A/N
Like Seymour in FFX, I simply refuse to die. (That said I'd be the most disappointing boss fight ever so please don't hurt me.) That's one of the things I'd like to say to all you new people who have found my stories: I will seem dead, many times, but I always return. The other things I want to say is "Hi!" and "Thanks for reading my fic!" =)
So, the manga took my absence as the opportunity to launch a rollercoaster ride across exactly the part of the story that's most influential on my fic. xD As expected, the revealing of Shiro's backstory has knocked TEotB right out of the canon solar system and into AU. Well. *cracks knuckles* I can roll with that. We have one hell of a ride ahead of us, and with a few spins and loops this will actually be, sort of, canon compatible. While being firmly secure in its newfound identity as an AU-fic.
/ Dimwit (I've missed you all... TvT)
WARNING: chapter contains LGBTQA+ slur and racist slur.
"It's real simple! And it makes perfect sense!"
Whatever Larry claimed made perfect sense, Flavio was of a different opinion – a loud one. As so often happens, when two people are both convinced that they are right, winning the argument boils down to making sure your opponent gets no room to speak.
Every city has its personality – if you have grown up in one, you know. You know the unheard heartbeat that curls in the streets and fills the air, and somewhere in the tangle of blood vessel pipes and nerve cables it becomes a living thing: a host organism rather than a city, with its different quirks and moods. You might not be aware of it, but still. You feel it. And you notice it when it's not there.
Shiro had discarded bus and tram in favour of walking to and from Vatican City. It was slower, that went without saying, but you don't get the feeling of a city through a bus window. Every day he took a slightly different route, letting his feet pick up the pulse and breath of these unfamiliar city streets. In some ways Rome was similar to True Cross Town – of course, that's what the mind sees first. That's what it looks for. Identification. Connection.
Like True Cross, Rome wasn't too concerned about its appearance when it wasn't charming tourists with its central districts. Step off the beaten tracks and there were cricks and cracks tearing through the walls and feral vegetation sticking out its chin in defiance; there were streets that delighted in making you think they ran straight only to meander you lost, and shaggy mutts that kept attentive eyes on passers-by for food. There were cans and plastic wrappings and shattered glass – that was nothing you saw in Japan, unless you wandered lost to the places Shiro had come to know during his wilder years. There were cars and scooters that were equal parts metal and duct tape – exotic sights, truly – and a constant taste of dust about the air. The ancient ruins were everywhere – again, not something you saw a lot in True Cross. The Academy had borrowed shamelessly from Roman aesthetics, yes, but Rome itself was simply hopeless about it, like an old man in a bar who kept bringing up stories of his glory days whether people were interested in hearing it or not.
And then there were the people of Rome. Who were loud and flailing and chatted whether you were interested or not, like the two exorcists outside the bar that was their meet-up point. Again, not a bar bar: the café type of bar, complete with outdoor sets of chairs and minimal tables waiting for guests that wished to enjoy the Mediterranean summer to its fullest.
"Got your friend's back, I see." Shiro joined Gianpiero at the table, a comfortable viewing distance away from the argument. The bar was a small one, hidden away at an equally small plaza: chosen for that very reason, to avoid the tourist crowds and traffic jams of the area around the Vatican itself.
Gianpiero looked like he had woken up approximately five minutes ago, in the company of empty wine bottles and the ones who had helped empty them. He had expertise with that kind of situation, too, since he had somehow managed to find a clean shirt in those five minutes – yet buttoning it higher than mid-chest was something he just hadn't had time for. His exorcist robes hung messily on the chair, much like Gianpiero himself.
"His back, yes: his mouth, no." Egh. On second thought, Shiro turned his head and gave himself some comfortable distance from Gianpiero, too; that coffee cup in his hand gave off a smell so overpowering it stung his nose just being near it. "You don't drink coffee, do you?" he chuckled at Shiro's reaction and fished a carton out of his pocket. "Do you at least smoke?"
"Smoking is good." Shiro helped himself to a Marlboro. Didn't like them as much as he liked Japan's Peace but whatever – when in Rome, do as the Romans do. "But keep the rat poison away from me."
"What's this blasphemy I hear? This is the Italian elixir of life – puts hair on your chest." Gianpiero took a sip and rapped his fist demonstratively against his chest.
That's what it was? It was impossible not to notice the dark curls crawling about under his open shirt but that it was the coffee that caused it…
"If miasma was liquid it would taste like coffee", he said through his first drag on the cigarette. "Nice show. What are they arguing about?"
Gianpiero glanced in the direction Shiro had nodded, pinning a cigarette of his own between his teeth and flicking a sullen lighter: sparks shot to life, died out, tried again to find breath…
Oh the mind seeks connections. And turns even the smallest things unto cruel reminders.
Shiro focused all his mind on his ears, on what Gianpiero was saying: on the little everyday nonsenses of the world.
"Larry had a theory that Italians worship the Madonna – you know the Madonna, right? Virgin Mary? Anyway, he said it's 'cause all Italians are mama's boys. And that there", he pointed with the cigarette once it had lit, "is one big mama's boy." Who was trying to convince Larry that he was not, from the bits and pieces of gatling gun discourse Shiro could catch.
"Uh-huh. And how's he holding up?"
"Flavio! Have you quit suckling on your mommy's tit yet?!" The retort was curt and probably very vulgar, judging from Gianpiero's pleased look. "He's swingin', alright", he reported.
"Swinging?" Doing the Italian windmill, yeah, but not really swinging in the fighting sense.
"Enjoying himself like a cat at a fish market – some people thrive on that sort of thing. He can start an argument just for fun and play the devil's advocate till he has satisfied his bickering needs. Then he curls up on the window sill and licks his paws." Gianpiero somehow kept the grip on his lighter, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, scratched his beard, downed a sip from the coffee cup in his other hand, and made it all seem like one effortless motion. "He'll check your pulse too, just wait and see." He put the smoke back, but restless fingers are restless, and kept toying with the lighter in a manner that made Shiro tempted to snatch it, just to see what he would do.
Maybe he would. Some time.
"Sucks for Flavio: I can't speak that fast. Or that fluent."
Not that that seemed to be a problem with Gianpiero.
"You know that might actually make it more fun? If you just answer every attempt at an argument with a single sentence or something so he can't get anything started. Or you could answer him in Korean! That would be a rage!"
"Dude, I'm from Japan, okay?"
"Japanese, Korean – people won't know the difference. Anyways, how did you end up in Italy?"
"Studies. There aren't many universities to choose from in Japan if you wanna be a priest."
"Priest? Oh you poor bastard, missing out on all the good things in life", he chuckled. "No but honestly, I respect your choice: that takes some serious dedication. I could never go commit to something like that. What's the religion in Japan?"
"Shinto." One look said Gianpiero had never heard of that. "It's how to live life right and live in harmony with the world."
"So basically the same commandments Catholicism has? Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not kill, and so on?"
"No, there's no– Well yeah, that is part of living right, but there are no commandments or rules to follow. It's more like a… feeling?" Gianpiero did not look any wiser, and honestly, Shiro couldn't blame him. "Like you know in your heart what's right, what's true and what's good, so there's no need for lists of rules."
"That's… weird. So the Shinto god leaves it pretty much up to you what you think is the right way to live?"
