This is you.
Your reflection, but also you.
"Hello, you." He says.
You don't answer, and you get the little satisfaction of seeing his smile grow a bit forced.
"Hello." He says again, in a happy tone that doesn't sound forced.
"Hello there!" Says your tie, in a British accent, like in that one movie you watched once, when things were still pleasant.
"How are we doing today?" He says.
You close your eyes, and briefly remember.
The white coats, the medicines, the coworkers. It was tough. Not that patients would die, real life wasn't as dramatic as TV shows, but you'd often see the same faces, coming for two weeks or a month, just enough to get the alcohol out of their system. You would put a smile on your face, say something pleasant, and usually mess up by adding "glad to see you again", and your coworkers would cringe.
They would come, spend a few weeks, and leave, thinking that their problems were behind them. Then they'd come back after one or two months, and you'd see it. The red on the nose, the pink on the cheeks, that little shaking in their fingers.
Sometimes they would smile, lie, and swear that they were serious this time, but once the trial was over, they'd leave and never come back.
And then she left, and you began to notice your coworkers' smiles. When you realized what was going on, it was too late.
You force your eyes open before the memories start piling you, and you breathe deeply. You take a deep breath, puff your cheeks like a child, and expires slowly.
"Feeling calm, now?" Your reflection asks.
"I feel nervous."

Your name is Reimu Fuck-Mothering Hakurei the 16th, and there's an incident going on. You can tell because the author is a hack, who probably can't even make this shitty trope work, much less anything with actual characterisation, or depth. That however, is besides the point, because as was previously mentioned: Incident. Your job is resolving those probably. That still leaves the ever so pressing question however of where to start.
Deliberating on the issue, you stare into the sunrise like a badass before deciding to:

[] Get a goddamn move on, you have places to go, youkai to exterminate, there's probably a space hamster in there somewhere.
[] Sit here and look cool until someone comes along to exposit at you. Maybe the stage one boss will clear themselves by tripping on a rock if you stall long enough.

It was a fortunate time after all...

"This youngest of seasons had been one harsher and more resentful than the siblings of its kind that had visited the years before.
It had started as all smaller sisters had, hysterically thrashing, calling attention to itself. To this end the weathers of springtime had been wielded to disasters at her infantile hands.

Throughfuls of water had showered from the greyed skyward carpet, had dampened the place and had soaked the floors. Firm clay had lost its healthy constitution, becoming more akin to sponge-like moss. Further rain had punched pans and then potholes in the softened, weakened grounds. Day by day, two times seven-times, the clouds had given to drink.

Sickly had swelled the thirteen-times gulping earth; it had vomited at the last pouring.
Light sediments, humus and its growths had been thrown up to an ugly grey-brown broth that had flooded over everything. Sands and heavy things coming within the barf had punched away anything in their way, leaving fields with scars and houses as pathetic bumps. Rocks and detritus had stayed on as a painful blanket after the floods end.
The living earths had been washed away.

The season had matured over the forthnight and its violence had grown derisive.
For seven days it had bored the wicked winds from the bare mountains. Bare they had been apart from the high and wide quartz monuments decorating their inanimate ridges and their testaments of lives bygone; the wilted corpses and bleached and dried bones of strangers and therebetween those of comrades had lain scattered.
They had blown the tarnished remainders of the grounds they crossed away as dust, but Sand and small things had become hurting missiles. The homes that had yet survived became a trapping for the poor environmental refugees when the wild air had punctured their shelter's openings, ripping them open and ripping them, those inside, apart.

♫: https://youtu.be/0rVqj8PGTXA
[オメガリズム - Omega Rhythm (UPLIFT SPICE)]
Lyrics: https://releska.com/2015/11/23/omega-rhythm/
Music Collection: https://mega.nz/#F!1BdBzIKZ!bhLzijfM3iyphpueDOKf0g

A tale of fools and lovers.

Note:
Open to critique, criticism, and praise. Mostly praise!
(I'm kidding, you can say whatever)
Comment kindly!

