> i like those words . eyre's samples

[cheri]

Now, most people don't want to see inside of my head and that's cool. I'm just here to place bits of writing that I'm especially proud of. no character sheets out of fear they might be stolen.

tl;dr : words that i wrote on a page​

 

[cheri]

> > FIVE SEVEN :: ACHIRA SYRNE
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The day was coming to a close. Morning rays of light transition into the dull-shine of afternoon heat when the sun reaches the vertical in the sky. Precious clouds float, pushed by the current of air that whips across the street with surprising vigour. It rustled the blinds on the fourth floor, white shingles clanking against one another distractingly. Machines buzz as computers whir, the printer croaks each second as papers fly across desks. Beige folders slam the tables, pens swirl across the printed sheets as chairs are wheeled across the floor like scooters. Noise assaults from all around. Chatter echoes from the little kitchenette in the breakroom, a coffee machine dings pleasantly drawing uniformed officers to it like moths to a flame. Fluorescent lights shine overhead, reflecting patches of blinding silver on the whiteboard perched in front of the Captain’s office.

Secretly, Achira’s heart thumps in her chest. Her leg bounces under the desk with excitement, a close second to the way anxiety frays her nerves. Uneven breaths disrupt her shoulders as her body slouches into the chair. Using her foot, she rocks herself back and forth. A pen is in her hand, tapping impatiently as her eyes stare down the clock on her computer screen. Alongside the monitor and keyboard were a few trinkets. One cactus, a bobblehead of Grumpy Cat (which she so kindly tried to give her partner one Christmas, only to watch for him to turn it down) and a random cup from Disneyland with an assortment of glitter pens in it. Achira had spent the last two minutes of the morning cleaning it. Not because she wanted to but because her friend had said it was a horrid sight (she was right too, it was littered with documents).

There was about one minute until the year-long task would be settled. Hours upon hours of work were poured into this very moment. She recalls the late nights, the blood, sweat and tears that went into each file. Beside her desk was a mini whiteboard set up, ticks even displayed across both sides. Some under her name and others under another’s. They were split equally, proving no one’s side. Achira had yet to modify the sacred tallies. But today wasn’t about her. It was all about her beloved partner, the one that was with her through everything (and by that, Achira probably dragged him places but it still counts). In the next thirty seconds, her life-long goal would be complete. Absolutely beaming with a wide grin, the detective looks like a madwoman perched in a chair like a disgruntled feline.

His name was Detective Edwin Lange. He was the son of Rodney Lange (a famous cop too). The two had met on her first day of transfer. It was during the morning briefing, nine-ten a.m. on the dot. She strutted into the conference room with a whole coffee pot in her hand, her tie wrapped around her waist with the attitude of an air-head. It was glorious the way he pointed out the fact that she was using the tie wrong. To which, Achira shoved the coffee pot into his hands while she undid it, muttering; “Apparently ties make you look more professional.” But she never put it on, she stuffed it into her pocket and reclaimed her coffee. If her new coworkers weren’t suspicious of her then the Captain was.

Edwin was a real rock. Hard to carry, mean and always had to find a way to crush her good moods. At some point within the first two years of her stay, they had gotten to chatting— trash-talking, actually. Achira was brilliant as was he but with strikingly different methods of showing it. But one thing she learned was that he was incapable of letting loose and just relaxing. She wanted to fix that for him, desperately. Achira made it her job to introduce him to a life of fun. One of the best times had been when she hummed the entirety of Baby Shark all morning. He really didn’t like her after that one.

Somehow, all those little interactions led to this one moment. Unexpectedly, of course, Achira never planned much in advance for anything. It was going to be the highlight of her life, she would pass on the story through her family. Generations and generations would applaud her, she would be added into the hall of fame right next to Brittany Spears and the Shamwow guy. Achira’s mother would be proud and her father would stop telling her to pull her own weight more— a dream come true.

Achira sat up straighter as the countdown reached ten. It was about five seconds till noon would strike. Her grin stretches wider, back arching in a final stretch. Standing up, she places the small of her back against the side of her desk, arms holding up her form from behind. Catching sight of her opposer, Achira clears her throat. “Well, well, well,” she begins, folding her arms across her chest. “My best friend, Eddie. You remember what day it is, right?” Glory rose throughout her body, a reddish hue tinting her skin subtly. “It’s okay if you don’t, I can tell you. Today is the best day of your life.” So proudly, in a whimsical voice, Achira skips forward. Meeting on the floor, she gestures to the mini-white board, “See that? That ends today.”

Hushing him quickly with a finger to his lips, the woman continues. “You see, right now, it’s tied, but within the last… oh, say, fifteen minutes, I popped a dozen for possession— and usually that’s just a warning unless it’s your second offence, which is the case for about… seven of them.” Pointing to the holding cell with a group of pissed-off-looking men in rags, Achira couldn’t be happier. “So, that,” hopping over to her desk, she plucks a marker from the holder and adds seven marks to her side. “That, my friend, makes me the winner. Also known as, a better detective than you."

