Katawa Shoujo Forums

Hey, it's been a while since I wrote any story at all. Not talking about this site, I mean anything even story related anywhere. I have ideas to include almost all the Katawa Shoujo characters in this, and I'm planning on posting it in sections. I even have most of the plot for each section planned out, if that counts for anything. Please keep in mind that I'm changing the characters to fit the setting (early 20'th century north eastern city), so expect them to be different, some slightly, and some drastically. If I really get into this, I'll make pictures to go along with it.

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The meat in my chest beats calmly. I can barely feel it, it's soothing. Hers is no different. One slender arm crooked on my breast with a loosely cupped hand rises and falls as I breathe in this night air. Through the dim light I can barely make out the furniture in the room, clothes tossed rabidly about, open window lets in the echo of late night bodies. Cool breeze on our skin shifts the primal stink that only two lovers can make. Hana Koley shifts her weight so that her head rests against my neck. The noise she makes is cute, like a baby animal. I would hug her if I wasn't afraid of waking her from making that beautiful face she has when she sleeps. The soft exhale across the hill of my adam's apple lulls me to sleep, and I don't remember my dream.

Orange light blinds me awake. Hana is halfway dressed, adjusting her garters and stockings. "Good morning, Hue." she says to me. The smile on her face is genuine. Propping myself up with both hands, I return the gesture. She calls me Hue. Everyone calls me Hue. It's short for my first name, Houston. Houston Nicky would be my full name, but everyone seems to have shortened it to just plain Hue, which is fine by me. When people say "Hey Hue" or "That's Hue", I know they're talking about me. By the time I reach for my underpants, she's already in the kitchen getting ready to serve up a batch of pancakes. I dress slowly until I can smell the frying batter. It gracefully replaces the smell of last night with one which is as sweet as her skin.

I'm fully dressed in my dark blue suit and tie when I am presented with a breakfast that any decent man would approve of. We sit. Chat. Talk about that Milton Berle skit we heard last night on the radio. I get a goodbye kiss from Hana as I don my trilby and walk out the door. "I love you." she says to me. "Love ya too." I say back. If only I could go back to that moment and prevent the world from crashing, burning. Ending.

I liked it. You captured the feeling pretty good and I think the new names are pretty clever yet still clear as to who they represent.

=_=

I see what you're doing here...

=w= Go on.

It's good to see that the two people who actually posted (out of what, 160 something views? This place is crazy, but I still love you all) like this. I have no idea if this continuation is worse or not.

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People pass by me on the street as I make my way to the trolley stop. Somebodies, nobodies, everyone... I remember something that I want to forget about and it makes the cigarette in my mouth twitch. This something that I remember is something I never want to have anything to do with again. It makes me wonder what the woman standing next to me, or maybe the man behind her is thinking. The smell of wet cabbages breaks me out of my stupor and I notice the vegetable stall across the street. I also notice that my cigarette has nearly burnt down to my lips. I spit the butt into the rain drain as the trolley screams its breaks to replace its current cargo.

I remove my coat and hat, putting them on the stand in the corner. There's a note on my desk. It tells me not to forget about the boss' upcoming birthday party, to pitch in and help buy him a gold watch. To be honest, I didn't even know when his birthday was prior to this moment. I crumple the paper and toss it in the rubbish bin. Weighing the option of actually donating to the fund causes me to stare off into nothing as I watch the paper slowly uncrumple itself to a point where it slows down and then stops completely. I decide to pitch in. I have no idea why.

It's a casual walk to his secretary's desk. "Good morning, Hue." she says to me. I can feel the sunshine in every word she says, not to mention that she's one of the most beautiful women most men have ever seen. If I weren't engaged to Hana, I would surely have made some sort of advance on her. I smile and greet her back, then tell her that I am here to contribute. "Oh, Mr. MacMuto's watch! Of course, you got the note." She says this as I remove my wallet from my back pocket and give her two dollars. Akir MacMuto. A Scotsman if there ever was one. He's a respectable man with a good family. I talk with his secretary for a minute before heading back to work.

Questioning my motives, I return to work. I crunch numbers. File documents. Double check the ledgers. The day passes by like an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Close to the end of the day I catch Mr. MacMuto on the way out the door. The small talk we make is unimportant and I quickly forget what we even spoke about. Trolley stop. Trolley. Sidewalk. Apartment. Door. I announce my entry and remove my hat. No response. The house is empty, so I assume that she must be shopping. It's uncommon, but she's done it before. Images of Hana returning home with a paper bag full of groceries or a new blouse slather the front of my imagination. Then the phone rings. It's one of those things that happens every so often. A coincidence, arriving home in time to catch the phone. There are bad coincidences, believe it or not. It happens to everyone at least once in their life. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time, for some people. Answering the phone just as you come home for me. I pick it up. The words that come out of the receiver turn me to stone.

