi. No matter what happened, no matter how different he was, he would always be Soushi. Since forever and to forever. “And if he did merge with the Festum...it would just mean that he is proof that we can coexist, wouldn’t it?”

Toomi-sensei had appeared genuinely surprised at this, but then Kenji came to see if he was free enough to go prepare for a speech with the underclassmen in school, so he didn’t hear anything more. And when Kazuki returned to the infirmary the next day, she’s apparently considered the subject closed until further notification.

(but he wanted to believe that there would be no boundaries between the Soushi that he knew and the Soushi who would come back)

For Kazuki, the two months were spent in sometimes spent in sleepless nights, when he would try to figure out what to say to Soushi if he came back the next morning, perhaps in an attempt to tell himself that he would wake up in a world with Soushi again. Then he realized that it wasn’t going to be so easy. This was no fairy tale, and because reality had no obligations to keep a child’s hopeful dreams intact, it had all the freedom it could ever want in smashing hopes into the ground. So Kazuki waited and waited, giving up anxiety first and habits second, routines third. He stopped asking for any strange signs of Festum-like manifestations, then stopped going to the old places of memories he and Soushi shared. After several weeks of despair he finally gave up trying to search for the chance of Soushi appearing somewhere on the island, and simply waited. With his assimilated eyes it was worse, because he saw Soushi where he used to be, and because he’d gone everywhere with Soushi at one point or the other, it became hard to tell which were the signs of a real Soushi and which were the conjurations of his own mind.

Sometimes, when he actually slept, despite his own expectations to the contrary, Kazuki dreamed at night. In one of the recurring ones he saw a little house that doubled as a pottery shop. On its second floor was a large study cluttered by books and reports contrasting with neat uniforms hanging in the wardrobe, and over the door hung a joke sign that went ‘Rule 01 of the Study Room : The Vending Machine Is 11 Steps Away.’ It felt so much like home that Kazuki often agonized over the idea when waking up in the morning.

(but he didn’t see how painful it would be until he lost it)

Eventually he asked Father if he would allow him access into Soushi’s personal room, a request that was granted two days later. It was a room with nothing but furniture and books and the photograph, as always. But to him, the room was almost burgeoning with everything. That was the chair where Soushi sat while they attempted to hold their awkward little conversation. That was the picture they took when everything was all right. That was the bed where Soushi spent at least some of his nights in, and Kazuki wondered what it was that Soushi dreamed about when he slept. This was where Soushi lived and where Soushi endured his pain, away from everybody else’s knowledge but Kazuki’s. Somehow he did not feel as privileged as he should’ve felt. After a few hours of thinking and seeing the twisted shadows of how someone was once here, Kazuki ended up opening one of Soushi’s books, as if that would help him paint a more vivid image of its owner being there. As if that would help him refuse the fact that Soushi was gone.

The book was instead a notebook, with each sparse page written in familiar neat handwriting, each entry occasionally marked by a date but usually separated by just a line.

Denial, the strongest shield for this island, said Soushi’s diary. I wonder if I should applaud Hino-san for his sense of irony.

There was more than one way to talk, I’ve discovered, said the next entry, and it was almost as if Soushi himself was right there with him. A Soushi that he never knew, a Soushi without his limits, a Soushi who was frustrated and told his feelings in secret code that only he and Kazuki could understand, and for the next two hours that he spent reading the precious few entries in silence Kazuki could almost feel like he was there, he was there and talking to Soushi, hearing his words and things would just return to normal when he woke up again the next morning.

(but it reads,Quietness is not loneliness. Silence is not solitude. To differentiate between the two, we invented wordless conversations where things could go whichever way we wanted, and we could think anything we wanted. If only the world of words is that easy.)

The Soushi that he knew would not write diaries. Canon had told him, however, that Soushi himself said that understanding someone’s emotions didn’t mean knowing that someone as a person. Therefore, it made as much sense to Kazuki that there would be a Soushi he didn’t know, another layer upon layer of the Soushi’s that he was never allowed to see. The boy who wrote down his shattered dreams was perhaps the same boy who said goodbye, both Soushi and the Soushi who almost never was.