Reaching over her desk, she pries a plastic wrapper out of her drawer. Unfurling the item, she confidently steps up towards him. Feigning the act of innocence, she flashes off her puppy-dog eyes. “Without further adieu, what we have all been waiting for…” Trailing off, Achira gets down on one knee, offering a ring pop to Edwin. “Will you let me take you on the best worst-date of your life?” Adding after a beat, “You have to say yes.”

 

[cheri]

> > FADED :: MARION
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It was their boss that nicknamed them; Marionette. They were his little puppet, the one who does all the work behind the scene and let him take the credit. Marion was their fallback plan, in case anything were to go wrong. Surprisingly, the twenty-five-year-old was prepared for it, they had accepted it— suggested it. The industry was hard to find a place in. When Marion first joined, they were shocked at what they saw. It was nothing like celebrities said (if they ever said anything), it was a reaper’s tale of dying careers and solemn melodies of misery. Being smart about it, they made plans, safety nets of their own in case things were to go hell. Marion would never admit it but they hold more power than the CEO, secretly thriving in the shadows. Marionette pulls the strings of their own show.

In the slums of the industry, they find comfort in the grey areas. Where the line of crime and rights come to a distinctly faded outcome. Their official title is studio head, the one in control of the musical side of the business. Meeting, recording, layering artists, it’s up to Marion to make their career a success or a total flop. With all the power in their hand, they use it to leverage themselves. Their start had been a year ago yet they skipped the gruelling climb, levitating to the top. There were rumours surrounding them, a fog of mystery about Marion’s origins and stance in the company but no one wanted to say it to their face. Marion’s the beautiful, sleek individual that’s always five steps ahead of everyone at any given time.

The open agenda on their desk signifies a meeting, one that lures them into the corporate elevator on their way down. There was a separate elevator for VIPs, Marion’s boss had insisted upon it. He was a classic greaseball, dressed somewhat like a pimp, waving his rings in everyone's faces while throwing money at all of his problems. Perhaps that’s why Marion had run into his greedy wave head-on, drowning themselves in the industry within a month’s notice. After all, the world didn’t live up to its preconceived reputation.

Comically, the elevator door opens on the ground floor with a joyful chirp. They step into intruding daylight, a pair of sunglasses shielding their vision and disguising their face. Prominent features grow sharp, pronouncing the edge of their jawline with a threatening shine. Pointed canines scrape against the flush skin of their lips, enticingly pulling the corners of their mouth into a polite sneer. Almond-shaped eyes narrow further as they pause near the secretary’s desk. Flashing the beige folder open, they catch sight of the portrait of the trio that was recently signed. Marion had the audacity to snicker to themselves. They’ve seen these cases before, people who think they’re cut out for the business world of music. Most of them aren’t. They think it’s all about writing nice songs and putting them out into the world for people to enjoy, well it isn’t. Nothing is ever that simple. Marion’s been a witness to the death of many upcoming artists, no matter how well their starts had been.

They place bets on how long they’ll last. There is no obvious punishment, but the outcome won’t change their life in the slightest. They’ll move onto the next artist like nothing ever happened. The industry was full of desperate wannabes, with a snap of their fingers, Marion could replace anyone.

Shaded eyes scan the room for the clients. They find two out of three, waiting underneath the crystal chandelier hung above the centre of the lobby. Studying them for a moment, Marion quirks a brow. There were supposed to be three of them… Flipping their wrist underneath their vision, they check the time on their analog clock. The small, circular surface pressed coolly against their cold-blooded flesh. There are a few minutes left before the meeting is to officially start, but Marion’s impatient today. Given a hefty stack of paperwork, as well as back-to-back recording sessions with a few of their senior clients, they dismiss the possibility.

People move out of their way instinctively. Marion’s tall, five feet and eleven inches on the dot. With slicked hair, smooth and orderly, they wear a blazer over top of tight pants. An ambiguous top accents their form, covering just enough to blur their gender. Untouchable, they navigate the floor with clear superiority, the pinch of their mouth like a serpent’s hiss.

Standing in front of the duo, who are a couple by the looks of it, Marion waits. They don’t engage immediately, taking an agonizingly long time to look them over. Judgement looms, expectancy tightens the air as the tidal wave of pressure begins compressing their shoulders. No handshakes are offered, Marion only speaks after they’ve introduced themselves. It’s a specific action of theirs, if they glare long enough, shoving silence down their throat, the other will always break. Marion had fun with it, even if it’s super bitchy (but people who know them know it’s something they were taught during their youth).

“The office is upstairs.” Smoothly, their voice oozes like fresh honey, a depth in it that’s partnered with a gravelly reverb. “Follow me.” Marion turns on their heel, a cat-like walk showing as they guide the band members to the commoner elevator. A pass glitters on the front of their blazer but the original name is scratched off, incomprehensible. In its place is a new label, pasted-on recently that displays their infamous nickname. No one in the office knows their real name, no one quite cares either and Marion appreciates the privacy.

