13_Fears: A Challenge Community

Lovely Boy (Frank West, Dead Rising, #04)

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 03:25:47 GMT

Wow, it's been a while, I almost forgot I was in this community and that I had two challenges to complete in it. Now that it's summer I feel like writing for it again, maybe get it finished before Halloween, heh. This one's short, i'll make up for it in the next one.

Title: Lovely Boy
Series: Dead Rising
Character/Pairing: Frank West
Theme: 04. Catoptrophobia; Fear of Mirrors {they reflect our true selves to us}
Rating: PG
Word Count: 340
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Keiji Inafune does.

Summary: Frank West gets a good look at himself in a mirror after two days of zombie slaughtering and chaos. Title inspired by the Keane song.

“Just a second…I just need a second…” Frank pressed his face against the mirror in Paradise, staring at the blood that was awash on his trembling hands. These hands had once held a machete, a sniper rifle, a meat cleaver and even a cash register, anything he could get their blood-soaked palms on. He frantically turned the faucet in the sink and dunked in his hands; turning the water crimson. Still, the red syrup clung stubbornly to his hands. He swore colourfully, and looked up into the large, spotless mirror, and was startled by himself.

Bags hung under his eyes from sleep deprivation, his skin pale and dirty from running around three days long with no showers in the mall and his once perfectly done black hair tousled and unkempt. This would need to be the third time he changed his clothing, seeing that now they were now positively covered in blood. He stood there for an eternity staring at himself in absolute horror as one would stare at a train wreck, as if he expected himself to change back into a normal, functioning member of society just by blinking. What a pipe dream.

The sound of water escaping jolted him back into reality, looking away from his eyes at the brown water making a pool on the ground. He stepped backwards and looked at his hands, never making contact with the mirror. They were still as red as when Adam the Clown first sprayed the red drink all over Frank when he impaled himself on his own show prop two days ago, the only difference was that it was no longer just Adam’s blood. It was Adam’s and the Hall’s and Jo’s and Cliff’s and Sean’s and Carlito’s and Steven’s…and his own.

He slammed his hands against the mirror and smeared the beautiful glass with dirty, bloody water and warping his own reflection. He next shattered it with a baseball bat. Seven years be damned, as long as he couldn’t see himself he considered himself the luckiest man alive.

Infernal (Sephiroth, Kingdom Hearts, Bonus - #16)

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 06:24:58 GMT

Title: Infernal
Series: Kingdom Hearts
Claim: Sephiroth
Theme: #16 - Gynophobia: Fear of Women (sugar and spice and everything nice)
Rating: T/PG-13 (one obsessive lustful woman, thematic elements)
Word Count: 3,432
Disclaimer: Sephiroth and anything relating to KH is not mine. The villain and the story are mine!

Cross-posted to kingdom100, ladybug_tales, and http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4324283/1/

Kingdom Hearts II
Infernal
By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine, except for Kala-Ansa, and the story is mine, too. It's a vague idea I've had for a while that at last morphed into something I could write without messing up my timeline. It takes place shortly after God Help the Outcasts. The prompts Passion/Obsession from Kingdom100 and Fear of Women from 13 Fears assisted.

The sound of the flames crackling reached Sephiroth's ears long before his other senses returned.

He was used to it, of course---at least to some extent. Being able to control fire meant that he heard the snapping and hissing of the blazes quite frequently. He had despised his powers at first, hating that he had them instead of being able to be seen and recognized. But he had made use of them, training until he could command a blast anywhere he chose. And the time of his exile had ended. Now he used his powers to protect his loved ones.

But there was not supposed to be any fire now. He was asleep. Or he had been, at least. His eyes flew open. Was the house burning?

He could only stare in disbelief. He was no longer in his room at home. Now he was laying on a bed in a room that was bathed in fire. The flames danced from the unprotected fireplace in the corner, casting their angry red and orange hues against the walls. The various objects took on ominous shadows which grew more twisted and menacing as the blaze ate at the logs in the firebox. There was no other source of light in the room.

Pushing against the mattress, he struggled to rise. But he could not. Instead chains clinked, unpleasant metal rubbing against his wrists. Immediately he looked to his left arm. He was manacled to the bedpost. His right arm was the same, as were his legs. His wings hung freely over the edges of the bed to the floor.

What was this? How could he have been taken prisoner in this way? Surely he must have been awake before, fighting whoever had done this. No one could drag him away in his sleep without him awakening. And what did it say about Zack and Cloud's situation? They would have fought such an intruder. Were they captive somewhere too?

Or was this all a very realistic dream? The room was so warm, bordering on flaming hot. He could feel the heat against his face and his bare chest and hands. Would he wake up safe at home to discover that Zack had left the heat on too long? If he was too warm in real life, that could come into his dream.

Something moved in the dark shadows of the far side of the room. He tensed, looking in that direction. Only a silhouette was visible. What appeared to be a feminine form was closing a drawer. Then it straightened up, reaching to remove something from its hair. Shoulder-length locks tumbled free.

Sephiroth watched in confused apprehension. "Who's here?" he demanded. "Where is this?"

"This," a figure whispered, "is Hell."

A cold chill shot into Sephiroth's veins. Then this had to be some kind of dream, didn't it? Before he had lain down, he had been wondering again what would happen to him after his life was spent. Every now and then the question came back to plague him. He had never been given the assurance from the judges that he would be redeemed in the end. And though he would not be surprised if they still believed him to only be good for Hellfire, he did not want that fate.

But this was not like any Hell he had pictured. What was it going to involve? The woman who had spoken . . . was this her house? Strange, he had never thought there would be houses in the infernal pit. Maybe she was speaking of Hell in an abstract way. Though the open fire was adding to his concerns.

"To be with you is Hell," she continued now, her voice raising slightly past a whisper as she began to step forward. "And yet it is all I desire, because of what you have done to me."

His eyes narrowed, his lip curling in revulsion. He recognized who she was now---Kala-Ansa, the woman who had lusted after him, believing it was the result of a spell he had cast upon her. She had been killed by Hojo's Master Clone not that long ago. Did that mean he could really be in . . . ?

She stepped into the light cast by the fire, clad in only a white silk negligeé held up by thin straps. Her raven hair, loosed of the tight bun, played around her face and over her shoulders. Her painted-red lips turned up in a cruel smile as she took in the sight of him.

"This is how I want to see you," she purred, "helpless and at my mercy. And I have none. I will never let you go."

He glowered. It did not matter if she thought he would not be able to get free. He would. He was more resourceful than to be made to stay here, with her.

Hatred flickered in her amber eyes. "You turned my own daughter against me," she accused.

"That isn't true." His voice was filled with steel. "She still loves you, in spite of everything you yourself did to strain your relationship with her."

"She's living with a clone of you!" Her own voice grew shrill. "It's a disgrace!"

"He is kinder to her than you were," he retorted.

"Everything I ever did was for her own good."

". . . Including lusting after my body and promising my freedom from oppression if I would satisfy your desires?"

She glowered at him. "Your spell is what made me say that," she said. "It's what has brought you to me tonight." She stepped closer. "Do I not please you, Sephiroth?" She spread out her arms as if in emphasis.

"Am I supposed to be pleased that I'm chained to your bed?"

A smirk played on her lips. "Oh . . . I'm certain you will change your mind when you find what I can offer," she said. "And you . . . I already know that you have plenty to give to me. I sampled when I kissed you at the stake."

His eyes only grew more hard. "I didn't return it," he said. "If you're expecting submission from me, you will never receive it."

She began to walk again. "You don't have anywhere else to go."

He brought his wings up, prepared to push her away when she came closer. "I am not dead," he said, his voice cold. "How am I here?"

"I will it," she answered, reaching the edge of the bed. She sneered as she placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling his muscles tense under her grasp. Then she began to lean down.

Immediately all wings were flying at her, shoving her backward as she gave a cry. Sephiroth glowered as she crashed against the wall. He brought his wings around himself. He had to find a way out of this. What did she mean, she willed him to be here? She did not have that kind of control over him. She would have to either be lying altogether or twisting the truth.

Her head jerked up, her brown eyes flashing through the thick locks. "Those wretched wings," she cried. "I despise them. I revile everything about them!" Feeling behind herself for the wall, she pushed herself to her feet.

"They're mine," Sephiroth responded, his voice filled with icy displeasure. "If you want me, you will have to accept all of me. Which you can never do. Your irrational prejudice always gets in the way."

"You dare to speak that way to me after cursing me with my desires?!" She flew across the empty space, striking Sephiroth across the cheek before he could stop it.

Sephiroth met her enraged gaze. "You never could accept responsibility for your own actions," he said. "You believed that you could do no wrong. Of course you could never succumb to a feeling as base as carnal lust. You were too perfect."

"Silence!" she screamed. Then she was descending, grabbing at Sephiroth as she pressed her lips against his. One hand went behind his head, touching his hair. The other arm curled around his neck and shoulders.

This was revolting. The witch was determined to have her way with him. And he would not allow it. He would never allow it!

He pulled on the chains, struggling, desperate for freedom. The bedposts did not budge. He flung his wings at her again, hitting her from every side. If he could curl them around her body, or get them between her and him, he could force her away.

She broke the loveless kiss, crying out in fury as the royal blue wings struck her. Now she was fighting them, trying to thrust them all away. When one was pushed back, the others were still there, flailing and hitting. One of the spearhead bones caught in her hair. She screamed, tearing to get it free. As she succeeded, he brought up the other two wings, hitting her in the stomach. She stumbled back.

"You cannot have willed me here," Sephiroth said. "You are not strong enough."

She thrust the third wing away from her. "And what do you believe I did, Sephiroth?" she demanded.

"I was asleep," he said. "I'm still asleep. You willed your way into my dream."

"This is a dream?" she returned, walking to the upper right bedpost. Taking his hand within hers, she caressed the strong, callused flesh. The fingers clenched at her touch. Undaunted, she brought his fist to her mouth, brushing her lips against the skin.

Sephiroth responded by slapping her. There was enough slack on the chains to allow for that, at least.

"You've twisted my dream," he said, "but because it is my dream, I can manipulate it as well."