(but it was like the Tokyo that never was and always will be, etched in their memory and being true even though it’s a lie)

He left the diary where it was, and left Soushi’s room for the sea. It was the same as it ever was. The waves lapped the grainy sand of the beach, then rolled back to the endless blue again. The sea and the earth were rather curious things. They were never together, yet never apart. One moment the sea pulls back, and the next it is there again.

(the earth waits; the sea returns, the two are apart and never apart, there is no space between the salt water and the sea strand)

(the sky and sea merges at the horizon, the earth defines the edge where the sea ends, defining what makes the sea the sea)

It was obvious that he’d wait for his entire life if needed; he’d wait even if it meant living his life in nothingness. And so he asked the Makabe Kazuki that he saw in the waves, distorted as everything else by his own eyes and the by the all-too-brilliant sun on the water, why are you doing this to yourself for the sake of one person?

(that’s just how the world is)

(that’s what makes Kazuki into Kazuki)

He’d picked up a small pebble from the beach and smiled, recalling the game they played together as children. Throwing it into the sea, Kazuki watched as the little stone skipping seven times before sinking out of sight. Months would pass and maybe years, but someday, someday, he’d be able to tell Soushi that for Kazuki, he was never truly gone.

--Fini---

A/N : I hope I didn’t screw Kazuki’s personality up. ^^;;;; He’s not a very reactive person, it’s hard to gauge how he thinks. For me, anyway. ^^; Also, Kazuki’s eyes were the results of my interpretation of how full-blown assimilation phenomenon works. I still think it’s going to be completely fixed, but it’d take time.

And the ‘vengeance’ thing----I’ve always felt it was rather special of Kazuki to request, out of his own initiative, an almost suicide mission that’d leave the island defenseless in case he fails---just because he wants to avenge Soushi. He’s quite and usually not very intiative-making except when things concerns Soushi, and this one is even more of an ‘out of ordinary’ circumstance than his earlier flight. Or so I think.

Stress relief

2005-02-27T10:06:05Z

Let it not be said that SummerWolf is not resourceful. Nor is she incapable of writing crapfic.

“Hughes.”

Maes turned. Roy’s voice was unusually grave. In normal circumstances, it typically meant that somebody was about to suffer a long and painful death. And because Maes was wise beyond his years, he decided to humor his friend’s mood and jumped right in. "What is it, Roy?"

The Flame Alchemist didn’t bother looking back. Instead, his gaze stayed plastered on the the fiction page of The Moon, and Maes could almost hear the distinct sound of Roy’s internal time bomb going tick tick tick. But he replied anyway. “Take a look at this.”

The wiser of the two raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me it’s one of those things about you taking Ed’s virginity again. It’s been years since we signed the first contract with that cow lady, you should’ve gotten used to it by now.”

“What do you take me for?” Grave turned to extremely cross, and Roy’s left hand parted from crunching on the page long enough to rise up in a threatening poised-to-snap gesture. “According to my fans, I’ve already slept with everything that ever breathed and several things that don’t. Ed’s virginity is nothing.”

“Oh?”

“...Forget I said that. Now are you going to sit there and look smug, or do I have to give you another demonstration of how this glove of mine works?”

Maes quickly complied. After all, he valued his beard. Alicia wouldn’t like it if her Papa goes home without his ticklish beard.

In the section were three articles. One referred to another column in the social gossip bit of the rag, something about the colors of neckties Roy wore on three separate occasions. Another seemed to be a rather derogatory comic strip (to Roy, anyway. Maes always had the upper hand in these things). The Moon had always been a completely irredeemable rag, and he had no idea how they came up with permission from the Amestris government to print real person fiction, or why Roy still kept his subscription. But it didn’t seem to be what Roy wanted him to see. Which left the last one, a long column of wordy prose. He began to skim through it.

And guffawed.

Roy scowled. “There’s nothing funny about this.”

“Roy, Colonel Mustang, buddy,” Maes said, trying to control his laughter. “This has started since volume two and you STILL can’t get over it?”

“This is entirely different!” shouted Roy, who was very obviously displeased at his friend’s display of nonchalant insensibility. “Useless in the rain, fine. It’s in the script. I still have to talk to Hawkeye about it one of these days. Useless in snow, fine. I can humor my fans. Useless when thrown in a lake, fine. How much more dignity do I have left to lose? But this---this---this is---“

“An outrage?” Maes helpfully supplied.

