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File 131173004159.png - (495.17KB, 1525x898, this will do.png) [iqdb]
23919 No. 23919
So. New thread. I was gonna write a lot hating the new image, but what-the-fuck-ever, let's move on.

To more waiting around, I guess.

[x] Look for real food, no way that abomination the "good doctor" gave was actually food everyone within ate; never mind the stereotypes on "hospital food".

…That was some real bullshit, what she just pulled; I can’t believe any self-respecting doctor would have an ass like that. Be an ass like that. Sure, it was all in good fun except for that part where I was coerced into obligatory contractual labor, and the part where a man’s hunger is no joke, but I can understand that; I can be sympathetic. A private hospital like this, ritzy and generous all at once, it probably needs to take advantage of any fiscally-sound opportunities it can get. I get that!

There’s just one little thing I can’t quite wrap my mind around: why am I still sitting here in this sort of situation? Like hell I’ll just politely wait around and starve.

With the faint groaning of – couldn’t be springs could it, I mean the bed’s a bit too thin for springs – something and the soft clap of bare feet onto cold tile, I’m standing confidently on my own two legs again for the first time in… too long. Deep breaths now, in and out – breathe in, good; breathe out – no nausea, no vertigo, and no loss of balance. The world doesn’t feel as though it’s been tilted on its side.

One step… Two steps, three steps…

The only discomfort is the steady throb in my hand, dull pain echoing across the empty space where my finger used to be; but it’s fine, that doesn’t even throw me off-balance. There’s no jagged electric feeling crawling across my spine, a sweet and smoky scent in the air, and no crooked trees for monsters to hide behind – I could get used to this, I think.

Hold on, what was that second thing?

I take a good, long whiff – that hearty sort of sniff where you close your eyes and tilt your head back as if trying to absorb the essence of the scent. I immediately feel somewhat like a tool, but the self-loathing is pushed back by a sudden desire to find the source of the smell.

I need to do this.

Okay. The transition from tile to hardwood floors, that was a little odd. But that’s fine, I guess I can see why they’d pick tile over hardwood for the patient rooms – I mean, tile is definitely a lot easier to clean than the latter. Blood just stains the, where am I going with this? That’s not where I was going with this at all. Transition, floors, hallway… Right, doors.

Why in God’s name are there so many fucking doors? I can’t count them all- I literally can’t count them all, after spending what must have been ten or twenty minutes racking my brain. After I hit 30 or 40 (or was it 50? 60?) my eyes start sliding from door to door aimlessly until I arrive back where I started, more confused than before. Something about the sheer space feels off, somehow.

Whatever. That’s not what matters.

I start my search with gusto, stomach coiling in knots. How hard can it be to find some food…?

Behind door number one is a short stairway illuminated by a single hanging bulb- some distance below lies what I’m forced to assume is the Hospital’s main filing room. Cabinets line the walls and seemingly rise up into some shadowed ether, crowding ominously around a lone table littered with folders and dust.

There’s something ominous about this room, something terrible and nameless that I can’t pin down – it makes my hair stand on end. I exhale and it comes out as a heavy mist (nonsense, must have disturbed some dust or something in the odd light) and a jagged electric feeling works its way into my gut.

Oh hell no.

I slam the door shut and make tracks. Fuck that. I know a bad idea when I see one.

An empty lounge, the sort you’d see at a typical doctor’s office; the decor is just sophisticated enough to feel cultured and personal, but not so over-cluttered that it comes across as tacky or gauche. A few cushioned chairs scattered about, health magazines in two racks on either side of the room. Tasteful modern art sequestered away in small alcoves.

There’s an excessively streamlined clock (just a bunch of thin metal bars around ticking hands; how the hell does it function?) mounted on a wall, stating the time. 9:03.That can’t be right. It was almost noon half an hour ago.

Close the door and check another one off the list.

Some sort of operating room? All gleaming, polished metal and the cutting smell of antiseptic, sweeping lines and unobtrusive curves; the aesthetic is unabashedly futuristic and clean. The lights drench the room in that perfectly unsettling fluorescence you only find in hospitals and at the dentist’s.

There’s a low, steady hum. It sets my teeth on edge.

This definitely isn’t what I’m looking for.

“Sorry pal, try another one.”

Oh, my bad.


This is my room. Was?

That’s really kind of embarrassing.

A dimly lit room greets me after I throw open the door, with a solitary table surrounded by high-backed chairs situated beneath a low-hanging light fixture – it feels very atmospheric, almost tense. It also feels very odd; like I shouldn’t be here.

I gently ease the door shut, since it’s only polite. Wouldn’t want to disturb the occupants, would I? I mean, shit, that would just be obnoxious on my part. Poker is real serious business, and I can sympathize with that sort of situation.

Hold on, what?

There’s- there’s nothing. Storage, I guess?

“Don’t you have something better to do? Are you just gonna open doors all day?”

Geez, sorry to be a nuisance buddy.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK-” fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

I dive to the side of the door – no, that’s not a strong enough word; I hurl myself bodily away from the portal, tumbling end over end in a hopeless attempt at maintaining some form of momentum AWAY FROM THE FUCKING TRAIN that was APPARENTLY hiding behind a closed fucking door! Who the hell just leaves a god damn train sitting around behind a door like that?!

Fuck, fuck, fuck… nothing. No roaring din as a fucking train tears through a building, no shrieking mayhem as debris rip through the walls and shred my sorry ass, no anything. If I wasn’t so busy sagging against the floor in relief, I might feel a bit cheated.

Actually? No. No I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t feel cheated at all.

I blow on my arm as the pain from the friction burn kicks in, skin flushed an angry red and missing a few thin patches of skin; fuck but these floors have a good grip to them. Luckily, I only got the one! And it’s all thanks to these neat little bandages courtesy miss Eirin.

I sidle back up to the door and close it with a panicked jerk.

That’s, that’s some bullshit.

This – this is my room again. I KNOW I never turned around (probably never turned around) so how in the hell did I wind up…? Even the door is slightly different, slightly off, obviously of the same make but not the original article. None of this, none of this makes any sense at all.

Two doors can’t go to the same space, can they? Occupy the same space? It’s just not possible, physics shouldn’t support enormous mathematical logic puzzles outside of theory. Hypotheticals. Hypothetically, something in this madhouse should make some god damn sense-

I scan the room again, just to be sure. A flicker of color in the corner of my eye and I whirl around, face to face with – nothing. There’s nothing there. Ha, ha ha. This really isn’t funny, you know? I never asked to deal with crap like this.

