Summary: It’s in moments like these where he feels the most vulnerable-- moments where his sister confronts the reality of things. Moments where neither of them can lie about the steaming pile of shit they’ve found themselves in.
Warnings: N/A.
A/N: I wanted to try my hand at writing something apocalyptic so here we go! Also, the story is written in English, but all characters are speaking their native language, Laan.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kip announces, crouched atop the windowsill as if she owns the place. Basil watches her with growing nerve, his bag slung half-heartedly over his shoulder as he fidgets.
“What about mom and dad?”
“What about them?” Kip has always been the kind of person to let her feelings stew, as if she has a Plan B that involves commercialising her aged grief, but her animosity towards those that have wronged her occasionally slips through the cracks. “This is our chance.”
“To do what?”
“To leave.”
Something clatters below them, and the shrill sound of screaming fills the air. Their window of opportunity is quickly diminishing. Kip may be an idealist– a dreamer whose every thought carries with it some vain hope for a better tomorrow– but she isn’t a fool. It’s now or never - and she doesn’t fancy losing her life.
“We have to go now,” she urges, securing her own bag tight over her shoulders before holding her hand out to her brother. He’s the smarter of the two, always has been, but she’s the spine, and that’s arguably more important right now. “Basil!”
Basil grits his teeth and takes her hand, biting back apprehension as she hoists him up onto the sill beside her. If she was wrong, he’d fight harder, but she isn’t; their bedroom may be cushy, sealed away from the horrors below, but there’s only so long before they run out of food and water. What then?
This is a public service announcement for the civilians of Leylan.
Do not leave your homes.
Barricade yourself in the most secure place available and await further instructions.
Kip’s feet touch the neighbour’s roof with a dull thwuck, Basil following suit. They’ve spent their childhoods traipsing these same rooftops together, escaping out of their bedroom window by night and making camp in the trees. Using them to make a getaway seems only right.
“Where’re we going?!” Basil calls as they sail over the bedlam, weaving in between solar panels and clothes lines with practised ease.
“To the base,” Kip replies, increasing speed as she prepares herself for a particularly risky leap. Once they reach the end of the street, they slide down the house’s outer drainpipe and make a beeline for the woods.
The information they have is minimal, but Kip knows that it has something to do with the ijus. She’s seen glimpses of them around town, in the day no less, and she couldn’t be more terrified. Her parents may not have raised her well, but even they had instilled the fear of the dark into her and her brother. Just what had gone wrong? Had their dear Florence abandoned them? Or had Iju simply become too strong for them to hold off?
She dreads to think what this means for Leylan.
What it means for them.
They dart into the thick undergrowth as fast as their legs will carry them, tearing up leaves and dirt as they snake through the shrubs and hop over brambles. Superficial scrapes to their shins hardly seem worrisome in peril like this, but they’re seasoned thorn-evaders in this neck of the woods. It’s instinct to clear them, as if they’re hurdles on a track.
“Go, get up,” Kip instructs hurriedly, her heart hammering in her chest as Basil drags himself up the rickety old ladder, head swivelling like an agitated bird’s. She’s never been this scared. The closest she’s been to terror is back when she was one-seventy and on a large stage for the first time-- something she looks back on with a fond, amused laugh.
This is a whole new brand of fear, a time she’ll never be able to twist into a sunny memory.
“Kip!”
She tilts her head back to see Basil peeking over the edge of the trapdoor at her, eyes wide and desperate. Something rustles behind her as she begins her rocky ascent, and fear pools in the tips of her fingers, making her grip meek and messy. When she eventually pulls herself up and into their little house in the trees, she’s relieved by the sound of Basil slamming the door shut, sealing them inside.
This has been their safe place since they were children. Kip remembers how she’d had to beg her friend’s dad to help them build it. In exchange for her help, and the promise that his little girl Macie was also allowed to play in it, he’d agreed, and they’d spent their Summer break chopping up wood and nailing slats together. By the time schools reopened, she and her small band of friends had a home away from home; a quaint little house nestled in the branches of a huge old tree-- one she still affectionately refers to as Gnarls. Over time, her friends had steadily moved away, or deemed themselves ‘too old’ to be climbing trees and hiding in the leaves. Kip and Basil had never shared that sentiment, and after returning their friend’s old things to them, they’d been happy to take ownership of it for themselves.
A fond smile forms on her face as her eyes scan over their familiar belongings. They’re all things they’ve procured over time, most of them belonging to an era that has since eroded. Old stuffed animals and retro handheld consoles, spare batteries stocked almost as reliably as their rations. Snacks and juice in one corner, an old radio in the other. It's never been much, but it’s theirs and that’s what matters.
“We’ll be okay here,” Kip declares as she fwumps into one of their beanbags– an ugly, splitting pink thing with yellow polka dots– and crosses her ankles. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll wait it out, and then we’ll go back home.”
Basil’s face is grave. “Kip. I don’t know if… if this is going to work out.”
“Of course it is!” Assuring him is something she’s always been good at. He’s the shy one, the one that questions everything he says and does for several months after the moments have passed. On the other side of the coin, Kip seldom ever thinks before she does anything. “I promise. We’ve stayed here for days before. We just have to go a little easier on the snacks, right?”
“Actually, it’s probably the juice we should…” His words trail off as Kip flips the cap off of one of the bottles and takes a couple of huge glugs, clearing half of it in seconds. After deadpanning: “... go easy on.”
