#cepid

✧   BROOKLYN  NINE  -  NINE  SENTENCE  PROMPTS   !

@cepid

no he sees a problem, a very apparent, glaring problem.

the problem with these functions is everyone is playing dress up. yes it’s in ways that are much simpler than his own but it’s still dress up. it’s still foul play. anyone who partakes in fine arts has something to prove whether it’s in creation or admiration. whether it’s to themselves, to whatever lingers and gnaws at the mind, or to others about what does or does not linger in their own. it’s a dangerous game, a rather silly game and sanghee enjoys every bit of it.

it takes him to different places, the onset of a new collection at a fashion show where he’s watch ankles break into perfection, the audience of a ballet where he’s watched entire bodies break for it. the foyer of a restaurant that’s interior doesn’t match the sweat and blood of workers on twelve hour shifts, spotless, like the piano that sits untouched, unloved. everywhere that sits a diamond, sits the crust of the pressure and the weight surrounding it.

it takes him now to another exhibition, a small occasion with around 40 attendees held in a nice outdoor winery. it was invitation only and the rowdiness of the guests tells another tale. it’s why he takes such pleasure in coming here with one of the few he can truly enjoy his time with. there’s something about the way sunny watches every person that greets them, her eyes holding the same shine that sits about a polished glass of wine.

tempting, too much to handle if indulged in. sure in itself and seasoned.

it’s also in the laughs they exchange as they watch people fumble over names and ideas, about what this might mean, what this has to mean, where this is from and what this represents. as if lives depended on it. in this case - it was an exhibition for a fundraiser, including works inspired and works curated from the legendary and the amateurish alike.

which brings the problem at hand, a painting unaccounted for a list of only the most trusted collectors and socialites becoming the suspect list. sanghee would like nothing more than to go home than watch people drag names through the mud to elevate themselves, fun as it is watch.

“i look out there and see me not getting home until next week.” like this, people don’t think. they corner, they attack, they become defensive, friendless, mad. all it will do is take sleep from him, sleep that he desperately needs for an early shift the next morning. but sunny, ah sunny, always seeing the adventure in the situation doesn’t seem keen on letting up. in fact she looks enthralled by the idea.

and that’s a problem.

✧   BROOKLYN  NINE  -  NINE  SENTENCE  PROMPTS   !

@cepid 

“he’s quite...disruptive.”

that’s the formal name for it, but sanghee at first hadn’t too, too worried about the fact. the man has been going on and on and like usual sanghee lets jack comment when he wants, explain when he needs to, reveling in how his fascination is jack’s ammunition, just as a crowd spurs on the object of their attention. 

there’s a man ( and each time sanghee looks over he heaves another sigh ) deliberately allowing the doors of the shop to open and hit him anywhere he can slip in. deliberately walking in the way of incoming bicycles, rushing interns with their arms weighed down by responsibilities and a triple shot venti latte so it falls on him. earlier a pair of students fled because his arm had gotten caught as they closed it behind him and he’d rightfully screamed like a banshee.

the dramatics of it all.

some people prefer to cruise by life, live it as slow and languid as possible. others burst with the need to be seen, heard, understood in ways possibly of the heart - more so for the satisfaction of an ego. for a species claiming enlightenment - representing passion as them perched on benches and holding signs - and screaming about disability for life, down with the establishment -

he supposes humans have had better days.

sanghee takes to observations, wondering why this man chooses to be so blindingly loud. and about the strangest things too. he’s once seen a group of girls arguing over whether one should order mint chocolate chip ice cream or not. lucky for two of them he doesn’t sell such atrocities at his establishment so the wager was off and he’d delivered mocha lattes to them all.

still, those are quiet ones, where the passion merely simmers and hums over quick whispers and laughter. those are the easy passions, the not so interesting passions. there are some people who thrive off watching the littler ones, sanghee being one of them. 

politics does not fall into that category, anything occupying the complex nature of their political realm, he takes no interest in. not because it’s too complex, but because it does him nothing to know about it. what he doesn’t know about elections, severance checks, jack is always a textbook listen. and what he doesn’t understand about rebellion like this - jack is always as captivated. 

“is it a pride thing?”

sanghee has half a mind to remove him - the yells are starting to startle customers. but he also quite likes the look on jack’s face when he starts to think, when the details he know about the strange system apparent in cities like seoul, start to show. he’s so expressive sometimes, his brows turn up, his lips curl and it’s too easy to pass up asking for details.

“he can easily get those injuries treated can he not?”

new number who this

@cepid / random symbol starters / accepting!

random symbol starters / accepting! / @cepid

“no matter how much i scream at them to make my toast as crispy as possible, i have never once gotten it the way i want it. i can’t imagine why.” – after dark by haruki murakami

he doesn’t sleep well these days. even after jolting awake, gasping and trembling, he can still hear the crunching of bones, the mangling of a slender throat. his fingertips buzz from the phanton feeling of flesh against them, twisted, torn, buried beneath his nails. coating him from head to toe, the thin sheen of sweat feels more like a spray of blood, iron fresh on his tongue as if it had all caught him by surprise. between each thunderous heart beat, he hears the pop and snap of joints, a strategic arrhythmia. he doesn’t waste another second to scramble out of the cold sheets, shoes hastily shoved on and bag slung over a shoulder before he bolts out the door.