Well no. Shinto had a concept of sin just like Catholicism did – if there is a right way of things there is also a wrong way – but it was different, and to explain that you'd need a more refined Italian vocabulary than Shiro disposed. Fortunately, another team mate came strolling over to save him.
"Hello!" Remo had that special gait tall people get when they have spent their formative years indoors, with books. That is an excellent way to obtain a sharp mind and glasses; to obtain good motor control, you should do strenuous things that get you sore and injured.
Oddly enough, people with sharp mind often show little interest in doing strenuous things that get you sore and injured.
"How are you?" Remo, too, had noticed Gianpiero's state of questionable soberness.
"You know, I always felt like we should be asking each other 'what are you?' It's more specific. Like right now I'm a two-thirds empty bottle of Chianti colli: party has been on for a while and you feel you're starting to get a bit crunchy, but you've got that last third that'll get you through to the second phase of hype."
Remo laughed: an easy laugh, the kind that made you think he did that all day long with no effort. "That's something worth thinking about. What are you today, Alexander?"
He would have preferred if Remo had asked the regular version of the question. The verson that was so formalised it barely meant anything. When asked like this, the words were fresh and sharp and cut right through.
What was he today?
"I'm sleepy London town, where there's no place for a street fighting man." When you don't know what to say, anything might pop out. Including Rolling Stones' songs.
"That is good to hear, I suppose. Say, I wanted to ask you about the homework this evening. Battista's homework", he clarified when they didn't follow. "Flavio told me. It's Friday, and I thought it could be a pleasant way to end the week if we had dinner together. What do you think?"
"Early dinner", Gianpiero requested while balancing the lighter on his fingertip. "I have a dinner date and then a disco in Ostiense, so early dinner. We're probably gonna be hungry after the mission anyway."
"Sounds alright to me. Where do we eat?"
"Flavio recommended Alfredo alla Scrofa. He even offered to show us the way if we meet up at Castel Sant'Angelo."
They had a quite nice everyday discussion about what types of food they liked and what their mothers used to cook, and then Andrew arrived. You knew because the sound backdrop of two men arguing was cut short by the sound of one man preaching how unknightly it was to argue with one's brethren. He had even seized the both of them by the ear and–
"Who the shit grabs people by the ear?" No matter how Shiro might have looked as he gawked, his teammates looked dumber still. "They're not kids."
"Dude did you miss the argument just now? They're totally kids."
Kids about to get into a real fight. Shiro had seen enough of those to rise from his chair before anyone else reacted. Larry did not appreciate being grabbed like that: the tension in his posture was unmistakeable, unless you were Andrew Angel and had the awareness of an eggplant. Flavio was less dense, and was aiming his conversational skills at Andrew in an attempt to derail and defuse the situation, when the situation defused itself.
"Good morning, boys! All well with you?"
Bébé had had a good morning, and had decided that they would have a good morning as well. He crossed the small square in long, brisk strides that made his bald crown bobble up and down like a buoy. They greeted him in a comically disorderly fashion: Flavio acknowledged their teacher's presence with a casual wave, while Larry saluted like a soldier; Andrew did a smarmy, exaggerated bow that made Shiro itch to give him a kick in that perfectly exposed rear; Remo's bow was a modest one, and on the opposite end of modesty was Gianpiero, who limited his greeting to rising from his chair and kept tossing his lighter up and down. Shiro simply nodded; Bébé didn't seem to mind what kind of greeting he got either way.
"Looking lovely as lavenders! And perfect for today's mission. We have gotten an additional bit of info on the mission that might… well, the task might not be a walk in the park, as I had first thought, but nothing you can't handle – more of an inconvenience than anything. Doctor duty is driving duty, so–"
"I'll drive." Flavio only then realised he'd interrupted his superior, and flashed one of his easy smiles: "I know the town, G doesn't. I figure the best man should take the job, right?"
"What do you want to do, Sacchetti?" Bébé made a point of ignoring Flavio.
"Doesn't matter which seat he has, he'll still consider himself the driver. He can have the wheel."
"Okay then: Capponi drives the van to Fabliau. The location is marked on the map in the car. There is a flock of galatea there that have taken hold of the statues. This was about a month ago – they didn't cause much disturbance at first, other than spooking visitors by changing poses when they weren't looking. But now they have increased in number and gotten aggressive, and that's where things become inconvenient: you two", he pointed to Shiro and Remo, "will have to do all the work. Basically. We can't damage the statues or the Order will have to pay for new ones, and since that's money that should have paid our wages and equipment – you do the math. So. Do not harm the statues, unless of course lives are on the line. Do you need me to repeat that, Sacchetti?"
"I got it, sir." He barely took his eyes from the lighter sailing up and down. "Let the Arias do the job, don't harm the statues."
"I will repeat it still: do not harm the statues. And protect your Arias. This is an easy mission if you work together, but for that same reason it might turn out a hard one when you're still new as a team."
"A walk in the park…"
Of course Bébé hadn't been able to resist.
Fabliau park was an anonymous little sliver of peace, a humble dove amongst peacocks, who wanted nothing to do with Rome's tourist hot-spots. It offered no particular historical significance, and, by declining any suggestion of brash decorations or adventurous landscaping, it had become a park that Romans could enjoy in private. It was a haven for families that required lawns and trees for lively children, and for elderly who sought shade and a good round of gossip – usually. When the park wasn't closed off with warning tape.
Though strictly speaking, you wouldn't have called it a park: to do so would have been a generous stretch of the concept, much like calling Samael's drawings art. Or, as Larry put it, the park resembled "Don Quixote, if the Don had been a pinup girl with a grudge against hedges instead of windmills".
The sight that greeted them was that of two nude stone women, who had been not-entirely-nude before they slung their sculpted drapings around a gnarly pine. They were pulling on them like mad dogs, trying to topple the tree; the soil beneath it bulged as the roots stubbornly held their ground.
"He hexed me, I swear…" Shiro shook the stupid puns out of his head and focused on keeping the formation with his team. They were heading right, circling the statues in an effort to avoid combat before they had gotten an idea of the situation – not that the statues seemed eager for combat. Pulling down that tree was way more important to them than any armed, black robed men who'd come jumping out of a van, and the demons didn't spare them so much as a glance as they gathered behind a hedge that was miraculously still standing. Snapped branches and uprooted scrubs littered the ground – and the trees, and the battered metal frame that had presumably been a pavilion or greenhouse – but still didn't manage to conceal the muddy scars in the lawn.
The hedge they had chosen for hiding was one of two that formed a semi-circle around a patch of grass that hosted the remnants of a fountain and a… sludge pit with something that might have been flowers. There were sprays of flowers and dirt shooting up somewhere closer to the centre of the park, at least.
"So, what's the plan?" Larry, ranked Intermediate Second Class, carried an ArmaLite rifle like the ones Shiro had made visual love to in the HQ armoury: an AR-15, 99.1 cm of black, DGI-operating beauty. Larry's grip on it was tense, but comfortable in the knowledge that no matter what happened, he would respond quickly and efficiently.
With a muffled creak and a heavy thump, the tree roots finally lost hold of the soil and sent the pine to the ground with a burst of warbling, upset bird cries.
