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File 159599260376.png - (1.14MB, 1158x1637, sleepy airport bunny.png) [iqdb]
Satoru, 34, unmarried, (last name not given,) rubbed his eyes.

Two gates over, a boarding announcement sounded out. It was in the usual disembodied, wheedling, electronically-modulated voice which reminded him of a Christmas elf trapped inside a metal barrel, and also gave him the Pavlovian feeling of being a Christmas elf trapped inside a metal barrel.

He lowered his newspaper, and watched as a sharp-dressed set of epaulets and sleeve stripes chatted up the stewardess at the desk. The scrambled egg on the pilot’s cap reminded him of the breakfast he hadn’t had. He thought about a pink film he’d seen once, or maybe not only once, where the pilot had done it with the heroine while he was flying the plane. The actor who’d played the pilot had been an amateur aviator himself, apparently. Satoru only knew this because there was an article in the newspaper about how he’d flown a Cessna into a yakuza boss’ house in Tokyo yesterday.

He decided to put airplanes off his mind.

Ordinarily, this would be a tall order, given the setting—aluminum henhouses tend not to be known for the absence of aluminum hens. But Satoru, 34, unmarried, was not a complacent man, despite the impression that he gave off, which was that he worked a boxy beige device with a name like ‘CS-64RC Mathematronic’ for a living, which was true. But complacent—not so. He was a man of enterprise. When he had chosen his seat, on first arriving at the gate, he had not chosen it arbitrarily. There was a reason he had chosen this seat, which was second from the end and had no arm-rest and where the morning Sun jabbed at his eyes through the panoramic window glass which saved on electric lighting costs.

The reason was it was next to a cute girl. Obviously.

He had, by now, and with the help of the newspaper, surely established his dis-interest in her. This was a crucial step. Girls were contrary creatures that craved attention, but hated to actually receive it—this was the common wisdom among the commiserati which gathered at his bar of choice, the ‘Eight-Headed Snake’. He thought the name was cool, and it had never really occurred to him to question the dating advice of a cabal of drunks whose common, unifying trait was their lack of dates, which was why he was one of them.

Carefully, he slid his eyes over to the side.

The girl’s hands were bunched peaceably in her lap, and her shoulders rose and fell subtly, one beneath her blazer, and one beneath her blouse, where her blazer had slipped off of it. Her tie had been loosened, and a bit of her orderly lavender hair fell disorderly down one side of her face and tickled her exposed collarbone. Her eyes were closed, because she was asleep.


He had lost his chance. Indeed, Satoru, 34, and so on, was not the sort of boor who would wake up a sleeping girl just to chat her up. Not with anything more disruptive than three otherwise-than-subtle coughs, anyway, and she didn’t stir.

Swallowing his disappointment, he uncrossed his leg, folded up his newspaper, set it down strategically over his lap, strategically clasped his hands over it, and strategically accepted the cough sweet from the old lady across from him. One could hear the ‘clunk’ of switching modes in his boxy, beige, figurative CS-64RC Mathematronic.

Because, if the girl was asleep, then he could express all the interest he liked—visually speaking, of course. He cracked the cough sweet in half between his teeth, and got to work …

The girl had rabbit ears on her head.

Now, he’d seen no shortage of girls wearing rabbit-ear headbands before, because of course he had. But those were flimsy things made of snips and sticks of satin and plastic, and nobody made any pretenses about them. The ears he saw right now reminded him of Peachie, who lived next door with the neighbours and shed fur and snored for a living.

Peachie wasn’t representative of rabbits, of course. Satoru knew, from reading a remarkable story of tenacity and survival printed in an outdoors magazine, that rabbits in the wild kept so little fat on themselves, one could die of starvation from eating them. But, he considered, if that was the case, it stood to reason … that the shapely specimen, sitting beside him right now … was actually a total walrus, from the standpoint of a rabbit. An utter whale. The top percentile of rabbits, in terms of plushiness. The tuna’s belly of rabbits. Yes, he thought, she topped the charts. Especially in the thighs, which existed unsubtly beneath her sensible-times-five-sixteenths skirt and were flattened out just a little against the seat, pillowy and inviting.

The article had convinced him to balance his meals more properly, so he made a point of also staring down her shirt.

(The little detail where the rabbit ears hadn’t been there when he'd sat down was vanished to the aether.)

He studied her from toe to head, from her firm calves, to her soft thighs, to the sloping hips hidden but unhidden by the pleated skirt, to her immodest chest which was much the same way beneath her blouse. He studied her face, which was unblemished by lines and had unpainted lips, and a touch of foreign severity he couldn’t quite finger on any map of the Earth. The indistinguishing scent of hotel soaps was only augment to her mystique.

