The Ballad of Buck Ravers

The most harrowing realisation was that they were all right.

Vince, Viktor, every single soul who whispered that his mother was a lost cause, they had hit the mark. And Ruìsāng, deep in his bones, knew the bitter truth of it. Yet, this understanding did little to quell the guilt within him. Was she not his mother? Were they not supposed to be bound by an unconditional bond? Was it her incapacity to love unconditionally, or was it he who had fallen short of being loved? Had his heart grown cold towards her because of her own failings, or was it his own inability to love that had wedged the gap?

And if, by his decision, she met her end — cast out and abandoned — would her blood forever stain his hands? How far must one go before the weight of responsibility settles squarely on their shoulders? Drag a fish from its watery home, and its death is on you. Leave a child in the cold, and the law labels you a murderer. So, what then, if you turn your back on a woman too far lost in her own destruction? Were you a monster too, or just too selfish to see past your own pain?

Amidst this turmoil, time spent with Viktor offered a rare respite. Ruìsāng’s mind was a stormy sea — thoughts of Vince, his mother, what befell Alastor, the lurking monster, and so much more swirling chaotically. He couldn’t make sense of any of it. Fragments of his story were known to some, but the full weight of it remained his burden alone, too heavy, too frightening to share.

Navigating his way inside had become second nature, a path he could tread blindfolded. Normally, he’d keep Mawile safely ensconced in her Pokéball, but with Hēixié's shadow trailing him, he’d started letting Lìeyàn roam free. He noticed a softening in her demeanour, or perhaps it was merely Hēixié's malice that cast Lìeyàn in a more favourable light.

“Don’t even think about petting her, she bites,” Ruìsāng called out as he approached the man, nodding towards the dark-furred fox at his side.

The Vulpix, Hēixié, cast an irritated glance at Ruìsāng as he issued his warning to Viktor. Thankfully, Viktor heeded the caution. Lìeyàn had always been fiercely independent, her loyalty reserved exclusively for Ruìsāng. Consequently, he often kept her confined within her Pokéball. But now, observing the Vulpix, Ruìsāng pondered if perhaps he had been too harsh in his judgement. She was obedient, after all. She leaped to his defence, never turning her fangs against him — well, not anymore, at least.

Settling into a chair nudged his way, Ruìsāng leaned back, cradling the glass of scotch in his hands. He watched the amber liquid swirl, then took a contemplative sip. The irony wasn’t lost on him — shunning an alcoholic mother, only to seek solace in a drink himself. And the deeper irony that he funded their living expenses through the sale of alcohol.

When Viktor inquired about what had happened, Ruìsāng didn’t hold back.

“Mom’s vanished off the map again. I’m buried in exam prep. Got ambushed by a grandma. And there's this boy... I know I should keep him at a distance, but I can’t,” he recounted, casually summing it all together.

With a slight pout betraying his youth, Ruìsāng momentarily shed the mantle of responsibility that seemed permanently draped over his shoulders. Here, in this moment, he was just a young man in his early twenties, not the bearer of the a weight heavier than he could carry. This space, this company, allowed him to acknowledge his struggles without fear of judgement. He had confided in Viktor before, met not with exploitation but support, fortifying him in ways for which he would always hold a deep-seated gratitude.

Their conversation veered towards the monster. Viktor’s gaze landed on Ruìsāng’s bandages, prompting a huff of annoyance from him. “It is actually worse than it looks,” he grumbled under his breath. He knew that if Viktor caught sight of the wounds concealed beneath his shirt and bandages, he might just take it upon himself to hunt down the creature responsible.

“She wasn't human. Teleported me out of reality, sprouted claws. We fought, and I managed to bite off her finger, but then she... did this,” Ruìsāng recounted, motioning vaguely at his bandaged form. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I’m going to kill her.”

Ruìsāng acknowledged Viktor’s inquiry about the finger with a nod. As Viktor probed further, wondering about the strategy for such a daunting task, Ruìsāng almost quipped a sarcastic ‘with my teeth’ before the actual question was asked.

How would he kill a monster?