What was that? I could’ve sworn I just saw-

No, it was, it was probably nothing.

Stacks of crates? What the hell purpose does that serve? What’s in them?

Actually, I don’t need to know. Don’t want to, either.

“Can I help you, buddy? Because you obviously don’t have a damn clue.”

Okay, that’s it. There’s only so much a guy can take, and me, I can’t take anymore of this horseshit. Shady rooms that stink of danger, fucked up clocks, a roomful of train and now some asshole spitting lines at me while I’m looking for food in whatever-the-hell screwed up hospital this is? However the fuck far from home I am now, contracted by some doctor into giving up months of my life doing manual labor?

Fuck. That. Maybe it’s just all this pent up frustration, but… No. No way. I’m not going to just stand around and take that crap.

“Problem? Maybe you should loosen up.”

I am calm. I am the perfect picture of stoic acceptance. Like ice. I am like a statue carved from ice, and, and, this isn’t working.

One step, two steps, three. Four. I calmly, quietly, make my way through the doorway into the small, oriental-style sitting room; it’s got the whole shebang, short table, cushions, tatami mats – and that smell. That sharp, sweet smell. I know the source now.

I stroll up to what appears to be a young girl (shoulder-length black hair, cute little pink dress) with rabbit ears growing out the top of her skull, lounging about on the floor. I don’t care about that. Or the fact that she’s got a voice like film noir actress, smoking a clove cigarette with a grin that ought to split her face clean in half. What I care about are those laughing eyes, big and glittery and… thin, somehow.

I see her eyes, and, I can’t– b r e a t h e, anymore.


are you? Am I – doing?

Every sensation, every perception, is revved up a thousand time higher than I’ve ever felt. I could hear a shadow move. There are spectrums of light I don’t have names for, nuances I can’t fathom, a euphoria of colors slamming against my mind with a physical force – an ice pick digging around in my brain. It tastes like I’ve just been struck by lightning, ozone and restless energy. I still can’t, I still can’t breathe-!

And then.

That jagged electric feeling, that roiling ball of panic and doubt in the center of my gut… vanishes. Just up and vanishes Into thin fucking air. Vertigo, weightlessness, and confusion settle in to take their place as if they’d been there all along.

My entire body feels… cold. Distant? Numb, that’s, I suppose that’s the most accurate word. When did I fall on the ground…? Does it matter? I can breathe again, which is… I guess that’s good. That’s great, even.


So why is it that it feels like the most depressing turn of events possible?

That girl is… she’s gone now (when did she leave?) and the scent of smoke and cloves lingers on the air. I – I don’t feel all that hungry any more.


[ ] I need some fresh air. There’s got to be a way out of here.
[ ] Where did she go?
[ ] I should head back.
[ ]…
231posts omitted. Last 50 shown. Expand all images
>> No. 25844
Clint is youkai of regrets, call it now
fuck you
>> No. 25845
that reminds me, of the mental picture of that night.
>> No. 25868
File 138440748647.jpg - (822.40KB, 2326x1398, five letters.jpg) [iqdb]

Look forward to seeing it tomorrow (barring unforeseen circumstances.)

>> No. 25869
I may or may not have squealed like a bitch.
>> No. 25870
File 138446861218.png - (196.80KB, 600x512, wearecurrentlyexperiencingtechnicaldifficulties.png) [iqdb]
Alright, so. This is maybe a THIRD of the update I have planned and outlined, but I can't get around a few gaps that feel like they need reader interaction to progress. SO HERE WE ARE. Please excuse my inability to build proper walls.

(PICTURE UNRELATED i'll draw a proper one later probably)


[x] Fuck bitches get lunch

A steady, toneless silence sweeps in to take the doctor’s place. A miasma of polarized tension that I handily ignore, more out of habit than intent. I don’t remember it being this dark, but-

It’s fine. Never did like fluorescent lights. Besides, nothing to do now but loaf around- like hell I’m going to wander around in this high-class shithole without a tour guide. Again. Somebody should be around soon anyway, right?

There’s a distant click-whir-hum, a rumbling basso thrum that immediately fades into white noise. A whisper of cold air on my skin and-


Hm. Am I really…? Testing, testing, one two three. I lift up the sheets and hey there bud, it’s been a while since we talked. How’s the wife and kid? You don’t know, huh? That’s rough, but hey, life goes on. It always does. Gotta roll with the punches-

I drop the sheets and pinch the bridge of my nose in exasperation. I am not spending the next ten minutes talking to my dick.

Maybe I’m finally losing it?

…Whatever the hell my brain’s doing, indecent exposure is still a class-two felony; one more strike against the notion of puttering around in this nuthouse by myself. No way in hell can I bullshit my way out of that.

So just… lean back and soak it all in.

236. There are 236 tiles on the ceiling. Lovely little alabaster squares, worlds away from the floor’s imposing black marble. I’m absolutely certain of this. I counted them four times, after all.

Ha ha ha.

I should really think about redecorating my apartment, maybe reupholster that shitty old couch-

-and then, while I’m at it, I can book a magical cruise to the moon with all that money I don’t fucking have! I’m some kind of god-damned genius, for sure. No hardwood floors, just debt up to my eyeballs and leaking out my ears- aaand now I’m pissed at myself. Great.

I’m going back to sleep.



I thrash around in the bed, cocooned in a layer of sensual silk sheets- shit, wait, now I really CAN’T move. Twist, shiver, flail. The mattress continues to impress, accommodating my bullshit without a single creak or groan.

A diabolical prison of my own design. Fuck, I can’t feel my legs- oh. There they are. Pins and needles and fffffffuckatruck I’m tying myself in knots here.

“Release me, witch! Nnnnnnn- fuck!”

I start spouting nonsense to my rapt audience of fucking nobody, but after a few seconds it devolves into a stream of cursing as I writhe around like a maggot.


The clarion call of my ultimate triumph rings out like a gunshot- almost as loud as the sound I make when my face hits the goddamn floor. It’s like a fucking Threnody for a Naked Toolbox.

There’s a murky snap as my nose gets a new lease on life, popping open the stitches on my face; the meaty clap of bare flesh on stone (Jesus CHRIST the floor is cold); the crisp tinkling of shattered glass scattering across tile.


I have to- take a minute here. A breather. Got to- got to compose myself, stand back up, assess. Just. Ah. Just as soon as the galaxy stops exploding behind my eyelids, a kaleidoscope of mind-numbing pain rendered in vivid blacks and reds.