He swirled the image around in his head. Then, he imagined.

Satoru had a good imagination. It was not the 70 mm, Eastmancolor imagination of the film auteur, with carefully arranged scenes shot painstakingly and precisely. It was the U-matic, NTSC imagination of the common man, which played anything as long as it met the official quota of four nude or sex scenes per hour, and it served Satoru well. Right now it was playing a film which might have been titled, Sex Report From the Female Secret Agent: Last Night in Wonsan.

The scene opened in medias res, as was the convenience of imagination.

Halt!” he barked, in harsh, guttural subtitles. “What do you think you’re doing out here?

‘Out here’ was on a pier reaching out from the beach of the North Korean port city of Wonsan, amid the roar of midnight rain over the Sea of Japan. The girl stood facing the water, rabbit ears bent but otherwise unminding of the downpour, and of his presence. Her lavender hair was formed into a long, braided ponytail, which rested in front over one shoulder for no other reason than to expose the translucent clinging of her blouse to the gentle curve of her back, and which mysteriously appeared behind her instead when came the front cowboy shot, where she looked pensively downward and pushed up her chest with folded arms.

He stepped onto the pier, blocking off any means of escape. “Show me your papers,” he demanded, and immediately escalated to, “You’re under arrest. Come with me, and don’t try to resist.

When she didn’t respond, he marched down to where she stood, officer’s boots clomping on the rain-darkened wood, and reached to take her by the arm.

She moved, with the incontestable speed of pure reflex. In an instant, she had his tie in her fist, and pushed the crown of a hard-chromed Tokarev beneath his jaw. He froze, hand hovering over the flap of his own holster, and growled, but dared nothing further.

Still saying nothing, the rabbit girl made full use of both sources of leverage, wedging his arm between her breasts as she reversed their positions on the narrow pier, and marched him backward to the edge.

He stared into her eyes.

He, Satoru, stared into her eyes.

The rabbit girl was awake. And not only was she awake: she did have a fist around his tie, and a pistol to his neck, built from a ramrod forefinger and a thumb, anyway.

She smirked, and thumbed the safety down, or perhaps the hammer back, making a soft click with her tongue.

Satoru, 34, unmarried, was no hard-nosed People’s Army, Reconnaissance Bureau man, with sanpaku eyes and a heart of Paektu snow. He did not have his initiation in the mists of Congo-Léopoldville, and never had he been blooded in the hinterlands of Kontum. He had not sniffed out and cornered the Lunar emissary at the port city of Wonsan, unrelenting in his duty though he had been returned to his home and native province.

But somehow, all the same, he felt the vertigo of the yawning Sea to his back, and the full metal certainty of the shot that was to come.

Bang,” said the rabbit, and he remembered nothing further.


this seems interesting

Sure, why not.

Interesting premise
[x] Y
I have no idea what the fuck happened here, so this is my default answer.
File 15960503128.png - (600.70KB, 800x700, awake bunny.png) [iqdb]
Reisen, who was not yet Udongein, debarked from the plane.

Satoru had not accompanied her.

It had been true that Satoru, 34, unmarried, was an unremarkable man, who, for a living, worked a boxy, beige device, with the actual and marginally less fantabulous name of ‘Sharp COMPET CS-10A’. It had also been true that Satoru, 34, unmarried, was blessed with little success in his endeavours toward female companionship, and it was true that this solitude by night had shaped Satoru, 34, unmarried, into somewhat less-than-a-gentleman behind his stolid, unmemorable visage. But this, too, was unremarkable, in the grand, or even medium, scheme of things.

And it had been true that Satoru, 34, unmarried, frequented the bar ‘Eight-Headed Snake’, which was really a clean-kept izakaya. Not only that, but it was one where the sins of its regular clientele extended at worst to delusions of expertise on such variegated topics as dating, or sports, or contract bridge, (but never politics,) fed by a romantic love of drink for drink’s own sake. And finally it had certainly been true that Satoru, 34, unmarried, kept his finances well in order, and never so much as left an open tab, living modestly by day so that he could live modestly large by night.

All this was to say, Satoru, 34, unmarried, last name not given, was an informant, and reported every other week to his handlers in the Public Security Investigation Agency of the Ministry of Justice of Japan.

She hadn’t killed him, because an informant was not a spy, with sanpaku eyes and a heart of Paektu snow. But he had been made to miss his flight.

