Warnings: Violence
Lucky Child
Chapter 27:
"Nothing Good"
Watching a flesh and blood human being vanish into thin air is fucking terrifying, by the way.
I don't mean because it's scary in any traditional sense. No monsters. No blood. Nothing jumping out at you. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's terrifying because one second it feels like you have a grip on reality, and the next—poof. Gone. You stand there blinking and stuttering with your heart running at a gallop because that woman was standing right there, I saw her, dammit, and now she's gone like she never existed, what if my brain concocted—?
No. Nope. Sara and Kuwabara had both seen Clotho-called-Cleo the gaijin. I didn't make her up. I wasn't seeing things. She'd been real, and in the space between moments, she'd simply disappeared.
Suffice it to say, I freaked the hell out.
Kuwabara called my name when I sprinted inside, but I didn't slow down to talk to him (what the hell could I have even said at that point, anyway?). I pasted on my very best Keiko-smile and said "Be right back!" before ducking out of the dining room and vaulting up the stairs like a champion rodeo pony. Lucky for me Kagome answered when I called her house from my personal phone line. I was in no mood to put on a polite show for her mother, brother, or grandfather, that's for sure.
"Higurashi residence?" she said.
"It's Keiko." My voice sounded like I choked on dry popcorn. "Are you alone?"
"Oh, hey girl! Yeah, I'm alone. What's up?" she said—in English, of course. We always spoke English to each other (precautionary measure in case Yusuke's ghost might be listening). "Everything OK?"
"Kagome, something just happened—listen—"
I pressed the heel of my hand against my eye socket, stars sparking in my vision, and told her everything I could about Cleo. I repeated her words verbatim, described her actions down to the gesture, relayed an image of her looks and just…everything. It came out in a babbling stream, a boil of collected anxiety nothing but a verbal avalanche could lance. Kagome listened in silence until I stopped speaking. Only then did she let out a low whistle.
"Girl…" she said.
I waited.
She didn't continue.
"Tigger—say something!" I said. The phone's cold plastic bumped my temple as I shoved it at my ear. "I'm freaking out!"
She paused a moment longer. "What did you say her name was?"
"Clotho, but friends call her Cleo."
"And she was carrying a pair of shears?"
"Scissors, shears, yeah, whatever."
"...how savvy are you about Greek myth, smarty pants?"
"Uh." The distinctive cover of Edith Hamilton's Mythology flashed into my head. "I liked it as a kid. Like, as a kid-kid. So it's been a few decades since..." I shook my head. No time for rambling, Keiko. "Why?"
Kagome took a breath. Cloth rustled against the receiver, like maybe she cradled the handset to her chest.
"The name Clotho," she said. "It belongs to a figure from Greek myth."
I racked my brain. Came up with nothing. "Which figure?"
She sounded like a reluctant kid when she said. "We-ell…don't freak out, OK?"
"Which figure, Tigger?!"
"It's…well, it's the name of one of the Fates."
I didn't reply.
"You know," Kagome said. "Like, the fate-Fates? Three sisters who determine destiny and measure life in twists of thread?"
I didn't reply. I couldn't.
Kagome's voice dropped low. She said: "Eeyore. Don't freak out, but I think you might've met one of the weavers of destiny."
I closed my eyes. Covered my face with one hand.
"Are you serious?" I said.
"Like a heart attack."
…well this was just fucking perfect, wasn't it?
I remembered the Fates. Not their individual names—details escaped me, dulled by time and lack of practicality—but I remembered that three sisters and how they controlled the destinies of all mortals and measured the lengths of their lives in thread (that scene from Disney's Hercules was hard to forget). I remembered that the scissors cut those threads to end mortal lives (though I tried very hard not to think about how close I'd gotten to those shears as they lay just inches away on the restaurant table).
But what did it mean, one of the Fates walking right up to me like that?
How did she know about Hiruko?
And, more importantly: what the fucking hell did she want?
The answer was probably nothing good, knowing my foul luck.
Kagome kept talking when I didn't speak. Her earlier reticence evaporated, words eager and interested. "One of them has a pair of magic scissors that cut the strings of fate, so that explains what those shears might've been. I mean, given her name, it would make sense that those are the Fates' shears, but I know they had, like, three items? One for each Fate? But I don't remember what they are, and—" She paused. "Are you OK over there? You're pretty quiet."
