#maggiewrites

(Inspired by the “go ugly early” method explained by Richard in 13x06, and prompted to post by downthepub’s enthusiasm for a Uni!AU. They aren’t that young, but Richard’s only a few years out here.)

1994. A pub somewhere in London.

Richard and his friends are on the prowl tonight, with mixed results. One of them has just been rebuffed, and his group of friends argue about whether the tactic they favor works or not until someone waves the barman over to ask his opinion.

He looks at them for a moment, then forces back a smirk. “How do you know the girls aren’t doing the same thing?”

Ah. Well, they don’t. None of the young men want to admit that, so they retreat into the crowd, hoping to make a point in pulling the best-looking girls. It might be coincidence, it might be that they were overheard, but all of them are snubbed. Richard tries to chat up a few girls himself, but his eyes keep wandering back to the bar. More specifically, to the man behind it. The barman’s snappy comeback to his friend’s question had piqued his interest, and he keeps noticing things about him - his eyes, his calm, how easily he moves in the small space. The sting of defeat (and perhaps a touch of humiliation) irks his friends enough that they leave earlier than he’d like, moving on to another pub where they have more success.

On an evening he has to work late, Rich is pleasantly surprised by a few of his coworkers proposing a group dinner at that very pub. It’s been a few weeks since that visit with his mates; it’s a relief to see that the bartender recognises him and nods in greeting. He has to hide a silly smile every time the man is in his line of sight. Given how busy the place is and the presence of his coworkers, there’s no chance to go up and chat.

He wants to, though, as much as he’s ever wanted to with a girl, and returns the next evening. Arrives early, has something to eat, is dressed as himself, not like he would for work or to pull. He’s come prepared, too, with a slip of paper in his pocket, which he’s able to hand the barman directly when he pays his tab. It had taken some hemming and hawing, but he’d written his first name and the phone number for the flat he’s sharing, then below it ‘could I have yours?’

It’s an effort to keep from being too obvious, watching the bartender read the note, so he looks away to the chalkboard listing the live entertainment for the month. There are a few names he recognises, but none he’d make the effort to come see. This isn’t a crap pub, but really, it’s the man handing out the drinks that has him coming back - the same man who pauses in front of him.

“Your change.”

He holds out his hand but doesn’t dare look up. Coins and a folded piece of paper are pressed into it. “Ta, mate,” he replies, and catches a smile out of the corner of his eye.

Gorgeous little smile, that. He smiles to himself and waits until someone at the other end of the bar is being helped. Unfolds the paper to find a phone number, and a name: James.

“Hello, James,” he says under his breath. The piece of paper is tucked safely into his wallet, and he takes a long drink of his pint, happy to linger for a while. Some girls come in, of whom two are the sort he’d have tried to pull not so long ago. Perhaps they sense that, because they put quite a bit of effort into trying to pique his interest. It doesn’t work.

No, really. It doesn’t work, and this startles him. He’s always liked girls, and girls have always - well, almost always - liked him. Two months ago, these two wouldn’t have had to put any effort into catching him - the effort would have been on his part, and only if he’d wanted to bring them both back to the flat. Honestly, he has no idea if it’s because he’s in this bar, James’ bar, with James right there…

James is interested enough to take his number, and provide his own. He has James’ interest, and James has his, which makes him feel better than if he were given all the girls’ numbers.

Richard finally polishes off the pint and slips off his stool. He makes sure to catch James’ eye and they exchange smiles before he sets off, ignoring the two girls.

Going Home

Length: 647

Warnings: Talk of violence and car crashes

It was a really, really humid day, Mark thought. He hated the humidity. Not the kind of weather he'd hoped for during his triumphant return to the world. Mark's wheelchair bumped over a crack in the asphalt. From somewhere behind Nurse Claudia, his mom made a little whimpering noise.

“I'm fine,” he reassured her tiredly. “Still drugged up. I can't feel a thing.”

“Can't you push it any smoother?” his mom begged Claudia nonetheless.

“Why don't you unlock the car?” Claudia soothed.

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

Mark scanned the parking lot, still expecting to see their little Honda Civic. His mom stopped, leaned the crutches against her leg, and began digging through her purse. Slowly, Mark said, “I like the new car. It's the same as Uncle Aaron's.”

As she always did when he spoke these days, her eyes rushed to his. “Oh, yes, the insurance came through.”

When she went back to looking for the keys, Mark stared blankly at the mini-van. “Now you can be a soccer mom.”

She pretended to laugh.

Claudia kicked something and locked the wheelchair in place. “Alright, Mark, are you ready?”

“Yep,” he said firmly. The van door slid open, inviting him to crawl in. He felt Claudia's arms slip around him and braced his hands on the wheelchair arms.

“One, two, three.”

With his mom watching anxiously, he pushed himself up. Claudia helped him balance, but he stood up with his own muscles.

