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[Star-Crossed!] Date Night on a Dinghy

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Lo'bre City, famous for its water ways, overpopulated streets and massive amounts of drinking places and the sort, also plays host to a variety of exciting eateries, dedicated to bringing out the gourmet in all of us, if not the gourmand. Indeed, with people Valucre-wide sweeping into the city from time to time, you're bound to witness a variety of culinary cultures clashing constantly on the crowded corners of the community. The tastes vary widely, then, and it's easy to get swept up in the food craze, especially on warm summer evenings, where everywhere is open and alive and buzzing with activity.

Hence, tonight we focus on the beautiful and opulent Zangieve's Veal, a peculiar, yet wholesome resturant run by one of the locals. Longtime businessman in the area, the late Mister Zangieve was a dedicated chef who'd exploited the sea and surrounding terrain for its various tastes, using tangy fruits and meaty fish to produce a unique, almost home-style platter that most people never quite forgot once they'd tried it.

Beyond the cuisine served there, the restaurant itself was cozy and warm. Built inside of an old fishing hamlet, remains of its past were still quite plain, like the drydock that no longer saw use on the far side of the eatery, where staff cooked and carried food on the other side of it, bringing it to the customers via a small plank bridge. It almost made you wonder how often folks fell into the water below. Such a sight was rare, however, as the staff were as nimble as they were professional, well dressed and properly mannered as they fed the customers.

Seating was simple and lacked any romantic aspect, making this a very public place to eat, yet with the dim lighting and gentle din of chatty customers, the ambiance was enough that  anyone could find the setting peaceful, if not wholly intimate.


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 A seafood resturant. Dear God, did they fish it right from the sea? Oh, the thought made her tingle...but what made her tingle more is finally, a date! For years she's been waiting for Mr. Acceptable, the competitive man, with a respectable haircut, a sturdy body, and amazing courtesy. She thought back to the section on finding a proper mate in Mesentery, the section of the True Text/Bible on Courtesy and How to Live.

For men; a woman with a conscience, and a reasonable tongue. But, she must also speak her mind to you; your partner in matrimony is your advisor as well as love. A woman that is your equal in competence, and mature as you. After all, if she is as well behaved as a child, how can she raise your future children?

For women; a man with skill, a handsome skull, and an honest heart for you. Though sensitivity is heartwarming, a man too gentle is too much of a doormat. If you have full say in any of his decisions, you have married a failure. A good mate is one who can show your children how to be strong.

But Cecile still worried--she was intolerably tall. She made any man feel small, save the Pontiff, who she met only once--on accident. He was truly the only one who she could stand in the shadow of, but the Pontiff was, after all, the Pontiff! Sister Cecile didn't really find much to see in him. He was stoic, with unkempt hair and beard, and it was so, so illegal in so, so many ways to marry the Pope.

Ah, right, the date!

"Ah--one, two, three, four, five, six, seven...eight! Perfect."

Cecile Adder Sbaciucchiarsi had brought several intricate wrist watches with her! But why?! Why would she need to slow down time during a date?

It was simple! Each watch would be used for her to check something without her date knowing!

The First Watch; How clean his ears and teeth were!

The Second Watch; To inspect his wallet! She would have to know if 1) She will be paying for her side of the dinner (Something she does not mind.) or not, and 2) If he is at all financially stable! As well as to check his identification, to see if he gave his true name!

The Third Watch; To get close--smell his breath, get a feel for his hair. Is being close to him pleasant, or does he reek? Is his hair like withered glass or full vines?

The Fourth Watch; That's a secret.

The Fifth Watch; To see how their order is coming along.

The Sixth Watch; To check her makeup.

The Seventh and Eighth Watches; In case.

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"What have I gotten myself into?"

Somar Pulventum, who had braved many a perilous journey, and conquered all manner of villainous foes, found himself quietly panicking in the restroom of Zangieve's Veal, struggling not to vomit out of stress.

"This is a bad idea, very bad, what were you thinking, you should probably just leave now, she'll never know."

He clutched the rim of one of the sinks, staring into the mirror at a wretched face covered in sweat, and breathing heavily. What could have possibly torn his normally unshakable confidence asunder like this? Perhaps it was the fact that it was never really there to begin with.

"She's gonna see right through me, I fucking know it, the bitch'll know something's up, that I'm too cheerful, too suave, too fake, and she'll call it out, I won't know what to say cause being honest and genuine will be painful and impossible and I can't do this, I can't fucking do this!

