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queerlygen...I always feel a bit odd posting stuff for my weird J-vidya fandom here. Would it help if I said that my canon has this 7-foot-tall electric megalomaniac? Who has an electro-kinky romance with another guy? And he's being stalked by this dead necromancer who can cause bad weather, but that's okay because he knows a folk charm that can ward off lightning if he says it every time it rains? *facepalm*
Title: Terminal Voltage
Creator:thene/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
athenemiranda
Universe: Metal Gear
Type of work: Shortfic.
Contains: Queer, sadist narrator, ghosts, some mentions of the non-consensual kind of violence (and killing), ominous threats.
Summary and/or notes: Volgin is taking a walk in the rain, and The Sorrow is watching him.
Volgin had never seen rain like this. It came from summer skies that had been clear only minutes before and should be clear still - it was rain stolen from a winter's storm at sea. It was striking his face as he walked; it seeped through his clothing to his skin. It was filling the swampy river, making it run fast and clean.
It brought lightning.
Kuwabara.
The lightning kept its distance, like any other wary enemy would.
He walked in the storm because it was his enemy. He felt its hate running damp trails down his neck, and he enjoyed the gentle touch, because it proved that for all its wild displays, the weather could not harm him. He had insulation, shelter. Kuwabara, kuwabara. Beneath his word, he could revel in his adversary's useless defiance.
He had asked countless doctors and scientists to tell him what he was, why he was, and they had cowered and mumbled and looked upon him with eyes so cowardly that he considered them almost not worth the trouble of tormenting. But he did. If they would not speak of it, he would show them what he was.
It was Granin who explained it. Granin, who seemed to have a heart too bitter to know fear - his indifference was as disgusting as the others' terror, but he must stay alive, for now. Kuwabara. "Like a battery," he'd said. "Your whole body is a sequence of voltaic cells, and the anions and cations move from pole to pole..." Too many words. But he grasped the idea, a charge built up grain by grain, beginning in a fingertip and progressing by slivers across the whole span of his arms. A power that grew through opposition. It moved through him like a pianist sliding from key to key, hands stretching from the lowest note to the highest.
"It's the terminal voltage - the difference in charge between one hand and the other - that makes the electricity," Granin had said.
Too many words, when he needed only one. Kuwabara.
Volgin had always looked for faces in the clouds - smiles in high places, wrinkled cheeks and billowing curls of hair, folded eyes with the sun behind them. For many years, they had been the only faces he ever saw that were not filled with fear of himself and his strange electric nature. Kuwabara. But the emotions he roused in others had increased in range with the years - he had seen hatred and awe and pain and fury, and sometimes the finality of death. He had seen Ivan, cupped him between two sparking hands, and been unable to name the heady warmth that burned between them.
Ivan, alone of all the souls in the world, saw his nature as positive.
And Ivan was the only one who had ever made him wonder what it felt like to be held between his own hands, to feel the perverse ecstasy of having every nerve in your body overpowered by electricity. Kuwabara. No other had made him care to consider what it would be like being anyone except who he was.
But still he looked above. He wanted to see what the heavens themselves felt towards him.
On days like this, the faces above him were vast and dark and tears ran from their empty eyes. They showed him no fear, but lately, he did not meet their gaze.
He felt invincible. He raised his hands to the sky, and stared up at the clouds, curled sheets of heavy greys and purples, as bright as if they had come to crown an emperor.
Lightning flashed in the far distance, and in the air between his hands he saw a drop of blood, a shadow.
Kuwabara -
It could not touch the ground. His word kept it at bay. His word against the storm. The thunder rang in his ears, trying to drown it out. Kuwabara! He was stronger than the tempest.
He felt the chill touch of water at his heels, and realised his boots had sunk beneath him into ground thick with water. The river had burst its banks. The storm had broken its confines, sent the Volga to carpet the world in its murk. Volgin turned and strode away, every step settling in water, sparks sizzling away into muddy water, his capacitance spent pointlessly into the earth like so much spilled seed. He was stronger than this. The rain still pelted his head, hard and steady and he knew well enough that it would begone soon, and he knew very well that it would return. To watch him. It was his enemy, the only worthy adversary he had ever had.
He walked away from the flood, through a world full of puddles and shades.
Kuwabara.
His word. He needed it. He would always need it. He would always have it. He stepped through the iron door, and extended a gloved hand back to the space outside, and watched the rain fall upon it. He pulled it back to his chest, curled into a fist, and watched water run down his knuckles in rivulets.
Was this all the storm had? He had ten million volts and all that opposed him were a few drops of water?
He shook his hand and raindrops splashed against his skin, so gently he barely felt them. They were nothing to him.
Title: Terminal Voltage
Creator:
thene/athenemirandaUniverse: Metal Gear
Type of work: Shortfic.
Contains: Queer, sadist narrator, ghosts, some mentions of the non-consensual kind of violence (and killing), ominous threats.