He loves his sister dearly, but he envies her carefree attitude. Beneath it all, he knows that she’s scared too, but she doesn’t externalise it like he does. His apprehension is palpable. It follows him around like sweat does a teenager, while hers is hidden beneath a layer of happy-go-lucky optimism. While he loves that about her, he’d hate to see it cost her her safety - or, Florence forbid, her life.
“Hey, Kip?”
“Mm?” She’s already got her nose in an old comic. She’s read it hundreds– perhaps even thousands– of times over at this point but she loves it regardless.
“... will you play the guitar for me?”
Teal eyes flit from the pages to rest on her brother before she gives him a warm smile. “Sure! Pass him here.”
Basil’s hands curl gently around the neck of the instrument. It’s old, but she dotes on the thing so much that it still appears brand new. Its home is in the corner, in a thin case gifted to her by the school board. It has a sticker of her favourite cartoon character on its base. Some of it has peeled away, its colours drained, but it remains there loyally nonetheless.
“What do you want me to play?”
“I don’t mind,” Basil mutters as he attempts to get comfortable on his own beanbag. It sags and folds, and it takes him flopping over it on his stomach to achieve some semblance of comfort. “Anything. Just…” His hands drum listlessly against the wooden floor. The sound is as hollow as he feels. “... I’m scared, Kip.”
The look she shoots him is full of pity, calm façade melting away as her chin comes to rest atop her guitar. It’s in moments like these where he feels the most vulnerable-- moments where his sister confronts the reality of things. Moments where neither of them can lie about the steaming pile of shit they’ve found themselves in.
“... me too,” she admits, fingers stroking idly along the strings of her guitar. It brings her comfort, but she’s not sure how useful it will be in the long run. The thought of ijus not being confined to the night any more fills her with dread. How are they supposed to do anything with those dangerous beasts lurking around every corner? She can only imagine how many of them there are after millions of years to breed. “But Florence, they’ll help us. They will! You have to believe that.”
There’s an argument to be had there, Basil feels, but he ultimately decides against it. He wonders how their God could have lost control of the district in the first place. Their deal with Iju is known history and has been in place, as far as they know, as long as Leylan has existed. What caused that whole thing to suddenly go kaputz?
His mind clears a little as Kip begins to pluck and hum, a gentle song that she’s sang to him since childhood; one she’d written herself but never fully conceptualised. Every time she plays it, a chord moves around, or a hum varies, but he still knows it like the back of his hand.
Gradually, his eyes begin to feel heavy, and the ball of anxiety in his stomach begins to untangle as he drifts off.
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It was a cold day. Cold, cold, cold. The snow was beginning to fall, and that meant Stephann spent more time than ever in his greenhouse. It was a small little place, made for storage of plants that wouldn’t survive winter colds. It was the first time, however, that Stephann had invited a guest into that greenhouse.
Stephann held the door open for Toku, his fingertips only barely touching the doorknob as he shed his coat, hanging it up against the coathanger, and then did the same for his… friend…? They’d talked so often about plants and medicines. Their lives, their passions. They’d gotten so close. The florist supposed… they weren’t actually dating, but he had felt a bit more strongly for Toku than the friendship they shared. Of course, he’d been a bit too isolated to date people. He didn’t want to make things awkward.
But he supposed… they were both pretty awkward. Polite. Restrained. Cold, but they’d both really learned to become warm around each other. It was a strange feeling, but it was nice. At the very least, this place, that was so special to Stephann would be an ideal spot to talk about his feelings. It was private, warm, and a place they both could share, much like the nature of their friendship itself.
“Welcome in,” Stephann chimed with good humor as Toku offered him one of his rare, small smiles. It was an honor to see it. The florist’s gaze softened, admiration welling in his eyes.
“So you keep your plants in here? Seems a bit cramped,” Toku observed, leaning over to look at some of the shrubbery, some of them budding, others fully in bloom in a show of blues, purples, pinks, yellows.
“Only the ones that can’t survive winter in the shop.” Stephann had moved towards another bush, this one filled with roses displaying a vibrant red.
“And you were saying that I could take any blossoms I wanted?”
“Of course.”
He looked back at Toku, an almost stunned, appreciative look on his face with soon melted into a touched smile. Stephann returned it, completely charmed. Adoring.
Looking into his gardening tools, Stephann pulled a tool from the box and snipped a rose blossom off of the bush. Just one. He knew Toku was watching, carefully observing. He watched him snip the thorns from the stem, watched them fall to the ground.
Stephann felt satisfied now and stood up.
“And… you can start with this one,” Stephann told him, swallowing a lump in his throat. Here it goes. Here we go. He offered the rose. “I ah…” He realized then, that Toku wasn’t as versed in floriography as he was--...
“Toku, I-...”
“I don’t need you to explain what this means, Stephann,” Toku chuckled, shaking his head as he looked down at the floor, accepting the gift. “If there’s one thing my cousins hammered into my head….” The rose was well-cared for, careful, meticulous. He sniffed it, taking in the fragrance. “And… I feel the same way. I suppose I should have gotten something for you.”
“Nonononono-- I mean-- I just-- I wanted to tell you, but if you don’t feel the same way-- I wanted to get it off my chest-- I hope I didn’t make things awk--”
“Are you even listening to yourself? I just said yes.”
“O-oh--” Stephann flushed before awkwardly shuffling to Toku and offering his hand. “Well um… would you like to go for a walk, then..? I can s-show you all the plants.”
“Oh, no, Stephann, you seem cold. Here, let me…” The doctor opened up his scarf, wrapping the other end around Stephann as well. “Now at least you’ll be warm as we walk.” Humor glinted in Toku’s eyes as Stephann flushed brighter.