Entering the stuffy elevator, they notice the lack of pleasantries. There’s no sanitizer, the buttons for each floor are slimy and the mirrors have marks on them as if people put their hands directly on the surface. Their nose lifts disgustingly, using their knuckle to hit the button for the right level. They don’t even offer to hold the door for anyone else, letting it close on the waiting guests outside, unashamedly.

 

[cheri]

> > THE RED STRING OF FATE :: KAI ALISTER
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Kai was amongst the handful of people that could see the red strings of fate. He'd never forget the look on his mother's face, though, when he posed the innocent question, "Why aren't your strings connected?" He had been four at the time, barely able to understand the truth behind the concept. The sadness, the shock that flooded through that woman, he'd never forget. The pure anguish he brought upon their entire family, uprooting it through one five-word question. The man he'd come to know as his father, well, that plan fell through quickly. It had all very well changed the day that his mother's friend came over to visit. The little round eyes, at six years old, watching the two strings connect, grow shorter and shorter as the older man embraced the newly divorced woman.

He was nine when they got married at last. It had been a joyful ceremony, though one his brother wasn't fond of. He was mad, beyond enraged that his father was taken away from him. Of course, as the years faded and he realized that their mother was truly happy once more, the anger faded. But Kai carried the guilt like a convicted murderer. He killed a marriage, and worse off, buried the heart of his father. His mother had always said not to let it get to him- but how could he ever move on from that?

Though, as the years passed, and he grew into middle school, watching his friends date as if they swore they were in love with the first girl that said hi to them, Kai didn't say anything. One perk of being able to see the strings was that he could tell. He could see it when someone wasn't his soulmate, when two people were, and those who were together, but not meant to be. However, that one "perk" was not worth it. He hated it; having to tell his best friend that his girlfriend of two years wasn't his soulmate. They wanted to get married right after high school, and Kai couldn't let them live a lie. It was disgusting, and maybe he was selfish.

The countless hours he spent, agonizing over the fact that someone's love derived from a string made him sick. He knew soulmates were better off with each other, but at the same time, did he really need one? In those fleeting moments, his friends had been overjoyed, in love and willing to do anything to savour that feeling. Even if they weren't soulmates, they were happy... Kai was incapable of feeling that happiness. Even as he tried to date, he couldn't. It was wrong, it was leading someone on, only to get hurt.

Young, reckless, stupid and selfish. That's what he called himself as his first love hissed at him, screaming into the dead of the night as Kai confessed. They weren't soulmates, and yet he was utterly in love with the man. His pillow stained with tears, thoughts drowned out by violent sobs. He lost more than a friend that day, he lost family.

Despite being a positive and seemingly well-collected college student, Kai was miserable. Caught between two worlds, both that had very valid points. He wasn't able to choose a side, and he wasn't sure if that made it worse when it came down to his own soulmate. Kai had spent hours a day, just staring at the red string attached to his left ring finger, studying how it disappeared into the smog of morning fog. The dew coated the ground, coating the red in smokey mystery. Whoever his soulmate was, he prayed. He swore, he didn't want to ruin their happiness, even if it wasn't with him. The selfishness would be no more, he swore on that thought.

And then; he saw his neighbour. Gabriel, as he'd come to learn. The sheer horror on his expression when that night had crossed him. He was arriving home from his friend's, only able to hear the stumbling of bodies through the hallway. He was going to ignore it, it was just the neighbour, bringing home a hookup. He didn't care, he shouldn't have cared. Though, the red caught his attention. The tugging he left on his arm, his head whip in their direction and he saw it. He saw the strings connect. His and Gabriel's string was one, just as another pushed his soulmate into his apartment. He guessed the walk of shame followed in the early hours of the morning.

Kai despised his soulmate from then on, refusing to even think about it. The small hope that maybe he wouldn't have to ruin his soulmate's life was crushed, and while he found out it was a meaningless hookup, that changed nothing. Kai wanted no part in someone who played around. And just when he thought he could give Gabriel a chance, that was crushed too. It became obvious he was involved in more than just some trouble. He played a dangerous game, furthering the bitter blockade the twenty-one-year-old built up. It was a shield for both himself and Gabriel.

NIghts were ruthless since then, he hadn't quite slept the same. He'd always been little insomniac-like, restless anxiety sweeping over his mind. Nightmares of his mother's secret sadness for her lost marriage, his brother's anger towards him for ruining what would've been his perfect family. His eyes fluttered open and shut for the millionth night in a row, his phone idly laid on the nightstand. The covers were thrown across the bed lazily, the window open as the smooth city noise drowned out the dead silence that made his ears ring.

The chorus of street noise came to a halt when a new, persistent knock sounded from the entryway. It forced his eyes open, the young man groggily sat up. He slipped on a pair of jeans, leaving his chest exposed as he casually wrapped a blanket over his shoulders. Other than some mild scarring across his collarbone, he was in good shape, toned. Light footsteps padded through the hallway as he saw the shadow under his door. Who in their right mind would come by his apartment at- after taking a quick look at the clock on his stove- midnight?