She raised a hand to her face, hatefully touching the sore spot left by his defensive attack. "Can you?" she retorted. "You haven't been able to free yourself."

"I just have to concentrate hard enough," Sephiroth said. "Then I will be free and this madness will end."

Her eyes flickered with both anger and cruel satisfaction. "You will never get the chance to concentrate that long," she said. "I will make certain of it!"

With that she was coming at him again, throwing herself onto the bed with him. Grabbing at his robe, she fought to pull it back from his chest. He fought just as hard to keep it in place, his wings flying at her. Several feathers came free, floating down around them. Undeterred, she thrust herself onto his chest, clutching at him in desperation. A sleeve of the robe began to tear free.

Now he was getting his wings around her. Without warning he pushed her onto the floor. Before she could get up and try again, he was concentrating with all his might. He would will the chains to break. Kala-Ansa had not denied that they were in his dream. He would believe that it was true.

The woman got to her feet in a rage. The metal links were starting to weaken. And she would not let it happen. She would never let him get away from her---not now, when he was at last with her!

"Fire, come forth!" she cried, bringing her hand in the direction of the blaze. "Encircle the demon and let him burn alive!"

As if in response, the flames leaped from the open fireplace, catching on to the wood of the bedframe. From there it was spreading to the covers and lapping at Sephiroth's clothes.

She sneered. "I will finish what I started before," she said. "You will never be allowed into Heaven. You will remain here with me for all eternity. You will still be mine!"

He glowered at the increasing inferno, bringing his wings around himself. He could not control fire that was not his own. But in this dreamworld, would it be different? Would he be able to direct it away from him? It was not logical that being burned in a dream could kill him in real life, albeit Kala-Ansa was convinced it could. And he would not take any chances.

The bedframe was splintering and tearing asunder. He pulled his feet towards him. The lower bedposts groaned, crashing to the floor and setting it alight. His legs were free, though still bearing the chains. He would have to worry about that later. Now he struggled to sit up. He was straining against the upper bedposts, clenching his fists. His will and Kala-Ansa's were crashing together. She wanted him to stay. He wanted to leave.

His clothes were on fire. The flames were eating away at the material, stinging his flesh. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself forward as he pulled again on the bedposts. Now they were tearing free. He brought his arms to his sides. They were a bit numb, and the chains might get in his way, but he couldn't worry about any of that right now. Shakily he began to stand up on the bed. The fire was coming at him again. By now there was hardly any place on the bed where he could step without landing on the flames. He would have to jump off.

Now he was airborne, his wings spreading for balance. The fire reached out for him with its cruel fingers, brushing his feet and legs. He only barely missed falling into the flames now surrounding the bed. Then he was descending, landing on his feet on an unoccupied portion of the carpet. The stinging swept over him as he hit the ground. His feet had been hurt by the inferno. He dropped to the floor, rolling to extinguish the flames still eating at his clothes.

Kala-Ansa shrieked. She was diving at him, leaping through the fire as she came. It did not hurt her, but it was an eerie sight to see a woman ablaze---in more ways than one---coming right at him. Sephiroth moved out of the way, leaving her to slam into the wall and set it alight.

She flew at him again, crashing on top of him as she fought to restrain him on the floor. He grabbed her wrists, digging in with his fingers as he threw her to the side. She caught his wrists, refusing to let go as she struggled to get to her knees. The sleeve tore further. Abandoning it, she took hold of his throat. A sickening sneer came over her features as she gripped tighter, pushing in with her hand.

He snatched her wrist, struggling to tear it back. His eyes were watering, both from the smoke and the pressure on his throat. Her lips were pulled back in a wretched smirk as she continued to hold onto him. "There is no escape," she hissed, starting to bend down.

A weak growl passed through his lips. He clutched tighter at her wrist, beginning to twist it in his grasp. Still determined to end his life, she did not let go. But at last he was forcing her hand away. He was much stronger than she was, no matter how much willpower she could exert on this plane. He gasped, turning onto his side as he choked and coughed for want of air. His throat was burning. He breathed heavily, his wings twitching as the welcome oxygen rushed into his lungs. But then he coughed again. The smoke was rushing into his lungs as well.

And by now the room was almost entirely encompassed by flames. He gripped the floor as he watched the fire, his eyes narrowed. He had to bring his desire for the blaze to be extinguished to the forefront of his mind. That was all he would think about.

But the fire continued to dance in front of his eyes, as if mocking him. What if Kala-Ansa was right? What if he would perish and he would remain with her, unable to escape? Would he really be condemned to such a fate? Would the good he had tried to do mean nothing? God had listened to him before, but did that mean he was welcome in Heaven?

This was foolishness. She was either deliberately preying on his worst fears, or else it was a coincidence. She did not have the power to kill him. He would refuse to die by her hands. And he would also refuse to keep thinking about what would happen when he did die. This was not the time. He would push these concerns out of his mind and focus his attention on stopping the inferno.

Water could extinguish it, if there was a lot of it. Could he will water to come into his dream? Kala-Ansa was laughing now, as the flames had almost entirely trapped him. He turned his face away from the blaze.

A drop of something cool splashed on his face. He blinked, looking up. The roof had split open. Rain was pouring down on them. Kala-Ansa screamed in rage, stumbling to her feet as she stared up at the sheets of water. The fire was going out.

Her eyes flashed. "So! You would rather drown?" she exclaimed, her face twisting in a grotesque manner. "Of course. What would a fire-wielder fear more than death by the element that can always stop him?" Her hair blew out around her. "There will be a flood! Then you will come to me!"

"There won't be a flood," Sephiroth retorted, struggling to stand. "I'm going home." He spread his wings, flapping them as he raised off the floor. Then he was traveling upward, through the hole in the ceiling. Kala-Ansa cried in fury, throwing some of the splintered wood up at him. It bounced harmlessly off his back.

But at the same time, the rain began to increase. Kala-Ansa was indeed attempting to call down a flood. Sephiroth growled, shielding his eyes from the downpour. He would have to struggle through it anyway, no matter how difficult it was going to be. He would not go back. Yet if it kept pounding down on his wings, especially the one that had previously been crushed, it would be impossible to stay airborne. Maybe now he would have to concentrate to make it stop.

Without warning a bright light encircled the strange building behind him. He turned, looking back in surprise. What now?

"You will not harm this man any more," a stern voice declared. It was filled with ethereal power, even causing Sephiroth to momentarily freeze. "You will never have him with you where you are."

Kala-Ansa's response was a bone-chilling cry of anger, hatred, and defeat.

The light grew brighter still. Sephiroth, now hovering, was seeing but not watching. What he had heard stunned him. He had not made up this person's presence in the dreamworld. Whoever it was, was truly there. And if he had understood correctly, it had just been declared that he would not go to Hell when he died. If that was so, then at this point of his life he must be doing something right.

Now the glow faded. As it dissipated, the rest of the scene turned to black as well.
****
Sephiroth fell to the floor with a crash. He looked up, his heart racing wildly. His bangs, damp with perspiration, were clinging to his face. He was safe, back in his room at home. The moon shone through the window to his side. He was kneeling on the carpet next to the bed, his wings spread out on the floor.

It had just been a dream. A very realistic dream, manipulated by both Kala-Ansa and Sephiroth himself---and ended by the mysterious, divine being.

He pushed himself up, reaching for the mattress with one hand. As he rose, he stiffened in shock.

His clothes smelled of smoke. They were eaten through at places, the edges of the holes brittle and singed. Ash was falling from his hair. And the sleeve of his robe was descending, neatly torn at the shoulder seam.

It's Always Goodbye [Claire Bennet, Heroes, #9]

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 04:06:04 GMT

Fandom: Heroes
Title: It's Always Goodbye
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Claire(as Sandra), Claire/Hiro, Claire/Andy implied
Word Count: 1,164
Genre: Angst/Drama
Claim:: Claire Bennet
Theme: #9 - Metathesiophobia; Fear of Changes {nothing lasts forever}.
Spoilers: "String Theory" and "The Walls" from the Online Novel, and "Five Years Gone"
Notes: Five Years Gone Universe, takes place before the episode. Written for 13_fears.

Summary: They always come and go, and she wishes Hiro had been different.

[It's Always Goodbye]

The Red Dress (Claire Bennet, Heroes, #4)

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 18:37:21 GMT

Fandom: Heroes
Title: The Red Dress
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claire, mention of an OC
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Warnings: General Heroes knowledge. Some canon Paire implications.
Word Count: 771
Genre: Comedy/Fluff
Claim:: Claire Bennet
Theme: #4 - Catoptrophobia; Fear of Mirrors (they reflect our true selves to us)
Notes: It's written for "Fear of Mirrors" but barely mentioned.
Summary: Blue didn't suit her, but he was worried about how amazing she looked in red.

[The Red Dress]

Frozen Shadows (Sephiroth, Kingdom Hearts, #4)

Sun, 06 Jan 2008 05:53:26 GMT

I liiive! Finally got some inspiration for this claim again. It's actually Cloud who has the fear in this piece, but his fear is because of Seph, so I hope that's acceptable. ^^

Title: Frozen Shadows
Series: Kingdom Hearts
Claim: Sephiroth
Theme: #4 - Catoptrophobia; Fear of Mirrors (they reflect our true selves to us)
Rating: K+/PG (a creepy dream, a bit of blood)
Word Count: 2,078
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and this story is!

Cross-posted to: kingdom100, ladybug_tales, and http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3994875/1/

Kingdom Hearts II
Frozen Shadows
By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine and this random ficlit is! I'm using a Writer's Choice prompt from Kingdom100, "Ice", plus "Catoptrophobia; Fear of Mirrors (they reflect our true selves to us)" from 13 Fears. And though it seems completely random, it does have a point. It will lead into another fic that I've been working on for some time. This takes place shortly after Same Auld Lang Syne. Thanks to Kaze for plot help and the title!

I had a weird dream a few minutes ago.

I was standing somewhere at the top of a hill. It wasn't the Dark Depths or anything around there. It was a forest with lots of pine trees, and just up ahead and down the hill was a clearing. There was a frozen pond down there, or what looked like one. And I was just staring out at it.

I guess to be specific, I should say that I was staring at a body on it.

It was you.

