Where Reality Ends

She couldn’t breathe.

A hand at her throat, unforgiving, merciless.  Her hair spread about her head, a bloody halo upon silk.

Her body arched hard beneath his, bowing, losing track of whether it was pain- or pleasure- that she was meant to be experiencing.

No.  Even with her breath trapped and her will faltering while her life fled, the whimper of her own thoughts, echoing aloud, made her shudder.  Don’t.  I don’t want…

“No?” His laughter mocked her openly, and as he relaxed his grip upon her and the world wove drunkenly back into focus, handsome oriental features melted and shifted to a younger face, welding goggles pulled down around his neck. They bumped against his chin as he leaned forward to her, cruelty on his lips and violence in vicious brown eyes, the face no more than a mask to be worn and discarded.  “You may not say ‘no’ to me, little stone.  You belong to me.”

A second hand joined the first around her neck, and he smiled to her as he bore down upon her once more.

“There is no place you can run… not from me.  Not even death, will keep me from you.”

“Your life… belongs to me.”

 

Within You | As the World Falls Down

(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese)

((Mature Content Warning: The following post is rated Mature [NC-17] for Sexual Content, Language, Fantasy Violence, and Loki.))

 

 

 

 

The memory of pain reached her before full consciousness took hold.  Devastating heartbreak… a sweet, handsome face she hadn’t seen in three years; the Mother’s rage, a wild black fury that had no end, sated only in the punishment meted out with brutal, merciless passion.

By whatever miracle, her body was whole, hale, and unbroken. What resided beneath mere flesh and blood, however, was another matter entirely.

Distant, vacant eyes of faded jade turned slowly over the room as she gained her feet.  Pausing for a moment, she sought wistfully for the sense of strength and power that would have provided a fleeting sense of comfort, its absence indicative only that she had exchanged one prison for another.

Wings of a Butterfly – Part ??: Mizuage (A Prelude)

(Author’s Note:  All speech is translated from the Japanese)

 

 

Age 16

 

 

A flock of brightly colored hummingbirds fluttered and tittered around her.

They spoke- rarely to her- in girlish, reverent whispers, while their fingers moved with brutish efficiency over her face, hair and clothing, poking and prodding, pinning and tugging, combing and fussing with every millimeter of the budding woman that they could put their hands upon.

One stood upon a small stool before her, pecking at her porcelain features with a single-haired brush. Working steadily, she perfected the sweeping, kabuki red lines along her eyelids, highlighting her full lips in the same vivid hue.

Untitled–4:20 AM

Several hours after the events of “Alone in the Dark”

Sitting cross-legged on his room’s enormous bed, Avery downed the can of Red Bull in a single pull, then set it on his nightstand to join the growing legion of empties already there. Part of him wondered why he bothered; with the changes to his metabolism wrought by his newly-awakened ichor, the energy drinks probably wouldn’t wake him up any more than the all-nighter he was pulling would wear him out. Habit, I suppose.

He was on his laptop tonight. As amazing as the iPtah was, CAD work demanded a larger screen; the darkened room, lit only by his monitor and a single candle on the dresser—he’d been practicing earlier—made things hard enough as it was. Still, The Little Tablet That Could was lending a hand, plugged into the stereo’s line-in and playing random selections from his “I Need To Brain, Damnit” playlist—Holland’s “Conference Of The Birds” at the moment.

Wings of a Butterfly – Part Three: Endurance

(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese.)

((This post is rated PG18 for potentially disquieting scenarios.))

 

 

Age 7

 

Within the confines of a tiny, frugal kitchen, a thin, awkward child writhed on her feet and screamed in pain.

Two women stood with her, but seemed to be more the source of her agony, rather than her salvation.

The distinct crack of flesh on flesh filled the cramped space, a patch of furious color rising upon a pale, freckled cheek.  “You will be silent.”