A sheet of crimson warmth creeping down, spreading out- there’s a line of fire throbbing on my cheek. For a few nightmarish seconds, I’m absolutely convinced that if I move my face will fall apart, tearing open at the seams like a burlap mask. I can’t see, but it’s far too bright.

I can still breathe. I suck air through my teeth, ignore the muted tang of copper, and the fear passes. A wave of rust and exhaustion settles in to replace it, a fatigue that aches down in my bones. It’s a familiar feeling.

Almost comforting, really. Hah.

I peel myself off of the floor; shit, it got in my hair. Locks tinged a muddy scarlet clinging to my face, a slapdash spiderweb of bloody ice I can barely feel through the white-hot heartbeat of pain. Shit. I blink my eyes open soon as I’m upright- vision’s hazy, but at least I can see.

I can feel the blood draining down my throat like lukewarm sludge. Gross.

Deep breaths; I have to get my breathing under control. In… and out… and in. The arc of molten lead boiling across my cheek cools, devolving into a steady pulse of agony I can actually focus through. Calm enough to let the background noise through.

My nose is now west – it’s almost parallel to the plane of my face. I don’t think I’ve ever broken it so hard before. It looks like somebody took a fucking hammer to it.

Deep breaths.

…My deepest condolences to all the mouthbreathers in this world. What a miserable existence that has to be. Every second serving as just another grim reminder- alright, no. Focus. I could gargle with my own blood right now.

Now comes the hard part.

In, in, in–

A wet, muffled crunch; like snapping a stalk of celery wrapped in cloth. Everything goes blindingly white, immediate and overwhelming, and all I can hear is that faint tinnitus wailing.

F U C K.

I’m up! I’m- I’m awake. The world went unfocused for a, uh, a little while there. A fuzzy vaseline filter put on backwards, flavored like pain, leaving me cross-eyed and bleary. It’s fine now. I’m fine. I can see again. My nose is back to its beautifully perpendicular self, painted in vibrant hematoma hues – like ugly little splotches of sunshine.

Luckily, it shouldn’t be too noticeable thanks to the massive leaking gash on my cheek. My graceful little swan dive earlier was too much for the stitches to handle; it didn’t reopen completely, but… I can feel every single exposed centimeter, clear as day.


…What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I’ve stitched myself up before, but… there’s no fucking way. No mirrors, no tools, hands slick with blood from- my nose, maybe. It’s all smeared together now, indistinctive, indecipherable.

I should… probably try and find someone. So I can complain. Or- get help, I guess. Assuming there’s anyone to find. How long have I been sitting around in this fucking room? Counting tiles and wasting time, bleeding all over everything.

Streaks of red on cold black tile. Expensive silk sheets flung into some dark corner. I’ve got goosebumps and a surfeit of –aches and it occurs to me now that I haven’t had a proper meal in days. Naked, bleeding, and hungry.

I just have to keep it together, right? (All I want to do is fall apart and let someone else deal with the consequences.)

Just– just have to keep it together.

Just have to–


[ ] Search the room (There has to be something I can use)
[ ] Get Out and Find Somebody (A hospital has to have staff, right? …Right?)
[ ] Wait it out (I give up. Let someone else deal with this shit.)
>> No. 25871
[x] Search the room (There has to be something I can use. Or at least wear)
>> No. 25872
[x] Get Out and Find Somebody (A hospital has to have staff, right? …Right?)

Go on! Git!
>> No. 25873
[X] Get Out and Find Somebody (A hospital has to have staff, right? …Right?)

Clint wandering the halls in this state can only end well.
>> No. 25874
[X] Get Out and Find Somebody (A hospital has to have staff, right? …Right?)
>> No. 25875
[x] Wait it out (I give up. Let someone else deal with this shit.)

"seeing" how well his earlier attempts, I wouldn't try it again.
>> No. 25876
File 138449255246.png - (394.20KB, 564x818, faceside.png) [iqdb]
Also, unrelated, but I don't think I ever bothered posting this picture up in the thread.

(IMAGE TOO LARGE, HAVE A LINK: http://i.imgur.com/rnjV1YG.jpg )
>> No. 25878
[x] Search the room (There has to be something I can use)

Trying to eat while choking on blood in the nude sounds a bit to barbaric and indecent for him. Or maybe not.
>> No. 25879
[X] Get Out and Find Somebody (A hospital has to have staff, right? …Right?)

In the finest hospital tradition, when a patient has an accident that has the potential of causing a mess it is required that they spread that mess as widely as possible.
Preferably traumatizing at least two interns in the process.

But let's at least bring a sheet for some modesty.
>> No. 25880
[ ] Get Out and Find Somebody (A hospital has to have staff, right? …Right?)

He needs a bit of a break from his inner critic, methinks. Let's give someone else a chance to insult him.
>> No. 25881
File 138567760551.jpg - (713.76KB, 1803x911, thanksgiving2.jpg) [iqdb]

i am fat and lazy so have a picture
>> No. 25882
[X] Get Out and Find Somebody (A hospital has to have staff, right? …Right?)

I'm assuming he knows where everything in the room is already, given how closely he examined it in his boredom. Counting the tiles a fifth time won't give us a different number, probably.

Also, Merry Foodmas to you too!
>> No. 25892
Why does every Eirin you draw end up looking like a Sister of Battle?
>> No. 26046
File 141710615631.jpg - (428.99KB, 1803x911, anniversary.jpg) [iqdb]
erutcip a evah os yzal dna taf ma i

>> No. 26093
File 142438656826.jpg - (1.06MB, 1604x1558, clint nouveau.jpg) [iqdb]
[x] Get out there and find somebody

A sudden overwhelming wave of regret, self-disgust, and nausea crashes through me like a pityfuck cocktail. Deal with it, somehow. Don’t fall over. Where’s the door?

Déjà vu don’t mean anything at all. Empty echoes in my brain, tall tales from a hollow memory; I throw them away without hesitation. The doorknob is cold, and heavy, and silent. Don’t hesitate.

I open the door and-

-there’s nothing. Nothing at all to see- nothing to smell, either. Cool air and inscrutable lights. Exactly the same as last time. Exactly the same as it’s ever been, exactly the same as it’ll ever be. What a crock of shit.

I savor the secondhand/hand-me-down air, the recycled/reused oxygen breeze that sweeps across my skin. She left me here alone, that witchdoctor (bitchdoctor) Eirin- only right that I try to find something to keep myself… What was it?