the hour hand is nudging at two when he slinks into the diner, past the dingy glass door beneath a rusting bell. in the peace of the building, the chiming of the bell sounds more akin to a siren, and he hates it. beneath his eyes, sunken rings of lavender appear almost turquoise beneath green-tinted lights, but the melancholy he wears is not uncommon here. the woman behind the counter greets him without missing a beat, unperturbed by the listlessness of his gaze; as awful as he looks, she’s probably seen worse. out of habit, his gaze wanders towards the small window to the kitchen and spots the freezer door, lingering for a beat before darting elsewhere. (now is not the time for faraway memories and dry humour.)

his muscles groan in protest as he retrieves what little cash he has from the pocket of his jeans, straightening out the wrinkles and creases before counting the total, twice. it isn’t until after his gaze floats between the laminated menu on the counter and the bills in his hands, then back to the menu does he place his modest order for a single serving of chips. he is as slow to move as he is to speak, counting out his cash a third time before sliding it across the counter. fortunately, the server doesn’t seem to mind. there are only two other people in the diner, not counting the pair in the kitchen, and they look just about as close to death’s door as he does. there’s no rush.

@cepid for mikoto! )

“i’m scared.” and the minute the words leave her mouth hyejin feels them shudder through her body. fear, something she knows well. power, something she’d always feared. her own however, is something new. her ability to acquire and be powerful, is new.

it’s hard to describe how she got where she is, how to tell what led her, crouching under a fern and clutching onto metal for dear life. dear life, while a white armor-clad body lays a few feet from her, lifeless. and with a rather nasty wound going from the bottom of their back to the helmet. through and through and smelling of all that it took.

hyejin’s smelled worse, grew up where all she knew was rust, back alley deaths and scraping by. she’s been up close but she’s never been personal. never been the cause and the chaos that brings about death. she never thought it in her.

and that’s what they teach her, scavengers like her. with no name or family. teach her that she’s only as good as what she can carry, what she can do. and hyejin can do a lot. she can reassemble a droid. she can hotwire a first order jet even though she can’t quite read the map to get out. she can use a blaster though she’s never had a need to, and never keeps one on her.

the metal between her hands is definitely, not a blaster. she’s heard of it, knows that this must be what it looks like. this must be what power is. everything in her screams let go, forget forget forget and run. run like when you see those back alley murders and you hit the hills. run like the last piece of bread from a cart doesn’t belong to that nasty smuggler who will have your head mounted on the hull of his ship. run and don’t look back.

but she can’t run, she can’t let go and she can’t look away.

everything was supposed to be easy. as easy as getting in and out of a crashed ship could be. salvage what she could to survive and get the hell out. no one told her what kind of ship it was, and no one had to. they went by instinct and hoped, hoped that luck would be on their side. even as luck had often failed them and kept them in this predicament, it kept them alive. hyejin, and those like her who had to scramble for life to hold onto them.

she’d went in first, not the smallest but the quickest. most desperate is what they’d say.

she’d went in and scoured.

the ship was empty until it wasn’t. she ran until she couldn’t. the fastest and the most desperate for life, somehow ready to watch it fade from her. not quite ready to see it fade from someone else.

she couldn’t see his face. all she saw was a mask, garbled orders behind a blaster and a mask. distorted speech that sounded too much like the noise she’s tried to get rid of during the night. too much, too much, and all she has to hold onto is the saddle she’d pulled from the ship. hands clutching the only thing that’s made her who she is, a scavenger and a survivor.

the contents became her savior.

hyejin doesn’t remember how it happened. remembers that suddenly something was in her hands. remembers something gentle, unlike anything she’s ever known for her body is used to brittle and breakage only. healing, like the fear and willingness to accept her fate dies when her hands grip the steel. soft, cold, but warm. something she’d imagine to be home if she had it.

in her hands and inside her. as if something in her could ever be good.

moving with her and moving against them. as if anything about her could be a force.

there’s nothing grand, though there is a flash. of deep purple, as white breaks and armor singes.

she smells the armor first, melted through, the armor before the flesh. she realizes it later, she she hasn’t let go of the lightsaber. she realizes it, before she realizes that she’s got a wound in her shoulder, before she realizes she’s too tired to stand, far too tired to let go of the only thing that made her feel alive - kept her alive.

no it’s when he’s crouched in front of her, a strange man. smiles aren't something they’re used to in this part of the galaxy. at least not in the corners she frequents. smiles aren’t given to the hopeless and no one around here really has any hope. so they’ve forgotten how. hyejin’s forgotten what it really looks like.

but he’s smiling, and she remembers that they’re bright things. hopeful things. he’s smiling despite the lightsaber thrust out and in his space. smiling despite the blood on her cheeks, the terror in her eyes.

‘it’s going to be okay.’ she doesn’t believe him. ‘you’re going to be okay.’ she doesn’t believe any of this. ‘my name’s mikoto, i’m with the resistance.’ she still sees the smile, doesn’t quite see his lips moving. doesn’t quite see anything happening around her. feel it either. the lightsaber’s still in her hand, this time closer to her chest and her back, someone’s hand is on her back. someone’s helping her stand.

‘you’re safe.’ someone’s whispering lies. because no one’s safe here. no one can ever be safe. she doesn’t realize she’s muttering the words until the walking stops, until a ship comes into full view and the world around her starts to open it. he’s holding her steady and if he weren’t she’d surely be back on the floor. ;what’s your name?’ he asks her something but she’s not paying attention, she can’t really. she’s caught, enthralled.

because the ship - the people running to and from - the person holding her up and helping her walk - the others checking her condition - and the hand that doesn’t let her go, just as the lightsaber doesn’t leave her grip. 

hyejin didn’t know hope had a form.

but she thinks this comes close. and it’s quite beautiful.

“hyejin. my name’s hyejin.”