![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oneill posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sutepriSorry the imported posts are all out of order. I submitted a support ticket--apparently it's a known issue, but there's no fix yet.
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Canzonetta of the Unforgiven | The SpecOps Combat Technician, Once Again | Part 1/3
Subtlety and savagery.
Weapons . . . blades in particular, are delicate tools that waver in the space between these two contradictory elements.
If they are sharp, then they are tinged by an equal measure of fragility; by contrast, if they are dull, then they lose their bite.
Those meant for ornamentation or ceremony are the exception. The production and maintenance of ones meant for actual combat (and all the more of those to be wielded by a master) is the sort of work in which one fumbles around in search of the compromise between those contradictory elements. If a blade is too sharp, its robustness will be ruined; if sturdiness is given priority, the blade is diminished in the long run.
"Shannon-nii~."
However, sharpness or robustness . . . which you focus on and to what degree will differ depending on the weapon's shape and the inclinations and skills of the one who will wield it. This is to say that neither priority is the correct one.
To put it in extreme terms, there are as many points of compromise as there are wielders and weapons. Merely completing a weapon's manufacture in a prescribed manner is not good enough.
"Shannon-nii. Shannon-nii."
To withstand the harsh conditions of the field, weapons have always demanded maintenance. However, it is delicate work that requires an extraordinary amount of time, effort, and--above all--sensitivity.
Because the slightest negligence or error in judgement could rob the wielder of his life, this is only natural.
"Hey, c'mon, hey, hey."
In other words, the work of maintaining a weapon is something that requires meticulous care and attention, as though it were indeed the most important thing in the world . . .
"Are you listening? C'mo~n. He~y."
Regret was simply out of the question . . .
"How about I do this? Whoo hoo!"
In other words . . .
"Oh, how cute. Now this, and then this."
". . . Would you knock it off?"
As you might expect, Shannon lost his patience the moment Pacifica started to gather his long, black hair into three braids.
Incidentally, the cord that normally bound Shannon's hair at the back of his neck had been unwound by his little sister's hand and was now being used to tie up a tuft of his hair on the right side of his head.
The way his hair--which stretched up like a rabbit's ears--swayed . . . well, it could not be called cute. It did look silly, though.
"You know, you . . ."
They were in the rear garden of the Big Bear . . . the inn at which they were staying.
The autumn afternoon sunlight was neither hot nor cold, and it tempted one to drowsiness. Even the trees, which were turning various colors, seemed to be idly dozing in it.
The garden was less than spacious, but it had a flower bed and a small pond, and a white table and chairs had been set out so the inn's guests could at least enjoy a cup of tea in the garden. But then, beside them stood the impromptu, rustic cooking stove that Shannon had made himself, in place of the partially destroyed kitchen. It completely spoiled the ambiance.
"The minute I shut my mouth, you just do whatever the hell you want with other people's hair."
Shannon "The Guardian" paused in his maintenance of his sword--a memento of his father--and glared at his beloved little sister, whom he would protect even if it cost him his life (ostensibly, probably).
"Wha~t? But it's so cu~te."
"If being cute is so great, why don't you do it to your own head?"
"I'm cute enough as it is, so I don't need it."
". . ."
Shannon stared expressionlessly at his little sister, who had puffed out her chest as she said this . . . and, letting out a small sigh, he resumed his work as though nothing had happened.
"Hey, what was that?! What's with that silence just now?! Looks to me like you irreverently harbor a contradictory opinion in the face of the immutable fact that I'm adorable! Hey, come on! Your sovereign demands an answer to her question, Shannon Casull!"
Shannon gazed into the face of Pacifica, who had seized him by the nape of his neck and given him a shake.
It was possible that--were she to keep quiet--anyone would admit that her looks were quite pretty.
"Not at all, my princess. To the best of my knowledge, the very height of supreme beauty is embodied in your very own person, indeed."
"Don't rattle it off in monotone like it's a big hassle!"
"You're so damn fussy about each and every little thing."
"You're too sketchy, Shannon-nii!"
"I really couldn't care less about that . . . So, did you want something?"
Pacifica nodded at Shannon, who had cut short their usual give-and-take.
"Oh, yeah. That's right. Um, so, Winia, like, wants you to go shopping with her. Since she needs to stock up on a bunch of stuff."
"Pack-horse work, huh? What a pain in the ass . . . Guess I'm in no position to say that."