“Y-Yeah! I gotta- We gotta- Warm- Walk--”
Toku took his hand. “One step at a time, Stephann. One step at a time.”
“Right- Right, right right--”
“Right, left, right left, actually.”
Well, now it was time to spend all day walking through a tiny greenhouse and getting lost in someone else’s eyes.
Summary: Kip sees Jagger less than a little composed.
Characters: Kip, Jagger.
Prompt: ❝ I kind of liked the secrecy. ❞
Warnings: Alcoholism (implied), drunk-driving, general recklessness and stupidity.
Jagger remembers his first drink like most people do their first kiss. It was in his father’s office at the tender age of seven. He’d been screwing around, like most children do, and found the bottle tucked in his bottom drawer. The cap had instantly drawn him in; a silver dragon etched into its surface as if it was a badge of honour as opposed to a corporate logo. The moment the whiskey had touched his tongue, he’d gagged and spat and determined then and there that he’d never touch the stuff again.
“What do you fancy, Jag?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
The bartender is the kind of man to make nice with everyone. Jagger isn’t. The moment he receives his drink, he gives him a single nod to indicate gratitude before looking away. Even without words, the message is clear: leave me be.
Jagger seldom gets time to relax. Drink and drugs have become infused into his typical routine, yet his time spent in socially acceptable drinking spots is all but zero. Unlike a lot of people in this place, he doesn’t drink to enhance his sociability. He does it like one might do a chore: for a greater, loveless purpose. The hum of chatter feels like home though, like the incessant buzz of the lamps that keep his produce growing as it should.
It doesn’t take long for him to polish off his drink and buy another. Alcohol doesn’t burn like it used to. Instead, it nestles in his chest like a sleepy animal and rests, and the warmth it radiates is comforting rather than overwhelming. His heart is a window ledge; his afflictions a lazy cat.
Eventually, he grows tired of ordering and pays for a bottle to be left beside him. A familiar buzz fills his head, followed by a snowy static that consumes his limbs, and for a while, everything is calm. He tunes in to the quiet song playing in the background, some sunny electro-swing duet performed by a couple that love music as much as they do each other, and feels content.
He doesn’t pin the exact moment that the scene changes. It starts as a thumping rhythm that wasn’t there before, one that his boot subconsciously taps along to, followed by a synth that sends a shiver down the length of his spine. Jagger’s music taste is a subversion from most men his age. He may like classic rock, may hold affection for iconic riffs from his time as a teenager, but his soul lives in a bassline’s pulse. His van’s radio is evidence of that, a playlist full of synth-pop and smooth liquid drums at his disposal whenever he has errands to run. Unlike a lot of things, Jagger likes this kind of music for the way it makes him feel. It’s music that should be played while speeding down highways at way over the speed limit, the city tinged violet with hedonism. Not a sight he’s experienced first-hand, given Leylan’s strict curfew, but the image burns so brightly in his mind's eye that he swears he’s been there before.
Jagger takes another drink, eyes falling closed as he soaks in the atmosphere. The dim orange lights have faded to an atmospheric blue, swathing the bar in a nebulous darkness that makes him feel tired in the best way possible. He’s floating, so very high above everything that’s ever had the capacity to weigh him down–
– and then her voice reaches his ears.
His eyes snap open with recognition, though he remains with his back to the stage. To her.
It can’t be Kip, he thinks stubbornly. Blaming his warped perception on the drink seems permissible - and then the song reaches its chorus and her voice is irrefutable. It’s… beautiful. Far more mature than he’s come to expect. When he saw that stupid keytar hung over her shoulder, he’d assumed she was of mediocre talent. How else is he supposed to react to the starry-eyed, “I’m a musician!” if not with scepticism? Everybody that’s ever said that has really meant that they have no prospects and are desperately chasing a pipe dream.
He gets the overwhelming sense that he should leave, yet he feels glued to his seat. Her melody settles in his brain before trickling down, down, down, until he swears he can feel it convulsing in his soul. Those gentle vocals mixed with the 80’s style synth make for a deliciously haunting tune, and the sudden surge of POWER in her voice throughout the final chorus all but knocks him off of his bar stool. By the time she’s finished, he feels alarmingly as if he is too. He glances at the stage over his shoulder; sees her sitting in front of a big, bulky keyboard that has most certainly been borrowed from somebody. There’s no way she could afford such a swanky bit of kit-- not when she’s supposedly stealing wallets to buy food.
The sound of people cheering breaks his spell. It’s a gradual noise, as if the crowd isn’t quite sure of what they’ve just witnessed, before the unpleasant crescendo swallows him whole. It isn’t that big a group, and most of her audience is shit-faced, staggering even though they’re standing still, but applause is applause when you’re hungry for stardom.
She rises from her chair with a bright smile, hands clasped in front of her as she bows humbly. “Thank you!”
Jagger’s never heard her sound this happy. It’s as if he’s seeing a different person, the real her, and it feels far more personal than it should. As the lights brighten and the crowd moves on, Jagger rises from his seat and determines that he should vanish. However, the drink makes him clumsier than normal, gait wobbly and slow as he attempts to weave between tables without falling over. Usually pinprick senses are abuzz with static; it leaves him oblivious to the fact that she’s noticed him on his way out, bridging the distance between them.
“Jagger?”
He pauses as if he’s been caught doing the walk of shame, dark knuckles turning white as he clutches the neck of his bottle. He’s never spoken to her outside of work before, never so much as shot her a text that isn’t to do with business. The gap between them is purposeful, and it’s more for her sake than his.
“Kip,” he says, voice low. “What’d I tell you? Outside of work? We. Don’t. Know each other.”
