#rumour mill

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What is the Latest Development?

They both hated to be labelled. Hence their dismissal when people asked or made assumptions.

“Are you gay? Really? I thought…”

“Problem?” (Acerbic retort)

“Not at all. Course not.”

“Idiot!” (Muttered under his breath)

“Bisexual? How does that even work?”

“None of your business, mate.” (Vexed)

“Sorry, that was uncalled for. Just…you know…curious.”

“So, you ask everyone about their sexual preferences?” (Angry now)

***

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt #FFF347 - rumour mill. This happened during the Score 6 of the manga, episode 5 of the anime’s first season. The fated meeting between an idol and his fan, about these two coaches who relive their skating years through their students. This is about Tsukasa and Jun, but mostly Jun’s POV. The story why he still has Inori’s towel. No spoilers unless you haven’t seen the anime nor read the manga.

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Fandom: Medalist (anime and manga)

Characters: Tsukasa Akeruaji, Jun Yodaka, Inori Yuitsuka, mention of Hikaru Kamisaki

Word count: 1028

THEY called Jun Yodaka the monolith of modern Japanese figure skating, a living legend. Retiring at the tender age of 20 no one would have prepared him the consequences of meeting this little girl’s coach. She poured something liquid-ish on his face after she did the same thing to him a few minutes ago in order to wake them up.

For a small water bottle, the content was endless.

She was out of danger, that’s good. Lost her footing when she stepped back from the stairs that Jun had to grab her and save her from hitting her head or damaging her bones. It knocked the wind out of him. If memory served him well he saw her weeks ago. A child was loitering outside the Howa Sportsland Skating Rink after he kicked a bin. This was the same child and the man lying there was his coach, according to her.

Jun knew him. He saw him before. Of course, how could he forget.

It was not a long time ago when he stood at the bleacher as one of the spectators of that year’s All-Japan’s ice dance competition. The daughter of his former coach, Sho Takamine, was skating with a much younger ice dancer. Their show was polished and flawless, but the botched lifting ruined their chances of stepping on to the podium.

The graceful figure gliding on the pristine-white sheet of ice with his long legs became the highlight of that performance. He carried his partner’s body like a part of himself, as if he had grown a third leg. His dancing was thorough and the way he moved his fingers stuck in Jun’s mind. It took his breath away.

[Prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial.]

TITLE: News On The Wind

Prompt: Rumor Mill Story: Souls of Black (more oneshots here!) Synopsis: Reaper overhears a conversation that leaves her rattled. Warnings: None Words: 720 Canonical Status: This is my attempt for an idea for a future scene in Souls of Black.

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Reaper walked through the tavern crowd, towards the bar in the center of it. This tavern was larger than any she'd ever been to, and the bar was scaled to match; it was a large circle, hollow on the inside for bartenders to scuttle about, reaching under counters and into cabinets that spilled black smoke. In the center was another circular table, stacked with cups and shelves of glass.

Just another display of wealth for the city of Whitlight. One that most people here wouldn't even bat an eye at.

Reaper ducked down, darting through two people before finally managing to plop in one of the seats surrounding the bar. Even the stools had cushions.

Voids below, she couldn't wait to leave. Seeing the pompous displays of just how much power and resources this place had made her skin crawl, and reminded her of places she'd rather forget. She'd also Stored her coat—she was already taller than nearly everyone in the tavern, and so clearly an outsider. She didn't need anymore attention.

But she and the others needed to be in Whitlight. And so for now, she'd suffer through it.

Reaper caught a bartender's eye, but the woman motioned for one moment with a strained, obviously fake smile, before busying herself with another customer. Reaper rolled her eyes, then closed them, letting herself get lost in the sounds around her.

The busy noise always calmed her, to some degree. Not nearly as much as a tender silence, but it let her blend in for a moment or two. She felt she could simply exist among the chaos, because it was also order. Cups clinking, laughter raising above conversations that she could dip in and out of.

"Elavi and I—"

"—oh that is so—"

"—Drifter!"

Reaper's eyes snapped open, and she instinctively ducked her head, her gaze locking onto the voice to her left that the word had come from. It was a group of women not ten feet away, sipping wine out of those glass cups. They laughed lightly, but one of them—light brown hair in a bun, tanned skin, and brown eyes, oddly—looked frazzled.

"Oh, Alis! You know those are just myths," one woman said, waving a hand towards the frazzled-looking one. This one had hazel eyes, and in her deep brown hair had hints of a light red color. "Drifters aren't real. That's just another silly name for those Wanderers." Her lips curled in disgust, but she hid it with a sip of her wine.

"A Wanderer wouldn't have made such a ruckus north in Epheli!" Alis said. A chill made Reaper freeze in her seat, her eyes blowing wide open. She felt her heart skip a beat.

Epheli?

That was a town north of Whitlight. Closer to the Meadows.

The same town that—

"And they took care of them!" the first woman said, and waved her hand again as if it would shoo away the problem. "Epheli imprisoned the intruder!"

"But they got out, El!" Alis said. "I've seen the reports! And there's been recent ones of a similar looking figure having recently been to a village down south! One of the ones under Crows territory!"

El sighed, rolling her eyes. "Mere rumors. And please, Alis, we have bigger problems than the so-called best raid crew. Everyone knows that the Sunset Crows stick to the south, while the Poison Dreadmaws are here."

"And what if Crow comes here, after that Drifter that dueled him? With Tundrans?" Alis demanded. "What is—"

"Lady Kiluyuu will handle it, just as she has that other group of ruffians," El said simply. "Now hush about all that, Alis!"

Alis huffed, but sipped her wine again. Reaper staggered up and to her feet, ignoring the bartender that waved after her.