As a burden who was staying at the Big Bear at actual cost, there was no way he could refuse.
"Tell her to give me a minute. I'm just about done with these repairs."
"Mm-hm. Gotcha."
The outskirts of Taurus.
A low hill that provided an unbroken view of the whole city. Atop it, the figure of a lone man stood with an air of composure.
His appearance was suggestive of steel, and though he merely stood there, he gave off a quietly intimidating air. The eeriness of steel, which can be neither shaken nor scratched by half-hearted efforts.
Luke Sturm. That was this man's name.
But those who knew him well called him by a single, awestruck word . . . "Major."
"SitRep."
At his murmuring voice, the landscape around him wavered slightly. His subordinates had used illusory magic to bend the surrounding light, thereby concealing themselves.
The Leinwand Royal Military Intelligence Agency's Special Disposal Squad . . . popularly known as the Black Hawks.
A jet black hawk dancing through a moonless night does not by any means place itself in the public eye. But it possesses talons befitting a raptorial bird, and has the power to hunt down its prey in a single killing blow.
Conspiracy. Assassination. Abduction. Men who would execute any order--no matter how despicable and dastardly--with precision and without hesitation. Alongside the Fourth Special Operations Unit (the Crimson Swords), the Fifth Special Operations Unit (the Obstinate Arrows), and others like them, they oversaw the Royal Forces' black ops, and were the strongest demolition squad . . . That was who the Black Hawks were.
"Team 2 has detained a caravan of seven traveling merchants. Team 5 has detained one male, and all are being held under Class 2 custodial protocols. In conclusion, all teams report no change since the last scheduled report. Lockdown ongoing."
Luke gave only a slight nod. "All teams proceed with the operation."
"But, Major . . . will it really be all right to leave matters in the hands of the SpecOps combat technician?"
That trembling voice held ill-concealed discontent.
"As an individual soldier, there's no arguing against that boy's combat capabilities. They're absolutely first-class, just as you'd expect of a soldier from the Obstinate Arrows."
"No, I didn't mean it like--"
Checking his subordinate's words with a slight wave of his hand, Luke continued.
"I know. But precisely because he is recognized as first-class by both himself and others, he likely has a strong sense of personal responsibility as well as face. He won't be able to rest as long as his defeat remains unreversed. Even if he could, the Baroness1 couldn't. The fact that he's been brought into our campaign, under various pretexts, is proof of that. They'll owe us for letting him make the first strike so he can have his chance at a rematch."
". . . I see."
"If he wins, that's fine. Even if he loses, we'll have lost nothing. Quite the contrary, they'll owe us an even greater debt if we have to clean up after them."
Luke's tone was indifferent, as though he were matter-of-factly reading aloud the results of his calculations. Even though, depending on the circumstances, that "cleaning up" could mean the wholesale slaughter of the town's residents.
He was not cruel. Nor was he heartless. But he was able to cast aside his feelings when duty called. That was the sort of man he was.
Otherwise, there was no way he would be fit to serve as the leader of the Black Hawks. He had to be the sort of person who could suppress any emotion through strength of will . . . the sort of person who could strangle a blameless infant to death with his own hands without turning a single hair, if that was what the kingdom required.
"But" --for a moment . . . for just one moment, an expression flickered on Luke's face-- "he probably won't be able to win."
"I fear not. Even if he does win, he'll likely suffer for it."
His subordinate's voice, too, held a note of sympathy. As though remembering something cast aside in the distant past.
"A blade too keen is ill-suited for a weapon," Luke said, as he gazed out over the town of Taurus.
"Here you are. Sorry to have kept you waiting."
In one of the buildings along the shopping avenue.
Sitting in a seat at the window, he brought his gaze back from the street outside. Right now, there were no other customers in the shop.
Beside the table stood a girl a little older than he . . . a girl in her late teens, who wore a bright smile.
She was no beauty, but whether because of the way she wore her tea-colored hair rather short for a girl, or perhaps because of the lively radiance in her black eyes, she had a jauntiness about her, reminiscent of a young boy in his mischievous prime.
The tray she held in her hand bore fragrant tea and a bun.
Near this bakery's entrance stood several tables, at which freshly bought bread could be eaten. So that customers who were worn out from shopping along the avenue could rest at ease, the bakery mimicked a tea shop.
