#crackshct

🍬 [ 05 ] BLOOD CHOCOLATE, ⠀  the almost metallic crimson syrup within the dark chocolate is almost a shock to the system, but man, it really gets the blood pumping! it’s almost like —— it’s like you can feel all your buried rage begin to claw towards the surface, your fists curling on instinct. sender better get out of the way before you start swinging!

Sara had always prided herself on her ability to control her emotions, often defined by her steely composure, by her commands in war and readied orders.

But, ah, that control had long since begun to slip through her fingers, hadn’t it? Ever since the first time she awoke to a world so unknown and strange, a space full of monsters and strangers and failures. Try as she might to deny it, this was now the truth. That matter how much she tried to gather the pieces, to scoop the shards back into her palms, they would inevitably trickle away like water through riverbank stones, leaving her hands empty by day’s end, leaving her torn, empty, broken.

Rage wasn’t truly the first thing she felt. No, not really. If she had to put a name it, then perhaps it would be more apt to say that the sensation that accompanied the sickly sweetness of the chocolate had been something more pain instead. Pain that came from a realization, long overdue and utterly belated. And from that raw, open wound seeped sorrow, then betrayal, and finally, a hatred so deep it seemed to only consume her whole.

Although she couldn’t quite figure why the memories would return to her now, it stubbornly played behind her eyes either way in an unforgiving, endless loop. The crack of gunshots, the wet, choking sound of blood half-coughed, the sound of her voice, her pleas, her cries—her, her, her.

Oh, how could she have been such a fool? How could she have been so slow?

She had heard the gunshot. She had been right there, watching as crimson began to bloom from Leann’s chest.

Boothill had always been so ready to rid them of Leann, so ready to pull his trigger if it meant a quick solution to their predicament back then. Why hadn’t she figured it out much sooner? Why hadn’t she asked him before? Searched for the answer much quicker?

Sara had always prided herself on her ability to control her emotions. But, ah, that control had long since begun to slip through her fingers, hadn’t it?

The first swing was wild, told by a raw, wounded cry that made her throat ache. It was clumsy, driven by near-madness, all the unnecessary movements she would have chastised herself for, the wasted effort, how she’d thrown all of her weight on it,. Then she swung again. And again. A fourth, a fifth, each missed blow only fuelling the next frantic punch, each one pulling another cry, another sob from her chest, vision blurred with tears.

In the end, she shoved him with both palms. Whether he hit the wall or the floor, that was all irrelevant, so long as she could grab a handful of his collar, so long as she could finally pin him in place. All that mattered was drawing her fist back, certain that this time it would finally connect. All that mattered was this pathetic act of revenge, electro dancing along her knuckles, searing her own flesh.

Nothing else mattered. Not the pain, not her tears.

Sara had always prided herself on her ability to control her emotions. So what else was left for her to hold onto proudly now, now that she could no longer control even herself?

But even then, it winds up in Sara's hands ultimately by chance, because it is brought to the Tenryou Commission as suspicious contraband.

The contents of it are nothing so outstanding. In fact, when Sara finally cuts through all the notices and ink on top, she might think that there was little reason for so much excitement over one little gift. What sits inside, wrapped in a thin plastic shopping bag, is a plain white jewelry box holding a bronze badge emblazoned with the cosmic letters for the Galaxy Rangers. It's not the real thing, of course - the Galaxy Rangers carry nothing so conspicuous to unite them - and resembles something that might belong better in a souvenir store. Still, Sara would not necessarily know this, and it's clear that there was some thought put into the gift.

Without a letter, the only thing to identify its sender is the bullet that rolls around in the box like an afterthought.

The package arrives closer to winter than her birthday.

Its delivery causes quite the unexpected commotion, a recruit stumbling into Sara’s office, breathless, clutching a worn box like it might explode. For a second, Sara thinks it just might, what with how the boy’s knuckles are white around the edges, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard while explaining the confiscated item.

The box is addressed to her.

Or at least, everyone seems to think that it is. There’s only a single word written for its receiver, “Sara”. No titles, no addresses, not even a landmark for the poor couriers to look out for.

The package sits on her desk long after the stammering recruit has been dismissed. Sara stares at it, turning it over once, twice, tracing the salt-stiffened edges with her thumb. It’s certainly taken quite the trip, Fontaine’s ink bleeding into Sumeru’s wax, Liyue’s broken seal, the Komaniya Express’s hasty scrawl… All tell-tale signs of just how lost this thing was, and now it’s finally here with its intended recipient—their beloved Nekomata’s note on the courier label confidently assures that.

After much deliberation, she slices through the layers of tape—then freezes.

A jewelry box.

Her fingers hesitate just a second too long before flipping it open, dread already settling in her stomach. Not again. The last one had contained a silver band and a three-page declaration of devotion from some merchant’s son in Ritou. (She’d burned the letter and returned the ring with a formal notice about proper channels for addressing officers of the Shogunate. The Tenryou Commission’s clerks still snickered about it.)

But no—this isn’t some lovestruck fool’s offering, thankfully. Just a cheap bronze badge and a single bullet rattling loose in the box.

She runs her thumb along the raised branding, eyes the single bullet rolling freely inside the box, and huffs out a laugh. Come to think of it, he did say she was always welcome to join if she ever got bored with her job, didn’t he?

For the rest of the day, some soldiers would notice a bronze badge clipped to the mock of Sara’s uniform. They trade glances, but none dare ask.

Beyond the guests waiting in line for entry comes the first few opening notes of a lively jig, and in go two couples hand-in-hand. Everyone stops what they're doing to watch, because they've hardly made it past the velvet robes before they've begun to spin and twirl, so Boothill sees this to be as good an opportunity as any.