“There you go,” she said quietly. She pulled back, holding only his elbow.

Mark readjusted his weight, glad he couldn't feel more than a muffled sting through the painkiller. “Mom.” He reached out his free hand. She handed him the crutches and he worked them into position. Slowly, Claudia let him go. They'd practiced this at least a hundred times, but Claudia still smiled proudly when he balanced himself and swung forward a few steps.

“No different from when you broke your leg in seventh grade,” his mom said, also for the hundredth time.

“More permanent, though,” he replied on cue. It would take another step to reach the car. Mark stood up a little straighter and told his brain to move his right leg. Surprisingly, it actually moved. He set it down carefully. He almost lost his balance when he tried to step forward with his good leg, but the crutches caught him before his mom noticed. Getting into the van was surprisingly easy. Mark simply pulled himself inside and dragged his prosthetic leg in after him. Claudia passed him some paperwork and said goodbye.

“See you next week for your first check-up!”

“Bye.”

His mom thanked Claudia, then got in the driver's seat and turned on the engine.

Mark gazed around the inside of the van. “It looks exactly like Uncle Aaron's, if you took out these seats and put in the wheelchair ramp.”

His mom gave him a pained look through the rearview mirror. “You're not a wheelchair.”

“I could be if I chose too.”

“Mark.” She twisted around to back up, and he could see the barely-healed scarring on her arm. “You're in better shape than he is. Be grateful.”

“Sure, I'll be grateful that my leg got chopped off.”

She sighed. After a moment, she began to back out of the parking spot. As they rolled out to the road, Mark caught her eye in the rearview mirror again.

“Are you okay to drive after...” he asked.

“I'll be fine.”

The after hung heavy in the air as they pulled out into the road and down to the stoplight.

“If you can walk again, I can certainly drive again,” she finished, once they had stopped completely. They met eyes again, but the look they exchanged was different than before: full of understanding and shared pain.

Mark brushed his prosthetic leg. “Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

Sora and the Magician

Rating: SFW

Length: 1239

A/N: I tried something different with this. I intentionally wrote it as a reversal of the classic Beauty and the Beast in the style of a traditional story-telling. I hope you enjoy <3

 The City Above the Lake was home to many curiosities and wonders, not the least of which was the city itself. A stone arch spanned the lake, lifting the city to the stars. But within the City Above the Lake were many oddities. Talking snakes, dragons woven of fire, and more everyday peculiarities. At the very bottom of the arch there was a smithy. There were many smithies in the City Above the Lake, but this one was known for a clever woman who worked inside it, hands rough and burned, face glistening with sweat. Her name was Sora, and she worked magic with metal. Her swords made kings swoon and her armor brought knights begging at her feet. Sora, the only woman to take up the art of metal-craft in the City Above the Lake, grew arrogant in her skill.

“Nobody can hammer better than me!” she declared. “No soul in the land can bend iron into more shapes than I!”

So great was her pride that every blacksmith in the city tried to out-smith her, because everyone knows that smithing is not for ladies. But one by one she out-shined them with her skill. Nobody could beat the oddity – tall Sora, banging her hammer away in the smithy under the arch.

But one day, a beggar came to the door. “Please, Sora,” he said, bundled in rags. “I have heard of your fame. You have become rich for your labor.”

“I have,” she boasted proudly. “But what does it concern you, beggar?”

“My horse threw a shoe. I came to ask for your help.”

Ah, but Sora would not lower herself to do such menial work. “What can you pay me?” she sneered. “My work demands far more than those rags on your back. Why, I'd have to take your horse in payment for a shoe, and then where would you be? I create swords for kings and armor for knights. I will not make a shoe for a beggar!”

“I had hoped you would answer differently, Sora,” the beggar said sadly. And he threw off his rags. Before prideful, Sora stood another oddity of the City Above the Lake: a warlock! A magician with the finest of features! His robes gleamed with silver and gold thread.

“You have wronged me,” the man said, eyes like fire. “How can you hold this wealth of skill and not share it with those in need?”

“I meant no harm!” Sora protested.

“You would not help a beggar. You forge swords with pride, but too much pride makes for a brittle blade.” The warlock lifted his wand. “I curse your prideful hands to be like those of cats, for then everyone will know that you preen and think too mightily of yourself.”

“I am the only woman to work metal!” Sora cried, but it was too late. A swish of the magician's wand and her hands became cat's paws. Sora began to cry. “How will I forge?” she despaired. “I cannot hold a hammer!”

“You may reverse the curse if you prove to me that you have shed your pride within the week,” the magician said.

“But how may I prove that to you? I don't even know your name.”

“My name is Elsgrim, and telling you how to lift the curse would not teach you anything.”

And so Elsgrim picked his covering off the ground and threw it about his shoulders, once more taking on the semblance of a beggar. “I will see you in the morning, Sora.” Elsgrim vanished into the City Above the Lake, and Sora was left to mourn.