The luscious silk sheets caress my body like a cloud of pitch black butterflies – it’s kind of liberating. Dumb as hell, but liberating. Soak it all in, motherfuckers. I flex for the riveted audience of fuckin’ nobody watching me in the halls, relish the phantom freedoms to the very fullest.

The horizon is a fluorescent thundercloud, a fogbank of number plates and slick tiled floors (I KNOW they were hardwood before,) lost in a dizzying haze of lights and emptiness. The hallway hasn’t changed. The rooms stretch out forever, endless identical doors that stretch on for longer than my eyes can follow.

So I set out with swaggering steps, drowning in all the gumption of a Roman emperor. All I need to complete the ensemble? Cyberpunk laurels! I can’t contain the snide expression the goes slashing across my face, but it fades soon enough.

There’s a buzz of hustle and bustle trembling beneath my feet and dripping down the walls. Creepy.

How the hell does an empty hallway feel so crowded?

I let the feeling pass, let it slip away, but I can’t ignore that dismal electric thrill, the ozone-colored razor blade dancing across my nerves – my left hand curls (4 fingers/5 fingers, the numbers keep blurring together) into a fist, and I’m seized by a breakneck anxious tension.

I… let it go. Let the wave break clean, release it all in a single ceaseless exhale that clears my lungs (and clears my mind.)

It’s… gonna be fine. Has to be fine. What could I get up to that I couldn’t take back here? Here, inside what’s probably the best hospital in the – world?

…Fuck it.

The rooms aren't going to search themselves, after all.


It’s a dark, heavy sound- a roiling thundercloud of bass that rattles deep inside my bones before fading into a pitch-black background of noise. And for all the swiftness of its disappearance (filtered away, shut out, denied denied DENIED) I can’t keep myself from shaking.

My legs – won’t listen. Maybe it’s too loud. Maybe they just – can’t hear me. Deaf to electrical impulse- a distributed aural denial of service.

…It won’t stop me. Three steps, massive, long as my stride allows. I should have expected it, but somehow that impenetrable wall of sound worsens. A clangorous 3-D din, blaring with all the physicality of granite.

Rather than pushing through air, or water, or molasses- every advance is like cutting through stone. Every footstep is a sculpture of echoes. I can’t hear myself think, or feel, or be – but by some miracle I can see. Through the haze, my eyes are crystal clear.

(What… Is this…?)

Moonlight slashes across the room in seamless quicksilver beams, beautifully clean – beautifully cold, a stainless elegance at the very edge of absolute zero; scattered through glass, poured into veins of chromed mercury. Molten diamond circuitry angling endlessly away.

(what is this)

The sound – it’s. The pieces are coming together in active spite of all my mustered will. The overwhelming thrum ceases for just twenty frames of thought, long enough for a single breath, a single– H E A R T B E A T.


The weight of this sound, crushing me down out of existence; the weight of this power. I’ve heard it before. Songs from the sun, recorded- audible to humans through the benefits of compression, sped up tens of thousands of times. This noise isn’t nearly so kind.

I can only hear it because

(this is)

They’ve plucked the stars from the night sky and crammed them inside jars. This is…


Her voice scythes through the audible cosmos, an incredulous whisper that cinches my throat shut. The crystalline clarity of assured violence rings bright in her voice, tempered only by a quiet, mystified awe. I’ve never felt so utterly naked – that soft, honeyed velvet flensing clean to the bone.

If I could make my arms respond, I’d probably be attempting to cover myself. The blood just dribbles out between my fingers in humming lukewarm trails, pearling dark and disappearing into the silk of my impromptu toga.


I can’t begin to imagine it- the effort of speaking. To overcome this was – unthinkable. Impossible. Suika felt positively light in comparison; as trivial as a shrug. The agony arcing crookedly across my face was long gone, an abstruse nothing smothered by the strain to remain standing. Unbowed, unbroken.

I obviously can’t hear the click of her heels on the floor. The roar of raw starblood pumping through iced glass channels, pressed into layers of laminate thunder, cannot be denied. An incarnadine certainty. A point-blank typhoon.

So how is her voice so clear?

She runs a single black-gloved finger up, navel to chest to collarbone, a deafening chill lingering behind and seeping down to the bone. My heartbeat slows to a crawl as we lock eyes. Blinding delphinium blue, burning with that same ephemeral intensity as before- searching with a completely alien desperation written plain across her beautiful face.

Did she always look so… tired?

It doesn’t suit her at all.

I brush a lock of alabaster hair aside; let my thumb smear a loving streak of red on her forehead with my blood. “Simba,” I whisper tenderly, shattering this moment into a hundred million disparate pieces that could never come together again.

Her expression implodes again, vicious exhaustion melting away into absolute, comical disbelief, incredulity morphing into barely restrained laughter. She sags forward slightly, forehead fever-hot against my chest as the giggles start spilling out of her mouth.

Slowly, at first. And then uncontrolled, a dam bursting, a tidal wave of breathless hilarity that she’d never once shown any sign of feeling. “Y-you stupid bastard. Shut up. Just-” her mirth is infectious; I can’t help myself at all. The chuckles are slow, but incredibly real.

“Just let me- I can’t BELIEVE you’d-” She seems to be having trouble supporting her own weight, now.

“Your own blood! What a stupid- stupid..!”

Mission accomplished.


Shirt, pants, and brand new shoes. The gloves aren't nitrile; they feel more like supple black leather, even though I know they aren't. How many fingers on my gloves...?

...Fresh bandages, too. She's prepping a bag for me - like a field supply kit. So I won't have to come crawling back for help like a little lost lamb. "It'll be ready when you're ready," she says. I'll be damned if it wasn't equal parts relieving and infuriating.

Damned. Hah.

Still so fucking cryptic. The closer I get, the less I understand.

“I don’t think I’m qualified to be the hired help in a normal hospital. Why the hell would she want me for hers?” There’s a fresh set of stitches worming around in my skin, scar just a bit more ragged, sawtooth tissue near as crooked as my nose; feels almost as good as it looks.

Fujiwara seems to give it some earnest consideration, mulling it over as she chews the butt of her cigarette (Lucky Strikes. I still can’t believe it.) A reply is on the tip of her tongue when I rip out the first spear, as big around as my humerus. Her teeth click together and send her smoke tumbling down onto the table, more out of surprise than any genuine pain response.

I dump the bamboo skewer into a bin labeled ‘sharps’ and share a thin, barely-there smile at the nonexistent humor. Ignore the slick sucking noise as the meat inside drops; the encore is harsher, a greasepan sizzle-pop. It doesn't matter.

