Superbird
Fire emblem is great
I'm sure that, sometime in the future, I'll make this longer, but for what it is after two hours I'm satisfied with it.
Shingeki was devastated when his parents sent him to America. America, he protested, didn’t have any bugs! It was all cities, and no trees, or forests, or anywhere a butterfly could be found. But here in rural Japan, there were butterflies everywhere – you could hardly take five steps without one of the magically beautiful creatures presenting itself to you in a gorgeous display of color for a transient moment until it disappeared and another butterfly took its place. Shingeki had always loved butterflies. He wasn’t one of those collectors, no, because that would be terribly painful for the butterflies, and he wanted them to live on and be their beautiful butterfly selves for as long as they could. And so, he had always satisfied himself by studying the many kinds of butterflies there were around his house – what their wing patterns looked like, and how their presence varied with the seasons – where they went in the winter, and when they came back.
In America, there were no butterflies, he had thought.
But fortunately, he was mistaken. Mostly because he never really saw the American city. Well, once or twice, on trips there, but most of the time he lived out in a rural New Mexico town in the forested mountains. There were tons of butterflies in those mountains, if you knew where to look, and Shingeki’s first priority when he got to America was to find them. He would take his schoolwork out into the wilderness and practice his English in front of the butterflies, who always seemed to listen and understand him. Though he never quite lost his Japanese accent, he learned the language quickly, and his bond to nature’s most entrancing insects never really faded. After a few years, the butterflies came to him as soon as he entered the wooded areas around his town. Those were the best years of his life – even if no one at school understood him, even if his foster parents were tough on him at times, the butterflies were always there to provide comfort.
One day, as Shingeki came into the forest after school, homework to be completed in hand – these days, he always did his homework in the company of his winged insect friends, he saw a butterfly on the ground. Its wings were shaking erratically, though, and it looked like it was trying to fend off the ants that were slowly overtaking it. It was a large butterfly, a Red-Spotted Purple, and as Shingeki approached it quickly became evident that the poor thing’s right wing had been torn apart – maybe it was a bird’s talon or beak, or maybe it had just gotten stuck in a sharp branch, but whatever the case, it was clearly struggling. Shingeki knew what he had to do, and, immediately making the fallen butterfly his top priority, he rushed for home with the poor thing in tow.
There, he carefully nursed it back to health. He put it in a spacious glass cage with dirt on the bottom and several branches, with a mesh net on top to keep it safe – not that it could fly out. And he provided it with food, too – first, some rotted strawberries he dug out of the compost, for he knew that rotting fruit was its favorite food, and then, rarely, a small piece of flesh from a dead animal he found in the forest, that his foster parents never found out about. Often, he took the animal with him into the forest, and opened the cage to let it commune with its butterfly friends, which it seemed to do gleefully. Though its wing never fully healed, it did become jovial and full of life once more.
Shingeki couldn’t release it into the wild, for it would then die. So he decided to keep the butterfly – it had grown affectionate to him over time. He began to let his pet perch on his shoulder and became increasingly comfortable taking it around town with him, outside of its cage. The mean kids at school tried to hit the poor thing with rocks on occasion, but Shingeki handled that problem with the help of some really nice teachers, and so his butterfly friend survived. The two became good friends – or, at least, that’s how Shingeki saw it. And when the butterfly passed away a couple of weeks later, he sent it to the next world with his best regards, thankful for the best friend a person could have.
Before long, it was time for college, and Shingeki knew exactly what he wanted to do. Even if it meant leaving his butterfly friends in the forests of the Sierra Blanca, he had a mission to become a lepidopterist, which he did at New Mexico State University. For all of his first four years of college, he maintained his communion with the butterflies, which were almost as numerous around the university campus as they had been in his last town. He spent the years of his college life in bliss, and immediately upon earning his Bachelor’s degree, he began to study for his Master’s.
Thankfully, Shingeki’s foster parents, being rather wealthy, were able to fund most of his college, and with the scholarships he had gotten, he only had to work part-time, and he did so as a waiter in a diner – a truly southern American diner. It wasn’t anywhere fancy, but they advertised the highest-quality authentic southern cuisine you could get – especially fair food, which was otherwise all but unavailable most times of the year. One of the staples of southern food was the legendary deep-fry, which this diner did to perfection, from conventional things like fried chicken to imaginative and delicious delights like oreos, Coca-Cola, and even butter.
Shingeki worked with zeal in the diner, driving himself forward with the thought that the money he earned would go towards his studies of butterflies, and that eventually he would be able to live out his life surrounded by his friends, maybe even the ones he had originally left in Japan. And one day, a guest lecturer at his college, who happened to be a lepidopterist himself, stopped in this restaurant for dinner. Shingeki was ecstatic – he would get to serve dinner to the man who, after his brilliant lecture that morning, had become an idol of his.
But the lepidopterist was somewhat of a picky eater, and only cautiously ordered the fried butter Shingeki recommended. When he recieved it, and took a bite, it took him a moment to swallow. Shingeki was frozen. Did the lecturer not enjoy the food? Was it his fault, somehow?
No, the man was just enveloped in wonder about the taste of the fried butter. “This is surprisingly good,” he said slowly, with a rising enthusiasm in his voice. “How do they get this wonderful taste back there in the kitchen, do you know?” he asked Shingeki.