Roy groaned. “I’m not impotent on rainy days, dammit. Especially not when they described it like...well, this has gone too far.”

His friend only chuckled, which earned him a glare from the much-bereaved Colonel. “Don’t take it so personally, Roy. The fans tend to take your reactions right into the gutter when you do. I’ve been seeing discussions on this since Riza first said it...how come you didn’t?”

“Well, what would you say if someone says you are the one who’s as flabby and feeble as a ninety-year-old just because it’s been raining for the past five minutes?”

“I would,” To Roy, Maes’s voice sounded strangely like a purr. “Disprove their theory. That’s what you scientists do, isn’t it?”

Suddenly their close space had gotten rather uncomfortable. “I’ll tell Gracia you said that.”

“The words of a bastard womanizing Colonel and the words of her dear husband. Which would be held more accountable, I wonder? Besides, Gracia has the ability to tell apart a loving joke, unlike some other people I know.”

To Maes, the look on Roy’s face when he moved closer was utterly, utterly precious. Especially when he spoke. In a much feebler voice. “Er. Hughes?”

“What?”

“I don’t think it’s raining today.”

“Didn’t you check the forecast? It’s raining cats and dogs.”

Roy gulped. His face was an amalgam of a number of interesting expressions. Which might be appropriate, since their faces were pretty much close enough for a kiss, and Roy had long habored the theory that too much fandom could kill one’s sense of sanity. It was quite fascinating how a man could go from pale to red to blue to red again within the space of seconds. “Er, Hughes, I don’t think we...”

He only grinned.

And then the flash went off.

The good Colonel blinked. Maes took the opportunity to quickly get out of killing range, brandished the camera in front of Roy’s face a few times with an angelic smile, then zipped out of the office into the hallway before his friend could realize what it was all about.

“Hughes...”

“It’s all for the fans, Roy. A soldier’s job is to deceive, remember?”

“HUGHES!”

--------------------------------

In front of him was Edward Elric. No, not the Edward Elric he knew. This child was smaller, he wore no braid and his arm and leg were flesh and blood. This was the Edward he saw the day he went to Resembool, but this one’s eyes were not dull and lifeless. No, they burned with the fire that he recognized as the Fullmetal Alchemist’s, but it was wilder, wild and untempered by pain and loss. He didn’t recognize the transmutation circle the boy was scribbling out in chalk, but the sheer complexity of it answered for itself.

“You can’t bring people back from the dead,” he said, his voice calm, soft. Roy couldn’t imagine his voice being so gentle, but there it was.

The boy turned towards him, eyes defiant and full of pride. “You won’t know if you don’t try.”

He wanted to tell Edward that he did try, tried and failed, stopped by his own dead friend before he could go through with the foolishness that would’ve made him one of the unreturnable dead. But then Edward was no longer there, perhaps he had never been there, for in front of Roy stood Ishvar.

Ruined buildings surrounded him. He blinked, then casted a look at his shoulder, and saw the one star going with the stripes, signifying his rank as a mass murderer. The sun was hot, sweat pooled over his brows, the buzzing of flies over the dead filled his ears like a roar. The sound of shells went rat-tat-tat in the distance, too far away to be of any treat. He was there, and maybe he had never left, maybe Edward and Alphonse and the dead Fuhrer enveloped in flames---maybe they were all part of his hopeless dreams, a product of wishes that would never come true.

He was alone, but the next moment he was surrounded by his unit, his Company, his sacrificial lambs. Men whose faces he couldn’t remember, men he was given to command, men who were given to him by Gran as human shields---cannon fodder to make sure he survived to kill another day. The State Alchemists’ Major rank was not given because of their stature---but because it gave the military enough of an excuse to surround them with men, young raw recruits who were put there simply to die and let another take his place as soon as they outlived their usefulness. Which wasn’t very long. Roy’s Company---the 26th---were all around him, bleeding, calling to their mothers, asking for his orders, his help, for the healing alchemy that he didn’t know how to give. He was barely twenty. A few of them rotted, became food for the flies and their bones bleached white against the sand. Roy had to remind himself, they had no time to bury the dead.

He could’ve sworn Second Lieutenant Hawkeye was in there, carrying spare rifle rounds between soldiers who were still well enough to shoot. Then she was gone, and so were the rest of his unit. But Ishvar didn’t disappear, and this time Roy was alone again.

