Vulp's (Fairly Terrible) Scrapbook

[TheVulpineHero1]

Previously, this was a thread dedicated to the various fanfic I've done over the years. However, it's been a long time since I was really active in any fanfiction community, and I'm rusty at writing nowadays. Nevertheless, I wanted a place to put random bits and pieces I'm working on currently -- more because I like to talk incessantly and at length, really. Didn't want to clutter up the art showcase with a second thread that's basically "Vulp's fanfics", so I'm editing. I'll leave previous posts alone since other people replied to them, but meh.

Don't expect too much in terms of quality here. Whatever skill I had has degraded, and nowadays I write infrequently and largely without an audience. But if you enjoy something you see here, cool.

[peculiorz]

Holy geez, you are an amazing writer, dude! I read Kaleidoscope first, and wow it was really good. So I checked out Nostalgia, because I'm not really a fan of MLP or FF (and I'm not that interested in Black Cat, tbh) and also because Misty was promised, haha. It was flipping fantastic! The story was really emotional and flowing, and everyone was in-character, which hardly ever happens!

Nice work!!

[TheVulpineHero1]

Well, I try! Any skill I have is more a matter of practice than talent, though. Glad you liked it! ^^

Looking back at Nostalgia, it occurs to me that I should really do stories with that weird, dreamy tone more often. It tends to feature in a lot of my better work (I think In Morbus has the same sort of style).

Seeing as I'm bumping the thread by replying anyway, I may as well post Nostalgia here under spoilers for easy access and less link spelunking.

It's a strange feeling, to be a Gym Leader. Or, maybe it isn't. She doesn't actually know any more. It's probably the closest thing to a nine-to-five job she's going to get, even though the hours are more like one-to-twenty-three, and in some ways she's grateful for even a brief taste of what it's like to have a routine and some responsibility.

Still, all her adventures have changed her. It's good, but bad at the same time. Other people slip into the comforting rhythms of everyday life, undulating gracefully from one mediocre day to the next, like the gentle lapping of the sea against sand. Somehow, she can't do that. She ebbs when she's meant to flow, clumsily, her muscles tightened and tense from too many standoffs.

She remembers a time when the water lapped at the sand.

Endless waves of cast iron rolled towards her

She sees Ash's mother, occasionally. Delia is, frankly, a question, and it's one that she doesn't particularly want to answer. Every smile, every friendly cup of tea (with two sugars, because sometimes she feels an aching need to be sweeter), and every good-natured mishap with Mimey seemed to be saying, 'You know my son, don't you?'

And the answer, becoming truer every day, is: "I knew him, once upon a time. I knew him."

His hat bobbing on the waves, a lonely little coracle

He never calls her any more. She makes excuses for him when his mom asks why, and feels ashamed for lying to her.

"Oh, you know how it is," Misty hedges.

"No. How is it?" his mom asks, sipping her tea delicately. Misty's lies, untouched and unstirred, on the table.

Her tongue trips over the excuses, in a way she's sure it wouldn't do if she'd lived a normal life and held a nine-to-five job instead of going on grand adventures with Ash Ketchum. But then, she wouldn't even be in this situation, would she?

"I bet he's too busy on his travels. I remember all the time we spent riding around on Lapras..."

Ash's mom nods in a very momlike way, and she gets the feeling that Ash is in for an earful the next time he makes the mistake of calling home. She feels a guilty lick of satisfaction creeping down her spine.

Legends fought overhead, as they denied fate in the cold ocean

Hastily, she makes to go. Her pokemon will need feeding, training, playing. She's taken a day off from the Gym, but she can't take a day off from her friends. But Delia stops her with a glance, thrown across the rim of her teacup.

"Between you and I, Misty," she says calmly, "Why do you really think he doesn't call?"

She's flustered by the question. Her ebb and her flow get mixed up again, and it just falls out.

"Because he's like a little kid with new toys. He forgets what he's got," she says. Her voice falls petulantly, and she wonders who the real child is.

***

"Hey, Misty," he says, voice cracking over the phone. She almost drops it in surprise. She manages to catch it in her fingertips, because it'd be a waste to end his first call back to her in ages with a splash.

"Oh, hey, Ash. How are you?" she says. She almost wishes she was having this call on an old-fashioned, wall mounted phone instead of her mobile. Her fingers keep looking for a cord to twist themselves around.

"Just got back to the Johto region. I'm on a quest to catch a Dratini," he says, old excitement bubbling under in his voice. "I've always wanted one, so I can evolve it into a Dragonite. Y'know the Pokedex says they can fly around the world really fast? I could be back in Pallet town in a click of the fingers, no questions asked!"

"Hah...Why do I get the feeling you've missed your train home?" she sighs.

"Hey, it totally wasn't my fault this time. I was watching the Magnet Train, and it got me thinking: Magneton. How do they work? So I went out and tried to catch one, and, well, I got fried, basically. By the time I got back, it was gone."

"Reminds me of old times," she smiles. And again, her fingers want to twist the cord that isn't there. "Say, Ash, I don't mean to be rude, but...uh...why are you calling, after all this time?"

"...Wow, Myst. I was expecting some yelling about that by now. I called you because mom said you were steamed that I hadn't," he said sheepishly. She could almost imagine him rubbing the back of his head in consternation, tipping his hat over his eyes by accident.

And that presented her with a problem. Now that she thought about it, she was steamed. The little jerk had the nerve to call her, out of the blue, after so much radio silence between them? And he wasn't even doing it because he wanted to, only because Delia Ketchum could whup her boy's butt six ways straight, and five of those ways hadn't been invented yet!

She wanted to yell. She wanted to scream. She wanted him here, next to her, so she could grind his face into the ground, toss him in the swimming pool and introduce him to Gyarados' Ice Fang. But if she yelled and screamed and threatened mass violence, she'd be doing exactly what he expected her to do.

"Why, no, Ash. I'm not angry at all," she replies, gritting her teeth and trying her best for a level voice. "I think your mom was just worried you were forgetting us, is all."

Seven, eight, nine beats of silence. She starts to think he'd believed her and hung up, satisfied that whatever duties he had to his mother had been fulfilled and he could get on with his agenda. But, no. That was more something she'd expect from the old Gary Oak, not Ash Ketchum.

"...man," he moans, in a small, defeated voice. "I knew you'd be mad, but not that mad."

"What? I told you, Ash. I'm. Not. Mad," she says. She jabs her finger at where his chest would have been if he was there, without even realising it.

"Look, Myst, I'll make it up to ya, I swear, I mean, I'll even- wait, the Magnet Train!" he says, voice rising to a crescendo. She sighs. Somewhere in Goldenrod City, there is a payphone swinging forlornly by its cord, thrown carelessly against the cradle, as the footsteps of a foolish boy echo in the distance.

And her fingers twist the phone cord that isn't there but should be, just like Ash's call twisted the feelings that are there, but shouldn't be.

***

She throws a meaningful glance at Delia as she passes in the Pokémart, pushing a trolley full of snacks. Delia still keeps the cupboard stocked with Ash's old favourites, just in case he decides to arrive without warning. She keeps his room the way he left it, too, mess and all. It's almost as if he died, long ago, and they haven't quite accepted it yet.

"Oh, Misty. Did Ash call you? I told him he should," Delia says innocently.

"Yes. Yes, he did," she replies, and her teeth grit themselves. It's a bad habit, one born of too many nights outdoors in the cold, sleeping in a tent next to a couple of guys she wanted to brain.

"Sounds like you argued. Some things never change, hm?" Delia smiles cheerily.

The water snatched at him, tried to wrest him from her

"No, I guess not," she smiled grimly. Yes, some things never change, like the fact she could never talk to him without hating him a little, and the way that always seemed to drive them apart.

"Well, boys will be boys. I don't know what to do with him, sometimes- makes me wish I'd had a daughter instead. Oh, there's a thing. Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?" Delia says, just a little too woodenly. That little bit of stiffness sets off all her alarms: why did she care about Ash's phone calls so much, and why buy so much food for just one person (even if she is used to shopping for a boy with a Snorlax?) Why is Delia even in Cerulean City Pokémart, anyway? What's wrong with the one in Viridian City?

All the questions pile in, and her blood begins to race; she despises being lied to. It reminds her too much of Team Rocket, the constant attacks and deceits. It reminds her too much of herself, lying desperately to herself that she could handle the Gym, back when she clearly couldn't. It reminds her of lies she told herself that she wouldn't even listen to, because she didn't even want to think about it. Lies about him.

He sank, and she with him, under the waves of steel grey

"I'd love to, Mrs. Ketchum," she says, ironically aware that she is lying too. But she needs to know. She can't let a trap lie untripped. It's against her nature.

"Well, let's get going then," Delia says, relief colouring her voice more than she knows. The bait has been taken; what it leads to, they'll soon see.

They walk, in silence, from the shop. She searches for something to say, but somehow her tongue dries up like a desert outside the hurly burly of an adventuresome life. It's like being a superhero; being able to stand up to any crisis, but completely useless when there's no danger about. But as Ash would say, that's just one of the things it means to be a Pokémon Trainer.

Viridian Forest, and Mount Moon; they whir by, minor obstacles in their walk. There was a time when it would have taken her days to get through them, but now, with Delia Ketchum at her side, they're just old haunts, and her feet step as surely as any tour guide's. She's grown up since those days, long ago.

Betrayed by her own element, she bore him to shore in her arms

By the time they reach Pallet Town, the sun is setting, but her stomach barely rumbles. She eats late every day, just before she goes to sleep; it was always that way on the trail. It means her chances of going on a dinner date (with any number of hopefuls) are drastically reduced, because, well, no one eats at weird times like she does. She isn't sorry about it; they're probably only interested in Misty Waterflower, the name, not the person.

As they round the corner and enter the road to the house Ash once lived in, Delia's grin grows, and so do her suspicions. Ash trying to catch the Magnet Train, Delia's sudden invitation, the huge amounts of food...It would all make sense if Ash were to be sitting there, at his kitchen table, in his old hat and his old clothes. Everything in life would make sense.

Delia's face falls as they enter an empty house. And life does not make sense, any more than Mudkip fly and Cloyster breathe fire.

Delia sighs, and dumps the produce on the table unceremoniously. She can sense the fatigue from her, from Ash's mother. How can he tire her so, without even being there? Delia trudges upstairs, no doubt to check his room. She takes the opportunity to paw through the shopping, and in there, she finds all the old standards: the things Ash would talk about for hours on the Pokémon Centre's phone, all the things he loved- the things they all loved, once he'd talked them into trying. But nothing store bought could ever match Brock's cooking.

And he lay, unmoving, right in front of her but yet not there at all

She's an idiot for doing it. She stands there, looking at the groceries she knew so well from her adventures, and she starts to slip further into the past. It's not healthy to live there, in the realms of by-gone memories, but she was far better at living there than she is at living in the present.

Mimey calls and claps. A Pikachu- the Pikachu- answers. And Ash Ketchum walks into the door, making excuses about how he missed the Magnet Train again.

Not now.

She was prepared for him when she walked in. Prepared to see him, to argue with him, to walk away from him. But not now she's standing there, reminiscing over the groceries.

"Hey, Myst," he says nervously, in unison with Pikachu's enthusiastic greeting. She doesn't answer, but just turns around, slowly, a can of Slowbro Soda still in her hand.

So many different signals run through her head. She wants to hug him, to tease him, to talk with him for hours under the rising moon with the orange campfire crackling in the background and Pikachu sleeping peacefully a few feet away. She wants to beat him senseless, utterly destroy him, and watch him rise from the ashes with new strength and that same old ceaseless determination.

What she really wants to do is cry, but she has no idea why.

"Hey, Ash. Long time no see. You finally caught the Magnet Train, then?"she says dreamily, and settles for that.

"Fifth try," he replies with a half-laugh, and Pikachu, perched on his shoulder as always, gives a little Pika-sigh: ever the funny man in the dynamic duo's comedy routine, with Ash as straight as a board. She takes an unconscious sip of her Slowbro soda; is almost surprised when she tastes it.

"Your mom's upstairs," she recites, like a pre-recorded message on a cassette player. However, a wind stirs inside her heart; this halcyon cannot last. She puts down her soda can. She doesn't know why.

He takes a step towards her. She shakes her head and he ignores it. She mutters something without knowing what it is; it might have been his name.

"Listen, Myst, about the phone call-" he begins.

"No. I don't want to hear it," she finishes for him.

"I just-"

"I said no, Ash."

"But-"

And that's all it takes to break her, for her storm to crash into harbour and throw all the pretty little dinghies of everyday life into the air. Before she knows it she's thrown herself at him, beating furiously at his chest with her fists. She feels every blow reverberate through him; she's not pulling her punches. She can feel him tensing in pain, but she's not done yet, she'll pay him back for everything he didn't do-

She forced the life back into him, fought for it with tooth and nail

Eventually, she falls still; the storm inside her breaks against him. His arm nervously curves around her, as if it belongs there, as if he expects her to cry. For just a second, she enjoys it; but her pride breaks the surface, and she pushes him away far too quickly than she wants to.

"Gotta say, I missed that," Ash whistles. Pikachu, who had the sense to jump onto the table and avoid Misty's fists, cocks an ear knowingly.

"Shut up, Ash Ketchum. If you think I'm done with you, you're sorely mistaken," she growls.

"Come on, Misty. I know I screwed up, but I'm here now. Can't we just enjoy it for a while, and then carry on with the beating tomorrow? I'm starved," he jokes.

Despite everything, she smiles. "You're such a little twerp, Ash."

"See? I knew you were angry," he says, wagging his finger. "When you get quiet, it's always a really bad sign. I like it when you're loud."

Pikachu murmurs his agreement. Trainer and partner in accord, as always. Ash's relationship with Pikachu (or is it the other way round?) is one she can't help but envy.

"Maybe so," she says quietly, and clenches her fist. As she predicted, he flinches back.

"H-hey Myst...I said sorry! Besides, I thought-"

Pikachu grumbles from the table.

"-well, we thought you might still be a little mad, so...We gotcha a present!"

There's an awkward five or six seconds where he digs in his rucksack. At first, he seems flustered, but his face soon settles into the expression of determined concentration he wears whenever something is important. Pikachu looks at her, gives her another Pika-sigh and winks, before jumping into the backpack itself. He surfaces immediately with a...something in his teeth.

"Um, Ash? What is it?" she asks.

"...Aw, no! It broke!" he groans, taking it from Pikachu and starting to fiddle with it. "I worked real hard on it, too..."

"Don't do that, Ash. You'll break it even more, knowing you. Give it here," she commands, holding out her hand. Abashed, he drops it into her palm. It's shiny, plastic, a collection of blues and reds and greens and blacks, with one part sheared off. A feeling of nostalgia bites.

"...It's a lure!" she says, not bothering to conceal the wonder in her voice. In his old outfit, no less. The broken piece is Chibi Ash's head, looking forlornly at the rest of the body, it seems. She examines it more carefully, not realising how widely she's smiling.

"Well, I always have your lure to remind me of you. I just thought I'd return the favour," he grins, rubbing the back of his head. "I guess it got a little roughed up when I fought those Magneton. I mean, you should have been there, Myst, it was amazing!"

She doesn't say anything. Just smiles. Pikachu cocks his ear quizically, before grinning. Pikachu knows what's going on. He always did.

Delia's footsteps come down the stairs, and they both turn to look at her. Suddenly there's life and noise in Ash's mother, and she starts to collect the groceries together, tossing the occasional product at Ash and, most importantly, barraging her son with an infinite number of questions.

In between saying he's been eating well and that he changes his underwear every day, he throws Misty an exhausted grin. She returns it. Suddenly, life makes sense again.

***

Her sisters once told her a woman's heart is as deep as the sea. She'd nodded her head, so young, too young to understand it. But these days, they said that humans knew more about the surface of the moon than the bottom of the ocean. There could be anything down there in those shadowy depths, a hundred or even a thousand new Pokémon waiting to be discovered.

She wanted to see those depths, to experience the new world which she knew existed but which she just couldn't seem to find. But every time she dove down into the abyss, she felt herself choke under the threat of the familiar unknown. Sooner rather than later, she needed air, and was forced to retreat back up to the surface.

But there was Ash. Ash, the endless explorer, a boy who had walked the world and was still walking. One day, she was sure, he'd dive into the ocean and go straight to the bottom, unafraid of the dark. And maybe, just maybe, he'd find her there.

She wonders if a man's heart was as deep as the sea, too. She can only hope.

He'd changed a lot from the clumsy, awkward trainer she'd first met. He's intelligent and brave like Pikachu, brotherly and caring like Bulbasaur. Like Charizard, he's loyal and would rise to any challenge, and like Squirtle, is a born leader. All the things he'd learned from them had shaped him, matured him. And every new Pokémon seemed to teach him more. It was true, in a sense, that Ash was (she grins inwardly at the pun) 'evolving'. Yes, she thought; one day, he'd explore the depths of the ocean. He just hasn't gotten around to it yet.

"Pikachu-pi?"

She opens her eyes to find Pikachu looking down at her with deep, black eyes and a smirk on its face. She smiles back, and realises how nice Ash's bed is. Yawning, she takes a look out of the window and sees him on the lawn in his sleeping bag, relegated there after losing the obligatory rock-paper-scissors to decide who slept indoors. Pikachu looks at her expectantly.

"Oh, I see. Good idea, Pikachu. I still have to pay him back for being so late, don't I?" she grins.

"Well, I'll just arrange a little wake-up call...Politoed, you're up!"

Some part of her knows that this is not the way a normal person with a nine-to-five job and responsibilities would behave. As Politoed fires a Water Gun out of the window and Ash starts to shout, she decides she doesn't care.

They decide to spend the rest of the day at Oak's lab, seeing Ash's old Pokémon. Pikachu, glad to see her after all the time apart, deigns to ride on her shoulder. Ash jokes that he's jealous, and Pikachu slips a little (unused to balancing on her narrower shoulders), but it's still an oddly pleasurably feeling to have the Pokémon balanced next to her, warm against her face.