"Alright! Let's get this show on the road!" Flavio spun around and took a step back so he could speak to the team face to face. "So we have two Arias, one Knight, and three Dragoons: that makes two bodyguards for each of you", he said and shot Shiro and Remo a quick glance. "It's not that big a park, so I figure we can cover all of it pretty quickly with two teams – flank them from both sides and crush 'em in the middle." Flavio brought his hands together with a satisfying slap. He looked much too happy about this. "Battista doesn't seem to think we've got the hang of this job yet." Flavio's look went from happy to smug, the kind of look you'd imagine on the face of a Roman Emperor when asked if he thought he had enough troops to conquer another Greek island or if it might be too much for him. "I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to making him change his mind. Alright?"
"Your mommy loves you, Flavio: you don't need to prove anything", Larry grinned sweetly.
"More than yours loves you, Americano", he responded with a glint in his smile that was just as amused. "You guys: how big is your effective range?"
"Dunno – five-six metres maybe? I usually move around a lot, with the Dragoon and Aria combo." Always Rear In Action? That only applied to people who cared about rules.
"I can reach up to ten metres with most demons." Remo softly touched the cross of the rosary he wore around his neck – not a conscious motion but something between a habit and an absentminded stress relief. "With lesser ones it can sometimes work as far as eleven."
"Alright, we've got ourselves a nuke!" Gianpiero hooted with a cascade of rapid finger snapping to unleash his excess energy. "I'm calling bodyguard for Remo!"
Ten metres? While Shiro wouldn't call that a nuke – Goggles-sensei had a range of at least 16 metres – it was pretty damn good for someone who was… what rank was Remo?
"Guys, how much is this in yards?"
"Yards?" Flavio shot Larry a look that was ready to pick up where they left off back at the bar. "What third world country are you from?"
"One that makes the uniform you're wearing and the gun you're carrying."
The argument from before was peeping out from the proverbial curtains, eager to leap back on stage, when the show was once again claimed by the prima donna.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen: please. Knights of the True Cross do not bicker amongst themselves. Ten metres is ten point nine yards, and five-six metres amounts to between five point five and six point six yards; my own country used the Imperial measurements until a decade ago."
They all pretended not to hear Andrew's sword squeal how smart he was.
"Well, there you have yourself an interpreter. You two go with Alex, then. If you head straight in that direction", Flavio pointed with a full hand in the direction they had come from, "past where we saw the statues and the tree, you'll get to the edge of the park. Past some trees there's a wooden lattice thing with roses, if I remember right. Start chanting when you get there and then move towards us; we'll be moving towards you from the pond at the other end. Alright?"
"Not towards towards, right?" Larry said. "Like we don't go on collision course and accidentally turn each other into lead pepperoni."
"That goes without saying", Flavio remarked with a hint of impatience. "G is the only Doctor on the team so if you get injured you might as well use the next bullet on yourself."
"Please don't: casualties are a lot more work to report than treated injuries", drawled the team's only Doctor – and sharpshooter, judging by the SSG 69 hanging on his back.
"Or better yet, don't get injured in the first place. It's an easy mission, guys. Our team sticks to the far side and yours hugs the entrance side: any other questions?"
Remo crossed himself with a soft murmur and wound his rosary snugly around his wrist. Shiro adjusted his glasses and flipped the safety on his P1; Gianpiero cocked back the hammer on the Model 59 Smith & Wesson he carried alongside his sniper rifle – twin younger brother of the Model 39 Flavio had in his holster. Larry touched one symbolic kiss on each shoulder – one for the devil, one for the angel – and readied his AR-15; Andrew unsheathed his swo–
Swift glances passed between the young exorcists, and a silent agreement was reached there and then that Andrew's sword could squeal as much as it liked so long as it never, ever moaned again.
Shiro doubted they would find those rose trellises. He doubted there was anything even remotely like a landmark left to find. The park reminded him of photos he'd seen of natural disasters, as if a very localised hurricane had torn up everything in sight and transformed the landscape into its alcoholic twin. Trees, especially, were problematic when they were no longer vertical. The branches either broke from the fall, and became sharp as pole arms, or tangled with other branches and formed dense webs where a foothold would seem safe until the moment you put weight on it and made the entire structure shift.
Shiro wondered once again what exactly full-length robes were supposed to do for mobility. Yes, you could unbutton the skirts of the robe: that gave you a nice set of floppy fabric wings just waiting to snag on a branch. The debris and the upturned dirt made for an obstacle course where every step offered the opportunity of tripping or twisting an ankle – or getting your weapon caught in branches, if you were an arrogant nitwit Knight with a ridiculously dimensioned sword. The two Dragoons cringed whenever a snap or thud or "whoops!" marked their position to any demon within earshot, until Shiro's patience hit rock bottom after about five seconds.
"Fuck's sake, put that away unless you're going to cut us a path through this crap!"
"Show some respect, mongrel!"
"I wasn't talking to you."
"You were speaking ill words to my Andrew – barbarian! I shall flay you head to toe!"
The sword did no such thing, as Andrew had enough sense to chastise it and actually put it back in its scabbard. Shiro was about to relish the silence and focus on the mission when it was interrupted by the other chatterbox he had been paired with.
"So, Andy: is that your mom or your girlfriend?"
Andrew looked confused the way only Andrew could, until Larry threw a meaningful glance at the giant sword.
"Caliburn is an heirloom that has been passed down in the Angel family since the time of Arthur Pendragon, our noble ancestor, who was the first to subdue the demon that resides in it." Coincidentally also the first human to be born completely without ear for sarcasm. "It has been vanquished by each head of the family since, and has served us well."
"Arthur Pendragon?" It sounded like the most famous person Shiro had never heard of. "Are you shitting me? So that's– wait, that's Excalibur…?" Larry went from awed to disappointed faster than Midori could down a serving of yakiniku.
"Oi, who's Arthur Pendragon…?"
"Most likely", Larry said, "he was a Welsh guy who had–"
"–a round table of Knights that–"
"–was found in a grave in Glastonbury–"
The rest of the way Shiro was treated to two different – simultaneous – accounts of who Arthur Pendragon was. In essence, he was a Welsh guy who had a round table in a grave in Glastonbury, where all the bravest knights in his kingdom convened, on an island of apples, because the Lady of the Lake had given it to him in an attempt to give the Britons a sense of historical unity and a smelly wizard.
The downside of having to watch your every step is that you have less time to watch your surroundings. Neither of them noticed the dökkálfr – a scarce metre high, three-headed thing that looked like harebells – until they were basically stepping on its wiry roots. Then everything happened very fast, as things do when there is more reflex than reflection involved: Larry fired, and Shiro fired, but even as the demon shrieked and dissolved in miasma it had time to spit globs of fluid from the cone-shaped flowers.
"Are you hurt?!" Andrew, who had walked a few steps behind instead of being in any way useful, had escaped without a single speck on him.
"Fucking great…!" The same was not true for his two human shields.
Shiro fumbled for some slip of his robes that hadn't gotten soaked. The goo – nectar? – didn't appear harmful per se: that didn't mean it couldn't be harmful indirectly. Larry had turned away in the nick of time and only got hit in the back and head; Shiro was less lucky and had slim hopes of wiping his gun before the sticky nectar seeped into it. Unless it had already gotten in through the muzzle.
