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INHUMAN COURTESY

I. PUSHING UP DAISIES

cw: depiction of hanahaki, mention of blood, mild body horror

The Frightful Harvest ended on a bloody, eerie note, but the Respite's most welcome interlude has proven exceptionally fruitful. The sky's darkened again, moons struggling to glow through turbulent clouds, but crops all over Stygia have grown dense and healthy, herbs and plants and flowers aplenty. Normally, it'd be a time to rejoice, even as sleet pours and winds grow bitterly cold -- and it might have been, had greens and stems and petals NOT elected to blossom inside you. Your lungs, specifically.

It's an uncommon side effect of the Harvest, affecting those who foster affection or attraction towards another, triggered only by a stray thought. Almost as if punished by Oblivium for harboring any kind of positive feelings. The worst part is that the object of your desire doesn't even have to be in the Netherworld for you to be afflicted. Over the span of three months, you'll gradually experience various degrees of the "harvest's curse", depending on the source of your feelings:

► PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ATTRACTION & REQUITED LOVE
It starts with an itch. Your throat tickles, an odd sensation in your lungs, slightly constricted. Allergies? Not quite. It worsens overtime, and days pass by, perhaps weeks. You cough, a little more every day, a little deeper, and then it happens: petals, stuck to your lips as you wheeze and try to empty your chest. Marigold, carnations, daisies, peonies... Thankfully, for you, it's more of an annoyance, sporadic at best and leaving you exhausted at times, but you're in no immediate danger. Unfortunately, not all Restless share the same luck.

► UNREQUITED LOVE
It doesn't matter whether it is truly unrequited; as long as you think it is, whether you're fully convinced or distantly resigned, you get the whole package. It starts the same way the lesser variation does, gradual, and with unsavory (!) additions: lilies and dark red roses. The first slowly spreads its poison in your body, inducing fevers, skin rashes, blistering in your mouth and stomach aches. The second pricks your throat bloody, making speech difficult and breathing even more so. It spreads throughout Stygia, and if most wound up meeting their end in the past, some speak of a highly hypothetical cure. It's believed that if the object of your affection confesses equally strong feelings for you, the curse should rapidly subside. If this option isn't viable, Doran promises that all Healers in Hale are working extremely hard to find a solution. In the meantime, symptoms can be partially soothed with poultices and spells that you can find in the Marketplace or in Serene. Some merchants might even take pity on you and offer them for free.

if your character has heard of similar diseases in their home world, they're absolutely welcome to share their insight on the netherwork or anywhere else
the evolution of the disease can be as gradual, as fast or as severe as you wish it to be
a mini quest to retrieve ingredients for a cure will be available in december or january
by february, all characters should be cured

II. DO NOT PASS GO

cw: mention of blood, torture, branding, violence, forced captivity

Full-swing investigations concerning the Harvest's murders have begun, though the mysterious rider has yet to resurface. The day is young still, but no matter; the Hierarchy firmly believes that the creature was summoned by a group of renegades, fully intent on finding and dismembering the organization. Perhaps even literally.

If you've spilled blood not your own in the previous event, the Hierarchy finds you. Do they know? It doesn't really matter; they've targeted you for reasons they won't divulge, persuaded of your involvement -- and off to the Gallows you go. Each of you receives the same greeting when you arrive, held down by rough hands and branded upon the arm with the letter F. The mark signifies ‘forsaken’, and the painful scar is indelible proof that each of you has betrayed the Hierarchy's hospitality. Writhe and scream and glower as much as you want; next thing you know, something heavy hits you across the head, and you collapse.

When your vision slowly creeps back, your eyes adjust to a dimly lit stone cell. Your feet are secured by iron cuffs tethered by one long chain, and you lie in nothing but filthy, tattered rags. It's dark; the air is bloated and filled with agonizing shrieks. Dead vines scrap the walls of half-crumbled buildings, weather-worn stone pillars surrounded by withered clumps of grass. You may converse with your cellmates: the guards patrolling the Gallows couldn't care less, convinced that no one could possibly escape anyway.