Oak's reserve is, as always, like a paradise, with all the different creatures within; they can barely walk without tripping over an Oddish or startling a Pidgey. Noctowl peers at them from the lush trees, and alights on Ash's shoulder for a spell, chatting with Pikachu. They come across Bulbasaur soon enough, standing exhausted in the middle of a herd of sleeping Tauros. Ash grins at her sheepishly, and Bulbasaur greets her enthusiastically. It still smells slightly of Sleep Powder, and she starts to feel drowsy in the warm sun. She sits down, just to rest her eyes for a second, and blackness closes in on her.

She awakes back in Ash's house, Delia watching over her carefully. Ash takes a break from stuffing his face (a Geodude rock cake halfway to his lips) and tells her she picked a bad time to take a snooze. After she nodded off like 'an old woman', he jokes, checking she doesn't have her mallet handy as he does so, all the Tauros woke up and decided to get back to stampeding. He'd snatched her up, told Pikachu, Bulbasaur and Noctowl to get started on the Thunder Waves, Stun Spores and Hyponsis, and ran all the way back to Oak's lab with her. She watches him carefully as he relates the story, and- yes, there it is, the slight twitch of his mouth that shows he's resisting making a joke about how heavy she is.

"A, anyway, Myst," he says, serious now, "While you were getting your beauty sleep, I got a call from Gary Oak. He's out in the field researching, he says, but he thinks he might just know where I can find some Dratini, if I do a few little things for him. But, I, uh, kinda need to be leaving. In about an hour or so. I mean, I can delay it if you want, y'know, no big deal, but-"

Pikachu looks at her sympathetically, but she smiles.

"Go, Ash," she says. "You'd better get moving if you're ever going to catch that Dratini."

"...Thanks, Myst," he says, relief evident on his face. "I'll just-"

"Oh, but if you catch one and evolve it, I expect to see you at least once a week, Ash Ketchum," she carries on sternly. "And if you go months and months without calling me again, you'll need more than a Dragonite to save you."

He laughs nervously, and starts throwing his stuff together. Delia hands him a stack of fresh underwear- polka dots, too.

"Mom, how can you embarrass me like that in front of Misty?" he wails. Some things never change.

***

A week goes by. She returns to Cerulean Gym after he leaves, confidently finding the pathways they'd forged as mere children. The Pokémon were glad to have her back, but she's not so keen to get back to cleaning duty.

She sighs, and tosses the cloth back into the bucket. Soapy water splooshes out when the rag hits it, but at least the floor's clean. And slippery, she notes, remembering how the last three or four challengers found themselves falling into the pool.

She returns to the central pool, and gets ready to do something she's been looking forwards to all week: test out Ash's special lure. She's finally done fixing it up, and now all that remains is to see how it works. She affixes it to the rod and makes her cast. She wonders if any of the Pokémon swimming down there will recognise it as Ash, the trainer most of them spent so long travelling with.

Something bites, and she's thrown headfirst into the pool.

Before she's had time to even start drowning, she's already above the surface again, atop Gyarados. The line of her fishing rod leads directly to its maw.

"I should've guessed. Ash would be the type to only catch big fish," she shrugs.

The phone rings from where she left it in the foyer. As soon as Gyarados sets her down she runs for it, very nearly slipping as she does.

"Hey Myst!"

"Ash! Wow, I didn't think I'd be getting a call this soon," she says, a smile breaking out over her face. "Guess what? I've been testing out your lure."

"Really? I knew you could fix it. How's it work?"

"I don't know. I think all the Pokémon are being scared away by your ugly mug," she smirks. "Although, Gyarados seems to like it."

"...I can't decide whether that's bad or not."

"Yeah. So, how's your quest for a Dratini going? And how's Gary?"

"Still the same old Gary Oak. He's had me out catching all sorts...I swear, I'm exhausted. And he could probably catch them himself, too. But he says we'll be heading to the spot the Dratini were sighted tomorrow, and he says that, although he's not sure, there's even been a Dragonair spotted!"

"Oh, really? Well, in that case..."

"Huh? What's up?"

"I don't wanna hear from you until you've caught one, Ash Ketchum!" she yells. She can practically hear his eardrums burst on the other side of the line.

"But Myst-" he begins to say, but, in a move she'll probably regret, she tosses the phone overarm into the swimming pool. A few seconds pass by, and then the ominous sound of chewing breaks the water.

"Don't tell me..." she begins, but it's useless. Gyarados looks up at her from the pool, delighted with its little snack.

She shrugs, and wonders whether to take her fishing rod out to the river for some real testing. It's Ash Ketchum, after all, and he'll catch those Dratini in no time flat. He'll be back to see her soon enough, with Pikachu at his side and a full grown Dragonite for transportation, most probably, although she doubts it'll listen to him. And he'll explore the ocean with her, one day. He just hasn't gotten around to it yet.

And she pushed him up the mountain, to where he needed to go

Sure that one day, he would return to her.

[TheVulpineHero1]

Oh hay, we got a Sonic thread in the Cartridge! Well, because of that, I'll transfer one of my Sonic collections from FF.net over here.

The main impetus of this collection in particular was messing around with Horoscopes as story prompts. It's sort've old, so standards might not be up to my current stuff, but I don't think they're too bad. Pieces are generally pretty short, and the whole thing is Tails centric.

Horoscope

Chapter 1: Aries

You could so easily lose the financial plot. Cost-wise nothing may be as it seems. The upside is that you could find exactly the right outfit whilst shopping. Green might not normally be your colour, but the colours of the sea - (or is it seaside?) could attract you. Involvement in a charity or helping out a friend who's not 100% seems likely.

"Sonic...You know that's a bad idea", he said reproachfully as his hedgehog friend wolfed down yet another candy-coated snack.

"Oh, chill out," was the reply.

The sun shone weakly over the harbour, the rays skipping across the sea like stones across a pond and splashing great waves of orange and red over everything. It was beautiful, but somehow haunting, and Tails was starting to think it was a bad idea to keep hanging around.

"Aw, man...Why does cotton candy have to be so tasty? Now I don't have enough to get Amy a gift!"

Tails smiled knowingly. By 'gift', what he really meant was 'inexpensive piece of tat which Amy will love anyway but which also serves the purpose of making sure she's not horrifically violent the next time I see her'.

"Well, I would help you out, but I spent most of my money on the boat ride."

"Ugh. Had to be a boat ride, didn't it? I got bored waiting by myself. I can't believe you offered to tune up the engine, though- I can't take you anywhere."

They shared a grin, the grin of friends who were pretending to hate the very qualities in a person that they appreciated most.

"So," Sonic asked mock-seriously, "What should I do about Amy? I'm not going back to hospital again."

"Iunno. Buy her a pirate sword and ask her to steal your heart?"

" You know, that's just stupid enough that it might work. Who are you, and what have you done with Tails?" the hedgehog joked, punching him in the arm and breaking into a run. Tails followed, the sun over the water bringing back a thousand memories of times just like this, when each step had been one step closer to saving the world.

Author's comments: This is a very meh piece. I forget where I was actually going with it.

Chapter 2: Taurus

You could effect great change - and possibly coerce others into giving for a cause. Charity themes could operate in other ways too: you could find something perfect to wear whilst browsing in a charity store. Books too could have singular impact. One that's recommended by a friend with an unusual sense of humour could give you a decided lift.

The door is open when he arrives. Immediately, a bolt of pure misgiving runs down his spine and settles in the tips of his tails. It could only mean one thing: that Amy Rose had been burgled, or that Amy Rose was Boxercising. Truthfully, he couldn't decide which was worse.

Looking vainly for a way to pass through the open door without feeling like a criminal, he presses the doorbell, and winces when it chimes the chorus of a popular sappy song. Almost immediately, Cream rushes to the open door, decked out in her Riders gear and soaked with sweat.

"Tails! I'm so glad you're here! Could you, um, please give me a hand in calming Amy down?" she asks, voice jittery from all the exercise. He notices a few emerging bruises where Amy has been a little over-vigorous with her sparring. Yup, definitely worse, he thinks, and steps inside.

Immediately, he sees why they had the door open. The place is like a sauna, and the hit heats him so hard he practically doubles over. Cream looks at him apologetically as he tries to catch his breath. Already, he can feel his fur starting to curl and frizz all over.

"Amy says you lose more weight when you sweat..." Cream explains. He looks at her in silent admiration. Firstly, she can stand the heat, and secondly, she hasn't frizzed into a giant puffball, as he's sure he will if he stays here more than five minutes. That takes guts.

"Oh! Hey...Tails! Didn't hear you...Come...In!" Amy's voice rings. Her sentence is interspersed with brief flurries of punching. Preparing himself for the worst, he goes to the voice, Cream trailing meekly behind him.

What he finds is a slap to the face of Science. It shouldn't be physically possible for Amy to be standing up and still throwing punches in the middle of a puddle of her own sweat, but then again Amy has never let little things like truth or grade school biology stop her.

"Oh, hey, Amy. You know, I was just talking about you with Sonic the other day," he invents furiously. Someone needs to put a stop to this, if only so he can transfer Amy to a medical lab and find out why the heck she's still alive.

"Really?" She stops punching, and her ears visibly prick up. Always a good sign.

"Uh, yeah!" he says over-enthusiastically. Come on, Tails. You're supposed to be smart! Why can't you tell a decent lie for once? "We were, um, talking about taste in girls, and..."

"Eeeeeeeeeeek!" Amy screeches, and immediately grabs him into a bear hug Knuckles would be jealous of. The smell of sweat is making him faint.

"You must be here to pick up Cream, right?" she whispers in his ear. He throws an involuntary look back at the rabbit, and feels his face rearrange itself into an expression of helplessness.

"...What?" he asks timidly, not really wanting to learn the answer.

"Oh, pooh!" she says, dropping him. "I thought you were finally getting started on the path to love! Geez, and I was getting excited about having another couple to talk to..."

Maybe all the sweat's making her delusional...Wish I had my medical dictionary, he thought, before returning to the task at hand.

"Uh, well, about that...Me and Sonic were talking, and he wanted to know, have you lost weight lately?"

"I sure have! Ten pounds! Would you believe it?" she giggled. Tails got the feeling that Cream had lost more, somehow.

"Well, uh, he sure has noticed!" He was interrupted by another bone breaking hug and a fit of screeching that set off more than a few burglar alarms.

"But, um,"he gasped, trying to get the words out whilst being throttled, "He was saying, he used to prefer it when you were bigger, y'know? He liked how his arm felt around your waist, or, or something like that..."

Once again, he was unceremoniously dropped. His fur was well and truly ruined. By the time he'd appraised the extent of the damage, Amy was pressing a wad of money into his hands.

"Take that. Go out, and get me two giant triple chocolate fudge milkshakes. Oh, and one for Cream, too," she hissed. He nodded mutely, and turned to leave.

In a fit of what could only be called temporary heat madness, he turned at the door, and called back, "And, um, Amy? You, uh, may wanna get a shower."

Before he could even think, a heavy book came sailing through the air and smashed into his forehead spine-first. In between groaning and clutching his new war-scar, he noticed the title: Pink Is The Colour Of Love. He considered making a comment about Amy's taste, but thought better of it.

"Thanks, Tails. I didn't know what to do..." Cream said to him as he walked to the door. "Um, I don't mean to be rude, but your fur..."

"Has expanded to twice its normal weight and volume, I know," he sighed. "Being a hero is tougher than it used to be."

Author's comments: Derp. Switched from present tense to past tense halfway through without even realising it. Come on, past Me. Get your shit together.

Chapter 3: Gemini

Contact with people who're not well, who've perhaps failed a test or whose love-lives aren't quite as they'd hoped, is probable. They might need you to hear their fears. You might have a few of your own though: recent information could have been confusing. You may need to do something to take your mind off recent developments knowing that all won't be revealed for some days yet.

"Hey, Fox-Boy. Nice race," Wave said as he walked back to the pits. Usually, he would have thought it was some sort of sarcastic insult, but seeing as he'd come first and she'd come last, it struck him as unlikely.

"What happened out there? You're way off form," he said, shouldering his board.

"Why do you care? You won, didn't you?" she said acerbically. He winced under the tone.

"I know, but...It's not as exciting when I don't have you for competition," he said truthfully.

"Hah! Flattery'll get you nowhere in the racing world, you know. If you really wanna know..." she whispered conspiratorially, "My Aunty Flo has come to town."

"Huh. Wave and Flow, huh? I guess that makes sense. It's a little weird, though...Amy has an Aunt Florence, too, but Amy says I can never meet her even though she's in town," he remarked.

She was silent for a few seconds, so he turned to look at her. Her lower lip was wobbling. Slowly, the tremors moved from her lower lip to her shoulders and suddenly, she burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked, mildly offended without knowing why. She continued to giggle for a few moments, the laughter floating up and bursting like bubbles (with the occasional hiccup to accompany them), then tried to compose herself enough to give him an answer.

"Oh, fox-boy. You're a little more innocent than I gave you credit for. I feel a bit better after a good laugh. Thanks," she said, before lapsing back into uproarious laughter.

Quite confused and still a little offended, he made his excuses and left, leaving her still chuckling in the pits.

A few days later, he was explaining the incident to Knuckles, who had also noticed Wave's poor form.

"And then she just burst out laughing, for no reason. Did I do something wrong?" he asked sorrowfully.

"Uh, Tails? Y'do know what Auntie Flo actually means, right?" Knuckles asked. His face fell when the fox shook his head.

"Okay. Well, uh..." Knuckles said, and proceeded to give Tails the entire talk.

"Wait, so Wave was...Oh, man! Too much information!" the fox cringed.

"Hey, you think you got it bad? I lived a secluded life on a floating island. I had to find it out from Amy."

Tails shivered in sympathy, and decided to treat Wave a little more kindly in future.

Author's comments: Because apparently I was pretty mature when writing this, and thought the menstrual cycle was a source of potential humour. I'm such a classy lady.

Chapter 4: Cancer

Occasionally action by friends and close associates requires you to stop and think about joint financial management - which is what happens today. The cost of pleasure could be an issue. It may be that you're involved with a group who don't need to keep their eye on the same financial pulse as you do. Juggling Peter to pay Paul seems likely.

"Look, Knuckles. No. I can't," he said for the fiftieth time.

"Come on, Tails. All you need to do is go halves with me at the restaurant. I can't afford to eat otherwise," Knuckles pleaded.

To be honest, he wouldn't mind going out to eat for once. Although he could cook, his research meant that his microwave was starting to become his best friend, and one of the great disadvantages of having such a fine sense of smell was that he had a fine sense of taste to go with it. And forty-second hamburgers washed down with soup-in-a-mug wasn't exactly gourmet cuisine.

The problem was that he needed to save money to get one of the parts he needed. You could never predict an Eggman attack, after all, so he needed to be constantly updating his defences.

"Why don't you have money, anyway? Don't you usually sell stuff you dig up at the Chao Garden?" he asked.

"Well, I don't have money because I spent it all," Knuckles said slowly, as if he were explaining something painfully simple to an idiot. Not for the first time, Tails wished the echidna would have a brain aneurysm or something and wake up a savant.

"On what? What could you possibly need, Knuckles?" he asked wearily.

"This! It's a burglar alarm. I got it from a door-to-door salesman," Knuckles said proudly, holding out a grey box that seemed to be made of melted down plastic cups. Instantly, he grew suspicious.

"Knuckles, who sold you that?"

"A door to door salesman, remember?" Knuckles said patronisingly. He seemed to have forgotten that he didn't actually have a door. "He was a bat, I think. Wore an overcoat, and had a mustache."

Tails resisted the urge to put his head in his hands and cry.

"He told me it alerts the police if anyone comes. I said, awesome, that means I can go down to the Casino place on Saturday and win big."

Tails sighed. "Look, Knuckles. I'm going to explain the five major things that are wrong with that."

"There's nothing wrong with it," the echidna said, with the tell tale edge that signalled a rising temper. Tails ignored him.

"Number one, you live on an island with one thing to steal. It would take about fifteen seconds to steal it, so the thief would get away long before the police arrived. Which they wouldn't, because number two, there are no police in Mystic Ruins on account of them being ruins. And number three, even if there were (and there aren't), that burglar alarm wouldn't alert them because it needs a phone line and you don't have one. Number four, you live on an island so you don't even have any walls to attach it to, and finally, number five, you did not buy it from a door to door salesman. You bought it from Rouge," he sighed.

"Wait. Rouge? Tails, Rouge doesn't have a mustache and this guy did," Knuckles protested.

"Rouge in a disguise, Knuckles, Rouge in a disguise," Tails almost wept in exasperation.

"I don't believe it," Knuckles said, folding his arms resolutely.

"Oh, and the alarm? It isn't an alarm," Tails continued, prying it open with no difficulty. "It is, in fact, a box with a rock inside it."

"So, wait...I got ripped!" Knuckles exploded.

"Yes, Knuckles, you got ripped," Tails confirmed wearily. "My advice? Go see if Sonic will go splits with you, and make sure you're at home on Saturday."

Saturday came and went. Tails spent the day quite happily perusing the parts catalogue and dreaming of all the things he could make. On Sunday, as he came downstairs and proceeded to put on a big pot of his super strength coffee, he found a letter on his doormat.

"I'll get you for this, Fox-boy!

Signed, a Disgruntled Door To Door salesman"

Just another day in the life, he thought, and tried to find something non-explosive for breakfast.

Author's Comments: This isn't actually that bad. I like writing arguments between characters, although I think my Tails was slightly off here.

I take it back, these are pretty bad. I'll post the rest over tomorrow and the day after, because I'm lazy and four chapters per post is a decent ratio for a twelve chapter collection.

[KobaBeach]

Chapter 1: Aries

As an Aries, I am insulted by this awful fanfic.