“Chewing your cigarette? What a nasty habit.” She slugs me in the gut, but I was more than ready- it cracks all the knuckles on that hand. Never underestimate the value of good core strength.

“Probably because you’re both cunts.” She’s got the deathstick back in her mouth – and a whole lot of sass besides. Flecks of red and bitter vitriol; it almost reminds me of someone! But who? Who would ever act like that? Must be my imagination.

With a chortle I turn my head, finger pressing one nostril closed, and clear out all the blood at once in a fountain of clotted crimson. Little Miss Eirin decided to reset it (again) herself, on account of my ‘gross mishandling of my own body.’ It was fine.

“THAT’S a gross habit.” Not that she’d bothered looking away – just grimaced around her cig with a lopsided sneer. You ash-haired - don't think you can throw my own lines back at me and get away with it.

“Breaking my nose isn’t a habit.” I float the correction out there – but damn if her lips don’t just peel back, all too-white teeth and too-red tongue, hissing out smog like a shitty festival dragon. She doesn’t add anything else because she doesn’t have to; we both know the score.

…So I jab her in the tit, right through the tattered hole in that anachronistic shirt. Her skin’s as hot as sun-soaked asphalt, soft as velour, and inexplicably (predictably) whole.

She grunts. “So’s this your idea of a first date?”

“Dunno. That your idea of first base?” If life were just a little bit more whimsical, just a little bit more dramatic – there’d be sparks igniting in the air between us, sheer heat breaking into open flame as our disgruntled stares locked together. Like two stags racking antlers.

So this is what it feels like? An impasse. (She laughs twice and slugs me again. Bitch.)

…There’s this vague realization that I didn’t actually see her heal. She was just whole again. Less mended and more undone, an audacious outright rejection of injury. All evidence stricken from the record. How much information was Eirin holding back when she briefed me?

Well. At least I don’t have to worry about fucking this up.

That jabbing finger traces down to the next spear – deflected off her spine and managed to thread between her ribs; at the very least, it shish kebab’d her left lung something fierce. Whispery strands of smoke curling up out of the edges of the wound, dragging dark effluvia up with every gasping exodus. Smoking with a perforated lung; now here was a woman after my own heart.

Not that I smoke, anymore. What was it, again? The reason I stopped? The reason I haven’t picked it up again yet?

It isn’t coming to me now. Give it time, though; I’m sure I’ll think of something to justify it.

“There’s a saying, you know. Maybe you’ve heard of it.” She sits up a bit; the expression she’s wearing isn’t the most credulous, but I press on – in more than one way, bandaged (bandageless) hand set flush against her sternum as stealthy as can be. It’s time. Now or never!

“A spotted tiger boils twice.” The questions explode through her mind in a blinding, flash-fire cavalcade, so naked I can see them in her eyes – the cigarette’s on the floor again. An opening…! Seizing the momentum, that subtle palm presses down, and the spear comes out; up, up, up, an inverse waterfall of ash-white haze (and blood, more blood, black as night. So bitterly dark.)

Just call me the king of fucking England.

“You…! You…!” She’s spluttering, caught out, a loss for words sending her scrambling for something that can encapsulate her ire; no pithy one-liners to dance around saying ‘fuck you.’ So she settles for spitting her cigarette out in my face.

First of all, when the hell did she pick it back up? Second of all: f u c k. There’s hot ash in my wounds, my eyes closed reflexively, and so of course I miss whatever bullshit healing process sustains her. Again. Are you doing this on purpose you albino bint?

“I am trying to help you!” There’s tobacco in my stubble and a landmark of scorched red skin blossoming across my cheek. I heal like a normal human, thank you very much- a fact I don’t even need to voice, considering all the evidence on display. She has the decency to look contrite before I rip the last skewer out of her kidney.

No need to try and make a game of it this time.

The wound burns gold – no. Not the injury itself, but the space in-between. Empty air lights up with a blistering cadmium intensity, searing through the nothingness, giving way to unmarred flesh. Written whole in script of lambent mandala is a statement of casual fact, constellation letters wheeling away into the ether:

Her body is the absolute natural order of the volume it occupies. Disruptions of that body, of that order, are only that; brief and (ultimately) meaningless. Is this what it means? Being “immortal;” a self-contained set of operational constraints imposed over the universe at large. Elegant and terrifying.

I drop the spear into the bin with the rest and send it skittering into the far wall with a boot. The rattling scrape of metal across tile, ringing wet and hollow with its cargo.

“Right, you’re done. Want a lollipop?”

“Bite me.”

An ache of melancholy lingers heavily in the air, a quiet nostalgia full of incense and regret.

At the center of the room, basking in a shaft of quicksilver moonlight, is a bonsai in full bloom. Ash-white, paper-thin; I’ve never seen anything like it in the world.

It’s beautiful, in a tragic sort of way; transient and subdued – barely there at all.

The moon princess slumped casually beside it (listing at an oblique angle, drowning in elaborate ruffles and perfect ink-silk hair) is blinding. A strobing floodlight forever sustained; a piecewise thunderbolt unconstrained; staring directly at her causes me actual physical pain, paroxysms of longing that rattle in my brain.

I blink, and realize my eyes were actually watering. I don’t have any words to accurately describe her, describe this sensation – even if I throw it away, abandon it when I close my eyes, every exposure brings it screaming back. It’s kind of infuriating.

If I can’t throw this feeling away, then I can sure as hell bury it.

My countenance might as well be carved from stone for all the humanity in it. Marble expression and granite heart, I say the words wailing in my brain like vicious klaxons.

“I don’t know shit about gardening.”

She giggles from behind an overlong sleeve (angels, a chorus of perfect tinkling bells) and leans forward, lids heavy, eyes a pair of hooded (amber? Violet? Cerulean?) gemstones. She's less like a woman and more like a piece of art; surreal beauty completely divorced from reality. Aching tremors beneath my ribs, reminding me of nothing at all.

The bonsai reaches out towards her in anticipation when she lowers her arm and t a l k s? I can’t hear anything. But the night sky is distressingly gorgeous, clad in silk-drenched stars, close enough I could clutch it in my hands. I blink, and remember that I'm looking at a person.

“…Sorry. Didn’t catch that.”

She laughs again, face revealed, and her joy is an orchestra painting impressionist miracles. Perfection written in porcelain. I blink again. A person. She’s a person. There’s an ember searing cherry red behind my eyes – a molten tenpenny nail driven straight into my sinus cavity – and suddenly, the revulsion bubbles up. A jagged, electric misery that simmers in the back of my throat.