The Hour of the Wolf

Her armor shed like a second skin, her undershirt draped atop the pearlescent plates and her underclothes set aside to be washed, Sylvia Brodersgard, alias Svipul, tosses and turns her naked, curvaceous body against the thin silk sheets and heavy quilted comforter. The insulating blanket, in this particular instance, is not exactly what it says on the tin, keeping her warm in the cold desert night but bringing her no comfort as her mind’s eye turns inward, searching for the troubling thoughts that disrupt her sojourn into sleep.

Avery Shippe – Description (Definitive Version)

Still coming to terms with a late growth spurt, Avery looks every bit the awkward, slightly nerdy freshman he is. He is fairly tall and thin (5’9”, 140 lbs) and looks taller and thinner still thanks to his unusually long, spindly arms and legs–his most visible resemblance to his divine parent. He has little muscle definition to speak of and looks somewhat frail, but is in surprisingly good physical condition. His long, unruly ash brown hair spills to just past his shoulders, with bangs that would fall in front of his sharp brown eyes but for the black, somewhat battered-looking welding goggles he usually keeps perched on his forehead. He boasts a longish, oval-shaped face, a rounded nose just a hair too large for it, soft facial features, a sincere, guileless smile, and an inexplicable near-absence of facial hair. The latter, combined with his long hair (grown out to cover his unusually large ears) has led people to misidentify his gender, to his annoyance.

Until recently, his style of dress was an afterthought at best: he would simply throw on whatever t-shirt and jeans were closest to hand and passed the “sniff” test. While he still occasionally leans in this direction, especially while distracted by something he’s researching or building (old habits die hard), since his Visitation he’s made some effort, within his limited means, to upgrade his wardrobe. As a concession to his newly acquired throwing daggers, he’s taken to wearing long-sleeved dress shirts, usually untucked. One thing he refuses to part with, makeover be damned, is his “bat-belt”, a black tactical web belt that he bought to hold his cellphone, multi-tool, voltage tester, folding pliers, mini-screwdriver set, and the myriad other tools that he uses on a regular basis. Anything that won’t fit on the belt (like his iPad, notebook, and so on) goes into a much-abused black Timbuk2 messenger bag, decorated with a University of Southern California patch and several Button Men game pins.

A Spark in the Night

As the Scions board the elevator, heading for the ground floor of the Wynn to seek out the errant Nataraja, Sylvia Brodersgard (or as her associates at this time know her, Svipul, a fact that is bred through the necessity of her situation) lays claim to one of the compartment’s corners, leaning hard against the solid steel wall frame and folding her arms over her chest. As the other Scions speak, she starts to tune them all out, receding into the corners of her mind. In the distance, she can hear other voices, screams of agony and of sorrow, weeping of regret, of loss, the distraught cry of the scorned lover, of the raped woman. Death pervades the city of Las Vegas, and in her experience, death pervades most major cities, especially ones that have hosted the larger groups of organized crime. This jewel in the desert is no different from the others. She brushes aside the echoes of death, reaching back into her memories.

The torchlit wooden hall clangs and rings with the sounds of steel striking steel as Sylvia clumsily guards against Hrist’s barrage of swings, the elder valkyrja’s spear set aside for a moment in favor of a long, wickedly-edged sword with a sharply curved head. Sylvia staggers back from a heavy blow and nearly falls on her backside before Hrist takes a step back of her own. “Useless,” she snarls, sheathing her weapon. “Since you cannot seem to deal with an attacking opponent, let us try something different. I want you to cut the timbers of the ceiling.”

Afternoon Wanes

Amid a mound of sheets, a blanket, and a quilt, a single, slim arm reaches for a ringing phone, thin, petite fingers grasping the receiver and lifting it off of its hook. A head pokes out of the snarl of cloth, a long mane of golden blond hair falling down broad shoulders and bare, perfectly-formed breasts as the owner of all of these disparate body parts desperately tries to focus through the pounding at the base and back of her skull. “Uh…hello?” Her crisp, cold blue eyes widen and blink as the voice on the other end of the connection gives her the same monotone message that it gives every day. She drops the receiver, the molded plastic dropping to the mattress with a soft thump, as she looks down beneath the heap of bed linens covering her supine form, taking in her utter nakedness. Confused, jumbled thoughts mix with the dry, cottony taste in her mouth as her cloudy mind starts to clear, forming a single word: Flunitrazepam. This word cedes to a single sentence: I was given Rohypnol. This sentence cedes to a flurry of expletives.