“Whatever. I know you,” she replies dismissively, following him as he exits the bar. He’s drunk as a skunk, that much she can gather just by smelling him, nevermind from watching him walk. His usually sharp sense of direction falters as he clears the threshold of the pub’s front door. “You’re wasted right now!
“Well, yeah, ‘s how I like to be." He stops outside of his van, fumbling with the door handle, and Kip gasps softly in surprise before reaching out to grab his arm
"You can't drive this drunk!" she hisses, swatting at the skin of his forearm gently.
"No, don't worry, I-- I do it all the time."
"All the time?!" She's torn between gawking and scowling, lips parting and meeting as she fumbles desperately for words. She feels useless, for she can't even offer him a ride home. Learning to drive is low on her list of priorities, given that she can get everywhere she wants to go via roller-skates and monorail rides. Maybe one day. "That's so dangerous. You're gonna get yourself killed!"
"Yeah, you're ruining my buzz, doll. Remind me to never go drinkin' with you."
"Okay. First– " She swallows hard, uttering a short, harsh laugh. "Do not call me doll. Second, I'm just looking out for you! Do you know what that is, huh? Empathy?"
"Doesn't ring a bell," he murmurs as he drags the driver's side door open and climbs in. She sticks her arm in the way when he tries to close it behind him, and he feels frustration building in his gut. "Kip--"
"You should've said hi."
"I kinda liked the secrecy,” he drawls sardonically.
"The secrecy of what?" she asks, catching his eye feebly. The sun is beginning to set. Her outline is warm and fuzzy, and Jagger feels a drunken urge to invite her back home. He swallows it down like he does alcohol, relieved when it tastes bitter upon its descent. "... did you like my song?"
“You…” He’s cellophane in that moment; he knows it, and she knows it too, and he doesn't have the mental fortitude when he’s this drunk to lie convincingly. Still, he doesn’t want to tell her as such– doesn’t want to admit that his veins are still thrumming with that intoxicating rhythm, that her stunning vocals have made a nest in his brain. Instead of saying anything, he feeds his key into the ignition and turns it, the engine revving to life. “I’m goin’ home. You should get goin’ too, it’s getting late.”
The look in her eyes is desperate, but she knows in her heart that she can’t stop him. She may not be overly fond of him, but she doesn't want him to wind up dead because he totaled his van on the way home. It isn’t a trustworthy statement, but she can only hope that he’s being sincere with his sentiment, that he really has done this ‘all the time’.
It won’t stop her worrying, though.
Her hands curl around the lip of his window. “Look. Text me when you get home, okay?”
“Why?”
“Just– so I know you didn't crash and DIE, Jag!”
A bitter laugh escapes him as he drums his hands against the steering wheel. “Please. All your problems vanish if I vanish,” he says, staring into her eyes unflinchingly as he leans a little closer. The smell of whiskey permeates the space between them. To her credit, Kip doesn’t flinch either. “You should be sending me off with another shot glass in hand, little lady.”
Her brow furrows, and she looks simultaneously exposed and affronted. With a growing storm in her eyes, she scowls and leans forward until there’s barely any space between them. Fiery. Defiant. “Don’t. Say that.” It’s as if she frightens herself, a hint of innocence gleaming through the intensity as she backs away from him again. By the time she’s back to her spot on the pavement, she looks slightly dazed — as if she’s woken from a particularly vivid daydream — and her gaze is back to being round and doe-like. “... I don’t want you to die, okay? Just, drive... as safe as you can. And tell me when you get home. I have to pack up.”
He watches her with a muted sense of confusion as she slowly backs away from him, until she’s standing in the bar’s doorway again. He just can’t understand her; he doesn’t get how she can have so much love stuffed inside of her. She’s like a living, breathing teddy bear, and it pisses him off.
Don’t act like you give a shit about me. Don’t.
Nervously, she raises her hand and gives him a meek little wave, leaning her head against the doorframe like a sad puppy.
With grit teeth and swimming vision, Jagger puts his foot on the gas pedal and floors it down the road.
Summary: Kip learns what is meant by “a rotten assignment”.
Characters: Kip, Jagger, Basil.
Prompt: ❝ Well, that’s on you. ❞
Warnings: Drugs ( fictional ).
A/N: A direct continuation of the previous chapter because uhhhh I said so.
“Wakey wakey.”
Kip stirs when Jagger nudges her shoulder with a gloved hand. He’s fully dressed, excluding his coat, and is clearly already prepared for the day ahead. Hung over his arm are her freshly washed clothes, offered to her with an unexpectedly cordial patience.
"Okay," she mumbles, not knowing whether to thank him or not. She may have just woken up, but she recalls how that had panned out yesterday. Her poor forehead. "Um–"
"You've got twenty minutes to make yourself…" He pauses, looking her over, his mouth curling into a spiteful sneer. With evident disdain: "... vaguely presentable."
Kip squints before kicking her blanket aside and standing up. She snatches her clothes from him with a sour scowl before trawling off to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. If there’s one thing she can’t understand above all else, it’s why some people make the conscious choice to be unpleasant. Jagger must have one hell of a reputation to protect. After how they’d met, that wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest.
The second that the cold water hits her face, Kip breathes out a sigh of relief. She’s never been a morning person, but she can always count on that icy jolt to kick start her day. She washes as efficiently as she can without a designated flannel or sponge, and after hunting in a couple of cabinets for a toothbrush and subsequently feeling bad about it, draws a stripe of toothpaste across her finger and attempts to brush as best she can. By the time she’s finished, hands washed and hair arranged as neatly as she’ll get it without the use of a hairbrush, she feels semi-confident.