Then he looked at his hand and saw a pistol, a weapon he seldom used.

When he looked up again Ishvar was still there, but the desert had changed to the innards of a ruined building, two civilian corpses smiled at him from their position on the floor, reaching towards him with their bloody hands.

Roy resisted the urge to run, but then they, like everything else in this crazy reality, disappeared. The desert was gone, and he was relieved that he’d left Ishvar, after all. A vast expanse of greenery stretched before him, wide and beautiful and hazy, as if caught in a mist. It was a familiar view, and at first he thought he was at Resembool, where he could find Ed and get this whole thing back on track. But then Roy realized there were no signs of the automail shop, no gnarled oak where the Elric residence once stood, simply farmhouses standing like monoliths in an increasingly nostalgic landscape. And in finally clicked in him, in the hazy mist of a thousand things-that-must-be-done that made him forget, this was home.

Each location came to life in the scattered bits of Roy’s memories. If he were to walk fifty meters from this spot and turn right, he’d find his old house. Mother would be on the porch, knitting an old sweater for him that she never finished. Father would be somewhere in the house, tinkering with this and that. If he turned left instead he’d find the old dead maple tree, where he stashed all his secret treasures as a child. Then further on would be the endless pastures, dotted with wildflowers and the smell of grass singing to the wind. Roy wanted to start walking. He started walking.

And then the mist enveloped everything, and home was gone. Again. Forever. He should’ve panicked, ran, at least tried to search for it again like a madman. That was Colonel Mustang, the Colonel who always beat the odds. But he just stood there as the everything faded away. Visions turned to mist and mist turned to voices. The grey fog turned to murmur, some wordless, some meaningless, some he recognized. But there was only a particular one that whispered to him, called to him, solidified from voices to mist again.

‘Let’s go home, Roy.’

He didn’t have to look to know whose voice it was.

“Home was gone a long time ago, Hughes.”

‘Home isn’t at any one place. It’s wherever you want to be.’

“Is this another trick to shove your photo albums into my face?” Roy asked into the phone, the shuffling of office life around him as natural as things could ever be. Fury was busy typing some new report from a village two miles north of East City, Breda kicked some younger officer’s ass at chess, and Havoc was flirting with a receptionist on the far side of the room. Hawkeye was probably checking documents somewhere in his office. Everything was just right with the world.

Hughes chuckled from the other side of the line. “Well, you come to my place and I’ll let you eat Gracia’s cookies for free. Deal?”

“How many hours of Alicia for the cookies?”

“Six.”

“Go to hell, Hughes.”

When he hung up and walked out of the phone booth, Roy could almost feel the dry blood sticking to the soles of his boots. But when he turned back, trying to return to the office, to everything going the way they were supposed to, his legs gave out under him and he tumbled into a pool of blood.

He tried to look up, tried to ignore the pain screaming at him from his left eye. Or what used to be his left eye. Roy was positive that it wouldn’t see anymore---and he thought he knew what to expect. If this had all been a dream, and if this was his life, near the end, he should see Frank Archer killing him. Then all this would be done and he could at least die properly.

In front of him was Edward Elric. No, not the Edward Elric he knew. This one was taller---maybe it’s his fading sight. Yes. That was it. He wore no braid, and the black leather and red overcoat that signified Edward was gone. This one was no longer a boy, but a young man. The fire still danced in his eyes, but they were full of sadness.

Edward’s mouth quirked up in a mockery of a smile. “Goodbye, Colonel.”

The young man moved sideways, and behind him was Riza Hawkeye, smiling sadly. She aimed, wordless as always, she was a woman of very few words, and fired.

Ruined buildings surrounded them. He held her pistol to his chest, another gloved hand poised to snap, trembling.

“Die together,” hissed a voice that Roy didn’t know he had. “Or live together. Through steel and dust. Through life and death. Walk with me. Or pull that trigger and I’ll kill you after you killed me. Choose.”

His left eye bled far too much. His hands were in tatters. Roy wished he could apologize, there was no way he could’ve killed her, there was no way he could say the things he didn’t say in life after death. He wondered if there ever was. Maybe it was just his selfishness. Maybe he just wanted to die by her hands. Maybe he was just betraying her again.