Tectonic Shift

((Author’s Note:  All conversation is translated from the Japanese.))

The deadbolt filled the silence of the pitch black suite as it slid home, a long-awaited finality of the shot that had never come.  Darkness moved within darkness, even the faintest rustle of silken fabrics grinding against the silence in cacophonic discord.

Steel whispered to the encompassing night in susurrated greeting, the only warning given before saturninity was shattered and shadow scattered to the farthest corners of the cavernous room.  The cold, crystalline light centered upon a tiny figure hovering above the plush duvet, straddling the shimmering pale expanse of blade that, nestled beside its sheath, was the only disruption of the comforter’s otherwise unbroken plane.

Duty

Late night, sitting alone in her room in the Wynn, staring at an old photograph, showing several people in police uniforms, a communist star on their shoulder, a younger version of herself in the front row, Agent Yi finds herself considering her new compatriots.  Thinking over the betrayals of the past, and how this new group had already stood with her, she finds herself f pulling open a notebook, in which she begins to write. (in english)

To my new comrades,

Should you find this, it likely means I have fallen in service to the gods.  Hopefully fate finds you in better sorts.   There is much I would like to discuss with you about myself, my past, and I hope that I get the opportunity in the days to come.

Everybody has something that defines them, some inner truth, some deeper purpose that drives them to do what it is they do.  Be it faith in a higher power, or hunger for glory, or profit or, as I believe Mister Avery might put it. “For the lulz”

For myself, I have always been dedicated to what I would call the common good.   Having grown up in China, everybody has service to the people, to the country, but this was something more.   Most just went through the motions of singing the anthem, of saying this oath or that, or serving in this committee or that.
I was different, however, and took service to the people to heart.   Even growing up in the stigma of being born a girl in a nation where all families wanted sons, I put everything I could into service.

As a youth, this meant competing in wushu.   My “father” as I thought him to be at the time, forbade me from direct fighting competitions, as “proper girls are meant to look pretty to attract husbands., much to my chagrin, but it it still to my pride that my talents with the staff bear out to this day.  While I did achieve some personal glory for this, my pride was more in bringing honor to my family and those that gave me life.

Later, in seeing those that would prey on society, and seeing the injustice of those with much taking from those with little so they would have more, I joined the People’s Armed Police, Narcotics division, stationed in Beijing.

For many years I served with distinction.  The job was hard, yes, but deeply rewarding.    While it frustrated me that many criminals got much lighter, if any sentencing,  setting them back as I could was a reward to itself.

All good things must come to an end however.  What I did not know were that the very officers I had served with for years were on the payroll of the triads, who paid them to look the other way to their actions.   Unlike my fellow agents, I refused to compromise, as it went against everything we stood for.    I kept my integrity, and paid for it with my life.

Or rather, nearly so, as this was when Lord Guan Yu deigned to pay me my Visitation.   I will spare you the details from there, and simply say that my life is unchanged.  I still stand against those that would pray on mankind. Now, however, I am far more equipped to do so..

Wings of a Butterfly – Prologue

In a place that was not a place at all, a pair of figures who were both far more than, and terribly less than, people, suddenly stood facing each other, where a moment earlier there had been nothing but slag and rock.   Each wore a voluminous cloak that shifted and stirred about their figures, muffling their forms to the extent that the only definable trait between them was a significant difference in height.

