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Entry tags:
[17-Aug-2021][Ayatsuri Sakon] You've Already Cried
Title: You've Already Cried
Day/Prompt: 17-Aug-2021
Fandom: Ayatsuri Sakon
Character/Pairing: Sakon
Rating/Warning(s): Mature, Apocalypse AU, mentions of prostitution, animal murder, etc. Sad shit.
Things weren't how they used to be, a little stranger, always darker; Sakon acknowledged the changes, tried to find peace with the strangeness.
The world was different. Chicks and pimps were everywhere—street corners, pools of light at bus stops, cell phone lights that flicked on and off, the way they do in ads. The world was different, more businesslike. More practical. Red-light.
Not even the desert could escape the mass desecration of humanity— but that, too, Sakon learned to live with. That changed, so did he: the deserts were no longer empty, people filled the open, packed so tightly together you had to push your way through. And there was a strange thing about those people: they weren't like Sakon, which he rather liked until they just... didn't move. They languished. This one didn't, but most did; this was a pack, a herd of travelers collecting and losing people along the road.
The only movers were hustlers pushing harder and higher prices because you needed more money than you used to. To survive and thrive, or die, because nobody will help you.
(With a price Sakon refused to pay, some 'organizations' help anyone.)
On the edge of an arid colony, a tarp set up and supplies in his backpack, Sakon frowned to himself. He didn't like venturing outside of Japan, the Americas especially; guns, smoke, and plume filled the cities, and Asians never fared well on the west coast. Easy pickings, somebody he knew might have once said. But there he was, camped in Eurasia for three months, without his puppet or good company.
The light faded and brightened again, illuminating the bleak desert sand, the sun caught in the dull grain and shimmering glass of the dry path. The others watched Sakon from a distance as he moved to stand before the looming rock, the first water in miles. His survival instincts said wait, but his curiosity demanded he reach out and touch it; examine the evidence, consider the signs and deduce what is and isn't.
Steadying himself, he put a hand on the rock. His fingers brushed the cold, wet surface, like ice in a stream bed, a river in the desert. Then, almost immediately, he dragged the water to the sand, the sand beneath him warming him as heat seeped through his body over again. Dusting the sand-water mixture, he smoothed a hand over the sides of the rock, walking paces around it, looking for cracks and other things.
A crack—he thought so. The water was murky, but he had two months' worth of matches left; it'd satiate him. Later, once the ladies finished their respective laundry in the river, once the last of people were away from it, he'd catalog it: a break-off point, large rocks, great overhangs despite the desert. Ah, maybe they were closer to the next land than they thought. Sakon was a man who liked his answers but never showed it around others, or at least tried not to— people took pride in their ability to break him, so he merely glanced around, smiled to himself, and observe the ebb and flow of the water.
When he found the deeper cracks, not so deep thankfully, Sakon collected handfuls of damp earth and placed the rocks back into the cavity, then began a series of small digs until he'd created a kind of alcove, sheltered by the overhang of the spearing rock. Structurally, it was terrible but better chancing the outer banks than the pack. Right there would supply his tiny plants drinking water, and the wall would shield him from the violent, turbulent storms.
Voices carried in the wind from the ways: talking to one another, girls giggling, commenting on the weather, laughing about nothing that Sakon could guess, joking about what the few boys were up doing. Some secrets were kept well, but theirs weren't.
Men chuckled, the sound of lugging and chuckling and gulping— alcohol, he assumed, though he thought the idea ill-fated— and women's soothing, motherly voices.
Sakon positioned himself under the overhang, hanging his tarp with an iron bar, then waited, shielded from sight as best he could be in the tiny space. He listened to them play cards, chatting about life, experiences, drinks and foods, and things they missed. Some people still wailed in sorrow.
Staring at his hands, he watched day fall into night, curling in on himself, imagining the touch of another he couldn't think of. Dull-eyed, Sakon blinked back the thoughts that circled in his mind: being alone; having to kill his food; dying because no one wants you alive anymore. He pushed these thoughts away, knowing they were a lie. The old way was gone, but people just didn't lose compassion.
He missed that— missed comfort. Sakon shook his head, murmuring to himself as his mind spun like strobe-lights with happy, rosy memories, and even then, he never had comfort. Well, never sought it.
