Galaxian's Spicy January Writing

Do not expect quality out of this page. Or much content, to be honest.

Not to sound too greedy, but any frequent support would be very appreciated xD!

Did I say edge? Get ready for *eDgE*

## **January 1 - "Everything is More Than It Seems", Part I**

(I'm just writing whatever. This is a small continuation to the Rogue RP. Hold on, I'll write it somewhere else and paste it because this page keeps reloading and we don't want me to smash my computer.)

What Tsukiakari was trying to tell him: Please stop punching the wall.

Rai used his other arm to punch the wall, getting past the block on his left arm.

“Oh my gosh, Smirkster,” Tsukiakari groaned. “Could you be any more uncooperative?” Before he could show her what *his* uncooperative meant, she quickly added, “Please don’t.” She took both of his hands and held them with her cold ones. They were enough to make shocks of pain vibrate throughout his hands.

His plan foiled for the time being, he gave a small glance downwards. Blood was there, alright, a small stream of it from the pressure points of his knuckles. His left hand was more bloodied than the right; after all, he’d punched with it three times, all brutally. However, the exact source of the injuries were nowhere to be seen.

He crumpled down against the wall, grinding his back as hard as he could against the wall’s material, in an attempt to feel anything except for the numbness he had inside. It didn’t work, as an echo of his inner pain cried out inside himself again. The girl bent down along with him, her arms now mostly resting on her bent knees. He bent his own knees towards himself.

He briefly remembered moments of his fleeting youth, whenever he was unhappy. He had never liked to drag others into his pain. He always relied on the corner of whatever room he was in, as if curling up and not seeing the world would make the world not see him.

He had thought fighting the same world would mean he could win. Just like if he screamed out in distress right now, no one would care. Not even himself.

Perhaps Tsukiakari would. She was always so kind. Too kind, sometimes, to the point he didn’t know how to receive it.

“The toast is burning,” he muttered.

“And the kids are running away,” she replied.

Oh, was this a game now? “They’re older than you.” He sounded harsher than he wanted. “They don’t understand as much as you do.” He repeated, “The toast is burning.”

“So let it burn.” She peered at him with her placid silver eyes full of calm and tranquility, softer than they usually were. “You’re more important, Rai.”

“No, I’m not,” he denied roughly. He turned his metallic eyes, too worn out and too dulled over, to the side. “I’m not important to anyone. I shouldn’t be.”

“Rai—"

“I shouldn’t be!” He jumped up, yanking his hands away from hers. “I never wanted to be after all that happened!”

She tried to say his name again, but he turned away.

“You don’t deserve this,” he finally said. “Any of this bullcrap I’m experiencing.” His voice rose. “Maybe I deserve it, but why didn’t they just let me die? I thought death was the worst thing that could happen to anyone, but I was wrong!”

“Calm down, please—"

He paused, remembering a talk he had had with her about “Calm down” never working. No, not just with her. They had taken it to the gang, and made each other promise that if someone in the gang told a consociation member to calm down, they had to do just that. No exploits. He had almost forgotten.

## **January 2 - "Everything is More Than It Seems", Part II**

He took a long, labored breath.

“Fine,” he finally said. “I’m calm now. But you can’t make me do anything else.”

“You sound like a kid my age,” she noted.

“No duh, that’s my mental age.” Remembering she was actually twelve, he added, “Nine.”

“A sassy kid my age,” she clarified, somehow still sounding nice.

“Right.”

Tsukiakari sighed slightly. A win for him. “Alright…something happened, didn’t it? With whatever you were doing? With those kids?” She struggled to stand up, as well, to her credit, not giving a look to the burning smell in the air.

“Right. Talking.”

“What were you talking about?”

Give it to her to find the problem right away. “Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Stuff that’s a trigger for me.”

She sighed again. Two wins. “Rai, specifics, please.”

“I *am* being specific.” He indicated the stress on the singular word with a slight change of tone.

She shook her head.

“What do you want me to say, then?” he demanded quietly, crossing his arms, like he could build a barrier up to her concern for his state of mind, or even the initial silence building up between them.

“I understand why you don’t want to talk about it,” she finally said, not looking directly at him and pinning him in place with her gaze. Not that it mattered, anyways; he was trapping himself in his own place in the first place. “Calmness is hard to achieve, and…” she nearly trailed off, but came back strong again. “…since it’s a trigger for you, then, you wouldn’t want to talk about it again. With anybody, I mean.”

He appreciated her using the word “since” instead of “if” so much more than he cared to show. Outwardly, though, he showed no reaction, or any indication that he wanted to show one at all.

“But,” she continued with her own sort of fervor, “you…need…” She seemed to be struggling to put her thoughts into words. “You need…help. With whatever your thoughts have been. You’re usually so calm, Rai, or you appear to be, but you’re not really that way inside…you…well, I hate to say ‘pretend’…but, uh, that’s what you do. You pretend. You’re so good at it that it becomes a lie for not only others, but yourself. You basically trick yourself, and I think that’s sad—that you have to pretend you’re the eye of some storm of the past when you’re actually the wall."

Somewhere inside himself, he thought that Hitan would have approved of that comparison.
“But the thing is…” she started with more courage. “We shouldn’t lie to ourselves, even if it benefits us in the short run.”

The short run? He hadn’t heard it phrased that way before.

She stopped there, apparently waiting for his reaction. His limited senses were being overwhelmed by the burning scent in the air, to the point he felt like there was charred ash lathered over his tongue. Maybe he could use that as the excuse for him not speaking—that the smell would overwhelm him and choke him up if he tried to talk.

## **January 3 - "Everything is More Than It Seems", Part III**

She finally sighed. “You’re so stubborn.”

“As are you,” he said. Coughing, he asked, “Could you please deal with the burning bread? Cosmic’s going to come a’running and presume there’s a fire.”

She gave him a pointed look, but realizing he was right, retreated.

He considered bolting before she could give him a TED talk, but realized she could fly without wings, so decided against it. Besides, she was coming over with a pan, and he really didn’t need that in his life. Or on his head, even if on accident. Yeah.

“Does it still look edible?” she asked entirely innocently.

From what Rai could tell, it was a flattened piece of charcoal. “Suure. Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes, though it was hard to tell, since she closed them at the same time. “Riiiight. Yeaahh,” she imitated him. She actually sounded pretty close.

He had to smirk at that, feeling like some weight was temporarily floating off of his chest and back, some of that suffocating weight that always tried to bind him together so parts of his inner self wouldn’t go floating, but also placed so much pressure on him to feel normal at all.

She huffed and got up to toss the char across the room.

“Wait, wait,” he protested, feeling a bit of his usual self come back to him. “That’s still edible. For me. I mean it. Give me it.” He added, “Please.”

“I’ve never heard anyone be so polite for a crisp, burnt piece of toast.”

“No actually. Please give me it,” Rai said. “I haven’t eaten. Unhealthily. In a while.”
She noticed the unnatural ends in his sentence, and her panic showed on her face as she paled even more than she already was. “You haven’t eaten?!”

“No, no, I said I haven’t eaten. Unhealthily—"

“You haven’t eaten!” That was the loudest Tsukiakari ever got—when someone didn’t eat. “I’ll get you a meal!”

Knowing her “hunger meals” were gourmet meals and that he wouldn’t be able to walk after she forced him to eat every single morsel, he just ran for it as soon as she turned her back and started running into the deeper kitchen.

How did a “You’re not okay” talk turn into this?

Well, he didn’t know. In general, anything with Cosmic’s gang always turned out to be weirder than he thought.

Knowing she didn’t have a manual GPS on her to track down his location, the teenager ran out the door, took a left, took a right, took a right, went straight ahead, took a left—and slammed into another highly familiar person. He barely flinched at all, but the kid, who was one foot shorter than him and more, went rolling down—

Wait, rolling down?

--the stairs.

Oh, shoot.

Rai bolted down the stairs as fast as he could to try to slow the pre-teen’s fall, but he swore the other was gaining momentum every millisecond. Rai was a very fast runner, and somehow, the other welcomed the hard tiled floor with an “Oof” one step before his right boot hit the final one.

## **January 4 - "One, Two, Three, Infinity", Part I**

(We stan. 2015 writing. Now rewritten without references to the original cringe. And with added philosophies. Woo!)

The universe started with nothing, and it would end with nothing. In between its time were pockets of nothing as well, emptiness that would never come to see anything else except for more of itself, and in its space, there was nothing as well, except things that could never breathe, never think for themselves, except continue in a loop as time dragged on, with no meaning except to continue going on, and continue going on…until that one day they came to an end. Perhaps if they were greater, they would have a few moments of glory. If they were less, they would merely be engulfed by the greater, meeting a silent fate.

Planets were taken in that way, their existence obliterated until no evidence remained, and still the wrap of time uncoiled itself around everything, disappearing and reappearing again, so slow yet so fast, giving birth to small, inferior things and making them vanish without a trace in front of its eyes.

People who had never sought anything, people who had sought to live on happily as their all, and those who had sought the world, for failure or for success, were not to be differentiated. They were remembered, perhaps for a bit, but just like a dead star, there was nothing more to speak of them just as there was nothing more for the star to burn, and so as all’s bright shine they leave will be vanquished to time, their time to shine will still be sacrificed, until all that remains is the Cycle to begin again, if it ever had a beginning, or an end…
Nice thoughts to end this night with, he thought.

Perhaps he too was stuck within a Cycle that would never be ended. Not if everything continued the way it had been for this decade. Not if nothing changed, except his constant swirling thoughts about a world he never recalled being a part of.

How many years had it been since he had been abandoned here, on a star no other living being had survived on? He counted thirteen, with numbers he had no recollection of learning, trapped here with no other desire but to escape.

His world, this little world no one else ever even dared to ponder to come to, wasn’t all that sort of hellish place that stories perhaps told. It was only warm to him by now, as compared to the blazing sort of heat he had first felt. But he had found everything that he needed to sustain his life at least, and for him, all that was was just some place he could call home temporarily. Still, his mind wandered.

It just wasn’t enough, and he wondered if it ever would be. He was sure there was a home out there that he had once.

And colors…

He was sure there were more out there, too. More than this confounded haze spread across this world all the time, lingering across everything, like it too was unsure where it belonged.

## **January 5 - "One, Two, Three, Infinity", Part II**

He remembered the sensation of something wonderfully startling slipping along the sides of his face, and stinging his fingers. There was a hue with that, when he closed his eyes every night. It almost brought more colorful shades every time, but they dried up each time and were gone, letting his vision return to eternal blackness.

But, for once, he didn’t let himself slip back into that dark fog, preventing him from seeing.
He wanted to see more than that blaring red and searing orange, only ended by blackness. There was more, he believed…wasn’t there?

‘Thirteen’ years ago…

A year, a year, a year…

Every one he tried to count, another slipped from his mind, until he was lost at which he had begun with and which he had wished to end with, with all those numbers he wasn’t supposed to remember. All those names he remembered…all those names that were not his own. None of them belonged to him; they perhaps belonged to nothing.

He always had tried. He had named every rock there, every rock that he did not know was a rock, and every crevice in between. He imagined tiny creatures that could not talk like him but thought about companionship just the same, or perhaps just acted on it, repeating the same routine each day for something more than just the next day. Creatures that never thought about that day they wouldn’t see.