From within the void of the taller entity’s cowl, syllables of a tongue long faded from human hearing slithered with reluctance into the smoldering, oppressive air.  The moment the cavern’s molten boundaries absorbed the last of the creeping susurration, a writhing sigil flared into existence, perfectly equidistant between the pair.   Something in the bearing of each relaxed subtly, as the rune twisted and folded upon itself in the open space while it burned through a limited spectrum of decayed verdancy, at its lowest range hungrily devouring the light provided by the chamber itself.

Betty Getskilled notes

Attending physician: Sylvia Brodersgard, M.D.

Ms. Getskilled is suffering from three cracked ribs, accompanied by severe bruising, contusions, and minor lacerations, consistent with a struggle with a pair of attackers significantly larger than her. The victim is asymptomatic of a concussion, and she is now resting in bed. I have bandaged her ribs and written a prescription for a 24-tablet bottle of vicodin, 500mg. My recommendation is that she

Sylvia stops writing, glancing to the woman sleeping on the cot provided by Wynn security. She needed to go to the hospital, but how would she explain what happened to her? If she said that someone attacked her, people would start asking questions, looking for police reports that don’t exist. Pointing the inquiries to Lieutenant Gravier would just cause more problems, and even worse, more problems for the people that she is working with at Lord Odin’s behest. Sylvia always hesitates to use the word “friend”, especially for people that she barely knows, but causing problems for a member of her unit would be detrimental to the task provided to her by Lord Odin. It would also probably make Sylvia look bad in his eyes. She looks back down to the notebook and continues.

My recommendation is that Ms. Getskilled get a few days’ rest to allow her ribs to set before she engage in any physical activity more strenuous than lifting a spoon to her mouth or using the restroom. If possible, she should also be attended to by a Wynn Security EMT.

Sylvia signs her name, tearing out the sheet of paper and placing it on the small stand next to the cot, alongside the prescription note. She pockets the notebook and pen, the plastic of the writing utensil making a soft “clink” against the metal objects in her pocket. Dr. Brodersgard lifts a hand to Betty’s head, brushing a stray hair from her eyes as she sleeps. “Rest well. You are safe now.” She turns and exits the room, her strawberry blond braid swaying from side to side gently as she walks out of the room, drab gray duster fluttering behind her.

January 1, 2000; 3:45am

Noelle let out a soft groan, blinking in the darkness, unsure why she was having trouble moving until she noticed the soft feminine body draped over her hips, shapely arms clinging tightly to her. Lips curved into a crooked grin, she gently and carefully moved the girl onto the other side of the bed, swinging her own long angular legs off the edge and stretching her body, loud pops issuing from her neck and spine.

She stood slowly, the moonlight slicing across her slender figure, making her ghostly pale complexion almost transparent as she paced the room. One graceful hand ran up and down her nude torso, the other idly tugging at tousled raven hair; what was once a fauxhawk having broken down into a hot mess while she slept. The young woman heaved a huge sigh, ruffling her bangs, and began to slowly dress herself in her suit from the night before; Gucci, well tailored to fit her body, colored dark grey with lighter pinstripes, it gave the illusion of increased height. Leaving her shirt on the floor, she simply fastened the two buttons on her jacket and wandered downstairs and out the front door of the house she’d woken up in.

Her mind was being assualted by old memories, events brought back to the surface after sharing a small piece of her past with her New Year’s playmate. Sitting on the curb near her bike, she closed tired violet eyes, giving in to the swarm of her past, slamming around inside her head like a criminal desperate to escape.

A piercing shriek filled the small room, a young girl clinging desperately to sheets tied to each post at the head of her bed. She was naked from the waist down, knees pushed tightly together, toes curled in the clean white towels which protected the mattress beneath her. On either side of her two women struggled to pull her legs apart, yelling at her and each other over the rise of her belly.

“Foolish girl, this is NOT the way to make the pain stop. Are you trying to kill that baby?”