Somar sink to the floor as his feet slid out from under him, and he rested his head on the counter. He was dripping at this point, the nice shirt he had bought just for this occasion stuck to him like glue. He had left his cloak in the coat room at the behest of an acquaintance, and he wished he had kept it now, to avoid having to be seen grabbing it as he ran out the door and away from the hell he was surely about to face.

After a few moments to think and calm down, he finally got a bit of his bearings back. He stood back up, and looked back into the mirror.

"Hey man, I don't mean to interrupt your mental breakdown, but can I offer you some advice?"

Somar turned to face the source of the voice. It was a tall Elf dressed as a waiter, holding a bowl of mints in his hand, looking at him with intense indifference.


"If you're freaking out over your date cause you think she'll come to the conclusion that you're not who you say you are, or whatever the deal here is, then maybe you should just come clean with her. I'm told women like honesty."

Somar pondered this for a moment, before replying.

"No, fuck that, that's stupid. I think I'll just run."

"Or, you can go out there, bullshit until the food arrives and you've eaten, say you gotta go to the Men's, and ditch her."

"I like that idea much better."

"I thought you might."

"I'm gonna do that."

"You do it, man."

Somar ran out of the bathroom with newfound confidence, swiftly finding his table and sitting down, a handsome grin on his face as his eyes met with his date's.

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Cecile makes a little, excited smile. As Somar sits down, it becomes apparent that Cecile much outranks him in height, a 6'5" woman. Her inverted crucifix earrings and necklace implied religiousness. Ms. Sbaciuccharsi wore a casual, warm black turtleneck, and even darker gloves, worn for hygeine, not cold hands. And, if you so glanced that way, her trousers were grey and corduroy, and donned black slip ons.

"Oh, hello! Cecile, Cecile Sbaciuccharsi." She reaches her hand out to shake, as her second hand drops a wrist watch under the table, and she brings her foot down onto the face, shattering it.


Time has stopped. At least, almost stopped. Things seemed to be able to breath, and just barely move.

She stared at Somar. The look on his face. Clueless. In this slowed time, he is still looking at her extending her arm. He has not even caught up to the point where Cecile's foot raises itself from the still breaking watch.

She raises from her seat.

One second of movement has passed!

Moving to the other side of the dinghy, and pulling open Somar's mouth. Pearly whites. There's a single crooked tooth in the back. She is careful not to poke around too much inside--after all, he'll feel it when time moves again.

Four moments of movement!

Then, an examination of the ears.

"Sand? What is sand doing in here?"

A little lump of sand. Not scattered grains, just...a pile.

"Well, we are by the shore. Maybe it blew in here." She tuts, and leaves him alone. For a moment, Cecile regards his face. He was handsome, she guessed. His squinty eyes would look best if he was laughing, she predicts.

The nun sits back down, and re-extends her hand, reforming her pleasant smile.

Eight seconds of movement have passed, the maximum.

"Time moves once more."

Time then resumed its normal pattern. Somar would feel like his lips had been pulled, and that Sister Cecile's scent had been right up against him. A spine tingling smell of some heavenly marine smell, like a crystal, tranquil ocean, stirring and churning flexibly.

All of the events above have taken place 4 seconds in real time.

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As he began to speak, something felt off. Though his eyes saw otherwise, he could have sword someone ha tugged at his lips. But the thought went away as soon as his nose was assaulted by his date's wonderful perfume. It was so fresh, and so prominent that it made him want to gag. He loved it.

"Well hello Ms. Spocka---Spock-a ch---Spock-a-char-see? Is that how you say it? Oh, never mind, I see no need for formalities. I'll just call you Cecile."

He gently grabbed her hand, and lifted it up to his lips, giving it a light kiss, his grin never faltering.

"A fitting name for one as beautiful as yourself."

As long as he kept the compliments going like clockwork, Somar doubted that any cracks in his resolve would be noticed.

"I, am Somar Pulventum. Scholar, Mage, Adventurer. You may have heard of me."

None before her ever had, so he didn't expect a very different answer, and instead of focusing on the inevitable no he would get, Somar instead put all his attention towards his hand, into which a stream of sand flowed and began to glow, molding itself into a solid form before cooling into glass. He kept his hand hidden so as not to ruin the surprise before it was finished crafting itself.

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"Why, yes, I have heard of you." 


"You hunted some creature, a Kaantus with my niece, Maria."