When the door opened, and his eyes landed on crimson, he wasn't sure what he was looking for. First; the connected string gave it away, it was Gabriel. If that hadn't brought a small frown to his face then the leaking blood on his torso had. Owlishly, "You're...." his gaze tapered up to Gabriel's face, "You're... bleeding, in front of my door..." The observation was obvious, yes, but Kai felt the wave of shock crash over his shoulders. It was similar to watching his brother get stitched in an ER after a cooking accident. His mouth opened and shut a few times before he blinked, "You're... bleeding... in front of my door..." His voice seemed oddly flat but soon enough, Kai unravelled the blanket from his shoulders. "Stop... bleeding in front of my door?" The question came out panicked, his hands clumsily reaching for the hunched-over male in front of him. The blanket was pressed against his wound, crumbled up to help stop the bleeding.

"Oh my god..." he panted out, pulling him inside. The door shut softly behind him, "You're bleeding- and you're in my apartment... Two things," he was running around now, grabbing a towel from the kitchen as well as the first aid kit. "Why are you bleeding? And why are you bleeding in my apartment instead of a hospital?" Kai was certain the panic came from shock, and not seeing his soulmate bleeding in front of him.

 

[cheri]

> > EUPHORIA :: SICILY NGUYEN
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The revelation of his dealings is not shocking. If she knew it was going to work, she would’ve tried to extort him for pills, claiming some bullshit about reward or something. His phrase was something straight out of her mind, as destructive as it came too. The red pigment entranced her, her eyes observing the slow leakage until it's out of sight. "People made the buddy system for a reason," she comments in return, rather than answering his thanks properly. Quiet winds swept by the trio, Sicily casting a wary look to Liam as the silence presses on. Curiously, she researches the stranger through subtle looks. He tears his clothing, awkwardly (or maybe painfully) sitting while he waits for the uber. She could fix it for him, the rips and tears in his clothing. It was her Nana that taught her how to sew, the elder working as a retired embroider. They wait in pregnant silence, empty lyrics to missed beats.

Headlights glow in the distance, signalling the arrival of his uber. Liam passes off a kind smile, "Your ride's here." He can't say his name, she guesses that he doesn't know it. Waiting on the grass, Liam helps him up, offering himself as a crutch in order to get to the car. "Next time, maybe don't come alone?" he suggests with a halfhearted tone, hoping the mood isn't too ruined. Sicily shoves in her own goodbye, a small smile and a "hope you feel better" at the end. He seems in good spirits though, easing Liam's worry as he shuts the car door. Making his way back to the grass, he rummages his pockets for his keys.

"I can walk," she cuts in, "Or... I'm taking the bus." Sicily's never been one to take from others. She always preferred to be the giver in a relationship, no matter the kind. He offers to go with her, saying he doesn't want her to get hurt. The act is endearing and she has to accept, unwilling to tell him how armed she is. She took several martial arts classes as a kid, carrying the skills with her through life. A couple blocks down is the bus stop, towards a quiet road that leads to the city. Not many people travel at night, afraid of what lurks in the dark. They part ways shortly after, Sicily undisturbed until the screeching of tires is heard. She doesn't think much of it at first, figuring that some dumbass is just having a little too much fun on the roads.

It's the large, bone-crushing thud that makes her look over. Immediately, her eyes fall on the scene of a crime. The car whistles away like nothing ever happened, and while it looks clear to step out, she can't. Sicily is once again frozen, falling backwards until her body slides down the plastic wall. Curling herself into a ball, she buries herself in her arms, heaving to herself. It doesn't occur to her to call the police, an ambulance, or someone that could help. Tears gather in her eyes, the palm of her hand covering her mouth to prevent any noise. Slowly rocking to and fro, she pleads with Buddha to make it go away, promising she'll be better in life if he just let this one go.

When the sight of a corpse on the ground enters her vision, Sicily's body takes her far away from the scene. Ending up at her apartment, a hot mess, she cries herself into oblivion, sitting in a cold shower until she can no longer feel her body. News about it doesn't spread until the next day. The story is that some bystander found it, a pair of girls on their way home from the same party she was at. They called for an ambulance and they pronounced him dead upon arrival. In a horrible fashion, Sicily tries to make herself feel better. He was already dead when he hit the ground, even if she stood there and tried to help, there was nothing she could do. Guilt runs rampant through her system, Sicily diving for her stash of cigarettes but nicotine wasn't going to do the job this time.

 

[cheri]

> > WALLS COULD TALK :: LEI-LING WUTON
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An ancient grudge; break to new mutiny, from forth of fatal loins— the very lines were written by the prophet that had visited long ago. The prediction was never about her life, the young soldier had been promised a destiny of glory, not a trashy love story. Council decided to tweak fate’s timing as if no man had ever suffered consequences. Fate was some kind of scorned lover, a bride left at the altar, a man overturned by his allies. Thrice times the ancient one had warned the King of deviance but the elder would not listen. As prestigious as the Ki-Wan name was, the crown rained gold on his consciousness. The ruler aligned two kingdoms by marriage, the wheels on a carriage slowly churning. Absurdity broke out amongst the castle before life had settled, the bride and groom planned their wedding to be in the castle’s chapel.