With gusto, Kip points at her reflection, a determined look flashing across her face like lightning. “Today’s a new day,” she tells herself with a smirk. “And you’re not going to let Jagger ruin it. You’ll keep your cool, and you’ll kill him with kindness.” Her smirk becomes a sheepish smile then, shoulders sagging a little. “... well, maybe don’t kill him.”
Not even in a hyperbolic sense can she imagine hurting somebody that bad.
With pep in her step, Kip leaves the bathroom and, after stopping to slip her boots on, descends the stairs.
“Just in time.” She turns her head to see Jagger watering one of his house plants, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Against her better judgement, she feels the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. “What?”
“Nothing!” Her hands wave defensively as she looks away from him. It’s not her fault; the image of a ruthless drug lord sparing time to water his house plants every morning is just a little too adorable to fly under her radar. She shouldn’t be swayed by such normal tendencies, but she certainly doesn’t expect them from someone like him. Just like the candles and the soft blankets, it feels so out of left-field that it’s almost laughable.
He puts down the spray bottle with more force than necessary and bridges the distance between them. “Share with the class.”
“What’s his name?”
Jagger’s eyebrows raise. “... huh?”
“The plant’s,” Kip elaborates, arms tucked behind her back as she beams wide.
“What’re you talking about? It’s a plant.”
“I name my stuffed animals,” she replies with a shrug, and her smile widens until she’s positively glowing. Jagger backs away, looking a little disturbed. “It’s only the same.”
“We’re not the same,” he states bluntly, nose wrinkling with displeasure. “What are you, ten?”
Kip clenches her fists tight, sharp fangs pinching her tongue until she feels the urge to insult him back pass her by. Not once does her smile falter. “Try naming them. It’s free therapy.”
“Don’t need therapy.” His voice is uncharacteristically light as he sticks out his foot and kicks a rug aside, revealing a trapdoor beneath it. "Need money."
Kip stares wide-eyed at the secret entrance, suddenly feeling light-headed. They can talk about house plants and gratitude all night long, but come the end of things, Jagger is a man she knows little about. If his occupation is anything to go by– which it most certainly is when she's face to face with a hidden door in a house that he uses only to lay low in– then she can only imagine that there's something nefarious going on down there.
Her eyes follow the broad sweep of his arm as he unhooks a latch and opens the door, eventually settling on that black hole in the floor. Humid air reaches them like the breath of a beast, a faint hint of something spicy reaching her nose. The longer she stares, the darker it seems to become, until it's so black that she thinks it can be nothing other than a gateway to hell. She’s trying so hard not to let him get under her skin, but she won’t lie: this makes her nervous.
If he has anything to say in response to her apprehension, he doesn't make it known. Instead, he drops to a crouch and finds the first prong of the ladder that'll take him down into the basement.
"Come. And pull the door shut behind you," is all he says before vanishing into the dusty depths.
Her options are limited. She gets the feeling that if she climbs down that ladder and enters that room, there’s a good chance she won’t come out of it the same, but what else can she do? The last thing she wants to do is upset the man who has already proven that he’ll do some nasty things to the people that inconvenience him. She doesn’t want to land herself in any more trouble, nor does she want to put Basil on Jagger’s map.
I’ve got a truly rotten assignment for you tomorrow.
Begrudgingly, Kip lowers herself down into the dark, her knees feeling wobbly and weak.
A soft squeak of shock leaves her as the place is suddenly awash with ugly fluorescent light. Its sickly yellow glow illuminates the basement, and Kip gets her first real taste of anxiety. It comes not from something abjectly horrifying, rather the knowledge that she’s been exposed to something that she otherwise would never have seen; a side of life that she was content to know of only from newspaper clippings and crime novels.
Packages. Packages, packages, packages. No matter where she looks, head turning this way and that, the basement is little more than a bunker full of these hand-wrapped bundles. There’s nothing in the room excluding the table they sit on, and hot blazing lamps arranged in a row along the brick wall. In comparison to the house above, the basement is a hole; a bleak, stuffy, vacant void that smells overwhelmingly of pepper, smoke and ash. Kip’s nose wrinkles, creases forming beneath her eyes as she fights back stinging tears. They find Jagger at the far end of the room.
He’s smirking wide, looking the most excited she’s ever seen him look. “Beautiful, ain’t it?”
“It stinks!” she exclaims, watching as he pats one of the bundles with a surprisingly hearty laugh.
“It’s not that bad once you get used to it. And you will be getting used to it. 40,000 paals is a lot to owe, little lady.”
She grits her teeth, refusing to bite. In as neutral a tone as she can: “This won’t cover it? How can eight tiny tabs be worth more than a basement full of stock?”
The look he gives her is one he might give a sulking child. There’s a genuine inkling of pity there. “Y’know, I was still on the fence about you being a massive cheat, but you really don’t know squat about the business, do you?”
“I told you I don’t!” Suddenly, she remembers her mirror pep-talk and how determined she was to have a good day. The contents of this room may be testing her, but she isn’t about to let it break her that easily. Her smile is forced, corners twitching at the grim nature of it all, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “... but I can learn.”
He’s watching her intently, so intently that she feels a little scared to move beneath such a watchful gaze. A gloved forefinger and thumb rub gently together, as if he’s calculating something unseen to her, before he breaks the tense silence with a thump of his palm against the closest package.
“No need!” he exclaims, disarming her with a good-natured grin. She’s never seen him quite this happy, and she can’t decide whether it’s endearing or unnerving. “At least, not yet. All I want you to do is move this stock for me.”