"But enough of that silly incident--"

--the incident that almost killed Somar--

"--Let's talk. Where do you hail? Your skin is quite tan, and where I come from, the only caramel skinned people are royalty or a rarity." Cecile was amicable, and was content for simple conversation, but her fast talking begged for fast answers, and the sharp, serious woman demanded such.

Her gloved pinkie finger taps the table in a nervous frenzy.

The waiter is homing in on the table, and could serve as a save for giving out information! Or, will Somar indulge Cecile in information?! There is an ominous gleam in her eyes, as if she knows Somar must make this decision!

Her foot hovers over an expensive looking wrist watch.

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Somar's unwavering grin did just that at the mention of his most recent escapade. He was quite shocked, nearly choking on a bit of his own saliva, before regaining his composure.

"Oh...is, uh...is that so?"

His heart raced in his chest, filled with genuine joy at being recognized, even if only because the one in question was related to the bitch with the magical door-summoning thighs. That joy was undercut, though, when he glanced down at his hand and realized his inattention had reduced his glass art into an ugly glob.

"Well it's not surprising, really, many of those who work with me love to brag about the experience. Not every day that you get to work with a man of my caliber."

He gave her a quick wink, before glancing back down at his attempted work of art, shifting and reshaping it back to its original, elegant form as he considered the door he may have opened with that wink that he may not be able to close again without a significant amount of money, distance, or discreet means of "disposal". But it was better, he decided, to burn that bridge when he came to it. Perhaps burning a literal bridge would be enough to get her off his back, but he didn't consider it likely.

"But regardless, it is an honor to be recognized, it truly is. And to thank you for the wonderful feeling you've given me, I have a gift for you."

He raised his hand, and gripped in it was a rose woven from glass, every contour carefully crafted to give it the appearance of the real thing. 

"I hope you like it my darling, only a very small number of very special women have ever gotten one of these, and I consider you to be one of them."

Every woman he had ever attempted to woo could say they were as well. There was the occasional mirror, or chalice, but typically they were offered a rose, which was typically the best thing to come out of any relationship with Somar, at least from the woman's perspective. They were always very nice roses, and usually fetched a high price with merchants.

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What a lewd man. First, kissing her hand, and then winking? Surfacers were quite straight forward, but in the squalor of above, surely everyone would be anxious to try and live their painful lives to the fullest. Cecile thought about how excrucuating a life Somar must have up here, and the fact that he was putting on a smiling face and being generous off the bat, it made her heart warm, but then she regarded the gift. The alien object didn't resemble anything she had ever seen.

"...what is this supposed to be?"

In the dank tombs of Scyllaria, the Unseen Kingdom, only moss and fungi grew, and replaced floral decorations. Artificial sun they had down there could have provided room to grow their plants, but, in a Holy Flood, many plants are up and shredded to pieces, as they were not included in this 'humans-survive' flood.

"Wait, don't tell me..."

There was a pregnant pause, Sister spinning it around, inspecting it from many angles. It was a little cute, her curiousity, but Somar could pick out the redness of irritation on her forehead, for having to do something more than eight seconds is torture.

"Gh..." She clenched her teeth, not in a manner of someone enraged, but in pitiful plight, stinging with pain. What was she doing staring at it? Did she not like it?!


The waiter reaches the table, thank the world! She places the rose on the table.

The server is the man from the bathroom Somar, an overworked half elf who just got off his shift giving out mints, and is now on his shift as a server.

"Oh, hello." She looks the man up and down. She could be checking him out, but the stony look in her eye, suggests a judging, and ultimately disapproving stare. The knife eared, gangly man being looked upon like a yapping dog that's been at the yapping for hours. Her face read; 'This is who is handling our food?'

Cecile instead regarded her date as she spoke with the half elf.

"Clams, linguini, white sauce. Get me freshwater." She has to specify what kind of water, what if the skinny idiot scoops up seawater to cut corners?

Somar's date looks expectantly for him to order, while at the same time, stomping on a watch.


"Time has stopped."

She steps across the table, and crouches by Somar's lap, and halts.

...no, she decided. That would be for the Fourth Watch. The Second Watch was for this--

The nun reaches inside his pocket, and fingers for his wallet. Removing it, she looks through it. A fair amount of money. Identification that confirmed who he was. ...and more sand. What a confounding thing. Such weird happenings made her have suspicious thoughts. He said the glass ornament was made for her, but they only JUST MET! How could he have? Was this man lying to her? Or did he really make it somehow? The presence of sand in places like his wallet...