The guard’s first impression of the foreign princess was not kind. She carried a destructive aura similar to that of a tornado. For months, she watched the woman in secret, waiting for some kind of evidence to prove her theories right. She found her confession on a late-night, the walls were too thin, the balcony doors were left ajar and the wind carried her song of betrayal into the gardens. Flowers wilted at the sound of truth, crushed under the boot of an enraged knight. Locking the princess in isolation was the next step, further action would be taken after trial, should one ever start. For now, the kingdom of Solaris would dive into war with one of the greatest enemies on the field.

On the edge of the woods, a fleet gathered. Horses lined up by the trees, reins loosely wound over branches. Oak and pine mixed together, a maple tint in the air coming from the river of sap that escaped near an arrow. It had been lodged in the tree not long ago, the squadron had come across a base camp, stormed it and chased the men out. They left no survivors. The youngest daughter in the Ki-Wan lineage stood proudly at the head of the table, a slender finger tracing lines across a map. A pencil was tucked behind her ear, blonde hair stretching from her shoulders to the small of her back.

Black stains decorated her skin, the scent of charcoal lingering on her breath as hints of copper stuck to her clothing. Embroidered on the sleeve was the symbol of the General, a position not won through inheritance. Had this been months ago, Lei-Ling would be in the castle, standing watch by the prince of Solaris as he went about this day. His bride would be there, begrudgingly adding a sort of tension to the air. Ignoring her was incredibly easy until the weeks began to tick by. Sooner or later, the female had trouble forgetting her presence. It was far too pronounced, perhaps she was getting far too comfortable. Lucky for her, there was no more time to contemplate her thoughts.

Lei-Ling had been the one to put the chains around her body. The boulder hit the ground, the bars shut and the air grew musty. Grey bricks, moss and mould gathered in little piles, dust floating through the air as moans from the dead chanted eerily.

War was not crazy, it was necessary. There was an art to it, a kind of perfection in the rubble. Her mouth spoke harsh words, the pleasantries absent from her speech. The bland tone was replaced with a taste of bitterness. Lei-Ling waited until the tent was empty, the tips of her blindfold smeared with blood. Revealing her eyes, rich emerald irises reflected like diamonds. Rinsing the cloth in the pail of water, her hands clench the cloth, wringing the water out with a tight breath in. Footsteps approach from somewhere. Startled, Lei-Ling rushes to replace the band, lids closing to embrace the veil.

Head craned over her shoulder, the tent flap opened. Fancy robes belonging only to royalty appeared, glittering from the oil lamp positioned at the edge of the map. Prince Royan smiled through his melancholy. Posing the familiar question of her wellbeing, the knight answers with a nod. He clarifies further that he wanted to know the truth. The royal sat on the bamboo chair, pushing forward a glass of mead to his lifelong friend. No story is exchanged, only pregnant silence is shared. Reflections come at a cost, the mind flashes back to months ago; the prologue.

> > >​

Prince Royan is perched at the grand table, a cup of tea held steadily in his gloved hands. Smiling to himself for the sunshine, his eyes turn up at the sound of shuffling. “Lei,” he chirps, hurriedly moving to catch the female’s attention. She’s passing in the hallway, almost clear of the doorway until she catches his voice.

Peeking her head in, she quirks a brow. A line of concern furrows her brows, Lei-Ling checking the room for his supplementary guard (she had separate duties this morning). “Is there something I can help you with, your highness?” She glances at his food, noting that most of it is still there, perhaps she ought to call the chef. Lei-Ling braces for demand but when nothing comes, her head tilts to the side. Looking between him and the opposing guard, she sighs knowingly. “Priya is an excellent soldier and has completed the required training to—” Lei-Ling has to stop, for all he’s doing is staring at her expectantly. With a bit of a scoff, she announces, “I was busy this morning.”

“Well, you’re not busy now.” His hands clap together, the napkin wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth. Prince Royan stands, pushing his chair in as he sips on the last of his beverage. “Mother would like me to pick out the flower arrangements for this week.” It was a tradition in the castle, all of the children took turns picking the floral pattern for the halls. “Let’s go, the florist in town says she has some peonies.”

Priya, the guard, speaks up, “Shall I go with him?”

“No,” Lei-Ling answers, stepping into the hall with her in tow. “I will. Clearly, someone’s being picky today.” She says it loud enough for him to hear, and laughter soon escapes him. Speak to Mona about my responsibilities. If she asks, tell her I’ve been taken hostage.” Sending her off with a thin smile, she jogs up to the prince’s side, nudging him with her elbow. “I have other duties too.”