You were laying on your left side, just really still. Your upper wing was behind you, limp on the ice. Your lower wings were in front of you. The right one came down on your hip and over your legs, with the rest of it on the pond. Your left wing was just stretched out. You didn't have a really agonized look on your face; you looked peaceful in a way, or maybe sad.

I ran down the hill and onto the ice, yelling for you, but you didn't wake up. And it seemed sturdy, so I kept going. When I got close to you, the ice just cracked in a really weird and intricate design. Then it broke through. I jumped back, safe enough, but you were falling into the water. I crashed to my knees, grabbing for your wrist.

I caught it, but your hand was just lifeless, flopping against mine. Then you grabbed me. Even through your gloves, your skin was cold. When your grip stiffened, and you got a lot heavier, I knew you'd been frozen alive, right on the spot.

I screamed.

Then I woke up in bed, staring up at the ceiling. My hair and clothes were pressed right against my body. I didn't know if I'd screamed aloud, but I figured I hadn't, since Zack didn't come running in to see what was wrong.

So I've just been laying here for a while, trying to calm down. It's been a long time since any dream's shook me up like that. And not that long ago, I would've been rebelling against the fact that it was about you. Now I'm wondering what the stupid thing means.

Why were you laying on the ice? Why did it break when I got close enough? Why did you die when I tried to save you?

I don't pay much attention to dreams, don't get me wrong. You know I'm not really someone who feels like his dreams are prophetic, or meaningful at all. They're just a dumb, crazy mess showing what's going through my head, but in a really twisted way. And sometimes I remember stuff in my past, or my fears come out. But this one wasn't any of those things.

I throw back the covers, pulling myself up. It's stupid, but I'm going to check on you. You'll think it's stupid too.

When Zack remodeled the place, he decided that he would take the other bedroom upstairs, leaving the one downstairs as the vacant guest room. I'm across the hall from his door. Yours is next to his. And your door's half-open, so that's good. I'll just . . . have a look and go back to bed.

I keep quiet as I go over to your room. But looking in at you does freak me out. You're laying the same way you were in the dream---left side, wing positions, and all that. You're still, too. And I'm making my way in, grabbing at your arm. "Sephiroth!" I don't know what I'm thinking. I'm not really thinking at all; I'm just acting on instinct. Or something.

You start right awake, staring at me in the dark. "Cloud?" You frown. "Is something wrong?" You're just fine. Not that I really thought you wouldn't be.

I let go, shaking my head. "No," I say. And I look for an excuse. If you think I'd tell you I came in to make sure you aren't frozen to death, you're crazy. "You're letting the quilt fall on the floor," I tell you. "It's not doing you any good down there."

You reach and pull it up again. "You wouldn't need to wake me up for that," you say, your tone dry. "You could have just laid it around me."

"You probably would've woke up anyway, if I'd done that," I retort.

I wonder if you've ever got used to sleeping with a quilt. You usually didn't on Zack's couch, or mine, even though I'm sure Zack offered one to you. But you act like you're pretty comfortable when you settle down with this one. It must be nice, to sleep in a bed instead of on a couch all the time.

"Cloud, what's the real reason you came in here? I hope you don't think I'm so much of an idiot that I'd believe your story about the quilt." You're looking over at me from the pillow, not impressed.

I roll my eyes. "Worth a try." But you just keep looking at me.

"Okay!" I yell, frustrated. "I came to see if you were alright. I had a weird dream and I just . . . I don't know, I'm the idiot."

"You had a dream in which I was not alright?"

". . . Yeah." I look away. "Can we stop talking about this now?"

You just grunt. "You wouldn't normally let a dream bother you. It must have been drastic."

My wing twitches. "You were laying on the ice," I say. "I don't know . . . unconscious, or asleep, or something. I ran over to wake you up and tell you to leave, but the ice broke when I stepped on it and got over to where you were." I grip my arms. "I tried to save you. I grabbed your wrist, and you grabbed me, and then you were just frozen alive."

You don't say anything. Finally I look over at you, frowning. You're just watching me.

"Well, say something!" I snap.

You're still quiet for a bit. "Do you think it was some kind of a warning?" you ask.

"How should I know?!" I glare. "I just know it was weird, that's all."

"I'll be careful of the ice, Cloud." Your voice is dry again. "I'm sure I won't fall asleep on it."

"Maybe if I'd just yelled at you from a distance, you would've woke up and gotten away," I mumble. So now I'm trying to rewrite a dream? What's wrong with me?! It's not like the thing's going to come true.

"Go back to sleep, Cloud."

I look to you. I can't tell what you're thinking. You're probably thinking I'm nuts. Or maybe you're letting me off figuring I'm just tired. I know in the morning I'll regret acting so crazy. I'll probably wish I'd never came in here.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I'd better."

"Cloud . . ." You look up at me, frowning more. "Is this honestly bothering you?"

I know that if you think it is, you'll treat it more seriously. But it's a dream. A dream! I don't want it to bother me. It shouldn't be!

"I don't know," I grumble. "I just . . . I never had a dream like that before. It was so . . . so intense or something, like I was really living it. But to feel like that is stupid."

"It isn't."

I turn to stare at you. The last thing I thought you'd do would be to disagree with me when it's something so nuts. But you're looking at me, completely serious.

"To have a nightmare like that is often because it's either the memory of something in your past, or because it's a deep-rooted fear." You frown. "Or because it truly is some kind of premonition. I don't believe in such things happening very much, but I've seen that they can happen. And with our track record, I doubt you can fully dismiss it. Otherwise you wouldn't have come in here."

"Yeah. . . ." But it's still a surprise. ". . . What do you think we should do?"

"It might not even be literal, Cloud. Many dreams are symbolic. But we'll be able to think more clearly in the morning." You start to settle further into the bed. "Go to sleep."

"Sure. Whatever." I turn to go. "In the morning I probably won't even want to talk about it."

"Then I'll see that you do," you tell me, half into the pillow.

Well, that's just great. As far as you're concerned, we're through talking for now. And I really should get going to bed. I've been awake way too long already.

"Okay then. Night," I say, heading for the door.

"Good night," you answer.

I leave your room and go back across the way. Zack must be in a deep sleep tonight. He didn't even wake up hearing me yell through the wall in your room. When he does, he always comes to see what's going on.

. . . You called the thing a nightmare. I haven't called it anything other than a dream. But it was pretty nightmarish. You're my friend now. That means all the more, I don't want anything to happen to you. And I definitely don't want to cause it! Zack would be so distraught. And he'd be worried about how I'd take it, too. He probably wouldn't take any time to grieve himself, because of that.

I don't even know how I'd react anymore. I'd be angry, I know that much. I'd blame myself.

Shuffling back into my room, I collapse into the bed. I just want a dreamless sleep now. And to wake up not even thinking about this thing, if it doesn't mean anything anyway. If it does, then whatever. I guess we'll talk about it in the morning.
****
I actually sleep pretty well the rest of the night. That's a surprise. Now, as I'm getting up, it looks gray outside. Probably another snow storm on the way. Hollow Bastion always has really harsh winters.

I go out into the hall, making my way into the bathroom. Good, it's empty. Turning on the light, I twist the tap until there's a thin stream of water going. I splash it on my face.

And then suddenly the whole place shakes. What's going on?! I'm losing my balance! And I don't want to end up in the sink or on the floor right now. I reach out, trying to brace myself. I slam forward. Something cracks under my right hand. Great, now what?

Everything's quiet. I slump back, running my left hand through my spikes. What was that!? An earthquake? That's just weird. We hardly ever have those here.

Something's running down my right hand, too thick to be water. I look over. Wonderful. I've cracked the mirror. I pull my hand away. Do I dare inspect the damage? I guess I have no choice. I turn my hand palm-up. I guess it's not as bad as it could be. Blood's seeping from two or three cuts, but they don't look too deep.

Turning on the water, I put my hand underneath it. It stings, but who cares. The blood mixes with the water, disappearing down the drain.

I glance back up at my cracked reflection. This better not take a lot of money to replace. Just look at all those jagged trails in the stupid glass. It's such a weird pattern, almost like when someone . . .

No . . . it can't be.

"Cloud?! Can you believe we had an earthquake? Oh man, are you okay?!"

I look up. Zack and you are standing in the doorway. Zack is gawking at the blood on the mirror. You're just frowning in concern, crossing your arms.

"You're pale," you comment.

I shake my head, continuing to stare at the pattern on the mirror.

I saw that exact design in my dream last night.

When the ice cracked.

lost in a dream of mirrors (Andy, Supernatural, 04)

Sun, 04 Nov 2007 13:09:23 GMT

Title: Lost in a Dream of Mirrors
Series: Supernatural
Claim: Andy
Theme: Catoptrophobia
Rating: PG-13, language
Disclaimer: Not mine!

http://sardonicsmiley.livejournal.com/29284.html

Burning Inside with Violent Anger, 3 (Alister, #16)

Wed, 31 Oct 2007 14:14:41 GMT

Finally got a little inspiration. And on Halloween, how appropriate.

Title: Burning Inside with Violent Anger, chapter three
Series: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Claim: Alister
Theme: #16 - Fear of Women {sugar and spice and everything nice}
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,148
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine!

Cross-posted to: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3582937/3/Burning_Inside_With_Violent_Anger

Notes: I hope these two came out alright. I rewrote some things several times to try to get the right voice for them. It's been a while since I've written for Alister, and I've never tried Orichalcos Mai before. And I still like Mai, by the way, though it's no secret that she was seriously mixed up during Doom Arc, courtesy of Yami Marik.

#16. Gynophobia; Fear of Women {sugar and spice and everything nice}

He was leaning against a pillar of the temple, his arms crossed, his coat billowing around him. His honey-tinted sunglasses slipped partway down his nose as he looked toward the sound of the footsteps. Even before he saw the owner of said footsteps, her identity was obvious. No one else in the temple made such a clicking sound with her boots.

And there she was---Mai Valentine, wearing one of those purple and black outfits that seriously challenged the lines of decency. Her shorts went about as high as humanly possible without being nonexistent altogether. And her top covered what she was endowed with---just barely---and little else.

The Orichalcos choker around her neck seemed out of place. After all, she was so concerned about fashion, wouldn't she think the turquoise would clash with her outfit? Or maybe by now she was so caught up in thoughts of gaining power that she did not care.

