Fandom: Hokuto no Ken Ship: Mamiya/Airi Wordcount: 933
The church steeple stands tall above the abandoned town, the bell housed within cracked and fallen from its perch. No more than a blip on the map, this town hadn't had a name for some time now, victim to the same fate as many places in the wasteland: anything that survived the bombs fell to bandits and raiders.
Mamiya is acutely aware of how similar she and her crew are to those raiders right now. She kicks in the front door, rusted lock buckling quickly and bullethole-riddled doors creaking inwards. On her signal, the scavenging crew files into the abandoned church, armed members taking the lead and surveying the area with crossbows at the ready. Only when the perimeter sweep confirms that the church is empty and free of traps does Mamiya relax her guard.
Airi steps up from the back of the group and takes Mamiya's hand in hers, squeezing it slightly. "I'm going to join in on the search, okay?" Mamiya hesitates slightly, but she knows what this means to Airi. She had been the one to propose stopping here, pointing out that raiders would have skipped over artifacts with cultural value. This was another facet of her work in the village, helping to expand her yarn of mythological figures of the past.
Mamiya squeezes her hand back. "Just don't wander off, alright?" They'd all put up with loss in these harsh times. She couldn't use that as an excuse to be overprotective. Airi smiles and darts off to the church's pews, checking each seat for salvageable missalettes.
Mamiya stares after her for a while before her focus shifts to the central altar. She was never really a religious person-- religion was one of many things that her family had foregone when survival became the utmost priority-- but the building still invokes a sense of reverence in her. For as long as she remembered she had been enamored with the idea of a wedding, and even now that feeling still had sway over her.
It didn't take much for her to visualize what that might look like in her mind's eye. The church may never look like what it did in its prime, but with a few weeks of work with her townspeople could clean it right up. Multicolored light would pour through the repaired stained glass, pews overflowing with everyone she knows from the village. Soft music would play-- maybe the church organs couldn't be repaired, but there was always the choir and even Johnny with his guitar-- and the general murmurs in the room would hush when she walks in. She is absolutely radiant, the white shawl covering her face both making everything appear to shimmer and obscuring her tears from the audience. Slowly she would walk forward, not even noticing the dress's train dragging behind her and she gets closer and closer to the altar...
The vision slowly dissipates. For as much time as she spent in this idle daydream, she had never put much thought into who would be waiting for her at the altar. It was never an important part of the fantasy. She distracts herself, moving on autopilot as she rifles through drawers in the narthex for anything of value. Her fingers fumble through sodden papers, likely some kind of church bulletin from the before-times. Many years ago she had been witness to a couple's wedding, only for the ceremony to be abruptly ended by marauders. She had done her best to intervene and try to save them but nearly lost her own life in the process.
She can't make out the words on the page, but she cannot tell if this is because the paper has deteriorated or her vision is out-of-focus.
It had been a pair of men who saved her from her premature end. Many years had passed since their lives had intersected, but thinking on it for too long still makes her weepy. At different points in time she had considered either of these men as the ideal person to be opposite her at that altar, but even with the clarity of hindsight she couldn't say if that would be a fulfilling idea. By all means they should fit into the fantasy-- they were handsome, chivalrous, living their lives to defend others-- but the notion of being united with either of them didn't fill her with the joy that she knew she should feel. Something was missing.
She feels herself on the precipice of a familiar pit of despair. No, there's no time for that now. She looks up from her papers to Airi, who flits about the church with an understated grace. Carrying sheathes of loose paper under her arm, she meticulously flips through books in the back of each seat, each finger nimbly parting the pages. She reminds Mamiya of the first flowers to bloom in their village, delicate stems and petals that pushed apart the cracked earth and bloomed with a radiance that many had forgotten was possible. It had been a long undertaking to reach that point, many months of labor and love spent preparing the wasteland to allow the plants thrive. Looking at her now, you would never guess that many years ago Mamiya had to guide her by the arm as she shuffled through the village, walking made difficult due to her atrophied vision.
Mamiya slams the drawer shut, catching the people nearby her by surprise. Maybe she would never find that special someone, but for now she had a village to run and people to protect. And that would be enough for her.