People didn't know quite yet that Reaper and her friends were here, in Whitlight. But they were getting close to it.

And they already knew about Reaper. Maybe not by name, but anything was bad.

She couldn't just kill that woman, Alis, no matter how much part of her wanted to. That'd only draw more attention.

Reaper tossed caution out the window, shoving her way through the people and into the streets of the city.

She had to warn her friends. She had to adjust their plans.

'All Was False And Hollow'

"True confession time," Leigh giggled, swirling a third snifter of aura around in her high tension spherical glass as though it were a crystal ball.

"What was the first song you ever fell in love to?"

Shamil leaned back in the console seat, took a sip of synth spirit himself and flashed that signature microdiamond smile, wondering silently how the game would play itself out this particular round.

"You go first, since you probably already know what my answer is going to be." Use his celebrity, and turn the line of questioning about. The more personal information she revealed, the better Glinter's personnel profiles could enhance what was clearly the greatest latent noetic talent that Earth's recruiters had yet to send out to Calvera Station.

A nervous swallow. "It was 'Göz Göze, Diz Dize.'"

Leigh couldn't believe she was confessing this to that same youthful face frozen in time from the iconogram hanging in her finishing school bedroom. A casual ruffle of the Marcel waves of her jet black hair with a free hand, managing the uncanniness.

He gave an easy laugh in response. "No need to be ashamed of a bit of fangirling. Dare I ask which icon it was?" Details. The devil advocated for details.

"You know the one." Casually, coyly as she dared.

"The 'Rolling Stone' cover right before your 'Last Republic Of The Heart' Tour. You in that tiger stripe kaftan with the gorgeous embroidery going full-on Zeki Müren, the unconquerable defender of love."

"And 'IJJE POP WILL SAVE THE WORLD' for the all-caps orange and black caption underneath. Allah korusun, I should have ever had to wear that again!" Something in his tone of voice didn't ring quite true.

She saw it then, behind the façade of stardom. A man who could never escape what his fans had demanded he become, becoming the man he had always wanted to be out here at the galaxy's edge. And yet, there was a questioning within him that she sensed he was desperate to avoid ever answering.

"So how about it then? I remember that dreary answer you gave in the interview, some bù zhēn shí about falling in love with the heroes of the People's Defence, planetary anthem playing after the victory over the rebels in the Promethean Incident- but that's not really when you first felt in love, was it?"

This one was going to be a hard case, he could see. Obviously, he had to be very careful how he responded. Truth was too precious a commodity to be given away casually, not when one was paid to lie.

"There is this great teras bar in Demirciköy, where I grew up, called the 'Emerald-360'. My bio says I went there on a dare one amateur night and was so good that Believe gave me a recording contract the very next day, right? Well, that is not exactly so."

It was his turn to stare down at the luminous gold of aura he held, feeling the snifter's engineered warmth that thermal mimicry was designed to bring, but taking no comfort from it. He took a deep draught, savoring the haunting metallicity; a taste of preserved apricots and crushed ozone. Looked up.

"The truth is, I was working there nights as a janitor. One day, the Central State rumour mills turned on the popular house band. They had been very vocal in their support of the Promethean cause, and now suddenly they were being accused of all manner of deviant behaviours. The whole affair tore the town apart. The manager knew I had a decent voice, so he hired some backing musicians to fill in. The love we felt from the crowd when we did that cover version of 'Once More'... and the rest, as we say, is history."

"Right place, right time sort of thing?" Leigh's arched eyebrow was not a good sign she believed his feel-good story of a working class man stepping up to sing an anthemic song of national unity amid the crisis of confidence the government had been in.

"It's pretty late. Thanks for buying a lady a drink."

--prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial

The Taj Mahal necklace paralyzed Meryem physically, while simultaneously giving her mind a place to roam. With how many hands it dared to pass, and the necks of women across the world, she imagined herself with its possession.

A woman who worked with jewels so much, but at the same time, beholden to those who knew nothing with jewelry. Everything would erupt if she had the heart--hidden in a safe, or slid in her nightstand--everything would allow her to affirm her love for any craft she pulled through.

But that was not all.

They said suddenly, it developed powers to allow love to blossom. Something deeper than the Bosporus Strait, something purer than the marble used on the Taj Mahal. Something which could light her own heart ablaze, but maintain enough fuel to maintain a stubborn warmth.

"Do you think we could try to get the jewel?" Meryem asked as she cornered the television, almost losing her balance against the gold-filed counters. But all the chains which layered all over the velvet suddenly started to loose their composure compared to the heart, inscribed with a promise of love on the surface, something she wished she had in her palms rather than a spool of maroon satin.

Ayla bit her lip, focusing more on the commentary than her cousin. As the newsreels rolled along, she crossed her feet together, barely keeping her balance together.

"How do you think you would do that? By going up to Cartier and--"

"Not like that," Meryem snarked back, measuring another chain. A few seconds later, it warped towards her, like a snake waiting for her to charm it. Ayla arrived to grasp at the molten gold, only to receive a whip of heat at her palm.

"Then how?"

Meryem took a deep breath, assessing the damage to both Ayla and the necklace. A few marks burned onto her cousin's palm, whereas the gold chain still shimmered under the florescent lights. Meanwhile, Ayla's eyes still focused on the TV.

"We have to warn them of its magic. Maybe, take some for ourselves?"

"And get me into trouble?" Ayla tossed her hands up in the air. "What if my mom knows and tells your mom?"

Me, if the rumours be true:

I realise there's very little under the sun that's original these days, but seriously, nothing is sacred anymore, is it?

What's next — Back To The Future?! Great Scott!