Her expression bore her cold determination. She wanted to be the best, just like Valon. Maybe that was why she did not like him. Maybe she thought he would only get in her way. It would not surprise him. Valon should just give up already.

Not that he cared what Valon did. They each had their own separate goals, after all. Valon's near-obsession with her would not interfere with Alister's plans of destroying Seto Kaiba. Or it should not, anyway.

She did not seem to notice him leaning there, watching her. In retrospect, maybe he should have just let her go by. But for some reason, he decided instead to speak.

"Did you do it?"

She froze, turning narrowed violet eyes to the hidden gray orbs. "Of course I did it," she answered, her voice sharp as a knife. "Did you think I wouldn't?" In anger she brushed a stray lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. Something must have gone wrong. Not that she was not always in a bad mood, but right now it was worse than usual. She looked like she wanted to take a bite out of metal.

If the old nursery rhyme was true, about females being made of "sugar and spice and everything nice", she was more spice than anything else at the moment. And though he had heard that in the past she had used her sugar on men, she had never used it here. She was always so full of anger and hate . . . and pain, underneath it all. None of the members would have joined an organization such as Doom without a certain amount of pain. But as far as Mai Valentine containing "everything nice" . . . well, that all depended on one's perspective of "nice."

He had often played with fire in his life, though this interest had mostly come about after his brother's death. And he always had his own reasons for getting into someone's mind and tinkering with what made them tick. He never did it just to make them squirm and be on edge. It was what he planned to do with Kaiba. To start with, it would only be words and simple actions. Then, gradually, it would grow worse.

Of course, he had very little interest in this woman. Making her life Hell would be pointless. But that did not mean that he did not wonder if she was useful to the organization. He still thought Dartz had made a mistake by allowing her admittance. Her cutting tone should have been a warning to back down, but instead he gave her a calm look. "I thought maybe you couldn't," he said.

Her eyes flamed. "Are you calling me soft?" she spat, stepping closer to him. Her hands flew to her hips. She looked ferocious as she stood in front of him, demanding a response. Some men would be scared off by this tigress. Some would just be amused.

Alister was neither. But he did raise an eyebrow at the red-violet color that sparked in her eyes. That only happened when the wearer of the Orichalcos became particularly incensed. It confirmed his suspicions that something had not gone according to plan when she had gone on her first major mission. Not just anyone could eliminate Pegasus. Had she needed help to get the job done? Valon had gone with her, to monitor her success as well as to be around in case she needed a more experienced duelist to bail her out of a tight spot.

Not that it really mattered, as long as the assignment had been completed.

"I wondered," he said. "Especially since you dropped out of the world of professional dueling to join us."

The rage only increased. When she spoke, her voice was taut and dangerous. "They weren't enough of a challenge," she said. "I wanted something bigger. Something better."

"And you think you've found it?" He glanced at the stone hanging from her neck. "Only the best can be Orichalcos duelists."

She glowered. "I was the best!" she retorted.

"Until people like Yugi Muto and Joey Wheeler came along and stole your glory?" He continued to regard her in total calm. "I've heard you used to cheat to win, by spraying perfumes on your cards. If that's true, then you deserved to lose. You can't expect to get far in this life if you don't have any confidence in yourself."

"I don't have to prove myself to you!" she retorted, half-turning to leave. "You're nothing to me."

He looked after her, his expression never changing. "If you think your talents are worthy of us, then why not duel me?" He held up his left arm in emphasis. The duel disk was in place, ready to be activated.

She glared over her shoulder. If she could, she looked as though she wanted to melt the device with her eyes. "If you're so worried about it, why don't you come and watch me duel?" she shot back. "I didn't see you leaping to follow me to San Francisco."

"That's because I don't hang on your every word and action," he retorted.

Her lip curled, but it was not clear whether it was in repulsion of Alister or of Valon. She turned again, her hair swishing out with the motion. The conversation was over, as far as she was concerned.

Gray eyes watched her departing form until she turned the corner. Even afterward, the clicking of her heels on the floor could still be heard, fading into the distance.

Heroes - Claire Bennet, "Grain of Salt" Claim #03. Fear of Infinity

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 17:22:36 GMT

Title: Grain of Salt
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance/Fluff/Drama
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claire, implied Clair/West and Caitlin/Peter (in the past tense)
Notes: Written for 13_fears prompt, 03. Apeirophobia; Fear of Infinity. Dedicated to frellingblonde, who missed the fluff in the Paire pairing lately.
Warnings: canon Paire, so you know what that means. Spoilers for Season Two, "Kindred", as well as speculations on West and Caitlin, whether they're dead, gone or the enemy.
Word Count: 4,813

Summary: Almost a year later and Peter comes to Claire with a regained memory for an impromptu reunion, only to realize how much they both need each other after all that has happened.

[Grain of Salt]

"Pang of Memory (Claire Bennet, Heroes, #11: Fear of Pain)

Thu, 27 Sep 2007 16:54:07 GMT

paynesgrey here, submitting now through my writing journal.

Title: Pang of Memory
Genre: Angst/Introspective
Characters/Pairings: Claire, hinted Peter/Claire, Nathan mentioned
Rating: PG-13 for implications
Word Count: 541
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for "Four Months Later" and Canon Paire.
Theme: #11. Algophobia; Fear of Pain

Summary: When she cuts herself, she can feel that he is alive.

(Pang of Memory)

Mercy Card (Tad Hawthorne, Dead Rising, #08)

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 03:13:13 GMT

Title: Mercy Card
Series: Dead Rising
Character/Pairing: Tad and Kent
Theme: 08. Xenophobia; Fear of Strangers {I’d like to introduce you to a new friend}
Rating: PG-13 (for violence and psychological torment)
Word Count: 3742 (wow...)
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Keiji Inafune does.

Summary: Tad's thoughts and experience while being held captive by Kent; and after all the torture he's put him through, the photographer claims to be an angel of mercy...

After gathering what seemed to him to be enough food to last him days Tad Hawthorne returned to the makeshift barricade he set up in El Fresca Plaza. He had piled all the benches and barbells up against the door and glass windows in such an intricate fashion that despite the automatic door opening every time a zombie pressed on the pressure strip they still couldn’t get through the piles of steel. Tad’s newest pastime was sitting on the multi-purpose workout machine that was bolted to the floor and laughing at the zombies that desperately pawed at the glass window; trying to reach the meal inside. He slept during the day and stayed awake during the night when the zombies were most aggressive, always taking time to stuff a piece of bread into his mouth as he watched the zombies with disgust and morbid curiosity.

Early on the second day however, he saw a glimmer of humanity amongst the dead aura. He stood from his post at the workout machine and moved close to the glass to see better. Amongst the sea of undead walked a slim, lanky (dare he say almost feminine?) figure who seemed out of sight to the zombie horde. Tad knew if he could just make contact with this person; maybe he could find a way out. He hesitated; he was in a good place now. The zombies couldn’t get in, he had the food to last him until help arrived, supposedly, but this person actually seemed to repel the zombies and it left him in awe. Very carefully, he weaved between an overturned bench and a pile of detached punching bags and knocked loudly on the glass. Like he knew it would happen legions of famished zombies immediately flocked to his position and rattled the glass. Tad turned his head away for a moment when a woman who was missing half of her face and a hunk of her head collapsed right in front of him and pressed her deformed maw to the window. Tad wanted to vomit.

He climbed up onto the benches so that his right ear was pressed against the ceiling and knocked again, determined to gain this person’s attention. From his new position he could see the figure slashing at the zombies with what appeared to be a katana; whatever his repelling feature was it was started to fade.

“HEY!” Tad cried, slamming his palm on the window. “HEY!” /p>

The skull-capped man was surprised to see the person he was trying to get the attention of was actually a man--a rather odd looking one at that. Tad winced, but continued to bang. “HEY! HEY GUY!”

He watched with sudden anticipation as the skinny man slashed a path through the zombies to reach him…before taking out a pistol and shooting a head-sized hole through the glass.

Tad fell from his barricade with a start and turned with disbelief to the window to see the other living man kicking his way through the glass and in the process letting in the swarm of zombies.

“What the hell have you done?!” Tad screamed; backing away suddenly as the skinny man came toward him with a gun in one hand and a katana in the other. As Tad reached behind him to pick up a barbell the lanky man pressed his boot to his chest and whacked him with the butt of the pistol. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the strange, squinted eyes of the stranger peering curiously at him while zombies clouded around them.

---

When Tad awoke he was no longer in Flexin’s in El Fresca Plaza. Somehow the lanky man that broke down his barricade had got him all the way across the mall and from what he could see, up the stairs. He was lying on his side that hurt like hot knives and bound at the wrist, his vision blurry but the sound of a blender clear as a bell rang through his ears. He rolled over onto his back and winced at the feeling in his side, stretching his head back he managed to make out the upsidown appearance of the man who kidnapped him standing in front of the vibrating blender. He immediately struggled violently against the rope that was chaffing his wrists.

“I wouldn’t,” said the lanky man, “I’m pretty good at those knots.” His voice was high-pitched and matter-of-factly and just hearing it made Tad sick. The blender stopped and the lanky man poured a lumpy smoothie into a red thermos. He placed it on the counter and treaded over to Tad, turning around a plastic chair and sitting at beside him. One of his brown boots gently touched the crown of Tad’s head when he turned to get a good look at his assailant. His legs were smooth.

“My name’s Kent,” the lanky man began, smiling a cocky grin and folding his hands together. Tad’s face drained of all colour while the (apparent, he was wearing cameras) photographer peered at him like a hawk peered down at it’s prey. “I’m a photojournalist.”

So his assumption was dead on. His left side prickled painfully. “What the hell did you do to me?”

Kent glanced up for a moment as if in though, then turned down with a smile and a shrug. “I dropped you a few times when we were coming up the stairs. Hard to keep away from those crazy cultists, you know?”

How ironic that he was calling them crazy. He screwed up his face in a mocking expression, looking straight into his beady eyes with what he figured was an intimidating, manly look. “And what do you plan on doing with me?”