A faint, almost wistful smile played on his lips as he looked up at Viktor. “We fought once, and I managed to break free with a headbutt. The second time, she trapped me with what I thought was a beast, but it was just this little one,” he gestured towards the Vulpix.

“She’s got fire in her. I saw the monster’s hands, charred. Tested the little one in the fighting rings — she’s got enough fire to incinerate a house, if needed,” he said with a nod. He left unsaid the fact that such a blaze might consume him as well; he had already resigned himself to the notion that this inevitable showdown with the grandmother would end decisively, one way or another.

“I’ve gotten the better of her twice. There’s not much else to do but brace for a final confrontation. Next time, it has to end for good,” he shrugged, a sense of fatalism in his tone. Evading her was futile; he could feel the curse tugging at his chest, an insidious call to return to its origin.

Viktor suggested utilising whatever insights Ruìsāng had against the monster. Ruìsāng nodded in agreement, though a creeping sense of dread tightened around his heart, almost as if the curse itself sneered at the idea of triumph. Was surrendering his only path? No, he refused to yield so easily. He would fight, even against the odds.

Viktor’s words of caution — not to fall before his nemesis — were met with a faint, somewhat distant “Yeah,” from Ruìsāng, his affirmation more reflexive than convinced. His later words, however, fell upon deaf man’s ears.

When the conversation shifted to his academics, Ruìsāng confirmed, “My grades are holding up. I’m chipping away at it bit by bit. It’s only a few weeks away.” His life was a juggling act — balancing the demands of caring for his mother, work, social commitments, and academics. Unlike those who could cram at the eleventh hour, Ruìsāng’s schedule demanded a steady, consistent effort. Learning never came effortlessly to him; it required dedication and hard work, but he was doing well enough.

“I’ve been thinking of talking to Chief about working full-time after this academic year ends. Maybe take a break before deciding on pursuing my master’s,” he shared. Chief, another pivotal figure in his lifeg, had been his mentor in language, culture, and bartending. A kind soul, though not as deeply entwined in Ruìsāng’s personal struggles as Viktor, he was nonetheless someone Ruìsāng respected and appreciated.

Behind this contemplation, however, lay an unspoken truth: the overwhelming strain of managing work, university, and his mother’s care was reaching a breaking point. Pausing his studies might be his only respite, a chance to catch his breath financially and emotionally.

Viktor’s suggestion of a sabbatical elicited a scoff from Ruìsāng. “Paying bills doesn’t take a break, and it’s not like home’s any refuge,” he retorted. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “She’s been dragging strangers home whenever she can stand straight. When she can’t, her wailing keeps me up through the night. I can’t remember the last time I slept properly,” he sighed heavily. “Working’s the lesser evil compared to that circus,” he concluded, frustration evident. The constant drain on his money caused by his mother's habits left him with limited options.

As the conversation shifted to Vince, Ruìsāng’s jaw tightened. “I’m not sure,” he confessed. “He’s... genuinely good. The type who’d lend a hand without a second thought for himself,” Ruìsāng explained, his words measured, as if each one was carefully extracted from a deeper, vulnerable place within him.

“We started talking by chance. Things... happened, and I ended up getting closer than I intended. I’m not sure if I should have,” he said, his voice trailing off. Struggling to articulate his feelings and thoughts.

Viktor's clarification about a sabbatical specifically from school led Ruìsāng to a slow, contemplative nod. The notion of quitting, of not striving for the top, felt like an admission of defeat, yet he couldn't deny the allure of a reprieve. School had never truly been his calling, and the prospect of some breathing room was undeniably appealing. “My current job would jump at the chance to have me on more hours,” he acknowledged. Still, the idea of working at Chief’s place, a quieter environment, was tempting. The simple routine of serving coffee to regulars seemed like a peaceful alternative to his current chaos. If only the monster could be left in the past.

When Viktor probed into the roots of his fears, Ruìsāng’s response was a blend of scoff and resignation. “I am my parents’ child — I weave lies like my mother and carry grudges like my father. He doesn’t need the burden of my demons, and I don’t know how to shoulder his,” he admitted, his tone carrying the weight of an unchallengeable truth.