It was not a mere professional nicety, however, which had stayed Reisen’s hand. The rabbit, too, was a spy no longer; an emissary no longer, in the heightened imperial register of the Lunar eminences; and if she had then-and-there flung a bullet through his pencil neck, she could have remained pristine of even the smallest gout of (stark, red, arterial) blowback. Such conventions held no sway over her now.

But there are certain laws of warfare, laws inherent to warfare, which are not decided by treaty, convention, or courtesy.

One of these laws is as such: that conflict breeds convergence. And those sunk deepest in a conflict, those who live by it and who are buried in it to the elbows, though they swear their oaths and form their lines, become most similar of all.

Reisen was stained past the elbows in a war which stretched back to the kuni-yuzuri, the ancient pacification of the primordial reed-plains by the heavenly kami of the Moon: a war which with the advent of recorded history had retreated to the quietly burning corners of the world, but which nevertheless had not once in ten thousand years seen armistice. And where the Moon was a landscape of the unsullied pure, the Earth was a landscape of the quick, the muddy, and the dead. Where the Watatsukis had taught her to pacify, the Earth had taught her to kill.

And she had killed.

One half of her, the half which still retained its Lunar sensibilities, was disgusted. And what was more, it was disgusted in true Lunar fashion: not by the necessary act, but by the distasteful vulgarity of it.

The other half had quietly gone about the hum-drum labour of becoming very, very good at it.

Satoru, then, 34, unmarried, accountant, and PSIA informant, had managed to hold on to his life. Not by mercy, and not by courtesy, but by sheer weight of an otherworldly disgust. And, if the Sharp COMPET CS-10A between his ears still functioned as it should, he would quit both his awful fucking jobs tomorrow, and move back to the fucking inaka to care for his nag of a fucking paternal grandmother.

File 159641912062.jpg - (742.14KB, 1440x900, drunk bunny.jpg) [iqdb]
The Capital of the Moon is a sight unlike any other in reality or in fantasy. How should one describe it?

It is grand; it is opulent; it is palatial—these words mean nothing, in fact they are less than nothing. To understand the architecture of the Capital, thou shalt first understand the species of its architect.

A Lunarian architect, as a rule, has the incredible attitude toward the Capital, with its impossible materials and sublime geometries, as being little more than a great mass of unworked rock, from which perfection could be carved, if only the opportunity could be granted them. (And, of course, the tools, and time, and labour, but on the Moon these are trivialities after all.) Monuments are raised; edifices built; inconvenient palaces are plucked up and moved; whole streets are widened or narrowed until they are just so. And, after they have worked their craft, everything will remain untouched, for ever and ever and never shall it alter, until the next architect makes their rounds, and wipes the slate clean once more with a summary sweep of the eye.

It is a city which spits down upon the parochial once-upon-a-timeness of Mount Hourai’s peak, or the Dragon King’s Palace beneath the sea. It is a city of the pure idea made real. It is a city of History, next to History, next to History, each era straining itself white amongst its fellows to grasp for itself the crowning prefix, ‘End Of’.

In short, it is a city fit for eternity.

And, by fall of night, when only rabbits are out, it becomes a silent one. It becomes a city where a rabbit can relax over her drink in a smoky barroom, among sickly green bottles, pearl-white napkins, and dim candlelight—while suffering no greater company than the Divine Seat of Takamimusubi across the street.

Reisen rubbed a finger around the moistened rim of her glass, which made a gentle hum.

Outside, through a window, began the mounting of the Guard. It was one of many, taking place simultaneously throughout the Capital. She watched, absently, as the incoming group of palatine sentries trooped up to the gate of the Divine Seat. They halted before it, and were cleansed with purified water and salt by the sentries being relieved. Not a sound was made, despite the military purpose in their movements.

She had seen it countless times before, of course, as had any who lived in the Capital proper. But, essentially, she had only seen it once.

The palatines’ precision was immaculate. If the ground they trod were ever to countenance the idea of erosion, one would see their steps wear out not channels but straight-walled imprints, as if left in wet concrete. The ceremony was a four-dimensional crystal: a pattern, repeated perfectly, both through space and through time.

It was beautiful, it was sublime, it was a farce.

Reisen had no better word for it. It fit like a starched, pressed collar around a goose’s neck. It was security theatre, a never-ending pantomime of guard-as-guards-might-guard, an ouroboric parade of sword and spear and shining aiguillette. The Lunar powers-that-are-and-will-be-forevermore contented themselves with the aesthetic of security, knowing anyway that the Front rested safely three hundred eighty thousand kilometres and a burn-for-landing away.

(The Lunar veil she’d stolen away was testimony to the fact. Requisitioning simple ammunition took longer, at postings where the rabbits knew what they were doing.)