► Ironically, a magical barrier around the Gallows prevents magical/spiritual abilities from functioning. However, characters who roam free still can absolutely sneak in! Be careful not to get caught, though!
► Loud disagreements might attract unwanted attention. A single guard will come, and if he finds nothing else amiss, will threaten them to be quiet. A second violation earns the offender a rap on their bare feet with a club. A third violation will cause the offender to be gagged. Note that in order to beat or gag the offender, the guard must first open the cell.
► If you share affinities with Gargoyles, incapacitating a guard in any way will draw the attention of one. It'll show you to the gates where you'll be able to escape, taking care of sentries on your way. You should probably keep a low-profile from then on, and avoid showing-off your brand.
► A secret passage may be found through a mausoleum nearby; an arrow of flaking red paint marks the entrance. Or is it blood? Inside, it's nearly pitch-black. Perhaps, if you're lucky, your vision extends as far as 30 feet in front of you, but occasionally, the darkness is broken by clinging phosphorescent fungi or crawling luminescent creatures, and from out of the silence echo sounds of dripping water. You're underground, and Abysmals can be encountered here if you're too loud. You should also watch out for cave-ins, but as you get farther away from the general region of the Gallows, your magical abilities gradually come back.
► Eventually, a long, broken staircase will lead you to Hale. If you're injured, you'll be sent to the main infirmary; characters with healing abilities or knowledge are super welcome to help!

Luckily for you, there are so many prisoners it's a difficult task for the Hierarchy to always keep track of all of them. Your brand, however, is a dead giveaway, so you might as well try and find a way to get rid of it; you might hear through the grapevines that the dead skin of Badaliscus can be used as bandages, and overtime, the brand will fully heal and disappear.

III. TO THE RESCUE

As you attempt to escape, or perhaps once you’ve successfully snuck in, you come across a terrifying spectacle: in front of you, impaled through the shoulder by a spear, a weary humanoid figure covered in blood. The body is being restrained by additional shackles on each arm and leg, which are linked to chains anchored within the walls. There's a guard nearby, armed to the teeth… and still you decide to free them.

The guard’s magic is just as useless as yours, and while impressive in size, dexterity definitely isn’t his main strength. He hits hard — with brass knuckles, a chain mace, and a sturdy shield — and his stamina almost seems endless, but it’s not. Keep evading, and he’ll eventually tire enough to topple over. It’s also possible to have him chase you around if you don’t go too far, which would allow someone else to grab the spear. Once he’s too exhausted to go on, you can either kill him or chain him to the wall. The keys are in his boots, and you’ll find a bottle of water as well as a small vial of ointment in a satchel on the ground, where he previously stood.

The prisoner is a young man, perhaps in his mid-20s. Once freed from his shackles, he immediately keels over, though he’s not unconscious. He thanks you with a deep and raw voice, begging for water. You can tend to his wounds if you’re able—the ointment quickly soothes—and when he finally stands again, he asks you a question: “I’m a stranger to you, and you could have died. Yet, you chose to free me, unaware of my past. Of my crimes. Of my virtues. Why?”

Regardless of your answer, he smiles, a private understanding that turns the stretch of his lips enigmatic. There’s a bubbling chuckle in his throat, very hoarse, and then he hisses, touching where you’ve helped him apply the ointment on his body. “You know what they say. If it stings...” He looks at you, deliberately pausing there and staring bold into your eyes. “... then it must be working.”