Once again, once again, he tried. Every syllable he could try to pronounce from his tongue, not yet dried by the scorching heat. Even those he was sure never existed, he tried.
A word for a star that was not this one, where no one was trapped in the infinite, and existence was finite.

He did not know how to express it. A beginning, and an end. Both of which he did not know. But still, he went on.

The usual sparks danced by, burning his tongue, trying to make him stop. The pain faded into the abyss of his mind, that void someone had once forced upon him, or perhaps he had forced upon himself. One, two, three…

The first died, and he tried again. One, two, three…

There was something before one, wasn’t there? And at the end he sought, just what was there?
In this universe, what was there before the beginning? What would be there in the end?

One, two, three stars. When all three of them died out, did they leave their hollow shell in hopes that someone would find them one day, and remember that they had once shined?

What was he to leave? What was the evidence that he had shined?

Crystallizations of fire gave a deadly dance around the corners of his eyes once again, dissipating into black.

What was the star compared to the universe it was in, in between all the blackness, trapped there to repeat its mere cycle as its life slowly took hold?

One, two, three minutes. One, two, three hours. One, two, three days, weeks, years, multiplied by the thousand and hundred thousand and million…until they died.

He was a star, slowly breathing out his last. No one would be able to see his shine; his energy would fuel no planet. He was pinned to the world he had awoken to, trapped by his desire to escape a world he had no ability to, the gravitation of his life that had chained him here.

He could do nothing. Nothing he could do would help him escape the gravitation binding him to this world…except wait.

It was almost impossible, he knew. The gravity that bound him, tethering him to fading out, was stronger than him. It was stronger than worlds. It chained worlds to the one surrounding him, his prison. It bound him to a beginning he did not know.

But, maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to have an end.

Maybe, just maybe, there was stronger star with stronger gravity.

He was not all alike to a star, not if he didn’t let go all of his energy for him to burn and shine to nothing, in light of a hope that one day he would be unleashed from a cycle that he did not have to be part of and in light of a hope that he could shine again someday, to finish what he had started from distant times that could not hold him here.

The same colors clustered around his vision again as he opened them, and once again, the renegade tried to recall everything he had left to wait for his chance to brighten in glory.

One, two, three…

## **January 6 - "Bullet in the Air", Part I**

“Do you think you’ll have to kill them?” the boy asked, or perhaps, not currently a boy. His voice was a notch lower than his usual, giving it the false mature undertone of adulthood. His mask was slanted on his face—again—giving his voice a slight vibrating quality.

It certainly wasn’t a typical question, but that was within typical standards. The Mamba asked the question every day, and practically every hour. This time, though, the A.A. wasn’t completely positive that they knew who the Mamba was talking about.

“Why are you not asleep?” was the Apologetic Assassin’s question, polishing a sword. They had expected there to be blood, but there was not any. However, they had returned to the Masked Ones’ compound and sensed a fist-load of drama. Further speculation revealed that the Jackal was ticked, so the A.A. did not report to him.

The Mamba sounded tentative. “I tried! The Raven’s so loud!”

“The Raven?”

“He’s the loudest,” the teenager mumbled boisterously. “Louder than me. The loudest.”

From what the A.A. experienced, it wasn’t possible to be louder than the Mamba, but they left it at that.

The Mamba added, “There was this weird deity guy at the compound.”

That piqued the assassin’s attention. They let their hand rest on the blade for a moment. “Deity?”

“Yep!” The Mamba was unconcerned. “Deity. I don’t even know his name—owl lady said Eidolon or something--”

Eidolon. Meaning: Specter, a ghost, a phantom.

“Were they an ally?”

The Mamba paused in his talk to himself. “Ally? What does that mean?”

The A.A. didn’t have the patience to explain. “Were the Masked Ones chucking nuclear weapons at this Eidolon?” they asked instead.

The Mamba thought back. “…I don’t think so,” he finally said, scratching his chin. “I think Panda had a gun…Raven had his laptop…”

So the answer was essentially yes. “Conclusion?”

“Umm…he turned into dust!”

“The Raven?”

“No no!” The Mamba seemed to consider the notion of the Raven turning into dust. His eyes were bright as he whirled, turning on the bed, to the Apologetic Assassin. “It was cool!”

“Of course it was.” They turned, half-visible, to the other. “Everything is to you.”

The statement was normal for the Mamba, who grinned widely again. “Yeah! We had to scatter it…the Jackal was in a bad mood. His mask broke or something.”

So, they were correct. The Jackal was ticked off.

“The mask broke? Thought it was enchanted by the Raccoon.”

The Black Mamba thought, his expression turning inquisitive underneath the mask. “Righhhtt…I don’t know. It might be because there was a soul that cracked it open.” He brightened. “Like a coconut! Boom! Shattered!”

The younger seemed prideful for that simile, but the A.A. did not provide any praise.

## **January 7 - "Bullet in the Air", Part II**

The deities were taking action. It was obvious. Most of the deities were not so complacent with soul-eating murderers. If any number of the Masked Ones were caught, they would die from the powers of the divine.

There was no questioning it.

Even if a certain life deity took action, and even if *he* tried to face all the other deities, the conclusion was there. The deities did not spare those who interrupted their time. They would not offer any chance of escape in the event that they did spare the Masked Ones from certain death.

This was very inconvenient, indeed.

The Apologetic Assassin took out a gun. That one only had blanks in it. They spun and fired at the Mamba, who scrambled onto the floor just before the supposed bullet would hit his forehead.

“Slow,” they remarked, putting it back into the holster.

The Masked One was grumbling a complaint under his breath, shaking his head slightly as he crawled back up. “I knew you would do that.”

“Then you are slower than I thought.”

The Mamba made a protesting noise. “It’s not a real gun, anyways.”

“Should start using real ones, if you don’t take such guns seriously.”

“No!” he protested. “I don’t like guns very much. You and your tests, A.A.” He said it like “Aaaa”, as per usual. “Why do you do things like that, anyways?”

“Should go without saying.”

“But I don’t understand,” protested the teenager, slipping his mask off. Instantly, his features melted down into a more boyish frame, wider eyes and wider cheeks. The process was somewhat reviling, and usually, the Mamba would make a larger effort to make sure no one saw it. However, he rarely concealed anything with his guardian. “I’m capable of fighting, A.A. I’m an adult! I can take care of my own training!”

“Supposed training is building ‘Legos’ on the South Tower from noon to night. Rest of the time is sleeping.”

“Nooo!” the Mamba protested. He paused, pondering the first statement. “Weelll…right. Yeah. But you don’t understand, A.A. You don’t have any ‘hobbies’ like that. I like building. A lot. It’s more important to me than even…looking for soul sources.”

The A.A. often thought about that. They didn’t do anything that wasn’t related to killing. There wasn’t anything more important than that to them.

But they had a goal. That wouldn’t ever change. They had no intention of changing, lest they could not reach their goal.

Sometimes they thought of themselves within another universe, where they didn’t have to do the things they did. Not just themselves—the Mamba, and them. Maybe the Mamba would have had a name. Maybe they didn’t have to train the other to always remain on guard—the type of clairvoyance that wasn’t his natural paranoia. Maybe *they* would have had a name, and maybe their goal would have been to lessen the Black Mamba’s paranoia, instead of constantly increase it.

But that wasn’t possible. It never would be. Not in this universe.

## **January 8 - "The Flame of Devotion", Part I**

He had almost forgotten what disappointment felt like, and the urge was strong, now, the feeling that he was an utter disappointment, nothing more, and much less. Where it had come from, he had no idea; rather, he had a notion of where it could have sourced from.

After all, Hades’ tended to do that to someone. There had been so many feelings back then, burned into him day after day and day after day and year after year and decade and century and eon, they ceased to inform their existence. But the fire had never stopped burning, even when the pain stopped.

The burn wounds, though they were more ghastly than they appeared now, would never heal. There was no more healthy color to his skin, nor was there vibrant shades cast by light in his hair. Light had abandoned him, and it certainly had no intention of coming back. It was the same light he had sworn to protect. The protector and guardian of the light and justice of the world.

For all he knew, his justice was still rotting in one of the hells somewhere, along with that darkness, the proof of light’s desertion. Or perhaps it was sitting like a sack of rotten meat somewhere, perhaps still lingering in the air like some sort of airborne disease. Maybe it was even soaring in the sky, along with the hopes and dreams of a naïve teenager. Wherever it was, screw it.

As if on cue, an illusion, a line of smoke, curled past his line of sight, as if mocking him. He flicked a finger, making it disappear. His past could burn along with his flesh and skin. It wasn’t as if he could feel anything, and he cared none for both.

“You seem deep in thought,” observed a voice, casual yet restrained, comfortable yet tension-inducing. The voice reminded him of early training days, almost making him want to strive for approval, soft words of encouragement, or…anything, really.

He had sworn to never feel these feelings once, and it was a vow he intended to keep true towards all but his savior. Towards them, he felt…

Gratitude. Devotion. All he thought he had lost, falling to his doom in desolation, no one else around him, as he plunged towards the abyss of pain and suffering of the Underworld realm.

He turned swiftly, kneeling on one knee, as he once had before only a certain goddess. “Only about distracting thoughts, my liege. My apologies for not noticing your arrival earlier.”

The other studied him with their heterochromatic eyes, tilting their head at an angle so only the placid side remained visible to him. “Please do not apologize so. My arrival is not so important.”

The being known as 666 felt horrified, rather than relieved, at the request. “I cannot do so,” he said, bowing his head quickly, his hair falling by the crescent moon on the side of his face. “I cannot forgive myself for making you feel that way, my lord.”

That only made the other sound even more apologetic. “Please do not feel that way.”

He ducked his head. “Your Excellence—”

“My friend.”

The word “friend” itself was enough to stop his speaking. He stopped, watching as the other approached, kneeling down next to him and lightly taking his hand, as if it were a fragile piece of glassware.

He needed the one he served to take care of him. A wave of self-loathing appeared.

## **January 9 - "What It Means to Fly", Part I**

It had not been the happiest of days. Though the province in which I resided was usually sunny—it is known for having more than three hundred sunny days a year—there were times that light came to be too much, and the sky summoned it away, replacing it with a dreary overcast. A few days ago, the sky’s machine guns began to rain bullets down.

I had done something wrong that morning, and what it was, I cannot remember, alike to the most things I have done wrong. I do not remember my mom’s reaction to me, either, but in any case, I remember that I did not think I had wronged (I believe I most definitely had wronged, now), and that morning, I stormed out the door in defiance, indignation, and feeling as if I was the one who had been wronged. Immediately, all that greeted me was a monochrome scene; it was as if the world had stopped, and everything weighing in the air was now all upon my shoulders, accusing me of what I had done.

As a matter of fact, I wasn’t the most troublesome child, but I was far from a model one. In fact, this had been the year in which I decided to focus on academics instead of being (completely) arrogant about it, so it could be said that perhaps this was an early rebellious phase of mine. However, even if I refused to admit that I had done something wrong, I certainly knew there would be consequences when I got home.