Gemini and Voskhod had been ice-cubes in the champagne. But, like ice-cubes, they were mere dilution, quick to melt and remedied easily, with a wrinkling of divine nose and a swapping of crystal glasses when the kannushi came round with the timely offering of more fizzy, Eminence? … They failed to understand that the Front was here, already, and it was not atop a rocket.

It was here, in their midst. Here, in the heart of the Capital, where the eminences built their Seats, and the palatines made their rounds. Here, further out, on the shores of the seas which led to the unhidden side of the Moon, where the udonge trees drank deep of earthshine. It was all the way out at little pre-fab crater barracks like the one between Lansberg and Fra Mauro, where they weren’t even given proper Lunarian names and had to pilfer them from Earthling maps. It was everywhere, because it was everywhere a soldier was sent, and everywhere they went after that, and in everyone they spoke to and in everyone they spoke to.

(And a rabbit loves to chatter …)

In some circles, this was considered revolutionary talk. Reisen had to scoff at that. A rabbit is not a revolutionary. They haven’t the grandeur, or the delusion for it.

Where some others, however, made a second step too far, was to believe that a rabbit is not a soldier, either. They believed this on the basis, admittedly with some rightness, of the rabbit’s inborn state of childishness. But it had fallen to an Earthling to make the observation in their stead: that often within the true soldier is found the child, and almost always within the child—the soldier. And both soldier and child, and rabbit for that matter, share in the habit of listening, ears wide open for anyone who will speak.

One does well to mind what is said and what is shown, to the child armed with rifle.

The Watatsukis were, basically, aware of this. They treated their rabbits like the children that they were, and were beloved by them in return. They trained them up into true soldiers, who were fit, loyal, and ready to die like lions in exchange for a smile—in the kind of war the Earthlings had left behind a half a century prior, because in this regard, too, the Earth spun faster than the Moon.

Reisen sucked down the rest of her drink, dimly aware that the train of her thought had misplaced its manifest.

She waved, and the barroom kannushi, of Dionysus perhaps, swapped her glass for another.

She took the first sip, and then wet the rim again. This time, she played an ultrasonic melody, which only she could hear. Reisen had not the skill for improvisation; she lacked the spontaneity; but tonight, this was not an issue. Tonight, she sought no novelty. Only to remember, as much as she could, of the Moon and of her beloved Capital.

She would be leaving her soon.

She played an old song, one of the oldest songs she knew. It was in multiple voices, and she had only one glass, but this was not an issue for her either. Music flowed out from her fingers, slow and melismatic, filling her heart with a plaintive ache.

It was an ancient hymn, to Apollo.

File 159728825952.jpg - (416.83KB, 725x1024, beach bunny.jpg) [iqdb]
What was the Lunarian thinking—well, if he was thinking at all—when first he looked up at the Moon, so distant and bleak and desolate she was, and devised to settle there? To flee his own mortality for a barren pure land, and in the same breath forsake his very life? To hide himself away, whilst steadying himself with the muttered reassurance that he was but mastering the heavenly sphere?

What was he thinking, when first he saw the rabbits of the Moon? When he saw their simple life, a stressless life of peaches and shogi and tea, and, in superbiam elevatus, determined himself too grand, too august for even that? Or when he raised up his Capital, in which to lay sword and spear and silver in such towering hoard, in the very manner of those countless who lived and ruled and died on the Earth from which he fled? What, then, was his thought?

What was he thinking when, at the end of all this, he glanced down upon the war-drunk Earth, and saw suddenly the technology of which he was so proud being forged there in the flames? When he saw radio and rocketry in the hands of the impure masses, though it seemed never so long ago that he could condemn them to their meagre lifespans there, never knowing anything beyond rot and soil and watery abyss—and this without even the lift of divine finger? What was his mind, then?

And when he saw the humans’ flag planted on his Moon …

(She planted the wooden skewer upright in the Lunar sand …)

… anger and indignation enough to pale himself white, okay. But perhaps he should not have been so surprised.

Ringo flicked the would-be flagpole with a casual finger, and watched it fall tumbling over, in recreation of the footage she’d seen.

This, at least, she had to smile at. The humans could send three of their proudest specimens to the Moon atop a three-stage pillar of chemical flame, and they could even think to give their flag of conquest an extra bar along its top, to make it ‘fly’ victorious in the breathless unhidden side of the Moon, but it defeated them to imagine planting the bloody thing a few feet further out so that their engines wouldn’t blow it down as they left.