Do go on.

[TheVulpineHero1]

Well, it's tomorrow. Time to post four more bad chapters.

Chapter 5: Leo

It might seem that someone's been economical with the truth: it's as likely that you weren't listening properly. Resolving misunderstandings seems to be the big theme. That could apply whilst shopping: you could find what you think you want, only to wish to exchange it for another size (or something more practical) later. The words of someone who's always canny whilst shopping could haunt you!

"Amy, no. I refuse. I'm not doing it," he whined, knowing already that his defeat was a forgone conclusion. He'd never been more embarrassed in his entire life, and that included all the times he'd been picked on before he met Sonic. It was mortifying.

This, of course, was the part where Amy morphed and became part ticking-time bomb, part stone-cold emotional sniper, gradually picking apart his resolve thread by metaphorical thread.

"Why not? It's not like you didn't know what you were getting into. I told you we were going shopping," she said.

"But not what for," he objected wearily. They were only at the first riposte and he was already tired.

"And besides, you're the only one I could have asked. Cream's busy helping Vanilla out around the house, and I can't track down any of the guys."

Looking back, that should have been a clue to him. If Sonic, Knuckles and Shadow couldn't be found, it usually meant that they'd fled, screaming, into the hills.

"Besides, Sonic did it. Why can't you?"

Yes, Sonic had done it. Once. He'd spent the next three weeks walking with a limp and jumping at small noises, and all because he hadn't quite kept his mouth shut. When Tails had asked, all he'd said was, "Never go shopping with Amy." Advice he would have done well to have taken.

Seeing that the fox's flagging resolve was still standing, Amy frowned and reached for her most persuasive argument. One that happened to be large, heavy, and a hammer. He sighed. She hadn't managed to breach his emotions, so she'd appealed to his intelligence. And his intelligence said that the smartest thing to do was whatever the hell she told him. He groaned, shut his eyes, and took up the stack of offending articles. Really, it had just been a combination of three simple factors.

Not listening to good advice.

Lingerie shopping.

And 'Only One Item In The Changing Room At Any One Time.'

Author's comments: Once again, pretty meh. I don't really have anything to say about it.

Chapter 6: Virgo

As the day wears on, you could give the impression of being an exotic butterfly: some people could find you hard to pin down. You might also appear to sparkle - particularly with bright ideas. A crowd could form: you might even find yourself at the centre of group activities. Rather less pleasant could be the discovery that a younger person has broken a piece of essential equipment.

There was a reason he never invited anyone to stay at his house. And that was because it was connected to his laboratory, which was possibly the most dangerous place in the world (barring Amy's bedroom). So, when Vector barged in and said, wearing a crocodile smile that brooked no arguments, that he, Charmy and Espio were behind with the rent and needed somewhere to crash for a few days, Tails had a few...misgivings. However, after estimating the risk of accidental nuclear holocaust at a scant 13% (based on the off chance Team Chaotix were carrying some purified uranium as lucky charms or something), he decided it would be okay to let them stay, provided he moved all the more dangerous inventions out of the way first.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Admittedly, the problem lay in his own classification system. When he classified his inventions as 'dangerous', he only categorised their dangerousness according to function. This meant he left behind a few relatively benign novelty inventions, like the Sparkly Glittermatron he had originally intended to sell to Japan for their all their bishoujo needs, and which had been eventually been relegated to making Cream's dolls sparkle every once in a while. Unfortunately, he had forgotten the Golden Rule: that when Team Chaotix was around, everything was dangerous.

As it turned out, within five minutes of them arriving, carnage broke out over who was bunking where and with whom. Espio, upon becoming embroiled in the argument, immediately ransacked Tails' lab of all the pointy and very expensive lab equipment he could find, and started tossing it with great abandon. Charmy decided that the only suitable response was to pick up the Sparkly Glittermatron and make a bombing raid on Vector. Luck, that ever fickle mistress, decided it would tickle her fancy for the machine to have a catastrophic malfunction upon hitting Vector's bonce, causing a massive, sparkly explosion.

The upshot of this was that Miles 'Tails' Prower became the proud owner of both the sparkliest home and the sparkliest lodgers he could ever desire. He was also, sadly, the owner of the sparkliest fur coat, and the odious task of going out in public and fetching the ingredients for the specialist shampoo which would restore it to its normal dullness.

Flying at supersonic speeds. Easier with a healthy tide of embarrassment to push you along.

Author's Comments: I don't know what possessed me to use the word 'bonce' in a literary context. I'm pretty sure it's the only time I've used it (sans airquotes) in my entire life.

Chapter 7: Libra

Whilst analysing recent events, you might draw the conclusion that you've been led up a garden path. The truth could be more complicated: you may have heard what you wanted to hear. In the romance department this could have big implications. In another part of your life news about a younger friend - and where they're going to be living, could require adjustment to your schedule to take account of journey times.

There was no mistake about it. He'd been played like a fool.

At least it gave him the chance to check out Eggman's latest tech. He made a very good laser-net landmine trap. And the workmanship on his plasma-grid prisons was nothing short of meticulous.

"Tails?"

"Yes, Cream?"

"I'm sorry."

It figured. He'd gotten a letter, apparently from her, saying that she'd gone to live with her cousin, the Easter Bunny, and that he should come and visit. Obviously, he should have spotted the link -between Easter and Eggman, but he was too busy being Mr. Cynical Scientist and preparing to capture evidence that the Easter Bunny was a fraud.

"It's no problem, Cream. We'll just have to wait for Sonic and Knuckles to rescue us. They always do," he said ruefully.

No less then half an hour afterwards, his prediction had been realised as two primary coloured wrecking balls tore through Eggman's base. Alarms went off, sirens screeched and if robots could feel pain then Tails was pretty sure Knuckles was going to be in trouble come the afterlife. It earned them a visit from the Good Doctor himself.

"Ah, Sonic! And Knuckles, too! What a surprise. I was just lecturing your little friends here on the existence of the Easter Bunny," the doctor cackled. Tails fought the growing urge to put his head in his hands and weep.

"Eggman!" Knuckles roared, immediately hurling himself onto the platform nearest the Doctor. "You won't escape this time!"

"Hey, cool it, Knuckles! You wanna go and get tra-"

It was too late. Knuckles had already pulled himself up onto the platform where Tails and Cream were being held. Groaning, Sonic followed. As soon as he'd hauled himself up and watched Tails try to explain that, no, it was not a good idea to hit a plasma grid prison cage, Eggman pushed a button on his flying armchair and plasma bars shot up, too high to jump over, positioned all along the edges of the platform.

"So, how does it feel, my little friends, to be trapped in a cage within a cage? How delightful! Now I have four of the Sonic Team under my command!"

Tails was about to set his brain into gear and figure out how he might disrupt a multi-million dollar piece of technology using nothing but his shoes and a grease rag, but Sonic shot him a wink. They'd planned for this.

"Hmph. Believe me, Eggman- shortly, you'll wish you were trapped in there with them."

The flash of green, unnoticed on the ledge behind Eggman, faded away to reveal Shadow, wearing a grin more at home on Hannibal Lector's face. The Doctor, very slowly and pitifully, began to cry.

It was a shame they'd been captured, Tails thought. But sometimes, there was nothing wrong with sitting back and watching the show.

Author's Comments: Oh man. I think the thing I was getting at with this one is that Tails is both Mr Scientist Guy but also pretty naive and gullible. Other than that, it's a pretty bad piece.

Chapter 8: Scorpio

Consciously or unconsciously, you may have left someone with misinformation - which could be as distressing to you as it is to them. A third person may need to intervene to iron out misunderstandings. You could also fall foul of incomplete information: a travel schedule could be changed or extra charges put in place. You could though find previously elusive vocabulary and make it clear to someone just how much you care for them.

"What do you mean, you gave Amy a love ray?"

"Chill out, Sonic. It doesn't work. There's no way it could. I just had to do something to stop her wrecking my TV."

"Look, that's still no-"

"I'm sorry, Sonic, but do you know how long I've had this TV? All of three days. LCD screen with HD, too. I was gonna watch documentaries on it. I think after all I've done for the world, I deserve to watch a few documentaries."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"All you have to do is pretend that it does work. Just for a day. Then, I'll take it back in for testing, and it'll 'mysteriously' break. I get to keep my TV, Amy gets a date- everyone's happy!"

"Sorry, Tails, but since when did I stop being a part of 'everyone'?"

"Well, if you do it, you get dibs on the remote every time you come round. I know how funny you find the Olympics these days."

"...Dang it! Fine, deal. But you owe me snacks too!"

Sonic dropped the connection, and Tails breathed a sigh of relief. He'd paid a lot for that TV. But something was niggling in the back of his mind. Some hidden dange-

"Sonic! Sonic, are you there? Pick up the phone!"

"Geez, Tails, I only just put it down. I'm waiting for Amy in Central Plaza."

"Sonic, do not get hit by the love ray! Repeat, do not get hit by the love ray!"

"What? Why? I thought it didn't work?"

"I just remembered. I put a Chaos Emerald in there, because who'd think to look for a Chaos Emerald in a love ray, and then I fiddled around a little bit and managed to get the ray reading on the positive energy in the Chaos Emera-"

"Tails, just the essentials, please."

"There's a small chance the Love Ray might actually work, so you might wanna-"

There was a loud "A-Ha!" from the other end of the phone, and a strange, undulating sound. The line went dead. Panicking, he called Knuckles.

"Hello, Tails?"

"Knuckles, I need a shard from the Master Emerald. Really badly."

"What? Why?"

"Well, I kinda gave Amy a functioning love ray and she may have used it on Sonic. I need the Master Emerald to make an antidote laser."

"Well, let me th- NO."

"Come on, Knuckles!"

"Are you kidding me? This is going to be hilarious. Wait until the media find out! He'll never live it down!"

"That's why I need to make an antidote!"

"No way. I think I'd prefer to sit back and laugh."

"...Okay. Fine. I understand."

"Sure you do. It'll be great."

"Which is why when Rouge inevitably asks to borrow it, I'm going to let her. And then I'll sit back and laugh when you mount the Master Emerald in a ring and ask her to marry you."

"...You'd better be joking."

"I hear one of the side effects is that it makes you whipped. Wanna risk it?"

"Grrraah! Fine. Be over in a bit. You'd better be working on that ray by the time I get over there."

Tails put the phone down and sighed. Even more work. He was going to watch Transformers and laugh at how ridiculously implausible their designs were.

He just hoped he managed to get the love ray back before Sonic did something really stupid. Because if it ever got on the news, he got the feeling he might need a new TV.

Author's comments: Really, this was a glorified excuse for me to talk about what TV shows I thought Sonic and Tails would enjoy. Everything else was just mindless derp.

Next time: derp, even more derp, shipping (with added derp) and a very short action sequence. Derp derp derp derp derp. Derp.

[TheVulpineHero1]

It's even more tomorrow than the last time it was tomorrow; in fact, for British old me, it is the tomorrow after tomorrow since when I posted the last thing on the yesterday. Words make sense sometimes.

Chapter 9: Sagittarius (I can never spell Sagittarius right first time round)

Double-checking facts might be wise. It could that you've prepared notes already. It's possible that parameters have changed and that you could lose points though. Checking on a route might be valuable also: traffic diversions could create havoc if you're unprepared. Someone who always tends to have their head in the clouds might this time astound you with their analysis of a situation.

Failing to find anything constructive to do, Tails settled for smashing his head against the dashboard. That made his head hurt, but it alleviated the boredom, although it did nothing for the sheer heart-pumping, adrenaline-dripping wave of panic that was lapping against the fringes of his mind.

Traffic jams. They weren't exactly part of his normal day to day grind, but they existed nonetheless, and he was sitting in one. Why he ever thought it would be a good idea to install a car mode into his plane escaped him. And he couldn't exactly turn plane or walker in the middle of the highway- he'd freak someone out, and they might go nuts and hit a kid. So, there he was and there he would remain, as the time until his appointment slowly counted down.

When he woke up, he'd expected it to be a normal day. He'd read the newspaper in leisure, and savoured every bite of the new brand of breakfast cereal he was trying. But then Sonic rang, and said those seven words that had sealed his fate.

"What did you get for Amy's birthday?"

Of all the dangerous things you could do, forgetting Amy's birthday ranked somewhere between swallowing purified uranium and asking Chuck Norris if he wanted to arm wrestle. In short, if he didn't find and deliver a suitable present by four o' clock that afternoon, he'd be giving Amy a brand new fox-fur pelt to strut around in. And, in his panic, he'd decided he probably couldn't be trusted to pilot an aeroplane without spiralling into the nearest beach, so he'd driven. Big mistake.

At least he could be thankful for two things. Firstly, the Tornado lacked a clock, so he couldn't count the seconds until his own demise. Secondly, Amy was relatively easy to shop for, if he ever got to the city. That wasn't much to go on, and traffic still wasn't moving, so he whiled another thirty seconds away smashing his head on the dashboard. Then, his phone rang. As he was seldom rung for anything other than bad news, he hesitated before setting it to speaker.

"Hey, Tails," the voice piped. Charmy. "I hear it's Amy's birthday. What're you getting her?"

"A gravestone with my name on it," he deadpanned, and punctuated it with some more head-to-dashboard action.

"So, wait. Lemme get this straight...You're stuck in traffic. Can't you, like, fly on your own? Just lock your car, man. Anything that hits it is gonna come off worse anyway," Charmy suggested after he'd explained the situation.

"What, just leave a highly dangerous transforming robot plane lying around on the interstate highway?" he asked dubiously.

"It's got your name on it, for goodness' sake. Only Eggman would try and steal it. Don't you have a tracker on it, anyway?"

"Yeah, but...It'll reduce the resources available in case of a sudden Eggman strike if the Tornado is sitting out here in traffic," Tails said, chewing his lip.

"If Amy kills you for not remembering her birthday, it'll reduce resources for defeating Eggman pretty much indefinitely. Dunno where we'd find another geeky robot building guy," Charmy said seriously.

He hadn't thought about it that way.

After a clipped goodbye to Charmy (he really was running out of time), he whirred up his tails and took to the sky, shooting the Tornado a few forlorn looking glances as he went.

In the end, Amy didn't kill him. But the police wanted a stern word with him for parking in the middle of the highway and causing massive traffic jams.

Author's Comments: What did I promise? Derp. What did I deliver? Derp.

Chapter 10: Capricorn

It may be necessary to review the amount spend on a hobby - or to advise a group of friends that they're taking you into financial territory for which you're not yet prepared. Contact with someone in the healing profession could prove exceptionally useful - especially when they offer a tip that will save you both time, money - and probably a journey.

"Look, guys. I'm gonna have to skip out," he says gently. If he had a hat, he'd be wringing it in his hands.

"Whaaaat? Come on, Tails! We spent so much time getting this organised! How long didya think it took us to contact Shadow, for goodness' sake?" Sonic whines. He's got a point, and that's what makes it annoying.

"Yeah. We all need a guys' night. Well, a guy's mid-afternoon, anyway. Builds comraderie for the next time Eggman decides to spring somethin' on us. It's a 'brothers in arms' kinda thing. With nachos," Knuckles says helpfully.

"...Hmph," Shadow said- or didn't say? Hard to tell. He didn't seem overly pleased to be there.

"I know, guys, but, I can't afford this stuff. Any of this stuff. I thought we'd be eating somewhere, I don't know, maybe a little more downmarket..." Tails carries on, hoping desperately they won't notice the flaw in his argument.

"Downmarket? Tails, this is as downmarket as we can get. They've practically got bar stools set out for the roaches," Knuckles quips. He's right. But that wasn't the reason Tails was trying to skip out. The real reason lay in a rare machine component and a misunderstanding about what 'food money' was meant to be used for.

"Leave him alone. If he doesn't wish to rub shoulders with you and the faker, then I don't blame him," Shadow says dangerously, his patience already reaching breaking point.

"S'not like he's tall enough to rub shoulders with me," Knuckles points out, and pats Tails on the head. Sonic just waves and goes back to reading the menu. It shouldn't take long. There are only five things on it.

"...In about five seconds, I intend to be fifty miles from this...squat. You may accompany me if you provide a decent excuse. I don't want to be talking about something this ridiculous the next time Eggman invades," Shadow mutters to him darkly. With the smallest movement perceptible, he nods and begins his routine.

"Well, actually, guys, the real reason I didn't wanna come was...Well, I'm, uh, really ill, with, um, Kitsune's Disease, and I might, y'know, chuck up everywhere. In fact, I think I need to go to hospital," he says, punctuating it with a little cough at the end.

"Kitsune's Disease? Oh, I've heard of it- about two-thousand years ago in the annals of the Echidna tribe," Knuckles replies, and Tails' back squirms with the feeling of being caught out. "You're right, though- if you've got Kitsune's disease, you need hospital, and bad. You die in about four days, if I remember correctly."

"And it would be foolish to let our only scientist die to a disease when Eggman's still out there," Shadow breaks in, a dark smile playing around his mouth. "I'll take him. I wasn't planning on spending any time with my lookalike, anyway."

"You know, Knuckles," Sonic says seconds after the green flash of Chaos Control has died down, "I think we've been duped."

"Maybe," Knuckles admits. "I think Shadow was trying to pretend he was still a jerk, when really he's worried about the little guy."

"That wasn't quite what I meant..."

A brief flash of Chaos Control later, they arrived in the hospital. He sniffs. The smell of chlorine and bleach is offensive to a highly tuned nose. It isn't usually this bad, though.

"Tails? And...Shadow?" a familiar voice says behind them.

After the initial shock of seeing Amy, Cream and a very, very irritated Rouge in nurse's uniforms ("What? We can't have a girl's day out? We were gonna go shopping, but Cream decided to help the community, and we weren't gonna leave her here all on her own!") they eventually got around to making excuses about why they left Sonic and Knuckles. Predictably, Shadow and Rouge took the opportunity to get out of dodge.