"We're fine. I just might need to rock the Bébé-look for a while – this thing's like glue…" Larry had touched the back of his head and brought his hand down with a grimace, along with tufts of brown hair stuck to his fingers. "Motherfucker…! Alex, drop the gun!"
Oh Shiro was trying to let go of the gun. In an aggressively hand-waving way. It almost looked like he was speaking Italian.
"It's not coming off." Unless he was prepared to sacrifice the top layer of skin on his palm, which did not seem like a particularly good idea in the midst of a mission. After a moment's consideration he fired one bullet into the dirt, hoping the blast would clear any nectar from the muzzle. "Wasn't planning on putting it away till the mission was done anyway." Just had to remember to keep his left hand un-gooed and he'd be fine. "Let's get moving. We can't be far from the roses. Whoa, what?!"
Larry had dropped his rifle and let it hang freely from the strap around his back and neck; with his hands he had gathered up a load of dirt and dumped it over Shiro's gun hand.
"Better than gluing yourself to your uniform by accident", he explained once weapon and hand were covered in a fine coating of brown.
"No, this will only make it worse to get off", Shiro argued, attempting to brush the dirt off without gluing his left hand stuck. "You should spit on it."
"Spit?" Andrew frowned in disgust.
"Yes, spit. Use your… kōso."
"Is that code for my inner kung fu spirit…? Like not spit but spirit?" Larry suggested.
"No! It's that substance in your saliva." How did you explain your way around a word like enzyme? "The reason you should not lick a spoon and then dip it in honey." Moriyama had told him so. Moriyama had told him so very much when he just wanted a taste and then messed up a whole jar of manuka honey from her storage.
"Saliva destroys it."
"Have it your way, Al", the broad American shrugged. "I'm gonna stick with grit till I can get a nice, hot shower."
They continued their quest for the edge of the park, past a cypress hedge bowing brokenly into their path and revealing some form of tool shed behind it. No roses anywhere in sight. What they did come across was a scatter of stone fragments that suggested the Order might have to pay compensation for at least one statue.
"Oh no…" Andrew sounded, for lack of better word, heartbroken; Shiro was half expecting him to fall to his knees, cradle a shard in his hands, and toss his head back to howl WHY?! at the indifferent heavens.
"Yeah I hope they don't charge us for that. On the upside, one less statue to exorcise – and that there looks like the edge of the park", Larry nodded up ahead at a wall of forbidding grey mortar, "so how about we get started? If your range is five-six yards, should we make like a zigzag pattern back to the others?"
"Zigzag?"
"Like this." Larry sketched the motion with a finger.
"No. They'll come for me when I start chanting. If we stay on course we'll get most of them. We should avoid this", he waved at the tangle of fallen trees, "as much as possible if we're gonna get into a fi–"
Oh come now. Getting into fights is not an if, it's an exorcist's job. To correct that slip of the tongue, a wrought iron bench came crashing down bare metres from where they were standing. Andrew drew his sword; Larry and Shiro pointed their weapons in the direction the projectile had come from.
"Looks like they're not gonna wait for your invitation, Alex."
One of the toppled trees wasn't a tree at all. It was an ent, a stubby carob tree that must have been lying down when they passed by. It mingled well with its surroundings, much of is branches having been broken off with tremendous force that left sharp, pale splinters sticking out of the rough hide. It was still retracting its arm from the throw when a swarm of Larry's bullets bit into it with heavy, muted thuds. It had neither face nor mouth – ents have no use for that sort of thing – but even so a low, wrathful hum reverberated from deep within the wood.
The good thing with ents was that they were slow; the bad thing was that they were strong as hell, and you needed at least a rocket launcher to do serious damage to one. And, elemental spirits had no fatal verses.
"Anyone got 9 mm djinn blessed bullets on them?"
"No blessed bullets at all." Larry was already falling back, step by cautious step. His eyes darted from the ent to the ground behind – and caught a glimpse of something else behind them. "If there's gasoline in the tool shed we could use that! I don't know how we're gonna snuff this guy otherwise!"
That was a pretty good idea.
"Make way, comrades!"
What was not a good idea was rushing straight at the ent.
Andrew ran headlong into the tangle, sword brandished and surrounded by a golden glow, and Larry hauled ass to stop him. Shiro himself was rooted to the spot – physically. His mind was racing at top speed, muted in a bubble of déjà vu that he couldn't comprehend until he remembered that time, long ago, when his class had taken their Esquire exam in the blizzard.
The world came back sharp with adrenaline and danger. Shiro sprinted left, peppering the ent with bullets as he did. He wasn't going to get himself killed over stupid teammates this time around either, but he would at least make an effort to save them. If he could just distract the ent, maybe Larry could–
Larry wasn't even close to catching up when Andrew tripped. The blonde idiot had almost reached the ent when he abruptly vanished out of view after misjudging a jump over a fallen tree; a rumbling howl rose from the ent, which seemed to have been cut in the foot by Caliburn judging by how the demon tree was–
"Oh fuck no…!"
–falling right on top of Andrew.
Shiro flew over the scattered trunks and bushes. He didn't care if Larry saw him leap like no human could, all that mattered was getting to Andrew and getting that tree off him before it was too late, if it wasn't too late already oh god that idiot…!
A blinding flash of light pierced Shiro's retina. He skidded to a halt straight into a squat palm tree, one arm thrown up to shield his watering eyes: a few metres away, Larry had done the same. Blinking and squinting, they gawked as their blonde idiot stood up and fussed about all the mud on his robes. The son of a bitch had had the devil's luck when he fell. The ent would have collapsed right on top of him, but the trunk that had tripped the Knight had also caught the demon's fall and saved him from being squashed.
"You fucking idiot! You could'a died! And what the hell was that?!"
On either side of Andrew, the remains of the ent oozed a slow trickle of miasma into the air. It didn't seem to have been cleaved in half so much as the middle portion of it had vaporised: when Shiro touched them, the cut surfaces were smooth as glass.
"This is Caliburn's true nature." If Andrew was about to start on another Epic Saga of His Family History, as his tone suggested, Shiro would test out how well his Epic Marksmanship worked with iron benches and a moving target. "In the hands of the righteous and just, it becomes the light that pierces the darkness."
Caliburn's exorbitant declarations of undying loyalty might absolutely be able to pierce darkness, and every ear within hearing range. The contrast was bizarre. Both of them, bizarre – in their own way, as if they couldn't really see or hear each other and carried out two separate conversations.
"So what you've got is a sword that shoots motherfucking laser beams." Larry had found a whole new motivation for Knight class. "You can keep your kung fu spirit, I just discovered my calling in life."
Things went rather smoothly after that – relatively speaking. Shiro's chanting attracted hordes of earth elementals as they moved towards the rest of the team, which wasn't that much of a problem between two guns and one sword; the problem was that they were there to exorcise statues, not weed the flowerbeds.
The universe operates according to a gleeful kind of ketchup effect where you either get none of what you want, or too much of it. Sometimes you even get both, if the universe is feeling particularly keen on torturing the undeserving.
They heard it before they saw it: big, heavy things have that effect on vegetation. The crunching of branches reached them from behind as something forced its way through the pick-up sticks they had navigated around. There's nothing quite like that moment. Any and every dreadful thing imagination can conjure springs to life in those few – long – seconds, no matter how many missions you have beneath your belt.