Incidentally, it appeared that his order was part of a new line of goods. Thanks to the countless flyers that were hung throughout the shop--saying such things as "A Faint Bittersweetness," "The Flavor of First Love!" or "Oneesama-approved!"--he had somehow ended up ordering something, but . . .
". . . hee hee."
Having set his order on the table, the girl gazed at his face and beamed.
". . . ?"
He turned a questioning look on the girl, who showed no signs of leaving.
"You're . . ." the girl said, fixing her eyes--which glittered with interest, like a child who has found something fun--on him, ". . . in love, aren't you?"
. . . Schlip.
Faintness almost sent him slipping from his chair, but he was somehow able to regain his posture.
". . . Whaa?"
"That doleful expression and those occasional sighs of yours are the best evidence of all!"
"No . . . I--"
The girl thrust out her palm to stop him in mid-sentence.
"It's all right, my boy! You don't have to say a word! Michelle-sama sees all! Waitressing in a place like this, I often get customers like you. Clutching tragic memories to their hearts, their eyes reflecting the twilit sky, or else the phantom of a beloved--nngh!--the light and shadow of youth are right here! How I envy the young!"
Though from a standpoint of age she was smack-dab in the middle of youth herself, the girl carried on like an oldster. A shout came flying from the shop's back room to smack her in the back of the head.
"GODDAMMIT, MICHELLE! Are you at it again?! Stop messing around with the customers and help me get these out of the oven! Move your ass!"
Apparently, this was a hobby of the girl's. It looked as though she would seize upon a likely-seeming customer and have her fun teasing him.
"Crap." The girl stuck her tongue out a bit, heading for the back room . . . and looked back over her shoulder. "Hang in the~re."
With that, the girl vanished into the shop's back room.
He didn't really understand her, but she seemed to be a cheerful girl.
The silence struck him as oppressive now, different than it had been before she had delivered his tea.
". . . This just isn't like me."
Smiling wryly and gazing at the bun in his hand, he pinched off a small piece and brought it to his mouth. Perhaps some herb or other had been baked into the bun; it was aromatic, and had a slight, bittersweet taste to it.2
"Love . . . huh?"
He supposed it certainly might look that way.
Who was it that said . . . that love and hate are extremely similar emotions? Both throw the heart into disarray, impair the judgement. You can no longer understand your own heart, and lose control of yourself.
From the beginning, he could not remember ever having feelings for another person, the way ordinary people do. He made it a point not to remember. For that very reason, he was able to keep a cool head as he carried out his missions. If need be, he could even strangle a baby to death.
It was precisely that ability that gave value to his existence. Those who lacked it met a swift end.
And yet.
Shannon Casull . . . that hypocrite.
Thinking about him led to sleepless nights. Awake or asleep, Shannon's face and voice burned into his mind and would not let go. Where was he, and what was he doing? What was he seeing, hearing, feeling?
So then, was this hatred? Or was it love?
He smiled wryly. It was such a clichéd question to ask himself.
"Sorry, but in order to reach a definite conclusion, I'll have to fight you again . . . Guardian Shannon Casull."
SpecOps Combat Technician of the Leinwand Royal Forces, Fifth Special Operations Unit, the Obstinate Arrows--Christopher Armalite.
As he smiled quietly, he gazed out the window . . . and across the street, at the young man in black who walked in the apparent company of a girl.
---
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) Iris Weirauch really is a baroness (男爵夫人 - danshakufujin), but バロネス (BARONESU) seems to be more like a codename than a rank. Back
2) This may be Japanese mugwort (ヨモギ - YOMOGI), which is a bitter herb associated with spring. It provides both flavor and color to the green dumplings in hanami dango (花見団子 - cherry blossom-viewing dumplings). Incidentally, the "youth" Michelle waxes nostalgic about is written with the characters for blue-green and spring (青春 - seishun). Back
Just re-watched Back-Alley Elegy through Aria of a Mother's Sorrow. For fuck's sake, man.
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Canzonetta of the Unforgiven | The SpecOps Combat Technician, Once Again | Part 1/3
Subtlety and savagery.
Weapons . . . blades in particular, are delicate tools that waver in the space between these two contradictory elements.
If they are sharp, then they are tinged by an equal measure of fragility; by contrast, if they are dull, then they lose their bite.