"Well, I just didn't have enough money. I'm living on noodles this week, I guess," he says sheepishly.

"Oh, Tails. How can you be a genius if you can't even budget?" Amy chides gently.

"Well, some people are willing to starve for their art," he sniffs.

"Machines aren't art."

"Let's not get into that argument again..."

"You know, Tails," Cream says seriously, "You could always out at the hospital. We're a hand down since Miss Rouge and Shadow left, and we get free lunches."

He grimaced. He thought he'd skipped over janitor work, having invented a floor which even the stickiest of scientific residues would wash off. Apparently not.

"You do know what this means, right, Tails?" Amy says with just a slight hint of menace. "I'm your superior. And, as a man, you should be the one who gets toilet duty. You're used to cleaning disgusting things off the floor, anyways."

He groans, and takes the rag Amy's offering to him. Next time, he'll skip on buying that new engine.

Author's Comments: More silly tense switching here. I don't know why I was having so much trouble with it; generally I look after my tenses and make love to them quite gently, but this collection is apparently the exception to prove the rule.

Chapter 11: Aquarius

On the home front especially, change is in the air. At one level you may be trying to work out what a younger person is holding back. At a quite different level you might wish to move items in a kitchen or bathroom. You might also be aware of taking part in displacement activity rather than getting to grips with information you know you ought to study. With friends doing all they can to lure you from your lair, study-time could be limited.

Even on his wilder days, hanging by his tails from a street lamp with a pair of binoculars clamped to his eyes was not his idea of a fun pastime. Of course, previous 'fun' pastimes he'd indulged in were leaping off cliffs in order to save Sonic from certain death whenever the hedgehog forgot about that weird little thing called 'physics', and trying to stay away from Amy when she was on a hammer rampage.

But, as needs must. There was something he needed to know, desperately, and obviously the only way he could find out was to peer inside Cream's bedroom with night-vision goggles. Obviously.

It had all started earlier in the month, when he tried to bake a cake.

Cooking, as he had been informed by the faintly maniacal TV chef-of-the-week, was essentially chemistry. You plop in a little bit of salt, a little bit of pepper, maybe a dash of polyphosphate if the devil was in you. Easy as one, two, three right?

No. Not right. Not right at all. The danger with cooking being like chemistry is that, well, Tails had rather a lot of chemicals. And he had curiosity. So, what about substituting salt with a pinch of something a little more...exotic? The result was a cake which, whilst looking fine, made him hallucinate. For five hours, he had thought his door was a puffer fish. Never again.

So, in a desperate bid to end his cup-ramen and raw spaghetti devouring ways, he had sought cookery classes from the only person he knew who could cook even in the vaguest sense of the word.

Cream.

She was a good teacher. This was not surprising, given that she was named after an ingredient, but even so, he learned quickly. She organised his cupboards, removing anything that was glowy or radioactive or that, most importantly, would not taste good if dumped in gumbo. When he presented her with his first dish and tentatively asked her to try it, she only had one fit afterwards. Things were looking up.

But after three weeks of daily tuition and three trips to hospital, she'd said she couldn't teach him anymore. No one had seen her since that day, and she'd spent a lot of time in her house, refusing to see anyone ('anyone' being a synonym for Tails, or so Sonic gloated).

So, there he was, trying to find out what tragedy had befallen her and caused her seclusion. With high-powered binoculars. At ten o' clock at night. If nothing else, it would make for an interesting anecdote. But what he had failed to remember was that Cream's house was one of the most secure in the entire world, and that was because he'd done the security. Of course, he'd bypassed a lot of the external measures like the portcullis trigger and the DNA scanner, but a genius could hardly be expected to remember all his great ideas in one sitting.

Of course, this meant that the cheerful pigeon which had just perched upon his street lamp was, in fact, a highly sophisticated robot defence mechanism. One that exploded.

After Cream and Vanilla had scraped him off the pavement and reassembled him in their kitchen chair, he felt a sensation of dread building in what remained of his lower intestine. Cream looked at him shiftily (or as close an approximation of shiftily as her cute features would allow) and said nothing. Deciding to revert to Knuckle's style of negotiations ("This is my head! I will hit you with it until you break or it does!") he came right out and asked her: "Why have you been so secretive lately?"

Cream blushed modestly, and, with a few moments delay, opened the fridge. Inside was a cake that make his teeth ache just looking at it. White frosting, sculpted icing-sugar roses, three tiers high and with a smell that could cause road accidents, it loomed above all other foodstuffs in the fridge like a towering, diabetes-inducing giant.

"You were doing so well at cooking, Tails, so I decided to make you a cake. I've been trying three weeks to get it just right. This is attempt number 28!" Cream said shyly.

He didn't say anything. He just drooled. Deep down inside, he marvelled at it. 28 attempts? He only ever bothered to repeat his experiments three times! Meanwhile, Vanilla bustled about, trying not to look overly proud of her daughter's amazing baking skills.

"One question, Cream. Why is it...uh...a wedding cake?" he said, pointing to the plastic bride and groom at the top. The groom was wearing a tux uncomfortably similar to the one he'd worn for one of Cream's birthday parties.

Vanilla started to interrupt, but Cream was, sadly, too quick.

"Mother says the only cake worth baking for a guy like you is a wedding cake," Cream replied innocently.

He looked at Cream, then he looked at her mother. Then back at Cream again. Then wondered how quickly he could sprint from the room. And if the price was a lifetime of chilli-dogs and soup in a mug, then that was a price he was willing to pay.

Author's Comments: Ah, shipping. When I was a touch younger, I was a sucker for ships I thought were cute, and toy ships like CreamxTails are pretty cute. Nowadays? Not so much. Mature and nuanced romances are more my cup of tea. Or failing that, shipping to the point of parody. As it is, this piece is really akward.

Chapter 12: Pisces

Plans for an extended trip (possibly a surprise) might necessitate a shopping trip - but which could be sabotaged by the need to meet up with someone before you go. You could be left waiting when rendezvous times are changed at the last minute. Growing concern for someone who's not at all well could result in lengthy conversations with friends who want to help and think you may have ideas. A variation on this theme could be discussing a work problem that desperately needs resolution.

A chunk of concrete, no bigger than Knuckles' brain, bounced off his left shoulder. He ignored it for the time being, and fanned his machine gun, with the aim of considerably improving the lead content of some Eggbots.

As usual, the attack had come as a complete surprise. He didn't know why he didn't just stick a tracker on Eggman- after all, he was a big enough target, and he only seemed to have one pair of clothes. However, his biggest regret was installing bluetooth into the Tornado III's dashboard. It's difficult to pilot a gigantic bipedal robot walker whilst Sonic prank calls you.

"Okay, okay. What is it?" he snapped into the microphone after punching a few after-market holes into the Eggbots.

"Uh, Tails? I'm not gonna be much help this time. I'm kinda in prison," Sonic's voice crackled.

"...What. You're kidding, right?" he replied in the very dullest of tones.

"Hey, you don't get to be sad. I'm the one who's in danger of assault in here. And lemme tell ya, big scary inmates are worse than Eggbots. They're more resilient against homing attacks."

"Why are you in prison? I'm defending the city all by myself and I have a handful of bullets to do it with!" he yelled.

"Speeding's a crime. Who knew?" Sonic replied. Tails knew it'd be accompanied by a shrug.

"What am I gonna do, Sonic?" he moaned.

"Iunno. Either break out some super-genius kung-fu on the eggbots or break out some bail money, I guess."

Tails ended the call. It didn't have the same immediacy as slamming the phone down, but such were the problems of bluetooth.

Eggman's Deluxe Egg Battle Cruiser rumbled into the sky overhead and began raining bombs on the south section of the city. This was a bad thing. And Tails only really had one plan of attack, which was to infiltrate the cruiser and wreck the engine. This would be exceedingly difficult, seeing as the only weapon he had any ammo for was the propeller punch. It was like Mike Tyson going up against the Death Star. On steroids.

Frantically, he racked his brains for a better plan. He had, of course, realised that the best plan was to get out of dodge, restock his ammo and come back, all guns blazing. But that would give Eggman free reign to blow up, kidnap or otherwise threaten hundreds of innocents- Cream, Vanilla and Amy among them. He hadn't seen Knuckles around to help, and as for Shadow, who knew? It was all down to him. The phone rang again.

"Tails?"

"Sonic, please tell me Knuckles has somehow got wind of this and is breaking you out of prison as we speak," Tails whined.

"Nah, but I was thinking. Why don't you get out of the robot and do it yourself?"

"What, without any of my inventions? Has prison food made you crazy?"

"You never used to need them. I mean, you learned from the best, right?" Sonic said cheekily.

Tails sighed and broke the call off again. Do it himself, without anyone to back him up? He'd only managed it a few times since he met Sonic and the others. He'd practically forgotten how. But Eggman's cruiser wasn't getting any closer, and the city wasn't getting any less bombed. With his jaw set, he initiated the plane transformation to get him up to that battleship.

Sometimes, you just had to fly with it.

***

Lights flashed, sirens flared and pants were soiled as all hell broke loose on Eggman's Battle Cruiser. It had come from nowhere- one moment, the peons were loading another set of bombs into the bay, and the next the wall had exploded and the ship was decompressing and there was orange death spinballing towards them at high speeds. If robots did not know fear before, they knew it now.

Tails hit the ground rolling, using a luckless Eggbot as an impromptu crash barrier. He arrested the force, shot into the air. At the top of his arc, he uncurled and dropped like a stone, swinging his tails with all his force. The head of his target popped off like a cork, sheared across the neck. Element of surprise wasting away with every second, he launched himself towards the next victim and struck out with a straight punch Knuckles would have been proud of. Adrenaline pulsed and he barely noticed the ache in his fist as the bolts flew. Concious of guns being focused in his direction, he ducked and retreated, making sure to get away from the hole he'd punched in the wall.

The robots now began to form up into the predictable rank and file that Eggman had programmed them to assume when under threat. It was a formation that Sonic usually made light work of with his homing attack. But Sonic wasn't there, and a barrage of gunfire is more of an issue when you don't move at supersonic speed. Quickly, he took to the air, flying low and fast over the robot's heads- too slowly, and a stray bullet tore loose a chunk of fur from his left tail. Diving, he turned hard right, corkscrewing for speed. He rolled when he hit the ground, and the sound of energy weapons being discharged over his head deafened him. He lashed out wildly with his tails and caught a peon in the knee joints, taking out the legs. He seized the body, robotic arms still flailing, and used it as a shield as he backed away- towards what? Anything, nothing.

The bombs.

It was a clever design feature that Eggman's robots would spontaneously explode after taking mortal damage to the core. It meant there was very little evidence and nothing left to track back to Eggman. It also meant that the bigger ones, like Chaos Gamma, were downright dangerous to take down.

Time seemed to move slower as he enacted his plan. He tipped backwards, still carrying the robot corpse, shots whizzing over his head. He coiled his tails like a spring, supported his weight on them. He pushed back further, rolling his head back as far as he could, so he could see the crates of missiles come into view. His feet left the ground, coming up to support the weight of the fallen egg peon, and then, when he was finally bent far enough backwards, when the angle was right, kicked out with as much force as he could muster-

Time came back into focus with a vengeance. Using the tension in his tails like a pogo-stick, he sprang forwards and away. Behind him, the peon careered gracefully into the bombs and detonated. He ran as the bombs exploded in sympathy, and the fireball soared out to lick his heels as he escaped. The smell of singed fur hit his nose, along with the heady scent of almost molten metal. He carried on running, running for dear life, as the sound of destruction reverberated throughout the whole airship.

***

Eventually, he stopped for breath, lungs aching and cold metal against his back. It was dark, dank, quiet, the sirens and the lights far away now.

"Hey, buddy. Brought me my bread and water?"

He almost jumped out of his skin. The voice was familiar, bored, and right behind his ear.

"Although, maybe after a couple weeks I'll get so thin I'll be able to just slip through the bars, huh?"

The cold metal behind him had been bars. The dankness had been what Eggman called 'hospitality'. And the voice?

"Come on. Aren't you pleased to see me?" Sonic grinned, smirking from Eggman's cell.

"...You said you were in jail. For speeding," Tails said slowly.

"I never said where. Now c'mon!"

"You sent me up here just to bust you out, didn't you?" he went on, all thoughts of robot patrols forgotten.

"Nah. I was actually pretty sure you'd take down the entire base yourself. You're crazy when you're mad. You breaking me out was just a bonus," the hedgehog said, shrugging.

"You're...Gah! Just handle the running and I'll do the rest," he sighed, looking for whatever mechanism opened the doors.

"Just like old times, huh? Now you're talking!" Sonic smirked, and began his pre-battle stretches.

***

He tightened the last bolt and groaned contentedly. His arms were so sore he thought they'd fall off. But he had to fix the Tornado after all the damage it had taken when he crashed it into Eggman's Battle Cruiser. In his defence, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Although, it had meant he'd had to fly under his own power, carrying Sonic, until they hit the ground. He'd be feeling that one for a few weeks.

The debris of the Egg Carrier littered the city, just as it had done to Station Square. There was almost an uncanny sense of deja vu, really, although in Eggman's defence, he couldn't be expected to think up of entirely original plots every two weeks. Sonic had actually remarked upon it when they fought, and Eggman obligingly promised to think of something better next time before his robot collapsed into a bunch of scrap parts. Another day, another ten thousand dollar robot ruined.

As it turned out, Vanilla, Cream and Amy had been out of time shopping, and weren't actually in any danger. That was good, he thought absently, wondering what to do about the paint. Every so often, he turned around and rubbed the tip of his tail self-consciously. Vanity, or perhaps a phantom ache from missing fur? He shrugged it away.

Life had returned to normal, or as normal as it had been before. Sonic refused to say how he'd been captured, although Amy eventually scared it out of him- apparently, he'd been sleeping on the airship when Eggman revved up the engines. Apparently he'd been completely caught out, and hadn't wanted to tell Tails to keep his heroic image. Actually, it didn't. The fact that Sonic had been managing to take down Eggman's bases- all by himself, usually- just meant he had more respect for the hedgehog. And yet...somehow, the thought that he'd broken into an Egg Cruiser, bereft of gadgets and weapons, relying only on his own speed and wit, meant something. Maybe he wasn't up to Sonic's level yet. But one day, he'd be able to handle the whole thing by himself.

He blipped the ignition of the plane, and opened the hangar doors. The sun was bright, the sky was blue and there weren't even that many robot parts falling out of it. If he was gonna start flying, then now was definitely the time.

Author's comments: I needed three scene breaks for this shit? What the fuck, Me. I think the main impetus for this piece was 'welp, last piece of the collection. Let's have an action scene for no reason!' On that note, it has been a long, long time since I've done an action scene. I kinda moved out of that genre.

So, overall, a pretty clumsy little collection, and a fairly old one. I might post the five chapters that exist of the only other Sonic collection I started as a 'bonus' (cough cough). I abandoned it pretty dang quickly though, since it was originally going to be fifty-seven chapters. I forget why -- I think the interest just wasn't there at the time. Oh well.

[TheVulpineHero1]

Okay, so time for the last of my Sonic flood. These are pieces taken from a collection I abandoned called Colours Of The Sky. (Titles were never my strong suit.) They're a little more recent than the previous collection, so maybe they're a touch better. Hopefully, anyway. Unlike the last collection, which centred on Tails, these ones are for various characters.

Chapter 1: Model Aeroplane

Tails balanced the model carefully upon the very tips of his fingers, nimble beyond the cumbersome gloves he wore. A halogen bulb he should've changed two weeks ago flickered wearily above him, and the moon winked balefully at him from the window. The clock in the living room bawled out a dozen times, and was ignored a dozen times for its trouble.

The problem, he told himself, was the aerodynamics. The real problem, his mind replied a little more truthfully, was the laws of physics. There were four laws of aerodynamics covering flight, and none of them agreed with each other.

As a result, no one knew why a plane flew. Only that it did. Designing a plane was half science, half intuition; a practice in adjusting every angle, every screw and bolt, until you found the sweet spot where the laws of physics stopped paying attention and let the damn thing off the ground. Even when you had the knack, it took weeks honing scale models in the wind tunnel (your ears aching from the noise and your electricity bill higher than the entire city at the next station down), and countless redesigns, rehashes and re-imaginings.

For tonight, though, he was done. Three weeks he'd been burning the smallest hours in his pursuit of perfection, and it was starting to tell. Tonight's model was as good as he was going to get it; tomorrow, paint could be applied, and the testing could begin. He scrawled a brief note in his engineer's journal (oily fingerprints littering the pages, the simple curled script crammed into whatever space was left) and put on his nightcap.

Building a plane was like saving the world, he thought idly, as he pour a customary glass of milk before hitting the hay. Despite the fact that planes were a miracle of engineering, there were so many out there, leaving stripes in the clouds and carrying thousands of people across oceans and continents and cities. Just as there were a thousand planes in the stratosphere, somehow, he and Sonic and the rest of the gang had managed to drive off Eggman so many times.

And he thought to himself, sometimes, "sure, Knuckles is strong, and Sonic is fast and Shadow is the unholy spawn of an eldritch abomination and a mad scientist who would later try to crash an intergalactic cannon into the planet, and maybe I've got a spare IQ point or two, but that's all we are. How do we keep doing it? How do we keep winning against a million-strong army of robots, a swarming ocean of metal and weapons and blood?"

Everything points to them losing. But they don't. Sure, the planet's been blown up or split apart a few times, but it's usually a temporary thing. They're sitting in the sweet spot where the laws of probability turn a blind eye, and miracles are an everyday thing.

Knocking back his glass of milk in one gulp (a bad idea, and coughing ensued), he finally decided to give his brain a rest for tonight. His bed, the one thing in his entire lab that he kept free of oil, called for him.

In his garage, sitting quietly under white sheets, were five hundred model aeroplanes, each one perfect, intricately detailed and painted. They were of a quality even professionals only dreamed of, but he had never sold a single one. They were miracles of design, that he had given the world.