He pats her on the shoulder, “Sure.” Prince Royan, always the comedian. How they became friends was a mystery, Lei-Ling could be considered the exact opposite of him. But she values his friendship as he appreciates her service. Everything was changing, and she understood his uneasiness. There would be a wife for him to care for, in inconsistency in his life whereas Lei-Ling had always been by his side. She would be dead without him.

 

[cheri]

> > EMPIRES :: ELLERIE FISCHER
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She’s a collected assumption of what the army boys saw. A pair of breasts with a red cross embroidered on the sleeve of her tan jacket. They barely saw the rugged-green knapsack, only the feminine hands and curved waist. The first time she entered the green area, a few men leered at her. In the way that horny teenage boys would. Ellery understood the kind of environment they were in, the pressure on their shoulders and the little methods of release— how scarce the sight of women was too. In perfect honesty, her mouth would not remain in a tight smile, scorching gaze burning the edges of a wound. Nearly everything regarding men was black and white, they either got what they wanted or didn’t. Women would never be the same, society was knit in the glory of power and masculinity. If she ever mouthed a complaint, they would investigate her files, file a formal complaint in hopes of removing her. What they wound find, Ellery swears into oblivion. Her origins are complicated, but if anyone asks, she was born and raised in a French town and is the only living member of her family.

Morning sun glosses over white cotton, silver tags shine white spots. Surgical scissors cut strips of fabric, metallic snips peacefully chanting. Multiple tents create shelters, shadowed pathways that some lie in to avoid the glare. Tins clanked against each other, canteens unscrewed, nicotine in the air. A rotting scent creeps up on the group but goes unmentioned. There’s a designated cross with someone’s helmet hung atop, behind it lay sheets. Bodies are hidden from sight but the collective knowledge pronounces their ghastly moans and the toxic fumes. Flies scrape at the ground, buzzing incessantly to the point where one of the canines is flicking them with its nose. The early day draft of wind kicks in, autumn beginning to breed snow and frost. Dry dirt kicks up and dust collects on every surface.

Looming above a patient, her eyes trained on the torso of a patient. He was brought on a medical evacuation. A bullet was currently sitting in a tray somewhere, his surgery having run until dawn. Ellery was on call, opting to take the night shift when a majority of people were trying to sleep. Mortars were still being shot on occasion but they melted into the background melody. Her job was a clattering mess, it had dozens of moving parts. Setting the object on the cart to her right, two brown irises narrow. Studying the surface of the injury, the rough stitching is not ideal but it was the fastest way to close and to halt the onslaught of blood. It caked the grass in red icing, each step feeling mushier than the last. Blood had soaked into the dirty, marking every person that came in or out. Her hand-stretched over the body to begin wrapping again, her pleasant air intact.

All until he moves abruptly. Spouting nonsense and mixed questions, he shoots up as her hands push his shoulders down. She hushes him, “You are safe at camp.” Her voice is a subtle low note, a bare tone on the edge of a whisper. Speaking with a distinguished accent, adding a smoothness. “I am Ellery, it is my job to help you.” Retracting her grip, she holds her hands up defensively, showing the medicinal equipment. Satisfied when the male backs down, Ellery nods him in thanks before continuing her own work. Feigning aloofness, the man pipes up after a few minutes.

“I don’t see a ring.” His head gestures to her hand. An inch of a smile surfaces as he sits up, mumbling, “I bet you’d like the city.”

“I’m sure I would,” she responds dryly. Wishing the conversation would come to an end, the medic struggles to follow his chatter. Her focus shifts constantly, increasing the uncertainty of her movements. Hesitation is prevalent; it isn’t a pretty look on Ellery. The angelic nature boils her skin like holy water to a sinner. Biting the inside of her cheek until she can taste copper, the young woman spies her chance at some tranquillity. While he’s babbling about some of the bars in town, her palms cross his stomach and one of the patches is ripped off without warning.

Exclaiming a large cry, he nabs her wrist, “Bitch!” The British accent doesn't make it any more classy. It almost prompts a laugh but the jerking of her shoulders to accommodate his accosting disguises the faint grin.

“Is there a problem here?” Commander Andrews furrows a brow, eyeing the pair with keen interest.

Shaking her head, “Non. I was simply removing the tape.” Ellery shows off the beige strips, pushing a polite smile forward. Normally, she wouldn’t be such a smart-ass but this was Commander Andrews, he knew many of her traits. He was one of the few men that didn’t care to comment on her body. Sometimes he called her pretty, flirting on-and-off but he treated all female workers with respect.

Commander Andrews is a tall American man. He has a head of truffle hair, stubble on his chin, wide shoulders with a sharp jawline. He would be a steal, the ladies would say but he’s married with a young son waiting for him. She swears that’s the difference it makes in a man. “Lewis, come with me. We have to discuss something.” His fingers snap towards another nurse, the commander motioning to the exasperated brat. Andrews instructs, “Grab your gear.” Strutting his way down the path, he stops by a gate. The white paint is chipped, the clasp is broken and the chains are orange from rust.

