Originally posted April 16, 2010
((By the time I wrote this, I hadn't heard from Kori's player in several week. The last thing I heard told me that she felt she had found a purpose. I'm assuming that purpose didn't include Champions Online.
I was bummed to lose such a great RP partner and I couldn't see keeping Chance and Kori together after she had moved on. I still think fondly of the months that we played together.))
The ring box rested on the island of the great room. Chance busied himself, pouring a glass of wine, pulling out a bit of cheese from the refrigerator. He leaned on the counter, taking small sips, and staring at the box in the dim light of the early morning.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
He sprung for a first class ticket for the 12 hour flight back from Japan. It didn't feel right to take the corporate, regardless of her insistence. A stopover and delay at Chicago's O'Hare put him back in MC much later than expected, tired, jet-lagged, emotionally numb.
The ring seemed small, tucked in black velvet. It had been his mothers. He poked at the box as it rested on the counter. It had never felt certain. It had felt like love, but never quite what Chance needed in a relationship. Crisis after crisis never offered them the time to really get to know each other or figure out what it meant to be a couple.
Together, they fought demons, serial killers, terrorists, and helped guide the footsteps of a very troubled teenager. An awesome super-hero team up did not a solid marriage make. Chance figured that it didn't even make for a very good relationship. At the end of the day, a couple had to talk about something more than VIPER's next plot to take over the world.
It had gone about as peacefully as he could have hoped. They returned the gifts of engagement. They shed a few tears at their last embrace. Chance would miss the sword. He had really enjoyed flying.
A banging on his apartment door drew his attention. Chance checked the time, shaking his head as he walked to the portal. No good news ever game at 3 am. The door swung open to reveal short Japanese man wearing a faded Hawaiian shirt and thickly taped, bulky, black glasses: Fumio, the thousand year old spirit in the shape of a man, the master swordsmith who originally forged the sword for Mercedes Arasaka. He smiled with crooked teeth, holding out the katana with one hand. He giggled. "Not for her to give. Not for you to return. Sword gives itself, looks for partner," he said. "自業自得*," He giggled again, a slight wheeze in breath. "It like you." The oddly shaped man leaned into the apartment and sniffed the air "Do you have any scotch?"
- Jigou Jitoku Literally: One's Act, One's profit/Advantage. You reap what you sow.
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