evil is a relay sport.

BLOOD BRAWL — Amidst the chaos of the second round HYUNGSIK awaits you in the DOME BAR to discuss an important matter.  ╱  OPEN 0/3

THEY HEAR THE SOUND OF ILLICIT WHISPERING BEFORE they even sit down. The couple near him laughs, and he watches as they huddle around their drink as though it would shield their sloppiness from the rest of the world. Hyungsik says nothing until they request the presence of Daikokuten and slide a vial of red liquid over the bar.

“I wouldn’t do that so openly,” they’re blasé in their intonation, but they look the two vampires over with  sharpness only a member of Cicada can possess, “Someone might be watching.”

They leave but Hyungsik is not satisfied. He flicks his hand up in a waving motion and two security guards follow the couple out. Their night will be ruined, but they shouldn’t have been in possession of the vial in the first place.

From a spider attendant, they order two drinks: one for themself and one for the person approaching their area.

“Please, take a seat. I’ve been waiting for you,” they motion toward the plush red barstool next to them — it is an invitation, a dare.

“You understand why I’ve requested your presence, don’t you.”

In nature, even the ugliest of forces had a purpose. When a wildfire spreads across a forest, its starved heat will devour the coating of dead organic matter that had kept the soil suffocated. Burning old rot releases new nutrients into the forest floor, disintegrated into easily-digestible bits for the consumption of surviving flora. After destruction, life blooms, stronger, healthier.

And maybe Kiyori’s fire did not belong in nature, but sometimes, it, too, went hungry. And maybe sometimes, humans were too rotten not to burn. Nutrients, harvested from charred veins, scattered across the world’s ugliest ecosystem: into glasses at passed over at bar counters, into vials traded between lovers. Could the law not swallow such balance? Kiyori’s flames get fed, and the city gets to feast. Symbiosis, bitch.

Kiyori trains their gaze on irritated couple, then shoots a look at Hyungsik, as if to communicate their pity. Though they weren’t to blame for that particular vial, it was more fun to pretend that Hyungsik’s disapproval struck them on a personal note. They’ve been good, they’ve been careful, they’ve been (mostly) following the law. Still, the rebel in them felt the need to broadcast that they were only doing so begrudgingly.

@skiyori​ Oh, okay. Okay, all right. Okay. This is. Wow. Okay. Nice. The soft, whining sound that comes from their throat is not particularly sexy but they cannot help it. It’s been a very long time since someone treated Nes like this. They’ve missed it dearly, the heady space caught between coveted and devoured. It’s another little piece of themself that they shut away to  become someone else. But Kiyori ruins it. They make Nes look into their eyes. It’s not their fault right?, they probably don’t know. It’s only for a second but a second is enough. Nes sees something. Hidden in the dark place behind the nerve mirror. An image. They’re not sure to whom it belongs, Kiyori or them. An apple with a worm in it. Pristine on the surface but rotten just below. They have to tense the muscles in their abdomen to keep from shivering. You are Adem, they remind themself. Ruthless. Blank. So smooth and featureless that nothing can catch hold, not even fear. The image is only information. Data.

And anyway, doom and rot kills the mood. Why would they spend any time dwelling on that when Kiyori’s mouth is warm against their ear?? How do they subtly tell Kiyori to do everything to them? Like, everything. There are so many things that Nes wants. New wants. Old wants. Forgotten wants. Future wants. They feel bottomless all of a sudden. Hollow, like their skin is just brittle paper stretched over nothing at all. “I am so empty,” they whisper to the air just past Kiyori’s shoulder. Oh. That’s definitely not an Adem Kaya thing to see. They’re not even sure if it’s a Nes thing to say. Is-Is that them speaking? Peeking out from behind the curtain like a clumsy stage hand? Put that shit right the fuck away. An existential threeway fuckpile is not the ideal strategy for getting Kiyori to spit in their mouth later. And they want that, they realize. They want to be more than a little degraded. 