Staring in the distance all alone, Sakon reminded himself: life wasn't too tough; he'd already cried.
Day/Prompt: 17-Aug-2021
Fandom: Ayatsuri Sakon
Character/Pairing: Sakon
Rating/Warning(s): Mature, Apocalypse AU, mentions of prostitution, animal murder, etc. Sad shit.
Things weren't how they used to be, a little stranger, always darker; Sakon acknowledged the changes, tried to find peace with the strangeness.
The world was different. Chicks and pimps were everywhere—street corners, pools of light at bus stops, cell phone lights that flicked on and off, the way they do in ads. The world was different, more businesslike. More practical. Red-light.
Not even the desert could escape the mass desecration of humanity— but that, too, Sakon learned to live with. That changed, so did he: the deserts were no longer empty, people filled the open, packed so tightly together you had to push your way through. And there was a strange thing about those people: they weren't like Sakon, which he rather liked until they just... didn't move. They languished. This one didn't, but most did; this was a pack, a herd of travelers collecting and losing people along the road.
The only movers were hustlers pushing harder and higher prices because you needed more money than you used to. To survive and thrive, or die, because nobody will help you.
(With a price Sakon refused to pay, some 'organizations' help anyone.)
On the edge of an arid colony, a tarp set up and supplies in his backpack, Sakon frowned to himself. He didn't like venturing outside of Japan, the Americas especially; guns, smoke, and plume filled the cities, and Asians never fared well on the west coast. Easy pickings, somebody he knew might have once said. But there he was, camped in Eurasia for three months, without his puppet or good company.
The light faded and brightened again, illuminating the bleak desert sand, the sun caught in the dull grain and shimmering glass of the dry path. The others watched Sakon from a distance as he moved to stand before the looming rock, the first water in miles. His survival instincts said wait, but his curiosity demanded he reach out and touch it; examine the evidence, consider the signs and deduce what is and isn't.
Steadying himself, he put a hand on the rock. His fingers brushed the cold, wet surface, like ice in a stream bed, a river in the desert. Then, almost immediately, he dragged the water to the sand, the sand beneath him warming him as heat seeped through his body over again. Dusting the sand-water mixture, he smoothed a hand over the sides of the rock, walking paces around it, looking for cracks and other things.
A crack—he thought so. The water was murky, but he had two months' worth of matches left; it'd satiate him. Later, once the ladies finished their respective laundry in the river, once the last of people were away from it, he'd catalog it: a break-off point, large rocks, great overhangs despite the desert. Ah, maybe they were closer to the next land than they thought. Sakon was a man who liked his answers but never showed it around others, or at least tried not to— people took pride in their ability to break him, so he merely glanced around, smiled to himself, and observe the ebb and flow of the water.
When he found the deeper cracks, not so deep thankfully, Sakon collected handfuls of damp earth and placed the rocks back into the cavity, then began a series of small digs until he'd created a kind of alcove, sheltered by the overhang of the spearing rock. Structurally, it was terrible but better chancing the outer banks than the pack. Right there would supply his tiny plants drinking water, and the wall would shield him from the violent, turbulent storms.
Voices carried in the wind from the ways: talking to one another, girls giggling, commenting on the weather, laughing about nothing that Sakon could guess, joking about what the few boys were up doing. Some secrets were kept well, but theirs weren't.
Men chuckled, the sound of lugging and chuckling and gulping— alcohol, he assumed, though he thought the idea ill-fated— and women's soothing, motherly voices.
Sakon positioned himself under the overhang, hanging his tarp with an iron bar, then waited, shielded from sight as best he could be in the tiny space. He listened to them play cards, chatting about life, experiences, drinks and foods, and things they missed. Some people still wailed in sorrow.
Staring at his hands, he watched day fall into night, curling in on himself, imagining the touch of another he couldn't think of. Dull-eyed, Sakon blinked back the thoughts that circled in his mind: being alone; having to kill his food; dying because no one wants you alive anymore. He pushed these thoughts away, knowing they were a lie. The old way was gone, but people just didn't lose compassion.
He missed that— missed comfort. Sakon shook his head, murmuring to himself as his mind spun like strobe-lights with happy, rosy memories, and even then, he never had comfort. Well, never sought it.
Staring in the distance all alone, Sakon reminded himself: life wasn't too tough; he'd already cried.