Kent looked up again and licked his thin lips, biting his lower lip in thought. “Well, I’m going to take a picture of you, turning into a zombie.”

If Tad had had any colour left in his face before, it was surely gone.

“Speaking if which, I really have to go find the larvae,” Kent stood up, pulling up his shorts and pulling down his vest, stepping over Tad to get the smoothie.

“Larvae?” questioned Tad, rolling over though his shoulder burned, “what larvae?”

Kent smiled and raised a knowing eyebrow, “what do you think caused the zombies?” He went back to Tad and rolled him back over onto his back, opening the thermos and pressing a thumb and forefinger into the hollows of his cheeks to force his mouth open. Then, unceremoniously, he poured the foul tasting liquid down his throat. Tad resisted, squirming around and getting smoothie all over his face and neck but managed to get down most of it. When Kent finished and rose himself up he coughed and rolled over onto his stomach, lurching.

“What the hell was that?!” he demanded.

“meat and corn,” replied the photographer. “You’re untouchable now. I drank mine before you woke up.”

“Untouchable?” Tad repeated dumbly. Kent nodded, rolling his eyes at the other man’s blank face.

“It means the zombies can’t bite you, but only for about fifteen minutes,” he informed. “Which is about how long it’ll take me to find a larvae for you--I’ll be right back!” He leaped over Tad and ran off, and the hostage couldn’t help but stare at how high he lifted his legs when he ran.

---

When Kent returned he got a bit of a laugh out of how a zombie was attempting to bite his hostage, but unable to thanks to the smoothie, and moaning in frustration. It pawed helplessly at Tad, unable to stand the stench his body gave off as the survivor rolled around on the floor and screamed in fear. After a while of having fun watching him squirm he raised his pistol and blew the zombie a few feet away from Tad. He placed his bounty, a bloody insect larva in a jar on the counter and lifted himself up to sit next to it. Tad was curled into a ball on the floor, trembling while Kent released a high laugh.

“So, stranger,” said the journalist, “what is your name?”

“Stay the fuck away from me,” Tad shot back, his back to the other man.

“‘Stay the fuck away from me’ huh?” Kent repeated. “That’s a funny name.”

“My name is TAD!” shouted back the enraged man. Kent chuckled in amusement and the skull-capped man grit his teeth at how he was inadvertently baiting this psychopath. He turned his head a quarter turn and could just make out the eager larvae crawling up and around in the jar with holes in the lid. His eye, bloodshot with tears of fear and lack of sleep, eyed the bug with terror. “When?”

“Not tonight, no,” Kent stood up and picked up the zombie by the collar of it’s blood stained polo shirt. “No, the timing has to be perfect.” He tossed the dead zombie over the railing of the Colombian Roastmasters and looked down as fervent undead swarmed it’s corpse, only to turn and leave dejectedly when they saw it was just one of them. “I plan to do it to…settle a bet.”

‘Great’, thought Tad, ‘there would be an audience.’ Evidentially more lanky lunatics who would be pointing cameras at him all through his death. He continued to watch Kent watch the zombies wander around aimlessly; making note how he moved should he ever get out and get a chance to hunt him down for revenge. The knots still allowed no leeway no matter how hard he tugged or pulled. He kept looking around--why were there no zombies up here?

“How come the zombies never follow you?” Tad asked out of pure curiosity.

“It’s either the Untouchable smoothies or an internal factor,” he glanced back at Tad, who looked at him confusedly. “Hard to believe, but zombies can be picky sometimes,” Kent, without turning, reached out with his gloved hand and stroked his index finger over the railing of the restaurant. “They’re very good at sniffing out something being wrong with a person that makes them repel from them. They’re not unlike animals; if a person’s dying of gangrene poisoning it’s not gonna eat that person, is it?” He continued to stroke the railing as if in deep thought.

“So your saying something’s wrong with you, that’s why the zombies aren’t eating us right now?” Tad said incredulously, then scoffed. “That’s a laugh.”

No, that was a laugh. There definitely was something wrong with this man, but it shouldn‘t have any effect on the way the zombie’s behaved.

Kent turned back to Tad, scratched his chin and checked the wall clock. “No, not exactly,” he said darkly.

“Really?” Tad chuckled sarcastically as it said it. “Well, I suppose I can’t really judge, you did kidnap and tie me up here to eventually turn me into a zombie for a bunch of people’s enjoyment; who am I to say there’s nothing wrong with you?”

Kent sneered at him, “go ahead and laugh.”

“Aww, but you haven’t even told me what’s so wrong with you that even zombies won’t touch you!” Tad mocked, though his brain told him that continuing to goad the psychopath was a bad idea. He ignored it. Kent turned away from him and Tad allowed a look of triumph to pass his face. “Did I strike a nerve?”

“Shut up,” Kent murmured, his voice dripping contempt.

“Well? Was it something you ate or did?” Tad inquired, “If you’re acting as a human repellent is contagious I want to know what I can do to achieve the same effect,” Tad rolled over to look at him the right way up. “I mean, whatever it is, it couldn’t have hindered you as much as it did the zombies, seeing as you’ve incapacitated them with your mere appearance-” he was cut off from his teasing when the butt of the pistol whipped across his face. Kent was suddenly on him, beating away at his bound body like he was being paid to do so. When he finished Tad lay bloody and bruised on the floor beside the table in Columbian Roastmasters. He attempted to back up when Kent placed his boot squarely on Tad’s chest and shoved inward. He was holding the Queen larvae in a jar in his right hand and shaking it tauntingly.

“You know, I don’t have to let you live, either,” he said, waving the glass jar in his face, the larvae bumping up against the glass as he did so. “All I need is a photo of you turning into a zombie and I win the bet- I’m only keeping you alive for dramatics.” Tad’s eyes grew wide; Kent was now tossing the glass jar up and down in his hand. “It’s much more…pleasant to see the actual deed get done instead of letting your guest just assume you cheated.”

“You’re insane,” Tad finally choked out. Kent smiled and bent low, placing both his knees beside his chest. Kent dangled the jar squarely above his head now and, to Tad’s horror, was throwing it up into the air, moving his hand from it’s path, and re-catching it just before it came into contact with his face.

“I can kill you with a flick of my wrist, Tad, it‘s time you‘ve come to realize that,” Kent drawled, and pulled up just as it looked like he would let the jar finally break.

And then, with an ominous look, he planted his boot in Tad’s face.

---

Tad seemed to do a lot of passing out recently. This time he awoke to the sound of slashing, and he kept his eyes closed. As the slashing mingled with the sound of moans Tad could only assume that Kent was grappling with the zombies that crawled up the steps. One again allowing curiosity to get the best of him he opened one eye.

Kent was indeed katana wielding and jump kicking his way through a crowd of ravenous undead. From what Tad could see, the zombies were caught between wanting to devour the photographer and being repelled by them. The resulting conflict allowed him time to slash through them with quite ease. When all the zombies were gone, Kent returned, not bloody in the least to Tad’s confusion, and plopped down on the floor beside his hostage.

“I thought-” Tad said, closing his eyes again, “-that the zombies wouldn’t touch you, you’ve got some, problem or something…”

“Bite me,” snarled Kent. “They weren’t going after me they were going after you.”

Tad opened his eyes, “what?”

Kent rotated his head around his neck, making a cracking sound. “I was off in the park at sunset, taking pictures of zombies while they transformed into their more aggressive states. Natural light is better than artificial. When I came back, the zombies were swarming you and you had passed out under a table.” Kent huffed exasperated. “Most of them were drawn to you, so I made a mix while they were busy with you that draws them to me-whoever drinks it-” he laughed, “they weren’t happy about that.”

Tad stared at him in disbelief. “You plan on turning me into a zombie anyway, why stop them from doing the deed?”

“Haven’t I already told you?” the photographer repeated, “I want to wait, it’s not time yet.”

Tad rolled over and stared at the gum-incrusted underside of the table. “It just seems like you’re going through a lot of trouble for nothing,” he said glumly

“Yes,” replied Kent, emotionlessly, “yes it does.”

It was much earlier in the morning when Tad woke up again. This time not from the moaning or slashing of a weapon but from (shockingly) a gentle caress on his face. As he stirred from his sleep he instantly recognized the touch as being distinctly human. He opened his eyes a slit to see Kent’s fingers on his cheek and his beady little eyes watching him intently. Tad could see through his eyelashes the photographer also tipping a glass to his lips every now and then and draining some fizzy liquid into his mouth. Tad swallowed and it matched the large lump that rolled down Kent’s throat. A pause of silence passed between them before Kent finally said;

“I can see the whites of your eyes.”

Tad immediately closed them, Kent’s fingers rested on the skin directly under his eyes tensely. “What are you drinking?”

Kent looked back at his bottle. “I don’t really know. I found it under the counter.”

The hostage opened his eyes incredulously. “You don’t know what it is…and you’re drinking it?

“I’m sure it’s just soda.”

“My god, you really are nuts!”

Kent gleamed at him, his lips twitching into a smirk. Tad closed his eyes and felt the gloved hand of his tormentor patting his forehead.

“I wish you would just kill me and get it over with instead of making me wait.”

“Oh, but don’t you see?” Kent crooned, putting his face close to Tad’s ear. “The mystery of it is worse than the outcome itself.”

“You fucking sadist…” Tad tried to force his voice out of his head. “Just fucking kill me already.”

Kent let loose a high laugh right next to Tad’s ear, and for the first time throughout the entire escapade tears leaked from the survivor’s eyes. The zombies were one thing, the cultists were avoidable, but this one psychopath was enough to bring him to tears. He suddenly heard the flash of a camera go off and the disappointed ‘tut’ of Kent’s tongue.

“That’s no good man!” he chirped.

Tad pressed his cheek to the ground and sobbed, clenching his eyes shut yet still seeing the flash of the bulb through his eyelids.

For the first time since the madness began; Tad pleaded for death. He wouldn’t let Kent hear it, through.

---

The next day Tad lay curled up under a table while Kent took pot-shots at zombies with a pistol. The stolid man stared fixated at the zombies that roamed in and out of Columbian Roastmasters.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Kent said, checking his watch. “You sure did cry a lot last night.”

Tad remained silent. Kent even jabbed him with his foot. “Don’t tell me you died without me knowing!”