It might feel like there’s more to what he’s trying to say, though it’s pointless to ask: he bows, and then he slowly inches away from you. “Until we meet again.” White and thick tendrils of smoke envelop him, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and then just like that, he’s gone.

so you’ve chosen to free him, which in turn has generated a future plot point that’ll occur some time in february. some of you WILL see him again.
what he says to you is a clue.
you can answer his question OOCly right here. it’ll have some bearing on the way your character will be approached re: future plot point.
if you've voted no and would still like to participate, you could always allow your character to be convinced or reluctantly dragged by another!

ooc note

► As always, check out the Notice Board if you'd like additional prompts! Older quests from previous months are always available as well. You'll also find the Calendar right here.
► You'll find already answered questions just here, and if you'd like to ask new ones, ask them here!
► For fun's sake and similarly to the puck adventure, you may play it out in different groups or on your own, and still obtain the same results as everyone else whether your characters threaded together!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[This is a library. A sacred place. She's been shutting herself away inside at every conceivable opportunity. How can she not? Even with part of the collection in shambles there is a breathtaking variety available, both familiar and alien, and it's more than she could consume in two lifetimes. Perhaps she should be grateful for this less-than-pleasant eternity.

Besides which, spending time in a handsome library reminds her of other handsome things. Say, a graceful progeny with ice-blue eyes and golden hair, briskly turning the pages of a novel. Byakuya-sama had enjoyed the fruits of literature as much as she, and she longed to hear his thoughts on every word ever printed.

As her thoughts began to stray, the coughing had started up. Again. She wasn't sure what was wrong, until something thin and flat had edged out of her mouth. Fukawa had plucked it free and turned it back and forth in the light, gobsmacked.

She was rushing out to return home (does Lottie have a remedy for this?) when she nearly barrels into another boy, bent on one knee and coming off of some wretched fit. On the ground before him is a petal, speckled with blood.

Fukawa's fist curls around her own. Her voice comes out quiet, horrified.]

Y-you too?

Edited (Collection collection) 2022-11-10 13:31 (UTC)

[He looks up sharply at the approach, lack of recognition on his face at the girl who stands there in front of him. In an effort to wipe away the vulnerability of the fit, Sasuke rises and scrapes his right wrist across his mouth to clear the smear of blood. There's a lingering taste in his mouth: metallic and coppery, but also earthen like soil. He swallows against it, wishing for water.]

What do you mean, 'you too'? [Voice weary and hoarse, eyes shadowed, skin pale — he is having a rough day of it. Give him a moment to register through the foggy state of his mind.] ... The illness.

[That doesn't bode well. Is it contagious? Sasuke glances to the yellow petals in the dirt, swiping the heel of his foot across them as if to hide their remnants, before he addresses the girl again more sternly.]

Tell me what happened, and what you're feeling now.

[He's a stranger to her too. Maybe someone she'd consider handsome, if sickness weren't molding him into a waxen figure. Worse off than her, most certainly.

Perhaps that's the next step. Maybe she'll wander around gaunt as a ghost and hacking up whole blossoms.

He stamps on his upheaved petals. Fukawa uncurls her fist. Within is a tender flake off a peony, now crushed, ripe pink with a bloody speckle on the edge. She lets it fall to the ground and scrubs her hand on her skirt, wishing she had something more robust to dispel the blood. Even small traces make her queasy, and the implications are, well...absurd.

As is everything else in this shithole.]

What the — d-don't get all pushy with me! [Seriously. She backs off a step, hands clutched to her chest.] I just coughed that up, same as you!

[She looks to the abused remains of his flower, wedged into the dirt.]

Just n-not as much. You're really in the thick of it, aren't you?

[He sees the revealed peony, frail and tattered in her hand, eyes narrowed critically. Proof enough, then, although he can't understand why the flower is a different kind and color. He hasn't been able to tell the species of his own; his body has only expelled yellow petals and brown, soft, grittier pieces.]

So you don't know anything.

[There's no flicker in his expression at the accusation that he's worse off. He has never been sick like this, it's true, accustomed to his own peak physical fitness, and the most he's suffered is the degeneration of his sight — a known, fixable problem.

Not like this.]

You... [The word trails, as a dizzy spell makes him stop, eyes closed against the wash of pain and fever, enduring until it passes. He's not about to topple over on the road in front of some girl.] When did you first notice your symptoms?