Nes clears their throat. They pull back and smile at Kiyori. They can smooth this over. They’ve fucked up worse before. “I think I’d like to get a bite or two, to eat,” they say, staring openly at Kiyori’s mouth. “My place?”

This is where impatience takes them. The ruse was working. Nesim was playing their role. However dispassionate they were, they were not unmoveable, and if Kiyori had just followed the script, they’d both find themselves at the right scene, at the right time. The impromptu stunt wrestles out an entirely new beast, some scared animal desperate to retreat back into its shell. Or, more accurately, scared animal that’s just a shell. Kiyori knows Nesim’s words were not meant to reach their ears, but they heard them all the same. I’m so empty.

The person Nesim wants to hear right now would probably say, so am I. But Kiyori doesn’t say it. It’s too naked of a truth to wear, even as a costume. So am I, Kiyori thinks, and they’re not sure if that’s supposed to hurt. Anyway, there’s no point in dwelling on the existential. Wallowing’s for the wealthy. When you’re born starved, it stops mattering how many faces you need to wear to get fed.

And now they’ve lost their lines. Nesim looks at Kiyori’s mouth, and Kiyori looks away, only barely able to fight the surprise on their face, still too startled by Nesim’s sudden honesty to remember who were trying to be. Stupid of them to think they were ready for this role, to think they could pretend to be hungry for something that wasn’t a pyre.

Still, they take Nesim’s hand. A warm touch to compensate for warmth they couldn’t yet feign. Take a breath, now. Get back into character.

What did the new Nesim want? A listening ear? A hungry mouth? Frustrated, Kiyori lands on neither. “Okay,” they say flatly. “That sounds like a good idea.”

What did the real Kiyori want? Beyond the fire, the sea. The sand at their feet and the wind in their face, all salt and breeze. For their body to walk through the shore as their body, and not as somebody else’s weapon. An eternity under their own stretch of sky. It’s the kind of life Kiyori would need to to burn more than a bridge to get to.

Of course he hadn’t meant to add yet another cat to his list of strays to care for, but what else could he do, really? The sharp mewls heard at midday had scratched the insides of his mind deep, its impressions sure to occupy his thoughts in the depths of the night had he chosen to do anything else. After all, what did accumulated wealth really mean when you had already lived for over two centuries? The thought of saving money felt almost opulent.

So he found himself purchasing another chicken—the fifth one this week—as soon as he knocked of work, urgency carrying him across the streets, grocery bag clutched in hand miniscule against his domineering frame. The butcher had given him a knowing glance before Titus even opened his mouth.

Now crouched beside the poor cat as she lapped hungrily at his chicken-water mixture concocted merely minutes before, he could finally inspect her proper. Grime had settled on what would have been an otherwise beautiful coat, and where its ribs stuck out from its emaciated form, Titus saw matted fur held together by clotted blood. She must have gotten into a fight, he thought grimly, leaning as close as he could to get a better look at the badly healed wound.

Titus jerked back almost instantly at the voice, rapid staccato of his heartbeat ringing in his ear. Nobody had bothered him while he fed the strays before. The cat had stepped backward at the sudden movement, but finding no threat, she returned to feeding, happy purrs drowned by the loud, wet sounds of her eating. Turning, his eyes traced the vaguely familiar slopes of the other’s features, eyebrows furrowed reflexively. The gears in his head began to turn as his physical frame remained frozen.

He barely registered their approach, or the flame in their palm, as his mind began to sift through his memories, seeking a match for the person before him. Had he seen them before? Would he even know? Decades of memories were hard to manage, and there was a certain sinking feeling that came with the realization that perhaps some years went by without anything of note for the brain to latch on to. What sort of memories did he lose to time, without even realizing? Without even knowing?