Ellery hands off her material, not bothering to excuse herself out of kindness. Her bags were always packed, she was always on the move from one spot to another. Barely having moments to herself, she didn’t often unpack much of her personal items anyway. (She carries a rosary, a journal, a few pencils and a box of matches alongside some clothes.) Striding in the direction of Andrews, Ellery falls into step with him as they navigate the grounds.

It’s mostly where the infantry has set up, a hilled section with the communications centre on top. Leading her towards the front, he muses, “You know that I think of you as capable.” She notes the rocky start, observing the twitch of his face. “I think of you as a friend,” Andrews claims, furthering, “And someone I trust.” She searches her mind for an indication of what’s about to happen, holding her breath tightly. Ellery didn’t think she did anything wrong.

Her footsteps halt at the base of the hill. “Commander, if this is about the incident—” he holds a hand up and Ellery stops immediately.

“I’ve chosen you for a mission.” His arm outstretched, he motions for them to keep going. “It’s simple, I think you’ll have no problem completing it.” Sighing to himself, “There is a message that needs to be delivered to the front, the first to fourth are there, they are preparing an ambush, but see, the Germans are aware. They are walking into a trap.” Andrews stares down at her, “Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, commander.” Freedom of speech would’ve been great to have right now. Trailing a pace behind him, he stops by a table, holding out a weapon for inspection. He then hands it to her, not noticing the hint of fear in her eyes. Ellery glances at it, eyes only grazing the outlined handle before equipping it like the rest of her luggage. Hiding a gulp, the young woman keeps her questions to herself. There was a great flaw in Andrews' plan, one Ellery can’t point out without receiving heavy reprimands. Trying to imagine which figure she would be stuck with for the next while, her gaze darts around the area. Everywhere they land, the infantry is insight. Anxiety spawns goosebumps, her body chills and her legs wobble silently.

 

[cheri]

> > EMPIRES :: ELLERIE FISCHER || TW : : description of blood and potential gore
___________________________________

Evans shoots the German before she can speak. Wincing at the body that falls to the ground, she finds herself staring into the eyes of the recently deceased. His breaths turn into empty air, blood pouring out from the gunshot wound. There’s one on Evans too, his cheek is lacerated and there’s a stab wound to his abdomen. Gulping, she barely has a chance to face Evans before he’s talking. Taking charge, she brushes over the question of being okay and rushes forward to him. Removing gauze and a shot of morphine, she rests the tube between her lips. Working quickly, Ellerie presses the clothes to his body, focusing on the larger problem first. Unwilling to open her mouth, afraid of what might be said, the medic hopes that he won’t comment on it. Her hopes are dashed the moment he demands to know what she was doing. Resisting her, Ellerie’s jaw clenches. Grabbing his hand by force, she positions it to hold his wound, tightly clamping her palm over his to show that it needed more pressure than just a light touch. As she pulls the lid off of the injection, her hand sneaks down to insert it into his thigh. There’s a major artery there, it’ll jumpstart the process hopefully.

She finally has the courage to look at his face, for the sake of the graze wound. Their eyes meet and Ellerie shrinks. Disappointment etched into his features, a surprising contrast to the earlier warmth of his smile. The gentle tone he had with her was gone, an explicit dropping sharply. He weasels out from her care to collect his weapon, the woman’s still lying motionless a few feet away. Her nails dig into her palms, a roll of gauze stuck between her fingers. He steps back, creating a gap that digs the knife deeper into her chest. With one shaky breath, Ellerie tries her best not to waver her tone. “I will never kill,” she announces boldly, “Not in this war, not in the next. Not in life.” Her eyes go in and out of focus, the ghost of Commander Andrews watching her from over Evans’ shoulders. A beat of silence goes by, the news sinking deep into her bones. Confession never quite led to redemption despite Jesus’ claims.

“I know they’re bad people,” she then defends, desperately trying to make him see the point. “I don’t agree with what they do, I don’t condone it, I don’t even like it but that does not give me the right to choose who lives and dies.” It was playing god. The Germans were doing it every day, picking on the Jewish minority, marking the streets with their blood. Ellerie had walked through her old hometown after the bombing, she saw the hanging heads on the posts, the hate signs, the scorching of flesh and the burning of scriptures. It haunted her dreams. “It’s not my intention to have you killed, I promise… It’s… No one gave them the right to decide if people live or die, and we are not better than them for taking it upon ourselves either.” Shaking her head, her eyes start to blur with fresh tears. Pulling at her hair stressfully, she remains rooted in place. “These people,” she gestures to the dead man on the ground, “He had a family.” Knowing deep down that he’ll never understand, Ellerie deflates like a balloon, whimpering slowly as the wind rushes out of her lungs.