"Oh. I'm peachy. Juuuust peachy." I laughed, humor desperately necessary in the face of this improbability. "We die, we get ripped into another world, we become anime characters, and now a Greek demigod walks into my parents' restaurant wearing a leather jacket. I couldn't be better!"
"Well, to be fair, we can't be sure she was actually a Greek demigod." Kagome hummed, thinking. "I could be wrong about the name. It's been a while since I read about Greek myth, too. Maybe not as long as you, but still a long time. Did they teach you Greek myth in school? They taught it to me in school in my old life, but I didn't learn it in school here. Didn't learn any myths, come to think of it. I wonder if that's a Japanese cultural thing, or—"
"Focus, Tigger."
"Sorry, sorry! Anyway, I can't remember which of the three sisters of fate is named Clotho, or what her role was, or even what the other sisters' names are. And some of those sisters are nicer than others so it would be handy to know which bitch we're dealing with." She swore, colorfully and with vigor. "Dammit, Eeyore! I'd give up a kidney for Wikipedia!"
"I'd chip in a chunk of liver for Google, myself," I dryly concurred.
Kagome paused.
"Is it ethical for us to invent Google?" she asked. "Being a billionaire would be nice. But I don't know how to code. Do you know how to—?"
"We've talked about this, and now is not the time." I got up and paced, walking until my phone's spiral cord stretched to its breaking point, a leashed lap around the edges of my tiny bedroom. "Focus! Greek myth! Fate! Cleo! My fraying nerves!"
"OK, OK, OK!" she said. "Sheesh, just…OK, look. There's no telling what this Cleo lady wanted. Hell, maybe she picked that name to freak you out and she's not a Fate at all." Kagome chuckled a little. "Given how fucked up and mystical our lives are, it's not entirely surprising to meet a character from myth, but the odds of meeting a god are still pretty slim—"
Deadpan, I reminded her: "Koenma and his dad are demigods."
There followed a long, pregnant paused.
"Ah. Right," said Kagome in a small voice. "So maybe meeting a Fate isn't out of the question." I could picture her shaking her head like a disgruntled horse. "Still! There's no way to confirm if that lady really was from Greek myth!"
"What's a character from Greek myth doing in Japan, anyway?" I grumbled. "What am I, suddenly in an episode Saint Seiya?"
"Beats the shit outta me." She breathed a dainty gasp. "Oh god. Do you think the Knights of the Zodiac—?!"
"No. Nope. Nuh-uh." My frantic feet moved faster. "You can stop right there. I don't wanna know!"
Kagome laughed at my tone, but she sobered just as quickly.
"Eeyore, I don't have to be next to you to know you're pacing hard enough to wear a hole in the floor," she said. I flushed, guilty as a cat covered in canary feathers. "Try to keep calm, OK? Don't tear your hair out over this. It's freaky and weird, sure, but we'll get through it just like we've gotten through everything else."
Her tone, soothing and sincere, eased some of the tension building in my neck and shoulders.
"Thanks," I mumbled. I sat heavily on my bed and leaned my forehead against my knees. "I needed someone to say that aloud." I scowled against my legs. "But what do we do in the meantime? I can't just sit here and do nothing. Idle hands are the enemy of anxious people!"
"Distract yourself with tutoring Kuwabara. That's what you were supposed to do tonight, right?"
Oh, shit. I'd completely forgotten—I left the poor guy in the dining room all alone. Kagome laughed when I released a stream of curses.
"That's what I thought," she said. "You go help him study. I'll spearhead the research brigade tonight."
"You will?" I said. "Sorry Charlie, but you ain't got Google and libraries are closed this time of night."
Pride colored her voice. "My grandpa knows everything about Japanese myth and legend. Maybe he knows about other myths, too. I'll ask him what he can tell me about the Fates. Will call when I learn something." She laughed, breezy and bright. "Hell, I'll ask if he knows anything about a guy named Hiruko while I'm at it. What could it hurt?"
"I tried looking up the name Hiruko at the library, but I didn't get any leads." I sat up, tossing my bangs from my eyes. "Again, my kingdom for a Google search."
"Good thing for us my grandpa is the next best thing to a Google search when it comes to this subject. He knows all kinds of weird stuff!" Her voice dropped low. "Seriously, the guy brings home pickled kappa feet sometimes. It's weird. I mean, they're obviously fakes, but still. Man's obsessed with ancient stuff. The older, the better." She dramatically whisper-screamed her next words. "I think he feels at home surrounded by old stuff because he's prehistoric!"