“What?” Titus mumbled before he could stop himself, their words bringing his mind to a teetering halt. So it wasn’t just him who thought them familiar. A short wave of relief washed over him at the knowledge: perhaps they could give him the answers. Yet a strange compulsion seemed to seep deeper into his bones, almost begging him to turn away from the conversation as soon as he could. A cold chill ran down his spine at the possible implications, but he pushed them away, forcing himself to instead returning the smile with a small upturn of the corner of his lips. Titus spoke slowly this time, unsure of how we was to really proceed.  “Really? Who?”

“You should adopt her,” he tilted his head towards the cat, invisible line drawn for the other’s gaze to trace, “Since you like her.”

They have to remember what they’re here for. Titus of Cicada — according to whispers traded between ex-convicts at Jigoku, the man’s been blessed with a gift for terror. A gift Kiyori’s fire so desperately craved. So it’s the same game plan as Nesim: find the target, figure out who they are, figure out who the kind of face they need to wear to get their trust. First impressions told them that step three should have only involved the easy task of pretending to like cats, but some strange sting in their chest seems to pull their focus away from the act.

Kiyori shrugs. “Can’t remember. I’m old. Dementia might have invented you.” They point a finger to their head. “It’s all soup in there, so.”

They should stop there, really. Given the caution in Titus’ voice, Kiyori might scare him off if they let slip more of the sentimentality they didn’t realize they had. But something heavy drags their chest down, a long-forgotten feeling begging to be pried out. Impulse wins over rationality; a first. Slowly, they say, “If we have met, maybe you could tell me if you remember me.” Say you do. Why do I want you to say you do? Kiyori forces a self-deprecating smile. “I’d like to think I’m not easy to forget.”

@skiyori

It’s a good performance. Not the play. That had been mediocre at best from the cast to the production to the directing. But Kiyori had lied very well when they said they liked it. They smile when they’re supposed to. They simper on cue. Their face is the perfect picture of open admiration. It’s convincing, richly detailed but a little too textbook. Nes would play it differently if their positions were reversed. They’d have gone darker, underscored the unconditional affection with a pointed kind of hunger. They don’t share this particular note. They’re enjoying this little charade too much to cut through the gossamer thin thread of pretense that’s holding the whole thing together. The reason behind Kiyori’s sudden attention might be false but their actual attention is sincere and Nes likes attention of any kind. 

Their mind flits through a series of things to say in response.

Which one do you think I’d play better, Pinkerton or Cio-Cio-san? Don’t you think she was a bit breathy on that last aria? I would have done it with a more full-bodied sound if I was her. Of course I look nice, I’m the best dressed person here. Thanks, I thought you’d like it.

Yes, that last one is the best. “Thanks, I thought you’d like it.” That is a lie of course. It was Nes who picked the show and bought the tickets and insisted on going. At no point in the process had they actually considered Kiyori. But it’s a polite and bland thing to say and right now they’re supposed to be Adem Kaya, so the polite and bland choice is the best. Kiyori came to them looking for Adem, not Nes. They have to keep reminding themselves of that fact. They’ve been slipping for weeks. It’s difficult to stay fully in character when it comes to Adem. They don’t like playing him at all. He’s so boring with his grey suits and his neat office and his awful routines. He accepts Kiyori’s touch politely but he doesn’t reciprocate, doesn’t even give an indication that he enjoys it. “Where would you like to go next?”

Vampires had a predictable hunger. Without a mirror to look at, they fed their vanity by studying how they appeared through another person’s eyes. Just two seconds ago, Kiyori was under the notion that they were immune to such egotism, but perhaps it was only because they rarely made the effort to make themselves something worth looking at. Genuine annoyance writes a frown into their expression, and Kiyori allows it, just to give their portrayal a touch of realism. They bought a coat for this. Wore their favourite earring. And you’re not even going to tell me I look nice? Asshole.