The rain had cleared by the time I got home, but there were many puddles along the way, reminding of what had happened. I jumped in a few to delay my arrival at home, but alas, that could barely do anything. I even decided to go the long way, up the street, into the neighborhood, around the outer company parking lot, and around towards the entrance of my house.

The fact that I held myself in such a trepidation is now extremely funny to me, but at the time, I was so awash with the indecision that I almost did not notice the paper box on the balcony, something that had never been there before.

No one was around, as per usual, not even the neighbor with a molly named Simba. After confirming this, I carefully unlocked the door and stepped inside, expecting to see my mom and a disappointed look at the door; but in fact, it was as if the world outside had stopped my home in time as well. The shades were drawn, and the living room the way it had always been.

I found her by instinct a while later, seemingly dozing, because even if I was afraid she was angry at me, it was no excuse to not check that she was fine. She stopped me when I tried to tiptoe away.

My mom has always been a beautiful woman, even if she’s endured everything life has thrown at her. Still, beauty can’t hide tiredness, and fatigue shone through her features like a star peeking out behind a universal corner. It didn’t seem to have come from something as trivial as one night’s lack of sleep; it was more as if worry. But, I was young and naïve, and I failed to even recognize that she was tired. When she spoke, her voice did not contain the anger or indignation I had perhaps thought it would have. She only stated in Mandarin Chinese, “Take a look in the balcony.”

## **January 10 - "What It Means to Fly", Part II**

A flash of the small, folded-up cardboard box drifted to my mind. “Is it that box?” She only slightly smiled in response; it seemed whatever was in it was more important than whatever had been the disagreement that morning. I was relieved, and also didn’t need to be told twice. I ran off swiftly, with something between anxiousness and anticipation beating in my heart. I somehow managed to remember to grab my shoes, and opened the back door. The balcony was an extremely small space, with only pots with dirt and plants past the outside world and subsequent enclosure.

The box, as small as it had been when I imagined it was but an illusion, was there. Its top was barely closed. With the cautiousness of a child looking at a wonder he had never seen before, I slowly edged my finger between the opening and nudged it open.

Peering back inquisitively at me were two brilliant amber eyes. I had always had the tendency to realize the general picture while seeing the specifics. It was a bird—no, it was a pigeon, with a blemish of white across its wings. Its plumage appeared monochrome at first, but upon further inspection, I could see hints of green and purpure, the colors painting the surface of a calm and peaceful river.

I didn’t realize I had forgotten to blink as I looked back at the bird. I was more than surprised. I was astonished. Having dreamt about a surprise puppy from about the age of three, I was awe-struck by the mere presence of such a beautiful living creature nearby our house.

“Well?” questioned my mom, who had seemingly risen from her former position inside our home. Her voice shot me back to my senses, that there was more of a reality than the creature inside the box. I quickly closed the lid, as if afraid I would cause the pigeon harm if I attempted to continue holding it open, and got up. My legs ceased to feel anything—most of all my mind could register was that pigeon.

“It’s…it’s a pigeon,” I finally said, fumbling with my words. I was somewhere between confusion and more confusion. I was not unhappy, but I needed a response. Even while writing this, I am having trouble recalling just what I was saying at the moment, as all I could think of was the fact that there was an adorable bird in my proximity. I also have extreme difficulty remembering what my mom said, exactly, but she seemingly laughed at my thinking predicament.

Heading over, she explained that she had found the pigeon by the mailbox. It had seemingly fallen off of its nest on the roof nearby, and had been there for three days. No one had contacted the main office about it, but when my mom found it, she notified staff members. Obviously, the main office wanted nothing to do with a bird being in the office, so one of my mom’s acquaintances set up the box, some tattered blankets intended for warmth, a pair of gloves, and my mom carried the pigeon home.

## **January 11 - Ranking the Gold Saints**

I overall hold with the fact of Gold Saint rankings that Deathmask is the weakest Gold Saint. Other rankings are ambiguous depending on point of analysis. Dohko's strength is actually yet to be seen for the most part--even SoG fails to show his strength, and against Andreas, it's a bit ambiguous, and SoG isn't canon.

Overall, though, Deathmask, Aphrodite, and Aldebaran are usually said to be the weakest, and then it turns ambiguous.

For Milo, he is the fastest Gold Saint, and overall, people make the mistake that his technique needs time to kill. That's untrue. His sense of justice makes him give enemies the opportunity to redeem--14 extremely painful needles before Antares, which will definitely kill an opponent.

Canonically in anime, Milo has never killed or completed launched Antares, haha. But in Episode G, it's said to be able to shatter any defense.

Anyways, I don't think Milo is as weak as people make him out to be. His defense, speed, and attack capabilities seem much more on-point than Aphrodite's, Aldebaran's, and Deathmask's.

Speaking of those three, they mostly lack flexibility. Deathmask's techniques are doomed if the opponent is affiliated with the Underworld. Aphrodite's Bloody Rose means the opponent needs to actually have a heart and blood; he also lacks defense. Aldebaran is too directly offensive, so even if his offense is strong, he is easily exploited.

Next often comes Shura and Camus. For Shura, I would say his reaction speed is slower than Camus, or he has more exploits. Against Shaka, he obviously took more injuries than Camus, and was unable to wound Shaka. This shows to me Excalibur lacks in speed.

However, one could argue Camus always attacked after Shura did, which means he might have been relying on Shura as a distraction.

Camus mostly lacks in offense compared to the Capricorn Saint. He needs his ice to have physical contact with his opponent, and Cloths/mythical armor are very much capable of negating some effects. In fact, Hyoga's Seventh Sense ice powers were negated by Milo's Scorpio armor, suggesting Camus might need to go beyond Absolute Zero to damage a fellow Gold Saint.

However, I think it's noteworthy that he was holding back against Hyoga. That means he wasn't using Absolute Zero. It is never stated explicitly whether he has the ability, but since he grasps the concept well, one could assume he does.

Besides, he wounded Shaka's knee through the Gold Cloth, suggesting he does, in fact, use Absolute Zero.

For me, I would (trying not to be too biased haha, since I'm an Aquarian) rank Camus as overall more strong in battle. He has a speed advantage, reaction advantage, and he seems to use more tactic, which always helps. However, in terms of offense, Shura dominates, and in fact, he's more likely to kill someone quickly.

Putting Shura aside for the moment, it's hard to determine Mu and Camus' difference.

As Mu vs. Saga, Shura, and Camus was incredibly unfair, as was Shaka vs. The Crying Trio. Mu also had the disadvantage of having to fight Deathmask and Aphrodite earlier, as well as having to face his master. However, I wouldn't say he was at a mental disadvantage, since the Crying Trio were, after all, not truly traitors.

So, putting mental liabilities aside, the fight couldn't be judged. Mu had been injured by Deathmask and Aphrodite. The fight against the Crying Trio already unfair, it would be unfair to judge for him.

I would say Mu is stronger--he has the strongest telekinesis, and his techniques are extremely balanced in nature. He has a strong defense and a considerably strong offense. His Starlight Extinction (a technique he invented himself) could be replaced by Stardust Revolution if the need arises. He appears to be on par with Shura and Camus in terms of speed, and he has very high intelligence, being extremely gifted.

Alright, Aphrodite and Aldebaran.

Both lack in defense, and both stomp in offense. Aldebaran's Great Horn is deadly if the opponent can't see through the technique, and Aphrodite's Piranha Rose destroys armor.

Bloody Rose is a technique to mull over. Shown in a noncanonical work, the effects could be stopped by pulling the rose out by another person. This could be an extreme disadvantage to Aphrodite if this were true (and admittedly, it seems accurate), if he's fighting against a team. Like I mentioned beforehand, it also wouldn't work against an entity with no heart. It'd, in fact, look like a decoration.

Overall, these two lack variation in technique.

Considering the Specter who killed Aldebaran (don't care for his name but I'm going to eat him too), Aphrodite might have the advantage. Note that Lost Canvas is not canonical; therefore, Pisces Saints are not stated to have poisonous blood. However, it is stated Pisces Saints have immunity to poison--Royal Demon Rose proves that. This would not be enough to determine difference in power, but it seems to prove Aphrodite has a defensive perk. Besides, his Piranha Roses are enough to destroy armor, which provides him with an offensive advantage.

I would argue that Aphrodite is stronger than Aldebaran for this, because defensive capability is the mortal weakness for the both of them. However, in terms of offensive ability, Aldebaran was clearly more effective.

Therefore, they are tied.

## **January 12 - "The World's Teachings to a Child", Part I**

This world is far from perfect, and I guess, I believe that just as I believe that nothing is perfect.

I haven’t always been pessimistic-realistic. Or vice versa, I suppose. I am a kid born in the 21st century, a time of change. I started off believing that one could gain friends by simply asking, and that tears would only last a while. Still other beliefs spun around me, trying to get me to change. Someone tried to teach me how to hurt myself. Yet another showed me how it was to hurt others. Slowly but surely, I began to realize that cruel people and war weren’t just something far away—it was happening in this world, in this universe, in this world that is currently believed to be the only one sentient. Before I had noticed, I had calloused myself to the insults hurled at me, and I had yet to ever define what I truly believed in.

At a young age, I came across a book, *They Fight Like Soldiers, They Die Like Children*. The book defined a child, forced into a soldier, for a cause he briefly depicted. The scenes could not be more foreign to me. Even though it was a history book, I regarded it as some sort of foreign description of a still more foreign world. There was no way a kid, only years older than myself, could wield a gun, could forget the tiny treasures his now deceased baby sister had deposited tenderly into his pocket, his mind compelled into an imaginary heaven that drugs forced him into as he slaughtered people he had once recognized as his own. A life so short could not have been robbed, the only meaning at the end being the remembrance of her sister, she whom he had forgotten until the end.

There was fear emanating into me, not from the book, but from somewhere I did not recognize at the time, and my way of countering that fear was pretending it did not exist. Africa was so far away.

I had also encountered a poem. It was named “Strange Fruit”. A poem, describing human bodies hanging from trees, all because they had a different skin color. Now, I had heard of the term “racism”, but I had yet to understand its meaning. To me, all kids were equal, albeit some a bit more annoying than others. None of their differences from me would ever evoke a reaction from me to hurt them.

I was far from even understanding the meaning of hurt, not to mention why. It was so far away from me, in time and space. In a way that implies that I did not care, I could say it was the matter of…why should I care? It was so far away from me. I was not the one who was suffering, needless to say that I could not understand the premise of suffering itself.

I had never understood it. At the young age of three, while many other kids had been dragged by their parents into faiths such as Judaism and Islam and Christianity, my mind was left to believe what it could. For that, I am grateful, for it has always seemed to me that beliefs imposed upon someone in childhood are not true beliefs, for they have biased the people who have received them since youth, the time when the mind is the most easily twisted. The child soldier was forced into fighting for a cause he did not understand—and I do not understand it, even now. What cause? The viewing that people should die for being different, in identity, in appearance, in personality, in belief? That violence should be promoted when people cannot understand each other in a speech that was foreshortened too long ago?

## **January 13 - "Piety"**

Lone girl stands silent beneath a scorching sun,

Of hatred and passion and all things she’ll do wrong.

She stands silent, standing trial before the masses,

But justice is nonexistent, only remnants are its carcasses.