Edited (can't use the same icon twice.......) 2022-11-11 17:51 (UTC)

[Have an affronted squeak for that remark, Sasuke. What a debilitating assumption to make.]

I didn't say I knew nothing, either! [She seethes, ears reddening with the indignity.] Sheesh. Don't j-jump to conclusions so quickly.

[Nevermind. She wouldn't have ever found him handsome, she decides ~~incorrectly~~. He's much too brusque and his hair is stupid. Why is the front half so long and the back half so short?

Kids these days.

Though her ire dims some as he wavers on his feet, closing his eyes for a feverish wave to pass. She tenses, hands rising. Will she have to catch him? He looks seriously unwell, she'd rather not touch him. What if it's a combination of diseases, all at once? (Why does the afterlife even HAVE DISEASES god this is so exhausting.) He manages to stay upright and she releases a stifled breath.]

Um...Not so long ago. I just had a cough and a bit of a fever, but it went away for a while. Then just now, I c-coughed that piece of...

[Her eyes go wide, brows popping up. Her hand covers her mouth. Why the dots didn't connect before this very second, she couldn't say, but now they have and it's such a wretched idea she wants to volley it back to oblivion at once.]

I think I've heard of s-something like this before.

[Unfortunately, he is written by Kishimoto, so it's in his DNA to disrespect and underestimate women. At the same time, he is mean to everyone in an almost-equal manner, so her flustered reaction earns zero sympathy. The frown of depression and frustration doesn't move from its permanently affixed throne on his face.

He is close to dismissing the girl, if she can't help further (half out of desire to put himself as far away from other humans while he's in such a vulnerable state, half because he wants to crawl into bed and never emerge and hopefully he'll just die there), when those final words come. Now the look he wears is more acutely scrutinizing.]

So? Tell me what it is.

[Imagine a shounen series that respects women.]

It's stupid, is wh-what it is. [Fukawa sighs. There's no getting around it though, even if the implications are unpleasant. She was forced to run from a Gashadokuro, make a deal with "Puck", and was rescued from a Headless Horseman by a handsome man with rabbit ears. If all that is possible, then nothing is out of the question.]

It's a dumb p-plot device used in trashy stories back home. It's called "Hanahaki Disease". Basically, if y-you're in love with someone and it's unrequited, flowers form in your l-lungs.

[Please hold for all due incredulity. To her credit Fukawa is pinching the bridge of her nose. Even speaking of such inanities is painful.]

As the disease advances, you g-go from coughing up petals to whole flowers, and if your object of affection doesn't "confess" to you, th-then it might become fatal. I wouldn't even mention it, if it weren't for how full of shit this p-place— kaff-kaff-kaff—

[Her head jerks aside and she covers her mouth, coughing up a storm.]

[Hanahaki. "To vomit flowers." Instinct and vitriolic disbelief has him warring against the statement at first, knee-jerk reasonability prepared to discard what is clearly a remnant of another culture, another dimension, and unbelonging to the Netherworld they've found themselves trapped within. This place does not obey the rules of any he's known.

Then again, is it so difficult to imagine the fiction of one world brought to life here?

It is the rest that is harder to stomach, and initially Sasuke's expression is slack with shock. If you're in love with someone and it's unrequited. Already he is disqualified from that statement. He's never harbored such sentiment in his life. Not even with women of all ages blatantly and persistently expressing their interest has he ever found himself compelled toward romance; it was a distant, annoying expectation lost on him with the dissolution of his clan, set in brighter light only after he had returned to the village. Yet faced with Sakura's obvious affection, instead he had left. Next time — it's what the gesture he'd shown her had meant, the way he was taught. A delay of what is inevitably part of their culture. She is the clear candidate: Anyone would say the same. There isn't another woman in his life who is as close to him as Sakura, even if that proximity is further than the span of his arm.

But that isn't unrequited. Is it? Does it matter who is the one bearing the heaviest burden of sentiment?