No, it was too preposterous, Cecile thought, as she was literally slowing down time.

Cecile returns to her seat, and looks unsuredly at her date, placing her hands in her lap.

Sighing, she thinks of ice breakers.

Nonetheless, her eight seconds are up.

"Time will move again."

Somar would notice his wallet has moved upside down in his pocket, and that Cecile has dramatically changed her posture and look.

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"Cecile, darling, I feel as if freshwater is implied, when you ask for water, so there's really no need to speci---"

All of a sudden, Somar's vision had shifted drastically, this time with no conceivable explanation. It was as if everything had jumped forward. Cecile was sitting differently from what he had remembered, and not as if she'd sat up a bit, or maybe crossed her legs. No, she had been sitting straight as an arrow as she belittled the waiter like the raging bitch she surely was, despite him lacking any hard evidence being present to vindicate his view, though that had never gotten in his way in the past. But now she was leaning towards him, eyes looking like she was studying him, before returning back to normal a split-second later.


Something was very wrong here, and he was convinced it was all him.

"Uh...heh heh, you're gonna think this is crazy, but I coulda sworn you were sitting back just a second ago. Must, uh...must be those clams we had, right? Maybe we got a bad batch."

Somar instantly realized that they had never ordered any clams, and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Strangely enough, his wallet fell out of his pocket. And he distinctly remembered shoving it way in there to avoid such a possibility. He snatched it off the floor, before remedying his claim.

"Woah, those shrimp we ate must really be doing a number on me, making me think I had clams...can you believe that?"

There was no shrimp on the table.


There was no calamari on the table.


None whatsoever.


Oh come on, that's just a fancy name for shrimp.


Somar's face turned beet red, as he scrambled for anything that could save him from this situation. He blind the waiter and the girl, and then make a run for the ocean, but that would leave him with more enemies than he was willing to make in such a short period of time. He could just run away, hurting nothing but the woman's feelings, if she had any fucking feelings. But thankfully, he glanced towards his glass of water, took a sip from it, and feigned disgust, as he tossed it in the waiter's face.

"This is fucking salt water! You idiot, get me some fresh water, are you really that stupid? It's implied for fuck's sake!"

Without even thinking, Somar sent a stream of sand darting beneath his feet, and had it jet upwards and spread out, specifically aiming it at Cecile's eyes to momentarily blind her with what seemed like a dusty breeze from the beach. While she was sightless, Somar grabbed a twenty-dollar bill and shoved it into the waiter's front pocket, mouthing the words 'So sorry cover for me please', as he shoved him off.

"God...some people, amiright?"

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Cecile removes her glasses, and slams them on the table, the glass shattering. She wipes some blood flecks and shards off her hand on the tablecloth. The nun wipes her eyes, getting blood on her eyelids, nose, and cheeks. She's shuddering. You can just feel axe-murderer coming off her body.

The sand is out of her eyes, but she smears the blood more and more until it's like a little masquerade, where only she is wearing a mask. A couple patrons look at her doing this and start, leaving for the door. Some cover their kids eyes as they pay the check hastily.

A curtain made of beach towels is thrown aside, the manager in his imposingness marching toward the table.

"I'm sorry, but YOU TWO have to--"

Sister Cecile sighs, throwing a watch into the air, and pulling a little concealed pistol out of her pants, and fired, the bullet slicing the watch in half, then staying there.


The gunshot had made all the guests, as expected, begin to run for the exits, but in this state of stopped time, they were statues. But she didn't care if they left.


She kicks the table out of the way, glasses and baskets of bread lifting off its surface, but stopping mid-air as the table does too.

Cecile steps even closer.

The chair goes out from underneath his ass, but he still floats there, as if he's sitting.

The nun raises her leg, and kicks him over onto his back, and as he slooowly reaches the floor, she puts his hands under him, and then shoves him a little more with her heel, finally reaching the floor.

The finishing touch was dropping down onto his stomach, weighing the mage down, and placing the gun to his forehead.

"Time will move again."

The table and chair continue to fly aside, causing some property damage, and a piece of wood to stab a guy in the foot.

"Who do you think I am? Do you think that if you kept using sand I wouldn't notice, you little shit?