Larry kissed his angel tattoo once more.
Dreadful has a surprisingly broad definition. A winged unicorn is not a particularly scary sight, unless it's charging you like an 800 kg marble mini tank – and especially when it doesn't behave as it should. The plan was to keep demons away from Shiro yet in range while he chanted his verses to completion; this would be accomplished by Andrew and Larry throwing holy water grenades – damaging the demon but not the statue – to force its attention elsewhere.
The unicorn could not have cared less about their plans, and its attention was already elsewhere: on Andrew.
It tried to skewer him, but he threw himself out of the way; it tried to stomp on him while he was on the ground, but he rolled away last minute; it dripped and steamed of holy water but didn't give a damn about neither Shiro nor Larry – nor the demon sword calling it a barbarian and a brute.
"How long is the Book of Samuel?!" As if Shiro could answer that while chanting. He measured a wide arc between his hands: there were two Books of Samuel. "Well screw that!" Larry grabbed his rifle and–
"Don't harm the statue!" Andrew yelled as he narrowly escaped having his skull crushed by a wing.
"No offense Andy but your priorities suck ass!" Larry trained the muzzle at the unicorn and was about to squeeze the trigger when Andrew blocked his aim.
"We have orders", he panted, "not to harm the statues!" To which Shiro would have said fuck that if he hadn't been rattling off Bible verses. Thankfully, Larry did it for him. "I will take care of this one! You clear the rest, please!"
Andrew stopped dodging and started running: just like before, the unicorn didn't care about anything but him. Before long, the sound of breaking twigs and Caliburn's insults faded into the distance.
"Clear the rest please?" Larry glanced at Shiro with scepticism. Shiro agreed, but couldn't answer – then he remembered Bébé's lesson in gestures, and tapped his temple with an index finger. Larry chuckled. "Yeah he is a funny guy. A man should have principles but he should not be slave under them, you know? You gotta use your head – especially in this line of work." Larry spat on the ground. "Let's get some gardening done."
The relative smoothness became more and more relative, until their situation was only smooth when compared to swimming upstream with a fridge tied around your neck. There were earth elementals sprouting like goddamn dandelions everywhere: literally under their feet, snaring their boots, climbing up their legs…
Fuck this. With a bang, Shiro detonated a holy water grenade right where they stood and dispersed the elementals in a mess of chatters: there. Some temporary respite. They had to find the others and regroup, they were achieving absolutely nothing like this. He waved at Larry to follow him, not wanting to cease chanting in case he against all odds managed to exorcise at least something. They were almost back to the midline of the park, the sludge pit and the hedge were in sight and the promising sound of gunfire wasn't far away.
Larry, however, hadn't moved an inch. Shiro waved at him again; Larry was shaking his head violently, a steady stream of no flowing from his lips. Shiro waved a third time, fiercely: this time Larry started hesitantly moving – backwards.
"Oh fuck's sake come over here!" Shiro snarled, shot another greenman and changed his empty magazine with an impatient slam. "We gotta find the others and regroup!"
"Why the hell were you waving me away then?" The paralysis finally broke, and Larry ran over.
"I was telling you to follow!"
"Don't lie straight to my face, you hear?" It was the first time Shiro saw blue eyes like this. Up close. Pupils chipped away by adrenaline till they were nothing but sharp, black bullet holes boring through him as easily as if he'd been just another demon. "I know what I saw, so don't you fucking lie to me you fucking Jap."
Larry's rifle wasn't aimed at the ground. Larry's rifle was angled up, at him, ready to fire before Shiro had a chance to raise his own gun.
Some people can be reasoned with, if you keep calm in face of their aggression; others are like mad dogs, and back down only before dogs madder than themselves. Fine. Shiro could play the daredevil game.
If that had been what this was about.
Larry was not on edge because of the mission or the argument earlier that morning. Larry was on edge because that was what itched inside of him, edges and thorns and a devil on his shoulder, always on the verge of piercing the surface; Shiro could feel it. Wicked static coursing his skin, his blood, jolting that itch inside his brain that was all about the rush and none about the consequences. That itch that made him climb house façades and strike deals with demons. That itch that made him push and push until someone fell off the edge.
Larry wouldn't need much pushing…
…because Larry wanted to be pushed. To have an excuse to drop off that edge.
Shiro met his bullet-hole gaze steadily, seized the seconds between them and held them tightly in his lungs, willing them to last long enough for him to become lord over his impulses. There would be no one falling today.
"This", Shiro repeated the waving motion he had made three times, "means 'follow me' in Japan."
It might not work. There was a pressure building inside the American that seemed to have nothing to do with what Shiro said or did. Long seconds passed during which Shiro had to remind himself to breathe, and then, finally…
"That's how you shoo away a dog." Larry fired a carpet of rounds at the ground to his left, where more greenmen had sprung up during the explosive silence. "Let's go find the others."
They didn't speak any more after that. Conversation isn't an easy thing in the first place, with gunfire blasting, but Larry had cloaked himself in a thorny silence Shiro didn't know how to break – not with the previous conversation in mind. He kept a step or two behind the broad American, just in case.
The others had found the rose trellis. It had been two and a half metres tall and had forced them to jump in the pond to escape swarms of launched prickles; luckily, exorcist robes are thick, and reinforced with hemp fibre for additional protection. Needless to say, wearing wet ones was like walking around in a concrete onesie.
"We exorcised two faun statues and one of the nude women", Flavio reported, still trying to get his hair to look like he hadn't gone for a swim in a duck pond. "And about five million earth demons. Your count?"
"Like Arizona Cardinals' Super Bowl wins: zero. Plus five million weeds", Larry responded. No trace of the mad dog from earlier: only dissonance, as with Andrew and his demon sword. "Though we did come across–"
"Where is Angel?" Remo interjected urgently.
"Was just getting to that: there was this unicorn statue that didn't care squat about Alex's chanting. All it had eyes for was Andy, who's–"
"Despicable scoundrel!" The heavy thump of hooves was all the warning they got, before a lung-busting Andrew skidded around the thorny mess of the former rose trellis. He had gained a fine camouflage coating of mud and leaves: in his precious hair, too.
The unicorn cleared the trellis in one leap, wings flaring out for support; head lowered, it would have skewered Andrew like a fish if he hadn't just then tripped over his– Oh god the guy actually tripped over his own sword sheath… Lethal hooves thundered past, miraculously missing the curled-up human and the sword howling 'barbarian!' like some demented squirrel. Once again they raised their guns, and once again Andrew shouted at them not to harm the statue.
"Fuck the statue." Shiro watched the unicorn brake sharply, tail whipping about and haunches almost sitting in the dirt. He did not lower his gun. "And fuck you."
Snotty upper-class brats like Andrew would never be proper exorcists. Not because they couldn't fight – Andrew probably had more raw combat power than any of them – but because they didn't know the real world. They lived in their fancy, sugar powdered realities where anything was attainable and everything was exactly as it said on the tin, where orders were to be followed because they came from superiors who were always right and never had any hidden agendas.
