#rt0001

"Oof ——" It's not commentary, just a quiet, automatic, trusting sound. Phym is a monster. Phym is stronger than almost anybody when she wants to be. Phym has teeth that can chew through metal and tiny, tiny hands that can tear through stone —— but she goes loose and boneless and lets Narumi scoop her up, because she trusts Daddy, even though almost anybody else grabbing her like this would have the monster peaking past the face of the child. Papa isn't going to hurt Phym, she knows.

She's propped upon his shoulders in short order, and the child / monster feels something gooey and molten in her chest at the casual contact and ease. She's never been on anybody's shoulders. Those same tiny hands reach down, hovering for a moment as she figures out where they should land —— Phym settles for letting them hook loosely around each other below his chin. She whoops when they start running. "Yay! Faster, Papa!"

SHE STEPS INTO THE SNARE OF HIS CHALLENGE, not blindly, but incensed by his insufferable drawl, hooked by the barb of his provocation. it was a mistake, she knew it the moment she took the controller in her hands, the foreign geometry of it unfamiliar under her fingers. a wiser woman might have sought his counsel, swallowed her pride, endured the minor disgrace of tutelage to avert the greater humiliation of failure. but that, too, would have been a surrender: an exercise in degradation masquerading as instruction. the thought of it curdles something visceral in her. she would sooner let the earth split beneath her feet than ask him for anything.

she feels maddened by his voice, her patience has been stripped, gnawed down to meagre rations. the blood in her swelters, turbulent, rising. ❛   will you shut up. shut up! some of us have better things to do than sit and play games all day.    ❜     magic unfurls from her fingertips, neither grand nor ostentatious but steady in its intent, dark in its efficacy. it threads into the circuitry, burrows into the plastic, saturates every wire & every connection with its singular decree: narumi gen will lose every game he ever plays.

if this wasn't important, kira wouldn't have pried herself away from her work to attend. her uniform still appeared freshly pressed, instead of wrinkled from restless movement as it usually was. ❛    we should fake an emergency and leave.    ❜ she was still smiling tightly as she whispered the words to narumi at her side.

Japan's strongest —— it's sort of interesting, the mixed grief and hunger in this body. To be the strongest is / to be a tool. And to be a tool is... But Soma doesn't hate it, or doesn't know yet that they're allowed to hate it, so maybe Gen Narumi is the same, too.

They want to eat him, too, of course, probably because they've eaten so much in the past twenty - minutes of a now - finished battle. Eat too much dessert and you get sick. It would make them more useful if they had all of their skills and Narumi's, though. ( soma wants to be useful. soma does not want to replace yet more of the scarce self that exists with someone else, even to be useful. it's a distinction they're only just learning how to articulate to themself. ) Soma wants. For themself and for others. For now, Soma mostly wants ——

HE HAD, IN A MOMENT OF OPTIMISM, gossamer-thin & teetering on the precipice of delusion, entertained the thought that a position of this alleged calibre might afford him the occasional indulgence. a small slice of pleasure amid the endless grind. perhaps the greasy, unrepentant comfort of a takeaway, gluttonised thoughtlessly, as one might indulge in a guilty pleasure. or the contentment of paying full price for a drink, that ephemeral illusion of solvency — one that evaporates before you can even take an abstemious sip, let alone a swill.

naturally, reality comes knocking on — or in dante’s case, knocking down — his door with an invoice, itemised & insistent. lady’s cut vanishes first like some cheap parlour trick: the sum non-negotiable, handed over with the grim efficiency of ritual, as predictable as the sunrise. the property damages follow in quick succession, subtracted with the cold precision of bureaucratic necessity, as though mere proximity to the adversities were sufficient to brand him guilty. he didn’t cause it, but who cares? what’s left barely covers rent, & the rest? it dissolves into the churn, swept away by the relentless current of diurnal obligations.