That got me laughing. And as soon as I started laughing, the tense spell broke. It was tough to remain anxious around someone like Kagome. Her relentlessly chipper attitude could not be contained.
"Thanks, Tigger," I told her when the giggles eased. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Suffer and die, probably," came her boisterous reply. "But seriously, no sweat. Happy to help out. I just wish I could meet Hiruko or Fate Lady myself, y'know?" I could hear her pouting through the phone connection. "Why am I so out of the loop?"
"Because your plot hasn't started yet," I said.
Something told me mine was just beginning.
Kuwabara knew something was wrong. Fandom painted him as the group's brainless muscle, but Kuwabara was nothing if not intuitive. The minute I walked into the dining room he started frowning. Like a damn bloodhound, this guy.
"You OK?" he asked when I sat down.
"I'm fine." Sunny Keiko-smile on full blast, I pulled his textbook toward me. "Now, back to where we left off—"
"Why'd you run after the gaijin like that?"
Concerned eyes complimented his worried voice. I softened the smile, trying to look sincere and serene.
"She…she forgot her check." That sounded like a lie even to me. I shook my head. "Doesn't matter. You have a test to study for."
I could tell he wanted to ask more. He stared with his eyes all screwed up, mouth pursed into a pensive bud—but he didn't pry. Probably knew better. Willing to bet Shizuru taught him to respect a woman's privacy; I'd have to thank her if we ever met again.
Might be mean of me to say this, but I breathed a relieved sigh when Kuwabara finally left for the evening. We'd made good headway in his work and I'd done my absolute best to tutor him, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't eager for him to split. My mind desperately wanted to linger on Cleo. I wouldn't let it. I dug into the English textbook with vigor, and when Kuwabara declared his brain had reached full capacity for the night, I sent him home with instructions to read his study material aloud on repeat until we met again.
"Will do, sensei!" he said before walking out the door. "See you tomorrow!"
"Yeah. See you," I replied.
As I watched him walk off into the dark, my shoulders sagged. I went into the dining room and smiled to myself. Finally, I could go upstairs, be by myself, and worry about this Cleo thing without an audience. I hated feeling anxious around people. If I was going to worry, I'd do it in private, thank you very much.
Just then, the doors to the restaurant opened behind me. Luckily Sara was still on the clock and greeted the customers at the hostess station. So glad it wasn't my night to man the floor. I slipped between the tables and headed for the stairs, carefully cataloging each and every Greek myth I could remember as—
"…scary-looking," I heard one of the patrons say.
"Yeah," said the other. "Very scary!"
"Oh, my," Sara said. "What do you think they were up to?"
"Nothing good," said the patron. "They were waiting on the corner and when another boy walked by, they followed him."
"I'm worried they might be mugging people!" said the first customer. "Can we call the police?"
I stopped in my tracks and turned. The two women, auntie-aged and wearing thick coats to combat the chilly winter weather, stared at Sara with plaintive expressions.
"Gosh," said Sara. She put her hand to her mouth. "Yes, yes, let me get you the phone. We should definitely call the police."
She darted off toward the kitchen.
I darted toward the aunties.
"I'm sorry, I overheard," I said. "But the boy they followed—did he come out of this restaurant? Was he wearing jeans and windbreaker? Curly bleached hair? My friend just left here, and—"
As one, the aunties paled.
My stomach plummeted into my ankles.
Without another word, or any thought to strategy, I grabbed my coat and sprinted out the door.
I found them a few blocks away. They hadn't gotten far. Honestly it's sort of miraculous I found them in the dark of a secluded alleyway, a strip of empty space between two buildings, but I didn't have time to ponder what twists of fate allowed me to locate Kuwabara that night.
I'm just glad I got there in time.
I'd been so stupid. So stupid, stupid, stupid to let Kuwabara leave alone late at night when he wasn't allowed to fight. Of course bullies were all over him. Of course other punks wanted to move in on his turf while his hands were tied. Of course they'd stalk him, and ambush him on his way home, and beat him until he couldn't stand.
Despite knowing all those things to be true, the sight of Kuwabara getting the shit kicked out of him still knocked the breath from my chest like a battering ram.
