Closed RP Angle or Yuor Devil

[Harpsicore]

Roaring flames swirled around her, but all Freyja Ragnarsdóttir felt was cold.

She stared down through coal-dark eyes at the prone form that lay beneath her. She’d shifted her leg off their windpipe, a sorry excuse for a mercy considering the sickening detour their leg now took once past the knee. The still-warm haft still rested against the break, and she let her hand fall from it, the spear crumbling into ash once it left her grasp.

The power of an ancient terror thrummed through her veins, but Freyja just felt numb.

This had never happened before. Each time Veljara had emerged, it had been a conscious decision, a collaboration, an agreement. Apart from the concert, where that discordant tone had ripped Veljara free, every single transformation had been symbiotic. But this time had been different. The growling voice in her head had made it incredibly clear: she had wanted to kill Spork, because she saw them as a threat to her relationship with Freyja and their shared goal of bringing forth Ragnarok; a goal that Freyja was no longer sure they truly shared.

She moved gently, metal scraping against asphalt as she slid her arms beneath them; one resting under their knees, careful not to jostle their leg, and the other behind their head.

Spork Fuchs, the one person Freyja cared about in this world, was cradled against her chest. Yet Freyja felt hollow, a void that grew within her every second, its teeth begging to sink into her flesh and devour her from the inside out.

She sighed, wanting to give in but not wanting Spork to be left alone. So instead, Freyja let the flames devour the both of them, the last vestige of Veljara’s power turning them both to ash and smoke and nothing before the flames returned to their home.

When Freyja materialized back in her apartment, she found herself staring at one of the shelves. The ancient helm that sat upon it stared back at her accusatorily, as if questioning her betrayal. Gone was the metal and flame, the armor and leather, the weight of the valkyrie’s presence. Freyja turned towards the couch, intent on letting Spork rest there, when a loud clatter erupted from the floor behind her.

Ah. It had appeared that not all aspects of Veljara had vanished.

Freyja whirled around to see that her newfound wings had sent a collection of wooden knick-knacks toppling unceremoniously to the floor. She stepped backward, careful to avoid any shelves, but stumbled when her legs hit something else. She took a few heavy steps back to settle herself even as someone loudly complained about the lack of attention he was receiving.

“Bygul! Farðu úr veginum!”

Freyja whisper-shouted as the honey-coated cat shot her an annoyed look before quickly joining his sister at the top of their cat tree, adding his haughty gaze to hers as they surveyed their kingdom.

“Heimski köttur.”

Freyja muttered as she continued towards the couch, nudging a pillow out of the way with her knee before gently laying Spork down upon it. She tilted their head slightly, sliding a pillow under it before stepping back, letting out a breath. Their leg still sat awkwardly, and Freyja ran a hand through her hair. Right. She’d broken it. That...that needed to be fixed.

A couple of rulers, gauze, and some medical tape later Freyja sat on the floor, staring up at Spork. She’d done the best she could with what field medicine she’d picked up from her father, but they’d need an actual cast at some point. How was she going to take them to the hospital? Would the doctors recognize their injuries as the same ones sustained in the fight with Veljara? Would they assume she was involved because they both had wings? Would Spork even want anything to do with her once they regained consciousness? Would they?

Click.

A faint sound managed to pull Freyja from her thoughts, the tattered edges hanging limply. It was followed by another click, then two more. It seemed as though they were coming from her door. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d returned to the apartment, but there was no way anyone should have been able to track her or Spork here, right?

Freyja got her answer as one last click came from the door, followed by the sound of the lock sliding open. She watched as the handle turned a moment later, dragging herself to her feet, gaze flicking around the apartment for something to wield, a weapon to defend Spork with. Nothing jumped out at her, and by the time she considered just grabbing them and escaping via window the door had already swung open, a figure calmly stepping through with a backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Mari?"

Spoiler: Freyja Translation

Bygul! Farðu úr veginum! - Bygul! Get out of the way!
Heimski köttur. - Stupid cat.

 

[Harpsicore]

Two hours and twenty-eight minutes. That was how long it had taken Mari to see her best friend again.

Mari wasn’t sure why she’d shoved some of their mercenary gear into a bag and handed them a new jacket she’d commissioned from Dual Flame before they’d left. Maybe it was just due to the absolute shit show that had been the past two days. First the warehouse, when Spork had essentially faced an entire gang’s worth of undead, then the incident with Sam.

It wasn’t paranoia if something really was happening. Or at least that’s what she told herself.

Mari’d decided to give them some space, taking the opportunity of them spending the next several hours occupied with Freyja to go talk with Auraliese about a new project. It was something she’d thought of weeks ago, but given recent events she’d decided to actually attempt to make it real.

She’d gotten so absorbed in the process, in creating something new from the theoretical, that she hadn’t noticed the alerts Miku was sending. It wasn’t until a parade of sirens screamed past Tinkerbelle’s that Mari deigned to even check her phone. The sheer number of alerts had caused bile to rise in the back of her throat. If she hadn’t gone to see Auraliese, if she hadn’t gone to indulge her curiosity, then Spork wouldn’t have had to fight alone.