Some part of him, still childish and naive after all his trials, believed that the world was a place that was kind, and fair. That for every miracle he put into the world, maybe, just maybe, he could get one back. He'd had four hundred and eighty two victories over Eggman, great and small.

He had eighteen left.

Author's comments: One of my personal philosophies when writing a character I don't own is to add to them. The reasons for that are a little obscure, but essentially it adds up to: time = money. Original creator needs to make money, and therefore doesn't have time to flesh out the character as absolutely as they would like to; in addition, they have to practice conservation of detail for whatever plotline they have going. I, as a fanfiction guy, have effectively infinite time since I'm not doing it for profit, and don't have to carry a plotline if I don't wish to; therefore, I have no excuse for the characters being flat, even if they were flat in the original work.

What this means is that after the first few times I write a character, they will begin to accrue hobbies, likes and dislikes that are unique to my portrayal, but which I infer from the existing details given to me. This means that a lot of my characters are OOC, to a point, but are in character for my portrayal of them. (I'm not special in this regard; it's a common thing. I'm just pointing it out.) What you see here is the beginnings of 'my' Tails, building on what what happened in the last collection. Of course, seeing as I never did any more Sonic stuff after this collection, and this was the last Tails piece, it's a beginning that will never lead anywhere, least of all to a developed and nuanced character.

Chapter 2: Looking for the Answer

What is the colour of the wind? What is the sound of the mountains? What is the taste of silence?

Sonic wonders.

He has travelled far and wide, across more worlds than his own and into the hoary realms of the imagination. Across deserts, icecaps and rainforests, through cities, swamps and ruins, on oceans of oil and the very surface of the moon, he chases the horizon.

Some look at him as a myth; the World-Traveller, the hero who never stopped. Others know him to be a truth, remember his grin as he saved them. Still others ask why: for justice? For freedom? Or some other reason? Why does he fight for them?

Of all people, it is Shadow who understands him best; that carefree is only a step away from not caring. Sonic, who could've been the ultimate lifeform; Sonic, the planet's protector. Already, he is beginning to emulate the world he walks. What is his reason for fighting? You might as well ask the hurricane's reason for howling, the forest's for growing. Nature does not need a reason for anything, and Sonic does not need a reason to help somebody; Nature does not judge, and neither does he.

In thirty years, perhaps, Sonic will still be on the move, with all the wisdom his travels have brought him settled upon his shoulders. He will be as fierce as the raging ocean, as unyielding as the iron mountains, as free as the wind.

What is the colour of the wind? What is the sound of the mountains? What is the taste of silence?

He chases the horizon, looking for the answer.

Author's Comments: I'm just going to quote the original author's comments I had on the piece when I posted it, since they're pretty detailed in their own right.
"With this, I wanted to take a step back and look at an alternative character interpretation of a much older model of Sonic. In the beginning, the games held a simple if poignant environmentalist moral, shown in Eggman's perversion of nature, by zones like Chemical Plant and Oil Ocean which showed the destruction of the environment. Although that message became less obvious in later games, it still persists. With that in mind, it isn't hard to think of the legacy Sonic might leave in human imagination after his death; a sort of elemental force personified, blowing into and out of people's lives like the wind. I also like the idea of his personality being deeper than it appears because of all the things he may have experienced on his travels. While it's quite close to an AU, I still like it."

Chapter 3: Reap What You Sow

"Monsters!" he groans, and frantically pounds the controls of his walker. The nearest Egg Pawn catches a round with its chest and explodes obligingly, littering the floor with some of the most advanced circuitry mankind has to offer. He crushes it underfoot in his walker as he retreats; it is of no use to him.

The day had begun with fire, crisp and blue with heat, licking its way through his hanger doors and devouring his new prototype. Awake and bleary eyed after a long night in the workshop, he took a moment to regret what could have been before throwing himself into the last model, the 'old faithful'. It took seconds for it to transform from cumbersome transport to deadly battler, but by then the robots had already rushed into the hanger.

Firing his jets, he traces a wild, haphazard path through the air above the fray, wincing when a stray bullet ricochets from the polished sides of his mech. Taking no chances, he swings hard left, and is immediately glad of it; where one bullet had lead a volley follows, droning like a squad of hornets as they pass.

Cutting his engines, he drops like a stone, hoping beyond hope that no Egg Pawns greet him as he lands. One does, but crumples underneath one great steel foot; it wasn't quite quick enough. The smell of oil and gunpowder hangs heavy in the air. With the very tips of his whiskers he senses the approach of death, and hastens from the hangar with all due speed.

The doors to his living quarters are too small for his mech, so he takes a few precious seconds to fire at the walls. The concrete weakened, he braces himself and charges through. Although weakened, it was still reinforced; sparks fly from his mech as it pulls the wall through the doorway with it.

Ignoring his furniture (so far untouched by the conflagration or the flying bullets) he charges through the next door, his teeth rattling in their sockets from the impact. He can taste the iron in the air, now, and silently begs his mech for that last little push; it has lain unmaintained for far too long. As he clears his kitchen, the wall explodes towards him without warning, followed by the concussive boom of sonic weaponry. A chunk of debris (concrete? Plaster? Piping?) catches him on the scalp; his head immediately begins to feel slick and he pulls on his goggles, conscious of blood falling into his eyes and blinding him. Somewhere in the haze of destruction, he sees a flash of red and black; the adversary.

Making one final dash for life and freedom, he barrels through the final wall of his house and emerges into glorious, sweet air that quickly turns foul and brackish with the scent of smoke in his lungs. But he knows his enemy approaches from the side, and he has effectively outflanked him; if he keeps running, he'll get away to find help and safety elsewhere.

At the very edge of his vision, he sees a flash of blue arc under his mech from the left flank and then rise from the front; it moves too fast for him to even think of hitting, and flies so gracefully that he's not sure his aim would suffice anyway. In the split second it takes him to register it and ponder what it is (a new type of flying drone, perhaps?) he misses the tell-tale beep of a timed explosive about to detonate.

He is, therefore, more than a little surprised when the left leg of his mech explodes violently under him.

Bracing himself for secondary impact a quarter of a second too late, he crashes through the protective cockpit glass and tumbles to the floor. For a second he tries wildly to get to his feet and run, but his legs are wobbly from the surge of adrenaline, and the effort would be futile anyway; his adversary walks up to him casually, wearing his uniform of red and black and with his face still discernible under the layer of soot.

Looking back at his totalled mech, and ahead at an adversary that has thoroughly outplayed him, he feels the iron weight of defeat upon his shoulders.

"Well played," he says. "Well played, Tails."

Tails rubs the soot from his face and grins a little more bitterly than he used to. His greatcoat, long, red, and cut shabbily above the knee, is charred and smells bitterly of fuel. Like his scuffed black trousers, it's hard-wearing and durable, probably layered with teflon or perhaps something even more advanced to make it viable body armour. Anything heavier would disrupt flight, and anything lighter would be a waste of time.

"You knew it was coming eventually, Eggman," Tails says, almost sadly. "Nice work, Cream."

Silently moving into view, the rabbit smiles; she, too, has changed since Eggman last saw her. Taller, more confident, and dressed much the same way as Tails; clearly, whilst the fox's armour design has advanced, his fashion sense has not. The flash of blue curves down from the clouds and alights on her shoulder; Cheese, with all the latent power of a much-loved chao, looks at Eggman's mech with interest, quite aware of the damage done by the explosive it placed.

"You disappeared on us for a while there, you know. You should be proud. I almost thought you'd gone straight, until I saw that a suspicious amount of radioactive material had gone missing from nuclear facilities nearby. Nothing that'd be missed in any one place, but over a bunch of them and a couple of months? You were getting dangerous," Tails explains, and takes a grenade from the pocket of his coat. He tosses it easily into the seat of the Egg Walker, and the explosion almost blows Eggman's ears out.

"But why? Why you? Why not Sonic?" the Doctor asks, sadly.

"Because, Mr. Eggman. You reap what you sow. We fought you for eight whole years. Eight long years. That's more than half my life," Cream explains softly. Some part of her cannot forget that he is an injured old man, as well as a mad doctor.

"In the end, we were the ones you hurt the most. You stole all that time from us, Eggman. And you made us what we are now. After eight years of war, did you never realise that we were starting to get good at it? That it might come back to bite you?" Tails asks.

"But, Sonic! He was my rival. If anyone-"

"-deserves resolution less than you, Eggman, I haven't met them. We're not kids anymore, and we've stopped playing games," Tails finishes, and for the first time, Eggman notes the new deepness in his voice. "Like it or not, this- us, the coup, your defeat- is all your fault."

For the first time in a long time, Cream sees a grown man cry. And later, for the last time ever, she watches Eggman struggle in his new handcuffs as he's led into the GUN base for his final punishment.

Author's Comments: This is standard "Oh noes, characters are being all mature bad future" stuff that you might see in the Sonic fandom, and it's actually very clumsy by my current standards. That said, there was a little bit of wry usage of some of the common fandom 'cool' tropes, such the longcoat description; I added those in simply to reference the fact that everybody ever does it. I ended up not playing the joke off, however.

Chapter 4: Useless

There's a fine line between love and giving someone a quick shove off the edge of a cliff. At least, that's what Rouge believes, particularly if that someone is Knuckles and that cliff is his stupid floating island with the stupid ultra-powerful magical gem.

"I'll get you for this, bat-girl!" he howls as he goes over the edge, but she doubts it. She's not exactly accustomed to being got. What she is accustomed to being is surrounded by gems and pursued by men, so the situation is fine by her.

As she stalks up to the emerald (the same colour as her eyes, no less, and just as flawless, even considering Knuckle's habit of breaking the damn thing), she's dully aware that she's supposed to be five hundred miles away, scouting out a weapons cache. This will probably mean some stern words from her boss, but she waves the thought away; after all, it's not as if the emerald isn't worth it, especially with the chance to kick an echidna off a cliff as an added incentive.

She is quite aware that it is useless to her. No dealer in the world would be stupid enough to buy it, and no museum willing to accept such an attention grabbing artefact without at least a cursory check on where it came from. Not to mention the fact that wherever it went, a very angry echidna would follow; faces would be broken, and lawsuits would be shot at her from left, right and centre, which would compromise her somewhat fragile status as one of the government's top agents.

She can't even secrete it away somewhere, either, given Knucklehead's innate sense of 'where the hell is the Master Emerald' and the fact that he's fully capable of anything she is, including robbing a bank.

But in a way, all gems are useless, and that was why she adores them. In her world, everything has a purpose. Her looks are tools of persuasion, and her wings tools for infiltration. Her boots were made for fighting, her clothes to distract. She makes her choices based on how useful they would be, and what for.

So these little lumps of crystal and stone, that look nice and nothing else, are like a breath of fresh air to her, one that she can gaze into for hours on end, inspect for flaws and lose herself in.

As she carefully lifts the master emerald from its plinth (she should have brought some hired help) she counts how many times Knuckles has let this sort've thing happen. It's not a small number. It seems the ancient echidnas weren't very good at picking guardians.

So, for whatever reason, in the three days or so it takes Knuckles to track her down and take the emerald back (in bits, again), she finds herself thinking a little more fondly of him than she usually does.

"Why do you keep doing this, bat-girl?" he asks as he leaves, one hand curled into a fist. "I'll always take this emerald back from you. Always."

"Because, Knuckles," she all-but-purrs. "You're just so...useless."

Author's comments: A little alternative interpretation on Rouge here. The question I wanted to ask was, "Okay, Rouge likes gems. Why, exactly?" If it was explained in canon, I missed it (beyond the obvious gems = money thing). It has a few interesting verbal tweaks that I ended up refining and carrying into my current style; the tone here isn't exactly what I would expect out of myself today, but it's quite familiar for semi-comedy piece.

Chapter 5: The Hands Of The Ultimate

"Fear the man who knows not where he goes, for he may appear anywhere". An old saying in the forgotten parts of the world, it rang curiously true for Shadow, when he first escaped captivity. Released into a world fifty years advanced from his making, the blurring greys and blacks of the city streets were a far cry from the pleasant green and blue orb he had seen aboard the Ark. All he knew were the Chaos Emeralds, their siren song echoing in his soul, and the revenge they promised.

He stretched out his hand at the window; from the dizzying heights of space, it seemed as though the earth were no more than an apple. He tried to close his hand around it, to understand the sensation from the motion. This orb, turning serenely...he wanted to control it, to hold it in his fist and crush it between his fingers. It seemed as though it was his purpose, his birthright, written in his very DNA.

Later, he grew to know the Earth and its inhabitants; the roguish, the wily, the ineffectual. Of secret agents and scientists, he knew much, but of newspaper stands and train conductors and compulsive gamblers, he was still ignorant. At that time, his memory still eluded him, and he searched for it in glades of amber wheat, in the jungles and in the deserts, in long forgotten ruins all crumbled with age and in the ever-expanding cities which threatened to breach the future itself. Slowly, he learned of the blue planet, and the people on it; slowly, he was born.

She saw him, at the window, his red eyes filled with a hate from without. She put a hand upon his shoulder, and shook her head; wordlessly, made him put down his hands, then stretched out her own. Overlapping each other, it was as if she cradled the Earth within them; and for the first time, the Ultimate Life Form began to realise what his destiny was to be.

His memories returned to him, he realised that he could never do what she had done, to carry the vast blue world in his hands. His were too covered in blood, and rightly so, for some battles needed to fought. And in fighting, he saved the world, with those hands wrapped in blood and golden violence; Black Doom fell.

Shadow the Hedgehog felt himself fulfilled then, and walked away with a smirk he would come to be familiar with. For whilst he could never carry the planet in such stained hands, he knew that someone, travelling the planet at the speed of sound, were a pair of hands very much like his.

Not, of course, that he had any intention of admitting it.

Author's comments: Meh. I have entirely forgotten what I wanted out of this piece; I think it was mostly about the idea that Shadow as a character tends to have a bit of a guilt complex. Oh well. And that was the last piece of Sonic the Hedgehog fiction I ever wrote, which seems somewhat sad. I should've abandonded things on a better note.

Well, that's it for this random Sonic flood. I hope you folks enjoyed it, even though it was some of my older, shakier work. (I was considering doing another gradual daily post of one of my FFVII stories, but meh; I don't think too many people would be into it, even within the small subset reading this. I still might, though, just to pass the time and artificially inflate my post count.)

[TheVulpineHero1]

So, increasing that there post count! I decided to post some of my FFVII stuff after all. It's actually very interesting; when I transfer these from site to site, I actually look at them more closely, and get a little bit of a retrospective on my work. It's a good thing to do.

The collection is Twenty Four Hours, one of the very oldest that I'm not ashamed of. I started it circa 2010. Looking over it, I think I had a bit of artfulness (for want of a better term) in my prose that I ended up losing over the years in favour of a less ornate style. I may actually try and get a little of it back, now that I've realised how strong it was in my older work; sometimes it's a little too much and the piece is overwrought, but it's very nice on the rare occasion I got it right. It's a Yuffentine (Yuffie x Vincent) shipping collection, with a main theme of each piece being 500 words exactly and with 24 chapters in all. Oh, and when I said shipping, I meant unapologetically, emphatically shipping.

Since I'm feeling lazy right now, I'll only post two today.

Chapter 1: Locks

The sun is shining, the grass is growing, the birds are flying. And Yuffie is removing Vincent's belts. Her soft fingers (surprisingly soft, given her background and profession) dance in unwitting circles over the places where his skin is most sensitive. He gives a groan, half full of annoyance and half full of something he doesn't want to admit exists, and rolls away.

Quicker than a flash, she has him pinned between her knees. She scowls like a petulant child, hits him in the shoulder, and gets back to the task in hand. He lies back, the knowledge that only a layer of leather separates his skin (every cell of which seems to be standing on tiptoes, reaching upwards to the warm woman on top of him) and her bare calves burning deep in his mind.

"Yuffie, do not do this." he moans, knowing that it will do no good. The ninja always got what she wanted, and right now she wanted his clothes to be off.

"Come on, Vince. We have to do this sooner or later. It may as well be sooner." she mouths, biting her bottom lip in concentration.

She cannot understand why her gun-slinging comrade wears so many belts. She understands, on one level, that it is most definitely not about keeping his trousers attached to his surprisingly lean frame. And that it is even more definitely not a fashion statement.

Deep in the depths of her heart, she completely understands why he wears so many belts, just as she understands why Red XIII tries to act so mature and Cloud is still trying to overcome the discomfort he feels around Tifa and Denzel. She understands that Red acts mature because he is scared of being a child at the wrong time, and that Cloud is uncomfortable because he's making sure that he's him, and not Sephiroth or Zack or anyone else that Tifa and Denzel might lose if he finds himself.

And she understands, in the deepest depths of her heart, that Vincent's belts are just one more symbolic layer of the restraints he places upon himself to prevent him from becoming a monster.

But Yuffie rarely visits the deepest depths of her heart, because she is too busy enjoying life. And so she understands but doesn't understand, choosing instead to accept or change things as it suits her.

Her mind idly compares undoing Vincent's belts to opening a treasure chest. There were locks to unlock, and the treasure would be him. It would be worth the effort.

In the end, she triumphs over his (admittedly feeble) efforts. His belts slither to the floor, and she yanks off his trousers without ceremony.

Underneath the leather, the blood pools. The wound on his thigh weeps red and demands her attention. Her Restore materia is at home (or so she says).

Smiling, she takes a photo of his boxers on her phone for future reference. Then, she grabs a potion, and gently begins her work.

Author's comments: Ah, memories. Once upon a time, one of my favourite tricks was to try and trick people into thinking I was going to write a lemon scene, then fake them out at the last second. This was pretty much an example of that policy. I still quite like it stylistically, though. (By the way: this piece was from an era where my grammar was not quite as good as it might have been, which is why those speech tags end with a full stop instead of a comma. I'm book dumb when it comes to grammar and formatting, having never learned them in great detail.)