Histories of Yatsugatake, a Suika backstory short: >>>/shorts/2180
THREAD 1 >>65260 THREAD 2 >>65548
THREAD 3 >>65922 THREAD 4 >>66462

Picture: The idiot
Or more accurately, the Fool. 5 feet tall. Covered in a long overcoat to protect himself from winter showers and cold winds. Posture, slightly hunched over and furtive, as if he was trying to hide from something. Dark hair. Dark eyes. British-Italian ancestry. A forgettable face in the crowd. Eyes often glued to a book, out to nowhere, or onto his phone. Oliver Smith, born in around 1960, somewhere that didn’t matter, and to two working class parents.
A shy and furtive boy, he made few friends in school, often bullied by children with their native cruelty and lack of care. Joining a local university in 1980 managing to keep himself from being expelled after an unfortunate incidence involving a woman, several packets of pre-cooked pasta, a jar of peanut butter, a large stuffed bear, and the University’s residential plaque of its founder. Graduating in 1985 with a Bachelors in Business and Management, he joined the British civil service.
At first, he was hopeful for a change in his life; childhood was a bust, university was a failure, perhaps this would be the time when his fortunes changed, and he could gain the popularity and friendship he so wanted?
His hopes were dashed. His grades and achievements were low to begin with, and his shyness and inability to be prosocial crippled him. Slowly, his acquaintances and what tentative friendships he could make left him behind, either transferring to another department or promoted away. His inability to read the mood and properly gauge the exchange of favors and ideas meant that he lost out in office politics. His mediocre skills did him no favors, leaving him as the man in the background when others had time to shine. Attempts to fit in failed in awkward silences or anxiety, further driving him into isolation. He threw himself into other forms of entertainment. Books. Late night movies. Tv shows. Daydreams where he was the hero, with all he ever wanted. Fantasies. Tentative attempts to write down his own day dreams, hopes of being an author. And ignoring that his life had struck a rut, and younger coworkers were rapidly being promoted beyond him. His coworkers now viewed him as ‘that old man that’s always there’.
Hi

Main story threads: >>>/border/28011 >>>/border/28877 >>>/border/29707

Previous side story entries: >>>/border/29391 >>>/border/29511 >>>/border/29748
============================


Camp Fijr Dhwa
2330 Hours, 280620XX


You are Lieutenant Adin Sylla, officer in the Kenyan Army Infantry 9th Rifle Battalion and former head of security for Camp Abu Shok, a refugee camp, located in war-torn South Sudan. Over the past two days you have also managed to become a Director for a mysterious Asian multinational known as Clear Sky, and is currently working under the supervision of what you have confirmed to be a fox demon (with extraordinarily fluffy tails) from the Orient who goes by the name of Mae Indigo, and have engaged in the first real offensive operations in your entire life. You have also witnessed your boss literally tearing apart a janjaweed ambush with just tooth and claw, and have wiped out a government convoy just to steal their shipment of arms as a side job from escorting Red Cross employees to camps for their free labor.

As shady as Clear Sky's actions are, the employees themselves are even shadier. Aside from Indigo, many of the mercenaries you've met are monsters of one sort of another, and consume human flesh. According to what Indigo told you they are magical beings from a magical land, facts which are not exactly reassuring as witchcraft isn't something really wholesome in your country. Apparently the company's revenue source is also magic-reliant, so you are not exactly surprised at the sheer amount of supplies and material they have brought to the camps and towns under their control.

Right now however, y

Pichun~

You stare at the screen of your laptop blankly, watching as the 'Game Over' menu comes up. "...You've got to be kidding me," you mumble.

You had been 5 millimeters away from beating the Phantasm Stage of Perfect Cherry Blossom - 5 millimeters - and you had then, out of nowhere, been hit by a shot you were absolutely certain you had dodged.

You groan, running a hand over your face. "God dammit," you mutter, reaching out to your keyboard with the other and hitting Alt+F4.