Those meant for ornamentation or ceremony are the exception. The production and maintenance of ones meant for actual combat (and all the more of those to be wielded by a master) is the sort of work in which one fumbles around in search of the compromise between those contradictory elements. If a blade is too sharp, its robustness will be ruined; if sturdiness is given priority, the blade is diminished in the long run.
"Shannon-nii~."
However, sharpness or robustness . . . which you focus on and to what degree will differ depending on the weapon's shape and the inclinations and skills of the one who will wield it. This is to say that neither priority is the correct one.
To put it in extreme terms, there are as many points of compromise as there are wielders and weapons. Merely completing a weapon's manufacture in a prescribed manner is not good enough.
"Shannon-nii. Shannon-nii."
To withstand the harsh conditions of the field, weapons have always demanded maintenance. However, it is delicate work that requires an extraordinary amount of time, effort, and--above all--sensitivity.
Because the slightest negligence or error in judgement could rob the wielder of his life, this is only natural.
"Hey, c'mon, hey, hey."
In other words, the work of maintaining a weapon is something that requires meticulous care and attention, as though it were indeed the most important thing in the world . . .
"Are you listening? C'mo~n. He~y."
Regret was simply out of the question . . .
"How about I do this? Whoo hoo!"
In other words . . .
"Oh, how cute. Now this, and then this."
". . . Would you knock it off?"
As you might expect, Shannon lost his patience the moment Pacifica started to gather his long, black hair into three braids.
Incidentally, the cord that normally bound Shannon's hair at the back of his neck had been unwound by his little sister's hand and was now being used to tie up a tuft of his hair on the right side of his head.
The way his hair--which stretched up like a rabbit's ears--swayed . . . well, it could not be called cute. It did look silly, though.
"You know, you . . ."
They were in the rear garden of the Big Bear . . . the inn at which they were staying.
The autumn afternoon sunlight was neither hot nor cold, and it tempted one to drowsiness. Even the trees, which were turning various colors, seemed to be idly dozing in it.
The garden was less than spacious, but it had a flower bed and a small pond, and a white table and chairs had been set out so the inn's guests could at least enjoy a cup of tea in the garden. But then, beside them stood the impromptu, rustic cooking stove that Shannon had made himself, in place of the partially destroyed kitchen. It completely spoiled the ambiance.
"The minute I shut my mouth, you just do whatever the hell you want with other people's hair."
Shannon "The Guardian" paused in his maintenance of his sword--a memento of his father--and glared at his beloved little sister, whom he would protect even if it cost him his life (ostensibly, probably).
"Wha~t? But it's so cu~te."
"If being cute is so great, why don't you do it to your own head?"
"I'm cute enough as it is, so I don't need it."
". . ."
Shannon stared expressionlessly at his little sister, who had puffed out her chest as she said this . . . and, letting out a small sigh, he resumed his work as though nothing had happened.
"Hey, what was that?! What's with that silence just now?! Looks to me like you irreverently harbor a contradictory opinion in the face of the immutable fact that I'm adorable! Hey, come on! Your sovereign demands an answer to her question, Shannon Casull!"
Shannon gazed into the face of Pacifica, who had seized him by the nape of his neck and given him a shake.
It was possible that--were she to keep quiet--anyone would admit that her looks were quite pretty.
"Not at all, my princess. To the best of my knowledge, the very height of supreme beauty is embodied in your very own person, indeed."
"Don't rattle it off in monotone like it's a big hassle!"
"You're so damn fussy about each and every little thing."
"You're too sketchy, Shannon-nii!"
"I really couldn't care less about that . . . So, did you want something?"
Pacifica nodded at Shannon, who had cut short their usual give-and-take.
"Oh, yeah. That's right. Um, so, Winia, like, wants you to go shopping with her. Since she needs to stock up on a bunch of stuff."
"Pack-horse work, huh? What a pain in the ass . . . Guess I'm in no position to say that."
As a burden who was staying at the Big Bear at actual cost, there was no way he could refuse.
"Tell her to give me a minute. I'm just about done with these repairs."
"Mm-hm. Gotcha."
The outskirts of Taurus.
A low hill that provided an unbroken view of the whole city. Atop it, the figure of a lone man stood with an air of composure.
His appearance was suggestive of steel, and though he merely stood there, he gave off a quietly intimidating air. The eeriness of steel, which can be neither shaken nor scratched by half-hearted efforts.
Luke Sturm. That was this man's name.
