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Shatter My Mask (clean version)*Clean Version. Please read Author's Note first in the description below.*
Renji looked up at the twinkling stars as he was lounging on the porch of his home. He was dressed in nothing but a simple white yukata with a red sash. His fire red mane of hair was out of its ponytail. A saucer cup filled with strong sake was in his hand, while the sake jug sat next to him.
Renji brought up the sake saucer cup to his lips, letting the alcohol run down his throat, leaving a soothing burn. The war with Aizen was finally over. That bastard was finally defeated, but sadly was not killed. Aizen was locked away in the deepest levels of the strongest prison that Soul Society had.
Even though the Hokugo made Aizen invincible, and when defeat for Soul Society was near, it seemed that the Hokugo did not accept Aizen as a master. Ichigo was to deliver the blow of defeat thanks to this.
Renji shook his head to allow the thoughts of the recent past leave his mind, allowing for a different thought to enter
My Sweet PonyLink walked wearily down the steps that lead to Kakariko Village. He had just defeated the Phantom Shadow Beast: Bongo Bongo. Doing so had awakened Impa as the Sage of Shadows and he was transported the Temple of Light, receiving both the Shadow Medallion as well as adding her powers to his. He wanted nothing more to never to see any ReDead, Gibdos, Stalfos, Skulltula, Keese, Wallmasters, and various torture devices again. Those creatures were ugly and devoid of life, and of course the Shadow Temple was filled with them and other terrifying monsters. But knowing his chances, and also being the Goddess's chosen hero, he was bound to fight more of those monsters in the future.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he breathed in deeply and looked around. Epona had wandered off again. She was probably back at Lon Lon Ranch, being tended to my Malon. He took his Ocarina out of his pack and played the magical song that would summon Epona to his side.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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