Admitting once more, “I won’t kill anyone.” She could. Ellerie could take her medical equipment and use it to slice throats, cut arteries and tears. She could tear apart someone’s chest cavity and use their organs as garlands if she truly wished to. To be able to decide who lives or dies is not a right for any human to have, no one should be able to decide that for their neighbour. Agnosticism puts a dent in her thinking. Doubts bubble to her throat as inaccuracies, flaws and extremes make it hard for her to talk about it. One of Jesus’ commandments was not to hurt his creation, the same with the Laws of Moses. At last, her eyelids close and a few tears slip out from her lashes. “I hope you can forgive me,” Ellerie mutters, voice weak. The sleeve of her jacket rubs against the side of her cheek, absorbing her salty tears.

Bracing for whatever comebacks he has, he barely has to say them in order to hurt her. Just the way he stares down upon her demonstrates such shame that Ellerie won’t even try to be his equal anymore. It’s a loud, explosive event that leaves Ellerie quaking in her boots. Trying to hide any of the tears that pour out, turns away from both him and the body. The flood walls are breaking, she can feel the tears growing constant. Before she has a chance to sob, she steps back and flees towards a building. With her medical bag, she leaves the weaponry in the street with Evans. Her fists grab one of the doorknobs to the church as she flings the damn thing open, letting it fall behind her with a loud bang. Her bag hits the ground with a clatter, Ellerie finally choking on her tongue for breath. A stream of tears flows from her eyes as her back leans against the door, body hunched over to try and calm the dizziness of her mind. Believing she’s alone, the woman allows herself to cry in silence, up until it’s no longer just her in the building.

Something moves in front of her. Nervously, she waddles across the floor, peeking through the cracks in her hands to see that she isn’t the only one. There are a group of survivors, confused men and women, children, that stare at her fearfully. Hurriedly, she wipes her eyes, “I’m not here to hurt you,” she whispers, unsure if they were armed or not. They didn’t look like nazis, that was for sure. They were looking between each other, Ellerie swallowing nervously as her eyes searched for any indication of their thoughts. But instead, she frowns deeply. “Oh mon Dieu,” she exclaims, leaping into action. Darting to the pews, she shoves them out of her way as her knees hit the ground. In front of her, a man is lying on his back. A fountain of blood is gushing out from his stomach, his hand sinking into his abdomen where the giant hole is. His intestines are hanging to the side alongside his right arm. It hangs on by the bone and some tendons but he won’t ever have use for it, she can already tell. Wiping her tears one last time, Ellerie dives into what she does best.

There are a couple of helpers with her. A few farmers that speak English that aid her. Most of them speak German, but Ellerie isn’t about to join in on them. Having already spilled one truth today, she doesn’t want to chance another. First and foremost, she checks his pulse, recording the numbers mentally. Gesturing for one of the boys to hold the roll of gauze on the large gash across his stomach or the fact that his arm is basically in two pieces. His pressure is normal right now, there’s enough of a patch to say that it’s alright. Signalling for one of the men to keep it in place, she rolls up her sleeves. Taking the long tie of her jacket out of the loops, Ellerie uses it as a tourniquet that wraps around his arm just above the elbow. Judging from the grunts in pain, the injured man is still awake. Gritting her teeth, she guides one through the art of diffusing panic— while her hands work on remnants of the limb.

Exhaling, she reaches for the knife in her pocket as she twists over to the other two. “Tell him to look away.” He tries but the patient turns to look at her, shouting at her to stop. He wants his arm but the nerves are dead and the veins are all torn. The tip of her knife presses against the last bit of intact skin, her other hand ready to snap the bone. Without flinching, she points her gaze in one direction, “Oh, look at the bunny!” The three stooges follow her eye line and in one swift moment, a crunch is heard and the arm hits the floor. Fresh blood starts oozing, and with the assistance of her teeth on the one end of the tourniquet, she pulls the knot tighter, slowing the volume dramatically. Tying it off, she thinks on her feet.

Ellerie shuffles through her bag, finding the additional ammo that was tucked in the pocket. She had in case she was in a situation where someone needed it, not for herself. Prying open the pack, she fishes one out using the red-stained blade to pry it open. Powder enters the air, making her cough at the potency. Dusting the stub with the dark substance, she grabs the box of matches. Striking one swiftly, she cocks her head to the patient. “Look at the bunny,” quietly advising him, she takes her cue the second his sight is off of his arm. The limb goes up in flames in an explosive flourish, Ellerie using the bloody bandages to smother the embers soon after. No more blood: progress.

The organs are still an issue, but it’s a relatively easier fix than the last. With precise movements, she creates another incision in his stomach. Pushing her fingers through the holes, she uses it as a guide to thread his intestines back into place. Now to stitch everything shut. There's blood all over her shirt, splotches of it up to her elbows. Some of the squirts had hit her on the face, dripping down her neck and beginning to dry. Ellerie pays attention to none of it, it barely makes it to the top ten things she's thinking about right now. The church reeks of smoked flesh and blood, the nurse is blind to it all. Without the equipment for stitching, she decides tape is the best answer. "Can you hand me the roll of tape?" she asks aloud, assuming one of the helpers would do so.