Sinner looks up shaking, looking up at morning light,

But all has fallen silent, the world plotted her plight.

Scapegoat stands silent, accepting all she’s done,

But all she’s done is nothing, the world will not condone.

The angels falling down, shattered with their wings,

Demons break their chains, crying out to sing.

~~

Piety. Respect to what we have always believed, what is right. It is raining outside, and it is a blessing to be able to just watch the scene, doing nothing in particular, for it seems I am always doing something in a daily cycle of these fourteen years, of what I am expected to do as a daughter, and later, a woman.

War had yeeted fire across the land, only ended once there had been too much death for the religious groups to be able to provide for further battle. The people tried to compensate for their losses, trying again and again when they were only girls. The number of children in my generation has been even larger than the populations before us, all breathing upon the smoky, choking air, walking upon ruined soil.

I am constantly told that I, in fact, do not know the challenges that the brave men of our village went through. Yesterday, my mother enunciated her teachings of piety. Most of the talk revolved around my going to school. Many girls in our village do not. It takes hours to get to the school, and in between are mountains. It would be so much harder for anyone to get out there, to cities so many miles away, without roads. Besides, winters are getting worse, and I am not sure I can bear any more; it is very cold here, and my school does not have doors. We are always left shivering, trying to keep the idea of warmth away from our minds. We are told of worlds with ‘adequate housing’ (our teacher is a woman from some far-off country that I do not know), while we have buildings leak the frost in the air through from the wounds of wartime flames, and the wood they are made from were from forests long before anyone still here has lived. The women of the village go out for water each day here, and water is as frigid as the air.

My mother thinks that I am not pious. If I were so, I would not waste time going to school. All a woman needs to know how to write is her name. She wishes for me to only think about marrying into a good family, with a better-off young man. That seems to be the best future for all young women; all work we do are at home, after all.

But my father has determined that I should continue my schooling, for we are better off than most of the village, as I am an only child but still hardworking. He believes that, when he takes us to the city someday, my knowing more will save face for our family. So I am here wondering about piety, and where respect is towards ourselves.

## **January 14 - "Granted", Part I**

There were only two things on my mind at the time: Home, and…hatred.

Both concepts were not very well understood by my mind at all, and even less so in my state of panic. All I knew was that I wanted to go home, and these…people…were keeping me from doing so.

I despised them for it, for forcing me to stay here against my will, making this dark, dank house even more of a cage than it already was. Even more, I hated myself for walking right into it in the first place. It was a come-in-and-you-won’t-get-out scenario, and I had walked right into it believing I could get out. My flight-or-fight response had been twisted into the atypical flight-and-fight response, and it was wearing me out in fatigue.

I would have fought if I could, but I was small and tiny, and my captors were fully capable adults. There had been a personal experience with one of them, enough to prove that I was not strong enough to win a struggle. I was seven years younger than what I am now, which makes this experience all the more profound to remember. I knew if I fought, I would fail, and I would drag my mom down into the consequences of whatever they would do to me. She, after all, had come with me, and we were now chained to the situation.

I hated them for doing this to us. So I cried; I screamed. With my pathetic eyes, small and having seen more than I could understand, I glared at anyone who tried to near me, anyone who was to try to take me farther into the cage that I already was. My tears had run out, for I had been crying for hours, but all of my fervor and emotion had not run out just yet. I may have sat down on their wretched furniture, but that was only because I knew I needed some sort of strength, even if that supposed strength sourced from mere energy conservation.

My goal was to deafen them, to make them suffer as much as the pain I felt: The suffering of being trapped inside somewhere they wanted to force me to call home. I had escaped once through deception; there was no chance of that now, and besides, they had actually trusted me back then. At that time, I had said I would return, but did not. Even with their idiocy, there was no possible way that they would ever believe another word I said.

There was no consolation left for me. All there was left for me was to drag on the night as long as I could with what I believed to be the power of my voice. But I was small, and children do not have much power.

At some point, even that died out, faded out into nothing like radio static. Besides, I had no water by which to soothe my hoarse throat. At that point, I only sat in defiance, saying nothing to them. My message was made clear: “All I have to say towards you is nothing.” I was determined that I would not capitulate my will to them, even if that meant I were to spent the night holding a tissue box as a weapon.

## **January 15 - "Granted", Part II**

Nonetheless, the subjects of my hatred continued to drift by, malevolent phantoms, and each time I beat whatever they tried to say back with my almighty tissue box. No, it was as if the world, not just this enclosed one, were all phantoms, including myself. On some level, I was truly a ghost. I was drifting in this meaningless pattern of actions that would be for nothing, in a world that seemed to only enclose me in its efforts to choke my breath away. Anything and anyone else were meaningless to me. All that mattered was that I believed there was something I awaited in the future, but even if it was hope, it was too faded for my mind to register, worn out from and shadowed by my own incessant screaming.

In the entrance of the room, the small, faded world I had both been enclosed in and enclosed myself into, she stood there, maybe for longer than I had realized. I remember seeing her there, slightly leaned over. She did not approach, and somewhere, I appreciated that, for I wished more for solitude than the pestering of people who were supposed to be family. Instead, they are nothing to me.

I knew who she was, of course. I had met her the same day I met the rest. She never talked much, and as much as I hate to say so, her voice was not impressionable enough upon me for me to remember. Of course, it is also a matter of my memory never being the best regarding the voices of anyone, and at the time, I was far enough gone into the illusion of asylum from what was happening that I could have even forgotten my own voice. I did recognize her, though, as who would be my great grandma. In Chinese, we have a distinction for this title. I called her “Lao Zu”, roughly meaning “elderly ancestor”. She was ninety-four years old at that time.
It is Chinese custom to be pious and courteous to the elderly, but that wouldn’t have stopped me from screaming at her, too. She was part of that family which I had detached myself from, never having belonged to it in the first place, and had it not been the fact that I had seen her endure more than I had, I would have done something that I would definitely regret now. In spite of everything, I still am thankful that even in my fury, in my world where I suffered the most, I could see she was suffering, too. It was wrong for me to impose my suffering on someone like her, even if I did not know the specifics of her pain. I could not scream at someone who was already the victim of presumptuous and unjustified castigation.

I had seen her two times before, which was why I recognized her. The second time was a visit my mom made to her, bringing cakes. They were small cakes, and Mom had me take the bag and give it to Lao Zu personally. Truth to be told, I knew nothing about the meaning of the deed (except for the fact that the elderly like it when children seem so cute and insightful, and that this would lead to the benefit of being able to eat a few cakes too).

She was happy. A smile graced her wrinkled face, and it seemed to be a foreign thing. I hadn’t seen her smile before, really, other than that faintly recalled attempt to smile that she had made the first time she had met me. In that instant, though I didn’t think of it that way, I experienced why a smile is said to be the least distance between two people. A person was happy, albeit a person I barely knew, but still I smiled, because I was able to transfer some kindness to her and bring her happiness.

Neither of us were smiling this time, not even two weeks later. I was as if paused in time, and in fact, I felt quite like I was on display in a museum exhibit. I became aware of my tear-stained cheeks, rumpled clothes, and aura of despising towards all of my surroundings. Mom always told me that children should make sure their elderly do not worry about them, and all things considered, I considered her different from the rest of that family, even to the point that my mind assumed her to be in my own. I was far from feeling ashamed for making her worry so, just as I did not learn to be ashamed of my selfish reasons in bringing her cakes in the first place weeks back; but there was sort of deep-satiated uncomfortableness, like something was off, but I didn’t know what. It was enough for me to lift my eyes to look at her, perhaps, trying to form a memory as a futile effort.

Maybe I expected her eyes to be alike to my own, distant, faraway, but they were there, and they conveyed what she could not say. She wanted to help, but was helpless. That made me think back afterwards that maybe she was looking off in a faraway place, maybe a better place, where her own child and grandchildren and son-in-law and everyone else verbally abused her for the problems she experienced, that other humans would have expected an elderly woman to experience, including myself, a young child at the time. Perhaps she was looking towards the world she had not been a part of from the one she was restrained in, in this place that was not a home for her and me at all.

There was not enough time for me to remember the look in her eyes. Someone who had supposed to be family for both of us yelled out, and she turned away as briskly as she could. It seemed that she had faded back into the long night, into silence.

That was the last time I saw her. The next morning, I was somehow released from the expansive prison house. Not to be said, she was not, but I, selfish as always, didn’t think about it anymore than that. I do not remember even glimpsing her as I stormed out the door with the longest strides I could manage in my pace, determined never to return again.

## **January 16 - "Granted", Part III**

January 12th, 2020, in what would have been January 13th of 2020 where she was, in China. A few weeks away from the most important Chinese holiday, Chinese New Year. Seven years away from the last meeting. Seven years different from then.

Approximately 7,417 miles away, I learned of her passing with a hollow feeling, the ill feeling of ironic humor. My usual joke “A heart? What heart?” seemed to have manifested itself into my chest cavity. The joke “Feelings? What feelings?” had manually tuned itself into my mind. For all the times I have cried for seeing someone vanish into what some call the afterlife, or some call nothing, I did not even turn completely to my mom, who had told me the news. I only slammed my hand onto my computer’s keypad to pause the song that I had been listening to, my face was burdened into a mask of indifference. Then, I turned back to my homework, the world of typicality, my mind once again in that haze it had been back then.

As for her typical world, it had always been one beyond my comprehension, even if all I could try to comprehend was passed on to me as well throughout the years. It washed over me, as if I were being overcome with flashbacks of her life. Lao Zu had been widowed with five children in one of the hardest times of the world, after World War II, in a country that had not yet considered giving women the right of education or to work.

Somehow, she managed, in her own way I cannot even begin to understand now. She worked every day, for many hours. She worked with her soul, and her blood. For the latter, it was quite literal. She had sold her own blood numerous times to exchange for any sort of food or asset that could aid her in raising her children to adulthood, giving them the ability to be in school, to be able to get a job in the competitive world.

After that, her children conflicted over an inheritance, to the point of never again communicating with each other again, and her heart must have been split just like them. But she continued on.

At some point as well, her daughter (who I was supposed to regard as my grandma) moved into her house, as well as her son-in-law, and then who I regard as the rest of the entire pack of dogs. That was at least fifteen years earlier, and since then, she never left the building, even though she expressed to my mom an interest in the outside world, and the fact that she wished they would help her go out.

(About the topic of going out, I recently learned there was an elevator. If there were stairs, it would have been more plausible for that group of what were supposed to be human beings to be too lazy and indifferent to ever aid her in walking down them, but *there was an elevator*.)

But they never helped her at all. On the night I had been trapped in that place, she had had a coughing fit in the middle of the night, and the only person out of the many who got up to give her one cup of water was Mom. Everyone else ignored her, just as they always did when they didn’t want something from her.

My grandmother, the mother of my own mom, had passed away before I was born at the age of fifty eight. I constantly hear my mom speak, in a determined voice, that she will live life to the fullest for her own mother, who never could stop working and enjoy something quality from life. As for Lao Zu, she had passed at the age of one hundred and two. My mom said it was a long age, and perhaps, a reprieve from the abuse forced onto her, but I still felt like a mask of cold, dark steel was pressed unto my face as I listened. I felt like I finally knew what apathy was, as my mind ticked away.