A – person. My engineered disgust is so potent I can almost look at her directly.

“Tending to the bonsai is hardly gardening, Clint.”

Every word is a battering ram to my resolve, every church bell crescendo dragging her further away from being real. The ember becomes a bonfire; the nail becomes a stake; the heat is unbearable, but I endure. Even as my perception melts away. Pain.

The urge to give in, give up, indulge the primal desire seething (roiling, frothing) at my core, is overpowering; deadens every sense and boils out through my veins in quiet, dolorous waves. My self-imposed nausea is... sickeningly false. The things I would do to her- I barely keep from retching.

My self-loathing is never disingenuous. Always plenty to go around.

Always, always, ALWAYS-

The tidal forces crushing me apart vanish without warning; leave me breathless and repulsive and- bleeding from the nose. Of course. The bonsai is also terribly close, terribly real; suddenly alive with a million mercuric hues. But it’s just background noise. Just a hiss of static on the airwaves.

The princess of the moon is an arm’s length away, and somehow I’ve managed to keep from losing my mind. Her eyes are half-open with lackadaisical exuberance, and her face is much too close. She smells of lily and moonflower and – something subtle and earthy, a barely-there whisper I recognize from experience.


“I wonder. What are you looking at?” She tilts her head in an affected expression of confusion. I never expected a princess to make fun of me. Or maybe it's some twisted form of praise?

…That hair of hers could blot out the sun.

The supernal radiance subsides- no. It dims, dials back far enough that I'm not (drowning) struggling to maintain my sense of (self) propriety- and the night-haired moon princess plops down onto her cushion with a yawn. "Boring. I was at least hoping for, I don't know, an embarrassing confession..."

...Run that by me again? She was-

"Or maybe something more risqué. Alas, to be swept off my feet and, ah, devoured-" she's giggling and it's NOTHING like the sound I heard before but that doesn't matter because

"WHOA. Hold up! I'm gonna have to stop you right there. You wanted me to what?!" Eirin, you speckled WHORE, is this why you sent me?! I thought it was going to be- some kind of trial of patience, or a lesson in (fuck, I don't know) HUMILITY, or maybe some obnoxious, lateral-minded cockamamie horseshit. Not - locking me in this cage with a starving lioness...!

(And it IS a cage. Automatic, double-layered rice-paper doors that hissed shut behind me with an unforgiving click. A facade painted gracefully over cold steel and transparent alumina. One more gaudy concession to the local aesthetic.)

She seems to come back down to Earth (IS THAT WHERE WE ARE? I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE) for a moment, and gives me a look. It's- strange. Another thing I can't find words for. It's not cryptic or amused or condescending; all I can call it is mysterious.

"Oh, anything for a change of pace. It gets so dull around here." Her eyes slide off my face and back towards the moon, hanging picture-perfect(/silent/still) in the sky.

"Every day, the same thing. The same thing, every day. Nothing ever really changes." She sinks further into her cushion, propped back on a single hand, and snaps open a fan so elaborate I can barely stand looking at it.

"One of the many benefits of eternity, I suppose." She manages to suffuse a distant sort of amusement into her voice, her expression - ringing so hollow that it sets my teeth on edge.

(You can't fool anyone if you can't even fool yourself.)

Tending to patients: check. (Testing my patience? Double-check. Quadruple-check. I shake the pack of Luckies I confiscated just to be sure- 7 left. No smoking on the premises, miss. Ha.)

Tending the garden with the Bamboo Princess: …check. Just- check.

All that's left is...


I slip through the door, casual as can be, cigarette dangling from my lips because I KNOW it's likely to get on her nerves. She asked me to come here after I'd taken care of everything else, and I'm sure as hell not up to tackling MORE. In the end, that basically amounts to the same thing, right?

Well, the gardens are thoroughly tended (Kaguya waved me off, carelessly sing-songing something about how I'd 'passed'. Definitely an alien, that one.) The patients are thoroughly mended (I wheeze a silent laugh through my stolen smoke. As if I contributed anything to that.)

There's a murmur of voices (or rather just the one,) a quiet murmuring that pricks my ears and leaves me aimless. It's terribly close, terribly familiar, but I don't understand a word. It's the most human she's ever sounded.

What language is that? Eirin.

I slip closer without a care in the world, cigarette drooping low, eyes searching for the source of the sound. All I need is a hint, a single fucking clue about this enigma of a woman.

So I stutter forward. With halting, silent steps - feet trailing whorls of frigid mist, transparent nitrogen aftermath carpeting the room - I bring the distance down.


A dim orange glow roils across the floor, barely illuminating the labyrinth of obsidian monoliths (blinking blue, with a quavering hum- are they servers?) surrounded on all sides by swept glass aquarium walls. Shimmering citrine barricades.

If there’s a ceiling, I can’t see it.

What Ido see is an elaborate throne of wires and winking lights, an electromechanical chrysalis entombing a woman I instantly recognize (how could I miss that bitter lavender hair?) What I do hear is… nothing at all (steady clicks and the weightless, whirring glide of servos, keeping time to a subtle pneumatic whisper.)

There’s a paper-thin cauldron of inscrutable metal bolted to her skull. I’ll be damned if I can suss out what for. Only thing I can tell for sure is that I can’t see her ears.
-her ears.

The sharp yellow glare dims to lucid amber – no, it was always that way, I just refused to see. Because it’s-


wrong? No. Fucked, maybe. I can’t count how many there are, but they’re all exactly the same, scattered reflections of a single mirror image refracted through burnt umber. Floating suspended in luminous fluid are a million naked somethings wearing one face.

They aren't human- even if the only indication is the ears on their heads. Expressions empty, hair undulant cocoons of spun white gold, they make for a somber congregation of alabaster skin and dead red eyes.

Like – albino rabbits.

Strange. It’s definitely strange. It isn’t alien or awesome or indescribable. It doesn’t spit in the face of everything I held true. Of all the shit I’ve seen today (even compared to the woman in the wireframe chandelier) it’s easily the most credible. I can almost make sense of it.

It’s just cloning, after all. Progress demands some kind of sacrifice, right?

…and yet.

…And yet.

For some strange reason-

-I can’t seem to find any words.

“…Fishtank seems like an odd place to keep rabbits, Eirin.”

Ah. There they are.

No nickname. No trill or nuance. I don’t think I’ve ever said it so plainly before, that name of hers.