“If you have any mercy in your body at all, you’ll kill me with dignity,” said the hostage. Kent shook his head, waving the gun in a wide gesture.

“Can’t so that man,” Tad almost screamed.

“Please GOD!” he did. Kent kicked him.

“You’d be singing a different tune if you knew you’d get out of this alive!” he screamed back. Tad stopped his tantrum.

“Like you know if you’ll get out alive…”

“I’m not.” The capped man shifted his gaze toward the photographer as the nervous Latino voice of the loudspeaker rambled about a last resort…but it fell on deaf ears. “I’ve known all along.”

Tad blinked, “known what?”

“That I wasn’t going to get out of this alive,” he explained, stroking his gun. “I knew the second I entered this mall four days ago.”

“Four days?!” Tad shouted; Kent shot an approaching zombie. “You’ve been here longer than I have!”

“Of course- all I’ve got left to do it survive until the inevitable.”

“Inevitable?” Tad asked quietly.

“Come now…” said the journalist bluntly, “…you knew it was coming. In one form or another.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kent shook his head.

“Nothing just…” he paused and stretched his gloved hand out to the older man, “just consider me an angel of mercy.”

Tad released a howl of laugher. “You must be joking!”

Kent’s eyes burned gray fire; “would you rather be led to the slaughter or go with a fight?” He checked his watch, “it’s Showtime.”

He grabbed Tad by the pant leg with one hand and the larvae with the other, leaving the survivor in the middle of the plaza and killing all the zombies around him. Tad sat staring at the floor, making soft whimpering noises as he awaited the end. Kent’s voice was shrill.

“Ah Frankie…good timing!”

---

Tad gave the body of the dead photographer a good kick and a spit before he grabbed the golf clubs being offered to him by the burly journalist and followed him to the security room. Still Kent’s words echoed in his head like an accursed riddle.

Would you rather be led to the slaughter or go with a fight?

He ignored everyone around him, standing in the corner with forty or some odd other survivors bickering and pushing and crying to one another. He didn’t know which day it was, or what was happening on the outside, all he knew was that he was free of that immature, insane photographer and he would be better off for it. He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the scraping and banging of bullets on metal, but he did see the grunt in the army garb grab him and he did feel the butt of the machine gun collide with his temple.

He suddenly knew was Kent was yammering about. As he stood kneeling with forty or some odd other survivors in the entrance of the maintenance tunnels while a man in a mask conversed with the other heavily armed solders. He was tied up again, like the others, cold gray fire burning in his mind. Would you rather be led to the slaughter or go with a fight?

“What should we do with the survivors?” asked a lone grunt.

Would you rather be led to the slaughter--

The man, whom would eventually come to be known as Brock, smirked.

--or go with a fight?

“What survivors?”

Had the man who he thought was saving him led him into the mouth of the lion? Was the immature, insane photographer really an angel of mercy? Tad never got the chance to reflect upon it.

The bullet was very fast. At least the larvae would have given him a sporting chance.

Crossposted to blackwolfmoon</lj>.

Hemophobia (Organization XIII, Kingdom Hearts, #1)

Sun, 02 Sep 2007 21:21:57 GMT

Title: Hemophobia
Series: Kingdom Hearts
Claim: Organization XIII
Theme: 04. Hemophobia; Fear of Blood {it's just a little blood}
Rating: PG
Word Count: 727
Disclaimer: Everything that is Kingdom Hearts belongs to Squaresoft and Disney and all those folk who are rich and powerful and very much not me.
A/N: Yeah, there are only two things I really like about this story, and one of them is the last line. I'm sure you can guess what the other one is.

02. Hemophobia; fear of blood (it's just a little blood)

There was so much fucking blood, all over his ridiculously frilly suit and spilling across the floor and dripping off his face. He wondered where it came from and why he was in so much fucking pain; he lifted his right hand to his forehead, making to rub the heel of his palm into his eye like he always did when he was thinking, and swore when he realized he almost couldn't see it coming. Fuck, he only had one good eye and that meant his depth perception was off and how the fuck was he supposed to do anything if he couldn't goddamn see?

He staggered to his feet, feeling oddly distanced from his panic (shock, he decided hazily, though that didn't explain why he hurt so damned much), and stumbled over to the building he knew would be somewhere to his right, if only he could goddamn see. He needed to get up high, to see what had happened, why he'd been unconscious—and, fuck, it hurt to lift his goddamn arm. But he had to get up and he tried to push the pain out of his mind and moved, and he was probably going to pass out because he was still losing blood but not before he looked and--

Holy shit.

Radiant Garden was beautiful, he thought to himself, but not right now. He wasn't the only thing covered in blood—the square below him might as well have been a pool of the sticky red substance (okay, that was exaggerating), and he thought he could see a few dead bodies. But that shadow-beast, that gigantic thing born of the heart's darkness that Ansem had called Heartless for whatever-the-fuck-reason, was nowhere to be found and he had a feeling that he had killed it. Good, great, now he could go home and report. Status: Alive.

Except he was exhausted and his foot slipped out from under him; he could feel himself falling from the edge of the building and he thought longingly of just being in bed; shadows swirled suddenly before him and, just like that, he was.

Okay. That was not cool. It threw the status of him being alive into question. The only person who could do this was Xehanort, after he'd gotten away from his insane research, and that meant--

“Dude,” he said aloud just to hear his voice, “I'm a fucking zombie.”

“Braig?” a surprised voice questioned, and the towering form of Dilan came in from an adjoining room. “When did you get ba—oh hell. I knew I should have gone with you. Eleaus can go--”

“'S dead,” he interrupted, levering himself out of his bed and aiming in the general direction of the bathroom. “Missing an eye. Bleeding fucking everywhere. Taking a potion and napping in the tub, let Ansem know.” And he slammed the door in his friend's face, wondering why the hell he didn't care that Dilan was undoubtedly hurt at being blown off like that.

The answer was staring at him from the mirror, still dripping blood; his left cheek was in shreds and there was a large gap where his right eye had once been—but if he hadn't known that he was himself, he wouldn't have recognized whoever was staring back at him. His hair had always been black, but now it was being taken over by gray streaks that made him look decades older than he actually was, the yellow of his eye was exacerbated, his ears were pointed...he looked completely different, yet somehow the same. So who was he? Not Braig anymore, surely, not now that he had no heart to call his own.

He didn't have the right frame of mind to worry about it now. He pulled open his medicine cabinet, oddly unrelieved to not see the strange face, and grabbed a couple potions. Downing them without a second thought, he turned to put the bathtub on the hottest setting he could stand and laboriously stripped out of his layers of ruined clothing. He levered himself into the heat with a grunt, hissing at the feel of the heat against his skin, and leaned back for his well-deserved nap.

In his dreams, there was fighting and blood and shadowy creatures that weren't the Heartless coming for his soul.

Please don't let it be too late . . . ! (Kaitou Kid, Magic Kaito, #07)

Wed, 22 Aug 2007 17:41:40 GMT

Title: Please Don't Let It Be Too Late . . . !
Series: Magic Kaito
Claim: Kaitou Kid (Kaito Kuroba)
Theme: 07. Thanatophobia; Fear of Dying/Death {the end is near}
Rating: PG-13 (Violence, some language)
Word Count: 3,992
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Magic Kaito, nor Kaitou Kid/Kuroba Kaito. **le sigh** They all belong to Gosho Aoyama.

Wind rushed into his face forcefully as the phantom thief sprinted against it down the mostly empty sidewalk. His cape flapped wildly behind him and nearly flew in the wind at one hundred and eighty degrees. The nose piece of his monocle dug into his face when it did not feel as though it would be ripped from his face at any moment. Regardless, he found himself too busy constantly reaching to his hat when he felt the wind start to take it away. He could not afford to chase after it now should it be carried off. The slapping of his dress shoes on the concrete echoed down the street and people far ahead looked to see the white-clad phantom racing toward them. Kid’s red tie flew out from beneath his jacket and tossed itself over his shoulder. Why couldn’t his feet go faster?!

He barely managed to dodge several people who refused to move out his way, and he for once did not bother to excuse himself; he was too busy damning the wind. He could not get anywhere he needed to be on his hang-glider on a night like this. And Jii . . . Jii had . . . Kid gripped his fists tighter and continued his dead sprint. It felt like his spirit was trying to tear itself from his body. Despite his speed, the kaitou’s body felt heavy. No matter how hard his arms pumped, no matter how many times his feet hit the sidewalk, it felt like he was getting nowhere. The business district was still blurring past the edges of his vision. He could not even feel his lungs burning anymore and the pounding in his chest felt numb, but a dull ache throbbed against the jewel resting on his chest. Air rushing past his ears drowned out the pumping blood, but his head felt hot, incredibly hot, and the pressure was building.

The bakery . . . The dry-cleaners . . . The small lawyers’ firmAoko’sfavoriterestaurantthevideorentalstore . . . This street went on forever!

Sweat built up inside his gloves and ran through his tightly clenched fists. The pictures of his mother carrying groceries out to the car and into the house crinkled further in his right hand . . . Groceries he should have been helping her with . . . The images folded unevenly with sharp images and some places had already worn to white edges from the intensity of the death grip on the captured memories. If they got to her before he did . . . An invisible hand clenched around his furiously pounding heart as tightly as he held the photographs. He unwillingly choked through clenched teeth as he ran across the street. Only afterwards did the screeching of brakes and blare of a horn reach his ears. Such anxiety-filled mechanics built up the intensity of his own emotions, stirring them back to the surface of his consciousness again.

I don’t know what I can do if I do get there in time, still . . . if I don’t get there in time at all . . . Kuso! Mom!! Whatever you do, don’t die! I can’t lose you to them as well! . . . The pet store! Just around that corner and . . .

Unlike the breaks, the police sirens’ wailing broke through his train of though immediately. The red, spinning lights bounced off the shop windows all around him. There was the main one, Nakamori’s car . . . Then about three others. If his lungs had the air capacity, Kid would have growled. He reached into his suit and pulled out several small, dark objects. The phantom thief barely glanced over his shoulder as he made sure each of them were active.