My mind calculated that she had lived to almost double my grandmother’s age, yet still she had never been truly happy from her life. My grandmother had labored hard and long, but she did it with the support of her children, my mother, aunt, and uncle. Lao Zu had no one except those to yell at her for nothing she could control, for things any human being should have been sympathetic to. What did a long life matter without her own happiness and those remembering her for anything but the inheritance she left behind? Why did a *life* matter?

My mask crumpled with regret. The regret in that I had been able to guess that it would happen, for there had been news that had come about her not eating as of late, as I realized that I had that hollow feeling long before the news of her passing, because to my mind, she had already been gone. Still, I regretted: That I had seen her but a few times, that I had spoken to her once, that I had only given her one smile along with the cakes. She deserved so much more.

Along with that regret, anger and hatred, once again, filled that void within me, or perhaps, they were the void. My tears were of regret and confusion and anger and hatred, to those people who refused to spare any money to send her to the hospital in the half of a month that she, who usually seemed healthy, had been barely eating, to those people who lied about the hospital refusing her for her age when they hadn’t called for the ambulance at her, scoundrels to the end. She had passed away, trapped in that little dark place until the end, until the cremation or the cheapest way to dispose of her body was found a few days earlier, and she was taken out, still trapped by that apathy, and…

She will be forgotten. All that she has of value to them is the home she left behind, that house they turned into one resembling a cage that held her. Perhaps it will split them again, and in some part of my mind, I compare the house to a skimmed meat bone for the ravenous dogs they are.

I still believe that people live to be remembered. She will not be remembered by them. Everything they have is how she once looked, that empty chair she took in the kitchen, and that upholstery she had to use for bedding, and that house with everything of that, and…
It is true that I have none of that. I can’t even remember the few words she had spoken to me, and I do not remember how she looks. She will be but a silhouette in my dreams, as if that phantom world years ago, for I do not know the specific shade of emotional color that had been in her eyes, or weariness that had dyed her greyed hair, or even the hands that took the bag of sweets from me and patted my head lightly, affectionately.

I do not have what they would have to remember her, but I remember that moment of a shared smile that taught me that even small acts of kindness conveyed to someone can bring the happiness that he or she needs. I have remembered that every step I take, every breath I breathe, every time I look up to the wide open sky above, I am living my life, and I am living it for those who were cared for by others and now are gone, and now, she is amongst that number as well. I have remembered that her want to be happy and live on are reasons for why I should do so myself. The future lives on from the past, and if I can call myself part of her future, I wish to live on for that part of the past as well.

I cannot remember her face, but I remember her, because with all that she had to endure, she kept going; even in the home that had become a cage for her, she still could smile. She has taught me that a home is not a place to take for granted, and that life is worth carrying out to the end. These are what she has taught me to remember, and so, it is with what I wish to be finality that I finish typing these words.

This is tribute to my Lao Zu, her memory, her dedication, and her life. This is to my own dedication to my memory and to carry out my life with dignity.

This is to my wish that, wherever she is, she has found happiness and her own true home.

## **January 17 - "Everything is More Than It Seems", Part IV**

And so Rai peered over the heap of a certain Yue Zheng Lian Huan, not sure whether to be more concerned that the other rolled down a flight of stairs and only reacted with an oof or that the other easily rolled down a flight of stairs and had such a reaction set in, implying that he commonly rolled down stairs.

He was still anxious to run, since Tsukiakari was a fast flyer, but that wasn’t enough to override what manners he did have. He raised an eyebrow and walked closer to the other, who was motionless. “Are you alright?” he asked uncertainly.

There was no response.

Rai’s other eyebrow peaked as he went closer, then…

“BOO!” Lianhuan shouted as he jumped up. If he’d been taller, he would have directly uppercut Rai’s chin with the top of his head. Instead, he only head-butted the young man’s chest as his height jilted and caused him to fall against the other. He was giggling with glee.

Unfortunately for the young mage’s antics, Rai wasn’t very interested in messing around at the moment. With a “Okay you’re fine see you around later!”, he had run off again.

Unfortunately for Rai, though, Lianhuan started right after him. Though he was nowhere as old as the older, he still kept pace with a consistent sprint. “You made me drop my ice cream!” he hollered after the other.

To Rai, that sounded awfully like some people who tried to collide with others or cause accidents on purpose in order to then demand excessive compensation for health care or something, so he disregarded the other’s shouts as he went to…

Oh, right, where was he going? He had just kind of ran with no destination in mind, just to get away from an unwanted gourmet meal. He wasn’t really sure where he should have to go to best avoid Tsukiakari. In fact, now that he thought of it, this path was leading to long way around the building. If she wanted to, Tsukiakari could easily jump out of a window and glide to him. So, not good.

A hand, sticky with ice cream, closed around his arm. The owner of the hand was still chanting something about ice cream. Rai stuck a napkin with his phone number into the hand, and off he went, rocketing out the main door to the busiest sections of the city.

Rai had lied when he said he didn’t know the city very well. He knew every part of it. He even knew each individual piece of furniture in each room, and he knew every house’s inhabitants.
Tsukiakari also knew the city well, but that was from her vantage point in the air. So, the best place for him to go would be was either the underground…or better yet, out of the city.

Conveniently, the day before, they had discovered a portal to the beach, and to his knowledge, no one had told Tsukiakari about that yet.

When he was little, Rai hated going to the beach. Water and sand were his nemeses at the time; both got in to the everywhere he didn’t them to go. He couldn’t count how many phones and tablets were ruined from one of the two, or even both; one of the two would always got in his shoes and socks; some ginormous wave always cascaded over the castles he built with sand and seashells and all the hard work and perseverance he had. (Thinking back about it, maybe Dolphin existed, then, too.) In any case, he usually spent the latter part of any trip to the beach complaining.

But if Tsukiakari didn’t know about it, then it was a good place to go, even if there was a curmudgeon of a dolphin there. Besides, it was outside the borders, far away from any responsibilities and ties he had in SAMBria.

## **January 18 - "Between 3 Generations" [an AP Human Geo Q&A]**

(It'd be cruel for you to expect Galaxian to write more stuff today when he has 500 academic things to write, so he's going to lazily paste something academic-related here. :P)

1. Minu had been married off to a man who her parents believed was rich, but once it turned out that they were wrong, she took a job to earn an income and contribute to trying to relieve the burdens of poverty for the family.

2. For Shumi, to work at the garment factory was the only other choice other than marriage, and she took it, dropping out of school to support her family by means other than marriage.

3. Shumi and Minu both earn eighty dollars per month, what is considered a high wage in a country like Bangladesh. Minu bought a television set with her own salary; Shumi is saving her money for marriage. It is implied that the younger sister also buys makeup and products for her hair.

4. Now, there are over 4 million people working at garment factories. Most of them are women because gender inequality is still prevalent, even as women start to be able to work. These inequalities would include the lowest paid wages for one of the lowest paying jobs. Having worked for long, men are unlikely to voluntarily take these low-paying jobs unless they have no other choice; in fact, it is mentioned that the people of Bangladesh (presumably and most logically men) are starting to demand higher pay. The job is undesirable in general, because garment factories deal with products such as female undergarments, and handling these would border on an Islamic taboo. Last but not least, with so many women in the factories already, men of more fundamentalist thinking would not go there to avoid seeing women’s faces.

5. Consumers in MDCs benefit a lot, as they are within the core of the core-periphery model. They receive the products to use, but companies within the core also sell products to people for profit; profits would presumably be very great, as clothing is a necessity for humans, and trends for fashion are prevalent in more developed countries as well.

6. Minu’s and Shumi’s childhood home is a sign of poverty, with no gas burner and little, if any, ventilation; when Minu’s and Shumi’s mother cooks in the back room, smoke fills the entire place without being able to be cleared out, sourcing from a fire pit of mud, implying that there is no adequate flooring. There is no running water or electricity, as even young women cannot bathe with warm water, and the only place to wash clothes, bathe, etc., is the pond outside of the house. It was also stated to have been made of bamboo instead of bricks, which is dangerous to its physical structure, not to mention that bamboo can easily be burned down and is more susceptible to environmental factors in environmental determinism than solid building blocks such as bricks.

7. Minu was, in her own words, still a kid back then. It is mentioned that her younger sister, Shumi, was in seventh grade when it is mentioned that she is of “marrying age”, and seventh grade students are around 13-14 in more developed countries such as America. Of course, LDC students are often older than those in MDC counterparts in the same grades. Shumi is also mentioned to have been in her early teens, so Minu would likely have been around 13 to 15. This was caused by the widespread “fact of the state” that women should be married at a young age, a supposed burden transferred to her husband after the years being with her father. Cultural forces made it so that it seemed that a woman could only contribute to her family by marrying into a wealthy family. However, the view that women could only improve her family’s financial status through marriage had been altered by the time Shumi came of the supposed marrying age, and she was able to avoid being married by dropping out of school (which costs the family money in Bangladesh) in seventh grade and going to work to provide for the family instead. Her sacrifice was the rest of her education, and any chance that the mentioned education would potentially give her regarding career choices.

8. Shumi’s lifestyle reflects vast lifestyle differences from the traditional Bangladesh culture that Minu had been raised in in women’s freedom of thought, love, expression, and religion. These are demonstrated when Shumi says that she has chosen her own groom, rather than the traditional way of her parents choosing for her—he is a Hindu man, and she loves him, even if she is a Muslim herself. This shows a greater inner acceptance for religious differences regarding love. The two are described to go out to the street together, and publicly express their affection (such as “I love you” or holding hands), rather than the traditional belief that women and men should not display such behavior in public.

Shumi has also been able to buy makeup, showing that people can now give themselves some form of luxury that they earned, rather than only focusing on their family and husband.

9. Minu’s daughter will be able to experience even more of the freedoms that Shumi has begun to experience. She will be able to make her own choices of whom to date and marry, and she will likely be able to attend college and major in a high-achieving subject, then choose a job of her own liking. She will likely also be able to buy her own house, and have different dishes for different meals, instead of one dish for three meals with at least two people.

10. At the current moment, women only have two opportunities for their future overall: To (drop out of school and) marry, or drop out of school and work at low-paying jobs. Three ways that changes to Bangladesh will have raised Bangladesh’s score on the Human Development Index by 2037 involve the positive correlation of the increase of opportunities given to females—that is, they will be able to stay in secondary school as well as beyond, and they will be able to work when they are ready. Only then would they choose whether they are prepared and willing to marry. This would increase in the HDI in the following ways. For one, women going through more years of schooling instead of being coerced into dropping out by reasons such as arranged marriage will raise the mean and expected years of schooling. Second, women being able to work and earn an income, instead of staying at home with no income, will raise the gross domestic product of Bangladesh. Furthermore, instead of only Bangladeshi men’s income being divided by the total population, women’s income will also be attributed to the total income, and thus, the gross domestic product per capita will increase. Finally, with women contributing to work and earning money, the life quality of the family will be increased, such as being able to afford to buy needs, including food, water, and components of a proper shelter. Being able to meet these needs will then contribute to a higher living quality, and thus, a higher life expectancy. By increasing the opportunities given to women, Bangladesh will also have an increased rate of schooling, GDP per capita, and life expectancy, all of which are calculated into the quality of life for the country’s people in the Human Development Index; thus, by giving women more chances to achieve for themselves and their family outside of home, Bangladesh’s Human Development Index will increase substantially.