Noelle could do nothing but cry, having been at this for hours now, her chest heaved as her weakened body was once again wracked with pain, both women ordering her to push now. She threw herself back against the headboard, gritting her teeth and doing as she was asked, stars exploding on the insides of her eyelids. Finally, with one last intense effort, her child slithered free, rewarding them all with a whining hiccupping cry, his tiny little lungs protesting the cold air and strange hands, fists flailing about as the midwife held him up for the girl to see.

The headlights of a passing car shining on her melancholy face viciously snapped her back to reality; she stood, brushing herself off and staring at the carved wooden door of the house, not bothering to brush away the single tear that ran down her cheek. “Happy New Year, son….”

Bonds of Sisterhood

Upon returning to her spartan single-story house, Sylvia Brodersgard disembarks from her BMW, moving to the trunk and opening it. She gives the equipment inside a long glance, her eyes floating up to the moon hanging low in the sky. Dawn soon, she muses to herself, and I haven’t slept since yesterday. She gathers the light plate armor in her arms, the winged helmet stacked atop the mound and the huge bastard sword slung along her arm by its scabbard’s chain. She manages to manipulate the mass onto one arm to reach into her pocket for her keys, unlocking the matte black door and stepping into the modest foyer, little more than a textured mat to soak up moisture on visitors’ footwear and a pair of low benches to either side for removing said footwear. Sylvia dispenses with taking off her shoes tonight, kicking the door closed and pocketing her keys before she turns, locking the entrance back up. Her footsteps guide her into the small sitting room beyond the foyer, the path familiar and easy to remember. She deposits the armor on her couch, laying Einherjar’s Call on the glass-topped coffee table before she moves to switch on the lights in the room.

Lt. Noelle Gravier – Detailed Description

Lt. Noelle Gravier, born Alexandria Jean Valdoma, stands at 5’5″, her posture casual and loose, svelte limbs often crossed over each other, apathetic of her surroundings. Violet orbs flecked with the deepest azure are shielded by a pair of shining silver and black Oakley’s set low on her dainty button nose to make room for thick dark lashes, an intense contrast to her ghostly pale complexion. Those charcoal tinted shades hide her piercing gaze, a scrutinizing examination of what’s in front of her that seems to go right to the core, searching for secrets to use to her advantage. Her mouth curves into an arrogant yet crooked smile, teeth straight and white, two titanium rings pierced through either side of her full bottom lip, the little spikes glinting, giving her face a wickedly sensual look. Each ear is pierced multiple times, the brightly colored bars and rings generally hidden by thick waves of curly raven hair, lightly frizzing at her temples, which cascades down her back to her waist when not piled in a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She wears no make-up at all, the structure of her face naturally appealing and pleasing to the eye. A lithe, almost androgynous figure is both slender and muscular, small shoulders and well-toned arms complimenting a smooth, flat belly, her slender hips framing long, coltish lower limbs. Her body is covered in decorative ink, various personally meaningful designs spread over her torso and extremities, the most prominent of which being two small Super Mario ghosts, shaded in blue and white and making silly faces just under her collarbone on either side of her chest, a sleeve covering her right arm from shoulder to wrist which depicts several sections of torn away flesh, revealing rods and robotics beneath the surface, and a name scrawled on the back of her neck which reads “Christopher” upon closer inspection.

Her dress is casual,  a thin black wife beater layered over a white one of the same style and black men’s dickies, covered in pockets and held up by a metallic pink studded belt, the only splash of color on her clothing aside from the jewelry in her ears. On her feet are well worn combat boots, covered in scuffs and terribly dirty, though it seems they might have once been a particularly repulsive shade of military green. When she’s carrying, a regulation black leather shoulder holster holds one of a pair of identical colt .45s, the pieces showing no outward signs of being unique. It’s twin rests in a second holster slung low over her hips, her long thin fingers constantly twitching as though she’s perpetually ready to fire. Strapped over her arm is a double barreled hunting shot gun, shined and cleaned, obviously well loved and cared for.