“Sorry, Nakamori-keibu,” he murmured, “I don’t have time to play with you tonight . . .” He then tossed the smoke bombs into the street, with help up of the high winds, and tore around the corner without even taking time to cringe at the filled fish tanks in the shop’s window. His cape tangled within itself before snapping out straight and following him around the corner. Meanwhile the smoke bombs hit the pavement, cracked open, and began to spin.

Plumes of smoke rolled out towards both sides of the street and climbed upward into the air, creating a practically opaque wall before the cop cars. Nakamori yelled at the top of his lungs, somehow even louder than before and pushed down on the gas pedal until it pressed against the floorboards of his vehicle. One of his men hollered and begged the inspector to slow down as they rushed towards the smoke. Kid could have a number of things waiting for them on the other side, but the policeman’s worse fear was Nakamori becoming over-excited, swerving, and inevitably crashing into something, and quite possibly, someone. Nakamori glared through the windshield with his shoulders hunched. The pink smoke rushed to meet them as the wind carried it to the police cars and splashed against their windshields.

Once Kid had reached the residential area, he took the liberty of taking leaps and bounds over bushes, shrubs and various lawn items in backyards. Now the night blanketed him more thoroughly and the air was more quiet, but it only made his heart sound louder as he became more aware of it. Though he could hear it, and he still raced as quickly as he could to his home, Kaitou Kid strangely felt nothing. Being washed in the night set a sense of calmness over him. A feeling of everything being unreal had settled in as the police sirens became quieter and the loudest things he heard were his feet in the grass and the occasional bark of a family dog. But then his surroundings began to grow more familiar . . . Backyards he had grown up running through . . . His heart began to pick up and once again, the situation grew frighteningly real.

The status of the lights in his house varied depending on the floor and room. For the most part, everything appeared normal. Perhaps the normalcy was what struck the most fear within him. He approached it from the opposite side of the street and he could not force himself to slow down to observe the street itself and the outside of the house. Instead, he found himself madly running for his house, pulling off various items of his costume as he entered his front yard. First went his monocle, then his hat and in the hat went his monocle, gloves and cape. His other clothes followed and were stowed away without though before bursting in through the front door.

Please don’t let it be too late . . . !

“Mom?!” he called while kicking off his shoes habitually as he ran into the house. Kaito skidded and nearly wiped out into the kitchen table’s chairs. The stove was unoccupied by any pots or pans but he could smell gas leaking from the burners. Various ingredients littered the kitchen counter. “Mom?!!” he hollered as he caught himself and pushed the chairs aside and turned back to head for the stairs. A heavy thud above the ceiling alerted him that he was on the right path and he scrambled up the stairs. Voices grew stronger. Low . . . Familiar voices. Kaito’s socked feet quickly padded up the wooden steps two at a time; he used the railing to pull himself up along the way. Family portraits and miscellaneous framed photographs passed his eyes and barely registered in his brain. The memories flickered and flashed before his eyes, his mother highlighted in every single one of them.

His memories blurred with reality as he reached the top of the stairs and saw the bulky, dark figure reaching for his mother. What memories of his father swelled up, including the funeral . . . His father laid so gracefully in that coffin as they released the white doves . . . The way his mother had held him so close to her as she wept quietly and attempted to hold back her sobs . . . How his mother appeared now . . . Frightened, confused, horrified and up against the wall . . . They had already taken one Kuroba . . . They could not take another. Completely unarmed of his defenses or not, he was not, could not, about to allow that to happen.

With no words coming to mind, Kaito rushed the man with a mixed cry. Before Kaito himself knew what he was doing, his fist smashed into the secret agent’s half-turned face. All his weight put into it, Kaito felt the skin of the man’s cheek slide along his teeth on the other side and one slightly dislodge itself. The young man barely had time to absorb his own surprise. The larger male grabbed the front of Kaito’s striped shirt and yanked him in a perpendicular direction his body had been heading and Kaito’s body flimsily followed due to the man’s strength. White paint swarmed the boy’s vision and he made contact with the wall moments after he realized he was airborne. He did not even feel the air leave his lungs -- it suddenly just was not to be found. Somewhere is the last couple of moments his mother had screamed his name and it fell upon half-deaf ears. The force of impact stopped time relative to her son, but the moment one of the intruders advanced upon him, Kaito began to make the effort to get to his feet.

His feet planted themselves to the floor as he pressed his back against to the wall to push himself up. At first the world faded in and out, but still he smirked lopsidedly. Perhaps not the wisest move at that point in time, but it was in his nature to do what he pleased, wise or not. The Grey Ops henchman watched him closely. He stood a good two heads higher than Kaito at the least and had the muscle to match. Staring down at the boy from under the brim of his hat, the henchman obviously had plans, none of them too pleasing from Kaito’s point of view, and he advanced upon the younger man slowly. Kaito’s blue, keen eyes darted around the room for anything he could use. Finding nothing in time, the moment the large man reached out for him, the undisguised thief lashed out with a kick. His foot sunk into the henchman’s solar plexus and he heard the gasp for breath. A fist still made its way for Kaito, but he quickly took the opportunity to duck and dodge. A crack broke out across the wall upon the fist’s contact.

Intensity of the fight he had just started cleared Kaito’s head as he rushed for the other side of the room behind his attacker. The one that had thrown him still stood with his mother’s twisted arm, which he easily held with one hand. Before Kaito could try anything particularly risky, his mother needed to be safe. If only he had thought more before rushing into the house! Too late now, he thought grimly.

Kaito rushed in the same as before. He did not hope for a lucky punch as the first time, but . . . No matter what plan had been bubbling in his unconsciousness, the moment that gun slid out of the man’s jacket, Kaito skidded to a halt. His heart rocketed into his throat and he nearly reached out a hand with a scream in protest. The blast in his face, along with another scream from his mother stunned him and the white-hot heat across his skin burned and sliced at his left cheek and ear before smashing into the glass of the picture frame on the wall. Crimson that oozed to the surface moments later soothed and stung at the same time, but most of all, it relieved Kaito, despite the petrified expression still on his mother’s face. Cautiously, he reached up and wiped at the blood gingerly with the back of his hand. Kaito began to smirk just a little again, even as the hammer of the gun started to cock back.

“I’m certain you’ve been told already why this is happening,” the gun’s holder began, “and we don’t like to repeat ourselves. Kaitou Kid, your days are over. And while I should pull this trigger now . . . I intend to make you suffer.” Kaito wavered a little as he was addressed as his other persona, but at this point, it did not particularly matter what they called him, especially if that next bullet went between his eyes. His body shifted slightly into a defensive position and his eyes darted to his mother momentarily. He tried to give her a reassuring grin, not that at this point it could possible do too much. The son could imagine the thoughts going through her head during those last several moments; nothing he said now would matter until this was over.

A footstep behind him alerted him of one of the other two men behind him and Kaito started to turn, only to be dealt the same treatment he gave the first henchman up his arrival. His lip split open as he stumbled back from the heavy punch. One eye kept itself on the gun. It was still trained on him . . . What was he supposed to do? If he fought back, would he be shot at? Kaito gritted his teeth and dodged another punch and sidestepped a kick. He could not stay on this course, otherwise he would be up against the wall in no time. His mother tried to make a move, and to shout out once again for her son, but her mouth was quickly covered by the large hand that released her arm to silence her. She struggled and tried to pry the hand away with both of her own, but her fight proved futile. Even as she attempted to bite him, her teeth met calloused flesh. The Grey Ops operative’s arm kept her head in place and he seemed immune to any attacks her hands and feet made.

Kaito hopped over a sweeping kick and ducked just in time as the second man came in at him. The more he saw his mother struggle out of the corner of his eye, the more pressure that built up in his chest. He hated leaving her like that while the two goons toyed with him, but with the gun trained on him like that . . . Finally he gritted his teeth again and dodged another punch and wove behind him with sheer Kid agility before kicking at the back of the man’s kneecap. A loud curse sprung from the operative’s lips as he felt his leg going out from under him. He reached back to grab the boy, but Kaito already had another problem, he just did not see it yet. The fallen operative’s comrade loomed behind Kaito and grabbed him from behind, interlocking their arms firmly. Kaito immediately tried to yank himself free, but felt as though he was struggling against steel. A string of curses and comments flung from his lips as he attempted to kick at the man behind him. His comments quickly came to a halt as a fist planted itself firmly in his gut. Kaito felt the air rush out of him and some of the blood pooled in his mouth dribble over his lower lip.

That sole punch alone was enough to get back at the young man for a knock in the knee cap, but the lead had already made it perfectly clear that they wanted him to suffer. One blow after another landed across his body from face to hip, and the occasionally below the belt. Blood dripped on the carpet and Kaito’s vision swam from time to time. He tried gritting his teeth, but after a few pops to the mouth and the possible cracked tooth or two, just going with the punch seemed favorable. His ribs, his chest . . . Hell, everything hurt. Too painful to look at his mother . . . But one thing he could focus on . . . His father’s picture. The image turned red in one eye, but the other could make out Toichi Kuroba’s face clearly enough.

Did you go through this at one point too, Dad? he wondered to himself, gasping in pain from a knee to his stomach. Or did you try to get out before then . . .Two generations going to share that fate? But if they do . . . Then Mom . . . And Aoko . . . And Jii-chan . . . Dammit. Damn it! You died, but we stayed safe . . . Why can’t I do the same if I‘m gonna have to die?!

A second wind, fueled by guilt and anger swelled up and Kaito hoarsely yelled, kicking out at the man in front of him. His socked foot clipped the man’s cheek, but the feelings were carried out successfully. The young man fought furiously against his human bindings but still found them unbreakable. He managed to get in one connected kick before the blows on him came down again, furiously. These blows were no longer carried out with the intention to wound, they landed with every intention of eventually killing him. His arms uselessly held back, Kaito continued to kick out when he could until the henchman finally grabbed his leg, yanked him from his previous binding and across the room. His battered body tumbled across the floor, littering it with blood stains, until he came to a rest three-fourths of the way to the opposite wall. Fresh pain shot through his body to match the new energy that quickly drained from Kaito’s body. Gasping for breath, he attempted to push himself up, but fast approaching feet arrived and a boot went to his ribcage, followed by another, and another. Kaito cried out the first time, but settled for curling up afterwards. Fighting back was not an option at this point. Survival for just a little while longer settled in at top priority. Just a little longer . . .

