ALIAS | loid forger x reader / agent twilight x reader [spyxfamily]

7

Thank you for being patient with me as I push out these next few chapters. I took a hiatus but I'm excited to be posting on a regular basis again. I truly love writing and I'm so glad I get to share my passion with avid readers and Loid simps worldwide. :)

Loid Forger. Tuesday morning.

My parents were an entanglement of love and rage.

They never told me how they met nor actively expressed their love for each other. In the few years they remained in my life, I could never figure out how such polar opposites settled upon raising a child of their own amidst a war. I don't recall what they looked like, nor the nicknames they'd call me; all that remains in my memory is love and rage.

One summer afternoon, the haze in the air blurred the sun and filled the atmosphere with a toxic smoke. The sky that once reigned blue was soiled in hues of mustard and brick. The sun burned red, and although it was a summer afternoon, the air was heavier than usual; the haze wasn't natural. As a matter-of-fact, it had prevailed for three grueling days due to the fire of neighboring cities as a result of explosions by the Ostanian army.

I played a game with three of my friends, where we imitated army generals and gave orders. One of us played the enemy as we took turns overpowering each other and getting overpowered. In one round of this mindless game, however, I found myself running after one of them. Instead of ever "capturing" such culprit, I tripped over the dry soil and scraped my knees, palms, and elbows.

I couldn't tell my father I was playing war games with my friends again. He—being the ironic pacifist he is—would scold me until I didn't hear the end of it. My mother knew this as much as I did.

She also would not be happy to see the result of me being so careless and falling. I did not want to be scolded for my rambunctiousness either.

I snuck into the bathroom near my bedroom. In our hometown, we were ridden with squalor and turmoil. Our house was dilapidated and in dire need of renovations. The shingles on the roof were patchy, the paint on the walls was chipped, and even the windows did not shut all the way closed. Some of the floorboards were also sticking out of the floor, making it nearly impossible to walk across the house barefoot without a splinter.

I sat on the bathroom floor, bunching up a ragged towel and running it under the faucet. The cold water stung my wounds when I applied the cloth to them. I ran it under warm water instead, but unluckily this also seemed to burn after a while.

I kept repeating the cycle. Hot, cold. Hot, cold, more cold, hot, hot, cold. But when the cycle of water was too tiring and the cloth was soaked in my own blood, I finally decided to call to my mother for help.

"Really? This is what happens when you're out and about and not being careful. This is how you get hurt," she scolded, while holding me by the wrist and dragging me to a kitchen chair.

Rage.

Her fingers grazed over my scrapes as she took a mental note of how many there were and their severity. She left my side momentarily to retrieve a few dark green packets with a sigh. She opened one at a time, squeezing a thick balm out of the opening and applying it to my scrapes. If I had known that this ointment would've treated me much better than water on a cloth, I might've consulted her a long time ago.

"Just be careful, okay? I don't want to see you getting hurt again."

Love.

I muttered empty apologies and kept still as she coated my hands in the miraculous salve. Soon enough, my father entered the room and saw my mother kneeling before me.