She’d gotten over there as fast as she could, but of course they were already gone. Mari was already checking their tracker, noting the unfamiliar location that she’d recently marked as ‘Freyja’s Apartment’. That raised more questions than it answered, but they were safe, at least for now.

Part of her wanted to rush over there, to demand answers from Freyja, to tend to Spork, to badger the both of them into telling her what the fuck was going on, to huddle in a ball and cry because something was happening to her best friend and she had no idea how to help them.

But that was not how Mari did things. Mari did not let the emotions overwhelm her, the dam within holding strong after over a decade of abuse and fortification. She did not break down. She took the emotions, compressed and twisted them until they were iron, which she used to sharpen herself.

Others would call it unhealthy. She called it effective.

Mari’s steely gaze swept over the wreckage, half a dozen plans already formulating in her head. The scene was still chaos, EMTs and firemen scurrying like ants trying to help the wounded and put out fires. But the sirens still cried out, and Mari knew that it was only a matter of time before the police would arrive. She had to make sure there was no physical trace of either of them left.

Luckily, there wasn’t much. What remained of the cafe was crawling with people, but with her half-mask and a pulled-up hoodie, Mari was practically invisible. She skirted around the edges, scanning for anything that stuck out. The words ‘Yuri Warrior’ caught her eye, and she darted over to Spork’s discarded tote bag.

Rummaging through, it seemed like most of what she’d put in there was already taken out. Mask, gauntlets, baton; all things that Spork would’ve needed in a fight. Something had been added to the bag’s contents, however: a small, and empty, bottle of whiskey.

The ground did not fall out from under her. Her heart did not plummet to the center of the earth. She did not feel sick, nor did she feel something between self-loathing and disappointment coil in her chest. That would all come later. For now Mari shoved both emotion and inventory into different compartments and slung the bag over her shoulder, doing another quick scan before spotting a discarded baton.

She moved quickly, walking with purpose before scooping it up and dropping it neatly into the tote bag. They must have dropped it during the fight. That was all.

The digital evidence was a little trickier. She’d done some work for the city back when she still had a regular job, and naturally Mari had left herself a couple of backdoors into the system. She cycled through the cameras, picking out the ones that mattered: ones that could see the crosswalk in front of the cafe, and any that could see the cafe itself. Once she had those cameras and could scrub through the footage, all she had to do was add a layer of garbling static for the minute or so preceding the arrival of the valkyrie in order to keep them from being connected. Easy.

And now here she was, at Freyja’s door, the chunky first-aid kit from the car clutched in one hand. Without even a thought towards knocking, Mari knelt on the ground and withdrew two small pieces of metal, picking the lock in short order. Picking the first-aid kit back up, she swung the door open, casually stepping across the threshold.

Other details filtered in as Mari’s gaze drifted around the apartment. Cluttered. Bookshelves. Cat. Cats. Freyja. Wings. All these sifted to the side as Mari stared at Spork.

Their mask was still on, the smiling dog a mockery of what lay underneath, of what had happened to its wearer. Some part of her, the cold logical part that she relied on when working, acknowledged that business would be difficult, if not impossible, moving forward. In an industry where discretion was paramount, publicly clashing with a flaming valkyrie was exactly the kind of attention that turned clients away. It could already see the message boards once the footage began to be more widely circulated. It mourned the death of Nine Tails, Inc.

Mari mourned her friend; not for the loss of their life, but for every fucking thing they’d gone through for her sake.

Throwing a quick “Hey” in Freyja’s direction, she moved to the couch Spork had been laid on. She noticed the pillow propped under their head as she lifted it up, sliding the mask off and tucking it into the bag. Their face looked naked without their glasses, and Mari slid a spare set onto Spork’s face.

It was almost like they were sleeping.

Shaking her head, Mari focused on their body. The only injury she could really see at the moment was the bloody hole in their leg. That she could take care of. The splinted leg, however, meant she’d have to go back to her lab to get casting supplies. Relax, Ito. One step at a time.

“Freyja, do you have any liquor? The stronger the better.” Mari was suddenly aware that there was someone else in the room who could be put to use. “Grab it and two glasses. Please.”

While Freyja dug through her kitchen, Mari pulled out her phone, swiping over to a running readout of Spork’s vitals and setting it on the coffee table. Freyja returned and set a bottle of brownish liquid and glasses next to it, awkwardly standing off to the side. Mari poured a couple fingers worth in each before knocking hers back, grimacing at the harsh warmth that clawed its way down her throat. She poured some more for herself and capped the bottle once more, moving it out of arms-reach of the couch before sliding the other glass towards Freyja.

“Drink." She ordered. "You look like you killed someone.” Turning back to Spork, Mari dug into the first-aid kit for the third time in as many days before pulling out a pair of scissors and an antiseptic wipe. Once disinfected, she began to cut the dark-wash denim away from their skin, careful not to jostle the leg as she sought to expose the stab wound, hoping the alcohol would numb by force what her willpower could not.