A few orders from his mother’s keeper ceased the kicking once the police sirens grew louder and the lights could be seen reflecting off the window frames outside. Kaito’s eyes cracked open slightly and a world of feet, and blurry multiples of several pairs filled his bloody vision. He could see his mother trying to run for him, only to be struck by the side of the henchman’s gun across the face; Kaito’s fingers weakly dug into the carpeted floor upon seeing her crash to said floor. Two pairs of boots left Kaito, but another approached. He tried to look up, and was assisted as the man grabbed Kaito by his hair and yanked his head back before pulling the young man up off the floor. Kaito hissed in pain, but looked back at him defiantly.

“This isn’t over.” One final toss sent the beaten and battered kaitou into the wall and the Grey Ops operatives were gone. The words dug their teeth into Kaito, and remained about the only thing he held onto as the world went black. Not being over . . . could mean a lot of things.

How much time had passed? A couple seconds? Minutes? Hours? The world remained dim for the most part as Kaito’s eyes cracked open slightly. Floor, blood, wall, pain . . . Check, check, check, double check . . . Certainly not paralyzed. As far as Kaito was concerned, he may as well have been because he could not find the strength to move even his head. The floor extended through most of his vision . . . An empty floor . . . One thing he could not feel was his face muscles, if they were moving into a frown, he would never know other than he mentally thought one.

His bloody lips parted slightly and air slipped past them, but no sound even close to coming out as “Mom” left his throat. Mixed emotions began to swell in his chest and panic most of all climbed rapidly. Did he remember things correctly? Did he miss something? After he blacked out, they could have easily hauled her away after striking her . . . He tried to call out again, but found himself interrupted.

“Kaito!” his mother cried softly as she rushed over from where she had managed to pick herself up off the floor. She quickly knelt down before her son and searched his bruised and bloody face for signs of consciousness, or signs of life for that matter. Weary blue eyes looked up at her dazedly and she choked back a sob as tears stung her eyes. Gently, she took his face in her hands to keep gazing at him properly. “Kaito . . .”

The gentle, soft, and comforting touch hurt, no matter how careful his mother tried. If Kaito could have mustered it, he would have grinned, but could only feel her hands delicately handle him. She looked down at him and he could see the darkening bruise already on her cheekbone. Worry, relief, concern and various emotions in-between mixed together in her eyes as the tears pooled to the brim and threatened to fall. Several particular expressions crossed her face that confused him at first. Adoration . . . Understanding? His tired, exhausted mind boggled over them. Adoration not just for her son . . . It seemed so familiar, but he had not seen that look in forever.

“I thought so . . .” she whispered softly as she gently caressed her thumb over his right cheek and wiped some of the blood from it. Not expecting her wounded son to understand in his state, she reached for him, carefully.

Kaito shut his eyes and clenched his teeth in agony as he felt his mother pull him away from the wall. For a moment he sat upright before half falling, half being pulled into his mother’s arms. He sunk into her limply and the side of his face rested against her chest. With her arms gently around him, the tension in Kaito’s body melted and the pain slipped away as her fingers gently ran through his, dark brown, unruly hair. Her warm, comforting embrace, a mother’s, his mother’s safe embrace took it all away for the time being. The thundering, law-bound footsteps sounded distant to his ears. If they had come this far, they had not investigated below . . . or had, and had not found what was hidden. More than likely they would not, and that cute weathergirl had predicted clear skies for tomorrow night . . . He could check tomorrow.

Salt tears splashed on the nick in his cheek and if he had had the energy, he would have winced. Kaito could feel his mother’s body shudder slightly as she cried softly while still raking her fingers through his hair. A small, pathetic sigh left his chest.

Don’t cry, Mom . . . he thought, and should have said, wanted to say.

“Just rest, Kaito . . .” his mother told him softly. He felt her cheek nestle itself on top her head. Her fingers went to the hair at the back of his neck, soothingly running along his skin. Her warmth lulled him back to sleep, or unconsciousness, both seemed the same and equally inviting. Kaito could listen, even if not reply. He sunk further into her, losing to the comfort of the maternal embrace, one that would still be there when he woke.

I’ll protect you . . . she left unspoken.

In the Dark (Jr., Xenosaga, 02)

Thu, 16 Aug 2007 01:15:33 GMT

Title: In the Dark
Series: Xenosaga
Claim: Jr.
Theme: 02. Nyctophobia; Fear of the Dark {are you afraid of the dark?}
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Jr. or Xenosaga, Namco-Bandai does.
Author's Note: This community is basically like, dead. That's sad, yo.

Jr. walked around the room, not knowing what to expect. The room reeked of death, and it was pitch black. Every step and turn he made, he thought he would run into a body. He knew nothing of what to expect. He was alone, and he was in the dark. Slowly, it was turning him insane. He didn't want to forget his friends, family, and everything that he knew. Every time he called for someone, he would hear no response. He wouldn't even hear an echo.

Suddenly, he felt a jab to the right side of his heart, and he fell to his knees. "Albedo!" he screamed, and suddenly everything disappeared. The room faded, and everything turned white. He could finally hear someone yelling for him, and he opened his eyes.

It had all been a dream.

What Happens in the Dark, Stays in the Dark (MOMO, Xenosaga, 02)

Sun, 22 Jul 2007 03:31:05 GMT

Title: What Happens in the Dark, Stays in the Dark
Series: Xenosaga
Claim: MOMO
Theme: 02. Nyctophobia; Fear of the Dark {are you afraid of the dark?}
Rating: T Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Xenosaga. Namco does.
Author's Note: This is based off of this video, and continuation of MOMO's abduction.

The party walked forward into the room, just in time for them to see MOMO in the arms and lap of Albedo. "Albedo..." Jr. murmured softly. He was upset at the position MOMO was in, and wanted to fight. "You...!" Albedo was sitting in his chair with MOMO in his posession, beginning to have another long talk. "Please spare me from any trite lines like, 'You're still alive?' Life and death are merely empty words lacking any power over me. By the way, did you ever mind telling the girl?" He looked at MOMO, who appeared asleep. "Does she know that we're monsters, both you and I?"

"MOMO!" Jr. stammered to say, looking straight at the dazed realian. He felt small hands grab around his neck, choking him. Albedo laughed, as he realized what his kirschwasser was doing.

"I want the me that's inside you..." It appeared to be MOMO, but it wasn't.

"MOMO..." The Kirschwasser revealed it's true self, slowly choking the life out of Jr.

"MOMO!" Shion said, gasping.

"That's not her. That's..." Ziggy said obviously.

"Free from the bonds of flesh...a pure conciousness has no true form. All that exists is the longing for reality." Albedo continued, describing the kirschwassers.

"Get off me!" Jr. said, as he released a burst of energy and the kirschwasser went flying off of him. MOMO gasped for air, as if she had felt her sister's pain, and Albedo questioned her.

"Did you see that, ma pêche? You're witness to this true nature right now. A conciousness desperately struggling to stay alive. Such a pitiful sight... This is unscenely, Rubedo." He looked from MOMO to Jr. again, staring and smiling still.

"Jr..." MOMO managed to murmur, still in some sort of a trance. A hand reached inside of her, and she groaned uncomfortably.

"Albedo, get your stinkin' hands off of her! Or else I'll..." He pointed his gun toward Albedo and MOMO, his barrel toward Albedo's head.

"You'll do something if I do this..." He reached his hand into her again, MOMO gasping loudly.

"You mother--!" Jr. said, and a bullet left his gun and headed toward the other two. It blew off Albedo's arm, which lead him to laugh.

"What pain! So sweet, so alive! Pain is such a vital part of realizing one's existence. Try to remember, Rubedo, what it takes. What you must do. Or, have you lived in peace for so long that you've completely forgotten?"

"I don't give a damn about what you have to say! Just give her back!" Jr. still had his gun faced toward Albedo.

"I don't think so. I'll just take what I want and proceed with my plans. And along the way, I'll make you remember who you really are." He reached deeply inside of MOMO, almost sticking his entire arm into her. She gasped again, not liking the intrusion of an arm into her subconcious.

"Shut up! I don't need some freak contaminated bu U-DO to tell me!"

"Jr.?" Shion said, now seeming to actually pay attention.

"Contaminated? Not quite. More like...evolved. I experienced what a fragment of my true power that day. The waves that imitated my body are now a part of me. I've reached a higher stage of existence compared to you incomplete mortals. I am the alpha and the omega of perfect conciousness!" He reached into MOMO again and again, slightly torturing both her and Jr.

"MOMO..." Jr. stammered, shaking with his gun still in his grasp.

Albedo smiled, letting his hand roam inside of MOMO. "Ohh, mmm, this is nice. Don't you want to give it a try?" She groaned, and squirmed, wanting his hand out of her.

"MOMO!" Jr. screamed, and out went another bullet. It blew up his head and his left arm, the one that was fond of roaming the inside of MOMO. Albedo regenerated his head and arm within that second, leaving the other's speechless.

"Impossible. Is that nanotechnology?" Ziggy was shocked.

"No. Nanomachines can't work anywhere near that fast. And besides, not even the research labratories have models with head-regenerating capabilities yet." Shion answered Ziggy's question, and stared in awe.

"He's a URTV. Just like Jr." chaos began to talk, as if he had the answers to everything.

"What?"

"URTVs. They were created for the express purpose of eradicating U-DO." chaos continued.

"U-DO?" Shion questioned.

"Rubedo, you still don't remember? Or could it be...fear? You're frightened, is that it? Am I right? I can't blame you. The only thing that matters to you is yourself. Rubedo, so cruel, and yet this girl clings to you so dearly. Isn't it pitiful?"

The charm from MOMO's bracelet that Jr. had made for her had slid off her wrist, and the light had went out.

"One more layer, just one more layer... And then I'll have everything that's inside of her. I'm sure you know what that means, Rubedo. Now then, I wonder how much more she can take..." He reached into her, and made an orgasmic smile, clearly enjoying the abuse.

"No!" Jr. screamed, and a huge burst of energy escaped his body, filling the room.

I felt I didn't need to do the entire scene. Hope it's okay.