Sometimes we tend to forget who got the super powers in this wonder duo relationship. Mr. Jonathan “I punch through walls, shoot red hot lasers out of my eyes, and explode like a nuclear bomb when I get super emotional” Lane Kent. XD Oh! And I made another contribution to my #SunshineBoyAU with the introduction of my #DewDropBoyAU Damian! (^v^) Planning to put them together in one whole AU with sort-of an actual plot one day, so look forward to it! Also, a surprise character have come to grace my account for the very first time. Just keep on reading! =D

-Bubbly

I just had a funny thought, then I decided to write it down in the thing I am working on to further this cacophony called an alternate dimension. This is said segment-read it first:

Earth Customs and Their Meanings on Baule

|Kissing One’s Hand|

Normally, when one kisses another’s hand, it means a lot of things. It could mean respect. It could mean devotion. But more commonly it’s a form of saying “Hey, I am romanticaly/sexualy attracted to you and am secretly too damn nervous to just swallow my pride and tell it to your face!”

But on the planet Baule, especially with the higher castes, it only means one - one solid thing. If one does not have a gift to present, but wishes to do so in a physical manner, one shall plant a kiss on the person’s hand as a propposal for MARRIAGE!

Now imagine Spamton, or Pink Addison, or whoever of them you wish - doing that to Zephyrus!

Okay,now you can ask about the Siamese-Twin Planet and its inhabitants!

*(ask box is now officially opened)

A shorter Flash Fiction Friday this week because I’m not feeling too well- this time for the prompt “Foul Play”. This is a continuation of my series of FFFs, so I’d recommend reading the firsttwo parts first! Regardless, it’s introducing a new character into the lovely story of Odysseus, interdimensional assassin.

@flashfictionfridayofficial

tw: implied violence, suicidal-ish language

FFF: Foul Play

–

There’s a place for everything and everything in its place.

That’s what Arachne thinks, what he hums as he plucks at the strings of fate- metaphorically, of course. For all their power, their grand title of MOIRAI, they’re simply human after all. He guides events, but not by any sort of divine decree.

It’s just a matter of knowing things.

Like knowing that if someone were to slash the tires on a certain senator’s car, then he’d most certainly be late to his next appointment. He would not be present when a disheveled, gun-weilding man with an axe to grind against his policies on healthcare was present, and he would evade assassination, allowing him to run for re-election. And from there, other waves- changes, ripples, until a proper outcome was achieved. The best outcome.

All Arachne has to do is pick up his communicator, his delicate fingers tapping a message:

HALC-1988, JUNE 12 ‘92, SENATOR WONG- CUT TIRES 0827.

And then it’s off- someone else’s problem, whether they send an ATROPOS or a CLOTHO. He muses that the second is more likely. No one has to die for this to succeed. But that’s one issue solved, another thing in its place as he lies back in his chair idly and stares at his dozens upon hundreds of screens.

One particular screen is an issue today. HALC-2090.

A twenty-nine year old man was found dead this morning by Iowa 1, south of Kalona. Foul play. His wife reported him missing about four days ago after he didn’t return home from his job at a local twenty four hour convenience store. There’s tears and pleas for justice and if it weren’t for other recent events, he’d have already dismissed this.

He doesn’t care that some hick got his facial bones radically rearranged via 9 mm, but he does care that his car’s missing. He cares that their nasty little issue left behind some scribbled gibberish resembling math in that crypt that once was an apartment and that that math, second rate as it may be, points towards lucky number HALC-2090, about thirty miles southwest of Kalona.

It’s disgusting. Inelegant. Completely unlike their organization, but what does he really expect from a man whose idea of fine dining was ordering from thenicepizza joint for a change? Honestly, Arachne can barely believe that they’re somehow alternates of each other sometimes.

But they are. Two sides of the same coin, two branching paths of the same individual, and he sighs as he tucks a long strand of bone white hair behind his ear and thinks through how to handle this one.

He hates when it’s one of them that’s an issue. It’s always messier.


Arachne holds his coffee close, his eyes set on the screen, and considers how best kill himself before things get out of hand here.