“Why, sir,” Shingeki replied, ecstatic, “it’s nothing special. That’s just the way butter fries!”
Butterflies
Shingeki was devastated when his parents sent him to America. America, he protested, didn’t have any bugs! It was all cities, and no trees, or forests, or anywhere a butterfly could be found. But here in rural Japan, there were butterflies everywhere – you could hardly take five steps without one of the magically beautiful creatures presenting itself to you in a gorgeous display of color for a transient moment until it disappeared and another butterfly took its place. Shingeki had always loved butterflies. He wasn’t one of those collectors, no, because that would be terribly painful for the butterflies, and he wanted them to live on and be their beautiful butterfly selves for as long as they could. And so, he had always satisfied himself by studying the many kinds of butterflies there were around his house – what their wing patterns looked like, and how their presence varied with the seasons – where they went in the winter, and when they came back.
In America, there were no butterflies, he had thought.
But fortunately, he was mistaken. Mostly because he never really saw the American city. Well, once or twice, on trips there, but most of the time he lived out in a rural New Mexico town in the forested mountains. There were tons of butterflies in those mountains, if you knew where to look, and Shingeki’s first priority when he got to America was to find them. He would take his schoolwork out into the wilderness and practice his English in front of the butterflies, who always seemed to listen and understand him. Though he never quite lost his Japanese accent, he learned the language quickly, and his bond to nature’s most entrancing insects never really faded. After a few years, the butterflies came to him as soon as he entered the wooded areas around his town. Those were the best years of his life – even if no one at school understood him, even if his foster parents were tough on him at times, the butterflies were always there to provide comfort.
One day, as Shingeki came into the forest after school, homework to be completed in hand – these days, he always did his homework in the company of his winged insect friends, he saw a butterfly on the ground. Its wings were shaking erratically, though, and it looked like it was trying to fend off the ants that were slowly overtaking it. It was a large butterfly, a Red-Spotted Purple, and as Shingeki approached it quickly became evident that the poor thing’s right wing had been torn apart – maybe it was a bird’s talon or beak, or maybe it had just gotten stuck in a sharp branch, but whatever the case, it was clearly struggling. Shingeki knew what he had to do, and, immediately making the fallen butterfly his top priority, he rushed for home with the poor thing in tow.
There, he carefully nursed it back to health. He put it in a spacious glass cage with dirt on the bottom and several branches, with a mesh net on top to keep it safe – not that it could fly out. And he provided it with food, too – first, some rotted strawberries he dug out of the compost, for he knew that rotting fruit was its favorite food, and then, rarely, a small piece of flesh from a dead animal he found in the forest, that his foster parents never found out about. Often, he took the animal with him into the forest, and opened the cage to let it commune with its butterfly friends, which it seemed to do gleefully. Though its wing never fully healed, it did become jovial and full of life once more.
Shingeki couldn’t release it into the wild, for it would then die. So he decided to keep the butterfly – it had grown affectionate to him over time. He began to let his pet perch on his shoulder and became increasingly comfortable taking it around town with him, outside of its cage. The mean kids at school tried to hit the poor thing with rocks on occasion, but Shingeki handled that problem with the help of some really nice teachers, and so his butterfly friend survived. The two became good friends – or, at least, that’s how Shingeki saw it. And when the butterfly passed away a couple of weeks later, he sent it to the next world with his best regards, thankful for the best friend a person could have.
Before long, it was time for college, and Shingeki knew exactly what he wanted to do. Even if it meant leaving his butterfly friends in the forests of the Sierra Blanca, he had a mission to become a lepidopterist, which he did at New Mexico State University. For all of his first four years of college, he maintained his communion with the butterflies, which were almost as numerous around the university campus as they had been in his last town. He spent the years of his college life in bliss, and immediately upon earning his Bachelor’s degree, he began to study for his Master’s.
Thankfully, Shingeki’s foster parents, being rather wealthy, were able to fund most of his college, and with the scholarships he had gotten, he only had to work part-time, and he did so as a waiter in a diner – a truly southern American diner. It wasn’t anywhere fancy, but they advertised the highest-quality authentic southern cuisine you could get – especially fair food, which was otherwise all but unavailable most times of the year. One of the staples of southern food was the legendary deep-fry, which this diner did to perfection, from conventional things like fried chicken to imaginative and delicious delights like oreos, Coca-Cola, and even butter.
Shingeki worked with zeal in the diner, driving himself forward with the thought that the money he earned would go towards his studies of butterflies, and that eventually he would be able to live out his life surrounded by his friends, maybe even the ones he had originally left in Japan. And one day, a guest lecturer at his college, who happened to be a lepidopterist himself, stopped in this restaurant for dinner. Shingeki was ecstatic – he would get to serve dinner to the man who, after his brilliant lecture that morning, had become an idol of his.
But the lepidopterist was somewhat of a picky eater, and only cautiously ordered the fried butter Shingeki recommended. When he recieved it, and took a bite, it took him a moment to swallow. Shingeki was frozen. Did the lecturer not enjoy the food? Was it his fault, somehow?
No, the man was just enveloped in wonder about the taste of the fried butter. “This is surprisingly good,” he said slowly, with a rising enthusiasm in his voice. “How do they get this wonderful taste back there in the kitchen, do you know?” he asked Shingeki.
“Why, sir,” Shingeki replied, ecstatic, “it’s nothing special. That’s just the way butter fries!”