Fuck orders. What kept you alive at the end of the day was your own damn wits. Shiro was about to pull the trigger on the statue when a hand smacked his arm down; Flavio told him with one glance that no one would shoot unless he said so.
"So it's true that unicorns only go for virgins."
They all stared at Gianpiero, who just grinned. Grinned and watched the unicorn chase its virgin maiden across the torn-up lawns.
"No wonder it turned as soon as it saw you", Flavio jibed, continuing to harpoon the serious atmosphere out of the air. "You're unicorn kryptonite, G."
"I don't need a unicorn: I am the unicorn." He grinned even wider and hefted his sniper rifle very… suggestively.
"That's what happens when you down that final third of Chianti", Shiro snorted with a grin; "you transform into a unicorn."
What kept you alive was your wits, but what kept you sane was your ability to joke despite the dangers of the job. The world may be shit, but if you can squeeze even a single drop of humour out of it then you can bear it. So they did. And they laughed. And maybe they felt a little more like a team, despite their first mission going crap.
"We need some kind of cover if we're gonna pull this off." Shiro had tried to take inventory of how many magazines he had left in his belt pouches, with only his non-dominant hand free. That, too, had helped the good mood of the group. "Like putting up a barrier to create a safe zone. Let them come to us instead." Because frankly, neither of the Dragoons had much ammunition left after the hordes of earth spirits.
"That won't be easy, I fear." Shiro somehow kept forgetting that Remo was there. If Gianpiero had the social presence of a full circus crew with orchestra, Remo had the presence of a doormat: one could assume it was there, because it usually was, but you wouldn't really notice it or be able to describe what it looked like. "The bridge across the pond is the only solid surface where we could draw a barrier, and it simply isn't big enough for all of us."
"Guys, I think I saw something we can use. Back when we still had Andy. We passed by this pool thing that had a retaining wall of stone. It looked pretty intact."
"We did?"
"Yeah, it was on our right side when we went there, on our left side when we backtracked."
"It's the fountain the unicorn belongs in", Flavio enlightened. "How far from here are we talking, if we avoid the fallen trees?"
"We'd have to come in at a bit of an angle, say…" Larry extended his arm at the other end of the park; "maybe 300 yards."
"…Did you have to lose the one guy who could translate between metres and yards?" Flavio raised a hand at them in a way that made him resemble a waiter carrying a tray of glasses.
"Sorry: I'll make sure to lose Larry next time. Or he could just learn the metric system."
They formed a protective square of Dragoons around an apologetic Remo, with Larry at the front to guide them. And to complain about the metric system, which used arbitrary lengths with no basis in reality, and that made Imperial the superior system: you didn't need to carry around a measuring tape as long as you had thumbs and feet. Perfectly logical.
"You're saying metres is arbitrary but how arbitrary isn't it to use feet for measurement when everyone's feet are different sizes?" Flavio argued – like a cat at a fish market indeed.
"There's a standard foot, obviously. Your own foot is just for approximation."
"So you have a mummified standard foot in Fort Knox and we have a standard metre bar in Paris: not much difference."
"Mummified standard foot!" Larry laughed. "Yeah yeah; right next to the mummified standard thumb."
"And I can still use my own feet to measure an approximate metre, so I don't see your point", Flavio continued.
"My point is you should base your system on something real, something that's readily available and that everybody can relate to. Feet and inches are real measurements that people have been using since time immemorial – what's meter? Some fantasy unit scientists made up during coffee break: it's got nothing to do with regular people and what was convenient to regular people."
"Should we base our measurement units on the hammer or the sickle, Comrade Brooks?" Gianpiero cajoled from the rear guard.
"In Japan we measure area based on the standard size of a straw mat."
"Dude what was that you were saying about third world countries?" Larry tossed a grin at Flavio. "That is a fucking third world country measurement."
"But can't you make straw mats any size you want? How do you know you've made it exactly standard measured?"
Parallel to the rapid fire against demons evolved a rapid-fire discussion of what, exactly, constituted a good measurement standard from a global perspective. Tatami mats weren't any good. Neither was the beater of a weaving loom, or the crossbar of a football goal.
"Okay but bikes, how about that?" Larry asked and turned his head, only to spot something behind them. "Demon three bikes away, five o'clock!"
"Three demon bikes with five o'clock shave?" Gianpiero shouted after disposing of the demon.
"Five shaved demons on a bike?" Flavio returned.
"Five baked demons shaving a clock!" Oh god…
In the distance, Andrew and the unicorn sped past and were gone.
"And one breathless Knight chased by a barbarian unicorn", Flavio commented.
"One breathless night with Barbara the unicorn."
"I'm pretty sure that's a male unicorn", Larry observed.
"I'm pretty sure Caliburn is male, too." Gianpiero went on to make a disturbingly accurate imitation of Caliburn moaning for Andrew to 'grab its hilt'.
"He's a fag demon magnet..." Larry crumpled up in snickers, hand over his eyes to shield him from his mental images. "Alright, guys, how about we save him from Barbara?"
"The other statues first", Shiro responded over his shoulder as he slammed one of his remaining three magazines into the gun. "We have to save all ammo we can."
The fountain had arcs of water still spouting around a gathering of stones that Barbara must have stood on. They began clearing the perimeter, kicking aside branches and debris, before Flavio even had the order out of his mouth. It was the Arias' task to chalk the stone wall with barrier symbols, or would have been if Shiro's right hand hadn't been glued stuck to his gun – but perhaps that was a good thing, because Remo didn't draw the barrier as Shiro would have.
"You use these glyphs together?" he pointed at a section where Remo had drawn two figures – alchemical, in the classification of warding symbols – that Futotsuki-sensei had said to never use in combination.
"I do." Remo halted his motions and looked up at Shiro from his squatting position. "Is there something wrong?"
"I've just been taught that you don't use those two in the same inscription. But if it works, it works."
"Who knows… I'm not surprised that different regions have different traditions." He resumed drawing the warding glyphs swift yet graceful movements. "Did your teacher say why you're not supposed to combine them?"
No, he hadn't. And when they all stood inside and the chanting commenced, the barrier held just fine. The elementals didn't get through, and neither did the two agitated faun statues or the remaining nude woman. All in all, Shiro felt this was another case of learning-one-thing-only-to-discover-that-reality-works-differently, like when Goggles-sensei had taught them that there were no shortcuts to Aria verses.
Keeping time with Remo's chanting was… not difficult, not really, but – different. Shiro recited his verses, like all other Arias he'd worked with in Japan; Remo chanted. In the true sense of the word. The verses poured out of him as a melody, rising and falling, pitch-perfect and strangely… tranquil: hypnotic, almost, in its simplicity, as it gently but relentlessly wove deeper into the labyrinths of the ear. He counted the verses on his rosary as he sang, counted with long fingers that knew every curve and chip in the wooden beads. His eyes remained closed the entire time.
The remaining statues were neatly gathered around the fountain, exorcised and marked with chalk symbols to prevent demons from possessing them again. They rationed the ammunition amongst themselves and left the safety of the barrier for their last task: save Andrew. …which was a big anti-climax. Finding him was easy: you just followed the heated monologue of Caliburn shouting abuse. Exorcising Barbara was also easy: Andrew had climbed up in a tree and clung to the branches for dear life while the unicorn repeatedly braced itself on its forelegs and kicked at the trunk. All Shiro and Remo had to do was stand and chant.