After all, who else...]

Edited 2022-11-14 15:54 (UTC)

[Sasuke's mind jumps back to the instant he had first felt the beginning of illness, behind his best friend's Door in the Shadowlands. The triggering of the soulmate bond upon contact with Naruto's tether had felt like a physical blow. And the immediacy, afterward, of his symptoms.

The color of the petals in the dirt, hidden by his shoe. The rush of warmth and affection tunneled to him through Naruto's inner self. What does the word 'friend' mean to you? He had asked those words, a desperate fumble in the dark to comprehend how someone could do all of the things Naruto did for him, against all odds. It made no sense. It doesn't make sense even now.

Horror is next on his face, dawning wide in the gulf of his own denial. It's not possible. There's no way.]

You're wrong. [The words are rasped as he takes a step back, clearing his throat against sudden blockage.] You're— that's completely... [Stupid. Absurd. Ridiculous.] How would that even happen? It's just a trick. It's not—

[Real, it's not based on someone's cultural beliefs, it can't be. But Sasuke never gets that far, devolving into a coughing fit more intense than the last, head hanging down as he attempts to clear the floral particle matter in his chest. More petals: a burst of yellow fluttering to the earth, accompanied by browner florets, splattered with blood. He feels suddenly too weak and hot as he drops to his knees.]

Edited (i'm blind to my own typos) 2022-11-14 16:07 (UTC)

[It seemed like a worthless hypothesis to her. Maybe there was a similarity, but it couldn't work in truth. Her love for Byakuya-sama was real. Wholly fulfilling, unending, earth-shattering and complete. And he cared for her too. He did. Every barb was a kiss and correction, his orders were tests of her mettle. All the while, she's been allowed to serve his whims. He could have her sent away at any time. Even when he'd framed her for murder — that had allowed her other half to be exposed, tying her hands from committing a real crime. It had seemed cruel in the moment, but in truth it was a gift. Otherwise Syo might have gotten her executed, and she would have been shot down to this sad excuse of a purgatory far earlier than she deserved.

So it was silly, then. An unfortunate coincidence, there was probably some paranormal, parasitic pollen they'd inhaled. Crazier things had happened already.

Once the boy's face starts falling though, there's a cold prickle on the back of her neck.

His fit is spectacular. Fukawa recoils as if he'd spat in her face, but the coughs just keep coming. He's bent double and spitting up petal after petal, and she can't just leave him like this. She wants to. The old her would have. Now she flounders, hands flitting on thin air, searching left and right for assistance. This street is strangely deserted.]

C-come on, st-stop it. [Does she have a tissue? She pats her pocket, Lottie has warned her to keep some at the ready ever since the cough started. She fishes out a rumpled paper tissue and presents it to him, one hand touching light as a feather to his shoulder.] L-let's get out of here. Let's get inside somewhere.

[There's a cafe just behind them. Not too pricey. She'll urge him over if he'll come.]

[Her voice barely cuts into the panic cycle of his thoughts, a pale and fluttering thing that doesn't hook, doesn't shake him from the stupor of what he's feeling then. The horror is physical; it blocks his throat, a viscous sensation that comes out in another splatter of blood and pieces of flower. From the corner of his eye, vision blurred like rain over glass, the tissue hovers in hand — yet any good will dissolves at the touch to his shoulder.]

You— shut up.

[The words are cold and sharp. He smacks the girl's hand away, as if he can't stand the touch. It isn't far from the truth. The animosity is burning in him beyond his ability to control, Shadow thoughts dark in mind. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥'𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞? 𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. Too many times in the past he's dealt with girls like this, all of their concerns of romance like a black and sinking hole, uncaring who they've dragged in with them, whether it's wanted or reciprocated. 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭.]

You're as delusional as you are stupid. [Like ice now, his words are turned on her, rising unsteady to his feet and scraping the blood off his mouth.] Is it entertaining to make up such stories? No one would believe that if they had any sense at all.