## **January 19 - "Monochrome", Part I**

The tribes had never taken that kindly to strangers, and it was no surprise that their reaction was harsh when an unknown being dropped down from the sky in front of them, as monochrome as the overhead sky that they had seen for the past millennium.

He, a tribal leader, had definitely expected the struggle to be fast, for the being must be caught off guard, having dropped from such a height. It proved to not be the case.

The resulting battle was faster than any normal mortal eye could follow. Swipes of the sword followed with blows aimed to the weakest part of the human body, but none of them made contact. Skilled, precise jabs executed by one of the most skilled and talented mages of their world failed to even touch the being. Flashes of the colors of their clothing whirled in the air, black mixing with grey, until it was almost indistinguishable which was which, and who was dealing which strike, if at all.

“Halt!” called a voice, a young, toned male voice called, an order that had not been given by a tribal leader, but might have been, with its commanding undertone demanding respect. The other mage withdrew as well, his eyes still shining with the spirit of battle and defiance. His target, too, stopped, backstepping gracefully.

It was not so much the order that piqued the defiance as it was whom had given it. The Great General of the Yi Shou Tribe stood there, his lucid eyes laminated with an authoritative aura unusual for his young age. He was spoken of often among the tribes; his name was Yue Zheng Xu Qiao, and it was a name that could strike fear into some of the bravest mages, whether or not he was their potential opponent. He was standing completely straight, his figure poised, as if to imply that he was capable of being even more dangerous than he looked. His gaze flickered across those present.

With defiance in his eyes, the other mage could not be said that he radiated a completely different sort of aura. Though he, too, was not standing with any sort of slouch, his eyes were much duller in luster, as if without some sort of light. His mouth was tightened into a resemblance of a completely straight line as he glared back at the other with steely aqua orbs. In some sort of alternate reality, the two might have been siblings for how similar their stance was, but the aura in which they refused to defer to one another was as clear as a fully sunny sky, even as they held their gazes for a few moments. Yuezheng Xuqiao then turned to the newcomer, ending the confrontation.

The newcomer was not a creature, but instead, a human being, or so it seemed. Unlike the two auras that warned of danger, the area surrounding him seemed placated and calm, like the tamed surface of formerly rippling water. If the young mages were thunderclouds, then he was a neighboring clear sky.

## **January 20 - "Traitor"**

It was any other day, in the small world representative of the larger one they hoped to make the future. Of Sanctuary, Athens. In its name, a sanctuary, a heaven.

In that small world was a small being, a humanoid of seven years of physical age, running with untamed fervor into the House of the man with the power of God. His physique was developed beyond the usual boy his age, and his gait longer, but his expression was as freer as an innocent child, as if one who hadn’t seen what he had seen, and been through what he had gone through.

The training of the Saints was vigorous, and he had pushed himself to the limit, or what it seemed so. He was known by practically all, even if no one beyond the Gold Saints really knew him at all.

At times, he was suspected to be a rumor. After all, Sanctuary had enough abled warriors to not recruit a child…right? The very notion of them needing a child soldier was ridiculous.
But he was no ordinary child in that sense. His Cosmo rivaled the Gold Saints even at the beginning, and his determination, when started, was as hard-set as his persistent stubbornness. While the latter was not as admirable, the former certainly was. Besides, Mu’s student had gained an attachment to him, and vice versa. The second day of his stay found him getting into all sorts of mischief with Kiki. It was kind of a pain, but two kids with talent in telekinesis were unstoppable. Some of the Gold Saints wished they hadn’t learned it firsthand.

Most of all, though, he had somehow earned his place in their hearts. It wasn’t his bubbliness, or his hilarious rambles, it was something beyond pinpointing. But it was enough to make him stay.

The irony. Him staying meant more hardships for him, both now and in the future, and it meant someday, he might not be with them anymore. His training was still progressing, even though even the Gold Saints weren’t exactly sure what else they could train him for. His powers and Cosmo were…strange. Beyond their usual comprehension. Had he not been a child, he may have been treated as…

Someone else. A reincarnation of another god, perhaps. Or one of the strongest warriors, paired with one of Athena’s foes, previously known or not. Perhaps a descendant of a god. Perhaps the host of a god. In any case, he would be a traitor.

A future traitor, now residing within and fighting for Sanctuary with whatever powers he had.

But it was impossible, right? A divine child couldn’t mask his godly Cosmo for that long, right?

Still, even the Man Closest to God, Virgo Shaka, had stated that he didn’t feel human.

So, what was he?

Even he wondered that sometimes, but for everything his mentors had given him, he was a warrior, whatever sort of warrior he may be. Human, or not. Even if it meant the whole of Sanctuary should frown upon him, then he would still fight, for the fact that, once, they trusted him, and he had trusted himself.

## **January 21 - "No Remainder", Part I**

“Why, hello there.”

The voice sounded so sweet. So friendly, so polite. It was as if he hadn’t walked into the darkest of worlds; it was as if they were meeting up at a café, friends meeting up for a coffee.

He couldn’t even remember what a café was like. Heck, he couldn’t even remember what coffee looked like.

“Hello yourself,” he answered crisply, pulling out a chair. The other waited for him, so he pulled out his chair and sat. The other followed. In his own chair, of course.

For a moment, he remembered a joke he had made long ago about tables and chairs being specimens. Ironically, that was the truth in the present world. Not to mention coffee—water was practically nonexistent.

Wait, there *was* water in coffee, right? He mentally grimaced.

“Thank you for coming here,” the other was saying as he managed to snap back to attention. The formality made him somewhat uncomfortable. He almost wished someone would jump out from below the table—it would be a reprieve from this accursed serious atmosphere—but…

In this world, that someone would likely have a gun aimed at his head, so he abandoned the notion. He even gave the bottom of the table a kick for good measure.

The other noticed his action. He chuckled. “There is no assassin underneath the table.”

That was the closest guess anyone had taken to his actions. There was something unnerving about the other’s eyes. Too bright. Too blinding in their glory. Like they were boring into his soul and were stealing it as they cut him up.

Too uncomfortable for him. Remarking to his mind about him probably not even having a soul at this point, with all he’d done, he turned away casually to glance at what would have been the window. “If there was, you and your group would be screwed.”

The other chuckled. Even the laughter was too innocent to be possible. “You have much confidence in yourself and your capabilities, I see, sir.”

“Is it unjustified? If I were not confident, I would be dead, wouldn’t I?”

“True, true.” The other was still chuckling. “However, it’d be burdensome to have to hire.” He paused. “Money is scarce, after all. If I were to want to kill you, one of my team members would be the one here.”

“You can’t fight?” The question came out faster than he had intended, but he was incredulous to the fact that, in this world of Shura, there could be someone still living who didn’t know how to fight.

The other’s eyes flickered, though with surprise or anger, he couldn’t tell. Or perhaps both, perhaps neither.

“Pardon,” he finally murmured, though a smirk twitched at the base of his lips. The other was not so invulnerable or innocent after all, it seemed. “I didn’t intend to sound rude.”

“Of course.” The other was as if that never happened. The smile was back again, ever so luminous of a smile, as if there was still light in this dark world. “Of course. We are here for negotiations, for words. Not blood…”

The smile grew ever so slightly. “Though I understand your blood is different from others’?”

## **January 22 - "No Remainder", Part II**

He made a ‘tsk’ sound. “It’s just blood.”

“Or is it, good sir?” the other asked with a small, grim smile.

What was that, a rhetorical question or a trick question? His urge to joke came up again, bubbling like the froth to his mind. He forcibly pressed it down yet again. “Regardless of whether it is truly blood or not,” he decided to say, moderately, “it’s come to your attention. And interest.”

The other nodded lightly in confirmation. “Of course. That is not to be denied. Your blood is very interesting. Yet, you are here not because of just your blood. Or else,” he smiled again as he spoke genially, “a vial would be here in your place.”

This person was incredibly unnerving, if not to say horrifying, speaking about anything replacing a person such as him as easily as that, all while smiling like an angel. In fact, he was beginning to doubt his interpretations of the other’s eyes before. Maybe it was, in fact, a threat and warning to him to not step over the boundaries he already had.

This was a meeting. This was a game, though it was unclear just who was holding the pieces to it. This was a puppet show, though it was unclear just who was the puppet and who was the puppeteer.

But as the other was saying, they were both replaceable, depending on the situation and needs. There was no personal desire playing out here. He steeled himself more, until it felt as if there was such a wall in between them, right in front of himself. He stared at the other as if he wasn’t really there.

“You said that you want something from me,” he stated with absolute certainty. “What do you want?”

The other’s gaze pierced right through the invisible wall. “That is you.”

His hand, already right by his side, remained relaxed. “Ah, is that so?”

The person laughed. “Of course. In this world, right now, there is nothing more important than being strong. You are drifting in this world. If we, as humanity, are the stubborn residue of this land, then at least we have learned that…the residue that stays together is less likely to be wiped out, bit by bit. As you know, our goal is not to continue to stain this earth with this sort of humanity.”

Humanity?

Was there any of that left, in what was happening? What was humanity? The mere state of having almond-shaped eyes, a different sculpted skull, the ability to think? If it was not that, then they surely had lost what humanity they had had a long time ago.

“It is in our blood,” the other said. ”To think of ourselves as better. To have faith in ourselves, to remain unchanging. When has humanity had too much faith? That faith has been our downfall.”

He had been faithful to his belief that nothing of that sort would happen, in a time that seemed distinct from this reality. He’d been yanked out of that time and spat out here. There was no going back.

Not since receiving the message. Not since giving his word, both to help them and meet them here.

“We have too much faith in ourselves,” he stated. “But as we communicated, we will bring an end to it all.” His heart was one of steel, too. “It is the ending age for such dastardly notions.” His hand reached out, brushing against the hardened wall between himself and more layers of himself, more layers of emotions and feelings that had plagued humanity with an incurable disease.

There had never been any going back. Time spat them out, again and again, to endure.

There was no going back.

## **January 23 - "Traitor", Part II**

“Pope,” was the first greeting he uttered, only said after he knelt deferentially upon one knee, his other leg tucked in behind the other one, his balance maintained by his arms, both being held down in a graceful gesture towards the ground.

Unlike most who came to kneel upon the red carpet here, he did not wear dazzling armor of any sort, but the posture was as habitual as any man or woman who wore shining Gold, bright silver, or any sort of polished bronze. His attire was as if that of a trainee, perhaps considerably giving more of a permanent look. Whilst usual training attire tended to be easily damageable, his bore no visible marks of struggle upon his armor, and the armor covered more of his form than other trainees’, with his shoulders, part of his chest, part of his neck, mid-section, and then his legs and feet.

He didn’t say anything furthermore, waiting for a response that was as kind as usual, differential from what would be outwardly considered a stern, taciturn tone.

“Galaxian.”

He had received it. Now, it was the matter of waiting for why he had been summoned here.
He had barely been gone in the first place. His residence was within this building, or should he say, nearby. He was out and about often, but he never hesitated to return to this place. His place of training, after all, was here. Unlike most of the other, current trainees, his training did not take place in a foreign state.