Kip blinks. Of all the things he could have said, this hadn’t even made the list. Slowly, her brow furrows. “Sooo, that super spooky job you said you had for me… this is it?”
“I believe the word I used was rotten,” Jagger replies, stroking his chin as if deep in thought. The light stubble there makes a quiet, scratching sound, and Kip feels momentarily mesmerised. “And yes. This is it.” He picks up one of the many parcels and hands it to her. “How’s that feel? Is it heavy?”
Kip raises an eyebrow at him before tossing the package upwards a short way. It’s as light as can be, hardly a problem, even for a girl her size. “You’re kidding, right?”
Jagger lets out a low chuckle before placing a second one on top. She may not be able to toss it anymore, but they sit comfortably in her hand, weighing no more than the average phone. He repeats the process until she begins to struggle; she can hold about fifteen of them in both arms before it becomes uncomfortable.
“Well, now you need to go upstairs.”
Kip’s smile dims a little. “Huh?”
“Mhmm.” He’s barely holding back a smile of his own. Contrary to what she thinks, Jagger doesn’t hate her. He doesn’t want to cause her unnecessary strife, if only because he has deadlines to meet - but he does feel as if he’s being challenged. This new-found positivity she’s wielding like a weapon only makes him more keen to take her down a peg or two. “I have a van parked out front. It’s painted like a mail truck. You can’t miss it. That’s where they need to go.”
He watches the wheels in her head turn, the full extent of what he’s asking her to do dawning on her like daybreak. Petulantly, Jagger glances at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket.
“It’s just gone five-ten. I need this moved by, ohhh… six?”
“A-All of it?!” Kip exclaims, feeling the life drain from her body. She has no idea how she’s going to lug all of this up and down the ladder in fifty minutes. There's an ungodly number of these things sitting around. Thousands upon thousands of them, if she had to guess.
Jagger says nothing for a moment before mercifully shaking his head. "No. The van won't be able to carry all this in one trip - and it's not all going to the same place anyway. I need two-hundred and fifty of them to go."
“But how am I supposed to move that many on my own?”
“Well, that’s on you to figure out.”
"Okay." Kip breathes in deep through her nose before nodding, a mix of trepidation and determination filling her face as she tries to work out the best way to proceed. To her astonishment, Jagger offers some support.
"You're holding fifteen there. Shed however many you can't carry under one arm and we'll start from there. I will count them."
“Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t trust you to do it right.”
Kip deflates noticeably. It’s the first outward chink in her armour today.
After much trial and error, she finds that if she tucks seven under her arm and two in her jacket pockets, she can move about nine at a time.
The first trip is a breeze. She wriggles her way up that ladder and out of his front door with hardly a pause. This emboldens her - which makes her steady spiral into exhaustion that much more painful. By the twelfth trip, she comes to fear that ladder. She’s a healthy young woman; she was a track runner in college and has lived a life full of secret bases in trees and leaping over rivers as opposed to taking their respective bridges. She still skates with her brother on most evenings and she runs to every gig she gets. Even so, that awkward, one-handed shimmy up the steep ladder leaves her lungs burning and her gut clenching. By the time she’s clearing the last of it out, her legs resemble jelly and she’s trying not to pant for air too obviously.
“H–Here’s… the last of it…”
Jagger is leaning against the side of the van with a yoghurt in his hands. He regards her shaky legs with the ghost of smirk on his face before feeding himself a complimentary spoonful of strawberry, tiny plastic utensil lingering against his lips long after he’s finished. She’s undoubtedly tired (and he knew she would be), but she managed. Despite their contentious relationship, he’s impressed.
“Good job, little lady. And here I thought you’d pass out.” He turns, tossing his now-empty yoghurt cup over her head and into his general waste bin. “What did I tell you? A rotten assignment.”
Kip gives him a smile that reminds him of a switchblade. After a big, stubborn inhale: “That’s the second time you’ve underestimated me, Jagger. You ought to start learning I can take it.”
“Well damn,” he replies, eyebrows raised high. “Check out the attitude on this one. One job strong and feelin’ fine.” He can’t say it isn’t earned though. He really has put her through the ringer already, and the sun has barely risen. He’ll allow her an ounce of victory.
An arm reaches through the rolled-down window of the door nearest before it withdraws with a second yoghurt cup in tow. “Here.”
Kip blinks at it, as if she’s never seen one before in her life. He must not have taken it out of the fridge long ago for it’s cool to the touch. She all but snatches it from him, only realising in that moment how hungry she is. The pink carton is about the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
“Now get in,” he orders, patting the door with a gloved hand before circling the van and climbing into the driver’s seat. She obeys him without question, already halfway through tearing the foil lid from her snack. The passenger seat has quite the incline, but she’s more focused on trying to pull her seatbelt on with one hand as the other feeds her plastic spoon into her mouth. If Basil was here, he’d be criticising her lack of patience something fierce.
“Where’re we going?” Kip asks as the engine hums to life. Daylight is beginning to paint Leylan in its usual golden glow. Soon enough, the early risers will be starting their morning routines, readying themselves for a day of work. Given the type of goods Jagger is moving, it makes sense why he'd want to minimise his chances of being seen.
"I'm taking you home," he answers as he pulls out of the side street and onto the main path. Leylan's roads are narrow and not entirely clear, far better equipped for bikes and skateboards, and the idea of a van this heavily loaded making some of the turns to her house has a knot forming in her stomach. "Tell me your address."