The truth needs to slip out soon. Kiyori can feel themselves burning from impatience. It’s too excruciating to play this creature: more hearth than house fire; starved animal that never bares its teeth. Their grip on their  feigned passive composure slips, so Kiyori hooks their arm around Nesim’s. Makes their voice flat. “I’m thirsty.” It might help the performance to tilt their head into the crook of Nesim’s neck, but even the needy character they’re playing might set themselves on fire from how pathetic that would look. “Jigoku’s probably crowded at this hour. And I’d rather not run into any coworkers.” Irritating, irritating small talk.

Fires only starve for something to burn. But maybe Kiyori should look hungrier when they look into Nesim’s eyes. Because demure and patient is getting slow results, and anyway, it’s those eyes that have exactly what Kiyori needs — that Beetle-bred gift for terror. Kiyori daydreamed about it sometimes, their fire feasting on that fear, filling itself up until it burst, its gluttonous light spilling across the whole sunless city, big and blinding and beautiful, devouring everything.

This scene could use some of that burning. Kiyori lifts their gaze up at Nesim. Swipes a thumb across the bone of Nesim’s jaw. Touch gentle for a fleeting moment, until Kiyori’s grip tightens to yank Nesim’s face down, forcing their eyes to meet. The feigned glint of innocence dies out. In its place, a leer: dark, needy, blurring the line between hunger and hatred.

as a king or lord would, valentine acknowledges the ceremony of their gratitude. the vein of due deference, consummately imparted. the curiosity of kiyori is that though they see no particular value or need for it, they understand the concessions of aristocracy, the trappings and vagaries of influence. valentine observes them, composed of utmost courtesy as they perform the invisible rituals of nobility and hierarchy. 

in time, perhaps they will even find them better tailored to them and bespoke. perhaps. 

“there is no need to thank me. i welcome you as an honoured guest.”  the formality of the proceeding is shaded with approval, fondness even, in the brief stretch of his smile. rarefied for its few and far between appearances in the view of anyone that matters.  “the view from up here is much superior to the areas reserved for the houses, no?” 

them, and us. an imperceptible distinction by the casual articulation of it in valentine’s small talk. he gestures for kiyori to sit, another subtle allowance of favour. the velvet-cushioned chair beside him is empty, a seat second only to the emperor’s throne and view of the spectacle beneath them. even valentine’s own house members have not been afforded the privilege, and they have been well-trained and tamed enough not to reveal any reaction towards it. an introspective sound hums on his lips.  “i prefer to bet on outcomes. it matters not who wins, but which house.” 

valentine signals for an attendant, who accordingly pours himself a glass, and then one for kiyori without word. being seated beside him is all that needs to be said.  “and you, kiyori? are you placing any bets? or do you have your hands otherwise tied by spiders’ financial affairs?” 

an innocent question, by all intents and purposes. let us see how kiyori handles the balancing act of tact against deference.

perhaps they’re supposed to look like they belong here. they weren’t planning on showing a reaction — they never do — but it turns out, after two centuries, some things can still surprise you. welcome, valentine had said. of course, they’ve heard the word before, but never when they were wearing their real face. kiyori’s smile remains, slight and amiable, but their heart falls in a way that only a god could notice. “i thank you because i want to.” not because i need to. “the crowds down there are too loud. i can’t stand it.”

kiyori settles into the seat. accepts a glass from the attendant, blank-faced, all too careful to let it show that they were unaccustomed to being served. “i’d bet on shiva.” whatever dissatisfaction they felt about the outcome bled into their tone, if only slightly. an imperceptibly deliberate display of feeling. “titus and rakshasa from cicada.”

such simple sentences, timed meticulously; not quick enough to come off as defensive, but not so slow that it’d look as if they’d mulled it over. kiyori’s not so sure why or how they’d mastered it — how to speak as though they were fine-tuning a radio dial, and how to make such stringency invisible. the past must have bludgeoned the practice into their body until it became muscle memory. kiyori can’t remember the teacher, but they do remember the lesson: when an authority asks for an answer you cannot give, buy time with a lesser truth. lies, once discovered, always earned worse punishments. “if that cicada brute doesn’t pull through, then i’ll be short of pencil money.”