He belonged here, didn’t he? In Sanctuary, Athens. The city of Athena, the true and holy capital of the world. He belonged here, training under the Gold Saints. There was no other possibility to true happiness for him; he couldn’t fathom a life other than this one. Whatever life he had had before this life was irrelevant to him, and whatever life he would have would be in this place, or dying for it.

It was a strange thought at times, death, the fact that he could be torn away from this life and tossed into an afterlife of potential pain and suffering. That he could be thrown into one of the seven hells of the Underworld (he knew them well) if he were to befall to such a fate. But it was far from the worst one. Many Saints had been thrown into the Third hell, and they had not feared. He should not fear as well. There was only the present, and the fact that he was a warrior, someone fighting alongside the Saints.

“You seem distracted,” the Patriarch noted, to which he quickly lowered his head further.
It was the truth, though, and so the admittance to it came in the form of a small nod and paling of his cheeks. (Although that was not a completely conscious decision, unfortunately. His subconscious must have thought his gesture was a lie, and exposed him. The paling of his cheeks were but a replacement for the normal human blushing.)

## **January 24 - "In Two Worlds"**

That cloud…looked like a dragon.

The realization came to him slowly, but his surprise was swifter, cutting to his heart and stopping there, lingering, hesitant.

He hadn’t imagined clouds in different shapes for a long time, he had realized. For a long time, they had always just looked like clouds. Nothing more, nothing less. Just…clouds.

Perhaps this was because he was standing beneath a row of prunus mume—plum blossoms. He had just passed a cherry blossom patch, too. The scent still lingered in his memory. He hadn’t seen those flowers for years.

They had never seemed that significant to him before, but now, he realized how much he missed the *hanami*. Simply gazing and appreciating the beauty in even small things.

Well, everything was just reminding him of…her.

She would’ve thought this cloud was a phoenix, he bet, some inner part of him wishing she could have been nearby to confirm. The talons were just ambiguous enough to be interpreted either way…the length could be interpreted as either a dragon’s body or the tail of a phoenix…the head could be a dragon’s snout or the beak of the mystical bird…the clouds that seemed like the mist and thunder of the dragon, to him, would have been interpreted as fire by her.
Their interpretations were so opposing in nature, but they had never brought Rai and Anima to contradictory sides. But it was fire that had torn them apart. It was that sort of fire that he could not withstand; he had run away, like the swiftest river along the riverbed, and the path was one she couldn’t take, he knew, for she was as passionate as the bird of fire, just as he was as swift and soaring as a dragon of the sky. She had stayed in the fire, because as bad as it had been, she would be safer there than anywhere near him.

He hoped.

There was something about that thought that made him pensive. It was as if he were thinking a mistake. But he believed all the places in the world were safer than by his side. He tried to wipe the residue worry away, but it wouldn’t go away.

The cloud was drifting off, and the Sun had reemerged, making it harder to see and distinguish anything. Still, he remembered what it had been like. Maybe he should have taken a picture, but he didn’t have a camera in his possession. Too incriminating towards his positions, in most cases, if it were to fall in the wrong hands.

It didn’t matter that much, anyways. The white dragon was flying off, and now it almost seemed to him that there was a phoenix next to it, too. They seemed to be partners in-sync with one another. Perhaps it had never only been a dragon or phoenix—perhaps it had been both, and he had just been too preoccupied to realize. One water, one fire. Both together in what would have been two separate worlds.

## **January 25 - "Torment"**

(We stan rewriting of an excerpt from 2 years ago.)

Pain.

There was…so much pain…

Every movement he made burned at his core, but somehow, he was standing. No, he was walking, even as a flame burst upwards at him in sync with every step he took.

There was so much that blinded him. All he could see were the flames all around him, spreading, engulfing everything, consuming him. He was unable to stop them from devouring him and this curious little world that he was apparently now a part of, but he continued on, along the unseen path.

After all, it was all he had left, now. This pain and this fire—and perhaps they were intertwined, too.

So what was he searching for?

Somehow, he had not the urge to continue, but there was something other than that. There was something more than all of these curves and twists and turns to this invisible, scorching road, more than the mere, empty feeling that there was more to this place, things that he could not see but knew existed. It was more than that dreadful and gravitational despair pulling at his body, wanting him to succumb, and more than the heat burning away at the soles of his feet. It was more than the fact that he knew if he gave up here, he would be swallowed by the lethal flames, the deadly heat. No, it was the realization that he held on to as he continued, not knowing what he was searching for, but knowing he was searching for…something. Something more important to him than anything else in this tortuous and darkened world.

At some point, beyond the general efforts of everything villainous, he felt something spear through his chest. He paused, instinct to panic beyond him. After years of being attacked, and attacking others, fear was sometimes in another foreign world even from his perspective in the supposed real world.

But when he looked down, there was nothing there. Perhaps the smoke of this world had already engulfed all of his vision. Or perhaps the smoke itself was the spear lodged in his chest, now. Yet, it still felt so solid, as if something that wasn’t actually there was actually there.

It was as if the spear back then had returned. The weapon that had pierced his chest years ago was back, but this time, it brought no blood; it brought not even unconsciousness. Back then, the pain had been so immense to his young self, a child fighting on the front lines, and with it came the realization that he was about to die, he *was about to die*—

But this time, it brought nothing. It brought only some sort of hollowness emanating from somewhere within himself, that inner hand striving for something more, something more than this pain, or even this world. It strove for something. It reached out towards nothing.

Or was it nothing? For in his line of vision, a figure had appeared, a hellish black against the hellish canvas painted by destructive flames. The tranquility the figure emanated partnered with some sort of apathy, as if they transcended emotion. Their back was turned to him, almost invisible, almost translucent, parrying every word he must have tried to utter to them and making the syllables lodge into his throat.

Somehow, it too seemed the more he called, the more energy was called upon and into the fire, and it rose as if some sort of demonic wave, obscuring his view of the entity he was trying to reach out to and thinning his consciousness. Finally, a blast of flames whipped him, but as his grip to the world was ripped apart like paper, his final glimpse was only to the mere angle of a darkened mask swept clean by ashes and crimson flames.

## **January 26 - "Agriculture, Agriculture, and mooooreee...agriculture"**

A. Pastoral nomadism prevails in dry regions with more unpredictable factors, such as sporadic natural disasters, where settling down permanently in specific areas and engaging in activities, such as farming, would not assure survival. It is seen mostly in regions such as Saharan Africa, as well as Western and Southwestern Asia.

B. Pastoral nomadism is adaptive due to factors such as seasons or the abundance of food, both of which depend on the climate. It is a practice changed by the environment adhering to environmental determinism because of its dependency on livestock; those practicing pastoral nomadism cannot change the environment, but are rather coerced to change by influence of the environment. For instance, in an overly rainy climate for a season, most plants would be drowned, and there would be no food for the domesticated animals of the nomadic group. So, the group would have to move from the area of that climate, at least for that season, or however long the climate persists.

C. One belonging to this group would practice transhumance, migrating with the animals depending on the environment’s provisions and conditions. Daily routines would involve herding the animals out for them to graze and feed, or performing tasks such as shearing animals for their fur/wool. One would not eat meat often, as the animals would be too valuable in other aspects, such as for their fur, wool, milk, or even just warmth, to be killed for that reason, and one would live mostly upon on grain or largely common foods.

D. Pastoral nomadism is extensive because it involves the movement of a people practicing agriculture over several areas of land. Nomadic herders of this sort cannot subsist on one parcel of land, as one parcel of land is not enough to maintain what is needed to feed the tribe’s domesticated animals; in fact, feeding extensively on a certain parcel of land is bound to not only deplete the entirety of its resources, but also ruin the cycle for the next year as well.

Annndd because there was a word limit there, Galaxian was unable to get to 500 words. So now, not counting this paragraph, he will continue on with a random rant.

Sometimes I wonder how my lazy self would do in another sort of life.

Like, would I still be so lazy? Or would I actually be doing something more affiliated with civic virtue, instead of being as individualistic as I am now?

The only thing I don’t regret, I think, is the fact I have an education. I have learned a lot, I think, and I pride myself in thinking that I excel more than most others in applying my education. Even in chemistry, and in reading and writing. Even in social studies, I think. I apply a lot of it into places others wouldn’t usually go the lengths to, like writing. A lot of the ways I think come from my education.

Still, life is such a fickle road of choices, isn’t it? I may know things—like I should sleep earlier—but do I do it? No.

Hmm, I feel like I’m going off on another branch of thoughts now.

I’m actually constantly told I wouldn’t be this lazy if I were in another life and place in the world, but sometimes I wonder. Maybe instead of being lazy, I’d be ill-tempered. Or too soft-spoken. Thinking of it from this life, it seems like a whole ‘nother world.

I don’t believe in another life after this one, but I still wonder.

## **January 27 - "More Than Four Questions"**

What is a defining moment in life?

If they can’t define such a moment, does it mean it was not defining at all?

They don’t know. They have always said that it is important to self-reflect, but here…

Their mind is blank. Every happy moment, every realizing instant that they must have had, has flown away from them. So what am them? A blank slate with self-imposed beliefs that they do not know the source of?

Then why do they cry? What right do they have to lament for the lost, to preach to others about acceptance and respect, to both friends and strangers alike? What right do they have to wish to make change in the world?

What should they make of this? Of this foreignness to themselves, someone who they should know
the best?

Have they changed that much?

Where is that kid who passionately typed away in the dark of night to try to spark something within others they knew not by face, but by name? Where is the kid who sat at the table kicking their legs and talking about subjects from some other world without the ever present melancholy lingering upon their brow? Where is the kid who wished to see the world, and make change descend upon it by their will, and view the change themselves to see some sort of happiness?

What happened to them? What wallowed away at them until reasonless ideals remained?

Or were they always reasonless?

What caused them to cry? What causes them to cry, now, at the simple, personal uttering of an insult originally derived to him? What caused him to cry, a week ago, upon the sighting of dead bodies, evidence of their lives ripped away from them recorded on documentary after documentary? What are the tears worth to them?

Is it hardship? What hardship is theirs, compared to others’? Those who had to toil away their lives simply for the next meal, or perhaps just to somehow live on; those who had been bombed from their homes; those who had their names and faces stripped away because they were held responsible for something they never were responsible for. Things they had never known, that were tied to them.

So what is of this kid, this child, going towards their future?

What is in that future? Can they even change the world in a small place?

Who can they change? They can only change their self, and yet, they don’t know their self.

It is only through changing themselves that they can change others, but can they change others? It is as if the world is static, refusing to change by anyone except the elite.
But they are not elite. They are merely a kid who once dreamed, who now dreams of the horrors they have seen and dreamed of taking away, but they don’t understand the nature of those horrors themselves.

They don’t understand their self. They are a lie to their self. They do not know why they so wished to change others, but they know that someday, they wish to change the world. They wish to change and know.

How?

## **January 28 - "Bullet in the Air", Part III**

“There will always be a gun that can point towards you in this world,” they finally said. “Care not for what you like to do, if one day it may get you killed.”

The other considered that, then finally nodded with some sort of somberness. “I don’t want to get killed.”