Unfortunately, this leaves you staring at your desktop background, which for a while has been a decidedly smug picture of Yukari Yakumo.

Your eyebrow twitches, and you almost slam your laptop closed. That gap hag is not a face you want to see right now.

You'd always admired her as a character before, and been a rather big fan of her too, but seeing that smug smirk after actually trying to defeat her and failing just before you would have succeeded…

Well, you can understand why Reimu feels the way she does about Yukari now. And why 'goddammit Yukari' is such a huge meme, too.

You placed the lid back on the donation box before you slung the FN FAL onto your back. There were about 1,500 yen in donations, which was more than yesterday, but still not much.

Still, you suppose that you should be thankful. The shrine is so far away from the village that it’s any wonder that people would even bother to donate and pray.

You began to walk down the steps that stretched up to the shrine and down towards the soft sandy beach that bordered the entirety of Genso Isle. There was a long path along the beach that leads to the seaside town of Yume Village.

The day was still fresh and the sun was still high in the eastern side of the sky. On one side was the calm waves of the ocean. On the other was the thick foliage of the Forest of Magic. Travel along this pathway was long yet generally safe thanks to the series of talismans set along the fence that separated the beach from the forest.

It was part of your daily routine to make your way towards the village if nothing else but to keep close maintenance of this fence. Occasionally you would pass by fishermen stationed along the shore, safe in the knowledge that no youkai will sneak up from behind.

They were the main source of revenue and faith for the shrine, alongside hunters and a few village guards. A few of the fishermen waved at you and you saw more and more as you neared the village.

Finally, after a long trek, you reached your destination.

A massive stone wall laid before you. It was about ten meters tall and encircled the entire village. Along the side of the wall that faced the ocean was a large harbour that extended out into the waters.

You open your eyes again, but you don’t see the dark streets of the city, disgruntled passersby, or fellow drunkards. Instead, it’s the warm glow of a quiet kitchen — her kitchen. It was cozy, as was the rest of the house — distinctly upper-class, but not big enough for servants. That was her dowry, absurd as it was. When you discovered it had been the house she stayed in since she was a child, things made a lot more sense: it had never really been your home. It was the princess’s playhouse, where she could pretend.

Just like now. Washing dishes. She was good at that — cleaning. It’s no wonder why. She turns away from the running water with the most delicate smile you’ve ever seen. “Another late night?”

You lean on the wall, keeping the length of the room between the two of you. “Whatever keeps me away from you.”

Her hand on the wet plate stops for a moment, then resumes. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were an abusive husband.”

You weren’t abusive, but you weren’t the best. Long hours, late calls, and a lot of pent-up stress and anxiety dominated most of your relationship.

“Let’s pretend I was the perfect husband,” you say. “Would it have mattered at all?”

She looks back at the sink and grabs another plate. “What do you think?”

You’ve considered it, again and again and again. Where would you both be if you hadn’t become a detective? If you were at home with her more often? If you appreciated her more instead of using her as a reprieve from a hard day at work? Would you be speaking with her in reality, instead of this twisted dream? Would you still have your old life?

It’s funny to be realizing this now, but this is one of the most important decisions you’ve ever made in your life, if not the most important.

“Well, everything looks in order.” Kamishirasawa says, leafing through your paperwork while wearing a pair of spectacles. “I’ve gotten things sorted out on my end. Reimu’s been informed, as have the relevant village officials.”

“There’s only one more step.” Keine says, taking her glasses off and looking you in the eyes. “It’s also your last chance to reconsider. Are you certain that this commitment is what you want?”

You nod. There’s nothing more to say at this point.

She offers you a grateful smile, as warm as the first time you saw it decades ago. “Very well. We have one last form to fill out, then.”

Your former teacher slides the final sheet across her desk to you, the text on it printed with a precision you know most presses in the village can’t match.

A few lines that have already been filled in by Keine’s neat handwriting catch your eye.

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