"You're daring, but you're a bumbling,  stammering idiot. If you didn't blind me, I'd've passed it off as an awkward tic, a boyish reaction to being on a date. But you are just that! A boy. You're the kind of pissworm that has exes upon exes, don't you?!" Her blood/war paint/certificate of psychopathy drips onto his face, dangerously close to his mouth. Sister Cecile presses the barrel of the gun harder into his forehead.

"And you come here on a little date. Who do you think you'd meet? A ditz who'd be a quick fuck? Someone with money?! ANSWER ME!"

This was definitely Ominas's aunt.

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"Th-The...the first one...I swear it was the first one, it's always the first one, goddamnit!" 

As Somar stared down the barrel of the gun which could at any moment end his ultimately worthless existence, a look of sheer terror contorting his face as tears soaked into his shirt, he considered everything he had done up to that point, wondering what he could have done differently to not be lying here, sobbing like a little bitch as the gun shoved up against his temple reminded him of his own mortality. This scene, surprisingly enough, was not an unfamiliar one for Somar. In fact, he probably couldn't count how many times he'd found himself staring Death in the face, and rather than give it a smug grin and effortlessly cheat it like he always acted like he could, he would instead cower, and cry, and hope that whatever wanted to kill him could be persuaded, bribed, or distracted long enough for someone to remove them from the picture.

"I'm pathetic! I'm worthless! There's no point in killing me, I've been dead all my life! My existence holds no meaning, you'd be doing me a favor by pulling that trigger, so Gods forbid please don't pull that trigger, for the love of Gaia, and Odin Haze, and all those other deities I'd never even thought about up until right now, please don't pull that trigger!"

Unsure whether that would be sufficient, Somar glanced towards his pocket.

"Take my money! Take it all, there's five-hundred bucks in there! Just take it and leave me alone, and preferably alive."

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This fear on Somar's face was familiar to Cecile, the Scyllarian woman having been the veteran of a much covered-up civil war. Family lines she's inadvertently ended, smudged up. There was no funeral, no headstone. Those poor rebels got cremated, when they deserved an honorable burial in the earth. Often, she didn't like to think about it, but this boy underneath her gun...

Her blood makeup drips again, it falling and mixing into a tear of his.


What was she doing? Wearing her own blood as a glare reducer, or the kind of fear-striking, 'commando' look that made them hesitate. That was how she got first shot. Scare them to get them to not pull first. But Somar wouldn't pull anything. He was utterly hopeless. This wasn't an enemy combatant. This was a civilian. Someone she passed out oranges to on slow days.

But the first one...was that what she was? Was Cecile truly that undesirable? Would she ever reach Mother rank in the Church? Was this man trying to take advantage of her want for a..?


"There's no way you could have known."

The nun sits up, and takes the gun off his forehead.

"I am Sister Cecile, of the Paternal Orthodoxy. In your language, the term is 'nun'. In the Church, you cannot ascend to priesthood, or, priestesshood without, in a man's case, siring a child, and in a woman's case, bearing a child. I suppose this is why I wrote in several times to the dating service. I thought you were preying on my want for intimacy, and were planning to feign romantic interest, then leave with free food. Or, with this new revelation...ergh. You'd 'grab and go'.

"It happened to my sister...it could happen again."

She leans back, looking up at the sky, since her bullet tore a hole in the ceiling. There is a pause. She looks back at Somar. Had anyone ever taught him how to be a stand up citizen? Or, even taught him how to be a man? It was doubtful Cecile could teach him either. This couldn't be Mr. Acceptable, unless he tried to be.

What he tried to be was Mr. Suave or Mr. Manwhore.

Sister Cecile leans over him again, and looks into his eyes. Its a maternal look, the caring stare, like Poventum is a lost boy, and has just asked her where his parents are.

"Go on. Try to be good. Don't be romantic. Show me you're good." It wasn't as insulting as it was genuine. Did Cecile, after all this utter bullshit, see something in him?

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Show her he was good. Demonstrate to her his worth as a human being. Make it clear to her that he could be anything less than sad and manipulative. How?


Somar slowly stood up and returned to his seat, gripping the armrests tightly as he considered what to say or do next. Escape seemed like a nice solution to his current woes. He could be out in seconds, nothing but a sandstorm blowing across the ocean, nothing substantial to shoot, and likely too difficult to pursue. Yet for whatever reason, the idea turned sour. What Cecille had said was now cutting into him, and strangely enough, he felt obligated enough to at least try. And if that didn't work out, well, five-hundred dollars of hush money should be enough to keep her off his back. But how would he begin? What was the right way to start? 