The bullet tored inside his chest, but the pain was surprisingly light. The fading vision ebbed away into darkness. Death was different from what he’d expected. His existence didn’t end...and he could hear voices, some calling him again, some familiar, some not, some sobbing and calling his name over and over. But there was only a particular one that whispered to him, called to him, solidified from voices to mist again.

‘Let’s go home, Roy.’

The voice was as disembodied as everything else after death, but he always knew who it was.

“I’m dead, Hughes. You can’t bring dead people back to life.”

‘You won’t know if you don’t try.’

“Look, I’m tired. You said let’s go home, then all right, let’s go home already. I just hope you don’t keep albums in heaven, or hell, or wherever you are.”

The voice wavered, softened. ‘Home isn’t at any one place, Roy. It’s not heaven or hell. It’s not where you’re supposed to go. It’s where you want to be.’

“What?”

‘You still have time, Roy. Don’t come here yet. Let’s go home. She’s crying.’

Hughes’ voice was almost a plea. Almost a prayer.

In the darkness he heard Riza Hawkeye, her sobs sounding small and broken and a vast number of other things she wasn’t supposed to be, almost unrecognizable. The sound of shells went rat-tat-tat in the distance, faintly, and among them he could hear Havoc and Breda giving orders to fall back to the secondary trenches. The whistle of alchemical projectiles as it soared the air towards an advancing tank, the familiar sounds that he could pinpoint almost exactly. Fury kept trying to arrange an orderly retreat for the Privates and the gunmen, Farman relaying checking and rechecking emergencies supplies, Hawkeye crying.

‘Let’s go home.’

---------------------

In front of him was Edward Elric. No, not the Edward Elric he knew, for this one was a full head taller than First Lieutenant Hawkeye, and there was absolutely no chance that Edward could’ve grown so tall within the space of three weeks. Make that three years and it would still have been nigh impossible.

“Second Lieutenant Havoc.” Roy’s voice was grave. “I don’t think Edward would very much appreciate the image you’re trying to project for him.”

Havoc feigned a hurted look. “You don’t like the wig, Colonel?”

“I don’t like the fact that you’re scaring away all the nurses.”

“With all due respect, sir, you aren’t looking much better than a mummy right now,” Breda claimed.

“Well, Second Lieutenant, if you’ve been in war you’d know that nurses like men with bandages. Particularly when you earned it in battle.”

“I prefer my twisted ankle, thank you.”

Roy smirked. Not too much, as the wounds on his cheeks had not completely healed, and he would’ve been lying if he says his left eye didn’t hurt like hell. But for the moment it was fine. Havoc stood at the end of the bed, complaining about being a minimini alchemist, which Roy wasn’t quite sure if it was a riff on Roy’s own height or just an attempt to alleviate the boredom of having a broken arm. Breda sat reading on one side. Fury perused the vast selection of flowers and fruits sent to him by legions of adoring fans, as the details of their little coup were yet unreleased to the populace. Farman stirred his cup, probably the inhumanly bad drink they called tea in the military again. Hawkeye stood beside his bed, her wounded arm still slung up, saying nothing. She’d called his name over and over like a broken record when he woke up, but maybe that was as much a part of her as the usual silence.

For the time being, everything was just fine.

.........I just realized that I’d called a 2,000 words something a drabble. XD;;;;

EDIT : I hate it when Word 98 fucks up my LJ markups.

Oh, and The Moon is the name of a tabloid mag they used to write spoof articles about FMA chars in Hagaren DX.

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-02-20T14:06:00

2005-02-20T07:16:44Z

Today, I saw a young hawk die writhing on the ground. I walked out of a building and it was there, belly up, breathing and trying to get on its feet. It eventually flipped itself, but it couldn't move and could only sat there on the ground, wings spread, breathing hard. I went to find the vet department's number but couldn't, and when I got back half an hour later the ants were already there. It's not a pretty experience.

It's even worse when you can't do anything to the poor bird because of one phrase : 'bird flu'. I don't know if it's related to that, or because of the high-voltage wires up above.

What does this have to do with fiction? Well, this being a nonsensical rant and all----very little, save for the fact that I should probably berate myself for thinking 'Hawkeye deathfic!'

