Moonlark Turned Evil

Inktober Special: Scratchy

Look at me writing a chapter set in the FAAAAAAR FAAAAAAAR future (like past chapter one hundred, for sure) while trying not to give away who lives and dies💀

December's almost over guys

I will update twice on New Years if I can make it, bc I wanna do the 31st prompt as well as a new years special

Don't count on it, though, cuz i might not have time when i'm already scrambling to try and prepare the 24th and 25th prompts ahead of time so they won't get in the way of christmas celebrations

Anyway I hope you enjoy this slightly angsty chapter that I hope will get you all super worried for the future

Yellowed paper.

Ink.

Messy handwriting and almost lifelike illustrations.

Sophie flipped through the scratchy pages, smoothing the creases with her fingers. They were all dated—of course he would've marked the time—and so she could see it all. The first few were raw, but the stains and ink smudges began to fade as time went by, just like the scrawl of the pen lessened and became neater.

Like a wound healing, sealing itself up.

She flipped through the book, came across a letter in the middle of the second year that seemed to scream soundlessly.

The chain broke, the first line read—not hi or hello or I hope you're well like the other letters had started, but the chain broke, followed by incoherent scribbling and more smudges. It was only a few sentences later that it actually began to make sense, when the handwriting (and the tears of the writer) had calmed a little.

He talked about mundane things.

Baking escapades. Doing some gardening. How he'd gone to see the wanderlings—oh, did I even mention that there are wanderlings for them? he wrote. There are, Sophie, somehow we managed to make it happen despite all the chaos. For most of them, anyway. I wish they could have all gotten one, but with everything that happened, it really just wasn't possible. No one ever visits them without sobbing, so they usually go in groups. It's easier that way, you know?

The paper itched against her fingers as Sophie noticed how it said "they", not "we", as if he'd refused to go with anyone who wasn't . . .

Well, if that wasn't an entitled way of thinking.

Hi, I broke my arm today, the next letter started, and Sophie nearly burst out laughing at how random it was. Can you break your arm, where you are? That whole consciousness thing really just confuses me, so you'll have to explain it properly when you're back. I can't promise I'll understand it straight away, either, so be prepared!

The writing went down a line.

I think I'm getting better at Chinese, was scrawled lazily. I still can't write anything, but I do know how to say 'whatever', thanks to Wei Wuxian. Really, Sophie, I'm shaking my head at the ending of MDZS. Who knew you read that kind of stuff in your free time?!

Her ears burned. Had he gone through her book collection? He would've had enough time to read it all, and then go through it again and another twenty times after that. The thought was embarrassing. (At least it wasn't her fanfiction history, though).

As if he wanted to tease her, as if he could read her thoughts from when he'd written this in the past, the letter continued, I took the liberty of learning how to use your phone, logged into your a03 account, and read all your favourite fanfiction, and Sophie was inches away from packing her things and fleeing the country. Fleeing the earth, actually. She was going to mars—and if she couldn't go to mars, then she would kill herself.

Please tell me he didn't read Grey Mustang, she cried mentally.

He made no comment on any horrific smut fics he may or may not have found, so she was left to stew in her burning humiliation as she kept reading.

Did I mention how I broke my arm? I didn't, did I. I really need to stop rambling. Everyone says it's annoying—but they're all lying. You don't find it annoying, right? Uhhh anyway, so I paid this Technopath dude a visit to give him cookies (no, I refuse to say his name, he's stupid) and instead of thanking me, he set off this trap that made the room explode. I barely escaped alive, and I broke my arm in the process. Beat him up for me, will you?

Sophie shook her head, smiling. There was no way he wasn't the cause of the explosion.

She was proven right when she read the postscript, PS. I was mostly possibly probably maybe entirely at fault with the room thing, he didn't blow up the room—I did, but also you shouldn't really leave explosive buttons lying around just like that for your guests to push, excuse the fact that I was warned not to push it several times, curiosity got the best of me, woah I've extended this sentence so much, you're probably at your wits' end now, so I'm going to end the letter here.

PPS. No beta we die like . . . right I'm just not going to finish that—

She rolled her eyes. Had he seriously been about to make a joke out of the reason he was writing these letters? (Who could blame him, though? If Sophie had been the one left behind, she would've done the same. Jokes made everything easier. It was their shared coping mechanism).

Good morning, the next letter started. I have no funny tales to tell today. That doesn't mean something bad happened though, don't worry. I think you can already tell by the date.

Sophie's eyes flicked up to read the numbers at the top of the page, and her eyes widened slightly with understanding.

Oh.

So it was that day, when he'd sat down to write this message addressed to her.

I miss you terribly. Gah, that sounds so formal. I swear your classical book collection is turning me into some kind of . . . prose-spewing moron. Don't laugh! the letter protested, and she was indeed chuckling behind her sleeve as she imagined his indignant face. Around this time, he wouldn't have been fully grown up yet, so there must've been some childlike innocence mixed in when he pouted at the paper as if it was her.

When will you be back? the next line asked, solemn and almost quiet.

Letters carried no sound.

They couldn't convey the same things as facial expressions or tone of voice. But Sophie could read into the fractional shaking of the letters, the ink blot that was the dot on the question mark. She could almost see him leaning over the paper, hands trembling as he wrote those words.

His humour kicked in straight away, though, and the shaking lessened as the lines thickened, almost like he had pressed down harder with the pen. I promised you I would wait, and here I am being impatient. I really can't help it! Is where you are warm? Are there seasonal changes? Are you even conscious?

The train of thought ended abruptly and changed in the next line. Sophie realized why he'd switched so suddenly.

He'd been about to write, Are you even alive?

Oranges! he'd written underneath those morbid words.

Like the fruits could change anything.

Sophie dropped her lips down to that book of letters, and imagined she was kissing away his tears.