Chapter 2: Half-life

His has been a strange and incomplete existence. He is man and monster, knight and dragon, quarry and chaser. And yet, in his world of paradoxes and fun-house mirrors, he has, on occasion, found what other men lack. A handful of things he is prepared to live for, and a truckload of things he is prepared to die for.

(When one has been sleeping in coffins for thirty years or so, death loses a fragment of its terrifying mystique.)

But even those things are paradoxes. He has lived for revenge, which, once achieved, flies from one's fingers and can never really be achieved. Once you have killed someone in revenge, they are dead, and anything you do to them is worthless. He knows this from harsh experience.

He has lived for a woman. A woman who loved and hated him at the same time, and to such a degree that it tore her apart, forcing her to become cold, hard and clinical- the very opposite of love and hate. In the end, she became a little like he had become as a Turk- a machine for achieving an objective, regardless of personal cost.

Now, that woman floated somewhere between life and death, a formless enigma on the edge of obscurity. He believes that she has passed on, but then he also believed Hojo had passed on.

He has lived for death. Without hated enemies against which to wage war in the name of peace and love, he decided to wait, in silence, as he had before, until the hourglass of his life finally ran out of sand.

He has lived a half-life.

And yet, none of this seems to matter to Yuffie Kisaragi. He knows it should, and he tries to impress upon her that she will be drawn into his world of shrouded edges and twisted perception.

She smiles and calls him crazy. But then tells him it's all right, because "everyone's crazy except for me, anyways". He wonders (foolishly and out-loud) if it is better to be crazy or sane in this world of paradoxes. She says, with the childish cruelty she has at times, that if he wishes to fall in love with someone who's nuts he should give Cloud a telephone call, and then they can be emo together. He sighs.

"But, Yuffie. I have lived a half-life. An incomplete life." he says. His soul, floating like motes of dust in an ether he does not care to name, strains against the world to make her realize quite how serious he's being.

She takes a step, two steps, carelessly showing off the awkward grace of her new-found maturity. She presses a finger to his lips as he opens them, and her other hand goes to his heart. She mimics the drum-beat she finds there with the unassuming wisdom of a child, and the sharp understanding of an adult. She, too, is a paradox.

"Half-life, huh?" she murmurs, smiling. "Why not share mine?"

Author's comments: Again, I actually like this, in stylistic terms. The whole soul floating like motes of dust thing is a little too purple for my tastes, but I miss writing like this, in terms of metaphors and symbolism. I really need to work on something with this style, but with some of the polish of my later stuff.

More tomorrow~

[TheVulpineHero1]

Well, it's tomorrow, at least where I am. So, updates.

Chapter 3: Moon

Something dark breaks from the clouds, soaring with reckless violence towards something darker still. Yuffie bites her bottom lip as panic writhes in the pits of her heart. When did she start caring this much, exactly? Maybe it was Nero, with his darkness, cloaking her in the same black shroud that lay inside Vincent's soul. In those moments, every movement Vincent has ever made, and ever word he has ever spoken, suddenly became set in radiant crystal in her mind.

And now, for the first time in her life, she understands him.

He dives into the blackness again, cloaking his light with talons and wings and violence. And he flies with no regrets into a blackness that is even greater than himself.

But how can black win against black, she wonders?

And as the question echoes inside her, she realises that this is the last battle in his war.

***

The days pass like months. The Cerberus Relief, the only evidence he was even there at all, glimmers in her pocket, one beastly head peeking above the cusp. Nowadays she wears shirts, for that reason and that reason alone; so that she can feel the cold silver next to her heart.

On the longest nights (because all nights were long, even before his disappearance) she feels as though the metal represents a promise. Not a promise from him to her, because he'd never promised her anything, but from her to him. She understands him now more than ever, and is almost certain she's the only one who does. Who else has felt the dark flames that lapped eternally at his heart? Who else knows him for what he really is, at the centre of the shadows and the murk?

But most important, she understands how it feels to see the entire world pass you by as you wait for someone who might never come back.

And so, she silently promises him that she'll be there, if he ever does. Because she understands him, and he needs that. At least, she prays he does.

***

She howls, and beats her fists against his chest. As she hammers blows upon his unresisting frame, she doesn't realise that her hands keep rhythm with his heart. She cries, on the point of collapse, and feels his arms supporting her so gently she could scream.

"Yuffie. I'm sorry to have worried you." he says, voice thicker than usual.

"No, you aren't." she says bitterly. She understands him. She knows.

"It was...necessary." he says. She cries again.

Jealously rages fiercely within her, and she doesn't know why.

So perhaps she doesn't understand him yet. But people can take a lifetime to understand.

He understands. He has had his lifetime, and lived it in a few short years. It was necessary to return to the darkness for a time, in order to bid farewell to it.

The moon shines brightly in the blackness, but cannot escape it.

For the first time, he is not the moon.

Author's comments: Dem scene breaks! Also, this was apparently from the part of my life where I gave more than 0.375% of a crap about canon. I also used to love writing in the present tense, apparently. I still do, to be honest, although I can't say why.

Chapter 4: Diamond

Her hands are beautiful. She has long, slender, elven fingers- so very suitable for dipping into pockets or purses, for purposes that befit an imp more than an elf. Her knuckles are so small they don't seem to be there. Her nails are filed with military precision so as not to snag on the silken seams of the Wutaian upper class.

And yet, below the knuckles which hardly seem to be there, below the slender fingers that steal and snatch, battle is painted on her palms.

Her lines of life, head, and heart have all but been erased by the harshness of the life she has lead. Her palm has been cut, scored and notched by the weapons she wields. Some cuts are barely noticeable, tiny red marks bought in a few days and healed in fewer. Those are the new cuts.

The older cuts are embossed with sallow pink, arching across her palm like an arrow shot skywards. The scars tell the story of a time when those elfin fingers were shorter and thicker, those knuckles yet smaller, those nails not yet shortened for their larcenous task. They tell of a time when a child's hand wept red onto the unyielding stone of the many-faced mountain, and of a child who spilt her own blood as if it would never run out.

They tell of a girl who foolishly believed that, by giving her blood to blade and stone, she could restore the life of a dying culture.

His hands are beautiful. Or, perhaps not; one of them certainly is, but the other remains sheathed in metal, like an ancient warrior's noble sword. The hand he shows is worth showing. The fingers are long and elegant, tapering to a point with some shadowy, understated menace. They are strong, efficient fingers, toned for one motion and one motion alone. As they tense around the butt of his gun, the menace bursts forth with lead as its escort, and his purpose is fulfilled.

His palms are curious and unnatural things. The lines meant to proclaim his fate to anyone brave enough to read them are warped and featureless. There are merely broken shadows where a destiny was once scribed.

Perhaps, of course, the lines have migrated elsewhere. His fate has been rewritten by a fool who played God; mayhap the jester that writes upon the hand knows it, and has made adjustments. Whatever the truth, his lines have moved to places they should not be, pushed from place to place by the sprouting of beast's claws and demon's talons, and no longer show one heart but many.

Their hands are different, yet similar. They seem to fit easily with each other, as one half fits with another. Their palms are no longer the map of their fate; they are free to wander the paths of life without compass nor sextant.

Their hands are similar on one other count. Upon the third finger, both carry a diamond that shines with many faces.

Author's comment: Hand fetish much? Also, some of my early vocab choices puzzle me nowadays. Seriously, who says mayhap outside of ironic internet communication?

Chapter 5: Incalculable

Incalculable

The outline he traces frames her every curve. The movement is mechanical, lacking fluidity and grace; he is constantly correcting his mistakes with brushes of his fingertips, trying again and again until he gets it just so. She feels a warm shiver escape from her core as his eyes flash towards her with some shadowy and hazy passion. His motions never stop, never cease; he's doing it for her, he tells himself, and he cannot settle for anything less than perfection.

His movements slow; she sees a bead of sweat trickle down his brow as his eyes flicker shut with exhaustion. They've been going for hours, learning to see and feel each other. She feels sweat start to gather on her brow in sympathy, and suddenly she's exhausted too, even though she's just lying there.

The warmth of his gaze leaves her for a second, and the goosebumps on her skin prickle. Jealousy, unfounded and misleading, stabs her in the back. This is too intimate for him to look away, and to think that his attention is elsewhere sharpens her appreciation of him to a knife edge. Suddenly, she sees every motion, every glance, every blink, and false significance towers in all of them.

She's aware, as she shifts position without him having to ask, that it's early in their relationship to be doing things like this. She doesn't care, particularly; baptism by fire has always held a delicious sense of panic for her. He licks his lips without realising it, and she yearns, whole hearted and unashamed, that he'd find a better use for it. But alas, his tongue retreats behind his lips; she swears to retrieve it later, whether he likes it or not.

Another brief and mechanical swish, and his eyes are back on hers. She sees what she feels reciprocated there; a deep, burning heat. But he seems almost taken aback by her intensity- or is he taken aback by his own? She wonders, but again decides that she doesn't care. She's tempted to stop playing around, and instruct him on how to do it right, but she knows that he needs to find it out on his own, with deft movements of fingertip and thumb.

The imperceptible signal in his eyes appears again, and she moves with intuition. Her youthful muscles support her slight frame as she manoeuvres, and she can almost feel his eyes burning a hole into her back as she twists and folds into a more enjoyable pose.

This marks the final straw. He can go no longer, and releases wistfully. A brief sigh, and his shoulders fall; he can endure no more of this pleasant torture.

She stalks over to his stool, not bothering with modesty. She leans on his shoulders, appraising the exercise. On the canvas is her, over and over, unprotected, unclothed, unashamed. His brushstrokes are still too mechanical. She smiles, though. It might not have much value, but to them, it is symbol of their priceless mutual trust.

Author's comments: More pseudo-sensual fiction from Past Me. I also used to have a bad habit of picking titles only tangentially related to the story, and even then they were only related in my own mind. A few slip ups here and there, as well as some awkward wordings.

Chapter 6: Wind Chime

Of all the things he loves about Yuffie, her noises are the ones he loves most. He doesn't quite know why, although he thinks it might be because she's so very loud when she makes them. She knows no restraint, and a part of him wishes feebly that he could be so brave and unashamed.

In the mornings, she snorts. In the evenings, she snores. He contemplates how one little letter changes the composition of the word and the sound so completely. Her snorts are full of grumpiness and derision; her snores are full of softness and laughter in dreams. And it's strange, he thinks, that the snoring is the more pleasurable and comforting of the two noises, and yet it's the one she resolutely denies making.

"I do not snore, Vincent Valentine." she snorts, taking another mouthful of coffee and wincing. "And how many times have I told you to use double cream?"

She tuts immediately after she says this. In truth, he knows exactly how to make her coffee, and he used single cream on purpose. He just wanted to hear her tut, the brief exhalation of air that he's trying so hard to understand.

He could just ask her to tut, but something stops him. It would make him seem strange, the rational part of him says. The irrational part, which is usually correct when it comes to dealing with Yuffie, knows that she will simply smile and comply, and that's why he doesn't ask. If he doesn't ask, it almost becomes a game to get her to make all the noises he so enjoys. And, in playing the game as dangerously and as stealthily as he can, it's as if he's taking one step closer to being as brave and loud as her.

But, to play this game requires sacrifice. Which is why, when Yuffie has retired for her shower, he quickly takes up the paper and looks for anything regarding the adoption of kittens. This is because he knows that whenever Yuffie hears an animal make a sound, she feels compelled to imitate it. And he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing Yuffie meow.

He knows, however, that this is not exactly the most noble motive for adopting a kitten. Which is why he's still deep in thought, his pen poised over the adverts page, when Yuffie drapes herself around his shoulders and asks him what he's doing.

"Motorbikes." he says, looking around at the other ads for an excuse.

"Awesome! Get two. We can make our own biker gang. You've already got the leather trousers." she whoops, before walking off laughing at her own joke.

He smiles. Her laugh is like the wind-chimes that hang around their house. Not because of the sound, because that would be ridiculous, but because it takes only the slightest breeze for Yuffie to fill the house with sweet giggles.

Smiling in resolution, he picks up the phone to enquire about those kittens.

Author's comments: One of my cats had just had kittens when I originally posted/wrote this. I think the whole thing was just an excuse to posit the theory that it was impossible to not meow after hearing a kitten do it. Man, nostalgia!

More tomorrow, since I decided to post whore.

[TheVulpineHero1]

Do you know what day it is? Tomorrow!

Chapter 7: War

It had been a long time since she'd stood with a gun against her temple, taunting, daring them to pull the trigger. She was a frickin' ninja, and she wasn't scared of a guy with a gun. It was almost comforting to feel the familiar sensation of cool metal against her skin. It was more like normality, or whatever passed for normality these days. She remembered the first time she felt it.

"Thief."

The barrel of the gun was pressed against her forehead, letting her see the cool and deadly intent in his red eyes. There is no materia in the weapon, and it's her fault.

"Yeah, I'm a thief. I'm scum. What do you want from me? Haven't you got sins of your own?" she mocks. She can't hide the fact that she's trembling. She can't hide the way her pupils dilate, or the very real kick of fear that's surging in her stomach. All she can do is hide behind bravado, false courage.

"Give me an excuse. Just one." he says. She can see one eye looking at her, one eye on the sight of the gun, making sure the bullet will hit her just so. It occurs to her that he's a freak. She says so.

Something hardens inside of him. Something that demands subjugation from others as some sort of recompense for the horrors that he's experienced. It is that, and not him, that pulls the trigger. Or so he would like to believe.

The gun clicks. The chamber is empty. With all the bravery she can muster, she turns silently and walks away. It is her first true brush with death. Her head is held high, and he is baffled.

And ever since then, she and Vincent Valentine have been at war. They hate each other, with a passion, and the best part is that Cloud and company haven't even noticed. Their battles, waged with harsh words, always take place at night, with the moon as the only umpire.

In fact, she enjoys it. She's affecting him, breaking down that cold exterior to reveal the molten rage beneath. And that rage belongs to her, and only her. It's sick and wrong, but it's war and that's how you play. Capture, conquer, torture. The end.

Somewhere, her perverse enjoyment of the situation ends. Somehow, it's no longer her being held hostage by a two bit mugger outside of a bar. The act of pressing a gun to her head is suddenly intimate, profane, taking the memories of Vincent and spitting on them. Only his gun is allowed on her temple.

A shot fires. She grins as the captor falls, and the warm muzzle of a gun presses against her forehead. The darkest pits of her heart surge in triumph.

"You're mine." he says, darkly. The war goes on.

You're mine. Perhaps she was. Love stealthily possesses you. At least hate is honest about it. In between, she waits for the next bullet.

Author's comments: Oh shit, we got a badass over here. Old Me was apparently trying to be edgy.

Chapter 8: Interlude

He hardly knows why he's here. It must be some form of occasion, because that's the only time that AVALANCHE convene. Perhaps it's Christmas, he reasons. Everyone is drunk enough. It might have been, if there were only a tree, and some presents, and perhaps a few delicate flakes of snow. And something about a pack of reindeer, or something like that. He's forgotten, in that dark coffin, quite what Christmas is, or how to celebrate it.

Maybe Halloween? Halloween he remembers, because as a child he used to don a miniature blue suit and pretend he was a Turk. He didn't do trick or treat. He did Treat or I'll Break Your Kneecaps. And who would've guessed that years later, he'd be living out his Halloween disguise as everyday life? Irony has sharpened the memory.

But it isn't Halloween, because no plastic horns adorn Barret's head, Cloud has no bolts sticking out from his neck, and Yuffie has not made the less-than-tasteful decision to dress up (or 'cosplay', as she terms it) as Sephiroth.

And gods forbid that it be Valentine's day. He's sick of Cid making drunken puns on his name, and he's very sick indeed of Yuffie's insistence that, as he is wearing red and has a gun, he is the modern-day Cupid. And he fears the annual tiptoeing around Tifa as she looks wistfully after Cloud, who at times looks wistfully at Tifa, at times looks wistfully at a picture of Aerith, and at far more frequent times looks wistfully at his pint of beer, wishing it would magically refill itself without him having to stagger over to the bar.

Maybe, then, it's one of those no-name holidays that no one really observes, but is a good excuse for a lashing of alcohol. He can't blame AVALANCHE if it is. They, as a group, have been through enough that maybe excessive alcohol is justified for them, at least once in a while. He was presented with a beer upon entry, but he allowed it to sit unnoticed as he brooded in his corner booth, until Yuffie finally put it to some use by throwing it all over Cid.

Maybe it's one of the holidays dedicated to them. He hasn't bothered to learn the dates, or even the names of these holidays. All he knows is that sometime in the summer, he will be mobbed by the press if he dares venture into the city.

Yuffie, drunk as a clam, staggers over.

"Enjoyin' the interlude, Vinny-vin-vin-vince?" she slurs.

"Interlude?"

"Yeah...Party ended, sourpants. We're having another one tomorrow, though." she winks conspiratorially.

"Why?"

"To celebrate the fact that you turned up for this one. Duh."

No one knows what's around the corner. This period of drunken friends and forgotten holidays may simply be an interlude between two periods of darkness. It would be folly to waste it.

With that in mind, he tentatively asks Yuffie for a beer. She throws it at him.

Author's Comments: One of my worst and most reccuring habits is to seasonal stories completely out of season. Every July, I end up writing a Christmas themed piece, and I never know why. I didn't actually have anything to say about this when I wrote it, and that hasn't changed in the years since.

Chapter 9: Cuisine

There is nothing that Yuffie enjoys quite so much as the opportunity to not have lunch with Vincent Valentine.

It isn't, as many believe, because he lives in a coffin buried under a mansion where ghastly experiments have taken place. Yuffie has grown accustomed to such surroundings in her quest to annoy the one man she knows who always carries a gun. (It has, however, ruined her appreciation of ghost trains.)