But those who knew him well called him by a single, awestruck word . . . "Major."
"SitRep."
At his murmuring voice, the landscape around him wavered slightly. His subordinates had used illusory magic to bend the surrounding light, thereby concealing themselves.
The Leinwand Royal Military Intelligence Agency's Special Disposal Squad . . . popularly known as the Black Hawks.
A jet black hawk dancing through a moonless night does not by any means place itself in the public eye. But it possesses talons befitting a raptorial bird, and has the power to hunt down its prey in a single killing blow.
Conspiracy. Assassination. Abduction. Men who would execute any order--no matter how despicable and dastardly--with precision and without hesitation. Alongside the Fourth Special Operations Unit (the Crimson Swords), the Fifth Special Operations Unit (the Obstinate Arrows), and others like them, they oversaw the Royal Forces' black ops, and were the strongest demolition squad . . . That was who the Black Hawks were.
"Team 2 has detained a caravan of seven traveling merchants. Team 5 has detained one male, and all are being held under Class 2 custodial protocols. In conclusion, all teams report no change since the last scheduled report. Lockdown ongoing."
Luke gave only a slight nod. "All teams proceed with the operation."
"But, Major . . . will it really be all right to leave matters in the hands of the SpecOps combat technician?"
That trembling voice held ill-concealed discontent.
"As an individual soldier, there's no arguing against that boy's combat capabilities. They're absolutely first-class, just as you'd expect of a soldier from the Obstinate Arrows."
"No, I didn't mean it like--"
Checking his subordinate's words with a slight wave of his hand, Luke continued.
"I know. But precisely because he is recognized as first-class by both himself and others, he likely has a strong sense of personal responsibility as well as face. He won't be able to rest as long as his defeat remains unreversed. Even if he could, the Baroness1 couldn't. The fact that he's been brought into our campaign, under various pretexts, is proof of that. They'll owe us for letting him make the first strike so he can have his chance at a rematch."
". . . I see."
"If he wins, that's fine. Even if he loses, we'll have lost nothing. Quite the contrary, they'll owe us an even greater debt if we have to clean up after them."
Luke's tone was indifferent, as though he were matter-of-factly reading aloud the results of his calculations. Even though, depending on the circumstances, that "cleaning up" could mean the wholesale slaughter of the town's residents.
He was not cruel. Nor was he heartless. But he was able to cast aside his feelings when duty called. That was the sort of man he was.
Otherwise, there was no way he would be fit to serve as the leader of the Black Hawks. He had to be the sort of person who could suppress any emotion through strength of will . . . the sort of person who could strangle a blameless infant to death with his own hands without turning a single hair, if that was what the kingdom required.
"But" --for a moment . . . for just one moment, an expression flickered on Luke's face-- "he probably won't be able to win."
"I fear not. Even if he does win, he'll likely suffer for it."
His subordinate's voice, too, held a note of sympathy. As though remembering something cast aside in the distant past.
"A blade too keen is ill-suited for a weapon," Luke said, as he gazed out over the town of Taurus.
"Here you are. Sorry to have kept you waiting."
In one of the buildings along the shopping avenue.
Sitting in a seat at the window, he brought his gaze back from the street outside. Right now, there were no other customers in the shop.
Beside the table stood a girl a little older than he . . . a girl in her late teens, who wore a bright smile.
She was no beauty, but whether because of the way she wore her tea-colored hair rather short for a girl, or perhaps because of the lively radiance in her black eyes, she had a jauntiness about her, reminiscent of a young boy in his mischievous prime.
The tray she held in her hand bore fragrant tea and a bun.
Near this bakery's entrance stood several tables, at which freshly bought bread could be eaten. So that customers who were worn out from shopping along the avenue could rest at ease, the bakery mimicked a tea shop.
Incidentally, it appeared that his order was part of a new line of goods. Thanks to the countless flyers that were hung throughout the shop--saying such things as "A Faint Bittersweetness," "The Flavor of First Love!" or "Oneesama-approved!"--he had somehow ended up ordering something, but . . .
". . . hee hee."
Having set his order on the table, the girl gazed at his face and beamed.
". . . ?"
He turned a questioning look on the girl, who showed no signs of leaving.
"You're . . ." the girl said, fixing her eyes--which glittered with interest, like a child who has found something fun--on him, ". . . in love, aren't you?"
. . . Schlip.
