#akouomilo

       A long groan escaped him as the young man stretched back in his chair. It wasn’t very often he let down his guard around people, but this one was an exception. It was hard to imagine their first meeting had been so long ago--and happened by her accidentally judo-throwing him into a wall, of all things. She’d offered to make amends by helping him study for an upcoming test and... Well, somehow they’d formed a bizarre friendship from it. 

“So, for this problem, you’d... No, wait, that’s not right...” 

       An exorcist heir and a future Olympian, studying for a Calculus exam. 

“Ah, damn it. What am I doing wrong, here?” 

send a ‘👄 + character name’ and my muse will talk about that character

“Miss Nikos.”

Oz sinks further back into his chair, myriad of conflicting emotions running through his mind and across his face. In the end it seems it settles on a sad reluctant sort of acceptance. Bitterness stains his smile.

“She’s a stunning individual. Truly one of the kindest, gentlest souls I’ve met. Pyrrha pursues what is kind, what is right, what is good with a reckless abandon that I haven’t seen... in ages. It’s inspiring. It’s worrying. I know too well what that kind of attitude can lead to.”

Fingers start rubbing his eyes.

“And I encouraged it. Fanned the flames. Saw myself in her and.. took advantage knowing she would jump at any attempt to preserve humanity and those she loved, even at great personal cost. I was desperate, the time was desperate, but that’s no excuse. It’s one of the things I regret most. It cost her her life, snuffed out what could’ve been one of the greatest forces of good in this century, and worst of all took her future away from her.”

His hand falls listlessly away from his face. Ozpin heaves a heavy sigh.

“I want her to be happy here, at least. I know she must wrestle with demons, not just borne from her fate but also before that. The loneliness she’s endured, the pedestal people placed her upon. How she seems to apologize for the wind blowing the wrong way. There’s so much. i want to help her, but I don’t know if I deserve to, if I should, of if because of my position if it’d even help.”

“But… He has the belt? I believe the rules state the winner gets the belt.”

Random sentence Starters!

“ . . . Is that right?”

Pyrrha was at least more acceptable, out of the other people she had run into so far. A solid 6.5 out of 10. Didn’t change the fact that she was human or that she knew nothing about her.

Still she held some extra respect for them as a warrior though, growing up the way she did, fighting her whole life. She can understand THAT much at least. . . And at least Pyrrha still didn’t know who she was truly. So the words can’t help but fall a little flat.

It’s been a long time, or at least—that’s what it feels like. She’s so tired. Her head feels so heavy. She lifts her hand to her forehead as she continues walking unsteadily. Oh god, I feel so sick. Her thoughts drift from Cinder to Pyrrha’s death, to the Pyrrha she knew. It hasn’t crossed her mind yet, what Pyrrha will think of her knowing that some version of her could’ve killed—did, in fact, kill some version Pyrrha. 

Her journey seems to stretch on forever. She’s traveling aimlessly by now, but her clouded mind doesn’t even give her the kindness of realizing that. It’s a miracle that she eventually stumbles upon the red-haired girl, but as fate would have it, this isn’t the Pyrrha she knows. But she has no idea yet, and the absolute joy that overwhelms her propels her forward with a sudden, newfound energy. 

Cinder (the real Cinder—she assures herself) turns brittle at the impressions of a self that could’ve been—a self that was weak, she insists, weak and without control. (Of course, it is only because she will not—and cannot—admit that the other Cinder was happy despite her early life, that the agency she so desperately desires was held perfectly in the other Cinder’s grasp.) The words of the mysterious voice mail echoes in her thoughts, the risk of death (always a palpable threat) looming larger over her head—an invisible omen of a halo.

If she dies, so will I. If she dies, so will I. If she dies, so will I. In an instant, Cinder slams her fist against the wall, rattling the miscellany in her room, and shouts sharply in frustration. Silence follows, but within it, her loneliness almost begins to speak. Instinct crushes the voice under its heel—her subconscious aware that this was no time to confront her own definitions of agency, of power.

Her rage simmers. She seethes, breathing shakily. She turns her head to stare at the blank screen of her phone. So that they may live a happy life... so that you may preserve whatever happiness you have acquired yourself... What happiness might she have here, knowing now that Ozpin and Pyrrha still live, that in some bastardized form of this world, she cares for them?

How revolting it is, she thinks, for my own life to hinge upon the life of someone I would kill. She moves her hand away from the wall, lets her arm drop to her side. Her hand threatens to shake, so she tightens her fist, bunching the fabric of her dress with her fingers. The headache, which still lingers, reminds her of its presence—and she winces, sucks in air with her teeth. Where would she hide? comes the first thought, and then, comes the answer—as clear as day, as bright as a wildfire, I bet she wouldn’t. She would fight against this instead, like I would.

She feels ill, feverish, running with nowhere in mind, but running madly nonetheless. The alien memory of murdering Pyrrha and delighting in it has pierced her like a violent arrow, the wound of it swelling with obsession. The sound of her friend, wheezing and gasping for life, rings in her ear again and again—endless, like some sick loop of a movie clip. 

Her entire body feels wrong, hot—echoing the sensation of power, wielding all that fire and fear. This Cinder, who she once thought she was, is a monster—she can’t remember much of the self-stranger clearly, but there is no doubt in her mind that Cinder is beyond bitterness, beyond justice-seeking. 

The woman with whom she shares her face is horrific—A murderer, she thinks, and not of people who deserve it, but of innocents, all for power... Her foot catches against something in the ground and she feels herself sent forward, floating almost in the air, until she crashes into the rough dirt. It scrapes against her face, her knees, her hand. She does not make a sound, and simply lies there— Pyrrha’s frightened, pained eyes. Do you believe in destiny?

       A voice message. That was what had led Naoto Kurogane on this wild chase.

       Supposedly, a ‘copy’ of him, created to believe that he not only was the original Naoto, but that he’d lived in Spirale his entire life, had been infected by some sort of virus. That virus was going to kill them... And, if they died, so would he. 

       To be honest, they didn’t even need to put stakes like that on his shoulders. Hearing the first bit was more than enough to persuade him into action. 

       He looked down at his phone, squinting at the location displayed on it. ‘Fibonacci Ward’. 

“Gah, stay still, idiot..! What’s making him run from place to place like this?”

       His copy had been doing this the past few hours. Never staying in one place, always being just out of Naoto’s reach. He’d be at a total loss to his copy’s motives for this... if he didn’t already have a glimpse into them.