It's pointless, but she still holds her tongue for a moment. Her place of residence feels like the last personal thing she has left. Sacrificing it means letting him into all aspects of her life, and she isn't keen to have that layer of separation broken.
"I can walk it…!"
Jagger glances at her out of the corner of his eye as he fiddles with the radio dial. A smooth, thumping bass line fills the space between them.
"I don't want to trouble you! I–I made it here on foot, I can–"
"Just tell me your fucking address," he interrupts tersely, and Kip stops talking. It seems that no matter how she tries to play it, she's going to have to capitulate. She does so with a heavy heart, settling on finishing her yoghurt in silence. She needs to find a way to explain to Basil exactly where she's been without letting him know about Jagger. If he finds out about the steaming pile of shit she's found herself in, he'll worry himself to death– or worse yet, attempt to save her from it. He means well, but Basil has never been a fighter; she can only imagine the kind of mess that Jagger will make out of him if he tries to play the hero. He'd almost broken her arm without so much as flinching. She dreads to think what he'll do to someone who swings first.
The roads gradually become more and more familiar as time rolls on, and Kip finds herself soaking in the feeling of a car ride with just a little too much willingness. She's never ridden in a vehicle like this before. It differs a lot from a monorail ride, and even more so from rollerblading. There's something intimate about sharing the passenger seat of a van being driven by somebody else; a display of trust she's really quite conflicted about, given her less-than-stellar opinion of the man sitting beside her. As usual, she tries to put a positive spin on it, tries to tell herself that she's not in danger. He might be a little prickly, but he hasn't done anything grievous to her beyond their first meeting. In fact, he hasn't so much as laid a finger on her again since their unfortunate meeting. He could've left her for dead last night but he didn't. He could've let her go hungry but he didn't. He could've physically forced her to do any number of tasks for him at this point, but he hasn’t. No matter how sour he's been with her, there's some good in his heart. She believes in that, if nothing else.
Eventually, her house comes into view. It's a tiny one-story building nestled between two others identical to it on a hill.
"Hold on," Jagger says as she unbuckles her seatbelt, and she pauses obediently. His hand dips into his pocket before offering her her phone. Her eyes widen immediately.
"Oh shoot!" Hurriedly, she accepts it, unable to believe she forgot about it completely. It's definitely seen better days. The screen is cracked and the stickers on the back are fading, but it still works fine. "Thanks… I didn't even think about–"
"Hey. How old are you, Kip?"
The shift in tone all but gives her whiplash. After fumbling over her words for several seconds, she stammers out a confused, "Th–Three thirty…? Why?"
Jagger taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the sound of leather squeaking quietly as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. She looks adult to him, but definitely too young to be caught in the crosshairs of criminality like this. She’s supposed to be full of promise; studying something convoluted that didn’t exist when he was a boy. He can’t understand why a young woman like her, so bright and full of life, is hovering on dirty street corners, robbing people and getting herself into trouble. He can’t just let it slide, not when she’s cost him so much money, but part of him wishes he could.
“You’re too young to be caught up in this shit-storm,” he admits, giving her a sober look. “I’m gonna get you out of this mess as quickly as I can. I don’t want you caught up in this scene for too long.”
The words take her aback. There’s that consideration he keeps denying he has. It reaches into her core, elicits a form of gratitude that she’s never felt before.
“I’m okay. It was an accident, but… it was still my fault.”
“Still. I don’t want you to start liking this life.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever like it, Jagger.”
“You’d be surprised. That’s what we all say,” he says with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. It disturbs the gelled back strands enough to leave some loose, and she looks away as if she’s walked in on him naked. It’s just too strange, seeing him as anything other than the perfectly composed businessman. With a smile that could just as well be a grimace: “Just, be prepared to work your ass off for a couple of months. Then we can wash our hands of each other, deal?”
“Deal,” she replies, returning the half-hearted smile.
“Good. Now go on. Ske-daddle. Get the hell outta my van.”
Kip exits the vehicle, yoghurt cup and all, and stands on the white pavement that leads to her house as the van roars to life once more.
“I’ll be in touch,” Jagger calls over the purr of its engine, almost looking devious against the glare of sunlight that pours in through his window. “I don’t ask for permission. I call, you answer. It’s that simple.”
“Got it.” It’s said through her teeth, pinched and tight, but with a smile that could absolutely class as agreeable. In spite of his tone, he’s made it evident that he’s at least sympathetic to her circumstances. The best she can hope for is that he’s telling the truth– that he really will find her enough work to absolve her of this bothersome life as soon as possible. Her eyes follow the vehicle until it rounds the corner and disappears from sight.
With a sigh, Kip drags herself up the hill and to her front door, unlocking it and shuffling inside.
“Basil?” she calls as she walks into the cramped living room, all too aware of the time. She can’t imagine that he’s left for work yet, but when she pokes her head into his room she discovers that it’s empty. With a frown, she makes her way to her own and plugs her charger into her dead phone. The moment it sparks to life, she discovers that she has seven missed calls and fifteen unread texts from her brother.
Hey, where are you?
Kip, it’s getting late. Are you coming home soon?
I’m at the platform and the last tram just left. You weren’t on it. Where are you?!
She lets out a groan and dims the screen with a click of the power button, guilt washing over her in waves. Her brother may be an anxious mess by nature, but it’s hardly an over exaggeration to be worried about her not coming home. In her heart, she knows that he won’t have done anything foolish-- that he won’t have attempted to brave nightfall-- but she can’t imagine how sick to his stomach he must have been. It’ll be a wonder if he’d slept at all.
The latest message is a haphazard string of capital letters; incredibly out of character, for he’s a stickler for grammar.