Interpol Report – Ed’s 24 Hour Diner

Tuesday,

April 12, 2011

As per orders, met rest of VIP Security Detail at appointed time.  One was law enforcement, unsure as to what jurisdiction as criminals entered the premises shortly after initial meeting.

The security detail neutralized the thugs in short order, unfortunately, a civilian was injured in the crossfire (note: clock more time on a firing range). Proper forms have been filed to cover the cost of any potential medical care for civilian.

Interpol reinforcements arrived on scene shortly, and the 3 attackers who did not flee or were neutralized were taken into custody.

However, an unknown Agent arrived on scene shortly, who was -not- part of local operations.    Claimed to have a message from the VIP’s, to meet them at the Wynn, and advised us of a Japanese animation-based fan convention in progress.  Will use the cover of this to openly bear restricted armament in attempt to blend in.

Of further concern is this unknown operative.   Request immediate and full intelligence on one Louis Cyphre,  who is employing him, et cetera.

Of note: one of the detail was dressed as Japanese “Geisha” style escort, but showed extreme weapons proficiency. Furthermore, had caucasian skin and red hair, so not native Japanese.   While she said little, her appearance and subtle actions spoke volumes compared to the more boisterous members of the detail, with all their speaking.   Must remember to express approval.

addendum – Suite booked, in advance, in the detail’s names at the expense of the VIP’s.   Estimated cost assumed to be more than my own annual salary.   Strange action by VIP’s attempting to maintain low profile.

Tenjouno Chigatana – Semi-Formal Description

天壌の 血刀 is a youthful woman of ultimately indeterminate age.  In her elevated geta sandals, she stands slightly more than six feet tall, often seeming to tower above those amongst whom she moves with effortless grace.   Her blazing ginger tresses are pulled almost severely away from her face, bound into a tight, intricately woven chignon at the crown of her head, held in place by a simple set of kanzashi, including what appear to be a pair of sturdy ebon chopsticks.  A striking, almost other-worldly beauty, her pale porcelain features bear few touches of makeup, with only faint brushes of kabuki red upon her lips and beneath her eyelids, feathering out to the outer corners of her eyes, her lashes darkened and full; her perhaps potentially flawless complexion is marred by a heavy dusting of freckles of various shades across her cheeks and nose.  Eyes the hue of faded jade ornamentation rarely seem to hold any true emotion; if anything, they often seem dull and without much in the way of resonant cognizance.

Her garments appear to be of genuinely traditional Japanese flavor.  A full length silk kimono of a deep, subdued mossy emerald, its collar a pure, snowy white that lends her natural pigmentation a semblance of color, adorns her subtly luscious figure, muting some of her curves without allowing them to become entirely forgotten.  Overtop of this she wears a long silken coat that seems, at least, to be fashioned of a heavier fabric, its coppery-threaded earth tones almost completely untouched by any special embroidery or brocade; at her every movement, the uchikake’s thickly padded lowest hem grazes constantly upon the ground.  Her obi, the thick sash that encircles her waist, perfectly matches the shimmering copper of her flowing overcoat.

Even in stillness, she stands with pristine, perfectly poised elegance, patiently awaiting her next instructions in the grand dance; when she does once more engage with the world, with each step she seems to float across the floor, rather than take individually defined steps. Every breath, footfall, gesture and movement the woman makes seems a part of some elaborately choreographed performance, graceful and lovely, sensuous and delicate, bearing some hidden truth or meaning for only a true connoisseur to discern and appreciate.

Night Falls

In the crisp November air of St. Catherine, Minnesota, a limousine pulls up to the Cook County Morgue. Two individuals climb out of the back, with no assistance or sign of the driver. As the man and woman walk toward the building, streetlights dim, darkening the path ahead. The building, its less-than-impressive plain brick structure reminding the pair of a shabby house, is remarkably silent, the interior lights still bright and shining through the plate glass doors. The woman opens the door, the lock clicking open as she lays a hand on the portal’s handle, and the man steps through without a single moment of recognition to his companion’s kindness.