Faintness almost sent him slipping from his chair, but he was somehow able to regain his posture.
". . . Whaa?"
"That doleful expression and those occasional sighs of yours are the best evidence of all!"
"No . . . I--"
The girl thrust out her palm to stop him in mid-sentence.
"It's all right, my boy! You don't have to say a word! Michelle-sama sees all! Waitressing in a place like this, I often get customers like you. Clutching tragic memories to their hearts, their eyes reflecting the twilit sky, or else the phantom of a beloved--nngh!--the light and shadow of youth are right here! How I envy the young!"
Though from a standpoint of age she was smack-dab in the middle of youth herself, the girl carried on like an oldster. A shout came flying from the shop's back room to smack her in the back of the head.
"GODDAMMIT, MICHELLE! Are you at it again?! Stop messing around with the customers and help me get these out of the oven! Move your ass!"
Apparently, this was a hobby of the girl's. It looked as though she would seize upon a likely-seeming customer and have her fun teasing him.
"Crap." The girl stuck her tongue out a bit, heading for the back room . . . and looked back over her shoulder. "Hang in the~re."
With that, the girl vanished into the shop's back room.
He didn't really understand her, but she seemed to be a cheerful girl.
The silence struck him as oppressive now, different than it had been before she had delivered his tea.
". . . This just isn't like me."
Smiling wryly and gazing at the bun in his hand, he pinched off a small piece and brought it to his mouth. Perhaps some herb or other had been baked into the bun; it was aromatic, and had a slight, bittersweet taste to it.2
"Love . . . huh?"
He supposed it certainly might look that way.
Who was it that said . . . that love and hate are extremely similar emotions? Both throw the heart into disarray, impair the judgement. You can no longer understand your own heart, and lose control of yourself.
From the beginning, he could not remember ever having feelings for another person, the way ordinary people do. He made it a point not to remember. For that very reason, he was able to keep a cool head as he carried out his missions. If need be, he could even strangle a baby to death.
It was precisely that ability that gave value to his existence. Those who lacked it met a swift end.
And yet.
Shannon Casull . . . that hypocrite.
Thinking about him led to sleepless nights. Awake or asleep, Shannon's face and voice burned into his mind and would not let go. Where was he, and what was he doing? What was he seeing, hearing, feeling?
So then, was this hatred? Or was it love?
He smiled wryly. It was such a clichéd question to ask himself.
"Sorry, but in order to reach a definite conclusion, I'll have to fight you again . . . Guardian Shannon Casull."
SpecOps Combat Technician of the Leinwand Royal Forces, Fifth Special Operations Unit, the Obstinate Arrows--Christopher Armalite.
As he smiled quietly, he gazed out the window . . . and across the street, at the young man in black who walked in the apparent company of a girl.
---
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) Iris Weirauch really is a baroness (男爵夫人 - danshakufujin), but バロネス (BARONESU) seems to be more like a codename than a rank. Back
2) This may be Japanese mugwort (ヨモギ - YOMOGI), which is a bitter herb associated with spring. It provides both flavor and color to the green dumplings in hanami dango (花見団子 - cherry blossom-viewing dumplings). Incidentally, the "youth" Michelle waxes nostalgic about is written with the characters for blue-green and spring (青春 - seishun). Back
Just re-watched Back-Alley Elegy through Aria of a Mother's Sorrow. For fuck's sake, man.
no subject
Date: 2012-04-21 05:58 am (UTC)I'm badtzphoto @ lj .
Calm before storm, huh?
Chris is back, yikes! There are 2 kinds of atmosphere, light-heartedness on Pacifica and co., and heaviness and serious on Chris and the hunters!
Anyway, Michelle's diagnosis is so funny :) I wonder if there are fanfics pairing Shannon/Chris after this musing of Chris :P
no subject
Date: 2012-04-21 06:04 am (UTC)Shouldn't it be it's?
no subject
Date: 2012-04-21 03:04 pm (UTC)The wildly different moods are one of my favorite things about Sutepri. It keeps the emotions ripe for a beating, haha.
Well, there's at least one fanart, anyway. There also seems to be a romance fic over at ff.net, but it's dated prior to Tokyopop's release of this volume, so.
Thanks for pointing out the typo. I need to go back over this translation sometime soon as I sort of rushed it out just to knock some of the rust off my brain.
no subject
Date: 2012-04-22 05:18 am (UTC)