“Good.”

The Mamba seemed to take that as praise. His chest inflated like a balloon.

But the A.A. wasn’t thinking about it. They were thinking about the looming danger, and how they would get the Mamba out of it. If the Masked Ones were targeted by the pantheon, then they would make sure their companion would at least get out alive for a bit.

Even if it meant they had to separate the Mamba from their Masked One friend.

Even if it meant that, somehow, the Jackal’s last command before his demise was to order someone after the Apologetic Assassin. The world had been trying to kill them for a while now. Nothing could faze them like that anymore.

“Ohh, by the way,” the Mamba started, startling the A.A. out of their thoughts—their hand had gotten to their other gun—“you’ve been out a lot lately. More than you’re usually out. Are you eating souls without me?”

The question was strange enough for them to pause. “…No.” In fact, they’d never even eaten souls before.

Though the mask really wanted to. It was on their belt. Did that even count towards them?

“Then whatcha doing out there?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Oh.” The Mamba took that in stride, like he did for most of what the A.A. said.

But they somehow felt the need for more of an explanation.

“Have been meeting with a partnership,” they stated.

“Oh.” The other raised an eyebrow. “Uhh, a partnership is two people, so you’ve been meeting with…two people?”

That would have obviously went without saying, but the A.A. patiently nodded, not that the Mamba could see. Somehow, though, he understood. “Ohh. Okay. Okie.”

The two lapsed into a deadly silence, which would not have been so deadly had not it been for the fact that the assassin was physically present.

“Go to sleep,” they finally said to the kid, ignoring the Mamba’s whining noise. They slung a blanket over the other, before realizing the other was still in his armor. “…Did you change for the fight?”

The teenager shook his head. “Nope! I just got up because everyone was being such a ruckus—”

The A.A. wondered how people could be a ruckus.

“—and then I watched him go boom!”

The A.A.’s mind auto-translated “I just got up because everyone was being such a ruckus and then I watched him go boom” as “I went to sleep in my armor and thus got up with my armor already on to witness a deity’s death”. They sighed. While staying in a fighting outfit was optimal for sleeping, they were rather sure it was unhealthy to sleep with such heavy armor on.

“Go change.”

“Okie!” The Mamba happily obeyed, tossing the blankets onto the floor, picking them up, accidentally nudged them back onto the floor again, before heading off to dismantle his armor and throw them in a heap on the opposite corner of the room. The first time, the A.A. had been appalled by the disorganization of a kid (oh, and the Mamba couldn’t make his own bed at the time, either), but now they didn’t even react.

The teenager finally trudged back to bed and flopped onto it. “I want a story,” he said, shooting a charming smile in the A.A.’s direction.

…What did the kid take them for? A babysitter?

…Now that they thought of it, they might as well be. With yet another mental sigh, they said, “No.”
The Mamba pouted, sighed, then laid down, with a small whisper, “…but the Cheetah says stories.”

The A.A. couldn’t imagine any Masked Ones telling stories of fancy-schmancy princesses in fancy-schmancy dresses who were saved by fancy-schmancy princes with fancy-schmancy collars and fancy-schmancy shoes. “Am not the Cheetah.”

“…Okay.” The Mamba made a sad face. “Good night, AAaaaaa.”

They turned away without a response, listening to the other’s breathing, focusing on each fluid motion of their hands cooperating together on their weapon, and the bump of the holster against their waist.

They did have a story to tell, but they couldn’t tell the Mamba. It would put him into danger, more so than they had ever wanted.

Better they carry this weight to themselves, of taking the bullet to the head.

## **January 29 - "This I Believe"**

They say that the voices that an author writes reflects the writer’s uttermost beliefs, but those in my stories always reflect innocence torn away by some sort of cruelty in their world. After all, my first character, who is also my self-insert, lost faith in himself and his abilities as the inhabitants of his world continued harming each other without reason. However, instead of abandoning that faith entirely and becoming a perpetrator of what he hated, he tried to continue to develop his belief so he could keep his faith. As a matter of fact, most of my characters have a strong stance against killing. That has conveyed to me over time that this significance of life and death of the innocent to my characters clearly means that it is very important to me as well.

Of course, I have never had a personal experience with death that is akin to what I put my characters through to develop any fervent beliefs. The most significant and personal experience of mine so far is learning about various historical genocides in history, including the Rwandan killings, Cambodian massacres, and the Holocaust. I think that part of my heart is still in that seventh grade Social Studies classroom, along with my realization that all those people who had been killed were not mere numbers. They were people, the main characters in their stories—their tales that had been torn from them because of others’ insane beliefs that were somehow enough to ‘justify’, in an extremely wrong and twisted way, the taking of others’ thoughts and everything they had. I couldn’t fathom what sort of people they were. To me, they were in a world far, far away from mine.

Ironically, I came to see children of my grade personify who I thought were in a distant world. Four years ago, I had witnessed older classmates trying to kill a family of ladybugs in a bush by hurling large rocks at their home. Recently, I watched a group of schoolmates batter a butterfly over the course of one hour, tear off its wings, and then, once they were bored of it, they stomped it and spread its remains over the floor with the soles of their shoes. The butterflies and ladybugs had done nothing to provoke the kids, but even that didn’t mean that they were left alone. Such people needed only for their victims to exist to find something that somehow prompted violence.

I realized in those moments that people capable of hurting and committing crimes against others were right next to me, not just in Nazi Germany or twentieth century Rwanda.
In those moments, I realized then that being different without knowing why is never wrong. Since neither I nor they were written as fictional characters, we don’t need to know why our ideals conflict at such odds. I need only keep my trust in myself: I trust in being kind without a reason to do so. I also believe in shedding tears without any reason, for I ultimately have faith that kindness doesn’t need a reason in this world, which somehow lacks it without reason as well. If humans keep their own kindness intact no matter what, they can keep their faith in humanity.

## **January 30 - "Such Luck"**

Did he forget to give the world a daily dose of “Rai doesn’t want to be chased by things or people trying to kill him” medicine, or did the world just not care enough about him?

Probably the latter.

“Hey. Hey, world,” he proclaimed loudly, pumping his arms and legs like there was no tomorrow; which, in fact, there would be no tomorrow for him if he didn’t run fast enough. “I don’t appreciate this.” Right about then, a rock nearby his next step imploded, and with a swerve more graceful than he realized, he added, “I didn’t ask for *that*, either!”

In fact, the young man called Rai never really asked for anything. His only need was being alive—life, and apparently there was a supply shortage.

“Typical of the *sekai* to do this to me,” he muttered, diving to the side, further into the woods.

For a moment, he wondered what his pursuers were thinking about his rambling. In his opinion, if he were to die today, at least he’d get some words out at the end. Depending on whether they were actually robots or people, that is. Even he doubted robots cared all that much about his feelings.

Was a world with all empathetic/sympathetic beings better than the one he was in right now? Probably. There were studies showing more time on technology decreased empathy, leading to more bullying…and he was being bullied at the moment. The kind of cyber bullying that was inclusive of guns and explosives.

But wait—he was on technology a lot.

Speaking of which, which was worse, words or explosives? He actually couldn’t figure out which one…

And *why* was he thinking about that old saying, “Sticks and bones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”, when he could get worse than broken bones in this scenario?

He couldn’t even understand himself. Handy dandy.

Things couldn’t get much worse than being shot at, or so he thought, up until a certain robot wheeled out from the side to him, shrieking. Apparently even Qwerty felt the panic he wasn’t feeling.

Maybe he did joke too much about death.

“What are you doing?” he chided. “I told you to stay hidden in case something bad happened!”

He was met with a defiant string of beeps.

“Fine, disobey the general procedures of safety,” he muttered, until he realized he could have been talking about himself. Great to know he was a bit of a hypocrite. It was a great realization to have while sprinting with a robot trying to keep up by his side, with plasma shooting out from behind him—

Was that…a robot…in front? With a gun?

Uh oh.

Rai’s mind wheeled within a second, considering all the alternatives. He had no way down into the ground. There was no way he could fight them—he could practically see their advanced defense mechanisms. So the only way was—up. If there were any there, they were easier to get rid of, and since they hadn’t ambushed them from that direction, then presumably, if they were somehow up there, then they didn’t have the ability to move throughout the trees quickly.

Up into the trees, then.

“Kinzoku-Hen! Code: D:O:W:N!” he shouted, and with that, Qwerty practically jumped into his right arm. In a flash, a brace had clenched painfully onto Rai’s wrist, but he aimed, fired, and soon enough, he and a squealing robot shot through the air in a calculated trajectory, leaving a burning smell and semi-confused machinery behind them.

He always had the best birthdays.

## **January 31 - Thank You**

It saddens me to think that I’ll forget nice things that others have done for me. Of course, my memory being bad is unforgettable in itself. But I was inspired to write this short excerpt from a few days ago, when I randomly remembered the time someone anonymously nominated me for the nicest person in my choir class last year. The mention was that I always held doors open for others and smiled to others. I didn’t really recall smiling all that much, but I’ve always been a door-holder for others, partially because I think being helpful and using that tiny bit of time is worth it. So, the fact someone noticed that and nominated me in that way was really surprising and really heart-warming for me, I guess.

(Insert my usual jokes about not really having a heart nevertheless here, I suppose.)

I didn’t like choir last year, which is also the reason why I’m not in it anymore. But I can’t say it was a directly bad experience. I had friends in the class, of course, and I’m sure there were nice people, too. I just never got the opportunity to meet them.

Of course, I had a notion as to whom the nominator might be, but I never confirmed it with her, since she moved away this year. I never talked with her all that much, but I also remember she remembered my birthday (somehow, when I usually forget it myself) and gave me personal drawings, cards, and small gifts for the two years we knew each other.

It doesn’t have to do with my birthday all the time, of course. I don’t think of it as such a reverent day myself. But I do treat it as special, and from youth, just the fact someone remembers it always makes me happy. I remember occasions where my friends arranged for the whole class to shout “Happy Birthday!” to me when I went into the classroom in the morning, and I remember little gifts that my friends in my early youth gave me, that they probably don’t even remember themselves. I even remember a little toy car that a boy gave me for his birthday. I still have it, and it’s still good as new. I haven’t played with it much, in fears of breaking it.

Of course, me being in my school grade, I’m also expected to not play with Hot Wheels anymore.

I almost forgot the significance of small, nice gifts to me, but my birthday happened to be around this time, and more people have remembered it than ever. It awes me to think that I’ve known those friends for only a year, maybe even less, since I don’t consider being in the same community as really ‘knowing’ them. But the fact that they took time and heart to construct anything or even just remember it, or maybe shoot a message for me, really made me happy.

I hope some of the people who did this for me are here, reading this, so this makes it all the more embarrassing to write, in some ways. But I really appreciate my friends so much, just for taking notice of what could have been a trivial thing. And I really do think of it as true friendship, away from the adult world where hearts are taken by expensive gifts. Time and friendship/love (you know what sort of love I mean :P) are what I treasure the most in a gift or any friendship in general.

January 31st was when this was supposed to be written. Once again, thank you to all of you for being here for me. I hope we can keep being together. Time and friendship are mutual gifts, and I hope to continue being a receiver and giver as well.