KIP. IF YOU DON’T REPLY BY TOMORROW AFTERNOON I’M CALLING THE POLICE! CALL ME.
“Damn iiiit…”
His last call was at 5:34AM. Her phone must have already been dead, because she absolutely would’ve picked it up otherwise, whether Jagger had been breathing down her neck or not.
Quickly, she hits the speed dial and brings the phone to her ear. It barely rings once before it’s picked up. “Hey, Basil–”
“Where were you?! I’ve been worried sick!”
“I know, I’m sorry, I…” She pauses, feeling overwhelmed by guilt and grief and anger. As much as she wants to blame Jagger for this entire fiasco, she knows that she’s the one that landed herself in it. This is what she gets for being a thief. It was always only a matter of time before she got more than she bargained for. “Um… I… lost track of time with my set. Ended up staying over in the bar I played in. My phone died. I’m okay!”
She hears him tut, pacing so viciously that she can almost envision a trail of fire being left behind him.
“I’m sorry, Basil! Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad, I’m–” His words abruptly stop, and she hears the muffled voice of his boss barking orders at him. Her brother mutters a timid “sorry, sir…” before he comes back to the phone. “We’ll talk later, okay? I have to go. I’m glad you’re safe. I love you.”
“I love you too, Bas.”
When the line goes dead, she only feels marginally better. With a defeated huff, she puts her phone beneath her pillow before laying face-first on her bed. She’s been awake for no longer than three hours and she already wants to go back to sleep.
Wrote this for Kyu’s contribution in @thiirdboy‘s Hunger Games
She has blood on her hands, blood that belongs to a boy that looked no older than her. From the lack of the cannons that fire by nightfall, Kyu can tell she’s the only one with this mark upon her. She’s set herself apart, unintentionally, as the sole killer of them all.
She remembers frightened eyes, the feeble tugging of hands in her shirt as the life drained out of the boy. She doesn’t remember his name- just that he came from Ten, and his token, a hat, stood out like a beacon amidst the treeline. She recalls fleeing into the forest like everyone else, running from the fighting and the shouting until it was far too dark for her to tell where she was. But even then, Kyu knows.
She’s in the arena. She’s alone, as she was promised she would never be again.
She wants to go home.
In the morning, someone comes after her. Kyu doesn’t see much other than blue (blue?) eyes and a streak of red hair, and it’s enough for her to flee higher into the hills. She thinks it’s the girl she left behind at home, come to chase her down for the sin of murder. For a fleeting moment, Kyu wants to stop running, wants to let this other catch her and spill her blood out on the earth, and that’ll be the end, and her atonement.
She slows, and her step catches on a rise in the rock. With a scream, she tumbles down the hillside, and is lost from her pursuer’s sight.
The descent is violent, and it throws her from the forest into a clearing lined with trees. Kyu’s face is scratched, her ankle sprained, and there are others right in front of her- she’s tumbled right into an enemy camp. But they don’t seem to know that she’s the one who spilled first blood. All they see is a scared, injured girl, and it works to her advantage. They take her in that night, and as they sit around a meager fire, the two others talk of home.
Kyu doesn’t speak of home. She tries not to think of it. She tries not to think of blue eyes and red hair, and arms that will reach out to kill her, rather than embrace her.
They part ways in the morning. Alliances don’t last longer than hours; those that do threaten to become friendships, and those tend to get fatal, fast. Kyu limps into the forest, her injured leg stepping heavily into the soft dirt.
It’s no wonder that she gets tracked down so fast.
This time she can’t shake off her attacker. This time he tracks her, corners her between a fallen log and a cliff face, and all Kyu can see is her reflection gazing desperately back at her in the blade of his knife.
She doesn’t resist. It’s almost a comforting release. She won’t have to go back home and find out whether she’s hated now, or loved. She won’t have to return with hands stained red. She can fall asleep here in the trees, where she’ll dream of blue eyes and red hair and the softness of love upon her lips.
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I kind of can’t sleep so HERE HAVE TWO FRAGMENT THINGS okay back to trying to sleep
There are things she won't go back to. In reality; in her mind. NERV is one of these. So is Fourth Impact. Any mention of either Ikari. It's hard to find anything to talk about with Ayanami. But she does speak- in little phrases, that if one can commit them to memory form the outline of a conversation. She leaves these phrases strewn about the Wunder, in mess hall and on the flight deck, but mostly in Asuka's room. That, she supposes, is why only Asuka has managed to talk to her. Ayanami wouldn't have it any other way.
Mari is gone. The university halls echo with the chattering of students, but also with Mari's absence. Only now that she's gone does Yui feel the void she's left, one that despite her unsmiling and brusque demeanor seems unable to be filled by anyone else, not Kyoko's lilting voice, nor Gendo's smile. Mari is in London, Yui thinks. She will find happiness there. Even so, Yui cannot help but wish that she had stopped Mari that summer day, if only to take her into her arms and tell her, however insincerely, that she loved her. Maybe then Mari would've stayed.
((Rei tasting other types of Japanese soups made by Shinji /drabble exercises))
100 words of soup.
The bowls line the counter and the table and every space in thekitchen that could possibly be called a sturdy surface. They'vebeen here for several hours now; Shinji's washed the same three pots over andover again, and Rei stands like a solitary statue in the corner, watching himcook. "Last one for today," he says, pouring a bowl and passing it toher, careful not to spill a drop, as if doing this will invalidate his wholeday's work. "Have a favorite now?".
Rei drinks the soup and nods. "I do," she says."Anything you make."