Eirin with her cold iron hair. Eirin with her delphinium eyes. Eirin with her dark clothes draped in constellations. Eirin, Eirin, Eirin. Every step of the way she’s somehow been at the heart of things. It makes me wonder if-

She lifts her gaze from some display (hard light, cobalt crystalline geometry trapped inside a wire-thin frame) and the look on her face is worth more than gold. A strained reluctance; sheer, violent placidity boiling up behind her tight-lipped smile; it’s exquisite.

She speaks, and this time I can actually understand it.


I can't exactly inspect my fingernails through these gloves, but I make a decent show of trying. Supple, fitted, and not a hint of blood to be found. Top-notch stuff.

“...That's it? No?"

I'm gnawing the butt off of my first cigarette in years. What a nasty habit.


What's she even denying? Her hands are shaking, but her expression is still managing to hold up. Deep breaths, huh? Seems I'll need to act quickly.

"No. Don't trivialize this. Not rabbits, not a fishtank, and certainly not a-"


"-joke god damn you-" she clicks her teeth shut.

She just takes a moment to simmer, pinching the bridge of her nose, space tablet warping in her grip (not that it affects the display at all. why would it)

It’s a complex situation, ethically speaking – definitely muddy enough to leave everyone involved filthy if I just dove right in. More than that… I can’t throw stones from my shotglass houses, and I’m sure as hell not on some moralistic crusade. The dismissive act is mostly just that – a joke tempered with the slightest dose of real hesitation (fear in actual).

A joke; as usual. But even I know it’s not the right time. So… I relent. Just this once.

The match ignites with a pop and no warning, lashing cherry-bright behind my cupped fingers. It scythes with cadmium clarity through the fog, lingering hazily as smoke and ash. That nicotine surety settles down over my nerves, a frayed hollow where reason used to be.

Then the match is gone and, not for the first time, I savor the sleight of hand. Lucky strikes, huh? A taste nearly as anachronistic as I feel right now.

Eirin looks almost perplexed by my silence, more collected, less assured. Delphinium suspicion writ plain in the face of my assiduous stoicism. It’s been a long time since I had a – cigarette.

In, and out. Tobacco thunderclouds.

“Fine.” A beat, a breath, deathstick dripping cinders through the mist. “…fine. If it’s that important… No jokes.” With a casual roll of the shoulders I let the tension drain (in,) slumping back and out and down in an uneasy, indifferent slouch.

“I’m all ears.”



Still nothing.

And then a smile blooms across her face, the most genuine I’ve ever seen, pearly white and absolutely terrifying. A sincerity of purpose so complete it feels indecipherable – alien.

“…I suppose I’ll take what I can get.”

“And that’s the gist of it.”

Four left. Relapse attempt #3 smolders in my fingers, held limp at my side. I didn’t even hear half of that, and I understood even less; was that supposed to prove something, Eirin? A point?

“Any questions?”

That’s too much. I’ve held my peace admirably, but- I can’t possibly hold back any more. I breathe deep and a delicate hand brushes over mine. It snatches my cigarette away, but how could I possibly bring myself to care?

Then, a ghost of sensation consumes me from the inside out. A carnivorous malaise spread with ink-splatter spontaneity. Familiar. Different. Too [different] by far. A thunderbolt of crooked razors searing down my spine.

The quip dies in my throat. My eyes swivel down, to the right, and-

Looking at her was worse than looking at the sun. She felt like poison, like other. She was anathema. A deeply personal annihilation.

It pulled something out of me, looking at her. Something vile, bubbling up from the bottom of my soul; a secret sickness rotting in my bones like tar. For all that I thought I knew about loathing, I’ve never felt anything like this- this pitch black hatred.

It feels like- if I don’t do something. something to stop it, to end it-

-I might lose my mind.

-I find myself on the floor, more numbness than sensation. Slats of terra rossa glaring through wild black bangs, giving me a look that's two parts disbelief and one part (???) and all parts way too close to my face.

There's a rabbit that could pass for human sitting on my chest staring daggers. Her ears are incredibly soft.

"What are you?"


[ ] write-in


>> No. 26094
File 142438663975.jpg - (954.04KB, 1977x1411, breakin the law.jpg) [iqdb]
totally 100% unrelated picture
>> No. 26095
Why should I or anyone else bother reading or voting on this bullshit when we all know you're gonna take another three months minimum between updates? And that's an optimistic estimate. You're obviously never going to even actually try to finish this story properly, it's just some dumping ground for when you think 'lol, I feel like writing today.'.

You should drop this and stick to writing one-shot shorts, since they require no commitment. Yes I mad and I'd much rather you'd just left this dead story (and it is DEAD) alone so I didn't have to look at it and remember the hopes I had when it began. I'm done with this, fuck you. Also, your writing sucks and you abuse custom brushes way too much.
>> No. 26096
[x] "I am a meat popsicle."

ur a fagt
>not even mentioning overuse of 'cadmium' and 'delphinium'
2/10 critique are you even trying
>> No. 26097
[x]"I'm a steel donut."
>> No. 26098
[x] Persistently confused and dragging everyone else down with me. What just happened?
>> No. 26099
Also, holy shit welcome back stove!
>> No. 26100
...A write-in option? Come on, man. It's not very nice to engage in literary masturbation and then expect us to perform auguries on the splash patterns of the metaphorical jizz.

I liked reading this, and I like that you updated, but >>26095 does bring up a valid point or two. Don't treat this story like a forgotten mistress.

[x] "In no mood for philosophical questions that I didn't ask myself."
>> No. 26101
Also, that Clint is pretty cool, but he looks for all the world like a white-haired Captain Haddock.
>> No. 26102
File 142448295491.jpg - (405.13KB, 837x698, clintsloook.jpg) [iqdb]

Almost all art in these threads is done with single brushes, often a small round with 60% minimum roundness, a rectangular inking brush, some variant on that for something resembling pencil, or a square dual-brush with texturing set on linear height.

Continuing on: yeah, I haven't updated in over a year. I actually had the majority of this update written out by around July. but a whole lot of fun personal events happened to call into question my motivations for doing much of ANYTHING.

I got a job at the start of the year, my first. I would write this update during breaks, and type it up later. I finally had money, some independence. I got to see some friends in meatspace for the very first time. One of them tried to commit suicide. That was an adventure.

I've got new goals, but leaving this story behind isn't one of them. As much as my desire to pursue art intensifies, I will never give up on writing. Or this story.

It's already the longest single thing I've ever written by an enormous margin, so if I don't at least try to finish this, I'll never finish anything.

Also, as a general notice to the thread, this option originally had a set list of vaguely snide replies, but I wanted to give anyone still reading this a shot at it.