"Your fiancée is with me." It's a woman. I recognize the sound of her voice. It's as bubbly as ever, with a slightly menacing tone to it. Those oddly shaped pink earrings that she always wears flash through my mind. I have no doubt that she's still wearing them. Shelly Michelle Melkada. For whatever reason she could fathom, she will only respond to her middle name. She continues. I listen. "There's a list on the table. You should know what to do." Surely enough, there is a paper on the table. I tell her that I quit the business. There's a pause, she must be talking to Shimane Harkesiche. "You don't have a choice." She tells me. She knows she's right and I do too. The police are his. I made enough enemies working for him, and I made even more when I stopped. The list of allies I can name is shorter than a circus midget. "Do you understand?" That voice of hers is like steel this time. I tell her that I want to speak in person. Another pause. "Only after the first person on the list is dealt with. We've left your tools on your bed. You can take your time, but I don't think that your dear Hana would appreciate that." I try to say something back, but the phone line is dead before I can even breathe another word.



A thousand emotions strangle my soul and I don't know which is the right one to feel in this situation. My heart beats faster than I thought was possible and the feeling I get is like a car running over my chest. I sit down. Calm down. Just enough to think. Brown woolen texture rubs against my sweaty palm. The jackhammer in my chest settles down. I find myself standing now, moving to my bedroom. Surely enough, there is a shoe box on my bed. My shaking hands take a lifetime to open the lid. What's inside is both nostalgic and sickening. The revolver I filled with all my regret and hate was sitting in front of me. I couldn't help but feel mocked.

They took the liberty of polishing my gun. That was unusually generous of them. Twenty four bullets and a leather shoulder holster are what's left in the box. My eyes stay focused on the silver steel barrel of the weapon I'd become so familiar with. I flash back to the moment I quit working for Shemane. Nobody saw me leave. My gun is all I left behind. It's not surprising that Shemane found me. I met Hana in this city, and she said that it would be too much of a hassle to move. She grew up here. There were memories that couldn't be replaced, people who exist only here. I couldn't persuade her to leave this city, let alone this state. There was always that little thought scratching the back of my head. The thought that they'd find me and kill me. It looks like they left me alive for this particular type of situation. I spend the night in my house. Call in sick the next morning. I'm running a fever. At least, that's what I tell them. Might be the flu, I tell them. My emotional state is still confused about what I should feel.

I load my gun. The first name on the list: Lilly St Atoulle. The address is 53 Harman Ave.
I lock the door and exit the building with note in hand, not forgetting to take my hat.

Before you released the second installment I refused to read the first. It was so short I was sure it'd be a huge load of crap. Obviously I was very much wrong.

This is a huge leap of a spinoff, but so far I'm liking it. Katawa Shoujo meets Kill Bill meets Max Payne. Very interesting.

great read, cant wait for more.

I only have one word for this.

Epic

Write on

Good to see the story falling into place.

And so sets the stage for an epic bread. =w=

Devon wrote:And so sets the stage for an epic bread. =w=

Epic bread? Are we baking?

Good read. I like the name changes for the characters. Though you didn't say the secretary's name, I assume from other things you said that she was the expy for Emi?

What? Nah dude. The secretary was just the secretary. I thought about making her Yuuko, but I posted the previous part of the story before I had any final decision. Emi is going to make an appearance eventually. I actually might introduce her as the second or third hit, but that may change.

Also, this is just filler until I can figure out a proper end to Lilly's hit. I've been kind of stuck on how it should go down, but I didn't want to make it seem like I've abandoned this story.

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I'm six years old, maybe seven. I'm not sure what age exactly, but it was sometime before I became ten. There's a toy store I pass by on my way to school every day. Brick siding, glass panes mass produced in a factory. The wood surrounding the windows was flaking white chips of paint. I loved looking inside the windows of this store, wanting every toy they sold, imagining myself playing with them all day long. I wouldn't need to go to school, and my parents wouldn't force me to drink my milk or eat those green beans that tasted like rubber.

One day, they put out this firetruck in the window's display case. I remember it vividly. A cherry red coat of enamel glistens on top of that tin body. Dull black rubber wheels complimented the small white ladder on the side. There's a little fireman painted into the driver's seat. He smiles endlessly. In retrospect, I don't know why, but I wanted that firetruck more than anything in the world. I told my parents about it. They said that we barely had enough money for proper meals lately. Over the next two months, I begged my parents for that firetruck until my birthday hit home. I was the happiest kid in the world when I opened the big box in the middle of our two room apartment. I played with that firetruck every day. I crashed it and flipped it and rolled it across the pine floorboards. I can remember the sound that the wheels made, it was kind of a rucking that bounced out every time a gap was crossed.