Summary and/or notes: Volgin is taking a walk in the rain, and The Sorrow is watching him.
Every time we meet you say it
a word made of your fear
a word to stop you listening to the thunder
kuwabara kuwabara
Every time, the word.
a word made of your fear
a word to stop you listening to the thunder
kuwabara kuwabara
Every time, the word.
Volgin had never seen rain like this. It came from summer skies that had been clear only minutes before and should be clear still - it was rain stolen from a winter's storm at sea. It was striking his face as he walked; it seeped through his clothing to his skin. It was filling the swampy river, making it run fast and clean.
It brought lightning.
Kuwabara.
The lightning kept its distance, like any other wary enemy would.
He walked in the storm because it was his enemy. He felt its hate running damp trails down his neck, and he enjoyed the gentle touch, because it proved that for all its wild displays, the weather could not harm him. He had insulation, shelter. Kuwabara, kuwabara. Beneath his word, he could revel in his adversary's useless defiance.
They await you in the river
in their hundreds
shoulder to shoulder
from bank to bank
and between they and you
between you and I
Only the word.
in their hundreds
shoulder to shoulder
from bank to bank
and between they and you
between you and I
Only the word.
He had asked countless doctors and scientists to tell him what he was, why he was, and they had cowered and mumbled and looked upon him with eyes so cowardly that he considered them almost not worth the trouble of tormenting. But he did. If they would not speak of it, he would show them what he was.
It was Granin who explained it. Granin, who seemed to have a heart too bitter to know fear - his indifference was as disgusting as the others' terror, but he must stay alive, for now. Kuwabara. "Like a battery," he'd said. "Your whole body is a sequence of voltaic cells, and the anions and cations move from pole to pole..." Too many words. But he grasped the idea, a charge built up grain by grain, beginning in a fingertip and progressing by slivers across the whole span of his arms. A power that grew through opposition. It moved through him like a pianist sliding from key to key, hands stretching from the lowest note to the highest.
"It's the terminal voltage - the difference in charge between one hand and the other - that makes the electricity," Granin had said.
Too many words, when he needed only one. Kuwabara.
Your strength is your undoing
a live wire, a torrent of death upon your hands
And between the two, your word, a word and time.
a live wire, a torrent of death upon your hands
And between the two, your word, a word and time.
Volgin had always looked for faces in the clouds - smiles in high places, wrinkled cheeks and billowing curls of hair, folded eyes with the sun behind them. For many years, they had been the only faces he ever saw that were not filled with fear of himself and his strange electric nature. Kuwabara. But the emotions he roused in others had increased in range with the years - he had seen hatred and awe and pain and fury, and sometimes the finality of death. He had seen Ivan, cupped him between two sparking hands, and been unable to name the heady warmth that burned between them.
Ivan, alone of all the souls in the world, saw his nature as positive.
And Ivan was the only one who had ever made him wonder what it felt like to be held between his own hands, to feel the perverse ecstasy of having every nerve in your body overpowered by electricity. Kuwabara. No other had made him care to consider what it would be like being anyone except who he was.
But still he looked above. He wanted to see what the heavens themselves felt towards him.
On days like this, the faces above him were vast and dark and tears ran from their empty eyes. They showed him no fear, but lately, he did not meet their gaze.
You will know how it feels soon enough
You will know what I feel soon enough.
You will know what I feel soon enough.
He felt invincible. He raised his hands to the sky, and stared up at the clouds, curled sheets of heavy greys and purples, as bright as if they had come to crown an emperor.
Lightning flashed in the far distance, and in the air between his hands he saw a drop of blood, a shadow.
Kuwabara -
a word that only delays the moment
when the charge returns to earth
when the charge returns to earth
It could not touch the ground. His word kept it at bay. His word against the storm. The thunder rang in his ears, trying to drown it out. Kuwabara! He was stronger than the tempest.
He felt the chill touch of water at his heels, and realised his boots had sunk beneath him into ground thick with water. The river had burst its banks. The storm had broken its confines, sent the Volga to carpet the world in its murk. Volgin turned and strode away, every step settling in water, sparks sizzling away into muddy water, his capacitance spent pointlessly into the earth like so much spilled seed. He was stronger than this. The rain still pelted his head, hard and steady and he knew well enough that it would begone soon, and he knew very well that it would return. To watch him. It was his enemy, the only worthy adversary he had ever had.
He walked away from the flood, through a world full of puddles and shades.
Kuwabara.
His word. He needed it. He would always need it. He would always have it. He stepped through the iron door, and extended a gloved hand back to the space outside, and watched the rain fall upon it. He pulled it back to his chest, curled into a fist, and watched water run down his knuckles in rivulets.
Was this all the storm had? He had ten million volts and all that opposed him were a few drops of water?
He shook his hand and raindrops splashed against his skin, so gently he barely felt them. They were nothing to him.
I have patience.
And all you have is one word.
And all you have is one word.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-22 05:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-22 06:39 pm (UTC)