Please believe me when I say I don't intend to ever let it slip this much again. I'll even throw in an incentive: if I cannot get an update out within the next week, I'll draw porn for the thread.

>> No. 26103
File 142448376692.jpg - (519.15KB, 973x980, donefornow.jpg) [iqdb]

YEAH I READ IT OVER AFTER POSTING AND NOTICED A LOT OF REPEAT WORD USE, but half of that was thematic and the other was that if I let myself keep getting bogged down in trying to edit time I went to write, I'd have continued getting nothing done. I'LL HAVE TO EDIT THIS ONE IN POST

picture unrelated as proof of earlier threat
>> No. 26104
File 142449808016.jpg - (740.56KB, 1943x989, furr omblom.jpg) [iqdb]
in the meantime, have some other art i did while i surreptitiously bump up the post count

i recently came into possession of a 3DS, and played a game on it
>> No. 26105
File 142449872350.png - (395.05KB, 1232x841, nailed it.png) [iqdb]
>> No. 26106
File 142449947670.jpg - (454.92KB, 1503x1010, somethingiguess.jpg) [iqdb]
started doing this as an attempted color study while drunk- spent a while on it and ruined it with rendering. I like this initial progress picture more than the end product.
>> No. 26107
[x] "I'm a guy in over his head"
>> No. 26108
File 142491107336.jpg - (660.87KB, 1937x1289, shinkawamore.jpg) [iqdb]
Update is almost entirely done! Have some art I did a few days ago
>> No. 26109
Nice pomp.
>> No. 26110
File 142508132475.jpg - (361.96KB, 973x531, SO MAD.jpg) [iqdb]
[x] Surly

What am I?

Persistently confused and dragging everyone else down with me. In no mood for philosophical questions that I didn't ask myself. Frustrated with all the questions I DO need to ask myself. Cold. Answers whizzing by in droves, skittering helter-skelter at (roughly) the speed of thought.

And here I am, stuck fishing for something to say. Hope I catch a winner.

"I am a meat popsicle."


...Why does it always have to be the dumb shit that makes it out of my mouth? Those eyes of vivid earth shutter tight with intent, reduced to pinpricks of incredulous scorn which I pointedly ignore. Yeah, yeah. I hear you.

As nice as it feels to have a pint-sized aneurysm lounging on my thorax, puffing on a twice-stolen cigarette and judging me, I'm tired of being on the goddamned floor. Nobody's paying me to clean the fucking grout with my spine.


I buck like a fault line doing the 2D tectonic tango, body jackknifing into a sloppy 'n' shape two feet off the ground.

"Wha-" The talking rabbit manages to eke out a startled noise before going airborne, tumbling ass-over-teakettle into the fog-cloaked server banks. Slap-skid-silence, no visceral impact or comedic cacophony, but I don't much care whether she stuck her landing.

I flop down 80 pounds lighter, hands smearing streaks of condensation across the tile. I can feel the amusement working across my face like a weeping gash; it's an ugly sort of expression.

Maybe I'm dodging the question; maybe I'm an asshole. But I'll dodge whatever the hell I feel like, whenever the hell I feel like it. I'm my own man! A loose cannon, a true maverick, unwilling and unable to play by the rules - not even my own!

Well, you know; aside from the whole "indentured servant" thing.

(I can't really refute the 'asshole' theory.)

...Am I really gonna start stealing the wind out of my own fucking sails, now? There are plenty of people willing to do that for me. No need to waste my precious, precious time.

Speaking of time: I need to get off of this godforsaken floor.

For just a single optimistic moment, I debate going for a kip-up - maybe in some misguided effort to look smooth - but only for a moment. Fuck that; more likely to kill myself than save any time. I could just stand, but as warm citrine light filters through the mist I wonder if maybe I can't just put it off a little bit longer.

...Are those legs?

Velvet-coated vicegrips clamp shut around the back of my neck and solve my dilemma for me in real time. Up, up, up- a single delicate hand hauling me bodily onto my feet. I recognize this careless strength immediately.

"You sure can hop to it, can't yOU!" Nurse Bunny O'Hare gives me a clap on the back that feels more like a donkeypunch. From a dumptruck. Made of biceps. It sends me sliding forward at least a good 10 feet, but hey, small favors.

I didn't fall on my goddamned face again.


That's about when I realize Eirin is right there, so close I could count her eyelashes if I wanted to (titanium white, just like mine.) She looks both intrigued and terribly, horribly amused. Well! Fuck you too, then!

"...You can withstand tidal forces but not eye contact?"

"Weird how nature does that."

And the fun begins!


She takes off her hat and throws it in my face. It hits dead center, deforming around my nose with a soft, ineffectual 'paf' before succumbing to gravity. The only reaction I can muster is a solemn nod.

"Hats off to me, right? I get that a lot."

There's actually a bit of red in her cheeks- probably from all the yelling- and her hair is slowly slipping out of place. Her fingers flex and then lock into trembling fists, and the tremors begin shaking their way up her arms.

She looks to be five seconds from strangling me, and it's absolutely beautiful.






>> No. 26111
>> No. 26112
Sorry, I guess the votes are too stylized to really be clear.

Each of those options is a different outcome! You can only pick one!

If you want to know what they are:

become an assistant/become a labrat/become clerk at human village pharmacy like a punk bitch
>> No. 26113
No 'just fuck already' option? Disappointing.

>> No. 26114
[x] shitty patients

This is the assistant option, right? The things you listed don't seem to match to the order the choices are given in.
>> No. 26116
Every single [] is a different end result! I only listed the results of the last three!

that one is basically "spend a lot more time around mokou"
>> No. 26117
Well which one is the Eirin option?
>> No. 26118
I'm assuming that the collar one is the "more reisen" option, and gardening is the Kaguya option.

>> No. 26119

Fuck Mokou, assistanting, labrating, and clerking. Process of elimination bitch!
>> No. 26120
File 14265648314.jpg - (33.48KB, 732x665, 128530639443.jpg) [iqdb]
Eirin pls
>> No. 26121
Eirin option? Hope so
>> No. 26122

Sure, lets go with Mokou. Why not.
>> No. 26123
>2 months since last vote
fuck you

also I'm changing my vote from >>26113 to
because I wanted the Eirin option and fag-ass OP never answered my question in >>26117
>> No. 27977
I miss this story.
I still have hope though.
>> No. 28322
This ADD buttfuckatron started up a whole new story just to leave it sitting dead for over a year and counting. Hope and Rapestove don't belong in the same sentence.
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