Fill: Team OCs 🌚
Ship: Mamiya/Airi
Wordcount: 933
The church steeple stands tall above the abandoned town, the bell housed within cracked and fallen from its perch. No more than a blip on the map, this town hadn't had a name for some time now, victim to the same fate as many places in the wasteland: anything that survived the bombs fell to bandits and raiders.
Mamiya is acutely aware of how similar she and her crew are to those raiders right now. She kicks in the front door, rusted lock buckling quickly and bullethole-riddled doors creaking inwards. On her signal, the scavenging crew files into the abandoned church, armed members taking the lead and surveying the area with crossbows at the ready. Only when the perimeter sweep confirms that the church is empty and free of traps does Mamiya relax her guard.
Airi steps up from the back of the group and takes Mamiya's hand in hers, squeezing it slightly. "I'm going to join in on the search, okay?" Mamiya hesitates slightly, but she knows what this means to Airi. She had been the one to propose stopping here, pointing out that raiders would have skipped over artifacts with cultural value. This was another facet of her work in the village, helping to expand her yarn of mythological figures of the past.
Mamiya squeezes her hand back. "Just don't wander off, alright?" They'd all put up with loss in these harsh times. She couldn't use that as an excuse to be overprotective. Airi smiles and darts off to the church's pews, checking each seat for salvageable missalettes.
Mamiya stares after her for a while before her focus shifts to the central altar. She was never really a religious person-- religion was one of many things that her family had foregone when survival became the utmost priority-- but the building still invokes a sense of reverence in her. For as long as she remembered she had been enamored with the idea of a wedding, and even now that feeling still had sway over her.
It didn't take much for her to visualize what that might look like in her mind's eye. The church may never look like what it did in its prime, but with a few weeks of work with her townspeople could clean it right up. Multicolored light would pour through the repaired stained glass, pews overflowing with everyone she knows from the village. Soft music would play-- maybe the church organs couldn't be repaired, but there was always the choir and even Johnny with his guitar-- and the general murmurs in the room would hush when she walks in. She is absolutely radiant, the white shawl covering her face both making everything appear to shimmer and obscuring her tears from the audience. Slowly she would walk forward, not even noticing the dress's train dragging behind her and she gets closer and closer to the altar...
The vision slowly dissipates. For as much time as she spent in this idle daydream, she had never put much thought into who would be waiting for her at the altar. It was never an important part of the fantasy. She distracts herself, moving on autopilot as she rifles through drawers in the narthex for anything of value. Her fingers fumble through sodden papers, likely some kind of church bulletin from the before-times. Many years ago she had been witness to a couple's wedding, only for the ceremony to be abruptly ended by marauders. She had done her best to intervene and try to save them but nearly lost her own life in the process.
She can't make out the words on the page, but she cannot tell if this is because the paper has deteriorated or her vision is out-of-focus.
It had been a pair of men who saved her from her premature end. Many years had passed since their lives had intersected, but thinking on it for too long still makes her weepy. At different points in time she had considered either of these men as the ideal person to be opposite her at that altar, but even with the clarity of hindsight she couldn't say if that would be a fulfilling idea. By all means they should fit into the fantasy-- they were handsome, chivalrous, living their lives to defend others-- but the notion of being united with either of them didn't fill her with the joy that she knew she should feel. Something was missing.
She feels herself on the precipice of a familiar pit of despair. No, there's no time for that now. She looks up from her papers to Airi, who flits about the church with an understated grace. Carrying sheathes of loose paper under her arm, she meticulously flips through books in the back of each seat, each finger nimbly parting the pages. She reminds Mamiya of the first flowers to bloom in their village, delicate stems and petals that pushed apart the cracked earth and bloomed with a radiance that many had forgotten was possible. It had been a long undertaking to reach that point, many months of labor and love spent preparing the wasteland to allow the plants thrive. Looking at her now, you would never guess that many years ago Mamiya had to guide her by the arm as she shuffled through the village, walking made difficult due to her atrophied vision.
Mamiya slams the drawer shut, catching the people nearby her by surprise. Maybe she would never find that special someone, but for now she had a village to run and people to protect. And that would be enough for her.