[The order is one blow. The slap on her wrist is another. Fukawa skitters backward with a sharp drawn breath, pulse peaking. She shouldn't have gotten close like that, she's made a huge mistake.

Before she can apologize he rails into her. The thrum of fear runs cold, coagulates. It becomes an ugly, bubbling mass in her middle, fuel for a fire.]

D-delusional? [Her teeth flash between thinning lips. Her whole face twists along with her snarl.] Did someone paste those ears on this morning? I said it was from a story. I d-didn't say I believed it, pansy-breath! If anyone's st-stupid here, it's you!

[Fuck him. Let him hack up his lungs and gag to death. He was just like the rest.

C̪͎͓r̪̙͜u̡̟̟e̪͍̻l̢̙̘ m̺̦e̼̠̻n͕̝ c͓̟͔o̻̘͔m̦̦͕e̟͎̺ i̪̦͙n̘͙͜ c̪̦̼o̢͓̞u̡̡n͕̙t͙͇̟l̠͎̦e̪͉̼s̢̢͙ș̪̘ n͙͓̞u͓̘m̠͜b̠͍͜e̞̦̙r̘͖͚ș̞,̦͇ d̫͇͔o͇̙͇n͔͕͎'͙͙͇t̡̼ ț̡̟h͉͇̝e͖̟͜y̠̞͜?͕̪̼

Her fists quake at her side.

W̝̻̘h̡͖̪a̢̺t̙͔'͚͖͕s͚̻̫ t̡͓̦h̢̢̪e͍̼͚ p͖̫͎o͓̟̺i̻̪͉n̪̼̦t̡̡̼ i̼̺͓n̙̞͖ t͔̞̟r͎̝̦y͇̝͇i̠͚n̘̞͙g̙̪͎?̺̠̦ T̙̟͍h͕̪̞e̡͕͎y͙̫ a̢͉͖l̢̠̪l̠̫̺ r̟̝͓e͔̫̻j͉̟̠e̢͇͚c̙̝t͕̘ y͓͕͜o̡̢͙u͎̦̘ e̼̟̻v͕̪̝e̢̠͍n͔͕͚t͖͉͇u̢̘͚a͚͙̻l̠̟̫l͇͖̙y̝͉̦,͎͍͚ n̻̞̟o̢̙̻ m͙̠̻a̘͕͓t̢͓͚t̡͔̝e͉̞r͇̺ w͙͙̻h͔͇̼a͙͎͍t̺̺ y̢̘̠o͇͉̺u̝͍͖'̟̠͍r͔͇e͍̻ o̟̙̪f̢͉̠f͕̙e̡̝̺r̼͍͕i̦̞͜n̺̺͎g̡̞͕.͔͕͙]

You b-better hope it's just a coincidence. Because there's n-nothing loveable about a shitty bastard like you.

Edited (formatting...) 2022-11-19 19:41 (UTC)

[He weathers the insults as if more at home within them, expression flat and deadened, dislike curving his mouth down. The words that come from his own lips are sculpted from another place — a dark, internal corner that has done far worse things than criticize little girls for their frivolous stories.]

You cared enough to consider its legitimacy, which means if I'm suffering from this illness as a result of feelings for another who does not return them, then so are you. Or would you change your mind now that you're forced to face it?

[Standing in front of her, the animosity is like ice around him, an oppressive shroud. Nothing lovable is a knife that he'll take hold of with his bare hand and redirect as skillfully as he's done the lightning chakra of his nature affinity.]

Girls like you are all the same. It's pathetic.

No!

[The bark back is instant and choleric. It summons a hot flush to a pale face.

Sorry, I can still hear you. The sound of you breathing, of your heart beating...it grates on me.

It's all a misunderstanding. He's not like the others, he's not like this piece of shit. Byakuya-sama holds a place for her in his heart. He just doesn't show it the way a lesser idiot would.]