All of a sudden, he turns and grabs the wrist of the young woman standing behind him - she's well-dressed, far too elegant and pompous for him, but that doesn't matter to him now - and shoulders his way past the bouncer with a sharky grin.

"Keep the change!" he calls, and flicks something golden through the air to land in the bucket by the man's foot. What had been everything from passive amusement to entranced awe over the first two couples now turns to unanimous shock on every face at the front of the line.

"C'mon, missy, pick up those feet!" Twirling her around to face him, he tap dances his way backwards to get as far away from the awestruck doorman as he can. He flashes his unwitting partner a smile that's less devious than the first, his eyes subtly pleading "trust me" as he takes her through a series of energetic twirls and twists, dips and swings, until even the guests in the ballroom that had been gaping at them a second ago trickle in to join the fun.

"It ain't a dance if ya can't feel it in yer bones first! I'll make this whole thing up to ya when the number's done," he reels her back in and gives a wink, "so just humor me a while longer, will ya?"

WHO COMES TO A BALL DRESSED LIKE THAT?　✧　is what she spends a good deal of her time in line wondering. besides the inconvenience of having to wait in line at all. if this were fontaine——or indeed, anywhere in teyvat, she would presume——she'd have no trouble walking right in ; the doormen would've recognized her long ago, distinctive as she was, and would have hurried to clear her entry with no delays.

she supposes this is what it is, to be free. where no one knows you, and no one cares.

"ha—??" she's not permitted to stay in that line of thought for long, something hard gripping her arm and pulling enough that she has no choice but to stumble after or else be dragged along the floor. "wh——help!!" her other arm flails backwards, but those standing behind are stunned in shock, and then a curtain of other spinning dancers closes on the doorway, blocking her from view. a few of the dancing heads turn, startled and alarmed, but she's quickly——shockingly quickly, she would later reflect——pulled upright into a rapid cadence of twirls equally insistent as the strange man's hand had been, when she finally realized that hard thing had been his hand towing her at all. in her panic, the looks he throws her seems more deranged than pleading.

"wait, i——what are you——this is too fast!" but she does her best to keep up because, again, the pace threatens to flatten her if she doesn't, and there's few things more horrifying than the idea of her, the furina, splayed on a ballroom dance floor like a clumsy newborn fawn with no idea of how to place her feet. perhaps even more horrifying than whatever was happening.

it doesn't help that the man dances like nothing she's experienced, if this was dancing at all. less artful and more whirlwind ; she feels as though she's been thrust into a cancan line, the likes of which had never been her forte to begin with. "make wh. . . what up to me, exactly?" snatches of breath form words when she can manage it, flushed and wide-eyed when he pulls her back in milliseconds from losing her balance. "what are you trying to do?" and why did it have to be her?

"hey, you there." a well-meaning gentleman has come up to pull at the stranger's arm with a stern look. "miss, is he bothering you?"

⁀➴ 42 character development questions! ( also asked by @iustitians )

Although it doesn't happen often, Sara does dream. And while her dreams can vary widely, she has noticed that they tend to follow one of two recurring patterns.

Unsurprisingly, the first, more common one is the dream where she falls.

It begins with her already dashing through the forest—her heart pounding wildly, her bare feet sinking into the cold, wet mud as she desperately tries to outrun whatever is chasing her, ignoring the stray thin branches and shrubs that would cut at her skin. In the cold darkness, lightning illuminates her way in brief flashes before muffling the horrifying growls behind her with the roll of thunder.

By then, Sara would realize it’s nothing more than a replay of her memory. A haunting reiteration of when her wings had been left tattered and broken, useless by the time she finds herself standing at the edge of a cliff. And it would always end the same way: she would hesitate, once, twice, her chest squeezing tightly as she tries to steel herself while staring into the abyss below her.

With no escape and death closing in, she let herself fall.

The second is… much simpler. And it’s puzzling, really, why such a simple dream would come to her repeatedly.

In it, Sara sits alone on a quiet veranda, watching as seasons shift seamlessly before her very eyes—the cherry blossoms from spring falling as summer’s warmth draws in, the leaves turning orange and gold before the autumn leaves begins to fall, and then comes the snow, painting the ground into pristine white.

There, time stretches endlessly, the world moving while she remains still.

And just as the loneliness that has come to settle in her heart begins to weigh heavy, a figure appears at the edge of her sight. They don’t speak, but their presence always feels familiar. Comforting. And for the first time, the stillness doesn’t feel so empty.

🌹 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊: 28 - 𝖆 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌

The battlefield surrounds him with a whirling clash, shaping and reshaping itself every moment. This deep in the Dreamscape, the environment becomes increasingly unstable, and the Memory Zone memes that fight him even more so. Each gilt-lined mirror fragments and transforms into another enemy from his and others' memories, all of them unique and similar, blending into a sea of shards and opponents as the memes take affront to the silvered crimson intruder in their midst. It is the most curious variant of the Trial of Reflection he has ever undergone, he thinks.

Argenti dodges the mimic Cloud Knight's glaive as it slices towards him and retaliates with a stab towards its core. The enemy shatters and is replaced with an Insatiable Vanity that merges with a Heartbreaker, which charges up a punch with its massive arm. A shot cracks through the fusion meme, breaking it to pieces. Turning, the knight finds an Allseer and a gunner from a frozen planet taking aim at him, and he fells both in one strike. Two other cracks ring out to either side of him, slicing through the nearby mara-struck soldiers, who collapse before rising in a swirl of gingko leaves and retaking their stances. Argenti twirls and cuts them both down in one slash, divesting the field of its last opponents.