chaotically_rem | Entries tagged with drabble

Innocence.

Gintoki knew better. He knew when he stood by Takasugi's side, parrying and striking in perfect sync with the teen beside him, knew that they would never work. Not because their attitudes were similar enough that they argued over everything. Not because they were constantly in battle, fighting on the losing side of a war and it was very likely that one of them would die. Not because they weren't good enough friends, close enough comrades.

No. The reason it wouldn't work out was something much simpler than that. Something that both warmed and broke Gintoki's heart.

"Zura." Takasugi said the second they were back at camp, his voice low but always pleasant to Gintoki's ears. "You burned your hair. Idiot."

Gintoki watched from afar as his best friend scowled, refusing to shift over on the log he was perched on when Takasugi sat too close. Zura began to bicker, but Gintoki didn't hear a word.

He was too busy staring at Takasugi's infatuated gaze.

War.

The rush of the fight was one thing. Gintoki could become one with the adrenaline, the sword in his hands and the blood spraying, could lose himself to its madness so that he may rise above and survive longer than the rest

But the rush back to the camp was something different, a chill tingling through his veins as cold fear washed over him, fear he never felt at the sharp end of a sword. News had gotten around of a fatal injury, and there was only one person who fit the description.

"Zura? Is Takasugi back?" Gintoki called as he rushed back into camp, into his shared tent with the other commanders. He hoped his voice didn't give away his fear but he knew he sounded desperate when he threw the tent flap open.

"Relax." Takasugi said from the corner where he had been arguing with Katsura over battle strategies. "No one died. It was a spy."

Gintoki sighed, warmth instantly flooding his system.

"I know." Gintoki lied. "I'm here because someone stole my Pokari."

Darkness.

Gintoki really hated the dark. It was supposed to be a fun camping trip, spending the night in a tent under the stars. He had taken the kids fishing and they had loved it just like he had. But when night fell, he realized his mistake.

It was too dark. The kids were passed out beside him in the tent, snoring loudly, but his eyes were wide open, ears listening very carefully to the world around him. It was darker than black, a hand in his face invisibile. How many men had died silently in the darkness at his own hands?

Too many to count.

The silence unnerved him. It reminded him of times better off forgotten, or even better, times he needed to accept. He closed his eyes, his focus settling into his other senses. In the darkness, there was death.

Manipulation.

Leon knew.

He knew the second he was taken into custody, the second Sherry was ripped from his side crying and pleading for her safety, that he would do and say everything that needed to be done and said to keep that little girl safe.

They cuffed him to a chair in an interrogation room before leaving him to hang. The heat was up way too high, sweat beading down his temple, reminding him he had narrowly escaped being burnt to a crisp multiple times last night. Leon couldn't help but find it ironic that he had shown up for his first day on the police force just to have the tables violently turned on him. Instead of cuffing petty thieves and rowdy drug dealers to a chair himself, here he was being cuffed and treated like a high-class criminal who had done something worse than murder.

"What are you smirking about?" The lead detective on his case entered the room, slapping down a folder onto the table. He looked stern, but not unkind. Leon hadn't said anything yet in his defense, but he knew he would eventually blab the whole story. For Sherry.

"The irony." Leon said. And the man must have already checked out his background because he laughed too.

Fear.

Leon hated to admit it to himself - he would never admit it out loud, oh no - but he was absolutely terrified.

"We need to wait for a second." He said, trying his best to sound calm, to sound normal. They were still in the house after shooting down half the damn village, ready to move on and get the hell out of here. Louis had run off after showing up to help them out and give them some information, leaving Leon to lick his own wounds and reassure Ashley that they weren't both going to suddenly turn into feral parasites or die.

Or at least, Leon was trying to convince himself that he wasn't going to suddenly turn feral or die.

"Are you okay?" Ashley asked, her voice lilting in concern. She approached him, but stopped short like she was worried he might bite if she got too close.

He wasn't okay as he feigned checking his gun. It was the damn Plaga in his neck that scared the shit out of him. The idea of losing control was so horrendously awful that Leon suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He took a deep breath, letting it settle deep in his lungs, reassuringly. He couldn't afford to lose his cool, couldn't afford to give Ashley a reason to doubt him. She was already so scared.

"Yeah. I'm fine." He lied. They didn't have time for him to truly be okay.

Isolation.

The hardest part about coming home from a mission was the part where Leon actually arrived home. He stepped into his minimalist apartment, and flipped on the light by the door, sighing heavily as he dropped his work bag from his shoulder onto the floor. His first stop was always to the thermostat to turn the heat back on, his second stop always to the liquor cabinet in his kitchen; his only stocked cabinet.

Minutes later with a nice glass of whiskey that he promised he wouldn’t slam back, he dropped onto his couch, sinking into the cushions while he took the first sip. He closed his eyes, grenades and flash-bangs still ringing through his skull, reminding him that it would take a few days before the ringing in his ears completely went away.

But when he closed his eyes, the events of the last mission flickered through his brain like an old film reel, reminding him of those he had lost, those he hadn’t been able to save. His own misfortune and his own bad luck, his mistakes and shortcomings. The mission could have gone smoother. It could always go smoother.

It would take a few days before the ringing in his ears completely went away, but it would take weeks before he could look anyone in the eye again, let alone admit his own failures out loud.

He slammed back the whiskey so he could get his second glass.

Heat

Leon didn’t understand why this kept happening, or at least, he pretended like he couldn’t figure it out. With a heavy breath, he dragged himself shakily to his feet. He was littered in cuts, his leather jacket torn and dirty from where he had been thrown into the underbrush. The getaway car was on fire already, flipped upside down and twenty feet down an embankment. It was another miracle that he had survived the crash. Again.