You shut your filthy m-mouth! You d-don't know anything! It's obvious j-just looking at you. [Her eyes flick from the tips of his shoes to the shock of spiked hair. He's like something that fell out of an insipid preteen anime. This costume of his, the grisly expression on his little baby face. It turns her stomach. What a fucking try-hard. Does he think himself impressive? Is he the baddest boy on his block? She could laugh.

And so she does.]

Ha! I bet I'm not the first person you've sh-shoved away, you ungrateful asshole. How does it feel to g-go it alone? Does it make you f-feel powerful? So independent, so cool. There's no one who could ever understand you, you're j-just soooo torn up inside. Do you th-think anyone actually gives a shit? Oh wait!

[Her hands splay out, a ta-da moment with a dour reveal.]

You wouldn't care! B-because you don't need anyone, do you?

[It's all conjecture, but in the heat of altercation it feels like hard truth. His looks, his mannerisms, the way he talks. He's so enamored with himself it's pathetic. She's always despised guys like this. Useless. They're all useless wastes, better left out with the trash.]

Just crawl in a hole and d-die already. I hope the n-next plant you cough up is poison ivy!

[She's hurling insults at him like sharp rocks, designed to target his weaknesses, his ego, his sense of self. It's frustrating. In better control of himself, in a better state of mind, he wouldn't care — he would have satisfied himself coldly shutting her down and walking away. He still can. He's never bothered with the opinions of others, negative as they so often are. Everyone around him has either resented or desired him for his power or his bloodline or something else they'd invented in their mind. It's not his problem.

Yet what she says is so specific in its meanness, targeting a sore and sensitive place after his last conversation with Naruto, and he is in a bad mood. A very bad mood. It is a similar feeling to when he had walked into the Five Kage Summit on the hunt for Danzou's blood. It clouds his sense of reason, consumptive, a black poisonous cloud over his thoughts.]

Shut the hell up. I'm sick of hearing the sound of your voice.

[The tone is frigid as his eyes flash, summoning the manifestation of Susano'o with a great pull of chakra. Purple and illusive, the massive skeletal hand reaches out and picks Fukawa up — then tosses her aside like a doll into the underbrush that surrounds them.]

Get out of my sight or I'll kill you.

[She's forgotten where she is. Moreover, she's forgotten what it means.

There's a congealing of the air around her. It pricks her gooseflesh to rise, sucks up her rage, drains the blood from every inch of her body. Her throat, her lungs, her quailing gut all pinch closed. Turn to stone.

Somehow, he's summoned a spectral hand from nothing to float on the air above her. It's all bones, each phalange as long as a femur. It's big enough to squeeze the pulp from her body, but only plucks her off her feet.

She can't speak.

She can't think.

It's not until she hits the ground amid leaves and lashing branches that she shrieks. Terror takes hold of her: he says he'd kill her, and boy does she believe it. Clumsy but quick, she's out of those bushes and dashing away at once, wheezing deep and whisking past several frightened onlookers.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. By now she should know better to pick fights with strangers. In a place were anything was possible, a girl who could do nothing should watch her mouth.]

[She's gone too fast, like a mouse darting into the underbrush quick to hide from the eyes of the cat. A darker side of him roars with the predatory urge to chase. Hunger for bloodlust is an age-old friend; it remembers the immediate satisfaction of winning, crushing a weaker opponent beneath him. It remembers the high of adrenaline, but also the hollowness in its wake once everything was spent, until what remained were only his own regrettable actions.

Sasuke doesn't follow. Susano'o fades in a gradual disintegration of bones, purple light flickering out, until he's alone. Then he begins to cough — great, hacking sounds that become yellow petals and red blood at his feet. He stays there long enough for his breathing to calm and regulate. Eventually, he turns to leave.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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Danganronpa Spoilers

fukawa you deserve better

is that an official prescription from Dr. Snakes

yes please take 200mg of "love yourself" pills daily

slaps down uno reverse, only if you love yourself first!!

crawls back here

pats your cheekies

quickly ties a bow on this