And it's kinda ironic, considering a Hawkeye deathfic is about the very first thing I wrote for FMA---happening around two months after it's listed in the newspaper casualties list, having everyone's perspective except Roy's (even a crippled Havoc, which is an amazing coincidence with the benefit of hindsight), since I wanted to explore the effects of an integral person's death to someone by examining the changes wrought in the world and from the world's perspective. Needless to say, it blows.

I still want to give it a rewrite one of these days. I mean, Roy has a LOT of deathfics where he dies and either Riza or Ed is left to angst. I think it's terribly unfair, in a sense, she's as integral to the Gunbu's mental health as Roy. The space, or non-space, in this case, should be interesting to see.

Pardon the self-indulgent rant. I'm trying to take my mind off plotting and back to studying.

three_eyed_crow @ 2005-02-16T14:08:00

2005-02-16T07:09:56Z

fma_100 drabbles in an easy to access location, batch one.

(Yes, it's kinda like me to have nothing really new in the first entry. Go me!)

Title : Little Things
Rating : G
Genre : General
Challenge : Love
Spoilers : Wouldn't make sense if you haven't seen Ep. 48, at the least.
Words : 100

The best thing in the morning is the noise she makes in the kitchen, taking in all the scents that wafted in through the air. Breakfast is always simple fare, but seeing her smile when she looks at him is enough to make his day. He likes watching her putting on that blue uniform and going outside, where the sunlight plays with her clip-bound hair. To him, those times are precious beyond measure.

When she said goodbye the world ended. When she came back everything was all right again.

Never again would Black Hayate let Mistress out of his sight.

Title : Containing Memories
Genre : General?
Pairing : Hughes/Gracia
Challenge : Love
Words : 100

Nobody remembered exactly why Gracia bought her fiancé a camera as a birthday present. Except herself.

Maes was overjoyed.

Major Mustang was heard cursing ‘that damn thing’.

Gracia only smiled, because she did remember how the latter man made a face when the former forced him to take a ‘buddy portrait shot’ in their full military regalia. Maes was smiling when she counted to three, and Major Mustang was fighting valiantly to keep his face composed when her fiancé attempted to stomp on his feet.

He loved containing his precious memories in a picture.

She loved being there with him.

Title : Roommate
Rating : G
Words : 100
Spoilers : None.
Challenge : The Next Generation

His parents never talked about wars or life-or-death situations much, yet Rhys Mustang hazarded that he was going through one of them in his own way.

Trying hard not to look at his roommate, the boy made a valiant attempt to calm his voice to the ‘proper and friendly’ level, despite the terror he was experiencing. “Which cabinet do you want, Albert? The left one or---“

“Which cabinet!? Which cabinet DOES NOT MATTER BEFORE THE BEAUTY OF MUSCLES! I, ALBERT NOEL ARMSTRONG, WILL SHOW YOU THE ARMSTRONG FAMILY TRADITION OF MUSCLEART!”

...

Rhys sighed.

He was going to die.

Title : After
Challenge : Music
Pairing : Roy/Riza, with said characters in fic
Words : 100
Spoilers : Won't make sense unless you saw Ep. 51

Roy spent most of his time alone. His subordinates did not visit him much, under his own strict orders. It was a tumultous time and while almost everything worked out as planned, it simply wasn’t one for sentimentalism. Only Hawkeye, who was recuperating from her own wound, came to visit every other day.

They spent most of their time in silence. She usually brought apples. He usually read his old dusty collection. On the times they went outside for his rehabilitation, they hardly ever speak. They simply smiled.

Their silence was music. They didn’t want to break it with words.

Title : Comrades in Arms
Challenge : The Written Word
Characters : Roy, Hohenheim
Spoilers : Episode 44
Genre : Attempted humor

Hohenheim studied the man in front of him, Edward’s superior. The Colonel was disturbed by their conversation---of Homunculi, of the Stone, of conspiracies. His eyes showed that he knew regret, as he also did...

“Mr. Hohenheim,” Mustang suddenly called out of nowhere. His eyes shifted to a different, odd glint.

The older man blinked. “Yes?”

Mustang grinned, whipping out his notebook and beginning to write.“I saw you with Lt. Ross. Would you care to exchange pickup lines?”

Hohenheim raised an eyebrow, then produced his own super duper secret research notes. “Why not?”

They were more alike than previously thought.