At dawn, Elsgrim appeared outside the smithy. Sora ignored him, for she was too busy trying to pick up a hammer with her furry paws. No matter how hard she tried, the handle always slipped from her grasp.

“This is impossible!” she cried.

A man walked into the smithy. “Forge me a sword by this evening and I will pay you a handsome sum!”

Sora hid her hands behind her back. “What do you require of your sword, sir?”

“The hilt must be of gold and there must be jewels along the length of the blade. I have heard great stories about your skill and am eager to see for myself.”

Sora knew such a sword was impossible to build, but then the man held out a sack of gold as large as his head.

“This will be your payment,” he promised.

Sora knew then that this man understood how wonderful she was. Without thought, she reached out to take the bag.

“Your hands!” he shouted. “They are like cat's paws!”

Sora tried to explain, but he ran away as quickly as his legs could carry him, taking the gold with him. In the corner, Elsgrim sighed.

The next day, another person appeared with a similar demand. Sora took one look at Elsgrim and refused him. “I cannot do what you ask,” she said. “I am not that skilled.” However, a beggar came to her door the next day.

“Would you make me a knife, Sora?” he asked.

“Why would I make a beggar a knife?” she demanded. “You would use it to steal.”

“I cannot cook for my family without a knife,” the beggar said quietly.

Elsgrim rose from his spot in the corner, and produced a knife from his robes. “Here, take mine.”

The beggar fell to his knees, thanking Elsgrim over and over until the magician kindly sent him away. Sora watched them, wonder in her eyes. The beggar was happy, but so was Elsgrim. How had giving up something of his made him happy? Maybe that was the trick to getting rid of her paws, Sora thought. She would copy Elsgrim and be free of his curse.

Another day passed. “Here,” Sora said to Elsgrim. “Take this knife I made to replace the one you gave away.” She gave him a knife fit for a nobleman, fitted inside a gold scabbard. He was grateful, but did not lift the curse. Sora went back to work, her heart bright. But Elsgrim watched her, a small smile on his face.

Two more days passed without incident before a woman came into the smithy.

“Please, my husband's birthday is today and I do not have the money for a gift. I will pay you later, but will you please make him a beautiful cloak pin?”

“Alas, I would love to make a gift for your husband, but I am accursed.” Sora showed the woman her paws. “I am ashamed, because you come here for your love.”

“Why are you ashamed?” the woman asked, although she was scared.

“I am ashamed because I was cursed because of my lack of love.”

Elsgrim stood up and made himself known to the woman.

“Husband!” she cried.

“You are his wife?” Sora asked sadly. They hugged, and she felt not jealously, but joy. “Then he is deserving of the best decoration I can forge.”

Elsgrim was pleased. “You may be ashamed no longer. I have seen your regret and your pride has fallen. I remove your curse.”

Length: 662 words

Rating: Horror, needles, but no gore

A/N: Wow it's been a while since I posted a short story. Hope you guys enjoy <3

Length: 299 words

Rating: SFW, mentions of blood & cutting. Very grim

A/N: Random drabble idk

 It was a disease. It was would kill Parv, eventually, but until then, he was only more alive. There was no stopping him. Murder became no object. Bound armor covered the scars left all over his body from the first stages of the disease. Strife couldn't bear to step out of the shadows, torn between pride and fear as he watched Parv slowly destroyed everything around him. Another mindless villager bled out on the altar, his last vision of Parv's mad smile. His apprentice had become more powerful than Strife had ever dared to dream. Too powerful... Only Parv's loyalty to Strife kept him in check. If, somehow, that respect was lost, Strife knew he would die. He would die, and then Parv would be a maelstrom of destruction. The world would turn into a sea of blood, and Parv would rise above it all as a gleeful, ever-stronger murderer. Until the moment he pushed too far, and the blood magic pushed back. Strife eyed the flesh-like armor that encased Parv. One wrong move, and it would devour Parv in a heartbeat. But until then, the magic raised Parv to a new level of being. One who needed nothing but blood. It was a high cost, but immortality was worth it. Nobody could stand up to Parv. And as long as Parv was loyal to Strife...

Stife smiled from the shadows as Parv ran around the altar, mumbling to himself as he drained blood into another spell. 

The villager's blood splattered his pale face like freckles. Horrible, dripping freckles. Parv's finger's shook as he lifted a blank rune over the blood-slick altar. His head fell back, and he let out a deep, rasping breath as the magic leapt into life around him.

Grave and terrible things have been done in the name of science

Work Summary: Utilizing the premise as Dangan Ronpa replete with a completely original cast and plotline, this story follows Yuzuki Soho, the famous SHSL Military Historian, on her journey to keep peace in a situation where violence is expected and death is the cost of a lapse in behaviour.

Two more chapters have been posted--now we'll finally get to meet the full cast of Laboratory of Despair.