And it isn't, as many believe, because the man himself is a silent, brooding ex-Turk who believes himself to be responsible for everything that goes wrong in the world at large. She's grown accustomed to him, too, and she can say she has no worries about his sanity. (Although she makes sure to tease him about nooses and razors whenever possible, often in the poorest taste.)

It is, surprisingly, because of the same reason she never frequents Cid's house for dinner. It's because the food is terrible.

In Vincent's strangely monk-like lifestyle (he at least has the vows of chastity and silence under his belt), he maintains strict routine with regards to mealtimes. It comforts him to have one area of the modern world that he can control. And he breaks his routine for no man.

At breakfast, he has a bowl of muesli. He doesn't know why, but it seems fitting for him. He's tried bran flakes and they just aren't the same. And he cannot comprehend the mysteries of Wheetabix. (He does not even consider the possibility of bacon and eggs- mainly because he has no working refrigerator, and he has no desire to spend his time in a mansion that smells like rotting pigs and decayed yolk.)

For dinner, he stays true to the tried and tested ratio of meat and two veg. This means he must travel to the shop each and every day, which has the pleasant side-effect of exposing him to fresh air once a day. It scares the locals as to why he buys cuts of raw meat every day (they imagine him to be feeding the mansion's monsters), but he talks only to the grocer, who does not enjoy his company but enjoys his money.

For lunch, he makes sandwiches.

And Yuffie wouldn't mind the prospect of eating sandwiches with Vincent, were it not for the fact that the only thing more leathery than the bread he buys is the cheese he puts in it. (The only thing more leathery than the cheese is his trousers, and she steadfastly resists any and all urges to cut those into slices and serve them on crackers.)

However, when she receives his 'telegrams' ("Gawd, learn to text, Vince!") she sighs, and prepare her stomach for yet another injection of raw tastelessness. She realises that he's making an effort, and that it's important to him.

She also realises that she owes him an invite to lunch. And she has a recipe for Super Spicy Dragon Fire Soup that she's been dying to test on someone...

Author's comments: I've always loved derping around with little character building things like this. Little things like what characters have for lunch or what magazines they read seem to fascinate whatever bit of my puny ape brain does the writing. It gets worse as time goes on. One of my semi-recent MLP pieces basically amounts to 'Celestia has a beanbag, Luna thinks Cheerios are the goddamn shit' but I took three thousand words to say it.

Chapter 10: Missive

Dear Vince,

How did you lose your phone? Letters suck. I mean, honestly. I'm a ninja. I hold shuriken, not pens. Still, Teef says that if we don't write letter we'll all lose contact and you'll get all depressed and you'll trigger the apocalypse with your emo-radiation. (Well, she didn't say it in those words. She said it in Tifa language. But I translated it into something more awesome.)

What d'ya write about in letters, anyway? I mean, eew. I have a huge piece of paper and nothing to say. It's like school, or doing WRO paperwork. Well, write me back, okay?

From Yuffie

P.S: Btw and fyi, Cloud says hi. He also says that Cid wants to take you bowling, but he thinks you've got enough balls in your love life.

***

To Yuffie Kisaragi,

In regards to your letter:

I do not understand your postscript. Please clarify.

Sincerely, Vincent Valentine

***

Dear Vince,

You have GOT to be kidding me. What, you want a translation? Btw: By the way. Fyi: For your information. And I was making a funny joke. Funny: Something which incites laughter. Joke: You. Hah hah.

Anyway, Cloud actually did say hello. He's really busy recently, but he says he's gonna stop by at your place if he gets chance. It'll be like a sleepover, huh? A big emo pyjama party, complete with makeovers and pillow fights. Y'know, I might drop by for a visit sometime, too. I could use a laugh. Tifa's working me like a donkey, I swear. A young, sexy donkey. You know you're turned on by that image. But keep your pervertedness to yourself when I visit, ok?

From Yuffie

P.S: Got any letters from Red yet? Are they covered in slobber? Teef says that letters are really romantic- imagine Nanaki coming on to you!

***

To Yuffie Kisaragi,

In regards to your letter:

I see. I am unfamiliar with some of your abbreviations, although I am aware what 'funny' and 'joke' refer to. (And it is not me.)

Regardless of whether Cloud arrives at my estate, I doubt he will stay the night. I would imagine that Shinra Mansion has somewhat unfortunate memories for him. I do not wear pyjamas.

Your theories regarding donkeys are completely unfounded.

Sincerely, Vincent Valentine

Postscript: Letter-writing is considered romantic in many cultures, and the phenomenon is well documented in literature.

***

To Yuffie Kisaragi,

I have not received a response to my letter. I fear mis-postage.

Sincerely, Vincent Valentine

***

To Yuffie Kisaragi,

Still no response. Cid tells me he hasn't heard from you. I'm growing concerned. Please contact me.

Sincerely, Vincent Valentine.

***

Dear Vince,

Sorry. I've been travelling for a little while. I'll be coming up for Nibelheim in about a day or so. Got in trouble with Tifa. Told you I'd visit, didn't I?

It's kinda cute that you're getting worried about me. Either you're lonelier than I gave you credit for, or you're taking the whole 'romantic letters' thing way too seriously!

Love from Yuffie

xx

Author's comments: One of the reasons I liked using Vincent as a character was the potential for dry humour. People who are comically unfunny have always amused me. This has hints of the blunt, practical lack of humour that I ended up making fun of so many times during my stay in the fandom.

More tomorrow~

[TheVulpineHero1]

Tomorrow has arrived. Ain't it grand? Only two pieces today, for scheduling reasons.

Chapter 11: Rebuttal

He breaks fiercely over the cobbled streets, a wave of potent rage that swamps passers-by, but pools around the feet of the one it's directed at. The waiter, an unlucky fool, stands like a rock out to sea- not yet consumed by the tides, but surrounded and without a hope. And despite the fact that there's only one angry customer, and that angry customer hasn't even said anything, the waiter feels overwhelmed. And then, it begins.

As Vincent donates a healthy slice of his mind to the Ye Olde Junon Cake Shoppe and anyone stupid enough to go near it, Yuffie smiles laconically. The waiter, who's never seen her before, explains that he most definitely wasn't staring at her chest, and that under no circumstances would he ever 'tap that'. But bullets, experiments and having his heart practically ripped out by a sadistic Tsviet didn't stop Vincent Valentine, so a little thing like the truth never really had a chance.

Yuffie feels bad for the waiter. Well, no, she doesn't, but she sympathises with him. How many times has she stood toe to toe with Vince, hearing him rant on morals and principles and other junk that isn't going to help her steal stuff? Still, he's suffering for a good cause- her amusement, among other things. As Vincent stalks from the café, Yuffie folds herself out of her chair and winks at the waiter, as if to say that she's done him a massive favour.

And she has. Not only has she ignored the fact that he said he wouldn't tap her (normally, she would have kicked him in the crotch so hard that he'd have two new Adam's apples), but she's saved his life, in a roundabout kind of way. Because, with his mystery and his sternness and his calm in battle, few people realise that Vincent Valentine is a very angry man.

With her penetrating eye, Yuffie knows where his anger comes from. Mainly, Hojo. Sure, Vincent may have wanted to repent for his sins, but the main reason he got up was to blow a hole in that scientist's forehead, and maybe then go and blow one in Sephiroth's because he was related. For thirty years, a storm of rage brewed in a coffin-sized teacup, and just because Hojo and his offspring were dead didn't mean that it was dissipated. Deepground hadn't helped that much, either- it only added fuel to a dying fire, making the anger flare up again.

The only way to relieve the anger is to express it. And whilst Vincent being angry is bad, Vincent being mega super mondo angry and going on a murderous Galian Beast rampage is worse. Mainly because it's summer and Vincent is moulting, never mind Galian. Thus, Yuffie's victimisation of innocent waiters.

She thinks it's cute, actually, that Vince defends her honour. But it pales in comparison to the fact that when Vincent storms from the café, they leave without paying. And there's no cake like free cake.

Author's comments: Take note, Past Me: it is impossible to smile laconically. Laconic is an adjective pretty much exclusive to forms of written or verbal communication. You don't smile using few words.

Chapter 12: Needles

Like many people, Yuffie doesn't like the dentist's. For one, there's always that strange, sterile smell that permeates everywhere, even the waiting room and the bathroom and twenty feet outside the building. It's so strong that it drowns out the perfume of the woman sitting behind the counter, who's either blonde and attractive in a way that just reeks of cynical, sexist marketing techniques, or is a podgy, middle aged and nice in a secretary kind of way, but who also takes five minutes to type her own name into a computer and holds up the phone line talking to her grandson. And then there's the dentist.

The dentist is always strange. It's also always a man, for reasons no one can understand, but which probably have something to do with the fact that a dentist is one of only a few members of society who get paid to put on latex gloves, insert their fingers into a warm, moist hole, then stick a drill in and turn it on. It's always a faintly violating experience.

That's not even getting on to needles. She shudders even to think of them. Honestly, who thought that was a good idea? "Let's get a sharp, pointy object, fill it with who-knows-what, and insert it into somewhere soft and fleshy." Just no.

Which is why, when Yuffie is called to receive treatment for yet another cavity, she brings a secret weapon. She brings Vincent.

At first, she doesn't really see him as a secret weapon. Really, it's just that his cloak is all musty and she can bury her nose in it to block out that weird sterile smell. However, it does amuse her in some small way to see him trying to read magazines with his metal arm. Especially as he forgoes the lad's mags that are 'hidden' under a potted plant, and goes directly for the obscure hobbyist magazines that you can only find in the dentist's (possibly in the hairdresser's). And seeing Vincent Valentine try to read Sewing And Embroidery Monthly is a rare treat.

However, his secret-weapon-ness is immediately activated when he follows her upstairs to the dental studio. To her great surprise, the Dentist looks up, looks at Vincent, looks down, looks back at Vincent, and then looks terrified. He invites them in with a stutter, instead of doing the whole 'Wizard Of Oz' thing where he tells her to lie down because he is The Dentist and he Knows Best. Then he escapes to find x-rays which were never taken.

"You see," Vincent says when she asks, "I refuse to take needles. After Hojo's experimentation, they have...unfortunate associations for me."

"...So what?" she asks, thinking idly about bubblegum now that her dentist's appointment is all but cancelled.

"I merely elect to take the procedures without anaesthetic, of course." he sniffs. "If they refuse, I ask them if they'll take a look at Galian's teeth afterwards."

She laughs so hard her teeth hurt.

Author's comments: More 'oh man, characters in everyday mundane situations how amusing lolololol'. Probably the best observation here is about the magazine choice in dentist's, hairdresser's and doctor's receptions.

And with that, we're exactly halfway through the collection.

[Petzi]

Not gonna lie, the first post was tl;dr I'm not too familiar with Final Fantasy or Pokémon, do you have any non-fanfic literature I could indulge in? Sorry if you've already posted it, but it's kind of hard to tell what's what from the bolded parts.

By the way, you should totally enter the Writing contest in the gazebo. But hurry, because I'm sure someone will find a judge really soon :P

[TheVulpineHero1]

I do write original fiction sometimes, but I don't post it anywhere. My logic is that a) people probably won't be interested and b) if a miracle happens and I get good enough to make money off the hobby, I won't be able to sell or repurpose anything I've already put up for free on the internet. Sorry about that.

Also, I did see that contest when I first signed up to the site, but I disagreed philosophically with the initial judging criteria that was posted so I never bothered entering. By which I mean, I was too lazy.

[Petzi]

Alright, fair enough.

Though you probably could sell something you've already posted for free, as long as there's some new stuff as well. If there's a book with short stories or so, you could throw in a mix of published and unpublished ones.

[TheVulpineHero1]

Alright, fair enough.

Though you probably could sell something you've already posted for free, as long as there's some new stuff as well. If there's a book with short stories or so, you could throw in a mix of published and unpublished ones.

I probably could, but I honestly wouldn't feel right about it. I don't have much in the way of artistic integrity, but if a guy pays for eight stories, he should get eight stories worth of value, not seven stories and one story he didn't actually need to buy if he knew where to look for it.

In other news, I sort've let this thread sit for a little while, since I was busy actually writing stuff (as well as starting a text-only SRW: J lp over in the Let's Play forum). So, let's get cracking.

Chapter 13: Crossfire

Somewhere, somehow, a wire in someone's head has become unplugged, a message has been returned to sender and a word has disappeared in the eternal game of Chinese Whispers that makes up society. The world is a complex web of information, most of it worthless and all of it bewildering. And at the centre of that web sits a spider, who spins new strands of false data and places them where people will find and follow them, eventually leading them to a place they cannot leave.

Yuffie Kisaragi is going to swat that spider.

Because it's that spider that keeps yanking the threads to pull Vincent away from her. It's that spider that's orchestrating a macabre information puppet show, with the WRO as the main character and the fat spider itself as the antagonist. And Yuffie's afraid, because she knows that the play will be a tragedy, that Romeo will fall and Juliet will be torn with grief, all because Romeo can't break the strings of data that hold him in thrall.

Love and hate are pretty close. Both are four letters, one syllable, two vowels and two consonants. And Yuffie doesn't know if she's in love with Vince, not yet, but it's so easy to turn her love-that-might-be-love into hate, and to direct it at a nameless, faceless criminal sitting in a digital web. It feels like she's manning a cannon, switching ammunition to suit whoever gets in the way.

All she knows is that, Vince or Spiderdude, love or hate, hit or miss, she's got force. And she's gonna take that force and she's gonna yank Spiderdude's web right out from under him, like a cheap rug. She's going to tear it apart, string by string. And if she finds Vince, stuck and struggling like a fly, she's going to rip him free and then throttle him, because love and hate are a lot closer together than she thought they were.

Somewhere, somehow, a word has disappeared in the eternal game of Chinese Whispers that makes up society. So not one person in the criminal syndicate that the WRO was hunting knew that Yuffie Kisaragi was going to burst through the door, hurling shuriken with haunting precision. No one could halt her advance, her feet and fist flying so fast that not a soul managed to draw their gun. And no one could know that her confrontation with her Spider would be short, sharp, and ever-so-satisfying.

A month later, Vincent surveys the scene. The WRO investigators are flummoxed, but he knows better. A set of familiar looking shuriken wounds on the boss give him a trail of information made for him and him alone, and he decides to follow it, wherever it may lead.

Yuffie yanks her thread, and loads her cannon. She still doesn't know if what's inside is love or hate. It's a secret. All that she knows is that it's got Vincent's name on it, and she doesn't want anyone else caught in her crossfire.

Author's comments: Probably the weakest out of the whole collection. I didn't like it when I wrote it, and I honestly don't like it now. Still, you know what they say about practice and perfection.

Chapter 14: Reality

Reality doesn't exist for humans. That's one of the first things he learned in his confinement. You can only view the world from your own mind, and if something is wrong with that mind, it's like looking at the world through a warped lens. But it's not just the image that twists; it's no illusion. If you change your mind, you change the very world in which you live.

So, reality is a moot point. It really doesn't matter what exists outside your mind, because your mind is where you're staying. But, without a concept of reality, doubt grows and festers like mould. And the mind changes, to become an altogether blacker place.

He's not sure that all that happened in the past few years- Sephiroth, the Remnants, Deepground- is real. He could just be dreaming in his coffin, waiting for someone to awaken him. His mind still wrestles with the concepts, in the end falling back upon itself.

The second thing he learned in his coffin was that the mind is always changing. If you put something into the mind, it will change it. These changes will also cause changes, leading to a never-ending cycle.

His body has been taken apart and reconstructed. Hojo has put monsters inside his very soul. That's what he's been told, by records and data. But because he knows this, his world changes. The monsters inside him become more concrete, more real. More threatening. And because he realises that they're more real, he hides himself away even more. His world doubles back on itself. He wonders what exactly is real.

It's a question, a riddle that has no answer. He can smash his mind against it all he likes, but it will still tower above him like a wall of steel.

His fingers ghost across her arms. He wants to reach out and grasp her hand for comfort, but she's still wearing gloves, and he craves the feel of her skin. In fact, she's still clothed, which is somewhat unusual. Her head is resting on his chest, and she burbles in half-snores. The nape of her neck is exposed, and her hair is falling onto his stomach and tickling him. He brushes it away with one hand, and she sleepily mutters something about bread. For a moment, he's envious. He'd give almost anything to be able to dream of simple things like bread and quilt covers and pranks, rather than the complex, spiralling mechanisms of philosophy and reality. But then her fingers twitch, and philosophy suddenly takes a backseat to the tingles dancing across his skin.

And, all at once, he finds the answer to his riddle, thanks to the warm woman in his arms. And he immediately feels stupid, because it's such a universal answer. It's a fearless retort to almost any question and almost any statement. He tests it on his tongue, and asks himself the question in his mind.

"Is this reality, or merely a passing dream?"

"Who cares?"

Author's comments: Eh. I think I was trying to be overly arty within the confines of the piece. Man, this collection is pretty seriousface thus far.

Chapter 15: Ardent

Ticker tape and confetti cloud the air like a swarm of locusts. And frankly, she would probably be happier if it were locusts. Her fingernails are pickaxes in the heel of her palm, points driving into the skin so hard they draw blood.

"I can't believe this." she seethes to Tifa. Tifa stays silent, but she's wearing her fighting gloves, and that always means bad things. The crowd buffet them forwards, shepherding them to the security barriers and the armed police, as if they know how much it'll make them suffer.

Reno is waltzing around with the police. He looks like he could be an ex-cop, with his electromag rod fastened to his hip like a baton. He has the same cocky, power driven attitude as a bent cop, too, always willing to do whatever it takes to put himself in front.

Tsung and Elena are at the checkpoints, making very sure no-one has any weapons. Except for Yuffie and Tifa. You do not frisk the women of AVALANCHE, no matter how high profile the event is, or how combat-trained you are.