"Good job keeping the unicorn away from us!" When the Knight was finally back on the ground, Flavio patted him in the back with a big, warm smile. "Couldn't have done it without your distraction manoeuvre, what with all those earth demons coming out of nowhere."
"Yeah they could've briefed us about that", Shiro huffed, trying to rub spit on his gun and fingers without looking like a nutcase. "I would've bringed more ammo, for one thing."
"Brought more ammo", Larry corrected.
"We can't lay blame on our superiors. There was no way they could know the galatea and the earth demons were fighting over this territory."
"They were fighting each other…" Remo murmured. They were all having the same revelation: the upturned flowerbeds, the smashed statues, the torn-down trees. They had walked straight into a demon civil war.
"How did you know?" Gianpiero wasn't upset: he was a two-thirds empty bottle of Chianti that was now completely empty, because some moocher had spotted it and thought it was a shame to let good liquor go to waste.
"My companion told me", he responded and patted Caliburn's hilt.
"And you didn't tell us?" Larry fumed, because the next collective revelation was that if they had just let the demons exterminate each other, this mission really would have been a walk in the park. "We could've just sat back and let them pummel each other!" Instead, they had given the demons a common enemy to unite against.
Andrew frowned. Not deeply but stiffly, the way a face freezes when you pause a video halfway through a grimace.
"We are Knights of the True Cross, Lawrence. We are the sword and shield of the Lord, and what we do, we do in His name."
"Dude not even my ma calls me Lawrence!"
"If we do not raise that shield and sword against evil", Andrew continued unperturbed, "but watch idly as evil turns on itself, have we fulfilled the duty the Lord gave us? Have we carried out His work, as honourable men – as Knights?" He might only have been a couple of centimetres taller than Larry, but he seemed to be looking down on him from the top of Tokyo Tower. "Or are we cowards masquerading as servants of the Lord?"
"Kyaaa Andrew speaks like a true king~!"
If someone in that moment had asked Larry 'what are you today?', the appropriate response would have been that he was a dragon about to burp in an oil tanker. His face flushed an angry red and the muscles in his neck stood out like ropes: it made it all the more startling when he opened his mouth and sounded perfectly calm.
"You're absolutely right, Andy. Absolutely. Getting the job done efficiently isn't what matters, it's getting it done with honour – oh silly me, how did I not understand that?" Perfectly calm except for the toxic sarcasm.
"Understanding takes time, my friend." Andrew laid his hand on Larry's shoulder in a display of encouragement. "But don't worry. You will get there." He squeezed his shoulder with a solemn smile. "You will get there."
You could hear the gears turning as Larry struggled to decide whether Andrew was a world-class actor or a world-class idiot.
"Well spoken." Flavio sided with Andrew…? Nah that had to be his argumentative streak. "If not for honour and faith we'd be nothing but pest exterminators – I can only speak for myself but I like the title Knight of the True Cross a lot better. Brothers in arms." Flavio attempted to sling his arms around the shoulders of the two, realised he was a decimetre too short for that kind of comradely gesture, and ended up awkwardly grasping their upper arms. "There's no bond more honourable than that. We are each other's hands and feet, we tell each other what we do and what we learn about the situation: we keep each other alive." He looked steadily from one to the other. "Can we honour that bond from here on out? Andrew?"
"Your words stir my heart, Flavio. From here on out I–" As Andrew was about to bring his hand to his heart, he noticed he was stuck on Larry's shoulder.
"That would be demon nectar. Bonding shower for you and me, amigo." He patted Andrew on the shoulder. "Let's get back and have that dinner."
Shiro entered the apartment more dirt than human, after a profoundly awkward bus ride where he had tried to hide the gun by shoving both hands into his pockets and leaning against the wall. Combined with the combat boots and the long, black robes full of dirt, he had probably looked like a hitman fleeing the scene of the crime.
Old habits die hard, and just like in Japan there was a naturally formed laundry pile by the foot of Shiro's bed. He walked right past it, into the bathroom, and dumped the muddy uniform into the bathtub piece by piece. Lastly, he slid the magazine out of the gun and put it on the sink, then dumped himself in the tub.
Mud, sweat, and nectar melted off him in the stream of hot water. The blunders and misunderstandings of the day followed suit, trickling out of sore limbs and evaporating with the steam. Weird-ass teammates. Weird-ass people were the only ones who'd get the idea to become exorcists in the first place.
He put the gun next to the magazine once it finally came off. Washed his body, washed his hair, wrung the water out of his clothes and hung them over the tub edge. Shiro preferred to air dry, when temperatures allowed it. It was a luxury he hadn't had often during his years in a dormitory, or at the orphanage, but now that he lived alone he would enjoy his clothing free time as much as he damn well pleased.
Shiro spread a towel on the burnt orange carpeting of his room and sat down on it with his gun and his cleaning kit. Guns preferred to air dry, too. Dissembling a gun was akin to meditation: the meticulous, orderly deconstruction of things, down to their most basic parts. Parts... It's a strange concept: parts. That an object is not an object in itself but a part, useless on its own and only gaining function – purpose, worth – when put together with other parts. Whether the construction as a whole worked or jammed depended on how well those parts fit and moved together.
Shiro wiped clean every pin and groove of his P1, treated the parts with lubricant, and got himself ready for dinner.
A/N
I always kind of wondered if different types of demons ever cooperate. Or if they're rivals? Or both…? And on the off chance that some of you know about Barbara the Unicorn, this is my tribute to the joke.
Puts hair on your chest – if there's one thing in languages that has potential for misunderstandings, it's all these idioms, set expressions, and figures of speech. =P
Chianti colli Fiorentini is the type of Chianti wine grown just outside Florence, while the "true" Chianti is grown some 30 km (173 bikes) to the southwest of the city.
Alfredo alla Scrofa is an old restaurant in Rome, and the place where fettuccine alfredo was invented.
ArmaLite AR-15 is a quite vicious-looking thing that uses a special operating mechanism called DGI: direct gas impingement. The theory of gas impingement itself is simple: when a bullet is fired, there is an expelling of gas that is collected via a gas port in the barrel. The pressure of this gas is then used to operate the mechanism that reloads the firearm (unlocks the mechanism, extracts and ejects the spent case, cocking the hammer, loading a fresh cartridge into the chamber, and locking the mechanism back in place). In regular gas impingement, the gas accomplishes this through pushing at a piston and operating rod that triggers the actual reloading mechanism: in a direct gas impingement mechanism, there is no piston or rod. The gas itself goes directly to act on the reloading mechanism. (Shiro is a nerd.)
SSG 69 is a very expensive but also very accurate Austrian sniper rifle.
Smith & Wesson Models 39 and 59: remember the footnote where I mentioned the Walther P38/P1 was a great inspiration for later gun models? These are two of those later models. Also if you happen to get your gun wet, taking it apart and letting it dry plus a round of lubricant (WD-40) is apparently the recommended treatment.