Title : Of Rations and Alchemy
Challenge : Food
Characters : Roy, Hughes
Pairing : None
Genre : General? Pointless fluff?
Notes : Manga-verse, spoils #34

“Standard field rations,” said Hughes. “The blandest foodstuff ever concocted in this world. Roy, are you absolutely sure that you can’t transmute anything edible?”

Said Roy munched on his own packet of tasteless nutrients, absently tracing circles on the ground. “Alchemy is a science, Maes.”

“Come on, Major, you’ve got to at least try. Some sympathy for your subordinates would do you a world of good.”

“Insubordinates, more like. I don’t recall being the army cook. Besides, science’s very precise, and that leads to...where do you think rations come from?”

“Is that why your cooking is so bland?”

“Shut up.”

Title : The Girl of The Week
Challenge : Disguise/Costumes
Characters : Roy, Random Date of The Week(?)
Rating : G
Words : 100
Genre : Attempted fluff.

She started out to be rather unremarkable, and Roy wasn’t getting his hopes up for this date of the week. However, once the conversation started rolling, he discovered that she was pleasantly intelligent, didn’t swoon over him every three seconds and even managed to drag the topic somewhere interesting. Despite her uncanny intuitiveness.

So Roy entertained the thought of another date, perhaps, just to break the pattern. He was about to ask when she suddenly smirked.

“You really don’t recognize me, sir?”

His mouth slowly fell open as the woman removed her glasses and untied her hair.

“First Lieutenant Hawkeye?”

Title : The Girl of The Week, Take Two
Challenge : Disguise/Costumes
Characters : Roy, Random Date of The Week
Rating : G
Words : 100
Genre : Humor at Roy’s expense

Colonel Mustang was convinced he was the luckiest man in the world.

It was a nice breezy Wednesday evening. There was no leftover paperwork. No vengeful pint-sized alchemists stalking him. No telephones from obnoxious friends. And his date was the loveliest he’d had in ages, so lovely that he’d have to resort to purple prose to describe her. She was only a few molecules short of flinging herself at him, too.

Roy’d gone over to the bar to order a drink when the bartender leaned over and whispered.

“I’d be careful, sir. Your lady was, until recently, our male customer.”

Title : Devils
Challenge : Pain/Illness
Rating : PG for really mild gore
Genre : Fluff. Yes. Fluff.

They were coming for him.

He tried running for his life, tried breaking free of his bonds. If he was caught, as it’d always been, they would do unspeakable things to him. Devils. The devil with the searing needle from her finger would tear through his guts. It was more excruciating than anything, but they always cooed and laughed even as he whimpered in pain.

Just when he thought he could get away, she always appeared there.

“Hayate,” Riza Hawkeye scolded, picking the puppy up. “If you don’t get your shots, you’re never going to get rid of that stomachache.”

Title : Dreams
Challenge : Phobia/Fear (I don't know whether I interpret it correctly or not, though)
Character : Riza Hawkeye
Rating : G
Word Count : 100. Unless the program has died.
Spoilers : The goal of the entire Mustang staff. I'm not sure which episode specifically.
Genre : Angst

There were those who say Riza Hawkeye does not dream at night. They were wrong, but sometimes she wished they were not.

If they were, then she wouldn’t have to wake up and find herself shaking, cold sweat on her forehead, wouldn’t have to tell herself that everything was just a nightmare that’d melt away with sunrise.

Because she was Hawkeye, she never forgot and never let it affect her work. When pulling the trigger, nightmares were a luxury one couldn’t afford. When walking the treason road, doubts and fears as to whether they would live through it was lethal.

Title : Chance
Challenge : Loss
Characters : Roy, Ed, Al
Rating : G
Spoilers : None
Words : 100

Six o’clock in the evening. It was the sort of time you’d expect Colonel Mustang to go on dates. And he was, honestly. His date just happened to be canned fish, assorted vegetables, and sewing apparatus.

Alphonse Elric stared. Edward fought down his laughter.

“So THAT’s what he actually does when he says he’s going on a date with THE Beauty of Beauties,” the latter finally managed, snickering.

Al’s methaphorical eyes narrowed. “Niisan. What are you thinking?”

Ed produced a camera.

The next day the pictures were posted. Mustang was said to have hidden in his office for the week.