They're probably out there doing grunt work for a reason. Tifa thinks it's because they have moral objections to the event; Tsung and Elena always were the nice ones. Yuffie things it's because Tsung gets bored working behind the scenes, and Elena will take any opportunity to try and impress him.

Rude's up on the platform with Reeve. The black sunglasses and the chrome dome make him the an intimidating bodyguard on any level. Reeve's squirming, his face drawn into a frown. The commissioner of the WRO is probably the least impressed at the turn of events. But he's obliged to be there, up with Rude and the Big Man himself.

Rufus Shinra. The treacherous name rankles in her gut. They thought he'd changed, but no. He'd been manipulative all the way through, even when they'd been dealing with the Remnants, withholding information until it was most profitable. And he'd done a blinder, this time. Let the WRO sweep away Shinra's Deepground fiasco and save the world, then show himself as the one who made it happen. Blame the 'Old' Shinra on his father. A-plus-plus for acting and strategy, there. And the people accepted it, and threw him a big old welcome back parade.

"Yuffie. We're in position." her walky-talky crackles. It's Vincent, at last.

"About time. Where's Cloud and Barret?" she asks, breathing low into the box.

"They're ready. We'll wait for the President's speech."

They don't actually know there'll be a speech. But Rufus could never resist one.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." he begins, with a flourish. Bait taken. They allow him five minutes of worthless promises, until he draws to his conclusion.

"And so, the triumph of my WRO shows one thing: anyone can change the world, if they try hard enough."

On the roof, Vincent adjusts his sniper rifle one more time, breathes, and prepares to change the world.

Author's comments: This piece is actually the reason I chose to only put up two pieces last time -- unlike all the other bits of this collection, it actually leads directly into the one after it. (The others, of course, are standalone.) I feel the premise is a little flimsy, but considering I only had 500 words to set it up, it's not too bad.

Chapter 16: Better

It's the moment of hesitation, the fraction of a second when the finger struggles against the trigger. That's the moment it all breaks down to, whether you can shoot or not before the opportunity slips away. Vincent Valentine is a monster and a murderer, and he's never let an opportunity escape him yet.

As his finger tightens on the trigger, Rude begins to move, as if by premonition. The sunlight reflects from his sunglasses as he turns and runs towards the President.

Like thunder, the gunshot crashes through the air. It's like a vengeful god has thrown down judgement, and the crowd becomes a hive of fear. But it's too late for that. That golden, elongated second spins on just a little longer before Vincent realises that he's hit the wrong man.

Time shatters. Cloud bursts forwards, blade akimbo. His face is as pale as bone, his eyes black with rage. Rude's different, the red flowing from his chest like a starburst, his arms and legs nothing more than meat. Rufus is rolling, rolling behind the desk, and Reeve's taking cover-

Phht. Yuffie's kunai leaps from its hiding place and into Reno's shoulder. The blood sprays out, as red as his hair, no, redder. Tifa and Elena are fighting, crushing, punching, and every sound is a broken bone, every noise is a shattered limb. Tsung pulls his gun, but Barret barrels into him like a bear, one metal arm whirring.

Anyone can

The crowd scream like animals, confused and broken by the violence, the blood-

change the world

Rufus springs up, gun in hand, looking for Reeve with wrath in his eyes. There's blood on him, but it's not his, it's not his, it's Rude's, and Rude doesn't have any to spare anymore-

if they try hard enough

Vincent's muscles snap into action. His fingers fumble with the bullet. The rifle topples. He doesn't know why he's doing this. He doesn't remember. Why? Is it for justice? For vengeance?

but

A shot fires and Reeve's down, one arm reduced to mere meat. Rufus wastes no time, flicking the gun back and reloading. Reeve rolls, but Rufus follows, his eyes looking coldly for the target. Cloud's coming, but the crowd thrashes against him. Yuffie snaps her kunai from Reno's shoulder, throwing away the man like he were a doll, but the soldiers are closing her down. They won't get there in time, Reeve's going to-

can anyone

There's no time, no time. Tifa's on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from her mouth, but she spits out the broken tooth and gets up before Elena can capitalise. Barret's taken a bullet, but Tsung is bleeding like never before. The bullet's in the rifle-
Reeve is screaming-
Yuffe is running-
Cloud is fighting-
Tifa is breaking-
Elena is howling-
Tsung is dodging-
Barret is roaring-
Reno is struggling-
Rude is dying-
Rufus is aiming-

Vincent shoots.

Anyone can change the world. But no one can change the past.

make it better?

Author's notes: At the time I wrote these two pieces, I was very enamoured by the idea of meta-narratives like the bolded text here; eventually, I would refine the technique a touch, and use it in Nostalgia to create the outside-context scenes there. Although I'm not really sure it holds up today, I do think the idea is solid, and I'm glad that Old Me decided to give it a shot. I don't use it anymore, but maybe I should try it out again sometime.

More tomorrow, I suppose~

[TheVulpineHero1]

First new post, ho! See edited OP for a more detailed introduction.

The story behind this one: Touhou stories, 100 words plus titles (according to my occasionally borked wordcounter), one per character who appeared in Embodiment of Scarlet Devil. Quality forecast: low to bad. I'll talk about them afterwards; expect the notes to be longer than the actual pieces.

1: Reimu (Border of Teatime)

Back straight and hands clasped, she stood in front of the shrine and offered not a coin, but a prayer.
“Kami-sama,” she said, “her voice grave and quiet, “I feel lonesome. Please, if only a 'certain somebody' could visit the shrine...”
There was a rustle behind her.
“...with some chestnut yokan,”, she finished, opening one eye.
Marisa grinned. “Your instincts are off, ze. I've got chestnut mushrooms, but no yokan. I'll trade you for a cup of your terrible tea.”
“Don't blame me for the god's mistakes,” she replied with a shrug.
At least it got the certain somebody right.

Notes: It's bad. First drabble I wrote in a long time. There really isn't much going on with this one, honestly. I feel like Reimu would have reacted more or less exactly the same way no matter who popped up behind her; I just have a small weakness for ReiMari. Obviously, it's less Reimu actually blaming or praying to the god, and more her fishing for treats from visitors using her intuition.

2: Marisa (Borrower)

Her fingertips smell like mercury, burnt and callused, as they drift enquiringly across the treasures of the world. She wonders, as she browses: is this small enough to fit in the hem of a skirt, or the brim of a hat? Could it be concealed in a palm or stored in a pocket? She takes without realising, for the simple pleasure of the act rather than the object. Sometimes, she takes without realising, and doesn't know why.
To the people she steals from, it's simple. Marisa can claim to be second strongest in Gensokyo.
But she's the first among thieves.

Notes: One of my favourite elements of Marisa as a character is that underdog aspect, the second-bestness and drive to improve that serves as an underlying motivation for her. However, I also like the tunnel-blind aspect of the character -- she has things that she's legitimately great at, but they're not the ones she wants, so she ignores them as useful skills. There's a bit of repetition near the end about (see: takes without realising) which was where I more or less ran out of words to do a make a rule of three with the repeats, which would have made it sound quite a bit less goofy and unintentional. That's the nature of the beast, I guess; part of writing within a deliberately small wordcount is deciding what to keep and what to cut, and I think in retrospect that I made some poor decisions here. Still, since I'm not aiming to show off or make myself look good, I can leave it without editing and just resolve to do a technically better Marisa drabble at some point in the future.

3: Rumia (A Duel At The Yakitori Stand)

Her expression is full of hunger, and perhaps a little mischief. When she speaks, it sounds grand. Eloquent.
Rehearsed.
“Hey, shopkeeper! Would you like to know something interesting?”
A second's pause. Two. It has to have impact.
“If you grill them, humans taste just like yakitori.” She beams like a child, proud of performance.
The yakitori seller smiles and brushes a hand through her pale hair. She, too, is no stranger to the dramatic.
“I'll tell you something interesting as well, shall I?” Fujiwara no Mokou replies, cracking her knuckles. “If you grill them, a youkai tastes just like yakitori, too.”

Notes: Rumia is a character I have little interest in. For me, she feels like a proto-Cirno with a variation of Mystia's skillset, but without the real identity of either. However, this drabble is actually one of my favourites from the collection from a creator standpoint. Although it's nothing special in execution, it allowed me to grasp things about my own interpretation of the characters that I wasn't actually aware of before -- for instance, that I consider Rumia's concern for her appearance to be her 'selling point', so to speak, and that she shares it with one of my favourite characters, Mokou, who (in canon) will sit there and starve halfway to death because she thinks it suits her image. Out of that came this odd little piece where two characters who can rarely ever be observed together share some threatrics (and Mokou shares an open can of implied offscreen asswhuppin' with Rumia.)

4: Cirno (Brief Encounter)

“Your wings are the strongest?” asked the lady in the western style dress, her expression hidden by the shadow of her parasol.
The fairy nodded, proudly. “You can tell because they're huge!”
“Ara... How impressive,” the lady replied, and smiled. “I hope they become bigger and bigger.”

When Cirno woke on the first day, everything was normal.
On the second day, her wings were twice as big.
On the seventh day, they dragged along the ground as she walked.
On the ninth day, Cirno tried to stand up, and couldn't. The strongest fairy in Gensokyo – beaten, by the strongest wings.

Notes: The time has come for me to speak one of the many great blasphemies of the Touhou franchise: I'm not actually a fan of Cirno. A lot of the time, I find her idiocy less endearing than just 'pure meh'. This is one of my least favourites in the set, and I don't have too much more to say about it other than to apologise for how uninspired it is.

5: Daiyousei (Drop In the Bucket)

People say she has maternal qualities for a fairy. So when she sees the village boy struggling to carry back a pail of water, her response is instantaneous.
And rejected.
“Do you think I'm an idiot? You're not gonna help. Fairies only ever play tricks!”
As she watches the boy stagger away, she realises the mistrust humans have of her race. Momentarily, she is hurt.
But fairies do not remember their wounds long. A week later, she waits at the well with a smile, for a boy she thinks is her friend. She's wrong. But she won't be wrong forever.

Notes: Daiyousei is, a lot of the time, just one of a few characters who revolve around Cirno's orbit. Canonically, one of the few things we can say about her for sure is that she's probably stupider than Cirno, who is after all one of the strongest and most intelligent fairies around. But, her general image is that she's more gentle and less mischievous. Ultimately, my interpretation of all this is that it is because of, and not despite, Daiyousei's questionable intelligence that she ends up being more gentle than her contemporary. Or, in other words, she's too dense to realise humans don't want to be friends with her, and her attention span is low enough that she forgets bad interactions. Keep trying, Dai-chan. One day it'll work!

I'll cut this post here for now, and (hopefully) post the others some other time. We're halfway through, more or less, so there's that.

[TheVulpineHero1]

6: Hong Meiling (Homeland)

Youmu glowered. Her master, on the other hand, was full of energy and life. She leaned forward, fists balled on her knees, rapt with attention.
“Tell me more.”
Hong Meiling nodded. “Well, I remember when we would make a broth with lean pork...”
Her hands moved as she talked, cutting, slicing, frying. She could almost taste the foods she'd made as a child in her home country, the cooking skills she hadn't used in so many years. She felt at once wistful and happy.
And so, in bites, grew the friendship of a homesick Chinese girl, and a hungry ghost.

Notes: This was, in much the same vein as the Rumia/Mokou one earlier, a drabble where two characters who don't seem to go together do just that. Having thought about it, I actually thing Meiling and Yuyuko would get along well; a natural extension of this piece would be a slightly longer one in which Meiling stays as a chef in the underworld for a while. I digress.

7: Koakuma & Patchouli (Little Devil Lost)

A scruffy bundle of black cloth and crimson hair, howling in the stacks of the library – that was how Patchouli found her. The little devil was barely clinging to a corporeal form, not strong enough to resist the pull of the demon world; it was a homeward journey she wouldn't survive, weakened as she was.
“Devils like this have no business leaving Makai,” Patchouli sighed, and began drawing up a binding circle. Although an unexpected visitor was troublesome, it would have taken far more effort to summon a devil from Makai herself for research purposes. Squandering opportunities was the mark of an inferior magician.
The magic that the devil had used to get there was, of course, a trap. It happened infrequently – a malicious joke from one imp to another, a grudge getting out of hand. It would transport the user from one place to another, true – even through boundaries no physical body could pass. But it did so by breaking the body down into magical energy, and then transmitting it. If the caster wasn't strong enough to re-form themselves on the other side, well... They probably would have done themselves in anyway, if they used magic so recklessly. All this, Patchouli knew in a heartbeat; the knowledge had been locked in pages she read long ago.
“Can you talk yet?” she asked, the moment her patient was more shivering wreck than nascent mana.
“...Talk?”
“Ah. Remi caught herself a cat, and now I've captured a parrot. I wonder what other pets we'll acquire.”
The girl looked at Patchouli, uncomprehending. It was to be expected. There'd been plenty of time for pieces of her to get dragged back to Makai... memories, feelings, emotions. And intelligence, Patchouli thought, appraising her blank-eyed captive.
“Are you my mother?” the devil asked.
Patchouli paused. It would be easy to say yes and observe the results. But cruel, too. She wasn't interested in the baggage it would come with.
“No.”
“My... sister?”
“No,” Patchouli said, and touched her hand to the brim of her cap. “Your master. I saved your life, and now you owe me a debt.”
She could almost see the cogs turning in the girl's head; it was a devil's natural instinct to try to wriggle out of a contract.
“Wait. You saved my life? Doesn't that mean you're responsible for my wellbeing now?”
“Not quite,” Patchouli replied airily. “This is a western style mansion. We do things differently.”
The devil pouted, and after a moment's hesitation, stuck out her tongue.
“If I see that again, I'll burn it off. Now, come. I'm going to dictate some work, and you'll transcribe it. You can copy, yes? That's the very basics, for a parrot.”
The devil watched as her new master turned and floated away across the library. She had no way of knowing how life would be, now that she had a grouchy, imperious witch to deal with. Her knees trembled as she gazed at Patchouli's back.
But she followed her anyway.

Note: This one wasn't 100 words, but 500. Koa is one of my favourite touhous, to the point where if my avatar wasn't Suika it might well be her, And Patchouli is a character that I like in canon, but don't have a great grasp of. This piece was me trying to explore Patchouli as somebody who perhaps is kinder than she lets herself imagine, but also operates according to a train of logic that's confusing on first meeting and doesn't really give any time to catch up. Other parts I spent essentially fluffing out things in the world for myself. Although Koakuma appears here, I decided that Patchouli should have the spotlight since it's in-keeping with Koa's origin as a side-character of sorts.

Also, this means that when you beat her in EoSD, Koa becomes Patchy's loser parrot.

8: Sakuya (Flawless)

“Get the back for me.”
Without answer, Sakyua complies. Her fingertips brush against bare shoulders as she weaves together strands of lace.
“How do I look?”
“You have presence, milady.”
“Ha!” Remillia laughs – sharp, curt, almost a bark. A laugh she'd never let anyone else hear. “You're so restrained.”
No reply. A pregnant moment.
“…Do you think it will go well this year?”
Sakuya's hand finds hers, and gives it a gentle squeeze. It's all she needed – given, without being asked. Truly, she's found a perfect maid.
“Well, then. Let's go and wish my sister a happy birthday, shall we?”

Note: Up until this point, all the drabbles were disconnected; with this one (and Meiling's), I started piecing together a little chain of events in my head that ran through the next few pieces. With Meiling's part, I had pictured them at a banquet in the Scarlet Devil Mansion; this little section was Remilia getting ready for said party, and also disclosing the full reasoning behind it. For whatever reason, I happen to think that Remilia is a character who would care disproportionately about birthdays and birthday parties -- something to do with her arrogance and childishness suggests that she'd keep up with the celebrations even given how many years she's lived. Because of that, I thought she'd definitely throw a party in Flandre's honour, even if she had no intention of letting her sister attend in person.

9: Remilia Scarlet: Ordained

She can taste it in the air.
The stagnancy surrounding their destiny is lifting. A sentence too heavy for even two vampires to lift is being broken down at the hands of tiny, scurrying humans.
But it isn't yet complete. There are intrusions she must contrive not to notice, and motivations that must be inspired. There are judgments to dull, and drinks to pour. But if there's a chance – any chance – she'll do it. For Flandre. For herself.
In the folds of her heart, she carries a spear named Gungnir – for Odin was a wise man, and fought his fate.

Note: I've written a few little things about Remilia, and I'm constantly surprised by how deep the rabbit hole goes; I was originally not that endeared of her, but the experience of toying around with this collection means she's actually shot up my power rankings. There's so much to explore -- her original home, which we can assume was in the west (which provides an interesting cultural divide), how she met Patchouli, her relationships with Flandre and Sakuya, her childishness, and also the idea of her powers over fate. As you might have guessed from the last sentence there, it isn't exactly lost on me that Remilia takes one of her most recognisable techniques from a god who was constantly fighting the inevitability of Ragnarok, and who also had some level of prophetic knowledge. There's more to Remilia than I'm really capable of capturing in such short pieces, and I'd love to do some longer ones sometime.

10: Flandre (Borrowed)

A wide-brimmed hat, and a lopsided stride – that was all it took to make her heart leap.
“Hey there, Flan. We snuck out from the party to see ya,” Marisa says. Her face is red and ruddy. “I'm gonna borrow you for a while, ze.”
“If this goes wrong, I'll smack you both down,” Reimu warns, slightly drunk.
“Flan won't do anythin'.”
She looks from one to the other – blind faith, and watchful vigilance. She think she can do it. She thinks she can try.
Upstairs in the study, Remilia smiles. And at long last, the sisters Scarlet smile together.

Note: Cheesy as hell, and I apologise for nothing. In my mind, it was a good way to end the mini-ark I accidentally cajoled myself into.

That's it for the EoSD set. I may end up doing a PCB set soon, but I'm wanting to do some other stuff in between, which may or may not make it to this page.