Three punks, our age or maybe a touch older, lobbied kicks and punches into Kuwabara's sides, back, arms, and head. He lay on the ground in a ball, backpack clutched to his chest, protecting his face as best he could, but his efforts accomplished little. In the fitful light of the streetlamp at the alley's mouth I saw dark liquid sluice across his chin—bloody nose, probably, or worse.
It didn't matter.
It didn't matter in what manner they'd hurt him, nor to what degree.
It didn't matter, because they were going to pay.
The moment I saw that blood, my vision tunneled. My breath returned. The next thing I knew I was sprinting headlong into the fray, conscious thought taking flight on adrenaline's wide wings.
I caught the first punk from behind. Swift kick to the back of the knee, elbow strike to the neck as he fell, then a shove to the shoulder that sent him careening into the hard ground—only, whoops, I'd misjudged the width of this alley. I heard the satisfying crack of his nose as it collided with the brick wall comprising the alley's edge, watching with triumph as he slid to the ground and lay very, very still.
The two other punks noticed me at that point (obviously). They yelled something, eyes wide and teeth bared. I didn't hear them. Eyes on the prize, Keiko. I sank into a ready-stance as one of the punks pulled back a fist and lobbed it at me. He moved like a rolling boulder, predictable and sluggish. I traced the path of his trajectory in the air before he'd even finished throwing the punch.
Countering came easy: Quick side-step. Spin. Get behind him. Chop to the neck, another kick to the knee, and solid strike with my foot to the back of his head. He fell flat on his face. The fall did half the work for me. Pretty sure he'd have a concussion, forehead colliding with the ground the way it did.
(Dimly I realized how slow he was compared to Hideki, Kagome, Ezakiya. But that was for another time.)
The last guy said something. Once more I didn't hear. Kuwabara coughed on the ground, saying my name in panicked fear, but I paid him no mind—not now, not yet. I spun around as the last punk leapt over Kuwabara and came at me with arms spread, trying for a grapple, but Hideki-sensei had taught me better than to fall for that. I grabbed his wrist and twisted, letting his own momentum carry him past me even as I manipulated his arm and dragged it up behind his back. He yelped at the pain, but I just buried my free hand deep into his hair (over-gelled and sticky), shoved a foot into his hamstring, and slammed him to the ground—the weight of his body crushing his free arm. I put my foot on the back of his knee and put all my weight on it for good measure to keep him pinned. One yank and I'd tear the arm from the socket or rip out his hair. He knelt before me with whimpers of pain, and to my satisfaction I felt the fight drain out of him.
He knew who was in control here.
Seems fruits of my lessons with Hideki had shown themselves at last.
Keeping my grip on the last conscious punk, I said, "Tell me. Do you like stories?"
"Fucking psycho bitch," he managed to grind out.
I yanked on his hair. He quieted.
"I love stories," I said. "How about I tell you my favorite, hmm?"
"K-Keiko," Kuwabara said.
I looked over my shoulder. He'd managed to rise to his knees, staring at me with mouth wide open.
"You OK?" I asked.
He didn't reply. His mouth just clicked shut.
I looked down at the punk. I said, "Once upon a time, there was a little girl."
"Ugh," he said.
I yanked his am so hard his shoulder creaked, back of his hand nearly brushing the back of his neck. He yelped and fell silent.
"The little girl didn't have many friends," I said, "but one day, she met a little boy. His name was Urameshi Yusuke, and he became her very best friend in the entire world."
The moment I mentioned Yusuke's name, the punk gasped. I couldn't help but smirk.
"Yusuke taught the little girl everything he knew about ass kicking," I said, "and they were very, very happy. And then one day she met another boy, and he became her very best friend, too."
I leaned in close to the punk's ear. Did my best not to gag at the smell of his hair gel.
"Spoiler," I whispered. "I'm the little girl, and the guy whose ass you just tried to kick? That's Kuwabara, and he's my other very best friend."
The punk whimpered, then, but not from pain.
"Anyway," I said. "Everything was happy and amazing in this little girl's life, until one day Urameshi Yusuke died. The little girl was very upset that she lost one of her very best friends." I knotted my fingers harder in his hair. "So you might imagine that she became violently protective of the very best friend she still had left."