"So, uh...h-how about this weather?"

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"It's about to 'downpour'. Magister Cochol taught agents what rain was. In the Bible, the days before the Holy Flood had demons and other threats in the sky, and mankind's only defense was to go underground. I am...very surprised at things such as airships, but it has put the clergy at rest that Gorgon really did kill them all."

Whatever she was talking about, it was best to ask later.

Cecile places her gun on the table, and then her elbows, and her head into her hands, looking across at the sand mage before her.

"Sand, huh? That's your power? Mine is called 'Across the Night'. Whenever I break a clock, time stops. I used it to check how your breath smells--smells fine--but not much else."

She was lying to him, but the less everyone knew about her power, the better.

"How I feel about the weather isn't that important, I guess."

She was a bit cute without her glasses, but she did have a mask of her own blood on her eyes. Cecile still had a cut from her glasses on her gloved hand. Did she care? Did this unbelievable woman even know she was cut? The gun is quite close to Somar. As Somar acknowledges it...her eyes drift to it. Her mouth's corners go up in a cheeky smirk, then she grins, with blindingly white teeth of hers. What did she use? There was not a bit of tartar or lack of care anywhere.

"The gun. You have these on the Surface too. That makes me think of 'fate'. Was the gun fated to be invented by mankind, somehow, somewhere? Was the gun an idea that was always there in the human mind? 'Destroy my target at a distance. How do I do that? What can destroy my target? What gets things across the distance?' These are all questions that were asked before the slingshot, the bow and arrow, and the gun. Of course, all of these were invented very far from each other. But the same questions had to be asked, didn't they?"

"Which makes me wonder if it was inevitable to invent the 'date'. Everyone has a date of some sort. Like how there's different types of guns and bows. Even different arrows and bullets. We're having a much different kind of date than others, huh?"

"But that's not what you're thinking about when you look at the gun, are you? You look at it and think if I'm going to use it. You think if you will use it. You look at it and fear me. That makes me excited. But I can't read you that well..."

There was a fatal pause. The intensity of the situation feels like the chair is coming off the ground, like all the other furniture in the room. Where is the rest of the resturant, the world?! Somar feels like the cosmos are churning violently, being flushed down into the barrel of this gun.

"Because I don't have my glasses on!"

The world returns. And its return feels like it's blasting Somar's flesh apart, and his bones are being carried off by the explosion.

She squints, placing her hands in her lap, expecting Somar to get her joke. She wasn't expecting he laugh against his will, more expecting she can see if he understands the joke she was making. Such a smile she makes. All that talk about fear, and she makes a dumb joke.

"No, wait. Don't think about that. Think about your homeland. What does 'home' mean to you?"

What kind of church sends a nun that goes on dates, anyway?

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Somar was dead silent as Celine spoke, his face completely emotionless as he stared into her eyes, only glancing briefly at her gun every few moments before locking eyes with her again. He wasn't sure what to do, other than listen to her talk about Gaia knows what until she decided to let him go. He felt like a captive, a prisoner of war, and this nun was the commanding officer who could choose to shoot him at a moment's notice.

On 2/26/2017 at 6:10 PM, Puranetto Ueivuzu said:

"But that's not what you're thinking about when you look at the gun, are you? You look at it and think if I'm going to use it. You think if you will use it. You look at it and fear me. That makes me excited. But I can't read you that well..."


On 2/26/2017 at 6:10 PM, Puranetto Ueivuzu said:

"Because I don't have my glasses on!"

Somar didn't say anything in remark to Cecile's joke, and continued to stare. Despite his silence, it was evident that he was processing it. Moments later, he began to chuckle. The chuckling gave way to giggling, the giggling to laughter, the laughter to hysteria, as the line between genuine laughter, and genuine tears became blurred.

"...Aha ha ha ha ha, I'm gonna fucking die here..."

On 2/26/2017 at 6:10 PM, Puranetto Ueivuzu said:

"No, wait. Don't think about that. Think about your homeland. What does 'home' mean to you?"

"H-H-Home? I don't know! I don't really know!"

Somar's tearful laughter continued as his hands dug into his scalp.

"Home, I think, was a desert wasteland that was hot, and dry, and horrible, and I don't know if I want to think about it, cause it wasn't much of a home. I think a real home would be somewhere safe, you know? Somewhere where there wasn't a gun pointed at me, you know?!"

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