It was perfectly characteristic, she thought, of this most latter-day species of Earthling. They were the oddest people a rabbit could ever see, who came to the Moon inside a mechanical spider, and made their return home aboard a Hornet, and all of this under the name of Apollo: a god, of all things, of the Sun. They’d not even set for themselves a true destination in their haste, instead simply touching down wherever they felt the tranquil Sea beckoned sweetly enough to their foil-and-spindle craft, that she might not swallow their likewise fragile lives whole.

And, in so (not) doing, they had completely frustrated the best effort of the Earth Reconnaissance Unit to intercept their landing. It is, after all, impossible to plan against no plan at all.

(The intelligence officer of same Unit produced another skewer from her pack.)

It had fallen to a lone rabbit, whose name Ringo had never heard before, and from a unit whose name Ringo had certainly never heard before, to bear witness on their behalf. Someway or another, this rabbit had been the Moon’s singular and most precious set of eyes and ears on the dawn of the first Earthly invasion since the nightmare war of a thousand years past, and was accordingly the inquestionable source of the sole Lunar accounting of what really had transpired.

She was also, therefore, chief among the mounting list of reasons that Ringo could barely taste the dango which she was, at present, rapidly attriting.

There were two things which could be certain of this ‘Reisen’.

The first was that she was, from tip to root of her crinkly ears, a creature of the Capital. It was the first observation Ringo had made, when they had met for debriefing, and it had not been a difficult one to make. It is obvious on a rabbit, the way being a dog is obvious on a dog: one need not catalogue the wet nose or the wagging tail as evidence, for one to be sure of it.

The second was that she was young. Incredibly so—and it showed, paradoxically, in how aged she seemed to be.

This was no contradiction. The younger a rabbit is when she becomes an emissary, and Reisen was an emissary, the more heavily upon her do her experiences there weigh. It shows in the eyes: in the cast they take, which hardens like bullseye glass, and warps all that they take in forever after. Ringo could remember many, from the long cursus of her life: ones which teetered on the cliff’s edge of amentia upon their return from the maddening Earth, and ones which, deep inside, had never really returned at all. They had not the myriad timeless years that she could draw upon, to buoy her up out and away from the depths of one’s own mind.

But Reisen’s eyes, hard-cast though they were, showed in them no hint of madness. Much the opposite, in fact. They, as red as they might shine, when caught by just the right angle of light, could not but be described as deathly sane. The Lunarians who had the responsibility for her education had done a compleat job of it, in the classical sense of the word, and the rabbit had only been galvanised by her years at Earthly war.

It was why Ringo considered it such an irony that she was going to defect.

That, now, was no certainty, or not one about Reisen, at any rate. But it was a certainty, based on everything Ringo knew and suspected true, that someone was going to defect, either today or in the days to come, and Reisen was simply the most likely expectation. She fit just about none of the criteria of the hypothetical profile that Ringo had assembled, beyond the very first—‘having bunny ears on top of her head’; and yet she was entirely perfect for it. Questions of means and motivation aside, of any potential defector, it would take a rabbit like Reisen to understand the true consequences of such an act. And not only to understand them, but to intend them, consciously and fully.

Because, when it happened, it would confront the Lunar eminences with a truth, which they had till now been happy to ignore. This truth: that Earth and Moon were as much at war within a rabbit-emissary as via her, and that the rabbits of the Moon were as much a theatre of war as a means of it.

The chilling effect it would cause would be enough to freeze the Seas twice over. It would spell a withdrawal of the Moon into herself, in an isolation not seen since the Hourai treasons of millennia past.

Ringo set aside her binoculars and lay onto her back, gazing down between her feet at the rising crescent Earth.

Today was a good day for it, she thought. The first invasion had been a haphazard landing anywhere in the Mare Tranquillitatis, seemingly just to have done it once. But the humans were quick to learn, and the second invasion today was to have an actual target, planned (and duly intercepted) in advance—the salvage of their reconnaissance probe, Surveyor, on the shore of the implacid Oceanus. Its namesake storms would provide the necessary cover against signals intelligence from the Capital, and the probe itself would serve as a natural meeting-place.

When she raised her binoculars again, the humans’ newest spider had completed separation from its forward command post, and begun to bleed out from its orbit into final Lunar descent. The sight itself, however, stirred no anticipation in the intelligence officer’s breast: everything proceeded exactly according to schedule, and there was no question of what was to come next.

She wondered only what the Lunarian would say, were he here beside her now.

File 15973098948.png - (2.58MB, 1750x1167, shorts bunny.png) [iqdb]
I don't remember drawing this, but apparently I did sometime after LoLK released, and I came across it today while rooting through my shit, so ... here it is.
File 159730995784.jpg - (911.19KB, 1500x1000, not bunny.jpg) [iqdb]
The apparent context.

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