One of the unconscious punks moaned, but a quick glance confirmed he wasn't in any state to move just yet. Good. I had another minute to intimidate the crap out of this asshole.
"There's a moral to this story, in case you were wondering," I said. I leaned in close to his ear again. "It's that if you touch a single hair on Kuwabara Kazuma's head, I will bring down every last scrap of Urameshi Yusuke's ass-kicking techniques on your sorry ass. Do I make myself clear?"
The punk grizzled something, but I couldn't make out the words. I yanked his head back so hard his neck creaked beneath my fingers.
"Touch him, you die," I growled. "Get it?"
"I—I get it," the punk groaned.
"Say 'yes ma'am', asshole."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Like you mean it, dickweasel."
"Y-yes, ma'am!"
"Good." I let the word purr, a promise I didn't need to repeat. I shoved him hard into the ground, pressing his face into the pavement so I could growl in his ear, "Now get the hell out of my sight."
When I let him go, he scrambled up and sprinted from the alley—remembering at the last second to come back for his friends. He shot me one furtive glance but otherwise did his very best not to make eye contact before vanishing into the night.
Good.
Let them be afraid. No one was going to hurt Kuwabara on my watch. No one. I'd sooner die (again) than let—
"Keiko?"
…oh no.
Turning around took willpower. Much as I stood by my actions, I wasn't sure I wanted to see Kuwabara's reaction to them. Heat lit my cheeks from within as I slowly faced him, peering at him from under my bangs because holy shit, he'd never seen me like this before, had he? Was he going to run in the opposite direction now? In the anime he'd seemed fond of demure, sweet chicks like Yukina, but here I was beating the tar out of punks twice my size—
In the indirect glare of the nearest streetlamp, the whites of his eyes gleamed like bone.
"Keiko," he said, voice rasping with shock. "You—"
"I'm sorry," I blurted before he could go too far. Before he could react with disgust. Before he could condemn me for what I'd done. "I'm sorry, I should've asked before stepping in. I should've—"
"Keiko—I'm your best friend?"
I stopped. He stared. A moment passed, quiet and uncertain.
"You just saw me beat the shit out of three people at once," I murmured, "and that's what you're wondering about?"
Even in that dim alleyway I saw Kuwabara flush. He kicked at the ground with a toe, sniffing loudly through his bloody nose. But was that embarrassment I saw in his expression, or regret?
Again I thought: Oh no.
"Oh—oh, Kuwabara, I'm so sorry," I repeated, this time for different reasons. When his brow furrowed I clarified. "I shouldn't have called you my best friend without asking first." I ducked my head, hands held up in supplication, because I'd for sure freaked him out by coming on too strong. The thought of my favorite character (no, my favorite person) treating me awkwardly was scarier than any street punk. "You don't have to say it back or anything. I won't do it again. I know you have Okubo and the others, and it was presumptuous of me to—"
"I don't mind."
I looked at him. Kuwabara stared at me without blinking, eyes lit up with—not a smile. Not really. Just an odd sort of warmth, like coming home to a warm meal when you expected nothing more welcoming than a cold, empty house.
"I don't mind," he said, voice soft. "You can call me that as much as you like."
My mouth opened and shut like a beached fish. "R-really?" I stammered.
"Yeah. Because, um…"
Kuwabara stopped talking. He looked at his feet, hand rubbing the back of his broad neck.
"I don't mind because you're sort of my best friend, too," he announced. "I know we haven't known each other for very long, but, uh…" He breathed deeply, eyes still downcast, words coming like he admitted something both embarrassing and pleasant all at once. "It's just—I care about you a lot, OK?"
And just like that, my eyes watered and my throat got all thick and I had to blot my cheeks with the sleeve of my jacket. Part of me questioned if this was real, if he was just saying I was his best friend because I'd said it first and he felt obligated—but this was Kuwabara. He wouldn't lie to me. And to have the friendship of a guy like him…I knew I should be grateful.
Kuwabara would never let his friends down. He'd never let them get hurt. He'd never abandon them, or betray them, or treat them badly.
I could ask for no better friend than him.
"I care about you a lot, too," I said. He returned my warm smile with a mortified blush. "Thanks, Kuwabara. I'm a lucky girl, indeed."