I always end up crashing everything, don’t I? He didn’t want to admit he was hungover, didn’t want to note that there was a certain little trend, a pattern he was starting to see in relation to these instances. But in his defense, he hadn’t been forewarned that there was going to be another zombie out break, hadn’t been told he would in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught up in the chaos once again.

Oh well.

He turned to the tree line after brushing himself off, gauging how far he was from his destination. The car would blow shortly, would lure the undead away from him. It was a distraction he fully needed to take advantage of.

Love.

The hardest part about saving the world was that Gintoki had to say goodbye.

He sat alone at the grave, the world in one piece, everyone and everything recovering just as it should be. Utsuro had taken everything Gintoki had loved and had almost destroyed it, but in the end, they had all survived. Mostly. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Their losses had been minimal. Gintoki’s? Catastrophic.

Gintoki poured a second cup of sake, his eyes on the cup as he set the bottle down onto the tomb with an audible clunk. He stared at it for a moment, imaging Takasugi was sitting there beside him fine and dandy, smirking at him with that kiseru poised neatly in his hands. Gintoki doubted Takasugi wanted him to mourn. Gintoki didn’t plan to.

“I didn’t expect you to miss me.”

“Drink up, short stuff.” Gintoki said. He paused for a solid minute, eyes closed and thoughts silent, before he opened his eyes again. He whipped the sake cup to the side, spraying the alcohol into the nearby grass before pouring himself his second drink.

Gintoki tipped the drink back before setting the cup back down. He had stayed too long. “Say hello to Shouyou for me.”

Loss.

Leon stood over the edge of the platform while everything came crashing down around him both literally and metaphorically. NEST's infrastructure was collapsing into deadly pieces fast but he couldn't help but hesitate despite the urgency in his gut. He found the tumbling infrastructure ironic while the walls of his heart broke off piece by piece, the black void beneath him on that catwalk taunting. It wasn't necessarily her slipping from his fingers that broke his heart - it still did, it hurt, but in a physical way - but maybe it was the fact that she had somehow stolen a smidge of his shine off him when she went, taking a piece from him he'd never get back.

He didn't have time to grieve, or even time to be upset. He needed to survive.

Leon rushed for the elevator. If he lived to see the break of dawn, he would think about her. If he didn't, then none of this would matter at all.

Blood.

Leon's hands shook as he sunk to the ground carefully, torn between reaching out to try and help himself and simply leaning back on his hands to give up. He'd been so caught up on the Ganados that were surely ahead that he hadn't noticed the bear trap until he was screeching in surprise. The note had stubbornly died just as fast as it had sounded, Leon desperately swallowing his pain.

None of the townsfolk had come to investigate the sound. Yet. He had time.

His breath was ragged as he reached for the trap clamped through his calf. He had herbs, had aerosol spray that could help. It was all about thinking positively, right? He could carry on. If that dog he had rescued from a trap ten minutes ago could run off free as a bird then so could he. He was just lucky he had neutralized the area before becoming ensnared. This was merely a hiccup. Nothing more.

All about thinking positively.

He felt sick as he reached down, blood staining his pant leg and smearing onto his hands as he forcefully pried at the traps jaws apart. It took effort and a few leaked tears, more pain than the broken ribs after Raccoon City. But he sprung himself free and rolled out of the trap, lying in a bush for a second to catch his breath, staring at the ominous orange sky.

He wouldn't catch a break this whole mission, would he?

Unfortunately, he only had enough time to take a deep breath and shove some green herbs into his mouth like an animal. And then just like that, he was back on his feet with a slight limp, Matilda raised as he carried on.

He had a girl to save.

Sickness.

Standing in his bathroom with the door locked behind him, Gintoki knew. He knew the second he saw the black marks trailing up his hand in an intricate pattern what it meant. He had heard about this, knew it was a problem that was already in full swing. His internal clock was counting down fast now, but he knew it wasn't counting down to death.

Death would be too kind.

This was different, a new hell all in itself. This was a disaster rapidly approaching and Gintoki knew there was nothing he could do except throw himself into preparing, into making sure when he needed to slip away and disappear for good, no one would notice. He needed to make sure his friends and family were safe, that regardless of how much damage he did, they had a fighting chance.

It's okay.

He smiled sadly at his own reflection, wondering just how much time he had left, wondering if he would indulge in his relationships before he'd go. He would never be able to say everything he needed to say, would never be able to apologize for what he was about to do. There wasn't enough time, enough words, enough love.

He just hoped they'd understand.

He sighed as he turned away from his reflection, heading out to start his day. He would die like this. He would end it himself if he had to. But no one would know until it was too late. And all too soon, before he even knew it, the White Plague was spreading like wildfire.

Betrayal.

The words stuck in Gintoki's throat, an apology maybe, an excuse. His mouth was open but nothing came out. This wasn't supposed to be how it ended, wasn't supposed to be how he left his mark. But when he looked into the eyes of his comrades, battle weary and exhausted, he could see it clear as day. The men were divided already, picking sides, already looked at him like a traitor. While no words had been said, the betrayal must have been clear.

Gintoki had done something and the men knew he had been in the wrong. The majority seemed to favor Katsura and Takasugi, only a few asking Gintoki if he could possibly make this right.

There was no way in hell he could make this right. The only way he could make it right was to leave.

So he left, his back to the smoke and ashes, blood and broken steel. He left, his back to the friends he had promised to protect, the friends he had ruined in one fell swoop.

He left with blood on his hands he would never wash off.