“I’ve always had a talent for destruction, for breaking things. But preserving something precious? That’s never been in my nature.” He had accepted his nature, his propensity for destruction, as an immutable fact of his being. That is, until he encountered something, or someone, he desperately wanted to protect and keep intact.

Viktor’s assurance that he was always welcome brought a nod from Ruìsāng. There was a challenge in feeling at ease in any space, given his uneasy relationship with the concept of ‘home’. Yet, deep down, he recognised this place as a sanctuary, a rare haven. “Thank you,” he responded, his gratitude genuine.

Viktor’s acknowledgment of Ruìsāng’s struggles — without sugar coating or outright denial — was oddly comforting. It was a stark contrast to the well-intentioned but sometimes misguided attempts of others, like Vince and Ming, to alleviate his self-doubt. Ruìsāng was acutely aware of his own nature; affection and perception from others didn’t alter the core of who he was. He understood that one's inherent traits remained unchanged despite external perceptions. Loving a gargoyle didn’t strip away its stone, and all.

Viktor’s advice struck a chord. He didn’t suggest a change in Ruìsāng’s inherent nature, but rather an opportunity to learn from his past and possibly allow Vince to help navigate his complexities. The idea that Vince might willingly choose to engage with his destructive tendencies was a novel, yet seemingly logical perspective. “I won’t,” Ruìsāng affirmed softly, when Viktor cautioned against breaking the boy. This advice offered a semblance of comfort, a new viewpoint.

Seeking a shift in the conversation, Ruìsāng did what he did best: being a little shit.

“I’m not sure if I should be taking advice from a middle-aged single man,” he remarked with a solemn nod, yet his hand was already positioned for a quick escape, anticipating the need for a swift dodge, just in case.

In the wake of Viktor’s words, Ruìsāng scoffed lightly, a cynical chuckle escaping his lips. “Ain’t that the truth,” he muttered, his tone laced with a mix of irony and resignation. The line between monster and victim in his life was blurred — perhaps they weren’t mutually exclusive. It was a thought that lingered in the back of his mind, an unspoken struggle between his own actions and the circumstances thrust upon him.

Ruìsāng’s gaze settled on his scarcely touched glass, his mind seemingly elsewhere, uninterested in the drink before him. When Viktor brought up Vince and whether he would be good for Ruìsāng, a frown creased his brow.

“I think he’s the kind to lose himself in caring for others,” he confessed, acknowledging Vince's selfless nature. On the surface, the answer seemed straightforward — yes, Vince could be good for him. But the complexity of his life painted a different picture. “It’s just... with my mom and everything else—” he sighed, his expression one of weary resignation. He shrugged, as if trying to dislodge the weight of his thoughts. “If she wasn’t around, if I didn’t have to work so much just to keep us afloat... if I could sort out this whole mess... then, maybe,” he mused, his voice trailing off.

“No, I wouldn’t let him. And that path wouldn’t bode well for either of us,” Ruìsāng firmly stated in response to Viktor’s musings about Vince losing himself in caring for him. He had a clear understanding of Vince’s character — determined, unwilling to back down if he believed it was the right thing. The memory of how challenging it was to dissuade Vince from coming to the warehouse lingered vividly in his mind.

A faint smile touched Ruìsāng’s lips at Viktor’s suggestion of a vacation, a wistful glimmer in his eyes. Perhaps, he mused, if circumstances were different — if his mother’s presence ceased to be a factor, if the monster left him in peace — then maybe, just maybe, he and Vince could find a respite together. A brief escape from the relentless demands of life, something he had only ever experienced with Alastor.

“Shitbag. Get rid of her. What is destroying me,” he echoed Viktor’s words. “But she’s my mother. I’m bound by duty to care for her, like she did for me when I was small. I can’t say for sure what changed during the time I was away. She wasn’t always this way,” he reasoned. “At least, I don’t think she was.” Doubt crept into his voice, casting a shadow over his childhood memories. The more he delved into the recesses of his past, the more he questioned the reliability of his recollections. The same troubling realisation surfaced repeatedly: his mother had never truly defended herself, and crucially, she had never shielded him either.