ππππ ππππππ’ πππππππ ππ:@turntechGodsaid you didn't wait to find a note to head to the roof this time. He's been calling you up there to spar more and more often lately. you've been waking up bruised and battered and tired but you get up every single day anyways. Training, He calls it. Preparation. He hasn't let you in on any of His plans, but you've seen the texts, you've heard the phone calls when He thinks you're asleep. He talk's with Jade's grandpa a lot. He's even come over to visit a few times. He was big and loud and filled up the already cramped apartment and ruffled your hair and hugged you too hard. you hate him. Today is your tenth birthday. you don't wait to find the note or walk into any traps. you pull on your heart shirt, your pointy shades, some athletic pants, then grab your badass katana and crawl out the window. Even in December it's a bit warm for long sleeves and pants, but it's become habit by now to cover up. you swing from the fire escape, hop from windowsill to windowsill, parkouring thirty stories up without an ounce of fear or hesitation. When you make it to the roof, He's already there. His back is to you, His arms are folded. you unsheathe your katana and He turns. He pauses for a fraction of a moment before transitioning into a battle-ready stance. you've surprised Him. you've been doing that more often lately. Good. Before He's even given you His customary thumbs down, you're flashstepping His way. Thousand-folded Nippon steel clashes against thousand-folded Nippon steel. Probably. He bought these at the mall. You're ferocious yet stoic. How He trained you. He's holding back, but only barely. He's been holding back less and less lately. you've done this dance with Him a thousand times and you'll do it a thousand more. you have to survive. you have to win. you have to show Him that he's not wasting His time on you. you bet this looks cinematic as hell against the rising sun. you think you could make pretty good movies. you managed to grab one of His cameras once and shot a bit of footage. Then one day the camera wasn't where you left it. He never said a word about it. Not even whether you did any good. you're distracted. you're focused too much on yourself when you need to be focused on Him- He slashes across your torso and you fly back. you won't notice for a while, but the heart on your shirt's been cut in two. you slam against the radio tower with a muted grunt, then drop down onto your ass. He walks - asshole doesn't even flashstep, He WALKS - up to you, then pulls that fucking move. He lifts the tip of His blade to your chin. you've lost. you always lose. This was a quick one too. you're bleeding bad. you look up at Him. you've never actually seen His eyes without those pointy shades. He says nothing. you say nothing. you grab your blade and bring it upwards, taking Him by surprise as you slam His katana out of His grip. It goes flying. He stumbles forwards, you've never taken Him off-guard quite like this, He's falling down on you- you grab the scruff of His shirt, you jam both feet into His torso, and use His momentum to roll Him off you, to the side. There's a moment of silence where the sounds of early morning commuter traffic all fall still. One. Two. Three. Four. There's a sickening crunch that sounds like it's right in your ear. you pull yourself up to your feet. You just threw Him off the roof. You look over the edge. Your heart is racing. You can't breathe. Down below, so impossibly far below, is his still body. It's contorted in ways it shouldn't be. his glasses fell off at some point. You can somehow tell that his eyes are orange. You are ten years old. You know that a body means police, and outside interference means problems. Your body moves on its own as You rush downstairs to clean up Your mess. We're cut from the same cloth (( #abuse #gore #violence )) πΌπππππ’ πππ