It was, by all means, a dull play. A tired and insulting story: Stupid girl meets foreign man. Stupid girl falls in love. Foreign man deserts girl. Stupid girl waits. Stupid girl bears man’s child. Stupid girl waits some more. Man returns, hand in hand with some other stupid woman, and says he’s only there to take his child. Stupid girl kills herself.

Still, Kiyori exits the opera house wearing her face. Eyes alight with nauseating adoration, lips spreading into a small smile. Heart skipping beats and all. Truthfully, Kiyori was never sure if this was the creature Nesim needed them to be, had even come close to accepting that perhaps no amount of feigned admiration could offset such grating persistence. But stupid girl all but confirms that Kiyori’s enacting the right performance. Because, at the end of the day, even if the story never rewards her devotion, somebody still thought of her waiting as something worth writing about. Take a hint from the playwright: some people just wanted you to look at them like they were worth killing yourself over.

explosive touch » touch causes explosions & fire. loses all other sensations while using the power, volatile, threat of setting fire to themselves.

gif credit: (x)

That’s got to be the ugliest cat Kiyori has ever seen. In their crude stretch of eternity, they’ve borne witness their fair share of beasts, but none so far have come close to this level of repulsiveness: matted fur an explosion of discordant color, slit-like pupils turned outward on opposite sides of bulging eyes, curved bottom fangs slinking upward into a too-long snout. Kiyori muses, briefly, that there must be a God — no purposeless universe could possess the sheer sadism it took to spit out a creature this horrendous.

Yet the man they’re looking for crouches beside her, all six or something feet of imposing Cicada muscle shrunken down into a posture that seems — genuinely and bafflingly — gentle. And he’s feeding her. What for? She doesn’t even look edible.

Still, the man’s strange mercy gives Kiyori a clear image of the kind of person they need to become to stand beside him. So they swallow their disgust and walk toward him. “What a cutie,” they say, smiling at the cat-beast-devil thing. When’s the last time they vomited? Two hundred and thirty seven years ago? “She looks cold.”

Slowly, Kiyori crouches down beside the wretched piece of vermin that — they’re now sure — is most definitely God’s least favorite creation. And, because the passersby are too busy to pay attention, Kiyori presses a thumb into the center of their cupped palm. From the pressure, a small flame blossoms.

They bring the flame close to the four-legged monster, close enough to warm it but far enough not to hurt it. Smiling, they turn to the Cicada, on the verge of bringing a finger to their lips — our little secret, okay? — except when their eyes lift up to meet his face, their brain does something so strange and unfamiliar that the shock nearly rips out the mask they’re trying to wear, if only for a fleeting second. The fire in their palm dies.

Jury’s still out on whether all this matters. Valentine must feel it, the way Kiyori’s throat closes in disgust at all this excess: the throne they didn’t want and the view they didn’t care for and the private attendants that — frankly — annoyed them. In another life, they would have been like that, flitting about aimlessly, with no purpose beyond serving overfull platters to men that would never go hungry, too weak to tread any path outside another man’s will or whims.

It doesn’t worry them that their contempt would be mistaken for ungratefulness. A man like Valentine would know that instinct differs from action. And because they are in Hokuei, Kiyori lowers their head and bows, offering a smile — small and real — as they rise. “Thank you,” they say, in the language of Hokuei’s outsiders. “I’m grateful you invited me.”

It’s not necessary, really, to use words they were never raised to speak. Valentine would know Hokuei’s mother tongue. He’s tread this country’s soil for far longer than Kiyori’s been alive. But this, too, is reverence. A way of stepping back and saying, I am the outsider here.

Only in their daydreams would anybody honor Kiyori with that same distance. Jury’s still out on whether Valentine’s godhood matters. But perhaps Kiyori envies where he stands: too high, too far, and too dangerous for anyone to want to touch. Does Valentine know? Kiyori would tear the world apart for that kind of power.