Arthur Pendragon is an inspiration for Arthur August Angel, and if he's not I'm gonna eat my pencil. We will get back to the Arthurian legends later, as Larry and Andrew aren't very good at summarising it. Basically Larry is taking the literature history approach, talking about figures in history or poetry that might have been the inspiration for King Arthur and where people have guessed the mythical Avalon and Arthur's tomb to be. Andrew is talking about the legends themselves, how Arthur became king and what he did once he was king. And that's a thing I love with Ao no Exorcist: the line between myth and history is very blurry.
Hemp fibre was used in WWI to reinforce soft body armour and slow down projectiles.
Dökkálfr – that plant demon thing that takes Shiemi hostage way back in the manga.
Saliva in honey - no. Bad idea. You have carbohydrate cleaving enzymes. But manuka honey is pretty cool: it's what you get when bees gather nectar from the manuka plant endemic to New Zealand and Australia. It's a natural antibacterial that might be used in hospitals someday.
Technically, if you can measure in mats or feet you could just as well measure in bikes.
Dear gecko-samedi
I am gifted – or cursed – with splendid memory. I remember you as if it had been yesterday – actually mistook an anonymous reviewer (nicked "gecko") for you a while ago. A while ago is probably years. x') When you remember things very well, time can be quite hard to grasp.
If Shiro's transformation strikes a chord with you, it's because what I wrote for him was based on diary entries I wrote when I was around your age. When my world was grey and I couldn't see any meaning in getting out of bed in the morning, when I couldn't feel, or cried to no end for reasons I couldn't name. It might not be much help, but I find that, sometimes, knowing you're not alone in the dark can make even the bad times feel a bit easier.
I miss the days when I could feel genuinely happy to 100%, I do. An easy life with no inner demons pulling you under, who wouldn't want that? I believe AnE has many good parallels to express the kind of changes you go through: like receiving a mashou, there's no way to see the world the same again once you've seen the demons. Like exorcists needing to work in teams and being careful not to accumulate darkness in their hearts, there is relief in sharing and in people who understand and support you.
A friend of mine told me of kintsukuroi, the Japanese custom of repairing cracked ceramic goods with gold. I took comfort in that philosophy, of seeing the beauty in broken things: the pottery won't be the same as before it was broken, nor will it be as stable, but it will have a value it didn't have before. I have times when I struggle to keep my head above the surface, but the times I don't? Oh I appreciate the times I don't. I appreciate the beautiful kintsukuroi people around me. I appreciate being alive, in a softly glowing sort of way. Those moments are a different kind of happiness from the naïve, immaculate happiness I knew when I was young: more profound, more serene, and truly a golden lining on life.
It gets better. Little by little, you get to know your demons and what spells help cage them. Little by little, you find people who Understand, and who make you feel like yourself again.
Even for Shiro, I promise it gets better. :)
/Dimwit
Dear Guest (September 16th)
Your review saved my day. I'd had another few nights of insomniac issues and woke up feeling like "fuck everything, I'll just lie here and pity myself all day" but then I saw someone had reviewed and something brightened in my heart (I am a simple soul). Thank you! 8')
Oh, Shiro does get breaks – in due time. =P The names of the arcs actually have a bit to do with their contents/the development that takes place in them, I don't think I ever confirmed that... Terra is a setting of the stage; Inferno is suffering; Purgatorio is penance for old sins and setting things right; Paradiso is self-explanatory (ehh the others are, too – my brain's just mushy). And then there's Kairos, which we will not speak of just yet. =P
"And Mephisto dear gods he actually thought that Shiro would want to hang out with him? I thought he was smart enough to realise he burned that bridge ages ago."
xD He's quite the ass, yes? If all it took was being smart I'm sure he would have realised. However, this is an issue of EQ more than IQ – or rather that for all his knowledge of humans, Mephisto has never been human himself. He can estimate, but he can't understand or relate. Ehh, it's a little difficult to explain (that's why I have to write a long story about it). I think we all, once or twice in life, encounter the type of individual who lacks that kind of insight into how others feel, and when you do you're likely to find them in the midst of an emotional chaos that they are adamant is caused by others' "irrational feelings and overreactions". Never by their own inability to understand others. The sad thing is they're (most of the time) not doing it intentionally: there's nothing malicious about them, they just don't have the mental wirings to understand what they're doing to people.
Though in the case of demons in general and Mephisto in particular, he definitely derives a sadistic pleasure from controlling and manipulating emotions. x')
/Dimwit
Dear Emmalia
Sorry to hear that, but don't worry, I will fix their relation. I just can't make it happen with a snap of my fingers. I believe very few people would out of the blue forgive a person who has treated them badly, and Shiro has to add a few experiences and insights to his mental backpack before he can begin to view Mephisto as anything but a backstabbing liar.
But to ease your pain a little, here's Shiro and Mephisto from Purgatorio looking back on this part of their lives:
S: "What is this? Some kind of– Oh no I remember that corduroy blazer. Oh god this is me in the 70's. Oh NO…"
M: "I can't express enough how relieved I am that you came to your senses regarding that blazer."
S: "Oi, I still like that blazer – I was talking about how I was in the 70's. I was like an angry porcupine hissing at everything that moved."
M: "Ah, yes. Your vengeance-fuelled emoness blinded you to pretty much all my hints of wanting to re-establish friendly connections."
S: "…"
M: "…What?"
S: "Just imagining all the layers of self-denial you have to wrap yourself in to say that and suddenly I'm thinking of you as a spring roll."
M: "Fair analogy – you can eat me from both ends."
S: "And if I'd rather bite you in half? Though you're already tearing yourself in two oh god I wish I'd seen you like this back then! Just look at you! Missing me so badly but just couldn't swallow your pride and say it!"
M: "I was telling you! You were just too thick to get my hints."
S: "You know damn well I don't get hints. You have to spell it out to me: I. MISS. YOU. Capital letters. And underneath it: I'm sorry."
M: "That's the sign you should have worn on that hideous blazer."
S: "How is it that every talk we have about the 70's comes back to that blazer?"
M: "Oh I don't know – because it should have burnt in hell?"
S: "Or because you have pride issues?"
M: "I get along quite well with my pride: it's others that don't."
S: "Okay you know what? I'll fix that. I'll write it into my will that I wanna be buried in that blazer–"
M: "NO."
S: "–and then when I meet your folks down there I'll do a strip routine and unbutton it, real slowly–"
M: "You WHAT?"
S: "–until I'm all the way up in your dad's lap: then I'll whip it around him and put a seal on it."
M: "What are you even–?!"
S: "With his dignity taken hostage and all your brothers paralysed from the shock, Satan will be trapped in that mustard corduroy unless he does as I say and summons your ass down to the throne room–"
M: "That is not going to–"
S: "–where you can publically confess what an absolute dickhead you were in the 70's, and how much your pride threw spanners in the works for you when all you really wanted was to get on my good side again, because deep down you're a huge sappy softie who likes humans way more than decency permits."
M: *has very much to say about – against – this and doesn't know where to start*
S: "And there you have it, folks: the biggest tsundere ever. And the reddest. You'd have to put his tail through a mangle to make him confess that he cares about you – and remember how I'd joke and call him Cuddlebun? He's a total cuddlebun. The reason he has all those plushies in bed? When he's sleeping he's like a little baby koala that–"
M: *snaps fingers and stuffs Shiro's mouth full of spring rolls* "Anyway, wait till you see his blazer. He should be court-martialled in Hague."
/Dimwit