A few weeks after my birthday, one of the wheels fell off. I remember crying my eyes out. My pop came in to see what was wrong, and then saw the broken toy in front of me. He knelt down next to me, and in the most calm voice he spoke to me. He asked me to calm down. Picking up that rubber wheel, he popped it back on tight like it was nothing. He reminded me of the strong man at the fair. My poppa, the iron man. He smiled at me, and I couldn't help but smile back and wipe away my tears. The words he spoke to me at that moment have stuck by me throughout my entire life. I can recall every detail of his voice at that moment, when he put his hand on my shoulder and said "Listen Houston. It's a man's responsibility to take care of the things he really cares about. If you don't, then eventually you'll end up with nothing left."

I break away from my memory and return to the present.

Well, for the past few days I've been trying to get the hang of this damn bamboo tablet. So far everything I make turns out less than passable, and the eraser on the pen keeps deciding on its own when it wants to work. Next part of the story should be done before the weekend is over, if anyone even still cares about it.

Don't worry, I think you caught quite a few people's attention with this setting Looking forward to what comes out of your pen next ^_^

This portion of the story is brought to you in part by the voice of William S. Burroughs. His deadpan drone has been a great inspiration while writing this story so far.

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I'm standing in front of the door now. The iron doorknob looks bleak against the green wood of the entrance. I knock. A car passes by behind me. Moments slip by and I knock again, with a firmer fist and quicker tempo. Four fingers grip and rattle the doorknob while the pinky finger remains flaccid. Click. The door was open this whole time. Nobody on the street pays me any mind as I enter the three story house. Foreign spices scent the house's otherwise stagnant air. I've been creeping inside these walls for a minute now, and I've noticed hundreds of pictures on the walls. Paintings and photographs everywhere. Family? Friends? The significance of the photographs is lost to me.

I take caution to not touch a thing. This is what I used to do. Contingency plans rush back to the front of my mind and everything becomes reflex. Black rubber soles step lightly in a way which prevents the floor boards from singing my presence to the world. The first floor is empty. As I come to the staircase, my vision slides to the wall above the landing and is greeted by a portrait of a beautiful blond woman. She looks to be in her twenties. Blue eyes, fair skin, full lips... The waves in her hair extend the full length down past her shoulders, and is tied back with a black ribbon. The shape of the ribbon is what truly catches my eye. It seems oversized, but not ridiculous. It is expertly knotted into the shape of a butterfly. This stunning display intrigues me and I wonder how long it took to set the knot in place as I continue up the second flight of stairs.

The second floor has the same layout as the first. I hear music now. A beautiful voice rings through the air. It comes from the second room that I inspect. The room that I find Ms. St. Atoulle in. Elation, disgust, a number of conflicting emotions argue over what I should feel. I take the easy route and decide to feel nothing. There is the first person on my list, sitting in a red velvet chair, dead by her own hand. Eyes bleated, hair white, face sagging. She wears a white ball gown and folds her bony hands across her lap. Pressed against her abdomen, pinned down by her hands, is a wooden cross. I quickly realize that this is the same person that I saw in the portrait on the landing. In the corner of the room was a phonograph record, the source of the music. I take a look at the table stand next to the chair. There are three objects here. One glass of wine, half finished. One broken ampoule labeled Potassium Cyanide. One folded letter. She knew I was coming here and poisoned herself not one hour ago. My unfeeling hand clings to the letter and unfolds it with unexpected anticipation. The calligraphy which is inked on the letter astounds me. It was elegant, symmetric, exquisite.

I don't blame you, a man's reasons are his own. It is not our place to judge each other,
that is the Lord's domain. We all have a role to function and play. Your role is the tool.
The tool may not agree with the carpenter, but it still does the carpenter's bidding. I
know who your carpenter is. I will not be ended by him. I will not give him the satisfaction.
I will keep my dignity.

Someone once told me that misery is the river of the world. I wondered what they meant
by that for a long time, until I finally came to a conclusion. This world spins on misfortune
and sadness. Every man on this Earth has a personal misery that they carry until the day
they die. A misery does not have to be a regret, but it can be. To be content in your final
moment before death, you need to forsake your regrets so that you may carry your misery
without any worries. What is your misery? What are your regrets? These are things that
you must ask yourself. May the Lord watch over you.

As I finish the letter, the music climaxes and finishes. Philosophy was never my strong point, but it was important enough to be her last words, so I tuck this bit of wisdom somewhere into an unused portion of my mind. The letter goes inside my jacket pocket. I make sure that there is nobody else inside the house, and then I leave. Curling my hand into my sleeve, I step outside and wipe my fingerprints off of the doorknob. There was a phone booth a couple blocks back. I go there. Michelle answers the phone and I tell her that the first hit is done. Before she can respond, I hang up and take a cab to the building where Shimane is. It was time to get some answers.

... Well, damn... O.o

What kept you from writing this sooner? This piece is brilliant ^_^