Kuwabara cast his eyes skyward, mouth screwed up in a cross between a smile and a grimace—like he tried to cover enthusiasm with manufactured reluctance. His eyes roved across the alley, touching on literally everything but me until they locked on something near the wall where one of the punks got his face smashed. He lurched past me, as stiff-legged as a mannequin, and swiped an object off the ground.
"It's because I care that I have to yell at you now!" he declared, waving that object in my face—a shoe left behind in haste by one of the fallen punks. "Keiko, what were you thinking, taking on those guys like that? You coulda gotten hurt!"
"So could you!" I retorted. "If I hadn't stepped in, you'd be a stain on the pavement!"
He spoke with maddening sincerity. "I'd rather be a pavement stain than see you get beat up, dummy."
"Rude! Shouldn't you be thanking your savior, not berating her?"
"Hey, I don't need saving!" He crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed. "I coulda taken whatever they dished out!"
"I know you could," I said, "but that doesn't mean you should. Not if I'm around to do something about it."
His smile faded at my serious tone. "Keiko—"
I didn't let him finish, because just then inspiration struck. Devious, devious inspiration. Suppressing a smirk, I put my hands behind my back, jutted my lower lip, and kicked a toe at the ground.
"Kuwabara," I said, "aren't you even the littlest bit impressed by what I did?" I allowed my lower lip to quiver, my eyes to widen, taking advantage of my earlier emotion and still-lingering tears. "I've been taking fighting lessons. Am I not good enough yet?"
Kuwabara blinked. I let my lip reach critical quiver before burying my face in my hands. Kuwabara yelped. I hoped my stifled laughter looked like sobs as I peered at my best friend through spread fingers.
"What?!" Kuwabara said. He leapt back and just as quickly leapt forward again, hands waving because he clearly had no idea what to do with them when faced with an emotional girl. Fights he could handle, but my emotions? Ha! As if. He babbled compliments like bullets: "No, Keiko, don't cry! You were amazing! You were great! I had no idea you could fight like that! Dodge Urameshi, sure, but wow—you took down all of them, and so fast, and they're so much bigger than you! You're the best girl fighter in the whole city, no, the country, at least the best I've ever seen, and—"
Fuck, he was adorable. My laughter could not be contained. I wrenched my hands from my face and cackled. Kuwabara stared like I'd sprouted antlers, then leapt back and pointed an accusatory finger right at my face.
"Hey—you big faker!" he all but shrieked. "You weren't crying at all, were you?"
"Nope!" I socked him on the arm and chortled like a certain Wicked Witch. "Now who's the dummy?"
"Why I oughtta—"
He tried to give me a noogie, then, in one of the first unprompted displays of physical affection he'd ever had the courage to give me. Reminded me of Yusuke's odd reminders of care, in a way. Typical teenage boy, baldly expressing care one moment before hiding it under bravado the next. I let Kuwabara put me in the gentlest headlock of my life and ruffle my hair before slipping out of his warm, strong arms—arms that made me feel safe, somehow, even though I'd been the one doing the protecting tonight.
Too bad that feeling of protection didn't last.
A trio of street punks waited for me outside my school the next day—and judging by the looks on their faces, they intended nothing good.
NOTES:
So lovely human being SirisDerp drew a picture of Hiruko! AND IT IS AMAZE-BALLS. It's on my Tumblr, so please check it out and praise SirisDerp for the glory that is their work. I drew a pic, too, but it's not as cool (like legit, SerisDerp is fantastic, it's like they went inside my head and drew Hiruko from pictures in my brain). THANK YOU SIRISDERP.
There is a small deleted scene in Children of Misfortune corresponding to this chapter.
SO MANY THANKS TO THOSE WHO REVIEWED! No idea quite how this happened in the four and a half months since this story started, but we reached 500 reviews? What? WHAT? I'm bamboozled. MANY THANKS, Y'ALL: Selias, Hollow Rock, Kaiya Azure, Prince Maoyan, Crystal Vixen 93, DiCuoreAllison, Marian, rya-fire1, xenocanaan, giant salamander, DarkDust27, Lady Hummingbird, reebajee, wolfzero7, Ink Winged, InTheArmsofaThief, Naito, Gwen Flaming Katana, Shaelindra, intata, Guest, buzzk97, EVA-Saiyajin, Falling Right Side-up, Freaky Shannon-igans, Angurvddel, MetroNeko, Archaeological, FireDancerNix, Unfocused Brain, Miqila, Just 2 Dream of You!
